EAD Excerpt 1 - Untitled - wingedwolf121 - BBC Merlin
Title:Untitled
Author:Wingedwolf121
Fandom: BBC Merlin
Word Count: 902
Primary Pairing/Characters: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon, Merlin/Nimueh
Rating: T
Content Warning: Dub-Con, Underage, Character Death
*note: none of that content is in this excerpt
Merlin knelt. The heat of the pit licked his bare feet. Even with his eyes fixed on his fingers, spread long and white across his knees, the red light flickered against his pupils. Merlin kept his head bowed, nape of his neck prickling.
He felt a rush of warm air, as something vast inhaled. Come closer, it hissed.
Merlin lowered himself until he was fully prostrated against the floor, palms pressed flat, then wriggled forward like a snake, his robes slithering on the stone. It was the position of abject worship. The heat pressed painfully against his cheeks as he approached the pit.
The priests de Mortia called it the pit, but in truth it was a mountain. The bonfire battered the far wall and gouged it, leaving white stains where the rock of the undercity had sloughed away and fallen to the flames. The fire roared from below them, but the heaps of debris and charred bones had piled near as high as the pit’s rim.
Merlin raised his gaze. Two bulbous red eyes stared at him from within the flames.
“My lord.” Merlin murmured. Splayed as he was, he and the god’s eyes were at equal height.
The Death god spoke. Its voice was the crack of bones and the hiss of drying blood. It crouched in the pit, thick limbs bunched, claws raking through the embers. Merlin heard leathery wings flap. The eyes alone were terrible. They scorched the tips of his hair, and the tips of fingernails softly smoked under them.
Merlin fought the need to blink. The fire burned hotter as the god spoke, bones going from black ember to incandescent white.
“Yes, my lord.” He murmured. The word of the god was always clear to him. He drew himself back to his knees, back arching obscenely. “But before I go-my lord, my mother…”
The fires rose. Merlin bowed his head as the light bathed his cheeks scarlet. “Of course, my lord.”
He was not permitted to see her before he left. Merlin shut his eyes, half in grief, half against the ferocity of the beast’s eyes. The audience was ended with that request. Merlin walked back from the pit on his knees, his head still bowed. He rose only when he had back out the door, through the heavy black curtains and into the House proper.
Nimueh was waiting on the other side. An entire column of his fellow priests waited with her. Merlin could never say how much time passed during his audiences with the god, but many of them had laid down their biers and huddled together against the wall, speaking softly.
“Sorry.” Merlin said softly. Nimueh shook her head and took his arm. She and he wore identical black robes-shadowcloaks, hand stitched and cowled. They were markers of status, full priesthood instead of the simple black habit of a devotee.
She led him away as the lower priests picked up their biers and entered the chamber. The passage from the pit to the dressing room was flat, for easier transport. She led him through the dressing room, past the dozens of stone tables where their fellows worked in groups of two or three. Speech was not forbidden anywhere save the pit, but voices echoed here and did not encourage private conversation.
Only when they had ascended to the House proper did she speak.
“Well?” Nimueh asked. Her eyes were eager.
“He confirmed you.” Merlin whispered. They were alone, between the cells where the priests de Mortia slept and the surface level house where laymen were permitted to pray and grieve. “The usurper is ill, and I am to go to him.”
Nimueh took a deep breath. He could see the rise of her bosom even beneath the robe. “I knew it.”
“I’ll go by the main road, straight North through the city.” Merlin said.
“Then leave now, before the midday heat.” Nimueh reached into one sleeve. She’d readied Merlin’s few possessions already, in anticipation of the god’s instructions. “Be sure to wear your leather sandals, or your feet will be burned.”
“I know.” Merlin said. He took the small satchel.
Nimueh’s hand snapped out, grasping his wrist. She was one of the few priests who would dare. “Do not fail me in this, Merlin.”
“I won’t,” Merlin said. “You know I won’t.”
She released him. “I know.” Nimueh reached up, sliding her hand along the side of his face before gently pulling down his head. They embraced silently, his hands groping along her waist over the robe and her arms winding around his neck. Nimueh’s lips were blood red, and tasted of the ochre with which she painted them.
She was the elder priestess, and entitled to such vanities for the sake of impressing laymen with whom she alone spoke. By seniority, the task of answering Uther Pendragon’s summons should have gone to her. But the god spoke only to Merlin.
Nimueh released him. “Death to death, and the sand covers all.”
“The storm which smothers the sun.” Merlin replied. He left her then, bare feet slapping on the stone as he ascended to the nave, and from there to the city proper.
Nimueh remained, listening to the swish of his robes as he disappeared. She pressed a sharp fingernail into the great blue vein on her wrist. A drop of blood welled. Nimueh looked into the circle, and smiled. “It is done.”
Author:Wingedwolf121
Fandom: BBC Merlin
Word Count: 902
Primary Pairing/Characters: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon, Merlin/Nimueh
Rating: T
Content Warning: Dub-Con, Underage, Character Death
*note: none of that content is in this excerpt
Merlin knelt. The heat of the pit licked his bare feet. Even with his eyes fixed on his fingers, spread long and white across his knees, the red light flickered against his pupils. Merlin kept his head bowed, nape of his neck prickling.
He felt a rush of warm air, as something vast inhaled. Come closer, it hissed.
Merlin lowered himself until he was fully prostrated against the floor, palms pressed flat, then wriggled forward like a snake, his robes slithering on the stone. It was the position of abject worship. The heat pressed painfully against his cheeks as he approached the pit.
The priests de Mortia called it the pit, but in truth it was a mountain. The bonfire battered the far wall and gouged it, leaving white stains where the rock of the undercity had sloughed away and fallen to the flames. The fire roared from below them, but the heaps of debris and charred bones had piled near as high as the pit’s rim.
Merlin raised his gaze. Two bulbous red eyes stared at him from within the flames.
“My lord.” Merlin murmured. Splayed as he was, he and the god’s eyes were at equal height.
The Death god spoke. Its voice was the crack of bones and the hiss of drying blood. It crouched in the pit, thick limbs bunched, claws raking through the embers. Merlin heard leathery wings flap. The eyes alone were terrible. They scorched the tips of his hair, and the tips of fingernails softly smoked under them.
Merlin fought the need to blink. The fire burned hotter as the god spoke, bones going from black ember to incandescent white.
“Yes, my lord.” He murmured. The word of the god was always clear to him. He drew himself back to his knees, back arching obscenely. “But before I go-my lord, my mother…”
The fires rose. Merlin bowed his head as the light bathed his cheeks scarlet. “Of course, my lord.”
He was not permitted to see her before he left. Merlin shut his eyes, half in grief, half against the ferocity of the beast’s eyes. The audience was ended with that request. Merlin walked back from the pit on his knees, his head still bowed. He rose only when he had back out the door, through the heavy black curtains and into the House proper.
Nimueh was waiting on the other side. An entire column of his fellow priests waited with her. Merlin could never say how much time passed during his audiences with the god, but many of them had laid down their biers and huddled together against the wall, speaking softly.
“Sorry.” Merlin said softly. Nimueh shook her head and took his arm. She and he wore identical black robes-shadowcloaks, hand stitched and cowled. They were markers of status, full priesthood instead of the simple black habit of a devotee.
She led him away as the lower priests picked up their biers and entered the chamber. The passage from the pit to the dressing room was flat, for easier transport. She led him through the dressing room, past the dozens of stone tables where their fellows worked in groups of two or three. Speech was not forbidden anywhere save the pit, but voices echoed here and did not encourage private conversation.
Only when they had ascended to the House proper did she speak.
“Well?” Nimueh asked. Her eyes were eager.
“He confirmed you.” Merlin whispered. They were alone, between the cells where the priests de Mortia slept and the surface level house where laymen were permitted to pray and grieve. “The usurper is ill, and I am to go to him.”
Nimueh took a deep breath. He could see the rise of her bosom even beneath the robe. “I knew it.”
“I’ll go by the main road, straight North through the city.” Merlin said.
“Then leave now, before the midday heat.” Nimueh reached into one sleeve. She’d readied Merlin’s few possessions already, in anticipation of the god’s instructions. “Be sure to wear your leather sandals, or your feet will be burned.”
“I know.” Merlin said. He took the small satchel.
Nimueh’s hand snapped out, grasping his wrist. She was one of the few priests who would dare. “Do not fail me in this, Merlin.”
“I won’t,” Merlin said. “You know I won’t.”
She released him. “I know.” Nimueh reached up, sliding her hand along the side of his face before gently pulling down his head. They embraced silently, his hands groping along her waist over the robe and her arms winding around his neck. Nimueh’s lips were blood red, and tasted of the ochre with which she painted them.
She was the elder priestess, and entitled to such vanities for the sake of impressing laymen with whom she alone spoke. By seniority, the task of answering Uther Pendragon’s summons should have gone to her. But the god spoke only to Merlin.
Nimueh released him. “Death to death, and the sand covers all.”
“The storm which smothers the sun.” Merlin replied. He left her then, bare feet slapping on the stone as he ascended to the nave, and from there to the city proper.
Nimueh remained, listening to the swish of his robes as he disappeared. She pressed a sharp fingernail into the great blue vein on her wrist. A drop of blood welled. Nimueh looked into the circle, and smiled. “It is done.”