Merlin One Shots

Secret (Part 3)

Fire

Blood

Smoke

Fire, fire and more fire. The rancid smell of burning flesh, and the torturous screams of the condemned engulfed him like a forest of thorns. Accusatory eyes bore into his, hundreds of dying pleas for mercy tore at his mind, and the terrified crying of children made his ears bleed. He wanted it to stop. Stopstopstop!

But it didn't. He ran. But he couldn't get away. The pain and grief and anguish and guilt followed him, swirling around him like a tornado and swallowing him whole. He crumpled to his knees, clutching at his head, his own silent screams burning his throat.

Fire. His cloak was on fire. He stared, frozen in horror as the flames licked up his clothes and claimed his body inch by inch. Suddenly, he was tied down, rope cutting into his wrists and wood digging into his back. The flames rapidly enveloped his legs and arms and face; he shrieked in agony as it charred every inch of his flesh. He was dying. Burning.

Fire and pain and smoke and-

"NO!" He cried in shock and terror, jolting upright in alarm.

His eyes glowed a sinister gold and the goblets and pitchers on the table, and the pillows on his bed flew violently across the room in all directions. He barely noticed this however, as he sat there, both hands clawing at his chest, and gasping in vain for breath that failed to make it past his clogged throat. His chest heaved, and his heart pounded in his ears, creating a deafening noise that blocked out any other sounds that may have been in the air. Chocked sobs escaped his lips, and traitorous tears gathered at the corner of his eyes threatening to flow like a waterfall, down his cheeks. His own ragged breathing cut through the dark, quite room like a knife.

Surprisingly, the door to his chambers remained shut and the hallway outside silent and undisturbed. He had expected guards or servants to burst in uninvited to locate the source of the screams, but it seems he had not voiced his distress as loud as he had initially thought. Either way, Arthur was beyond grateful that no one was around to witness him in such a state. He was expected to be a picture of courage, strength and confidence; not one of a terrified and shaking child, unable to handle a few bad dreams.

After what felt like hours had passed, Arthur slowly climbed out of bed. He was under no illusion that he would be getting any restful sleep that night, nor did he want to test the theory. Instead, he snatched his dark red cloak from its perch on his armchair and draped it over his shoulders. He grabbed his sheathed sword, always kept next to his bed and within reach while he slept,  and securely attached it to his waist. After the large crimson hood of his cloak was safely tucked over his head, he softly opened the door and peered into the hallway. It was empty. Perfect, he smiled.

He padded silently past various closed doors and burning torches, steps sure and determined. After what felt like an eternity of hallways and stairs, he reached the final few steps that lead down to the vault. Cautiously, he made his way down the narrow passageway, finally arriving in front of the tightly locked metal gate beyond which lay a trove of treasures collected over hundreds of years. Pulling his keys free oh his belt, he unlocked the gate wincing at the sounds it made and praying no guards were around to hear.

After a few minutes of impatient searching and some small assistance from his magic, he found himself clutching a druid staff. His gaze swept admiringly over the intricate carvings in the wood and the glowing crystal in its grip that shone brightly with pure magic as he held it. The staff thrummed with energy, no doubt containing the full power of the druid who had been its previous owner.