Original fic: The Moonstone Slept. Written for consci-fan-mo
Title: The Moonstone Slept
Author: the-silver-sun
Character(s)/pairings: A sentient rock called the Moonstone. No pairings.
Fandom and/or Prompt: Original fiction. Image prompt by aeron-lanart
Rating: G
Spoilers/Warnings: None
Disclaimer: This was invented by me, if it accidentally resembles anything by anyone else I'm sorry. Written for consci-fan-mo
As old as time the Moonstone has slept in the high hills, the dreams of ages caught in its crystal mind. It holds safe the memories of the land before man had first trod the ancient ways, the images of festivals and solstices and of the life and light they brought, and finally the weariness as it began its slow slide into sleep as the magic and the old ways passed from the world.
Clouds scud across the midnight sky, wind harried shreds passing over the pale face of the moon, as the light and shadow play across the empty moorland. Empty now, but not deserted, the old paths are trodden once more.
The grass has been pushed back from the circle stones, their tops although still sloped with age and covered with moss, are once more free beneath the open sky. In their centre the Moonstone stirs, silver shimmers run through its time-worn spirals, like heavy frost in the mid-winter moonlight.
Amongst the stones, beakers of honey-sweet mead and garlands of flowers, their scent full of the memories of high summer, lay in tribute.
Its eyes slowly open, their depths filled with the glimmer of distant stars. Then the Moonstone smiles, ancient and knowing: Its time has come again. The old wild magic is returning to the land of men.
Author: the-silver-sun
Character(s)/pairings: A sentient rock called the Moonstone. No pairings.
Fandom and/or Prompt: Original fiction. Image prompt by aeron-lanart
Rating: G
Spoilers/Warnings: None
Disclaimer: This was invented by me, if it accidentally resembles anything by anyone else I'm sorry. Written for consci-fan-mo
As old as time the Moonstone has slept in the high hills, the dreams of ages caught in its crystal mind. It holds safe the memories of the land before man had first trod the ancient ways, the images of festivals and solstices and of the life and light they brought, and finally the weariness as it began its slow slide into sleep as the magic and the old ways passed from the world.
Clouds scud across the midnight sky, wind harried shreds passing over the pale face of the moon, as the light and shadow play across the empty moorland. Empty now, but not deserted, the old paths are trodden once more.
The grass has been pushed back from the circle stones, their tops although still sloped with age and covered with moss, are once more free beneath the open sky. In their centre the Moonstone stirs, silver shimmers run through its time-worn spirals, like heavy frost in the mid-winter moonlight.
Amongst the stones, beakers of honey-sweet mead and garlands of flowers, their scent full of the memories of high summer, lay in tribute.
Its eyes slowly open, their depths filled with the glimmer of distant stars. Then the Moonstone smiles, ancient and knowing: Its time has come again. The old wild magic is returning to the land of men.