I do not claim any participation in the production of Merlin or any of its characters.
This is an AU of sorts, so please forgive me for any inaccuracies.
She was almost your friend, the way she knew you.
If you were sad when no one could see, she lifted the invisible shields veiling your eyes and peered unobtrusively into the bleeding, burning cavern where your heart coiled and twisted. She always knew you better than others, sometimes even better than yourself.
You were fifteen when you met her. Your fingers were deft and nimble and slight, and they did not look as if they were meant to shape metal, but they were: you were meant to be a silversmith, but no. As a girl, the only position you could obtain close enough to your father was one in the palace, so there you went, and there you saw her.
She was the rarest thing you had ever seen in your entire life. She had eyes that captivated the hearts of men at her age already, and raven-dark hair that no one but you ever saw in the sunrise and sunset. You were set in mind. You wanted to attend to her, despite the initial spark of shame that someone as beautiful as her could be ~touched by someone as plain as you, what with the tiny scars littering your fingers and licking your wrists from where the hot metal had touched~ you.
But she let you touch her. You braided her hair, occasionally letting your fingers run through it. Sometimes, after you had brushed it, she would stand outside and close her eyes, and she would breathe in the air of the approaching night. And as you watched the sunset comb her hair with strands of amber and gold (and maybe even something that reminded you of love) you would imagine touching her waist and hands and resting your chin on her shoulders, and maybe, just maybe, you'd be able to discover what her neck smelled of.
This was not just some passing notion. This was not an immediate occurrence. This was some- something that had crept up upon you from years, so many years of sudden, unquestionable urges to burning {agonizing} desires that were too late to stop.
(But if you could have stopped it, would you have?)
So you became bolder to mask the uncertainty and the absolute certainty. It began with allowing yourself to be seen watching her letting the dawn kiss her upwards-tilted face. She saw you looking past the curtains once she'd opened her eyes. Then you tidied the bed clothes as if that was all you had been doing. And you look back on that and think of who you were trying to fool – her or you?
You almost thought you'd convinced her. You almost thought it didn't mean anything when she wordlessly took your hands in hers and traced each scar with the tip of her finger; you praying that she couldn't hear the sickening shudder of your heart against your ribs.
And you almost, just almost, thought 'let that be enough.'
But it wasn't.
And you know that from the soul-enciphering feeling you got when she smiled at you. You were proud and happy when you made her smile, and scared when you made her smile, and that shouldn't have made you feel more, but in this circumstance, it did.
And…maybe she knew that.
She really might have.
Yet, here you are, years later still, and you try not to feel guilty when you are with her brother instead, because you love him, you do, you do.
And you wonder if you love him as much as you :could have: loved her.