Magic Itself
Author: zanra
Title: Magic Itself
Rating: G
Pairing/s: None
Character/s: Merlin
Summary: Merlin and magic. That's it!
Warnings: Me trying to be all drabble-poetic. Sorry.
Word Count: 429
Prompt: Celebration
Author's Notes: Set during either series one or series two.
The clump of dirt and pebbles in Merlin's hands is dry and stiff, still shaped like the earth. The forest is pitch-black but not cool, choking on its own roots in the hot summer night, suffocating under the dense tangle of branches. No starlight penetrates that heavy, oppressive roof, no breeze winds through the panting, long-suffering trunks.
Merlin inhales preparatorily. And gets a lungful of nerves instead of air. He has always been unusually sensitive to his surroundings, and the blackness here, thickened by the sweltering heat, makes him anxious. He shakes himself lightly and wipes the sweat off of his forehead. He closes his eyes in determination.
First, he listens.
For a vibration, a pulse, a rhythm of that secret and invisible place, that other energy. Resting, running, roaming racing just beneath the parched, static surface of Camelot. He knows this other place well enough to know he can't define it, can't name it. The darkness hunches around him as if listening too.
For one terrible moment, Merlin is completely lost, neither in the forest nor that other place, but in the abyss between.
Then he finds it.
He feels his eyes turn gold. Momentarily possessed, he channels it toward his cupped hands, coaxing in an ancient tongue, kind and firm. He pours himself into the rock, the dirt.
The only way to give is to give yourself up and then give yourself away.
His fingers begin to glow. The coin-colored gold fades from his eyes. He opens his palms and a single butterfly trembles out, flutters crookedly up before his eyes. Merlin watches it very intently. Its ghostly blue wings leave a strange residue hanging in the air around it. It is fragile and thin, rather like him. But it is magic, and tiny though it is, the whole forest seems to expand, to untangle and stretch apart to make room for it. Suddenly all the dark trunks are bathed in a cool and refreshing light.
Merlin smiles. The smile becomes a laugh, a laugh like he's just come across an oasis in the desert. He watches his bright butterfly flap in a zig-zagging way toward the leafy-dark canopy, seeking a way out of the forest and toward the glittering stars.
It is a cry of relief and joy, his butterfly. It is a gift, whether Camelot accepts it or not. It is a secret celebration of all his magic is and promises to be.
Celebrating his magic -- it is like celebrating his own breath.
Title: Magic Itself
Rating: G
Pairing/s: None
Character/s: Merlin
Summary: Merlin and magic. That's it!
Warnings: Me trying to be all drabble-poetic. Sorry.
Word Count: 429
Prompt: Celebration
Author's Notes: Set during either series one or series two.
The clump of dirt and pebbles in Merlin's hands is dry and stiff, still shaped like the earth. The forest is pitch-black but not cool, choking on its own roots in the hot summer night, suffocating under the dense tangle of branches. No starlight penetrates that heavy, oppressive roof, no breeze winds through the panting, long-suffering trunks.
Merlin inhales preparatorily. And gets a lungful of nerves instead of air. He has always been unusually sensitive to his surroundings, and the blackness here, thickened by the sweltering heat, makes him anxious. He shakes himself lightly and wipes the sweat off of his forehead. He closes his eyes in determination.
First, he listens.
For a vibration, a pulse, a rhythm of that secret and invisible place, that other energy. Resting, running, roaming racing just beneath the parched, static surface of Camelot. He knows this other place well enough to know he can't define it, can't name it. The darkness hunches around him as if listening too.
For one terrible moment, Merlin is completely lost, neither in the forest nor that other place, but in the abyss between.
Then he finds it.
He feels his eyes turn gold. Momentarily possessed, he channels it toward his cupped hands, coaxing in an ancient tongue, kind and firm. He pours himself into the rock, the dirt.
The only way to give is to give yourself up and then give yourself away.
His fingers begin to glow. The coin-colored gold fades from his eyes. He opens his palms and a single butterfly trembles out, flutters crookedly up before his eyes. Merlin watches it very intently. Its ghostly blue wings leave a strange residue hanging in the air around it. It is fragile and thin, rather like him. But it is magic, and tiny though it is, the whole forest seems to expand, to untangle and stretch apart to make room for it. Suddenly all the dark trunks are bathed in a cool and refreshing light.
Merlin smiles. The smile becomes a laugh, a laugh like he's just come across an oasis in the desert. He watches his bright butterfly flap in a zig-zagging way toward the leafy-dark canopy, seeking a way out of the forest and toward the glittering stars.
It is a cry of relief and joy, his butterfly. It is a gift, whether Camelot accepts it or not. It is a secret celebration of all his magic is and promises to be.
Celebrating his magic -- it is like celebrating his own breath.