drown in anger, taste the rage
Merlin was drowning.
Not in water, but in a pool of his own anger.
Anger at being trapped, of being forced into a role he didn't want, serving a king he didn't believe in and didn't respect.
No one understood. No one saw. No one believed.
Merlin could not confide in anyone. His mother was hundreds of leagues away, and everyone else? Well...they couldn't be trusted. They could hurt him. They would burn him for something he couldn't rid himself of. If they didn't know, they couldn't punish him, but that didn't stop them from pinching, pressing, and pushing him into a box.
His magic ached to be released, and it fueled the anger raging inside his heart.
Arthur was the cause of it. He was Uther's son. He would never change. He would never see magic as something good. He was too stuck in the Purge's ways and ideals.
He would hurt Merlin.
Merlin didn't want to burn. He wanted to be free. He wanted to use his magic without fear of the flames.
Merlin would have to get rid of Arthur.
It was the only way. The only way to make sure it didn't continue. The only way to save himself and the rest of them before it was too late.
Or so he told himself.
…
He kept himself neutral. He kept himself silent. He kept himself far, far away from the prince who would be king.
He waited. He watched. Occasionally, he saved the prince's life, but there was always that little nag in the back of his head that reminded him that he needed to do something, to act, to save himself.
He found the right time.
It was an ordinary day. No trouble to the east, the west, the north, or the south.
Merlin served.
He always served. Arthur never cared, never tried to understand.
Merlin poured the wine.
Merlin always poured the wine. Arthur trusted him enough for that, after all this time.
Merlin stepped back.
Merlin always stepped back. Into the shadows, where no one saw him. He could disappear if he wanted to. He could.
Merlin waited.
Merlin always waited. Waited for someone to understand, waited for someone to realize what they were doing, waited for someone to say something and fix everything, waited for someone to tell him it would be all right.
That he was fine.
That he was needed for who he was and not who everyone thought he was.
Arthur took a long swig of his wine and thrust his goblet out towards Merlin. "More," he demanded.
Who was Merlin to deny what the prince wanted?
He poured another glass.
After Arthur set his second cup down, he wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Tell the cook-" he began gruffly.
He stopped. Cleared his throat. "Tell the cook-"
Clasping his hands behind his back, Merlin took a step forward. "Yes, sire?"
"Tell-" Arthur choked, clutching his throat with his hand. He abandoned the thought and looked at Merlin with pleading eyes. "Help," he wheezed.
Merlin stood.
He always stood. Behind everyone. Behind everything. Never being noticed.
Merlin watched.
He always watched. Behind the scenes, seeing everything and hearing every word.
"Help," Arthur tried again as his hand began to shake and his body began to convulse. "Help."
Merlin said nothing.
He always said nothing. No one ever spoke to Merlin.
No one ever cared.
Arthur slumped forward on top of his desk.
The shakes stilled.
Merlin stepped forward and closed the blue eyes. He didn't want them staring at him. Then, he turned around and left the room, the wine pitcher tucked under his elbow.
It was empty.