The Curse of Anteros (a MERTHUR story) - Complete

will feel my sadness. Anteros, avenge me.

Merlin used every ounce of effort in him and broke away. He felt himself recoil-- he was getting in too deep-- he lost his head. He scooted backward from where their knees tangled and sat afar. Arthur's expression was unclear, troubled.

"I need to go for a walk," Merlin lied, wobbling to his feet and speeding away.

Did he even want to break the curse? What if he wanted things to continue this way? He looked over his shoulder at Arthur and felt his face heat up. He did already, in some capacity, give in-- and maybe that was enough.

Maybe this alone would break it, like a fairy-tale of true love's kiss. What that really love, though? One cursed with love, the other blessed with magic, and ne'er the two shall meet?

Arthur leaned on his elbows, watching Merlin stride away and feeling his chest ache something incomparable. What a moment they had shared; a moment Arthur felt would be etched in his bones forevermore. He stood to get a better look of Merlin scaling down the steep cliffside, and watched after him with longing.

...

Merlin could not have gone any faster to the potion without running. He nearly tripped in a divot in the ground, rolling his ankle, but continued to walk. It should surely be done by now. He could see the memories attached to the cursed heart. The wretched thing which placed itself as a permanent reminder upon his hand in the shape of unbalanced scales. Or, were they balanced now? He could not quite remember, nor desired to check, but pressed onward.

As he finally made his way through the tall grass and fell to his knees he poured the potion into his eyes as the grimoire had instructed. As he began to doubt the mixing of ingredients, the memories seized him in its undertow.

...
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...

A young woman, no more than her twentieth year, sat alone in some room decorated with lavish trinkets and baubles. It looked like a rich man's folly. She sat sideways, languid in a plush chair, toying with something. Viewing as an outsider, Merlin roamed closer to the misty silhouette of the memory and saw a ring in her hands.

Her dark brown hair shielded most of her face from prying eyes, though a large portion of wavy locks was soon lifted away by a young man's hand.

"Circe, have you no shame?" The man laughed, "You are noble, present yourself so. Why do you meddle with that thing? Have you thought of your answer so soon?"

The woman, who Merlin now recognized as 'Circe' rolled her eyes in his direction with familiarity, "You already know my answer, Costa. This is the fourth man who has asked for my hand. The answer is always the same."

Costa, a man not much taller than she, with reddish-brown hair and a multitude of freckles seemed to have asked the question only as a formality. He was scrawny and perhaps misproportioned, gangly in places and seeming too stout in others. This Costa was not likely what would be considered conventionally attractive, especially not by a noble woman's standards. However, his smile shone pure as he laughed at the woman.

"You are a force to be reckoned with, my friend." Costa took the ring from her hands and took it out of her arm's reach to gauge it. "This one seems more lavish than the rest, surely you will at least consider."

"What is fortune without love?" Circe said wistfully, which Merlin thought seemed odd until he noticed the expression of the other. Ah, she was being sarcastic.

"You, my dear, have a heart of ice. I pity the man who tries to win it." Costa laughed. "Even as children, you had the romantic wiles of a dung beetle."