Fifty Shades of Erised
(*)(*)(*)
He stumbles, unsure of himself as he enters the highest room of the tower, the room that had been Rowena Ravenclaw's personal chambers. It's not been much of a challenge to gain admittance to her sanctum, one of her students is always quite keen to earn their knowledgeable reputation without actually putting in the effort.
He finds it laughable, and loathsome, but at the same time he isn't opposed to stooping so low as to do someone else's homework, just so that he can look into the fabled treasure of Rowena herself.
Eyes glaze over as he stares at into the smooth glass, leaning heavily on his gnarled staff – a crutch he's needed ever since his last battle with her, right upon the grounds of this very school. It's more powerful that his wand to be sure, but it's a weakness and he'd rather he has none of those little things lying around.
Then he sees her, standing beside him in a bridal veil, heavily lidded eyes masked by the translucent white silk. It's perverse to see her standing in such a manner, especially when their last encounter had them trying their hardest to kill the other.
It's a pain beyond pain to see her violet eyes, her pale skin and sultry figure, all shrouded in matrimonial robes of purest snow, adorned with the feathers of a dozen swans. He's standing beside her, but he isn't in his school robes . . . instead, he's dressed in his best set of dress robes, a broad grin across his face as he takes her hand in his own.
They could have been happy, he knows that, had she not chosen to delve into the darkness that now clings to her every movement. The last battle, the one beside the Black Lake, may have been won by him and yet, it had broken him, ripping his heart from his chest as he cast her down from her pedestal.
She's gone now, wreaking havoc across Albion whilst he remains within the school, studying the magical arts in the hopes of one day being strong enough to save her.
For if he cannot save her from herself, he will have no choice but to kill her for the sake of their world . . .
The mirror shows him what he most desires, and it kills him inside and out that it's a vision that will never come to pass.
"Morgana," he whispers, sinking to his knees as he stares at her smiling face within the mirror, hope dissipating because he knows better than most that your deepest desires are often concepts which are unattainable.
Merlin stares at the lady in the mirror, the woman he loves, and he feels a tear trickle down his cheek. She's the darkest witch to ever live, possibly the darkest who ever will live.
The hours tick by and still he kneels, staring at a forgotten dream that will never be realised.
(*)(*)(*)
A/N: Thoughts of this drabble?
It's a Merlin/Morgana Le Fay that follows another headcanon, that Merlin's one and only love was Morgana, the witch who was his mortal enemy.