Merlin was always different. Not obviously that everyone ostracized him but enough that he knew it – and maybe others did, subconsciously. His magic wasn't something he hid because he was ashamed of being different, but rather, because he'd rather not die.
And it bothered him, because it was hardly his fault he was born like that – how could they blame him?
But he lived with it, and tried to hide it as much as he could. It wasn't too easy to learn how to use his magic discreetly, but he had time to do it. Time he didn't waste at all.
By the time he had met Arthur, in Camelot, he was good at it. Not perfect – not even near it, with the lack of proper knowledge anyone who knew of his magic seemed to have – but good enough to fool Arthur and avoid injury.
He was confused at how the bystanders didn't notice the boxes moving, but he reckoned they must've been looking forward to the fight. Natural, of course, that they wouldn't notice a slight shift in position of inconsequential boxes.
It seemed like a long time between that first day, and their last. It seemed like he'd known Arthur for years, and years – so many that they lost count – but, like a bucket of cold water suddenly thrown over him, it ended suddenly.
Arthur was dying and he knew. He knew about the magic, and Merlin didn't know if he saw mistrust in those blue eyes. Or was it acceptance and understanding. Whatever it was, it was gone too soon, and all that was left was a pair of lifeless eyes staring blankly up at him.
He did know, and he only realised this a while after Arthur's death, that, although he was different, he was just like Arthur. He, too, was born in circumstances out of his control and, whilst it wasn't for the same reasons, he was targeted by some.
From then on, being different didn't bother him like it had before.
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I wrote this and it's been months since I've seen either the first or last episode of Merlin. It's just a quick drabble I've been meaning to finish.
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Words: 337
Written: 30th August 2013