Within The Silence of The Sky [FIC]
Jan. 9th, 2021 01:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
notturnitoThe night is deep in Uruk.
From his throne room, Gilgamesh can see the glittering of stars, studding the velvety expanse of the sky. The prior banquet had brought light, blurring the constellations and the gods’ prying eyes. But now, as people have returned to slumber, nothing is left to mask them, to mask him—Uruk and humanity’s last stand.
Gilgamesh knows even without his Clairvoyance, that some gods must be watching him right now, from high above their pedestals in the sky. Well, his work is all done for the day—the matter of the northern wall has been alleviated. Why not do this and let them know that he will remain unsubdued?
The gods have tried chaining him down once; look at how it had turned out for them. And anyhow… the one being who could chain him down was now no more.
Though, Gilgamesh supposes he should keep an eye out for the new owner of that body. But in any case, it is not the objective of Tiamat’s son to do so. He can rest assured.
Someone knocks on the door.
“Knock, knock,” the mongrel actually dares say, and when Gilgamesh turns- ah.
A fluff of iridescent white hair, a fresh scent of flowers. Merlin pops his head out from the door, face donning a simple and unassuming smile.
“Your Majesty,” he says, “care to make time for this magus?”
Gilgamesh scoffs.
He must have just finished his conversation with the last master of Chaldea, and has now returned to make trouble. Gilgamesh lets his eyes rake over Merlin’s figure, making him squirm in his place a bit.
“What a busy night,” Gilgamesh says in irritation. “Just as I, the King, thought that I could catch a break, one pest comes to me after another without end. Speak then. What is it?”
The smile in Merlin’s face turns sheepish. He fishes out something from his sleeves—a jar of ale, it turns out, dangling from his hand.
“Do you care for a drink, my king?”
Gilgamesh stares.
Though Merlin’s smile is doltish, his violet eyes are keen, searching. They meet Gilgamesh’s eyes without hesitance, as one equal to another.
“Very well,” Gilgamesh acquiesces.
Thinking about it, they have been together for a rather long time—the court magus and advisor, and the King of Uruk.
In their defense of the fortress city, Gilgamesh has seen the Heroic Spirits he’d summoned fall one after another. Every single battle, news of death comes from the frontlines. And with each fallen Heroic Spirit, Uruk’s defenses are slowly chipping away, cracking, unraveling at the seams.
Now, only Merlin still stands by his side.
How long has it been? When Gilgamesh cards through his memories of recent events, it feels as though Merlin’s shadow lingers in every single one of them, as insufferable as he is. And what is most unforgivable, is that Merlin always manages to somewhat catch Gilgamesh in his most vulnerable moments. Though, perhaps that is to be expected. That magus is half-incubus, after all, their food source is precisely what is called the tremors of the heart; moments of vulnerability, of hesitation. The smell of weakness always manages to lure them in when the cracks appear and form slits.
Gilgamesh doubts he makes a good food source—that Master of Chaldea no doubt is better for it, which is probably why that cretin ran off in the middle of the night to meet them.
But, before the Chaldeans’ arrival, Gilgamesh remembers—
A rare chance of break, him sailing in a small boat along the stream, the River Ulaja reflecting a sea of stars. Thinking of words uttered a long time ago: May the holy River Ulaja, along whose banks we grandly used to stroll, mourn you. And Merlin’s face hovering over him afterwards, blocking the moon. His honeyed words as well— ”My king, I shall ferry you back home.”
Another happenstance. The frontlines sending the number of deaths—higher than ever before. Funeral processions were arranged, priests were sent to condole mourning families. And the vision of Uruk’s desolation hovering insistently, wretchedly, seared into the depths of his eyes throughout the day.
Merlin was there when Gilgamesh retired to his bedchambers, and he was a proof, an anachronism, the evidence of a future existing for humanity.
He remembers himself saying, “Tell me a story,” and Merlin’s words tumbling afterwards, as Gilgamesh slowly drifted to slumber and was finally reminded of the hereafter.
They must have had a conversation about it as well. “Your Majesty,” ah, yes, he remembers Merlin laughing, the glint in his eyes. “Though we both are mages, but the King of Magecraft is someone who gazes back to the past.” The grin on Merlin’s face twists, looking wolfish. It reflects his true nature, at last.
He says, “You and I, Your Majesty, are people who gaze far ahead into the distant future, instead.”
And truly, what a perfect collaboration they have achieved. From battle plans to mere banter, Merlin has helped make this attempt of defense more prevailing. Though Gilgamesh is loath to admit it, even Merlin’s decision to bring Chaldea’s Last Master turns out to be for the better.
Of course, part of it is mutual understanding, another part is their similarities—their branded together with Clairvoyance. And this brand of loneliness, though none of them would acknowledge it themselves, they can recognize it in people alike and can understand it without any words of exchange. There is no one else lonelier than someone who knows what the future holds, yet is stuck to their present, except for the other person who sees it to the end of time, yet is unable to do anything about it.
Such is the burden of their choosings: Gilgamesh’s responsibility, and Merlin’s punishment.
Therefore, even as Merlin and him share drinks under the stars before the day’s battle, what else is there to address?
“What do you wish to talk about, Magus?”
Merlin gives him a smile. It looks knowing. “If Your Majesty wishes, we don’t have to talk about anything. But…,” he takes a sip out of his ale, before continuing. “This is farewell, of course.”
Farewell. He did say that earlier, at the end of the war council about Gorgon. Gilgamesh swirls his jar amidst the unfurling thoughts. Merlin, Magus of Flowers. In his story, he was an advisor to his king—and this time, it is no different. The story as well. There is the King; the final battle. Beyond that, to add to the cambion’s own excitement, there is also the threat of humanity’s collapse, looming above their heads.
Gilgamesh takes a swig of his own. The taste of ale blooms in his tongue like sweet fruit. Afterwards, he says.
“You are here,” Gilgamesh watches Merlin turn to him, his violet eyes catching the silvery moonlight. “Because you could not give farewell to your last king. But you can, now.”
Their gazes hold, for a while, before Merlin breaks it.
“Gah! As sharp as always, Your Majesty!” Merlin’s tone is sulking, as he turns his body away from Gilgamesh. Teary-eyed, he pouts onto his ale. “I shall drink this cup to soothe my pain….”
Gilgamesh stares at the puckered lips in distaste. “Stop speaking, cambion. Your words are a waste of air.”
Merlin gives a small “hehe.”
“Speaking of which,” he blinks, turning to Gilgamesh as he once again displays an airy countenance. “What do you think of the plan tomorrow, my king? Do you really think it could work?”
Gilgamesh eyes him. “What do you think?”
Just as they both reach mutual understanding about their loneliness, they know too well by now the machinations of fate. The cruelty it could stand to confer, just to test one’s limits. Gilgamesh knows it from his knowledge that dips truth. Merlin, on the other hand, with all his experience of watching humanity, has enough inhumanity in himself to be objective about the uncertain turns of the wheels of fate.
Or, in Merlin’s own words: Well, a story won’t end that easily, you know?
Merlin returns to sulking to his cup. “I was just asking, Your Majesty. You don’t have to be so stingy in your answers.”
“The blame lies in your own part, for your superfluousness.” Gilgamesh nurses his jar, before taking another swig. Siduri will forgive him, though a jar of ale will not get him drunk.
He continues, nonetheless, “In any case, we have prepared countermeasures. Tiamat slumbers still within your dominion, and whether the rest shall be according to my vision, that remains to be seen.”
No reply comes, and when Gilgamesh turns to look, he finds Merlin watching him, his smile knowing.
Gilgamesh frowns. “What?”
“Nothing, really, my king. It’s just,” Merlin chuckles. His eyes curve in amusement, making irritation flare up Gilgamesh’s chest. “For someone who used to be indifferent towards the people, now here we are, trying to even challenge the path Clairvoyance has laid.”
“Impudent.”
“Ah- WAHA!” Merlin jumps in alarm with both hands raised, agitation clear at the materialization of Gilgamesh’s golden axe. “My king! Your Majesty! Let’s talk about this clearly, peacefully!”
He ducks from Gilgamesh’s throw, though the axe manages to graze, leaving several strands of iridescent white hair to be blown in the wind. Tch, a pity that the head remains.
“I’m just curious, my king! You…,” he peeks at Gilgamesh. “Are you really going to do it? Are you going to try?”
Such futile questions. But perhaps it is to be expected, after all, Merlin has observed centuries of humanity’s history. Those centuries would flesh out a storyteller’s tendencies. And one of their bad habits is to nose around, to leave no stones unturned in its search.
Well, Gilgamesh’s answer remains the same.
“I, the King, despise being chained,” he nearly snarls out. “Even if decreed by the Fates themselves, if I do not favor the conclusion that they have penned, then I myself will write the conclusion that befits us most.”
His words, once spoken, color the air with the sanctity of an oath. The moment feels magical, though it displays none of his powers as a Caster, but only his might as a King. The words are grandiose, but of course, Merlin should have expected it.
Gilgamesh finds himself grinning. “After all, we have yet to reach that conclusion. We have to live through it, still.”
When he looks, there is something new in Merlin’s countenance, as though he’s finally found oasis in the midst of desert, as though he’s found something precious. Gilgamesh basks in that attention, as finally, finally Merlin returns his grin with a twist of his own smile.
“Indeed,” Merlin says carefully, his eyes alight. “Though we know the ending of the story, experiencing the turbulences in between—it's a whole different matter.”
It’s something they both know as well by now. The knowledge of his kingship did not lessen Gilgamesh’s grief when he lost the companion of his life. Similarly, the knowledge of Artoria Pendragon’s end did not lessen the regret when Merlin could not say his goodbye.
Merlin continues, “Alas! Not to get into my usual ‘loving humanity’ spiel again, but you have to agree, my king, they’re rather resilient ones!” Merlin’s smile softens, lining his countenance with a sort of gentleness that Gilgamesh could not quite put his finger upon. “For us, we know of our own endings, and we can make that as our goal post when all paths are lost. But to them… the fact remains that they can’t see their own conclusions. Instead, they make one for themselves. And to live through that, it requires a different sort of strength, conviction… and a certain foolishness.
“And that’s what makes them interesting, no?”
The smile remains, and now Gilgamesh sees it, what to call that emotion on Merlin. Fondness. For humanity as whole… and for the humanity within Gilgamesh. Loath as he is, he has to admit it—he’d set the stage for Merlin to make that remark, to acknowledge that Gilgamesh remains a part of historymakers, instead of being apart from it.
Though, somehow, Gilgamesh cannot bring himself to be mad at all.
“Tch. They are foolish beyond comparison and worthless by nature.” The images of Uruk’s citizens come to the forefront of his mind; strong and full of optimism, steeling themselves to be hopeful for the years to come. And Gilgamesh closes his eyes.
“The only thing praiseworthy about them,” he continues. “Is how they keep trudging through the mud that is life, though they could not see clearly past it.”
My king, we believe in you! Until the last of our breath, we shall defend Uruk with all of our might!
Fool. Foolish, Gilgamesh wants to comment. Yet, warmth appears at these mundane thoughts, coiling snugly around his ribcage and filling his chest—it is yet to disappear.
He hears Merlin laugh.
“And that’s why,” Gilgamesh cracks open an eye at Merlin’s voice, finding Merlin staring back at him. “I will still be here.”
The Magus’ gaze, how strange it is, filled with affection and conviction. Furthermore, it is directed to him.
“I am the Watcher of Humanity, after all.” The scent of flowers begins to permeate the air, as Merlin’s eyes give out a steady glow—light violet. He vows, “I will see to the end the last page of humanity’s life, whose first page you have opened. Your Majesty.”
He whose life will later become humanity’s oldest story. He about whom songs and poems are first made.
And Gilgamesh laughs.
Merlin… that Magus knows his place, after all, despite being confined to Avalon, where the destruction of humanity will not reach him.
Do not underestimate this; for everything to succeed, you might truly die, Gilgamesh can say. Yet that would be redundant. All that needs to be said has been said, after all.
Thus, he says instead, staring down into Merlin’s eyes, “Then you shall try, Merlin.”
Gilgamesh knows now even without his Clairvoyance, that Merlin’s true eyes are gazing back at him, from within Avalon’s stone walls. Just as though the prying eyes of gods.
Now before him, the look Merlin gives; how heated it is. As though he was seeing Gilgamesh for the first time, taking all of him in.
Gilgamesh does not dislike it.
Desire unravels within him, heightened when he lets his eyes take in the broad of Merlin’s shoulders, the rough of his defined arms. He knows if he removes that white cloak, it will reveal Merlin’s body to little imagination, well-formed and alluring. A cambion through and through.
Merlin does not say anything when Gilgamesh takes the cup from his hand and moves to straddle him. He merely rests his hands on Gilgamesh’s hips, to steady.
Their breaths intermingle as one, as close as they are.
Then, Gilgamesh remembers the doctor from Chaldea, the shocking bareness Merlin displays between their interactions. Of course, what lies between those two should be unspoken at this moment, but Gilgamesh will deign.
“A word of reminder, Merlin. Grasp what is before you while you still have it. Otherwise, when you look back, the dead and the living will have parted ways.”
The King of Magecraft Merlin says he detests… is now the human he cherishes for, after all.
When Merlin speaks, their lips brush against each other. “Your Majesty, you are here in front of me,” his eyes flick down to Gilgamesh’s mouth, filled with intent. His next words are nearly urging. “What is your command?”
Gilgamesh breathes.
“Have me, Magus, while you are still here.”
Merlin’s eyes remain bright and light, and they both draw to each other.
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Gilgamesh awakes to a paradise of flowers.
They bloom around him in abundance, reiterating that he is no longer in his chambers. The bed underneath him is now a pillow of grass; Gilgamesh’s canopy the day-blue sky.
Avalon; or rather, a mirage made in its image.
Someone chuckles behind him—Merlin. When Gilgamesh looks, the smile on his face turns apologetic, sheepish. “My apologies,” he just as well conveys. “But tomorrow is a rather big day.”
The Magus fashions a cloak out of the air, and drapes it over Gilgamesh, a small genuineness shining through his smile this entire time.
He says, “Though momentary as it is, I would like to give you this semblance of peace.”
Gilgamesh stares at him, before pulling the cloak to cover his shoulders. Nosy as always.
“To tinker with dreams is already within an incubus’ ill nature.” Gilgamesh eyelids weigh, as he slowly closes his eyes. “However, I will let it pass this once.”
… It has been a while since he has experienced this.
He hazily feels Merlin smoothing out his cloak, before letting a soft laugh.
“My king, I wish you sweet dreams.” A soft peck to the forehead, scented fresh with flowers. “May you finally have rest.”
In a dream within a dream, Gilgamesh slumbers.
[
In the silence of the shining sky,
There exists my garden.
Someday, you'll make your way
To the far side of the shore.
]
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