Untitled
Author: ILoveThesePeople
Word Count: 1,255
Genre: Romance/Angst
Rating: T
Warnings: Depression and implied execution
Pairings: Merlin/Morgana
Summary: The king demands your presence by his side the next day and you can feel the bitter coldness of the stone floor through your shoes, it seeps into your bones and you pretend that your shiver is from the morning air and not the sickness of it all.
A/N: It's been a long while since I wrote this and I still absolutely love it. I believe this will always be one of my favorite BBC MERLIN stories, no matter how many I may write. This is the first M/M I ever did and the first time I ever tried out the writing style that I know use frequently.
Untitled: Morgana
You hear the music, it echoes through the room and your body says that you think too quiet, too quiet.
(It doesn't register that your mind shouts too loud, too loud until you're in your chambers with tears already welling in your eyes.)
Your throne is small in comparison to the king's and the prince's- you can't register their names, not with the metallic taste in your mouth- and is only looked upon by lustful stares from the court's men, not the respectful glances the other thrones receive.
(Despite the insignificance the throne holds in the eyes of the others that count you can always feel the chill of the wood, feel the brand it marks on you until you're not sure where it ends and you begin.)
They call your name with mirth you hold no wish to be a part of and lust you wish you can ignore and the smile feels too fake- always too fake, always- and you walk to the men whose faces you know but names you can't place.
(When you're in your bed later that night your skin begins to crawl as you hear that title over and over again. Suddenly you realize just how much you missed it being simply Morgana.)
He arrives at your door, a cheerful smile on his face that does not match the worry in his eyes and with a sleeping draught held in one pale hand. You take it from him, place it on the vanity table filled with powders, perfumes and lotions you wish you did not own, and he politely excuses himself.
(You try not to notice how painful it was when he asked 'Are you alright?' or how he looked at you- right through you- when you answered 'I'm fine.')
The dreams are back- they never really left, but you tried to pretend they did- and yet you still laugh and smile like the prize the king sometimes sees you as.
(You try to imagine that the laughter is carefree, that it doesn't crawl up your throat that's still sore from the screaming and tears. It never really works, but you find strength in the fact that you tried.)
The sleeping draught is a deep purple this time instead of the emerald green it was the previous night and the small smile you give him feels more real than it has in a long while.
(Noticing how it felt when you realized that he and Gaius were still trying to help would only bring your downfall- especially since your were more focused on the fact that he cared more than anything else.)
The calm that you feel that night before you lay to rest bleeds into the following days- your thoughts stray to the calm before the storm, but you let yourself hide the rising panic- and when you hear the ringing sound of an axe being sharpened while going through the town square you only allow the fear to show for a second before you're back from being Morgana to Lady Morgana.
(Your gaze continues to wander to your chamber's window that shows the town square for the remainder of the day. When Gwen extinguishes the last candle that night you clam your eyes shut and try to wield the sound out of your memory and that mask from behind your eyelids.)
The king demands your presence by his side the next day and you can feel the bitter coldness of the stone floor through your shoes. It seeps into your bones and you pretend that your shiver is from the morning air and not the sickness of it all. When the axe falls you turn your head away, but not before you see the blood splatter or the horrified look on his face from where he stood in the crowd.
(You refuse to admit to yourself why his face sticks out among all of the other disgusted expressions. You tell yourself there is no reason to shy away from the king's touch as he places a hand on your forearm to guide you back inside, your face doesn't give away the heartbreak you feel at the fatherly action after such a display of cruelness.)
It's nighttime when it all breaks down. You're sitting by your vanity, brushing each strand of black hair thoroughly. Until then you have avoided looking in the mirror, but when you do you can't turn away or even blink. You can't see what the others see when you look in the mirror now and part of you wonders if you ever truly could. There is no beauty in that reflection, only a scared little girl with tear filled eyes and too much power at her fingertips.
(Except, is it really too much power? You can't control it; it spins out of your grasp and is as tangible as the wind. It drains you with each day and as you slowly pick yourself apart in front of that mirror you wonder how it would feel for the glass to shatter against your curled fist.)
That is how he finds you, a now light pink sleeping draught in his hand and too much understanding and worry in his eyes. The candles throw shadows over his face and you hope they do the same for you, hope they hide the tears falling thick and fast down your cheeks- you know they don't, know he can see you as well as he could in broad daylight, but it's the only hope you can find in yourself so you cling to it.
(The worry in his gaze strips you to the bone, leaves you bare and vulnerable in every sense you have tried not to be. You find yourself surprised at how much trust you insinuate at allowing him to see you in such a state.)
His words cut through the silence the simple 'Are you alright?' a repeated question from previous nights. You can see that he expects a plain- lie, never the truth but always a lie- 'I'm fine.' See that he expects it, but hopes for something different. The words fall from your lips, seemingly effortless, but it's practically agony as your words carve themselves into the air. 'No Merlin, not at all.'
(His look of surprise as you turn around fully to stare at him doesn't register, but the concern in his gaze does and you find yourself standing before you can stop yourself and the gown you wear- it was thin and was made to feel almost weightless, but it felt as though it was chaining you to the castle- flutters to a still beside your ankles.)
When you fall into his arms- his arms wrap around you like a puzzle piece slotting into place and your arms wind around his neck automatically as if by some long lost instinct- the tears no longer try to halt and they now run freely, your shattered pride long forgotten as he makes attempts to calm you. You can feel him everywhere- his breath a whisper on your ear, his arms the only thing holding you up, his hair tickling your forehead, his body a solid presence against your shaking frame- and you allow yourself to feel at peace again, if only for a little while.
(You ignore the fact that everywhere isn't enough as your nails scrape the back of his crimson tunic and your face presses into his neck, trying your hardest to find contentment within his skin.)
Word Count: 1,255
Genre: Romance/Angst
Rating: T
Warnings: Depression and implied execution
Pairings: Merlin/Morgana
Summary: The king demands your presence by his side the next day and you can feel the bitter coldness of the stone floor through your shoes, it seeps into your bones and you pretend that your shiver is from the morning air and not the sickness of it all.
A/N: It's been a long while since I wrote this and I still absolutely love it. I believe this will always be one of my favorite BBC MERLIN stories, no matter how many I may write. This is the first M/M I ever did and the first time I ever tried out the writing style that I know use frequently.
Untitled: Morgana
You hear the music, it echoes through the room and your body says that you think too quiet, too quiet.
(It doesn't register that your mind shouts too loud, too loud until you're in your chambers with tears already welling in your eyes.)
Your throne is small in comparison to the king's and the prince's- you can't register their names, not with the metallic taste in your mouth- and is only looked upon by lustful stares from the court's men, not the respectful glances the other thrones receive.
(Despite the insignificance the throne holds in the eyes of the others that count you can always feel the chill of the wood, feel the brand it marks on you until you're not sure where it ends and you begin.)
They call your name with mirth you hold no wish to be a part of and lust you wish you can ignore and the smile feels too fake- always too fake, always- and you walk to the men whose faces you know but names you can't place.
(When you're in your bed later that night your skin begins to crawl as you hear that title over and over again. Suddenly you realize just how much you missed it being simply Morgana.)
He arrives at your door, a cheerful smile on his face that does not match the worry in his eyes and with a sleeping draught held in one pale hand. You take it from him, place it on the vanity table filled with powders, perfumes and lotions you wish you did not own, and he politely excuses himself.
(You try not to notice how painful it was when he asked 'Are you alright?' or how he looked at you- right through you- when you answered 'I'm fine.')
The dreams are back- they never really left, but you tried to pretend they did- and yet you still laugh and smile like the prize the king sometimes sees you as.
(You try to imagine that the laughter is carefree, that it doesn't crawl up your throat that's still sore from the screaming and tears. It never really works, but you find strength in the fact that you tried.)
The sleeping draught is a deep purple this time instead of the emerald green it was the previous night and the small smile you give him feels more real than it has in a long while.
(Noticing how it felt when you realized that he and Gaius were still trying to help would only bring your downfall- especially since your were more focused on the fact that he cared more than anything else.)
The calm that you feel that night before you lay to rest bleeds into the following days- your thoughts stray to the calm before the storm, but you let yourself hide the rising panic- and when you hear the ringing sound of an axe being sharpened while going through the town square you only allow the fear to show for a second before you're back from being Morgana to Lady Morgana.
(Your gaze continues to wander to your chamber's window that shows the town square for the remainder of the day. When Gwen extinguishes the last candle that night you clam your eyes shut and try to wield the sound out of your memory and that mask from behind your eyelids.)
The king demands your presence by his side the next day and you can feel the bitter coldness of the stone floor through your shoes. It seeps into your bones and you pretend that your shiver is from the morning air and not the sickness of it all. When the axe falls you turn your head away, but not before you see the blood splatter or the horrified look on his face from where he stood in the crowd.
(You refuse to admit to yourself why his face sticks out among all of the other disgusted expressions. You tell yourself there is no reason to shy away from the king's touch as he places a hand on your forearm to guide you back inside, your face doesn't give away the heartbreak you feel at the fatherly action after such a display of cruelness.)
It's nighttime when it all breaks down. You're sitting by your vanity, brushing each strand of black hair thoroughly. Until then you have avoided looking in the mirror, but when you do you can't turn away or even blink. You can't see what the others see when you look in the mirror now and part of you wonders if you ever truly could. There is no beauty in that reflection, only a scared little girl with tear filled eyes and too much power at her fingertips.
(Except, is it really too much power? You can't control it; it spins out of your grasp and is as tangible as the wind. It drains you with each day and as you slowly pick yourself apart in front of that mirror you wonder how it would feel for the glass to shatter against your curled fist.)
That is how he finds you, a now light pink sleeping draught in his hand and too much understanding and worry in his eyes. The candles throw shadows over his face and you hope they do the same for you, hope they hide the tears falling thick and fast down your cheeks- you know they don't, know he can see you as well as he could in broad daylight, but it's the only hope you can find in yourself so you cling to it.
(The worry in his gaze strips you to the bone, leaves you bare and vulnerable in every sense you have tried not to be. You find yourself surprised at how much trust you insinuate at allowing him to see you in such a state.)
His words cut through the silence the simple 'Are you alright?' a repeated question from previous nights. You can see that he expects a plain- lie, never the truth but always a lie- 'I'm fine.' See that he expects it, but hopes for something different. The words fall from your lips, seemingly effortless, but it's practically agony as your words carve themselves into the air. 'No Merlin, not at all.'
(His look of surprise as you turn around fully to stare at him doesn't register, but the concern in his gaze does and you find yourself standing before you can stop yourself and the gown you wear- it was thin and was made to feel almost weightless, but it felt as though it was chaining you to the castle- flutters to a still beside your ankles.)
When you fall into his arms- his arms wrap around you like a puzzle piece slotting into place and your arms wind around his neck automatically as if by some long lost instinct- the tears no longer try to halt and they now run freely, your shattered pride long forgotten as he makes attempts to calm you. You can feel him everywhere- his breath a whisper on your ear, his arms the only thing holding you up, his hair tickling your forehead, his body a solid presence against your shaking frame- and you allow yourself to feel at peace again, if only for a little while.
(You ignore the fact that everywhere isn't enough as your nails scrape the back of his crimson tunic and your face presses into his neck, trying your hardest to find contentment within his skin.)