Fic: Aves (Merlin, Gen)
Title: Aves
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: None
Rating: G
Wordcount: 1,209
Warnings: Spoilers for 1x13
Summary: There was simply no way that it could be there, back on the Isle, but there it was.
Notes: This is what happens when SolarCat surfs Wikipedia and allows herself to get Ideas. *g* Also includes some of my personal theorizing on 1x13. References primarily come from this and this.
Huge thanks to smokey2307 for the quick beta! <3
Merlin took in the crumbling, gray walls of the Isle of the Blessed with a sense of calm. Which was odd, considering he had gone to sleep in his tower bedroom in Camelot and awoken in the very courtyard where he had... where he had died in the space between breaths, and come back with something new inside him, which wasn't comfortable to think about. Where he-or perhaps it was the new thing, but in those first moments they had been the same-had killed Nimueh, which wasn't a comfortable thought either. But instead of discomfort, he felt... peace. Serenity. Behind the crumbling rock, with some sense he hadn't known he had, he could see the Isle as it had been. In the strange half-light that existed between day and night, it shone; white and pure and beautiful, and though there was blood at the heart of it-that blood was pure, too.
A breeze ruffled the grass at Merlin's feet, and he heard a shuffling noise behind him that caused him to turn. In the darkened arch of a doorway, a shadowed figure stood. Merlin had no idea how long the figure had been there; how long it-he? she?-had been watching him. He stood still, not afraid-something in him was whispering that he should not fear, and so he did not, though the something whispered in Nimueh's voice. With halting, lurching steps, the figure moved forward, into the light.
It was a man.
He was old, but not elderly. He would not have looked out of place beside Gaius and Uther, though his tattered black cloak bespoke a life of hardship. He walked with a distinct limp, leaning on a cane to support the weight that his right leg would not hold. His hair was long but unmatted; strangely glossy and as black as his cloak. Eyes the color of the sky twinkled out from his leather-skinned face, lined with crow's feet and laugh lines that seemed strangely inappropriate. He did not seem, as Merlin noted his serious countenance, the type to laugh much.
Merlin stood waiting as the old man approached. It took time, as the man did not move quickly, but time did not matter here, Merlin realized, startled by the clarity of it. He would be here as long as it was necessary to be here, and petty concerns like time were not to be thought of.
Hunched over as he was by his injury, the old man was shorter than Merlin by half a head, but Merlin could tell that in his youth-whenever that might have been-he had been tall indeed, and something about him suggested that the strength of his youth had not entirely left him yet. He stopped a few paces away from Merlin and looked him in the eye, silently judging, and Merlin felt awkward and young and small under his gaze.
"I'm-"
"Merlin. Myrddin. Emrys, to the Druids. I know who you are," the old man cut him off in an uncaring voice, and Merlin blinked in surprise. Though, he supposed, he should have known. Somehow, everyone knew who he was… except him.
The old man was no longer looking at him, but had turned and begun walking, slowly as he did, toward the altar at the center of the courtyard. Merlin started when he realized what rested upon it-the Cup. It glimmered like something unearthly, and Merlin knew that there was no way it could be real, no way it could have appeared here. The Cup was locked up beneath the floorboard in his room at Camelot, where it had been since that hideous day. Once the rain had stopped, he had helped Gaius back to the boat and then remembered-the Cup, just sitting there, and the new thing had cried out that it could not be left there, could not be left unguarded. Merlin had found it, full to the brim with rainwater, sitting exactly as it had been. He had poured the water out onto the ground, wrapped the Cup up his scarf and tucked it out of sight, guilty about keeping it from Gaius but knowing that it must be kept. He had not touched it since he had stowed it away in his room, and he had told no one that it was there. There was simply no way that it could be there, back on the Isle, but there it was.
Merlin found his voice again. "Who are you?" he asked, knowing that whatever answer he got would not really be enough.
"You may call me... Bran. Yes, that will do nicely," the old man said, reaching out to stroke his left hand lovingly over the curve of the Cup. "You have done well to keep it safe. But it is not your destiny to guard the Cup of Life," Bran turned his head and pierced Merlin with his gaze once again. "That duty is mine, now. The Cup has been used... imprudently, in the past."
Merlin opened his mouth to protest-saving Arthur's life had been right, had been good--but the man waved a gnarled, claw-like hand at him.
"Be still, child. What is done is done, and none of the wrongdoing was your doing," Bran smiled at his own turn of phrase, his face lightening even as it wrinkled further, and Merlin reconsidered him. Perhaps he was the type to laugh, after all. Bran picked up the Cup then, tucking it away into the folds of his cloak, and Merlin felt a sudden sense of panic.
"Wait! Where-what if I need it again?" he pleaded, though this was ridiculous, the Cup was safe and sound in his bedroom at Camelot.
Bran cocked his head and regarded Merlin in a way that Merlin could only describe as 'fond'.
"If it is needed, then you will have to come and ask for it, won't you?" His eyes were bright and merry.
"And where will I find you?" Merlin asked, knowing with certainty that it would be exactly as Bran said. If he needed the Cup again, he would have to seek the old man out.
Bran laughed outright at that, a cackle that suited him the way some people's laughs do.
"Must you know everything?" He asked warmly, and Merlin flushed. "Fine, then. If you need me..." he paused, then with a smile that Merlin instantly realized meant that this was not going to go to plan, he said,
"I'll be fishing."
Bran laughed again and Merlin took a step toward him, but a deep shadow and a sound like wings beating washed over him, and he opened his eyes in his bedroom, a shaft of dawn light ghosting over his face.
After a disconcerted moment, he flung himself out of his bed and onto the floor, prying up the floorboard under which he had hidden the Cup as quickly as he could without making too much noise. He did not want to answer inconvenient questions from Gaius about his sudden zeal for home repair.
In the hollow space where the Cup had lain, there was no cup to be found.
There was only the wrinkled cloth he had used to protect the Cup, and a long, sleek, black feather.
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: None
Rating: G
Wordcount: 1,209
Warnings: Spoilers for 1x13
Summary: There was simply no way that it could be there, back on the Isle, but there it was.
Notes: This is what happens when SolarCat surfs Wikipedia and allows herself to get Ideas. *g* Also includes some of my personal theorizing on 1x13. References primarily come from this and this.
Huge thanks to smokey2307 for the quick beta! <3
Merlin took in the crumbling, gray walls of the Isle of the Blessed with a sense of calm. Which was odd, considering he had gone to sleep in his tower bedroom in Camelot and awoken in the very courtyard where he had... where he had died in the space between breaths, and come back with something new inside him, which wasn't comfortable to think about. Where he-or perhaps it was the new thing, but in those first moments they had been the same-had killed Nimueh, which wasn't a comfortable thought either. But instead of discomfort, he felt... peace. Serenity. Behind the crumbling rock, with some sense he hadn't known he had, he could see the Isle as it had been. In the strange half-light that existed between day and night, it shone; white and pure and beautiful, and though there was blood at the heart of it-that blood was pure, too.
A breeze ruffled the grass at Merlin's feet, and he heard a shuffling noise behind him that caused him to turn. In the darkened arch of a doorway, a shadowed figure stood. Merlin had no idea how long the figure had been there; how long it-he? she?-had been watching him. He stood still, not afraid-something in him was whispering that he should not fear, and so he did not, though the something whispered in Nimueh's voice. With halting, lurching steps, the figure moved forward, into the light.
It was a man.
He was old, but not elderly. He would not have looked out of place beside Gaius and Uther, though his tattered black cloak bespoke a life of hardship. He walked with a distinct limp, leaning on a cane to support the weight that his right leg would not hold. His hair was long but unmatted; strangely glossy and as black as his cloak. Eyes the color of the sky twinkled out from his leather-skinned face, lined with crow's feet and laugh lines that seemed strangely inappropriate. He did not seem, as Merlin noted his serious countenance, the type to laugh much.
Merlin stood waiting as the old man approached. It took time, as the man did not move quickly, but time did not matter here, Merlin realized, startled by the clarity of it. He would be here as long as it was necessary to be here, and petty concerns like time were not to be thought of.
Hunched over as he was by his injury, the old man was shorter than Merlin by half a head, but Merlin could tell that in his youth-whenever that might have been-he had been tall indeed, and something about him suggested that the strength of his youth had not entirely left him yet. He stopped a few paces away from Merlin and looked him in the eye, silently judging, and Merlin felt awkward and young and small under his gaze.
"I'm-"
"Merlin. Myrddin. Emrys, to the Druids. I know who you are," the old man cut him off in an uncaring voice, and Merlin blinked in surprise. Though, he supposed, he should have known. Somehow, everyone knew who he was… except him.
The old man was no longer looking at him, but had turned and begun walking, slowly as he did, toward the altar at the center of the courtyard. Merlin started when he realized what rested upon it-the Cup. It glimmered like something unearthly, and Merlin knew that there was no way it could be real, no way it could have appeared here. The Cup was locked up beneath the floorboard in his room at Camelot, where it had been since that hideous day. Once the rain had stopped, he had helped Gaius back to the boat and then remembered-the Cup, just sitting there, and the new thing had cried out that it could not be left there, could not be left unguarded. Merlin had found it, full to the brim with rainwater, sitting exactly as it had been. He had poured the water out onto the ground, wrapped the Cup up his scarf and tucked it out of sight, guilty about keeping it from Gaius but knowing that it must be kept. He had not touched it since he had stowed it away in his room, and he had told no one that it was there. There was simply no way that it could be there, back on the Isle, but there it was.
Merlin found his voice again. "Who are you?" he asked, knowing that whatever answer he got would not really be enough.
"You may call me... Bran. Yes, that will do nicely," the old man said, reaching out to stroke his left hand lovingly over the curve of the Cup. "You have done well to keep it safe. But it is not your destiny to guard the Cup of Life," Bran turned his head and pierced Merlin with his gaze once again. "That duty is mine, now. The Cup has been used... imprudently, in the past."
Merlin opened his mouth to protest-saving Arthur's life had been right, had been good--but the man waved a gnarled, claw-like hand at him.
"Be still, child. What is done is done, and none of the wrongdoing was your doing," Bran smiled at his own turn of phrase, his face lightening even as it wrinkled further, and Merlin reconsidered him. Perhaps he was the type to laugh, after all. Bran picked up the Cup then, tucking it away into the folds of his cloak, and Merlin felt a sudden sense of panic.
"Wait! Where-what if I need it again?" he pleaded, though this was ridiculous, the Cup was safe and sound in his bedroom at Camelot.
Bran cocked his head and regarded Merlin in a way that Merlin could only describe as 'fond'.
"If it is needed, then you will have to come and ask for it, won't you?" His eyes were bright and merry.
"And where will I find you?" Merlin asked, knowing with certainty that it would be exactly as Bran said. If he needed the Cup again, he would have to seek the old man out.
Bran laughed outright at that, a cackle that suited him the way some people's laughs do.
"Must you know everything?" He asked warmly, and Merlin flushed. "Fine, then. If you need me..." he paused, then with a smile that Merlin instantly realized meant that this was not going to go to plan, he said,
"I'll be fishing."
Bran laughed again and Merlin took a step toward him, but a deep shadow and a sound like wings beating washed over him, and he opened his eyes in his bedroom, a shaft of dawn light ghosting over his face.
After a disconcerted moment, he flung himself out of his bed and onto the floor, prying up the floorboard under which he had hidden the Cup as quickly as he could without making too much noise. He did not want to answer inconvenient questions from Gaius about his sudden zeal for home repair.
In the hollow space where the Cup had lain, there was no cup to be found.
There was only the wrinkled cloth he had used to protect the Cup, and a long, sleek, black feather.