Author: 
issy5209
Title: Time is a Fickle Thing
Rating: Gen
Pairing/s: Alludes to Merlin/Freya
Characters: Mentions Arthur, Gwen, Kilgarrah and the Knights.
Summary: Photos can fade as much as memories do.
Word Count: 575
Prompt: Photograph
Authors Notes: Apologies about the first posting!
In my mind, Merlin walks amongs two worlds, one real, the other Avalon, a place of magic and separate from ours. Not beta'd so I hope it makes sense.
issy5209Title: Time is a Fickle Thing
Rating: Gen
Pairing/s: Alludes to Merlin/Freya
Characters: Mentions Arthur, Gwen, Kilgarrah and the Knights.
Summary: Photos can fade as much as memories do.
Word Count: 575
Prompt: Photograph
Authors Notes: Apologies about the first posting!
In my mind, Merlin walks amongs two worlds, one real, the other Avalon, a place of magic and separate from ours. Not beta'd so I hope it makes sense.
Time is a Fickle Thing
The young (and from his point of view, that was everybody on the face of the earth, never mind the fact that he looked like any other 20-something year old walking the street), were so lucky these days, Merlin thought to himself as he watched a couple taking photographs of each other. They could commit to memory a place, a person, anything important, or not so important, at the click of a button. And when memories fade over the years, as memories do, they could take out the photograph and remember all over again. But photos can fade over time as well.
When he was young (truly young, that is) preserving images of people and things, just wasn't important, it was hard enough just surviving. Instead, stories, songs and poems of great Kings and brave knights were told and passed down from generation to generation. But time was a fickle thing, was it not? Stories become distorted, changed and fade from memories, much like a photograph. He should know, he'd taken many photographs himself that had faded away to leave nothing but shadows, the paper becoming so dry and brittle that it could crumble in your hands. Of course these days, people kept their photos on their computers and what-not, but even then, they were not insusceptible to catastrophes.
But time erodes everything. Buildings which once stood tall were now crumbling away. There was no trace of a Camelot, or even a Kingdom.
Strange then, that he was so timeless and unchanging in a world that crumbled, fell and was rebuilt all over again.
\
There was a time when he would seek out paintings, murals, lithographs - anything of Arthur, Guinevere and the Knights. The artist would get is so wrong that he would often laugh out loud in a gallery or museum, earning him foul looks from the other patrons. Why was it that he was invariably portrayed as a wizend old man with long hair, a beard in silly pointed hats?. The old man thing had merely been a disguise and he only wore a silly hat once!
Often he would see a flash of colour that would remind him of certain things. Red would make him think of the Knights cloaks, billowing as they rode off, unfurling a red banner emblazoned with a gold dragon. Blue made him think of the way Gwen's face would light up whenever Arthur have her a bunch of cornflowers, that he'd orderd Merlin to pick. A flash of green would remind him of Morgana's eyes, angry and hurt, telling him there was no other way. Gold would remind him of Kilgarrah, wise and kind. Silver would make him think of the way Arthur would twirl his sword about, either out of boredom or in battle. These memories though, were faded and incomplete.
And Purple would remind him of her, the dress she wore as she told him that he'd saved her.
She became the Lady of the Lake in that colour.
He could remember the colour of her hair, her eyes, but try as he might, he couldn't see her face in his memories.
Perhaps it was time again, he decided with a sigh. he'd walked this earthly realm long enough. Perhaps it was time to retreat beyond the mists for a while. To walk in another world, to be timeless in a place out of time, where there was no past or future, no crumbling nor fading.
To be with her, to drink in her features, commit every part of her to memory so that it came time to leave her again, he could close his eyes and see her as one looks at a photograph
When he was young (truly young, that is) preserving images of people and things, just wasn't important, it was hard enough just surviving. Instead, stories, songs and poems of great Kings and brave knights were told and passed down from generation to generation. But time was a fickle thing, was it not? Stories become distorted, changed and fade from memories, much like a photograph. He should know, he'd taken many photographs himself that had faded away to leave nothing but shadows, the paper becoming so dry and brittle that it could crumble in your hands. Of course these days, people kept their photos on their computers and what-not, but even then, they were not insusceptible to catastrophes.
But time erodes everything. Buildings which once stood tall were now crumbling away. There was no trace of a Camelot, or even a Kingdom.
Strange then, that he was so timeless and unchanging in a world that crumbled, fell and was rebuilt all over again.
\
There was a time when he would seek out paintings, murals, lithographs - anything of Arthur, Guinevere and the Knights. The artist would get is so wrong that he would often laugh out loud in a gallery or museum, earning him foul looks from the other patrons. Why was it that he was invariably portrayed as a wizend old man with long hair, a beard in silly pointed hats?. The old man thing had merely been a disguise and he only wore a silly hat once!
Often he would see a flash of colour that would remind him of certain things. Red would make him think of the Knights cloaks, billowing as they rode off, unfurling a red banner emblazoned with a gold dragon. Blue made him think of the way Gwen's face would light up whenever Arthur have her a bunch of cornflowers, that he'd orderd Merlin to pick. A flash of green would remind him of Morgana's eyes, angry and hurt, telling him there was no other way. Gold would remind him of Kilgarrah, wise and kind. Silver would make him think of the way Arthur would twirl his sword about, either out of boredom or in battle. These memories though, were faded and incomplete.
And Purple would remind him of her, the dress she wore as she told him that he'd saved her.
She became the Lady of the Lake in that colour.
He could remember the colour of her hair, her eyes, but try as he might, he couldn't see her face in his memories.
Perhaps it was time again, he decided with a sigh. he'd walked this earthly realm long enough. Perhaps it was time to retreat beyond the mists for a while. To walk in another world, to be timeless in a place out of time, where there was no past or future, no crumbling nor fading.
To be with her, to drink in her features, commit every part of her to memory so that it came time to leave her again, he could close his eyes and see her as one looks at a photograph
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