So, basically what happened was I read this really awesome fic that was kind of depressing and utterly beautiful at the same time and it sort of spiraled me into a bit of a funk. And then I started listening to Fall Out Boy's latest album American Beauty/American Psycho which also makes me a bit depressed.
And a while ago I stared writing this fic that was set in the present day and was about how after Arthur (and the rest of them all) came back Arthur found a whole bunch of letters that Merlin had written to him while he waited for Arthur to come back (the thing with Percy originally came from that fic) but I think I've mostly abandoned it now :(
Anyway, I was originally going to make the fic just a letter that Arthur had written to Merlin in a modern-AU where they were all adorably Merthur-y and then Merlin died leaving Arthur all on his lonesome. That, kind of obviously, didn't happen. (and will probably never).
Instead this happened. It's pretty dark and depressing, after I got really into writing it I kept it going because I really wanted to see if I could write something dark and not have it turn to fluff, which happens a lot whenever I try to write more serious type things. I'm not actually really sure I', happy that I've proved to myself that I can because now I'm really sad.
It's a very different style to anything I've ever written before and I hope I did okay with it. If there are any mistakes, that's completely on me. I'm sorry if I offend anyone.
TRIGGER WARNINGS: dark, depressing, somewhat explicit descriptions of attempted suicide and somewhat graphic suicide. Self-loathing, bullying. Alcoholism. Lots of not nice things.
woosh.
The screen lights up to the desktop. It's set to some stupid drawing from The Sword in the Stone.
That was Gwaine's idea (fault). He thought it was funny. It's not.
click. Word opens.
The cursor flashes.
Flashes.
Flashes.
Blinking in and out of existence.
A steady pulse against an empty expanse of white.
click.
Dear pra-
backspace. backspace. backspace.
Arthur.
I met a man once. I don't remember where. Or when. I don't remember what tongue we spoke in or why I started talking to him in the first place. He reminded me of Lancelot. Strong. Friendly. Loyal.
clack. clack. clack. clack. clackclackclackclackclackclackclackclackclackclackclackclackclack.
I remember we drank expensive whiskey like it was bad watered down mead in some road side tavern and it was either that or nothing. He wore a neatly pressed suit and had an air of nobility but treated everyone equally. Maybe that was why I talked to him. I let him talk about his wife and children and then, when he asked about me, I told him everything. He was the first person I ever told about Camelot, about you. About us. In retrospect I was drunk and had just seen a children's puppet show where I was a wise old man, you a great king who lived to old age, Mordred your illegit-
The soft clicking of keys stops and the laptop is set aside. The worn sofa barely poofs back up when it is no longer being sat in.
Each step is marked by the disturbing splatting and ripping of bare feet on cool tiles.
fwop. The sound of the rubber seal sliding against the inside of the glass neck sound like a bomb going off in the quiet. The sloshing of liquid as it falls like a waterfall into the glass.
The burn of liquid gold is a welcome feeling.
slosh. The glass is refilled and drained once more before being filled again.
The same number of steps back to the chair so ancient it may as well be in a museum. Just like everything else in the house. Not a home, a house.
A building of brick and concrete, of tiles and terracotta, wooden planks and carpet. 19 bedrooms, each with its own ensuite. Four kitchens. Five siting rooms. Two basements. Six hidden basements. A room filled with instruments that aren't played. Another with bits and bob, nicks and knacks. An attic.
woosh. Air escapes as the sofa is sat in again.
thudthud. The bottle and glass are placed on the moderate coffee table amongst a stack of magazines, a pile of plates, a single shoe, two daggers and something that may or may not have been nicked from a cargo ship in 1756.
As it turns out I can't do this any more sober now than I was then.
Morded was your illegitimate child with Morgana. And Gwaine was portrayed in puppet a courteous, compassionate warrior, the eldest son of King Lot and older brother to Agravaine. Morgana was also my wife.
At seventeen past five in the morning he laughed, clapped me on the shoulder and told me I should write a book. And that if I did he would happily publish it.
The hangover wasn't worth it. Maybe this one will be.
Another, longer, sip.
Somewhere along the line I wrote it down. Modern technology had made me lazy and that bloody stupid movie had just come out. Wankers. The lot of 'em.
I was completely sober when I wrote it. I can't promise I was in the future after I finished.
Chapped lips part. Teeth clink against glass. Saliva wells and mixes with the amber liquid. The tongue rises, hitting the roof of the mouth. The liquid slides down. The Adam's apple bobs. The throat burns a little bit less with each sip. The stomach warms and the extremities feel numb. The taste lingering enough to strengthen with the next intake.
I never had it published. The maudlin part of me that seemed to still care couldn't bear the thought of your life being told as nothing more than fiction. The made-up stories of a lonely, mad old man.
Because that's what I am now. But, then, when have I been anything else? I'm older than most cities and town, countries. I'm older than languages. Older than myth and history itself.
I have nothing. Nothing that matters, anyway.
It's amazing how humans have evolved as a tactile species, don't you think. We need affection and contact just as much as we need food or air or water.
Which begs the question, am I still human?
The glass empties and is abandoned for sips straight from the bottle.
I used to think I was a monster. Sometimes I still do.
My mother wouldn't let me go outside until I was six and even then I wasn't allowed to play with the other children, not that they would have wanted to play with me in the first place. They thought I was a freak. Children are cruel, they don't hide what they think.
The funny thing is, they weren't all that far from the truth.
It didn't take long for me to realise that I was different. I could never show anyone my true self. I am magic, and I coul
backspace. backspace. backspace.
can never let anyone know. It's different now, but the same. Back then I would have been killed on sight if I was lucky. Burnt at the stake if I wasn't. But now, I think it would be worse. There woul
glug. glug. glug.
d be those who don't believe me and write me off as crazy, senile in my old age, mentally afflicted. And isn't that a laugh. But those that believe me, they would take me in and I would soon become nothing more than a lab experiment. I can't trust anyone.
I have nothing and no one, because alone protects me. It's something I've come to realise that Uther was right about. I never protected anyone. I thought I did, that I was, but I wasn't. I was merely prolonging the inevitable and ensuring it would be infinitely worse. Everyone would have been better off if I had remained in Ealdor.
I don't protect. I slowly poison and destroy.
Alone protects yo-
backspace. backspace.
othe-
backspace. backspace. backspace. backspace.
peop-
backspace. backspace. backspace. backspace.
Flash.
Flash.
Alone protects.
Several long sips cause the level to drop by over two inches.
I could tell you a lot of things. Things you want to hear. Things Gwen wants to hear. Things Leon and Gwaine and Lancelot and Elyan want to hear. Things Percival doesn't want to hear.
Haven't you ever wondered why Percival never asks about what I did for one-thousand five-hundred and ninety-three years, four months, six days and-
tick. tick. tick. tick. tick. tick. tick.
seven hours and fourteen minutes.
Not that I'm counting.
Gaius stopped asking.
He asked me how I was…
Well, he was asking me but I interrupted. I thought he wanted to know how I was alive. I told him I didn't know. I lied, but doesn't matter right now. Because he didn't want to know that, because it didn't matter. It never did. Why should it matter how I am alive, knowing why won't change a thing.
I probably shouldn't have assumed he wanted to know how I was alive. Because he didn't want to know that. He wanted to know how I was sane.
I told him I knew I was forgetting something.
Perhaps I shouldn't have smiled while saying it. I think I scared him.
Maybe I should be more worried that it doesn't scare me.
Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
Fla…
ping. A new window appears in the middle of the screen, its border flashes and the rest of the screen dims. Battery at 7%. Plug in charger.
sigh. gulp.
slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. Heavy steps cross tiles.
thunk. The charger is plugged in.
click. The power is flicked on.
slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap.
woosh. Air escapes again.
I scared Percival too.
He yelled at me for over an hour and then refused to let me go for the entire afternoon, evening and night afterwards.
Leon thought we had finally found girls to lay with. Gwen thought we were sleeping together. The knights thought we finally killed each other. Gaius thought we were talking about Gwaine and Elyan and Lancelot and you.
After he stopped yelling neither of us spoke a word. He didn't kill me (rather the opposite, and besides, I already tried) and the reverse would never have worked, however much I wished it would (and for however much of a bastard I am now, I woul-
backspace. backspace. backspace. backspace.
could never have done that to him). Make of it what you want, I know you will anyway. Neither of us dared to sleep that night. Me for fear that I would wake up again and him for fear that I wouldn't.
He watched me for months after that. I think I almost felt bad.
He made me promise I wouldn't do it again. I couldn't do that.
The first time I tried hemlock. I suppose I thought it fitting. It didn't work. I thought I hadn't used enough. So I tried again with almost ten time the amount I gave Morgana all those years ago. It still didn't work.
One long glug of liquid courage.
I won't bore you with the details.
Percival found me the nineteenth time. A combination of blades and poison.
He thought it was the first. I didn't correct him. By then I knew nothing would work, but there's a certain
Flash.
Flash.
backspace. backspace. backspace. backspacebackspacebackspacebackspacebackspacebackspacebackspacebackspacebackspacebackspacebackspacebackspacebackspacebackspacebackspacebackspacebackspacebackspace.
it's like an addiction. I had to. I knew it wouldn't work, but I just had to.
I tried guns when they same around. All of them. And a variety of other things. Everything short of standing next to an H-bomb as it goes off. Couldn't even catch the Black Death when that happened, if you were wondering, though I doubt you were.
I think in the end the only thing I didn't try was a blade forged in dragon's breath. And the irony of that is I honestly believe it would have been the one thing that would have worked.
He still watches me now. A part of me is surprised he hasn't said anything yet, to me or anyone else. I suppose I should thank him for that. Do apologise to him for me, and remind him I never actually promised I wouldn't.
Flash.
slosh. slosh.
Flash.
Flash.
I forget things a lot. It's hard having fifteen and a half hundred years of memories. There not enough room for them all and I don't have choice which go where, which ones get thrown out and which ones remain. I wish I could say for certainty I would keep the ones from Camekfndv
THUD! The noise vibrates through the house. Long, calloused fingers still, hovering over the keyboard. The quiet breathing becomes the only noise in the room.
The sound of mumbling. snort. And then snoring.
Bed springs creak. Silence.
sigh.
backspace. backspace. backspace. backspace. backspace.
Flash.
Flash.
I'm tired.
Flash.
I think I hated you. But then, if what they say is true and you can only hate someone as much as you love them, then I must have truly loathed you. You can make of that what you want as well. I hated you, for a time, a long time, but now, I think I am rather indifferent. Apathetic.
Flash.
glug.
Flash.
drip. drip. drip. drip. The bottle is finally empty.
Flash.
I found a grey hair.
Flash.
Flash.
Thank you.
Flash.
If you ever felt anything less than absolute abhorrence for me then you won't try and keep me here.
Goodbye, my old friend
Flash.
If I still am.
Where we ever in the first place?
fud. The laptop is precariously dumped on top of the magazines.
slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap.
creak. A cupboard opens. A bottle is removed.
slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap.
creak. rattle. rattle. A different cupboard is opened. Two small bottles and a cardboard box are removed.
slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap.
woosh.
crinkle. fwop.
A steady stream from mouth to stomach ignites in a familiar burn.
A sizable sip with each little 'candy' and soon the two bottles are empty.
Fingers fiddle and the box is opened.
crinckle. crack. glug.
Repeat.
crinckle. crack. glug.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. RepeatRepeatRepeatRepeatRepeatRepeatRepeatRepeatRepeatRepeatRepeatRepeatRepeatRepeatRepeatRepeatRepeatRepeatRepeatRepeatRepeat.
The box finishes. There is still a quarter of liquid left.
clink. The sound of a ring against metal rings out as one of the daggers is picked up.
The pad of a finger presses against the tip.
thud. The dagger is placed down.
clink. The other one is picked up.
The pad of the same finger is pressed against the tip. A point of red appears, bright and glowing against pale skin.
There is no pain. The muffled sound of a scream of phantom pain, because everything is numb, barely sounds out.
thud. clank. The dagger falls onto its pair.
clink. clink. The sound of glass against metal and then glass against teeth.
glug. glug. glug. glug. glug. drip. drip. The last of the amber 'good stuff' is drained.
crash. The bottle falls to the floor, shattering.
Two lakes of red grow into oceans as the twin streams build into rivers by way of gravity and the other such laws of the physical universe.
dripdrip. dripdrip. dripdrip. dripdrip. drip. drip. drip.
drip.
In the dark and by the single glow of the laptop screen there is only red in the room of black and white.
drip.
Somewhere above, in various room, in various states of dress and sleep, a dozen souls sleep. Unaware of the goings on below.
dri-
Sunlight streams in, useless to maintain the warmth of a cooling body. Colour slowly begins to explode into the room.
thud. thud. thud. thud. thud. thud. thud. thud. Footsteps draw near.
a question.
thud. thud. thud. thud.
a moan. The lord's name taken in vain.
a plea. a cry. a sob.
THUD! CRASH! Glass breaks as a body collapses to the tiled floor.
The prophesised Strength finds itself lacking.
Immeasurable thuds at different speeds mark the various pairs of feet that carry bodies into the room.
questions. shrieks. yells. cries.
curses.
The still glowing laptop is finally noticed.
The cursor flashes as the pages are scrolled to the top.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
a hoarse voice reads.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
CRASH! THUD!
Yells of shock and surprise ring out.
The screen blinks. The cursor still flashes.
The room bathes in gold and colour as the clinical blue of the laptop screen blinks out of existence.
The cursor stops flashing.
Yeeeeeeeeah.
QUICK!
HUGS! KISSES! UNICORNS! HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY THOUGHTS!
CANDYFLOSS! CHOCOLATE! FLUFF! KITTENS AND PUPPIES!
A FIELD OF DAISES WHERE THE BAD THINGS LIKE HOMEWORK AND ASSIGNMENTS AND SAD THOUGHT CEASE TO EXIST!
Please don't be sad. have another hug.
Uni is exhausting, this is also the result of me stressing over assignments and stuff like that, i am a horrible procrastinator... does it still count as procrastinating if something the time has been used (somewhat) productively...saaaaaaaaaaaaay to write fanfic?
Anyway, I'm going to go read the fluffiest fics I can find while listening to The Vamps... and possibly some Take That in a id to undepressify myself.
-Nita
Like always, I don't own anything.