A god self-slain.
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happyhourTitle: A god self-slain.
Rating: R
Warnings/Spoilers: Violence. Graphic imagery. Character death, in passing. (NOT one of our boys this time.) And I think madness deserves its own warning for this one.
Notes: *siiiigh* Possibly darker than the last. (I'm pretty sure it's the darkest I can get.) The title comes from Swinburne. The roles in this were supposed to be reversed, but Merlin refused since I killed him seventeen times (I counted) last time. I wonder how many will be able to pick out the song that inspired quite a bit of the plot.
Summary: In the ninth year of the regency of the sorcerer Merlin Emrys, King Arthur awoke.
It is dark when he wakes up. A heavy, unnatural darkness which seems to press him back into the thick pillows. He struggles to sit up – Are his eyes open? – only to be pressed down by – Are those hands? Yes, they must be. – the weighted darkness. A hand – Too many hands. More than one person, then. – brushes against his forehead. A voice – He knows that voice; trusts that voice. – whispers against his ear, “Go back to sleep.”
*
He dreams of peace. Long golden days, his people laughing and singing in the market. There are no blood stains in the courtyard to be skirted by the superstitious, no scorch marks that he has to pretend not to see. There is peace, there is a beautiful queen with a warm smile, and there are blue eyes shot through with gold watching him with pride.
*
The dark is still – Still? Again? How long has he slept? – covering everything when he wakes a second time. He remembers the hands with a shudder and doesn’t try to sit up. He lies still, opening his senses – Was that the wind? – listening. He shifts his hands – There! A horse on cobblestone. – as far as he can. Soft wool beneath – Wait, is that a light? – and above him. A deep breath, a slow bunching of muscle – Yes! That is a window! – and he slowly raises his head from the pillow. He manages to sit up this time before the voice is back, “You’re safe. Sleep.”
*
He knows that he is dreaming. The sunlight through the trees flickers, like a fire.
… screaming women, wailing children, groaning men …
The water flows too thick from the pump.
… an unmistakably metallic tang in the air …
Harsh birdsong from the windows.
… iron clashes, screams …
His lover speaks, but he has no voice.
… laughter, high and manic, over everything …
He kisses his smiling wife and tastes salt.
*
He has managed to get his legs off the bed, movements still slow and measured. The ground is rough, cold. His ears still tuned to the slightest sound, his eyes – Is the light brighter? – trained on the outlined window. He levers himself up – What is that smell on the breeze? – slow, slow, so very slow and careful, and he is standing beside the bed. The accomplishment fills his chest with warmth until his knees – Was that a hand pressing his shoulder? – buckle and he is sitting again. Then the dark – The damnable hands. – presses him back. The voice comes against his throat – No breath on his skin. – soft and warm and precious, “I’m here; sleep.”
*
Everything is fluid in the dream. The walls ripple, white stone fading – cracked, darkened, stained. Smiling faces shift – tears, ugly sneers, fear. Songs fade in and out of hearing – chains, pleas, a slamming door. The flames of torches, candles, the hearth in his bedroom, flare and twist – pyres built high against a blackened sky.
*
He is braced against the wall this time. It’s slow going around the edge of the room, left hand tracing the stones, right hand clenching the nightshirt against his thigh. The light – Dimmer now. Dusk, then, or dawn. – at the window remains his only focus. He is only two steps – Two steps? Three? How far now? – from his goal when the hands return, urging – No. He will not. – him back to the bed. His jaw clenches and he shakes them – He. Will. Not. – off his arms. The voice returns, a low sigh – He has never listened to that voice. Or he has always listened. – and his name on a breath that fails to stir the hair around his ear. A shake of his head, minute. Another step, stubborn. He feels the air from the window now. Tastes it – Rancid. Like fouled meat. – when he opens his mouth. A hand on his, again, helping him forward this time. His title – Always an insult, from that voice. – against his shoulder, and this time he feels the warm breath hot through his night clothes. Leans more heavily on the – Constant. Steady. – arm hooked around his waist. His eyes never leave the window.
*
Outside the window is a nightmare. The streets are stained brown and red with blood, the walls black from fires. Armed, armoured men patrol in twos and threes everywhere; anyone caught out of doors is seized without warning. Worse – Oh God, so much worse! – they go without protest, quiet as sheep to the slaughter. They are led to the pile – Is that refuse? No. There, a hand. And there, a face. A pile of bodies mouldering in the courtyard. – under his window. Some are stabbed, others have their throats slit, none struggle, none weep or beg for mercy. Silent as sheep to the slaughter. The bodies stripped and added to the pile.
“It’s alright.” What was once comforting is now chilling. “I’ll protect you; you’re safe here.”
*
In the twenty-third year of Uther the Pendragon’s rule at Camelot, a dissent rose among the people. Despite efforts of the crown, a force rose to march on the castle. For thirty days and nights, the knights of Camelot, led by Crown Prince Arthur Pendragon, held the keep. On the dawn of the thirty-first day, Prince Arthur was dealt a blow to the head and fell. The rebelling mob rose in a frenzy and overcame the exhausted knights. King Uther was seized, chained, and held in the dungeons beneath Camelot a fortnight before his execution by fire in the courtyard of the castle. The Lady Morgana, Ward of the Pendragons, was placed on the throne by the people.
Prince Arthur, having been spared through the swift action of his manservant, Merlin of Ealdor, was hidden in a cave below even the dungeons. He was discovered, sleeping and close to death, two days after the execution, still in the care of the manservant Merlin. When the people attempted to seize the prince, a fierce wind rose and swept them from a high ledge. Those who retreated reported the manservant’s eyes glowing, “like a cat’s”, golden.
Merlin of Ealdor, called Emrys, was revealed a sorcerer when he brought that magic to bear against the people of Camelot. The Lady Morgana fled the city at Emrys’ order. Four days and five nights the sorcerer cleansed the castle and the streets of Camelot. At the dawn of the fifth day, only those loyal to Prince Arthur, now named King by Emrys though still sleeping, remained.
In the ninth year of the regency of the sorcerer Merlin Emrys, King Arthur awoke.
end.
Rating: R
Warnings/Spoilers: Violence. Graphic imagery. Character death, in passing. (NOT one of our boys this time.) And I think madness deserves its own warning for this one.
Notes: *siiiigh* Possibly darker than the last. (I'm pretty sure it's the darkest I can get.) The title comes from Swinburne. The roles in this were supposed to be reversed, but Merlin refused since I killed him seventeen times (I counted) last time. I wonder how many will be able to pick out the song that inspired quite a bit of the plot.
Summary: In the ninth year of the regency of the sorcerer Merlin Emrys, King Arthur awoke.
It is dark when he wakes up. A heavy, unnatural darkness which seems to press him back into the thick pillows. He struggles to sit up – Are his eyes open? – only to be pressed down by – Are those hands? Yes, they must be. – the weighted darkness. A hand – Too many hands. More than one person, then. – brushes against his forehead. A voice – He knows that voice; trusts that voice. – whispers against his ear, “Go back to sleep.”
*
He dreams of peace. Long golden days, his people laughing and singing in the market. There are no blood stains in the courtyard to be skirted by the superstitious, no scorch marks that he has to pretend not to see. There is peace, there is a beautiful queen with a warm smile, and there are blue eyes shot through with gold watching him with pride.
*
The dark is still – Still? Again? How long has he slept? – covering everything when he wakes a second time. He remembers the hands with a shudder and doesn’t try to sit up. He lies still, opening his senses – Was that the wind? – listening. He shifts his hands – There! A horse on cobblestone. – as far as he can. Soft wool beneath – Wait, is that a light? – and above him. A deep breath, a slow bunching of muscle – Yes! That is a window! – and he slowly raises his head from the pillow. He manages to sit up this time before the voice is back, “You’re safe. Sleep.”
*
He knows that he is dreaming. The sunlight through the trees flickers, like a fire.
… screaming women, wailing children, groaning men …
The water flows too thick from the pump.
… an unmistakably metallic tang in the air …
Harsh birdsong from the windows.
… iron clashes, screams …
His lover speaks, but he has no voice.
… laughter, high and manic, over everything …
He kisses his smiling wife and tastes salt.
*
He has managed to get his legs off the bed, movements still slow and measured. The ground is rough, cold. His ears still tuned to the slightest sound, his eyes – Is the light brighter? – trained on the outlined window. He levers himself up – What is that smell on the breeze? – slow, slow, so very slow and careful, and he is standing beside the bed. The accomplishment fills his chest with warmth until his knees – Was that a hand pressing his shoulder? – buckle and he is sitting again. Then the dark – The damnable hands. – presses him back. The voice comes against his throat – No breath on his skin. – soft and warm and precious, “I’m here; sleep.”
*
Everything is fluid in the dream. The walls ripple, white stone fading – cracked, darkened, stained. Smiling faces shift – tears, ugly sneers, fear. Songs fade in and out of hearing – chains, pleas, a slamming door. The flames of torches, candles, the hearth in his bedroom, flare and twist – pyres built high against a blackened sky.
*
He is braced against the wall this time. It’s slow going around the edge of the room, left hand tracing the stones, right hand clenching the nightshirt against his thigh. The light – Dimmer now. Dusk, then, or dawn. – at the window remains his only focus. He is only two steps – Two steps? Three? How far now? – from his goal when the hands return, urging – No. He will not. – him back to the bed. His jaw clenches and he shakes them – He. Will. Not. – off his arms. The voice returns, a low sigh – He has never listened to that voice. Or he has always listened. – and his name on a breath that fails to stir the hair around his ear. A shake of his head, minute. Another step, stubborn. He feels the air from the window now. Tastes it – Rancid. Like fouled meat. – when he opens his mouth. A hand on his, again, helping him forward this time. His title – Always an insult, from that voice. – against his shoulder, and this time he feels the warm breath hot through his night clothes. Leans more heavily on the – Constant. Steady. – arm hooked around his waist. His eyes never leave the window.
*
Outside the window is a nightmare. The streets are stained brown and red with blood, the walls black from fires. Armed, armoured men patrol in twos and threes everywhere; anyone caught out of doors is seized without warning. Worse – Oh God, so much worse! – they go without protest, quiet as sheep to the slaughter. They are led to the pile – Is that refuse? No. There, a hand. And there, a face. A pile of bodies mouldering in the courtyard. – under his window. Some are stabbed, others have their throats slit, none struggle, none weep or beg for mercy. Silent as sheep to the slaughter. The bodies stripped and added to the pile.
“It’s alright.” What was once comforting is now chilling. “I’ll protect you; you’re safe here.”
*
In the twenty-third year of Uther the Pendragon’s rule at Camelot, a dissent rose among the people. Despite efforts of the crown, a force rose to march on the castle. For thirty days and nights, the knights of Camelot, led by Crown Prince Arthur Pendragon, held the keep. On the dawn of the thirty-first day, Prince Arthur was dealt a blow to the head and fell. The rebelling mob rose in a frenzy and overcame the exhausted knights. King Uther was seized, chained, and held in the dungeons beneath Camelot a fortnight before his execution by fire in the courtyard of the castle. The Lady Morgana, Ward of the Pendragons, was placed on the throne by the people.
Prince Arthur, having been spared through the swift action of his manservant, Merlin of Ealdor, was hidden in a cave below even the dungeons. He was discovered, sleeping and close to death, two days after the execution, still in the care of the manservant Merlin. When the people attempted to seize the prince, a fierce wind rose and swept them from a high ledge. Those who retreated reported the manservant’s eyes glowing, “like a cat’s”, golden.
Merlin of Ealdor, called Emrys, was revealed a sorcerer when he brought that magic to bear against the people of Camelot. The Lady Morgana fled the city at Emrys’ order. Four days and five nights the sorcerer cleansed the castle and the streets of Camelot. At the dawn of the fifth day, only those loyal to Prince Arthur, now named King by Emrys though still sleeping, remained.
In the ninth year of the regency of the sorcerer Merlin Emrys, King Arthur awoke.
end.