My first foray into a fandom other than Harry Potter. So be gentle. Completed and posted a few days ago on my LJ.
Red
Sometimes Merlin feels as if the world around him has turned monochromatic. As if all of the colours are seeping out of it like an old photograph until all that's left is black and white and muted greys. Until the only colour still in existence is Arthur.
Blue. His eyes. Dancing with amusement as he teased and tormented and poked fun at Merlin's expense. Twinkling in time with the melody of his laughter as Merlin invariably made a fool of himself once more. Hardening, shutting the world out as his face returned to that of a serious prince who had trouble dealing with emotions. But always blue. Bright, shiny, brilliant blue.
Gold. His hair. Always falling into his face and obscuring his vision in a manner that Arthur found extremely annoying, but Merlin thought was completely adorable. A shining, sunlit halo for a man not quite nice enough, but certainly beautiful enough, to have been a fallen angel.
His skin. Darkened from all those days spent training beneath the sun's punishing rays. Glistening as tiny rivulets of sweat trickled down the end of his perfect nose, along the strong angles of his jaw and cheekbones, down the column of his throat. Glistening, glowing golden.
Silver. His armour. Winking in the sunlight as Arthur danced gracefully in and out of range of his opponent's broadsword. Flowing with the curve of his shoulder, the broad expanse of his chest, the fluid swing of his arm. Becoming dented under the heavy blows of men trying to best Camelot's reining champion. Smooth, flawless silver.
Pink. His lips. A shade which Merlin had always thought a bit too red, a little too feminine, for a man such as Arthur. Curved and full and oh so distracting. A plump, perfect pink.
Red. A colour of which he seemed so fond. His tunic, flowing over taut, agile muscle like water in a stream. His cape, which billowed behind him as he walked but, as far as Merlin knew, served no real purpose. His cheeks, flushed and sweaty after yet another bout of vigorous training. And his blood. Thick and bright against Merlin's pale skin, as he lay dying on the cold stone floor in the helpless arms of his manservant. Vibrant, unbearable red.
Sometimes Merlin feels as if the world around him has turned monochromatic. As if all of the colours are seeping out of it like an old photograph until all that's left is black and white and muted greys. Until the last remaining rainbow (bluegoldsilverpinkred) finally fades away.