Show me your lungs
Show me your lungs (Fire and Ice by Robert Frost)
(Some say the world will end in fire)
There is a link loose in your breast plate. You can feel the sharp slice of late autumn air seep through the gap with every twist of your arm to notch, sight, fire. The cloth of your tunic is soaked in sweat, turning to ice along your side, you notice with an absent sort of awareness that the skin beneath is slowly going numb. Congealing blood runs into your mouth from the gash under your eye, bark chips flying out like miniature arrows when a mace landed heavily into the old cold trunk of a tree.
(Some say in ice)
You are not beaten yet. This is not a proper raid for the Romans, they have yet to acclimate themselves to your predominantly barbaric style of fighting. But those few centurions seasoned enough should recognize your thievery of certain Hellenic accouterments. If such connection has been made it is not apparent in their formations. They should have adjusted for the archers.
(From what I’ve tasted of desire)
There is another dead horse at your feet, the colours of Rome wet and clinging to its side with blood and half frozen dirt. You watch as a man is felled by sword, dark hair arching towards the weak sunlight as he falls back onto the ground. You crouch behind a tree; body angled and moving with muscle memory- the arrow kills the Roman (arm swinging back for the killing blow) before he can complete the motion. To your left, hidden by the dense cover a trees, a familiar face materializes out of thin air. Your breathing is laboured, you are covered in other people’s blood, and your face is too stiff from the wind to work properly, but you think you are smiling. You are happy to see him. “Merlin.” He smiles back.
(I hold with those who favour fire)
‘I believe this is cheating, Guinevere.’ Merlin steps closer, you remain crouched but have relaxed against the tree, no longer even glancing at the battle behind you. If Merlin is here, odds are you are about to have other things to worry about. Besides, he is more than capable of looking out for what’s coming.
“Aren’t you supposed to address me as ‘m’lady’ in this time?” Head tilted up to him, your tone is reproving but your face is all laughter when you say it. “I swear that was in this time, I feel as though I would remember.” Merlin’s eyes flash gold briefly before you here the groan behind you. You don’t even turn around. There is no longer any threat back there. Merlin’s eyes are blue again when he meets your gaze.
‘Morgana has jumped ahead.’ The coldness of the air returns to you quite suddenly.
(But if I had to perish twice)
“How far?” It is an important detail, while simultaneously insignificant. The once and future king has yet to be born in this time. They should have years, decades of life before you have to wash your war paint off for the last time, before you don handmaiden’s clothing and pretend not to recognize the face of your betrayer while she stares at you with ignorant eyes.
‘To what purpose?’ You grip your bow tightly, the cut on your cheek has started to thaw in the sheltered space of the trees, it stings. ‘She never remembers. What could she hope to achieve?’ Merlin’s face is all angles and shadows, so young, forever young until he isn’t anymore. And so the cycle repeats. A line forms, a deep slash between his eyebrows as he scowls and turns his head sharply to the right. Like he starts to shake his head but never finishes the gesture.
(I think I know enough of hate)
“I think she’s trying to push up the timeline.” Merlin crosses his arms under his long cloak, straightens his shoulders and settles. The line between his eyebrows smooth’s out. “I imagine she thinks it will make a difference.” He looks briefly out at the battle behind you, flickers of emotion playing out quickly across his face, but when he looks back at you his expression is steady, solid, wise. You read the answer to the question you never asked.
‘It won’t though. We won’t let it.’ Another flare of gold, a gasp and thud behind you. This time the lifeless hand reaches out to graze your ankle. Merlin continues to look at you, his face has not changed.
(To say that for destruction ice)
You push to your feet; slinging your bow over one shoulder, wrap your arms around his waist. You don’t lean into him immediately, waiting for his arms to uncross and for his cursory surveillance to cease. Eyes taking in everything around you. When he’s looking at you again, you make sure to arch one eyebrow very high. ‘I’m keeping my bow this time, Merlin. I left the last one at your insistence and this is the first I’ve had to match it in centuries.’
(Is also great)
The corner of his mouth twitches like it always does when he’s playing at obedience.
“As you wish, m’lady.” He’s laughing at you, though his face is blank, you can tell. He’s always been an absolute shit servant. You take a deep breath and rest your head on his chest, tucked tight beneath his chin. His travelling cloak is heavy with magic around your shoulders and you feel the incantation thrum against his ribs before you hear it out loud, knitting back in place what once was broken.
‘Long live the King.’ You whisper it into his neck and everything glows brighter, harsher and for a sharp moment there is nothing, no sound of battle or wind through leaves. You turn your face into his skin and close your eyes. He answers in the language of his blood but you know what he says.
“Long live the King.”
(And would suffice)