Okay then.
So, you all knew it was coming. My First Merlin Fic! Yeah. Surprisingly, it has no slash. Go figure.
Title - She has heard a whisper say
Summary - There must be a priestess of the Blessed Isle.
Warnings - Spoilers up to episode 1x13. Other than that not a lot. Oh, it is unbetaed so...
Anyhow if you are interested,
She heard a whisper say
She wakes to the sound of wind high in the trees, and animals chattering through the underbrush around her. Birdcalls fill the air as she packs her meager camp, and douses the last embers of last nights fire.
She walks on. She isn’t sure of her destination, only that it is real. No matter what the people of her village tell her. Her mother’s death has not shattered her mind, no more than her father’s betrayal, so many years ago. She knows the difference between dreams of fantasy, and visions of reality. She knows her destiny does not lie in the little village six days walk behind her. Nor the arms of Dagan the miller’s boy, who’s kisses were sweet, and clumsy, and filled with the promise of things she does not want. Things that repulse her with their very banality.
She walks until she comes to the edge of a lake, shrouded with fog. As she breaks the tree line she can see a boat, waiting for her. She is not startled. Her dreams, dream really, it is only the one in constant repetition, has her well prepared.
She makes her way to the boat and climbs in. It moves as soon as she has settled, she is still unperturbed. The island is also exactly as she expects, coming upon her from the mist. She leaves her shoes in the boat, and continues barefoot. She can fill the swell and fall of life, of knowledge, of magic. It sings through her as she makes her way to the center of the island, gaining volume with each step. She reaches the circle that holds the altar and makes her way to a circle of scorched earth.
The magic that is the pulse of this sacred place swells once more, but this time it does not fade. It grows stronger and stronger, and she desperately wishes to cover her ears, knows that the childish gesture will not do her any good. She spares a thought to wish she had left her shoes on, and then the magic has overwhelmed her.
She struggles against it, scared for the very first time since she was struck by the dream. It does her no good. She is as effective as a hummingbird trying to fly against a hurricane. Magic, pure and wild, fills her. She sees centuries spread out before her, past and future. She hears the voices of all those who have held the post before her, all those who were drawn here by the dream. She sees the confrontation between her predecessor and the young warlock. Feels the rage within him, and the fire burning her as his fury takes physical form. She screams until blessed oblivion takes her.
She wakes, how much later she cannot say, and then she can. She has slept on the island for three days, and been consumed by it. She cannot leave, but then she does not really want to. She has no life outside of this place any longer, save one.
She has been adopted, reformed into the woman needed for the coming time. She can feel all those who came before in the knowledge she holds, the strongest shade being her most recent predecessor. She can taste fury, and breathes the damp air until the taste has faded from her tongue. The time for vengeance is past. Time will wreak its will in Camelot and even Uther Pendragon cannot fight Time.
She breathes, and turns away from the scorched earth of the island. She still has much to learn before she is ready to do what she must.
So, yeah. Please let me know what you think.
Title - She has heard a whisper say
Summary - There must be a priestess of the Blessed Isle.
Warnings - Spoilers up to episode 1x13. Other than that not a lot. Oh, it is unbetaed so...
Anyhow if you are interested,
She heard a whisper say
She wakes to the sound of wind high in the trees, and animals chattering through the underbrush around her. Birdcalls fill the air as she packs her meager camp, and douses the last embers of last nights fire.
She walks on. She isn’t sure of her destination, only that it is real. No matter what the people of her village tell her. Her mother’s death has not shattered her mind, no more than her father’s betrayal, so many years ago. She knows the difference between dreams of fantasy, and visions of reality. She knows her destiny does not lie in the little village six days walk behind her. Nor the arms of Dagan the miller’s boy, who’s kisses were sweet, and clumsy, and filled with the promise of things she does not want. Things that repulse her with their very banality.
She walks until she comes to the edge of a lake, shrouded with fog. As she breaks the tree line she can see a boat, waiting for her. She is not startled. Her dreams, dream really, it is only the one in constant repetition, has her well prepared.
She makes her way to the boat and climbs in. It moves as soon as she has settled, she is still unperturbed. The island is also exactly as she expects, coming upon her from the mist. She leaves her shoes in the boat, and continues barefoot. She can fill the swell and fall of life, of knowledge, of magic. It sings through her as she makes her way to the center of the island, gaining volume with each step. She reaches the circle that holds the altar and makes her way to a circle of scorched earth.
The magic that is the pulse of this sacred place swells once more, but this time it does not fade. It grows stronger and stronger, and she desperately wishes to cover her ears, knows that the childish gesture will not do her any good. She spares a thought to wish she had left her shoes on, and then the magic has overwhelmed her.
She struggles against it, scared for the very first time since she was struck by the dream. It does her no good. She is as effective as a hummingbird trying to fly against a hurricane. Magic, pure and wild, fills her. She sees centuries spread out before her, past and future. She hears the voices of all those who have held the post before her, all those who were drawn here by the dream. She sees the confrontation between her predecessor and the young warlock. Feels the rage within him, and the fire burning her as his fury takes physical form. She screams until blessed oblivion takes her.
She wakes, how much later she cannot say, and then she can. She has slept on the island for three days, and been consumed by it. She cannot leave, but then she does not really want to. She has no life outside of this place any longer, save one.
She has been adopted, reformed into the woman needed for the coming time. She can feel all those who came before in the knowledge she holds, the strongest shade being her most recent predecessor. She can taste fury, and breathes the damp air until the taste has faded from her tongue. The time for vengeance is past. Time will wreak its will in Camelot and even Uther Pendragon cannot fight Time.
She breathes, and turns away from the scorched earth of the island. She still has much to learn before she is ready to do what she must.
So, yeah. Please let me know what you think.