Title: Playing on the Edge of Forever
Rating: PG for a tiny bit of bad language
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur preslash
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Summary: It snows, and Merlin catches a rare glimpse of what might have been
A/N: Woohoo! I made day 2 of merlinadvent (if slightly late in the day - whatever, it's still the 2nd so I'm keeping to my word so far!). Only 22 more days to go *facepalm*

 

Playing on the Edge of Forever

The winter sun shines bright and cold, its pale rays flaring just over the walls of the castle to ignite the snow-covered courtyard in brilliant white. Merlin pauses in the middle of the square, staring up in wonder at the sight before him – the white stone dressed in frost, proud towers rising one after another into the crisp blue sky, trailing snow, light sparking brilliant from every surface. This is nothing like Ealdor, where the snow is soon packed down by trudging feet hard at work, pounded into mud and grey swill while children run and shout and play heedless in the muck. This is Camelot, mighty and majestic and achingly ethereal in the morning light, a bastion of ageless grace, as though lifted straight from the pages of a fairytale. Merlin can almost believe that the castle had stood there on that very spot for time immemorial, standing a lonely vigil as the seasons passed year after year, touched by the passing of time only in the varying hues of its beauty; he can almost believe that it will stand forever.

He pulls in a deep breath and savours the feeling of ice in his lungs, fresh and sharp, and looks back, the interweaving trails of footprints in the snow reminding him that Camelot is a place still alive and vibrant with the passage of its people. He weighs his empty bucket absently in one hand and turns to make his way to the water pump, but is brought up short by the cold, wet slap of a snowball in the face.

Rich, familiar laughter rings out in the stillness, filling the courtyard with its resonance. Merlin wipes the snow from his face and looks up to see Arthur standing a few feet away, arms folded, grinning widely. The sunlight glints golden in his hair and blue in his laughing eyes, and his tan coat stands stark against the endless white. His cheeks are flushed with the chill and he looks boyish and young, a carefree little princeling standing before the walls of his storybook castle. 

‘Don’t just stand there gawking, you worthless layabout!’ he calls, and the illusion is shattered and it is just Arthur standing there, looking solid and insufferable and smug as always.

Merlin snorts and drops his bucket, the harsh clang of metal on flagstones his declaration of intent. He bends and reaches down, gathering a handful of snow, slow and deliberate. Arthur raises his eyebrows and his grin widens as Merlin straightens and begins moulding his snowball thoughtfully, keeping eye contact all the while. He lifts his arm and gauges the distance.

‘Are you sure you want to assault royalty like this?’ Arthur taunts.

Merlin hesitates and pretends to consider before lowering his arm to his side. He drops his gaze.

‘You’re right, Sire, it wouldn’t be proper.’

Arthur looks surprised for a moment, but then the smile drops right off his face and he clicks his tongue, expression closing down at once though the disappointment remains writ plain on his face.

‘I see,’ he says with false approval. ‘Good to see you remember your place for once.’ He strides off towards the far side of the courtyard as though on urgent business, and Merlin bows as he sweeps by, waiting until Arthur has just passed him before he whips round and grabs him by the collar of his coat, shoving his fistful of snow down the back of Arthur’s shirt. Arthur yelps, hands scrabbling reflexively at his back.

‘Merlin, you little bastard!’ he yells as Merlin runs. Arthur stumbles after him, still off balance, hands grasping after Merlin’s clothes to pull him back, but Merlin twists just out of his reach, laughter breaking triumphant from his throat.

‘You’re going to pay for that!’ Arthur growls in mock anger, waving a threatening finger in Merlin’s direction; Merlin spreads his arms and beckons him on, just managing to dodge the snowball that soon follows.

They end up darting round the courtyard, a wary distance from each other, snow-projectiles and insults thick between them. It’s quite the attraction for the servants about their daily business, and they edge round the battlefield, chuckling and whispering to each other in indulgent amusement. Merlin and Arthur are oblivious, both damp and crusted with snow, bright-eyed and breathless. This time they laugh together, the noise swelling until it feels like the walls cannot contain it, that they will break like spun glass and the castle will fall shuddering to the ground before the face of this reckless joy; Merlin can’t remember the last time he felt so free.

He crouches down to gather a hasty armload of snow but glances up at the sound of something suspiciously like Arthur’s warcry.

‘No, wai-’ is all he manages to get out before Arthur’s on him, tackling him hard to the ground with an impressive flying leap. Merlin struggles wildly to throw him off but Arthur jams his knee into the small of his back, grabs the back of his head and starts mashing his face into the snow.

‘Submit to your prince!’ he crows victoriously. Merlin splutters in indignant response, chest heaving against the frigid ground.

Arthur pulls back a little, just enough to let Merlin raise his head. Merlin’s hand clenches surreptitiously in the snow, calculating whether or not he’ll be able to twist enough to dash it in Arthur’s face. Arthur smirks down from where he kneels on top of him, pressing down with his knee to remind Merlin who’s in the dominant position here; Merlin pauses on the cusp of making a throw and is caught for an instant by the vivid blue of Arthur’s eyes against the sky and the melted snow dripping from his hair, the colour in his cheeks and the smug curve of his panting mouth.

Arthur frowns for a moment at the way Merlin is looking at him, but then something clears in his expression and he opens his mouth to speak, suddenly serious. A shadow falls over them both, accompanied by the crisp crunch of boots on snow.

‘Just what do you think you’re doing?’ a voice barks harshly, colder than the snow in which they’re sprawling. Uther stands over them, hands behind his back, dressed in royal red, the chill glint of his chain shirt present as ever at his throat and wrists. ‘Is this behaviour becoming of a crown prince?’ he demands.

Arthur scrambles hastily to his feet and Merlin does the same. Arthur lifts his chin to face the king while Merlin lowers his eyes, keeps his expression neutral.

‘Father! I, er, that is, we were just...’ Arthur’s still scrambling for an excuse when suddenly Uther moves one hand from behind his back, and Merlin catches a quick glimpse of white against a black glove before Uther gets Arthur full in the face with a lump of snow. There’s a long beat of silence before Merlin starts cracking up, dissolving into helpless laughter at Arthur’s utterly stunned expression, clumps of snow dribbling down his face. Uther turns to him, one inquisitive brow raised, and before Merlin can blink Uther’s other hand comes out and now Merlin and Arthur are wearing identical snow-coated expressions of shock. They look at each other in silence and not a little awe, until Uther smirks and sprints away, crimson cloak billowing behind him.

‘After him!’ Arthur yells, exploding into motion, breaking the moment, and the two of them set off in fierce pursuit legs pounding, arms pumping, breath burning cold in their lungs. Merlin glances across at Arthur, sees the light dancing in his eyes, and that boyish grin is back on his face. He looks back at Merlin, holds his gaze, and Merlin thinks he sees something flash there, wild and exultant.

‘Come, on!’ Arthur says. ‘We can’t let him get away with that – this means war!’

Merlin nods and pushes himself to keep pace, enjoying the physical effort, the steady rhythm of motion, the flex and stretch of muscle. Uther is surprisingly fast for his age, and cunning; they spread out a little to either side to try and hem him in, scooping up hasty handfuls of snow as they run, pelting them at the king. They miss more often than not, but that seems almost beside the point; even Uther is laughing with them now, unrestrained and unexpected, and Merlin catches a glimpse of what could have been in a different life, one unmarked by the years of pain and sorrow and the shadow of the executioner’s block.

Uther is a master of this game; he fights strategically, ducking into the shadows of gates, crouching behind corners in ambush as he leads the boys on a merry chase through the interconnecting alleys and courtyards of the castle. He knows this ground well, and Merlin can almost see him as a young man, hopeful and strong, racing through the walkways with his friends, conducting pitched battles in the snow. Merlin can almost see him playing here with Arthur, years and years ago, before the fear and hatred had taken such deep root, and Arthur was still a child more than a prince; it’s as though this Camelot really is timeless, the same scenes playing out within its walls over and over, and though the faces age and change, for this moment the lives behind them burn as hot and young as ever.

Experience, it seems, wins out in the end, because by the time they come full circle, back to the courtyard where the game began, it’s Merlin and Arthur who are looking the most damp and ragged, though all three men are out of breath and covered liberally in snow. They trade glances and decide by mutual unspoken agreement that the battle is done.

‘See,’ Uther says, ‘there’s life in the old man yet.’ Arthur snorts, and Uther claps him on the shoulder as he departs. ‘You’ve had some fun, but remember – you still have duties to attend to; don’t get distracted.’

Arthur’s mouth twists sourly at Uther’s admonishing tone but he nods anyway and watches his father leave, gaze unreadable.

‘Well,’ Merlin says after a moment, ‘that was... unusual.’

‘You’re telling me,’ Arthur replies. ‘I haven’t seen him like that in years.’ They stand quietly for a while, letting the silence stretch companionably, and then Arthur sighs. ‘He was right though – I have things to do, and so do you.’ To Merlin’s surprise he doesn’t reel off a list of tasks, nothing that need cleaning or polishing or changing; Arthur just gives him a wry smile, squeezes his shoulder and leaves with a tilt of the head.

Merlin trails across the courtyard feeling strangely off-balance and sits on the steps leading up to the entrance into the castle proper. He huffs out a breath, watching it mist briefly in the air and fade to nothing. The cold pierces through his wet clothes and bites to the bone, but he finds he doesn’t really mind. The sun is high overhead now, and the carpet of snow is starting to melt and burn away under its steady glare. Merlin scoops up a handful of slush, watches it crumble and drip through his fingers; he thinks of home.

‘Hey,’ Arthur says, interrupting his thoughts suddenly and nudging him in the side with a boot. Merlin looks up just in time to get hit in the face with a blanket. ‘Knowing you you’d probably freeze to death out here before you even realised it was cold.’ He shakes his head. ‘You’re such an idiot.’

‘Better an idiot than an ass,’ he responds automatically.

‘Aren’t we forgetting who beat who earlier on? Do you want to eat more snow?’

‘For a supposed prince you really are a thug,’ Merlin teases.

 Arthur rolls his eyes and extends a hand. Merlin just looks at it, a little puzzled, until Arthur wiggles his fingers impatiently. Hesitantly Merlin takes it, and Arthur clasps his hand tightly as he pulls him to his feet.

‘Come on,’ he says over his shoulder as he turns to go inside. ‘Apparently I can’t trust you to do anything but laze around unless I supervise you myself. Now, my armour still needs polishing from yesterday and my boots are filthy; my doublet needs to be cleaned for the feast and that gold tunic too, and then-’ Arthur pushes open the door, still making lists. Merlin takes one last look at the courtyard, still white on white, still beautiful, but filled now with people walking, working, talking, the pristine snow marked with footprints and melting through in several places. One serving girl slips, almost depositing her load of washing, and her friends laugh and tease as they help her up. Merlin smiles, eyes moving up to the crisp blue sky. He thinks about an ageless city, beautiful and empty save for the golden prince playing alone in its long corridors. He snorts at his foolishness and shakes his head.

He follows Arthur inside, matching the rhythm of his stride to the endless list, and to the soothing cadence of Arthur’s voice.