I've got a strange sense of déjà vu. This is the second One-shot I've continued. I really hate you now, just because I make the ending all cliff-hanger-y you ask for more (seven story alerts. Seven!) And then I feel guilty if I don't write another chapter. So everyone who put this story on alert I hereby blame you… not to mention the people who reviewed…
But thanks so much, even if it annoys me on the surface I really do love all your encouragements (deep down anyway) – look, just don't take my complaints too seriously, its exam time, I get stressed etc.
Disclaimer: nothing has changed between today and yesterday.
The night was peaceful, the faint sounds of the forest: the whispering of the trees, the odd hoot of an owl, the soft patter of the various creatures (and not to mention the impressive snores of Percival) were slowly lulling him to sleep.
Then the scream pierced his ear drum like a knife, it was almost inhuman. One syllable carrying such pain and anguish that Arthur thought his head might implode with the force of it. His hands shot up to cover his ears but they did little to filter out the cries.
It didn't take him long to find the source of the sound. If his head didn't feel as though it were about to be spit in two he might have found it comical that it was his servant who was screaming, considering his habit of cowering like a girl when any serious confrontation took place. But this wasn't just a girly fear of a spider in the bath tin. This was agony, purified and filtered until all that was left was the pain.
He felt himself shout Merlin's name but his call did nothing to lessen the horrific sound Merlin was making. But then something changed, Merlin's arms reachout as though trying to push away the source of his suffering, and they defiantly did more than swat at empty air.
Anything that could remotely be call a weapon was rising into the air, floating away from the group now huddled around the manservant and apparent sorcerer.
"Merlin?" he hated the sound of fear in his voice, for the sake of Camelot! He had fought off every threat imaginable, he was not afraid of on skinny idiot servant!
He found himself shouting again, shaking Merlin's bony shoulders, desperate for the boy to wake up. And suddenly he stilled. His slim frame relaxing against Arthur's grip and his eyes creep open.
"Merlin are you alright?" The voice of his father still chastises him for caring about a servant in the back of his mind but he has learnt to quell the idea by remembering all that Merlin has done for him. "You were dreaming." The words were supposed to be comforting but his voice is shaking too much to be soothing.
"More just screaming mate." Trust Gwain to make a joke at a time like this, but then again it was probably some sort of coping mechanism.
"And other stuff." There is a profound level of emotion in Lancelot's words, concern laced with fear, echoing the feelings of every man standing there, but none of them seen able to form the words that Merlin has just performed MAGIC. Each and every one of them has dealt fearlessly with unimaginable horrors without flinching, but the thought that Merlin – who was essentially the corner stone of the whole mismatched group – was a sorcerer had them scared into silence.
There is a groan form Merlin, Arthur's inclined to believe that it's an after effect of the dream but his eyes are fixed on the weaponry, panic reflected in them.
And then the attention of ever knight has shifted from the distressed servant and onto the armaments which fall gracelessly to the floor.
And after everything that Arthur's been through, everything he's done, refused to do, fought for, fought against, everything he has hated, feared, loved and yearned for. Nothing has prepared him for this – not the fact that Merlin has magic, in fact that should have been obvious if you took the time to look back – but the fact that he didn't care, that he didn't hate the skinny little twerp. He was angry, of course he was, but that didn't mean that he wanted Merlin dead.
Arthur allowed himself to look round at the faces of his most trusted knights and friends, only to find them all staring back at him, expectantly, awaiting his decision. Although Gwain looked as though he certainly wasn't going to go along with it if he found it unfavourable, and he could not quite catch Lancelot's eye. They all looked to him now, he might have thought it for guidance but he couldn't help but notice that they were all positioned defensively around Merlin. And he couldn't help but smile because the thought of hurting Merlin was truly, utterly, absurdly ridiculous.
"You do realise, Merlin, that you're going to have to clear all of that up?" he said, gesturing vaguely at the haphazard pile of varyingly dangerous objects.
That is it. Please, please don't ask for more, in the – now immortal – words of the BBC's Sherlock: Whilst I'm flattered by your interest… I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I'M DOING! (that last bit was me, not Sherlock, but you get the gist). There is a reason that I write one-shots, unless I have a predetermined plot to follow I get utterly lost and confused when writing anything longer then a page and a half (I'm fairly sure that's my limit) just to prove my point this took me a day and a half to write (including time going to school) whilst the total editing time on the first chapter is only about 62mins. If someone else knows what should happen in the future of this little world I've created feel free to continue it, I've got exams and don't have time to stare at a computer screen trying to work out what to write next for hours on end.
Sorry again for the AN rants, I blame stress.