Maliciousness and Misunderstanding
By Pippin Strange
Merlin was allowed so much freedom. He was mouthy, annoying, and got away with everything. He could slack off from chores and still manage to get it all done before getting caught. I absolutely hated Arthur's cheeky, cocky, popular manservant more than anything.
Author's Note: The title is a reference to Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. It's just an alternate portrayal of the angelic Merlin, and how not everyone thinks he's so wonderful. This occurs in the year between the end of s3 and the beginning of s4, when they are finally beginning to realize that Uther is incompetent to serve as ruler. Also, the chapters are terribly short because the shorter chapters enabled me to concentrate on each, singular scene with more evoking word choices and better sense of where the story was going. I don't know how but it's working for me =)
PS: Please review and let me know if you want me to continue =)
-Throne Room-
The King's rolling voice drifted over the heads of the courtiers, winding its way through his monthly agenda, arranging to meet various delegates and representatives, and giving ominous hints about meeting an enemy who wants Camelot for his own and how this enemy shall be vanquished.
I sighed. It was the same as usual. I cared not for the King, for he had very little to do with me. My mistress, the Lady Deanna, was the third cousin (by marriage) of the late Queen Igraine. She had very little to do except sleep, eat, wander the castle, and stand in the throne room during any public affairs. The King hardly even knew who she was, only that she had been in Igraine's group of friends, and for that reason he never spoke to her.
I felt my imagination drifting, content to ponder the stained glass windows, rather than listen to a pompous king on a velvet cushion. The life of a servant is hard, and a minute to think uninterrupted is not spare time that I'd like to waste upon an idle king. Especially a foolish king who is mentally incompetent to sit on the throne—someone emotionally scarred and wounded by the treachery of his bastard daughter.
Something on the stone floor squeaked. I glanced over to my left, and noticed Prince Arthur's servant glide in behind the court physician, pretending to be here all along. He had flown in so quickly that his leather boots left marks on the floor from where he slipped.
Hmph, I thought, Some of us actually arrive on time even if we do not care to be here.
Then, he actually leaned over to the court physician and began whispering, and the physician whispered back.
Well, there's 'late', and then there is rudely late.
The servant noticed me watching, and so I looked away, back towards the windows. I may have let out a little sigh of boredom. When my mistress heard, she quickly ground the heel of her boot into my foot, shooting a warning glance out of the corner of her eye. I bit my lip to keep from gasping in pain audibly, and snapped to attention, gingerly lifting my foot off the ground. It now hurt to put pressure on it… it's one thing to step or stomp with a heel, but to shove and then work like a pestle to a mortar, the sensitive bridge of my foot felt like delicate screams of chiseled flesh.
I don't know what caused me to lose concentration again, but I stole another glance at the late servant. He was watching me right back with a keen expression on his face, one that I returned with a look of anger.
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