Voting R1C7
Voting is a little different this time please read carefully:)
Unfortunately, we must say goodbye to julesoh . Sorry to see you go. Please consider joining us again for Round 2.
Please read EVERY ENTRY to vote. Feedback on individual entries is highly encouraged. If you liked a story, let the author know. Leave the Fic number and your feedback. Comments are screened.
After reading EVERY ENTRY, please reply and vote for ONE FAVORITE FIC (feedback required). The author with the most positive votes will choose first between the 2 secret challenges for the final challenge.
Please do NOT vote out or for a fic because you do not like the pairing (or because of any other personal preferences) Vote based of quality only.
How is the spelling, grammar, punctuation?
Is the prompt followed?
Are the voices in character?
The Challenge was to write a fic that is based upon the following quote::
"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known."
~Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
Do not vote for your own fic.
VOTING ENDS Monday January 19, 2009 6:59 pm EST (11:59 GMT) (Unless we can't get enough votes in this time. Then I will extend voting)
FIC #1
Title: Remembered
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers/Warnings: None
Merlin could map out Albion a hundred different ways; allegiance and
enmity, rocks and ore, fire and water, but his current favourite was the
map of mud. A gauntlet fell to the table in a tent, in a field,
somewhere in Albion, muddily rousing Merlin from his focus. The images
shivered and skittered over the surface of the water, seeming to giggle,
evading Arthur as they always did. Merlin raised his eyes to the mud
and metal; red and sandy, Devon then.
Merlin took the gauntlet in his hands, smoothing the sticky grit from
the skin warm steel with the pads of his thumbs, revealing the dragon
buried under cold earth. “A challenge?”
Arthur huffed slightly in his nose, a noise which might once have been a
laugh, but which had been choked on its way out of his chest. Leaning
on Merlin’s shoulder, he saw their faces looking out of the newly
stilled water in the shallow stone bowl. They weren’t the faces he
remembered, lined and frowning, edged with grey. Frustrated with the
green grey blue shapes that fluttered into and out of existence,
speaking to Merlin in voices he could never quite hear, and frustrated
too by the age he could see in both of their eyes, Arthur raked his
fingers across their faces, disappearing into the waves. “Perhaps.”
Merlin slowly turned on his chair, clouding the water with a sweep of
his hands; not magic, nor miracle, simply a case of rinsing the mud from
his red brown fingers. He reached up for Arthur’s face, drawing a
splash of mud away from his cheek, along the bone line, onto his hands.
This older face had learned to wait.
”Will we be remembered?”
Arthur’s face was consciously still, hard and honest, somewhere along
the line he must have learned to listen. Merlin breathed deeply,
weighing the question on his tongue, feeling its imprint on the roof of
his mouth. A challenge.
”Yes.”
The voice was slow, ponderous and certain; Merlin felt the words
forming, but the sound of it, sliding like blood, like honey, startled
him nonetheless. His blue eyes grew clear and wide, but it seemed to
please Arthur, and he turned to move away. Merlin caught a bare wrist
between his hands, walking away.
”Our memory is made of words, finger painted pictures in the minds of
strangers; we are remembered, we are forgotten.”
Arthur flexed his fingers, a tired gesture, and rolled his neck to
either side with a crack that Merlin felt as much as heard. ”Merlin,
do I need to tell you who you sound like when you say those things?”
”Sorry.”
He drops the wrist, which falls, lifeless, cooling, to Arthur’s thigh.
Merlin’s fingers tangle in his hairline, his head falls forwards, he
sounds tired and resigned.
He opens his eyes when Arthur’s hands rest lightly, for balance, for
reassurance, above his knee. Arthur is crouching by his side, their
positions reversed, looking up with quiet concern. He, too, has learned
to wait.
”The King is remembered; measured in battles, in castles, in quests.
People will know the names of your enemies, the name of your sword, the
places you live, and love, and fight. The magic is remembered: power,
mystery, spells. They’ll know all the stupid tricks I can do, the
curses that have been put upon us, the whispers of voices in the dark.
The facts are remembered, half remembered, misremembered, but they remain.
You are forgotten, the light in your eyes and the way you smile. I am
forgotten, my stupid ears and the way I laugh. We are forgotten.”
The silence is long, listening to the pulse between his hands, Arthur
can taste the disappointed sadness on the cooling air. He is barely
audible: “thank you.”
Merlin smiles; they’re magic words, full of the power of what they hold
between them, a ball of light in their four, cupped hands. He lifts the
hand from his knee to his lips, brushes a kiss across the Pendragon
signet ring. ”Long live the King.”
Both on their feet, and walking in step in the candle light, Arthur
finally finds his answer, turns to the man who lives at his side.
”They remember the least of the things we do, so let them have their
memories to bend. Outside of time, we can still keep what they don’t
want. They’ve left us the best of the things that we’ve done.”
Four cupped hands, and a kiss that won’t be remembered.
FIC #2
Title: Value
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers/Warnings: Character death (only an OC); brief reference to 1x04 'The Poisoned Chalice'
The ground was cold and hard with winter frost under Selwyn’s back. His heart hammered against his ribs and he couldn’t catch his breath; paralysing agony seared in his chest. Around him shouting and the clash of steel rose and fell like the ebb and flow of the tide, an ocean of noise lapping at the fraying shores of his consciousness.
He lifted an arm and felt his way down his body with sloppy, uncoordinated movements until his fingers met the solid resistance of metal, oddly slick and warm. He raised his head with monumental effort and saw the dagger jutting out from between his ribs, buried almost to the hilt. That explained the pain. His head dropped back with a groan. He didn’t even have the strength for fear; he lay still, watching the clouds crawl across the sky while his breath rattled in his throat and the cold crept in along his limbs, the wild thundering of his heart sweeping away without him.
Selwyn wasn’t aware of closing his eyes until he opened them again, the black behind his eyelids replaced by a smudge of vivid blue and gold that, after a moment of concentration, resolved itself into a face. Suddenly there were hands pressing against his chest, sending spears of pain lancing through him; Selwyn jerked against them and coughed weakly, tasting blood. The head above him turned and Selwyn recognised the tight, strong line of the Prince Arthur’s jaw and the calm authority of his voice as he called for aid.
A second man appeared in his line of vision, blood-spattered and stern. ‘No point - he’s done for, Sire,’ he said; Selwyn bristled at the pity in his eyes.
Arthur cursed softly but tried a smile. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, and though there was something like failure in the slump of his shoulders, his voice was warm and reassuring.
‘Selwyn, Sire,’ he choked out.
‘Selwyn. It’s a good name.’
That it was; his mother had always said it was the only good thing about him, and she rarely used it - mostly she called him ‘you lazy oaf’ or ‘ungrateful layabout’, and even Selwyn had to admit she was right. He’d spent his time shirking responsibilities and drinking away the modest wage he’d earned as assistant to old Eamon, the village tanner; he’d not bothered to turn up all that much, mind you, but Eamon had always liked his mother and no doubt felt sorry for her with her husband dead and landed with such a worthless lout of a son, so he paid him anyway, and Selwyn had taken his charity.
‘Not many men would have done what you just did,’ Arthur said kindly.
‘Just doing my duty,’ Selwyn wheezed with a grin.
The prince squeezed his shoulder gently. ‘Good man.’
Selwyn tried to laugh but could manage only a wet gurgle through the thick, bitter liquid clogging up his throat; no one had ever called him that before. His mother had said he would never amount to anything and die some drunken sot, unmissed and soon forgotten; she couldn’t have imagined he’d go like this - a guardsman of Camelot with a dagger in his chest and a tired-eyed prince leaning over him. Typical - an ambush was a fine time to develop a sense of valour, and he’d just had to throw himself in front of the prince. The Selwyn of old, who’d left Wulmer after his mother had died and no one else was willing to put up with him, would never have succumbed to such stupidity. His mother was probably laughing in her grave.
It was Arthur’s fault. He made a man proud to follow him, made him want to better himself. Selwyn hadn’t understood the fervent loyalty he inspired at first, but then he’d seen him, burning fierce and vital in battle, righteous in service to Camelot. He’d seen how Arthur loved his people, how he’d risked his life for a servant. Arthur gave his all to everything he did; he carried the responsibility and the hope of a nation on his shoulders and he bore it with grace.
Exhaustion pressed on his eyelids and slowed the fitful flutter of his heart. As Arthur faded from his vision he thought that this would have to be enough, one act to redeem a lifetime of failings; his last act was the one thing he did not regret.
It was Arthur’s fault for being the kind of man even someone like Selwyn would die for.
Unfortunately, we must say goodbye to julesoh . Sorry to see you go. Please consider joining us again for Round 2.
Please read EVERY ENTRY to vote. Feedback on individual entries is highly encouraged. If you liked a story, let the author know. Leave the Fic number and your feedback. Comments are screened.
After reading EVERY ENTRY, please reply and vote for ONE FAVORITE FIC (feedback required). The author with the most positive votes will choose first between the 2 secret challenges for the final challenge.
Please do NOT vote out or for a fic because you do not like the pairing (or because of any other personal preferences) Vote based of quality only.
How is the spelling, grammar, punctuation?
Is the prompt followed?
Are the voices in character?
The Challenge was to write a fic that is based upon the following quote::
"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known."
~Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
Do not vote for your own fic.
VOTING ENDS Monday January 19, 2009 6:59 pm EST (11:59 GMT) (Unless we can't get enough votes in this time. Then I will extend voting)
FIC #1
Title: Remembered
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers/Warnings: None
Merlin could map out Albion a hundred different ways; allegiance and
enmity, rocks and ore, fire and water, but his current favourite was the
map of mud. A gauntlet fell to the table in a tent, in a field,
somewhere in Albion, muddily rousing Merlin from his focus. The images
shivered and skittered over the surface of the water, seeming to giggle,
evading Arthur as they always did. Merlin raised his eyes to the mud
and metal; red and sandy, Devon then.
Merlin took the gauntlet in his hands, smoothing the sticky grit from
the skin warm steel with the pads of his thumbs, revealing the dragon
buried under cold earth. “A challenge?”
Arthur huffed slightly in his nose, a noise which might once have been a
laugh, but which had been choked on its way out of his chest. Leaning
on Merlin’s shoulder, he saw their faces looking out of the newly
stilled water in the shallow stone bowl. They weren’t the faces he
remembered, lined and frowning, edged with grey. Frustrated with the
green grey blue shapes that fluttered into and out of existence,
speaking to Merlin in voices he could never quite hear, and frustrated
too by the age he could see in both of their eyes, Arthur raked his
fingers across their faces, disappearing into the waves. “Perhaps.”
Merlin slowly turned on his chair, clouding the water with a sweep of
his hands; not magic, nor miracle, simply a case of rinsing the mud from
his red brown fingers. He reached up for Arthur’s face, drawing a
splash of mud away from his cheek, along the bone line, onto his hands.
This older face had learned to wait.
”Will we be remembered?”
Arthur’s face was consciously still, hard and honest, somewhere along
the line he must have learned to listen. Merlin breathed deeply,
weighing the question on his tongue, feeling its imprint on the roof of
his mouth. A challenge.
”Yes.”
The voice was slow, ponderous and certain; Merlin felt the words
forming, but the sound of it, sliding like blood, like honey, startled
him nonetheless. His blue eyes grew clear and wide, but it seemed to
please Arthur, and he turned to move away. Merlin caught a bare wrist
between his hands, walking away.
”Our memory is made of words, finger painted pictures in the minds of
strangers; we are remembered, we are forgotten.”
Arthur flexed his fingers, a tired gesture, and rolled his neck to
either side with a crack that Merlin felt as much as heard. ”Merlin,
do I need to tell you who you sound like when you say those things?”
”Sorry.”
He drops the wrist, which falls, lifeless, cooling, to Arthur’s thigh.
Merlin’s fingers tangle in his hairline, his head falls forwards, he
sounds tired and resigned.
He opens his eyes when Arthur’s hands rest lightly, for balance, for
reassurance, above his knee. Arthur is crouching by his side, their
positions reversed, looking up with quiet concern. He, too, has learned
to wait.
”The King is remembered; measured in battles, in castles, in quests.
People will know the names of your enemies, the name of your sword, the
places you live, and love, and fight. The magic is remembered: power,
mystery, spells. They’ll know all the stupid tricks I can do, the
curses that have been put upon us, the whispers of voices in the dark.
The facts are remembered, half remembered, misremembered, but they remain.
You are forgotten, the light in your eyes and the way you smile. I am
forgotten, my stupid ears and the way I laugh. We are forgotten.”
The silence is long, listening to the pulse between his hands, Arthur
can taste the disappointed sadness on the cooling air. He is barely
audible: “thank you.”
Merlin smiles; they’re magic words, full of the power of what they hold
between them, a ball of light in their four, cupped hands. He lifts the
hand from his knee to his lips, brushes a kiss across the Pendragon
signet ring. ”Long live the King.”
Both on their feet, and walking in step in the candle light, Arthur
finally finds his answer, turns to the man who lives at his side.
”They remember the least of the things we do, so let them have their
memories to bend. Outside of time, we can still keep what they don’t
want. They’ve left us the best of the things that we’ve done.”
Four cupped hands, and a kiss that won’t be remembered.
FIC #2
Title: Value
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers/Warnings: Character death (only an OC); brief reference to 1x04 'The Poisoned Chalice'
The ground was cold and hard with winter frost under Selwyn’s back. His heart hammered against his ribs and he couldn’t catch his breath; paralysing agony seared in his chest. Around him shouting and the clash of steel rose and fell like the ebb and flow of the tide, an ocean of noise lapping at the fraying shores of his consciousness.
He lifted an arm and felt his way down his body with sloppy, uncoordinated movements until his fingers met the solid resistance of metal, oddly slick and warm. He raised his head with monumental effort and saw the dagger jutting out from between his ribs, buried almost to the hilt. That explained the pain. His head dropped back with a groan. He didn’t even have the strength for fear; he lay still, watching the clouds crawl across the sky while his breath rattled in his throat and the cold crept in along his limbs, the wild thundering of his heart sweeping away without him.
Selwyn wasn’t aware of closing his eyes until he opened them again, the black behind his eyelids replaced by a smudge of vivid blue and gold that, after a moment of concentration, resolved itself into a face. Suddenly there were hands pressing against his chest, sending spears of pain lancing through him; Selwyn jerked against them and coughed weakly, tasting blood. The head above him turned and Selwyn recognised the tight, strong line of the Prince Arthur’s jaw and the calm authority of his voice as he called for aid.
A second man appeared in his line of vision, blood-spattered and stern. ‘No point - he’s done for, Sire,’ he said; Selwyn bristled at the pity in his eyes.
Arthur cursed softly but tried a smile. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, and though there was something like failure in the slump of his shoulders, his voice was warm and reassuring.
‘Selwyn, Sire,’ he choked out.
‘Selwyn. It’s a good name.’
That it was; his mother had always said it was the only good thing about him, and she rarely used it - mostly she called him ‘you lazy oaf’ or ‘ungrateful layabout’, and even Selwyn had to admit she was right. He’d spent his time shirking responsibilities and drinking away the modest wage he’d earned as assistant to old Eamon, the village tanner; he’d not bothered to turn up all that much, mind you, but Eamon had always liked his mother and no doubt felt sorry for her with her husband dead and landed with such a worthless lout of a son, so he paid him anyway, and Selwyn had taken his charity.
‘Not many men would have done what you just did,’ Arthur said kindly.
‘Just doing my duty,’ Selwyn wheezed with a grin.
The prince squeezed his shoulder gently. ‘Good man.’
Selwyn tried to laugh but could manage only a wet gurgle through the thick, bitter liquid clogging up his throat; no one had ever called him that before. His mother had said he would never amount to anything and die some drunken sot, unmissed and soon forgotten; she couldn’t have imagined he’d go like this - a guardsman of Camelot with a dagger in his chest and a tired-eyed prince leaning over him. Typical - an ambush was a fine time to develop a sense of valour, and he’d just had to throw himself in front of the prince. The Selwyn of old, who’d left Wulmer after his mother had died and no one else was willing to put up with him, would never have succumbed to such stupidity. His mother was probably laughing in her grave.
It was Arthur’s fault. He made a man proud to follow him, made him want to better himself. Selwyn hadn’t understood the fervent loyalty he inspired at first, but then he’d seen him, burning fierce and vital in battle, righteous in service to Camelot. He’d seen how Arthur loved his people, how he’d risked his life for a servant. Arthur gave his all to everything he did; he carried the responsibility and the hope of a nation on his shoulders and he bore it with grace.
Exhaustion pressed on his eyelids and slowed the fitful flutter of his heart. As Arthur faded from his vision he thought that this would have to be enough, one act to redeem a lifetime of failings; his last act was the one thing he did not regret.
It was Arthur’s fault for being the kind of man even someone like Selwyn would die for.