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He perches gently on the windowsill, wings folding against his back as he settles. A white-feathered wingtip tipped with soft gold brushes against the glass, and Merlin peers in at the boy (no, man) sleeping within.
Arthur’s grown so much in the last few years, and honestly, Merlin should be relieved – when Arthur turns twenty he’ll officially be released from guardian duty. From what he’s heard from Aithusa’s ramblings during the rare occasions he gets to meet his esteemed senior, post-guardian vacation is the best thing ever, and he should be looking forward to some rest and relaxation, away from the hectic pace that guardianship commands.
Except – he’s not sure he wants to leave.
For nineteen and a half years he’s watched over Arthur Pendragon, son of automobile mogul Uther Pendragon. For nineteen and a half years he’s stood sentry as the boy slept – guardian angels don’t need to sleep, absorbing star-light to maintain their energy – shielding him from several vehicle skirmishes and the occasional vengeful Sidhe fairy or hedge-witch that modern-day Britain is still very much overrun with.
Rule Number One of angel guardianship is not to form too close a bond with the charge – their duty is merely to guard, to protect, and not to care for their charge. Merlin’s pretty sure he’s broken that rule, smashed it into pieces finer than fairy dust.
There’s just something about Arthur that Merlin can’t help but be drawn to. His charm, his smile, the love he holds for those he considers precious. But every time Merlin tries to go a little closer, something within stops him, as though they’re two sides of the same coin, bound together but never fated to meet face to face.
Merlin’s kind of gotten used to it.
When Arthur was young, he used to believe in guardian angels. Every time he stayed hale and hearty through the summer flu outbreaks, every time he got away with stealing the cookies from the cookie jar, he would wrap himself up in his patchwork quilt at night and stare wistfully out at the stars. “Thank you, Mister Angel,” he’d whisper.
“You’re most welcome,” Merlin would whisper, voice softer than a butterfly’s kiss.
As Arthur grew, his belief in fantasy was left behind along with his childhood. Merlin still has rabid dogs and nutty kappas to protect Arthur from, because creatures of magic only attack those not yet adults, but Arthur no longer believes in those.
Merlin still stands guard outside Arthur’s room every night, even as he moved from London to Edinburgh for university, observing the silent night as the chilly north wind blows around, ruffling the gold-tipped feathers on Merlin’s wings.
Merlin knows soon he will have to leave, but he studies Arthur’s sleeping profile, imagines the eyes bright with life dancing under those lids, and somehow a part of him wishes he’ll never have to leave.
On particularly melancholy days Merlin imagines a life where he’s just as human as Arthur. They’ll probably meet at university, Merlin spilling a drink from that Starbucks place that Arthur just adores onto Arthur’s 500-pound leather jacket as he trips over nothing in particular. Arthur’ll be a complete prat at first, but they’ll warm to each other, trading warm glances, fleeting grins, tight hugs.
They’ll become best friends for life, and one day when they’re eighty-seven with creaking knee joints they’ll sit by the beach and watch the waves come in, tinged honey yellow and watermelon pink from the last few rays of the evening sun.
That, however, is a dream for another day, another time, another lifetime.
For now, Merlin’s just content to lean back against the glass, dream of things as untouchable as breath misting in the cold winter air, and watch the sun rise over the rooftops of the houses, bringing a new day dyed in sunrise colours. He’ll watch as the village stirs to life as he watches, and as Arthur gets up, and then Merlin will prepare himself for another day of guardianship.
For now, he’ll stick to his routine, and try his best not to think of Arthur’s twentieth birthday just around the corner.
(For now.)
i’m trying hard to forget you
but my empty walls won’t let me let you go
when you took it all
you forgot your shadow
(what’s a goodbye good for, anyway?)
fin.