My first distinct memory is of my mother. She sings to me, a song as old as rhyme that I cannot remember the words to. I remember her kind smile, her sparkling eyes and her beautiful voice. If I close my eyes, I am transported to another time, when I had no worries and I did not know of the cruelty of fate.
My second distinct memory is of sitting in a cold, grey building, next to my father, dressed in a scratchy suit. If I concentrate now, I can make out weeping and an anguished wail. I think that was me. Around this building, people I did not recognize sat, wearing black, looking solemnly at a tall man in a tall hat at the front of the room. He stood next to a wooden casket, draped in a black cloth, topped with flowers and my mother's portrait. Young as I was, my four-year-old self understood I would never hear my mother singing to me outside of my memories.
Everything since then has been 'training' - learning to be the perfect Prince, eventually King. Oh, right, and how to select the perfect Queen to rule at my side. My father has taught me to rule firmly, but fairly. Except magic. Father has gone on and on about the evils of magic. He says it corrupts people, makes them evil, and evil means they must be irradiated. I'm not so sure all 'sorcerers', as Father calls the magic users, are as bad as he says, but I don't dare voice my opinions. I made the mistake of disagreeing with my father once, and was punished for my insolence. Father says he is being kind, and most other parents would beat me harder. He says he is going soft. He has taught me how to fight, mostly against magic, but with the sword too. He says I am proficient. This is high praise for him.
My entire life has been planned out, and I have been molded to fit Father's ideal son.
The only thing he has not succeeded to find is his ideal daughter-in-law. Mostly because I keep rejecting them. It's my own little act of rebellion, the only one I can get away with.
Disclaimer: Merlin belongs to the BBC, and Cinderella belongs to a French bloke called Charles Perrault. Any and all references aren't mine either. Neither are any of the characters, plotlines, ect. ect. Heck, I don't even own the idea for this thing. That privilege goes to my friend Grace, who read this after I wrote it and said, "You should publish that!" So I said, "Nah, I'll stick it on the Internet," so here it is! Man, that was a long disclaimer.