SweetOphelia4231616

“God, Merlin, do you make it a point to do that?” The door to the royal chambers slams shut with rather more force than necessary and Arthur’s eyes land with unfailing precision on the boots hovering in mid-air, currently in the process of merrily polishing themselves. “I don’t know, sire. Do you make it a point to breathe? And at any rate, it’s not like this is new.” “I’m in no mood for your philosophy, Merlin,” he snaps, almost as though determined to stay angry. Then, belatedly, his mind seems to catch up with what he’s just heard. “And are you telling me I’ve been wearing magically polished boots all this time?” “Oh, no, sire,” he quips, holding up the other set that had been sitting in his lap, being scrubbed by hand. “Only every other pair, see? Takes me half the time this way.” “I… you know what? Nevermind. Just see that you don’t give my weapons and armor the same treatment. There’s no telling what it might do to them, and it’ll be a long time before I forget

I went to the attic to listen To the silent secret stories That old things will whisper To those who can speak The sacred, breathless tongue Of bittersweet memories. A fancy dress frozen in time, Once the height of fashion, now A feast for hungry moths, Its faded fibers filled With the fleeting impression Of a first kiss. A music box tainted with tarnish, Tinkling out of tune As a tiny girl in a tulle skirt Twirls and twists and turns To the gentle timbre Of a clockwork orchestra. A globe of a world long gone by, My fingers tracing travels As it spins round and round On its old rusty axis Across incorrect borders Rewritten by history. And there in the corner, Half-hidden, forgotten, A treasure box without a lock, And inside, as if lying in wait, The humblest, most modest of finds, And yet the most precious of all: Someone else's shoes In which to walk a mile, Scuffed and patched and frayed With a thousand labored footsteps, While mine were spanking new And polished to a shine. I