Got randomly inspired (happens a lot to me, I guess). This isn't all dark and creepy like my last burst of inspiration, though. Which I'd be honored if you checked out... ;)
I promise this is the last random one-shot before I update Fore and Hindsight. Until then - enjoy! And please let me know what you think, because I love feedback.
Strawberries
He practiced every night, but somehow, he never got it right.
He was the most revered magical being in all the land. He could travel for miles upon miles, walk into an inn he'd not so much as heard of before, and the owner would stare wonderingly. Everyone knew of the great Merlin, Camelot's famous court sorcerer.
(No one had ever heard of Merlin, the prince's servant boy.)
He made appearances in small towns, displaying showy tricks that impressed every audience, no matter how simple they were. Flowers from a hat, feathers into breathing birds, flying sparks of colorful lights. They drew gasps and cheers from children and parents alike.
At the end, he would bow, they would clap, and he would leave behind an impression of himself. To them he was a confident performer, charming enough to bring a crowd to life.
(If only charm could raise the dead.)
Sometimes he took requests. There were always crowd favorites, things that made young children bounce up and down in their eagerness to see it done. Usually it meant transfiguring something, or even conjuring from thin air. The latter was a difficult art, but that mattered little; after all, he was Merlin. Nothing was beyond him.
(Except for just one tiny trick.)
"Make me a strawberry," one little girl requested, bright eyes shining with hope and wonder, because she was talking to Merlin, the most powerful sorcerer alive.
She looked so put out when he told her he'd give her a whole branch of raspberries instead. He could create fruit from nothing just fine - provided it wasn't that. Provided it was anything but that.
(He practiced every night, but somehow, he never got it right.)
No one ever asked for strawberries again. (Perhaps word of his failure had travelled with him.) He created entire feasts, too vast for just one village to finish. He saved the starving and made dead fields plentiful. He maintained the safety of Camelot from start to finish, all while circling the world he loved.
There was always a welcoming feast when he returned to the castle, the only time in which he was ever served strawberries. He could hardly stand the sight of them and looked away as others devoured them.
(They were the same color as her dress.)
At night he curled up in bed, not Merlin anymore, but rather just plain Merlin. No one understood this when he said it out loud. Then again, rare were the people who remembered just plain Merlin. Those who did remember simply swore that Merlin had been there all along, waiting to break through.
(He hadn't.)
He should have known that he couldn't be a known warlock and still be himself, as well. Prejudice was dying, but it wasn't gone. It was only transformed, so people didn't recognize it as prejudice anymore. They stuck it with a new name, reverence.
(No one had revered the servant. Except maybe her.)
Sometimes he wandered the empty corridors at night, not standing still and not going anywhere. He stayed within the realms of his tired, sorrowed mind, reflecting on a time that felt so long ago yet wasn't, really, when everything was different and in so many ways more right.
He remembered a maid, who was now a queen, with her kind smile and clumsy words, the first friend he'd made in Camelot and with the best heart he'd ever encountered.
He remembered a prince, who was now a king, with his biting words and rash actions, the first enemy he'd made in Camelot and the best friend he'd ever had.
He remembered a lady, who was now a witch, with her wit and stubborn will, the first traitor he'd trusted in Camelot and the failure he took most personally to heart.
He remembered a servant, who was now everything he'd thought he wanted, with his energy and loyalty and love, the last person he'd lost in Camelot, but the one he thought he missed the most.
And when he couldn't help himself, he remembered a monster, who was now a spirit, with the trust in her eyes and the admiration in her voice when she spoke to that servant, the first and last person he'd loved in Camelot or anywhere else, but the one he wished would have died instead of taking her current fate.
Everyone he loved was dead, yet none of them were silenced. Now they lied and held secrets and chose sides they'd never expected, and he was Merlin, the most powerful sorcerer who'd ever or would ever live.
Maybe not much had changed, after all.
(He still couldn't make strawberries.)