A/N - Promised myself that my first fic would be a nice happy cheerful one about Gwaine's love for apples or a good old crack!fic. Instead I write a angsty, hurt/comfort fanfiction. Because I am a little ol'ray of sunshine. Seriously, what is wrong with me? Short one-shot exploring Merlin's actions and the guilt he feels.
Not too happy with this, I wrote it quite quickly and then kept it the way it was, although I fear it doesn't make much sense or flow very well. Not sure how to describe this, it's kind of a character study fic? Suicidal!Merlin thinking and reflecting on things. I'd love some feedback as I've never tried this kind of writing before and I am honestly not sure on how I did.
Set between season 4 and 5.
Summary - They were calling it Camelot's 'Golden Age', the people were happy and the Kingdom was prosperous but the price of that Golden Age weighs heavily on some of it's citizens. But the man it weighed the most upon was Arthur Pendragon's black haired, blue eyed servant. The man with the permanent grin who was more often in the stocks than not. The man who was known through-out Camelot, always dutifully trailing behind his master.
.: The Cost of Camelot :.
They were calling it Camelot's 'Golden Age', the people were happy and the Kingdom was prosperous but the price of that Golden Age weighed heavily on some of it's citizens.
For some it was the soldiers who had fought and killed in the name of Camelot, killed men who they knew didn't want to fight them, killed men who they knew were just like them, just men doing their duty and trying to survive.
For some it was the weight of a crown, the weight of being responsible for hundreds of thousands of people, for an entire Kingdom. The knowledge that every decision he made would affect everyone around him and could either make Camelot rise higher than before or bring it crashing to the ground.
But the man it weighed the most upon was Arthur Pendragon's black haired, blue eyed servant. The man with the permanent grin who was more often in the stocks than not. The man who was known through-out Camelot, always dutifully trailing behind his master.
That man had done terrible things in the name of destiny.
Things that had taken their toll.
Things that he would never be able to forgive himself for.
In the name of Camelot.
In the name of destiny.
And his name was Merlin.
. . .
Everything he had done, everything he had ever done, he had done with the guise of good intentions.
But the road to Hell was paved in good intentions.
First he had poisoned the girl he had once called a friend, betrayed her trust. The expression of confusion, hurt, anger and betrayal haunted his dreams, she had trusted him and confided in him. And he had nearly killed her. The terror and destruction that she would go on to cause.
That was all because of him.
Then he had released the dragon and hundreds had burned, so many half-dead and burnt bodies littered the streets of Camelot. The images of mothers clutching the remains of their children and children, who were now orphans because of hum, weeping over their parents charred corpses were singed into his memory.
Camelot had reeked with the sent of death during those terrible days.
And it was all his fault, more lives lost because of him.
His Father had died, for the Kingdom that had hunted him down like an animal, all because Merlin had released the Dragon.
He was the monster that had killed his own Father.
And then once again he unleashed the Dragon, burned hundreds of soldiers.
To save Arthur.
Always for Arthur.
Those men hadn't stood a chance against Kilgharrah, they had screamed and their bodies had burned. Their families would weep and cry over their loss, their wives would mourn their husbands and their children would grow up without a Father.
Because of him.
More death, more destruction.
More innocents dead because of him.
Another stone to pave the way to Hell.
Because that was where he was headed.
. . .
Once he had told a druid girl that they were the same, and now they were. They both had become killers, Freya had been forced to kill by a curse. Merlin had been forced to kill because of destiny.
He was convinced that destiny was exactly that.
A curse.
It was a curse that he could only escape in death and death was what he deserved.
But he couldn't die.
Not yet.
Not until Arthur was King.
Not until Albion was united.
Not until he had fulfilled destiny.
Because then all those innocents would have died for nothing.
So day by day, corpse by corpse, Merlin did his duty.
He continued to play the role of Arthur's idiotic servant.
The man with the permanent grin plastered to his face.
But Merlin knew the truth.
He was the man that had more blood on his hands than anyone else in Camelot.
. . .
Arthur had once told him that he was the bravest person that he knew, that he was a hero.
But Arthur was wrong.
He would never be a hero.