#3 - set at random timeslissomelleOctober 19 2009, 00:10:30 UTC
Oh my God, I love these prompts so much that I'm breaking my creepy-lurker status here just to respond to one. Might be back for more later.
* * * * *
Somewhere in the midst of yet another round of pestering, he finds himself repeating it:
"My father won't allow it."
Merlin grins. "And he's always been able to stop you from doing whatever you really set your mind to, has he?"
.:.
There's a target in the archery range that keeps getting knocked flat by the wind, and he takes the opportunity to bark at his manservant to set it right. Less breath in Merlin's lungs means fewer sentences about his feelings and their supposed unavoidability.
"You could -- just shoot -- a different -- target," Merlin pants as he jogs back across the field.
"Funny you say that, Merlin." He fits another arrow into his bow and takes aim. "Besides, you're wrong; skulking around behind my father's back would never work."
"Liar -- haven't even -- tried."
He swivels around and smirks at the unbecoming yelp that leaps out of Merlin's throat.
"What? Thought you wanted me to try a different target."
.:.
Merlin's kept him engaged in conversation the entire journey back, refusing to allow him to fully slip into unconsciousness. His eyelids have still drifted mostly shut, suddenly impossibly heavy to lift. The words are his constant, the only exertion he can manage at this point. He thinks that they've maybe mostly been nonsense. Sporadic snatches of unrelated thoughts until --
"She doesn't even care for me that way," he slurs from the stretcher. His hand wanders to the tourniquet bound tightly around his thigh, fingers vaguely registering the wet warmth seeping through the cotton. The blood loss is loosening his tongue, but even through his haze he can hear the vicious force behind Merlin's words.
"Don't be daft, Arthur. Look -- see where we are, and who's coming."
He strains to open his eyes and barely makes out the familiar stone walls that signify home before his bleary gaze catches the figure running down the stairs towards him.
Her weathered hands shake as they capture one of his own and she leans over him, smelling of fresh bread and Morgana's soaps.
* * * * *
Somewhere in the midst of yet another round of pestering, he finds himself repeating it:
"My father won't allow it."
Merlin grins. "And he's always been able to stop you from doing whatever you really set your mind to, has he?"
.:.
There's a target in the archery range that keeps getting knocked flat by the wind, and he takes the opportunity to bark at his manservant to set it right. Less breath in Merlin's lungs means fewer sentences about his feelings and their supposed unavoidability.
"You could -- just shoot -- a different -- target," Merlin pants as he jogs back across the field.
"Funny you say that, Merlin." He fits another arrow into his bow and takes aim. "Besides, you're wrong; skulking around behind my father's back would never work."
"Liar -- haven't even -- tried."
He swivels around and smirks at the unbecoming yelp that leaps out of Merlin's throat.
"What? Thought you wanted me to try a different target."
.:.
Merlin's kept him engaged in conversation the entire journey back, refusing to allow him to fully slip into unconsciousness. His eyelids have still drifted mostly shut, suddenly impossibly heavy to lift. The words are his constant, the only exertion he can manage at this point. He thinks that they've maybe mostly been nonsense. Sporadic snatches of unrelated thoughts until --
"She doesn't even care for me that way," he slurs from the stretcher. His hand wanders to the tourniquet bound tightly around his thigh, fingers vaguely registering the wet warmth seeping through the cotton. The blood loss is loosening his tongue, but even through his haze he can hear the vicious force behind Merlin's words.
"Don't be daft, Arthur. Look -- see where we are, and who's coming."
He strains to open his eyes and barely makes out the familiar stone walls that signify home before his bleary gaze catches the figure running down the stairs towards him.
Her weathered hands shake as they capture one of his own and she leans over him, smelling of fresh bread and Morgana's soaps.
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