A/N: *Waves* Hello there fellow Merlinian! Welcome to my first Merlin fanfic. *holds breath nervously!*
So, some info on the story! It's going to be pretty close to cannon (*holds hands up* please don't hate me Merther shippers and Gwen dislike-ers!), because I really do love Arthur and Gwen, and basically, if I can't be with Merlin myself (behold the problems of a fangirl…), then I want to write his story as well as I can. (and YES there is going to be romance – of course there is!) This writing style is something I haven't tried before, but I just felt it suit the time period, and the legend that is Merlin, King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table.
In brief, we have Arthur and Gwen having been married for only a few months; Arthurs main knights are; Gwaine, Percival, and Elyan; Uther is dead, and Morgana still evil! Some old canon characters might make an appearance, so while this is /kind of/ cannon, it's not going to be 100% all the time! That all make sense?! Good! ^_^ 3
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I do not own the legend that is Merlin. This particular idea of young Merlin, is – of course – owned by the BBC, and I in no way claim /anything/ aside from the plot itself, as my own. (OH FOR MERLINS SAKE, these things are so ASDFGHJKL!)
Prologue
Once, deep in the heart of England, there lay a great, great city. It was surrounded by the lushest of fields, and the most majestic of woodland: Camelot rose out of the ground like a fortress emerging from the mist.
At first, on the outside, before one reached the ancient walls, there lay thriving villages. In the morning, they lay in the shadow of the castle, and in the evening, the shadows grew long between the wooden huts and homes, drawing pictures onto the earth. Chickens pecked along the ground and children ran through the fields, their laughter echoing round and round…
Further in, once one entered the main gates, the lower town rushed into view. People dashed about their busy lives; markets would bustle through the narrow streets, the smell of freshly baked bread would rise through the crowds, and the banging from the blacksmiths workshop echoed through the noisy din.
As one travelled up through the cobbled lanes, the higher town was entered through another, even more impressive gateway. Standing alert each side stood the guards of Camelot. Their swards hung in their sheaths again their right thigh, each dressed with some form of scarlet red on his person. Both would watch with wary eyes for any new faces passing through; the occasional traveller would be stopped, but often they were merely looking for lodgings or trade, and they would be let on their way.
The upper town thrived as heartily as the lower, perhaps more so, as here lived the many servants who lived and worked in and around the castle. Their trades were invaluable; herb growers, leather makers, saddlers, those who designed the latest clothes, those who made the best wine- the list is an endless and impressive one to this day. A constant wave of talk kept up through every hour of the day, each neighbour wishing the other a pleasant day (or the occasional fight after a drink to many at the tavern).
It was only once one had made ones way through these places, could the heart of Camelot finally be reached. More guards stood to attention with swards drawn, none resting his eyes for a moment until he was relived from his duty. Passing through, after a thorough inspection and questioning from the red clothed guards, the castle was at last clear to see.
It sprawled across and above, so huge and intimidating, it is hard to imagine it ever existed at all – yet exist it did. Its turrets and towers flew high into the sky, each ending with a point so sharp, to touch it would surely pierce a man through his very heart. Each window was so beautifully decorated along each ledge; it is a wonder how stone can be so solid and harsh when it was once so stunning. What must have been fifty steps, led up to the most unimaginable set of wooden doors one could ever dream of; gold, swirling among the Camelot crest, dragons and lions dancing among the woods and the crowns. Often in the courtyard, tall horses, muscled and fit, stood noble in their very existence with coats as deep as coal and as shiny as a fresh conker, each with ears pricked and tails high, ready and waiting to ride.
Inside the castle itself there were many, many rooms; hundreds, nearly a thousand possibly. There were kitchens and lavatories, bed chambers and council rooms. It spanned from the dark, damp, dungeons, to the airy, light and bright ex-chambers of the Kings ward herself. Its decoration changed from the richest of tapestries and the most solid of silver, to places so barren, even the noise from a pin drop would bounce off the thick walls and high ceilings.
Our story, however, starts in none of these places. See, dear reader, our story begins with a secret. A secret that is hushed behind closed doors, practised at the dead of night. It is banished, unthinkable, punishable - impossible to stop, yet near impossible to hide … but I am getting ahead of myself.
Perhaps, I should say this: our story begins with a boy. Truth be told, a rather unremarkable boy at first glance.
It is in the north of the castle our story takes us; up spiralling stairs and long corridors, to the chambers of an old man. Back, behind the herbs and the medicines, laid a room, and in that room laid a bed, and in that bed lay a boy. As he slept, his shocking black hair rumpled onto his thin pillow, his skin perfectly porcelain, aside from the red marks where he slept with his head against his hand. A red scarf was thrown over a chair, brown trousers shoved carelessly onto the end of the bed all the while muddy footprints painted the wooden floor.
Yes – from the surface, he was a very unremarkable boy indeed.
Yet, this boy – this plain, unremarkable boy – became a legend. His name is whispered among bedtime stories of magic and myth, told throughout the ages of his greatness. His gift, his talent – his loyalty to one, who for so long knew nothing of his importance. No one could have guessed the part he would have to play; not even he himself.
Who is he then, reader? Who is this boy who we all know is so great, yet whom no one yet knew was slightly remarkable at all?
His name? Merlin.
A/N: "His name? Merlin." – I just had to have that in there somehow! So there we have it, the prologue! If you have any thoughts, comments (or 'reviews'..) are always welcome! If you would like to contact me elsewhere, you can do so by twitter, ( books4adreaming) or on YouTube where I make videos about books, (user/books4adreamingteen.)
DFTBA! 3
-Jess :') x
(Written: Saturday 3rd November, 2012 x)