Post by Libitine on Sept 19, 2007 18:49:43 GMT 9.5
As of 5:17 am (my time) this ficlet has no title. I haven't yet thought of one that really fits yet, so bear with me. This is the ficlet I promised a while ago about Merlin and his Mab obession. I do hope you like it and I want honest critique. I am a big girl, I can take it. I hope you enjoy darlings. <3
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It could have been the way that she walked. That smooth, rhythmic way of sauntering over towards him, like a woman would walk towards her lover. She seemed to not even be walking at all, merely floating over to him, as if just the sight of him made her walk on air. Maybe she did, Merlin could never see her feet. Whenever she did cross the room over to him, she would hover expectantly around him. Even if he did fail (which he did often) that look of pride on her face never vanished. And if he was sitting, she would lean in close, putting one perfect lily-white hand on the back of his chair, the other laying next to his on the table. She would get so close, as if she knew what he wanted and she was willing to comply.
When she did get nearer to him, he could take in her scent. She smelled magnificent, like the blended nectar of lilies and violets, with the hint of something else. Magic? Perhaps . . . . He always dreamed of falling into a pool of violets and laying there with her, for hours and hours, looking up at the moon and the stars that she loved so much. They had loved her once too.
But dreams were for children. Dreams were illusions. Dreams weren’t real and they never ever would be. Her dreams were being forced into reality; and he was leading them. But what of his wants? What of his needs? Something inside told him that she didn’t care. She was dying. Even if she had never expressed it, there was some hurry to his lessons every day, as if time was moving faster than she could control . . . as if she was getting left behind.
How could anyone leave her? How could anyone walk away from her? He would worship her. He would love her. She was a goddess, and she was eternal and one day she would see that she was his. Because she was.
He loved her hair. She had this long, black hair that looked as if it was spun from the night sky. It looked silken or faerie made, as if it couldn’t belong to anyone else but her. He dreamed about her hair intermingled with black silk bed sheets. It would resemble a midnight waterfall or a creeping shadow, come to consume them both. He was tempted to run his fingers through it.
He wished he was a child, so that such little touches might be acceptable. A woman wouldn’t mind if a young boy touched her hair or her hand --- or kissed her cheek. But he was nearing his eighteenth year and such behavior would make her confused or uncomfortable, or angry. He didn’t want her to be angry, especially not at him. It would strike him hard, like a blow, the day he disappointed her. He could never to that to her. It wasn’t right. She depended on him. She needed him. He couldn’t do that. Besides, she had given him everything. What reason did he have to betray her? He would hate to see that hurt look in her eyes, that look of pure disappointment. He loved the way she looked at him now much better. It could very well have been the way she looked at him that enticed him so.
The way her green eyes lit up when he entered the room and a familiar smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. And, oh, her mouth! Those perfect pink lips that formed her words perfectly, curling where they should and pursing where they should. He wondered what her kisses would feel like on his lips, for he had only kissed a girl on the lips but once. He imagined hers would be gentle at first, and then become forceful with need. He prayed that they would linger on his mouth, but he knew that they wouldn’t . . . just to tease him.
The voice that escaped her lips never seemed to cease in making him tremble. It was raspy and cold when she talked sternly to him, but in a whisper, it was as gentle as the breeze. She could never get enough of saying his name as it either was the head or foot of every one of her sentences. He loved the way she said his name with such pride but such longing. Longing for what? Maybe it wasn’t longing, maybe it was love. Did she love? Could she love? It didn’t seem so. It didn’t seem that such a creature who dwelt in hollow caves could love. Maybe she didn’t love freely. She might just love one person and one person alone. It could be him. No, no. It would be him.
He just longed to touch her; reach out his hand and touch her skin, but he was afraid to. He was afraid that the years of dirt on his hands from his forest home might smudge her porcelain skin. Looking down on his hands (which he had washed that morning) he knew they were clean, but he was flawed. He wasn’t worthy of her. And the Queen of the Old Ways was perfect.
She was perfect, in the sense that she was everything, and nothing. She was human in form, but immortal at heart. She was smart, and clever, but there was still much about the World of Men that she didn’t know. But she was beautiful. To a boy in his teens, what else mattered?
Something else mattered, and it mattered very, very much. Mab was his mother.
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It could have been the way that she walked. That smooth, rhythmic way of sauntering over towards him, like a woman would walk towards her lover. She seemed to not even be walking at all, merely floating over to him, as if just the sight of him made her walk on air. Maybe she did, Merlin could never see her feet. Whenever she did cross the room over to him, she would hover expectantly around him. Even if he did fail (which he did often) that look of pride on her face never vanished. And if he was sitting, she would lean in close, putting one perfect lily-white hand on the back of his chair, the other laying next to his on the table. She would get so close, as if she knew what he wanted and she was willing to comply.
When she did get nearer to him, he could take in her scent. She smelled magnificent, like the blended nectar of lilies and violets, with the hint of something else. Magic? Perhaps . . . . He always dreamed of falling into a pool of violets and laying there with her, for hours and hours, looking up at the moon and the stars that she loved so much. They had loved her once too.
But dreams were for children. Dreams were illusions. Dreams weren’t real and they never ever would be. Her dreams were being forced into reality; and he was leading them. But what of his wants? What of his needs? Something inside told him that she didn’t care. She was dying. Even if she had never expressed it, there was some hurry to his lessons every day, as if time was moving faster than she could control . . . as if she was getting left behind.
How could anyone leave her? How could anyone walk away from her? He would worship her. He would love her. She was a goddess, and she was eternal and one day she would see that she was his. Because she was.
He loved her hair. She had this long, black hair that looked as if it was spun from the night sky. It looked silken or faerie made, as if it couldn’t belong to anyone else but her. He dreamed about her hair intermingled with black silk bed sheets. It would resemble a midnight waterfall or a creeping shadow, come to consume them both. He was tempted to run his fingers through it.
He wished he was a child, so that such little touches might be acceptable. A woman wouldn’t mind if a young boy touched her hair or her hand --- or kissed her cheek. But he was nearing his eighteenth year and such behavior would make her confused or uncomfortable, or angry. He didn’t want her to be angry, especially not at him. It would strike him hard, like a blow, the day he disappointed her. He could never to that to her. It wasn’t right. She depended on him. She needed him. He couldn’t do that. Besides, she had given him everything. What reason did he have to betray her? He would hate to see that hurt look in her eyes, that look of pure disappointment. He loved the way she looked at him now much better. It could very well have been the way she looked at him that enticed him so.
The way her green eyes lit up when he entered the room and a familiar smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. And, oh, her mouth! Those perfect pink lips that formed her words perfectly, curling where they should and pursing where they should. He wondered what her kisses would feel like on his lips, for he had only kissed a girl on the lips but once. He imagined hers would be gentle at first, and then become forceful with need. He prayed that they would linger on his mouth, but he knew that they wouldn’t . . . just to tease him.
The voice that escaped her lips never seemed to cease in making him tremble. It was raspy and cold when she talked sternly to him, but in a whisper, it was as gentle as the breeze. She could never get enough of saying his name as it either was the head or foot of every one of her sentences. He loved the way she said his name with such pride but such longing. Longing for what? Maybe it wasn’t longing, maybe it was love. Did she love? Could she love? It didn’t seem so. It didn’t seem that such a creature who dwelt in hollow caves could love. Maybe she didn’t love freely. She might just love one person and one person alone. It could be him. No, no. It would be him.
He just longed to touch her; reach out his hand and touch her skin, but he was afraid to. He was afraid that the years of dirt on his hands from his forest home might smudge her porcelain skin. Looking down on his hands (which he had washed that morning) he knew they were clean, but he was flawed. He wasn’t worthy of her. And the Queen of the Old Ways was perfect.
She was perfect, in the sense that she was everything, and nothing. She was human in form, but immortal at heart. She was smart, and clever, but there was still much about the World of Men that she didn’t know. But she was beautiful. To a boy in his teens, what else mattered?
Something else mattered, and it mattered very, very much. Mab was his mother.
