Soooooo...
Feb. 20th, 2009 01:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
piploverStill alive. Still no job, though I'm getting unemployment now so that helps a lot. I figure I can live off that and my disability until I can actually find work. Yay for unemployment and food stamps!
Not much to report, really, just basically same old same old. I've been fighting lethargy lately, the desire to just lay down and do nothing. It's getting harder to look for work when all I hear is silence. I have to keep telling myself that I'll find something, eventually. Hopefully. *Sigh*
Anyway, because I tend to write when I get depressed, I'm presenting you all with a little Merlin fic. I have heartily fallen in love with the BBC show, much the way I've fallen in love with fleece slippers. It gives me a warm snuggly feeling to wrap myself in when times get too hard. So, for your enjoyment I hope, here is my little Merlin fic. Unbeta'ed, but I hope you like all the same. Let me know what you think? It's been forever since I wrote anything.
Let Us Go Then
Merlin
G
I own nothing, this is just for fun.
Merlin hates the feel of big cities. Large buildings looming over him, like shadows of the dragons that once inhabited his world. Now there is only glass and iron stretching above him, closing him in and stealing the breath from his lungs when he tries to breath the scent of oak or birch.
Centuries he has lived, youth and old age combining with wisdom and patience, changing his appearance as the world around him changed, though always at his center remembering who he is, who he was. Whom he belonged to.
He has read the books, of course, and laughed with bittersweet fondness at the misconceptions and exaggerations. Arthur and Morgana had fought like siblings in the beginning, and even though their battles had escalated into something not quite resembling bar brawls, he had never known either to draw blood, metaphorically or literally. Not until the very end, when the weight of a kingdom rested on their actions, too heavy a burden to be anything other than a weapon.
He sees her, every few centuries. A reflection of her profile in the water of a lake, or, more recently, a shadow that walks beside him, twisted and distorted by the glass that lines the make up of the cities.
He wears a younger face now, finding old age tiresome and painful. He hasn’t worn wisdom on his sleeve since the 70s, when playing Dungeons and Dragons had become popular and children yearned for the magic that remained hidden and dormant. He had liked that time, when the currents of power had stirred within him, an itch under his skin he rarely scratched.
He goes by Meredith now, or Emory, when he‘s feeling particularly reminiscent. A private joke that only he smiles at, showing teeth older than legend.
He rarely thinks of Arthur, until he does. Then he breaths in the stale tang of car exhaust and wonders what his friend would have thought of the world around him, if he would still mourn for his city knowing that the rest of the world eventually ended up no better.
He thinks he would.
He sits on park benches and feeds pigeons, closes his eyes and imagines the sound of sword on sword, the call of servants and the heat of the kitchen beneath his feet. He remembers the scent of Gwen’s pigeon sandwiches, licks his lips to the lingering taste of passing years.
He watches children run around the little slices of nature society has deemed parks, wonders when his world became so narrowed that his cage never ended, just changed names with the city he lingered in. He would rattle the bars but the last time he did that San Francisco almost burned down. He still smiles when they blame the cow.
He stumbles across a fair one day, maidens and men dressed in brightly colored fabrics that had never existed when his name was still his own. The ache in his chest is familiar, though no less painful. He watches the young men in dull armor parade around the green, his fingers twitching with remembered duties and the urge to buff out nicks.
He has lingered too long, he thinks, watching the lace of a ribbon float on the breeze, eyes glowing slightly as he danced it around a young girl’s hair. Dark, like Morgana, but with the hint of frizz that Gwen could never tame.
He smiles softly in remembrance, thinks of golden hair and laughing eyes. This is how he remembers his Arthur, his Gwen and Morgana. Too much blood has touched his world to linger in his mind, the faces of his friends untarnished. If he chooses to forget the tragedy of later years, that is his business and no one else’s.
He lies under the stars that night and longs to be among them. He can trace the faint outline of a dragon amongst the black, the last remnants of the fierce beast he had once begged answers from. After Arthur became king and turned to him for guidance, he had suddenly understood why the creature’s answers had been so cryptic.
Arthur, however, had always known when he was bullshitting.
When he closes his eyes that night, surrounded by the not-quite-right sounds of the fair, he feels the currents move once more, the stir of power through his blood that whispers a promise in his ear. His fingers touch the earth, remembers when the grass grew wild and his clothes smelled of the harvest. The dirt against his palms is gritty, too much sand to be useful for planting.
Merlin is old now, older than the Great Dragon, and that thought breaks his heart, even though it has been shattered a thousand times already. When the words come to his mind, tasting of dust and Gauis’ tomes, he feels no fear, only a longing grown and carefully tended by the passage of years. This spell, this one he has never dared to whisper before, though it has always been a part of his bones. This will be his last, and he almost weeps with the knowing.
The words are more breath than substance, though his body recognizes the results all the same.
Skin, unwrinkled and smooth as in his first youth, slowly withers away, a serpent shedding his scales without the safety of new flesh beneath. He had dreamt of this moment, of this time, when the earth would claim his body and his mind would finally be free of the prison that had held him for so long. Not even Arthur, with his unfair demands and damning promises, could hold this decision against him.
“Live on without me,” Arthur had made him promise, the dying whisper speckled with blood and a fierce knowing that only Arthur had ever possessed. Not even Huinith had wielded such power over her son’s actions and motives, guided his destiny so thoroughly.
And then the prat had had the gall to take up residence in Avalon, fading from the human world to leave only Merlin’s memories and a handful of stories to be remembered by.
Now, the time of that promise long since faded, Merlin welcomes the slow fall into oblivion. Reluctant to leave his body only as one is reluctant to leave an old pair of socks, too threadbare and filled with holes to provide more than a token of comfort or warmth, yet cherished for the service they had once provided.
The low hum of Avalon beckons to him, paid for in the price of his blood and flesh. Between the sigh of one breath and another, he allows his legend to fade to dust, bones returning to the earth as a child returns to its mother’s skirt.
Warm hands embrace him, and dry lips claim his mouth in a greeting made all the more welcome by its farewell. Blond hair glints in sunlight untainted, and once more Camelot sings.
Not much to report, really, just basically same old same old. I've been fighting lethargy lately, the desire to just lay down and do nothing. It's getting harder to look for work when all I hear is silence. I have to keep telling myself that I'll find something, eventually. Hopefully. *Sigh*
Anyway, because I tend to write when I get depressed, I'm presenting you all with a little Merlin fic. I have heartily fallen in love with the BBC show, much the way I've fallen in love with fleece slippers. It gives me a warm snuggly feeling to wrap myself in when times get too hard. So, for your enjoyment I hope, here is my little Merlin fic. Unbeta'ed, but I hope you like all the same. Let me know what you think? It's been forever since I wrote anything.
Let Us Go Then
Merlin
G
I own nothing, this is just for fun.
Merlin hates the feel of big cities. Large buildings looming over him, like shadows of the dragons that once inhabited his world. Now there is only glass and iron stretching above him, closing him in and stealing the breath from his lungs when he tries to breath the scent of oak or birch.
Centuries he has lived, youth and old age combining with wisdom and patience, changing his appearance as the world around him changed, though always at his center remembering who he is, who he was. Whom he belonged to.
He has read the books, of course, and laughed with bittersweet fondness at the misconceptions and exaggerations. Arthur and Morgana had fought like siblings in the beginning, and even though their battles had escalated into something not quite resembling bar brawls, he had never known either to draw blood, metaphorically or literally. Not until the very end, when the weight of a kingdom rested on their actions, too heavy a burden to be anything other than a weapon.
He sees her, every few centuries. A reflection of her profile in the water of a lake, or, more recently, a shadow that walks beside him, twisted and distorted by the glass that lines the make up of the cities.
He wears a younger face now, finding old age tiresome and painful. He hasn’t worn wisdom on his sleeve since the 70s, when playing Dungeons and Dragons had become popular and children yearned for the magic that remained hidden and dormant. He had liked that time, when the currents of power had stirred within him, an itch under his skin he rarely scratched.
He goes by Meredith now, or Emory, when he‘s feeling particularly reminiscent. A private joke that only he smiles at, showing teeth older than legend.
He rarely thinks of Arthur, until he does. Then he breaths in the stale tang of car exhaust and wonders what his friend would have thought of the world around him, if he would still mourn for his city knowing that the rest of the world eventually ended up no better.
He thinks he would.
He sits on park benches and feeds pigeons, closes his eyes and imagines the sound of sword on sword, the call of servants and the heat of the kitchen beneath his feet. He remembers the scent of Gwen’s pigeon sandwiches, licks his lips to the lingering taste of passing years.
He watches children run around the little slices of nature society has deemed parks, wonders when his world became so narrowed that his cage never ended, just changed names with the city he lingered in. He would rattle the bars but the last time he did that San Francisco almost burned down. He still smiles when they blame the cow.
He stumbles across a fair one day, maidens and men dressed in brightly colored fabrics that had never existed when his name was still his own. The ache in his chest is familiar, though no less painful. He watches the young men in dull armor parade around the green, his fingers twitching with remembered duties and the urge to buff out nicks.
He has lingered too long, he thinks, watching the lace of a ribbon float on the breeze, eyes glowing slightly as he danced it around a young girl’s hair. Dark, like Morgana, but with the hint of frizz that Gwen could never tame.
He smiles softly in remembrance, thinks of golden hair and laughing eyes. This is how he remembers his Arthur, his Gwen and Morgana. Too much blood has touched his world to linger in his mind, the faces of his friends untarnished. If he chooses to forget the tragedy of later years, that is his business and no one else’s.
He lies under the stars that night and longs to be among them. He can trace the faint outline of a dragon amongst the black, the last remnants of the fierce beast he had once begged answers from. After Arthur became king and turned to him for guidance, he had suddenly understood why the creature’s answers had been so cryptic.
Arthur, however, had always known when he was bullshitting.
When he closes his eyes that night, surrounded by the not-quite-right sounds of the fair, he feels the currents move once more, the stir of power through his blood that whispers a promise in his ear. His fingers touch the earth, remembers when the grass grew wild and his clothes smelled of the harvest. The dirt against his palms is gritty, too much sand to be useful for planting.
Merlin is old now, older than the Great Dragon, and that thought breaks his heart, even though it has been shattered a thousand times already. When the words come to his mind, tasting of dust and Gauis’ tomes, he feels no fear, only a longing grown and carefully tended by the passage of years. This spell, this one he has never dared to whisper before, though it has always been a part of his bones. This will be his last, and he almost weeps with the knowing.
The words are more breath than substance, though his body recognizes the results all the same.
Skin, unwrinkled and smooth as in his first youth, slowly withers away, a serpent shedding his scales without the safety of new flesh beneath. He had dreamt of this moment, of this time, when the earth would claim his body and his mind would finally be free of the prison that had held him for so long. Not even Arthur, with his unfair demands and damning promises, could hold this decision against him.
“Live on without me,” Arthur had made him promise, the dying whisper speckled with blood and a fierce knowing that only Arthur had ever possessed. Not even Huinith had wielded such power over her son’s actions and motives, guided his destiny so thoroughly.
And then the prat had had the gall to take up residence in Avalon, fading from the human world to leave only Merlin’s memories and a handful of stories to be remembered by.
Now, the time of that promise long since faded, Merlin welcomes the slow fall into oblivion. Reluctant to leave his body only as one is reluctant to leave an old pair of socks, too threadbare and filled with holes to provide more than a token of comfort or warmth, yet cherished for the service they had once provided.
The low hum of Avalon beckons to him, paid for in the price of his blood and flesh. Between the sigh of one breath and another, he allows his legend to fade to dust, bones returning to the earth as a child returns to its mother’s skirt.
Warm hands embrace him, and dry lips claim his mouth in a greeting made all the more welcome by its farewell. Blond hair glints in sunlight untainted, and once more Camelot sings.
no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 10:49 pm (UTC)((((hugs)))) This is a dreadful economy to be without work. You are in my prayers, dear!
no subject
Date: 2009-02-21 02:27 am (UTC)*Hugs*
no subject
Date: 2009-02-21 04:46 pm (UTC)*hugs you*