#Emer | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

surelynotsid · 9 months

Text

a merthur drabble;

Arthur barged into the throne room on the verge of losing his mind. He was clouded by emotion, irrational, and erratic. The panic and pure fury gripping him tightly by the throat, restricting the oxygen to his lungs, the blood to his head.

He wasn't clear headed, or unbiased. He was leading dangerously with his heart as it lodged itself in his throat. He was choking on it, this foolish love that devoured him whole, a love certainly not fit for a king. But Arthur was no king, not like this. Bound to the mercy of his heart's deepest desires.

He was willing to send armies out on endless searches to scour the earth and beyond. He was too comfortable in sacrificing his kingdom for his servant. Though Merlin had never just been a servant. And Arthur had never just been a king. A king is rational and selfless. He makes the hard decisions and always does the best for his kingdom. A king sacrifices one man for the safety of his people, not the other way around.

But heavens, he could not breathe, he could not sleep, the color had been stripped from his world, and the endless darkness was suffocating. He was going mad. And his wife, oh his lovely wife who had been nothing but patient with him as he fell apart every morning he woke without Merlin to greet him with something sharp on his tongue and the usual mischief in his eyes. She was gentle with his fragile shell, with soft words of comfort murmured in his ear, a gentle caress against his cheek, warm fingers carding through his hair.

His wife, his lovely wife.

Arthur was a poor king, but he was an unfathomable husband. The term felt like bile in his throat, it made him gag. He did not deserve Guinevere, not in this life or the next. He could never be the husband she deserved, but still, he fell to one knee in a desperate plea to do what was right for his kingdom. To be a husband. To be a king.

He never quite succeeded in either area.

He was a king not worthy, with a kingdom he would dispose of for a glance upon pink lips, high cheekbones, eyes of Llyn-y-forwyn lake. Oh, his eyes, Arthur yearned to drown beneath them. To be locked in their sight, to be the object within the mischievous gaze. What he would give, what he would do, all things sacred and beautiful be damned. He would give everything; do anything.

It's only in the fleeting moments when his body is too tired, eyes too heavy where he slips into a dream that offers little relief. A small glance. A ghost of a touch. Never enough. For he wakes, desperate and yearning, his heart heavy in his chest.

And as he stares into the dull brown eyes of his lovely wife, he can't help but think about everything she is not. Or rather whom she is not.

He is certain he loves her or has a feeling of love for her, but a cruel thing is desire. Oh, and it lies within the crevices of another's skin, one he wishes to touch, to explore. To know deeply and more intimately than his own mind. He was a fool under desire's wicked hands. It was an unruly flame, and he was choking on the smoke. But he was too far gone and damn the angels that tried to save the pyromaniac fool he was.

He barged through the doors demanding attention, and maybe it was because he was king. Or perhaps the sick sadistic and voyeuristic tendency for humans to watch as one goes mad made them all look.

Look at your king, watch him fall to his knees and weep for his servant. Watch him unravel, as he falls apart. Watch as he brings everyone down with him.

The order was on the tip of his tongue crafted to perfection, go- but there was Gaius, and he was turning around, and Arthur's breath hitched in his throat. The constant worry and fear of the worst that had been clouding his eyes for days had ceased. He was calm, relieved, and smiled knowingly as he stepped aside.

And Arthur fell apart at the mere sight of him. Merlin.

He didn't know he was a starved man before he feasted his gaze upon the very cause of his hunger.

Seeing wasn't enough; he needed to touch him. To press his palm to his chest to feel him, to feel his heartbeat. But there were too many prying eyes, and Arthur felt small and scrutinized. He felt as though he was under a microscope. Everyone was watching him, their king, waiting for his reaction.

Arthur wanted to run and hide and he wanted to take Merlin with him. He wanted to be alone with him. Just the two of them, where he could touch Merlin and not be questioned about his intentions. Where he could stare at him for as long as he pleased. Where he wasn’t a king and he could just exist with this feeling.

"You're ok," he breathed out, because he had been staring for too long, getting trapped beneath the surface of the lake in his eyes. He welcomed the drowning sensation with open arms as the feeling of death clouded his head. To die at his hands, Arthur thinks that's how he would like to go.

Merlin gave a small quirk of his lips and a shrug of his shoulders, "I always am."

And Arthur missed a lot more than just the sight of him.

They didn't have any time. Merlin was whisked away, and Arthur had duties that called for a king. But he was hopeless and his mind wandered to the blue eyed servant who occupied every space in his brain. It wasn't enough to know he was home and safe, Arthur needed to be with him. He needed to feel him alive.

That's why that night, as the moon sits in the sky and time crawls slowly into the early hours of the morning, he lies awake.

Guinevere is next to him, sleeping peacefully with a light arm tossed over his chest. Arthur is heaving beneath the weight. He is suffocating on her naturally sweet scent, and he is close to tears. He has to see, has to feel, knowing wasn't enough. His heartbeat is unsteady in his chest, and he knows it is only Merlin who can calm it.

Arthur moves Gwen's arm off him. It is not her touch he needs, and he despises himself for even daring to think that. But he can't hide from the truth. Not when it's so loud, so demanding, so punishing, a bright contrast against the darkness of the night. Not when it rips him apart, wields his heart like a compass, and directs him to his true north. He knows who lies at the destination.

Slipping out of the covers, swinging his legs free, he winces when his bare feet come in contact with the chilling floor. He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand down his face. He feels split open, raw, and hurting, and it only gets worse when he hears his name being uttered softly from behind him.

"Arthur?" A gentle hand is pressed against his shoulder blade, and he tenses, the touch making his skin crawl. He shrugs out of her reach, standing up. "Are you ok?" she asks tenderly, and Arthur feels sick.

He stares at his feet, unable to meet her eyes, " 'm thirsty," he mumbles.

He hears the rustle of the duvet, "I'll come with," she says. And she is just trying to be there for him like she has been trying the past few weeks. But she is not who he needs, and he is a terrible husband.

"It's just water," he whispers, glancing back over his shoulder, just in time to watch his wife's heart break in her eyes.

She averts her gaze, running her fingers through the soft fur on the blanket. It wasn't just water. They both know this, but neither of them will acknowledge it. They are married. They once held hands and made a promise. So long as the sun rises and falls, they will eternally be one together. They shall stand side by side, forever united under said sacred oath that is marriage. And she will bear the heir, and they will grow old together just as they vowed.

But Arthur's heart will always beat to the rhythm of another's laughter. And it's a damning thing, and he'll break both their hearts in the process. But truth is demanding, and they can't hide from it with matching rings on their fingers that signify nothing more than their eternal misery.

Gwen looks up at him through carefully guarded eyes. She smiles softly, "Right. . . just," she says with a knowing nod of her head. Just, it's a surrogate, really, a word to fill in the empty space. There are many words left unspoken between them. A bandaid for a bullet wound; just.

And perhaps Arthur should say something to comfort her, an apology, or an acknowledgment, or gratitude. But he is truly a poor husband and wordlessly turns around and makes his way out of their room and heads in the opposite direction of the kitchens.

The castle feels different at night. Feels smaller, compressed with all the secrets uttered to the moon. He blacks out on the walk. It is muscle memory. Arthur knows how to get to him. The path is etched into his brain. He needn't be present. His feet know the way, for he has walked the same halls a million times before.

He hadn't even realized he reached his destination and was knocking until a delirious Gaius was opening the door cladded in his nightgown. His eyes are barely open as he looks up at his intruder.

"Arthur?" he grumbles, "it's the middle of the night!"

Arthur let out a breath nodding his head, "is he-"

"Sleeping," Gaius cuts in shortly, "like i was, like you should be," he says with a pointed stare.

Arthur's heart stutters in his chest, "I need-please Gaius, I need to know he's ok," Arthur pleads, the vulnerability and desperation in his voice clearly shocking Gaius.

The old man considers him for a moment before slowly nodding and stepping aside. Arthur almost cries out in relief as he stumbles forward. "Thank you," he murmurs gratefully.

Gaius just grunts, before padding back over to his room.

Arthur instantly makes a beeline towards Merlin's room. The door creaks softly as he pushes it open.

Merlin is lying on his back fast asleep, and Arthur can see the rise and fall of his chest. He sits on the edge of his bed, and Merlin stirs but stays in his slumber.

Arthur sucks in a harsh breath as Merlin lays there, motionless, moonlight dancing across his face, kissing his fair skin the way Arthur yearns to do so. He reaches out a trembling hand, pressing his palm to the exposed part of Merlin's chest. His skin is warm to the touch, and Arthur can feel the steady heartbeat and the rise and fall of his chest. He shudders, allowing peace to finally wash over him, allowing his pulse to ground him. He is okay. His own heart falls into the same steady rhythm, his wild mind finally calming and his eyes fluttering shut as he absorbs the warmth radiating off of Merlin. Warm, his mind tells him; alive.

Merlin stirs beneath his palm and Arthur watches silently as his eyes flutter open, his eyebrows drawing together in a disorientated state. He blinks, his eyes still drowsy with sleep, "Arthur?" Merlin mumbles, mindlessly reaching for him, and for the first time in weeks a small smile graces Arthurs lips.

A response catches in his throat, all words dying on his tongue because Merlin is there, alive. His bony frame, pale skin, blue eyes and he sits up. He is there, and Arthur is there and the earth starts turning once again.

"Merlin," he croaks because there are no intruding eyes, no one to see their king cry.

"I am ok," Merlin reassures, placing his hand over Arthurs, where it still sits firmly against his chest.

Arthur blinks, ducking his head down. Merlin's hand is warm against his own, rough, and callus with years of work worn into them. Arthur twists his own hand to hold Merlins. He runs his thumb down slender fingers, and around the bumps of bony knuckles before pressing his lips to them.

Merlin shifts, and the small bed groans in protest. He pulls his hand from Arthur to pat the empty spot, a silent invitation in which Arthur doesn't hesitate to accept. He lays down, the mattress is warm from Merlin's body, and Arthur is reminded once again that he is alive.

It's a tight fit, but their bodies mold together with ease. Pieces slot together perfectly like they are made for each other, like the gods took extra care, making sure they aligned flawlessly.

It's silent between them, just steady breathing and the white noise of the world still spinning.

There are many things Arthur wants to tell him, and he does with time. After all, they have the whole night. So whispers are exchanged, along with soft touches, and it's skin on skin as they melt into one another. It's impossible to know where one begins and the other ends. It's all so sweet reserved for the night, and it is a shame this love doesn't get to grace the light of day. But Arthur doesn't spare that a second thought when he finally gets a taste of pink lips.

They fall deeper into one another, their souls intertwined and the stars bear witness as they become just another secret for the moon to hold.

#merlin #arthur pendragon #merthur #bbc merlin #emer #gaius #magic #merlin and arthur #gwenivere #gwen and arthur #king arthur #boyfriend

106 notes · View notes

trans-cuchulainn · 4 months

Note

Saw your post about Emer possibly having a Fomorian heritage. I'm curious if there are sources about it. Ngl I wish we could explore more of her character outside of her canon roles in the Ulster myths. Her family seems interesting especially since her father was called 'Forgall Manach' (the wily).

i'm not aware that anyone has written any articles about that detail, but it comes from the longer recension of tochmarc emire if you want to see it in situ (meyer's 1888 translation here). it's not a plot point or anything, the text just tells us in passing that her father is a nephew of tethra, one of the fomoire.

i did a quick search on BILL (bibliography of irish language and literature) and didn't turn up many articles on emer and none that seemed relevant, BUT it's pretty out of date so if they're recently published (by which i mean within the last five years... or possibly ten years...) there's a strong chance they wouldn't be indexed yet. so that doesn't necessarily mean no one has published anything, it just means it's hard to find it if you don't already know where to look for it

i'll have a look on codecs too but a) same problem applies, recent articles tend not to be on there and b) for some reason the TE page is under construction and not a published page and i'm not sure why bc i could've sworn it used to be a normal one. however all these sites are maintained by like... one person doing it in their spare time tho bc celtic studies is small and not very digital so i can't be too mad when they're not 100% perfect!

eta: okay idk what was up with it being in preview mode the other day but the TE page is normal again now. scroll down for bibliography but there isn't much that looks like it would touch on this subject. an agent search for emer also doesn't get you much -- three publications by joanne findon and one by marie-luise theuerkauf, none of which are on this kind of topic. looks like forgall does show up in one other text but it's a poem that hasn't been translated so. lol. shit outta luck there, fuck poetry

i will say that i don't think epithets are always super significant. like. there's one character whose epithet is "strong-kneed" or "of the great knees" and i have NEVER got to the bottom of what that's supposed to mean (it makes me laugh every time though). so far i have not found any stories in which his knees are relevant. in forgall's case, it could be as simple as meaning he's a bit clever and makes life difficult for cú chulainn in this one story and there may be no more to it than that. but there also might be more, which might be lost (i.e. it was the focus of texts that didn't survive), or might just be unclear to me (bc i have never looked hard at forgall)

#answered #anonymous #tochmarc emire #emer

21 notes · View notes