archaeologist_dTitle: I should have listened
Rating: PG
Pairing/s: Merlin/Arthur
Character/s: Merlin, Arthur
Summary: Merlin’s life in a series of goals.
Warnings: none
Word Count: 541
Camelot_drabble Prompt: 347 – Goals
Author's Notes: none
Disclaimer: Merlin characters are the property of Shine and BBC. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
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One year – Blankey, come. Colors dance. Bring warm hugs. But, but, Mama crying. She sad. Promise not to.
Five years – It isn’t fair. I want to have fun, just a little. After all, magic is as right as breathing, and Mama wants me to breathe, right? And if my goal is to make butterflies dance and get apples from old Man Simson’s tree without having to climb up, it couldn’t be that bad. Right? Mama just doesn’t understand. It isn’t fair.
Seventeen years – I should have been more careful. Will promised not to say anything, but old Man Simson’s tree was old, and I didn’t mean to push it that hard. It was just a lark, good for a laugh. But Mum is mad as hell and I can’t bear to tell her that Will knows. She is already paranoid enough. So another secret piled onto my chest. Sometimes I just want to scream from the weight of it.
Eighteen years – I guess this is punishment. I knew that Mum was upset with me when she found out about Will. But she didn’t yell, didn’t do anything but look sad. I hate that, more than the yelling. The disappointment on her face. And now she is sending me away, far away. Where Will and Ealdor will be a distant memory. I just hope she knows what she is doing. At least Camelot does sound a bit exciting. I hope I make friends. And I can practice my magic there whenever I want. After all, I am pretty good at hiding it.
Nineteen years – Arthur is a prat. The prince is a clotpole of the highest caliber. He acts as if I don’t know that stables are mucked out by stable boys, or that the rows of boots that he says I must clean - all on my own - would be better done by a boot-black. What an arse. I hope that someday I can show him just what magic can do. He’d look good as a toad. Very princely.
Twenty years – Arthur is a puzzle. One day, he treats me like dirt, then next we are wrestling on the bed and arguing and kissing and ah, it’s just so good. Fantastic even. And confusing what with his golden hair and muscly muscles and that luscious mouth I never want to stop exploring. I just hope someday he’ll see me for who I really am and love me anyway. May that day be soon.
Twenty-Eight years – I can’t, I can’t. Arthur is dead and I can’t breathe. I thought I was better than Morgana, cleverer, but in the end, all I am is a failure. I tried to keep him safe, and love him as he deserved, putting him above everything else, and with every stupid, arrogant decision, I just brought him closer to his doom. It is all my fault and I’ll never forgive myself for it.
One Thousand and Twenty Eight years – Still waiting for him. Still living a twilight life, as colorless and drab as the mud under Avalon’s waters. Drowning in a life without meaning. I deserve it, though. I promised my mum so long ago to be careful, and in the end, I should have listened.