Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to BBC.
Notes: So this is a new story. Compared to the other two I'll post after 'Skin Deep' and 'First Times' it will be a slow update, mainly because I have yet to complete the planning of chapters. I just wanted to write something angsty, I'm in that mood aha.
This is inspired by the first one shot in 'Headphones will Deliver.' And the title comes from the Shakespeare quote: "'we know what we are, but not what we may be."
Hope you enjoy. Remember, this will probably be a slow-update story. It is T for now. Will probably stay that way, but who knows. After posting this I'll start on Skin Deep – it should be posted tomorrow.
Prologue: to Err is Not Just Human, but Divine
He looks to the sky; it's like there has been an ink spillage to smudge over the mistakes of the day. The innocent beauty of the stars contrast with the cruel intent of the night – the darkness after dusk is but a cloak to hide misdemeanours and shame. It is a cover for the discreet and the dishonourable, and a shield to the lonely and forgotten. Camelot may be seen as a beacon of hope in the sunlight but the shadows conceal the same demons as all hells' corners.
This is no bounty to be sought, there is no prize lingering within the cold stone of its walls. Pretty lies were all he had found here – pretty lies spoken by a winged serpent he should've known better then to trust. It was known to mislead him. He knew this within his first year – it sent his mother to death, knowing all the while it advised him that he would bring death upon her, Deaths' unwitting, wicked right hand.
Yet still he trusted it, trusted in the words it spoke – but he learnt that not all that glitters' is gold. The Dragon, the so-called Great one, solitary and alone, dealt only in Fools' Gold. Like a trickster on the street, a common conman bored with the centuries and desiring to be free. He had played the perfect little puppet, so naive and trusting – dangerous traits in the big bad world.
But no more. No longer will he be manipulated by outside forces. He is his own man and for too long he has listened to the words of others, walked the path others carved for him. It was a path that gave him nothing; momentary happiness with the one he loves – loved – and a chance to play the hero. But no more. These are not roles he wants to play anymore: no longer will he be the princes' dirty little secret, a misdemeanour to hide in the shadows. No longer the secret little hero, willingly risking his life for a dream – nay, an illusion – only to be cast away in the face of Pendragon propaganda.
The Dragon was wrong. The only coin in their destiny was a just a copper penny painted prettily, pristine one side and burnt the other.
Let Pendragon be king. Let him rule how he chooses to rule. Let him move on and fulfil his duty to his kingdom.
And let him disappear into the night, exiled and disgraced, from the place he once called home. Let the world of Camelot move on without him, his destiny no longer lies within the confines of court life – he believes it never did.
He turns his gaze to the vague hint of Camelot, miles away from him now, and smiles a grim smile. He will no longer be controlled by fate or destiny, by secrecy and laws, by dragons or Pendragons.
His path is his own and he shall carve it into the fabric of time with his own two hands.