magic is the fabric of the world

“Oh, Goddess, whatever will I do with all that faith you’ve got in me?” Merlin rolled his eyes, and a little sigh slipped out of his mouth, but he could hardly blame Ella for it. Much as she sounded like Arthur right now, he knew she, at least, only said it out of love, and he really couldn’t get too put out with her when he thought about it like that. And, Goddess knew, much as he hated this every time Arthur did it, too, he had often felt the other way ’round. If only he could just teach the prat a little magic, just the smallest bit, just a shield and a smattering of defense spells, maybe then, his king would actually be in with a chance against all the hordes upon hordes of evil sorcerers left, right and center.

Still. Merlin didn’t need a sword. He would never need a sword. His magic was the one thing in the world he could count on–it would never run out or dry up or fade away on him. He could never use it all up, not really. Even if he could–and did–wear it out a bit too much.

Merlin swallowed a sigh and shook his head–no need to take it out on Ella–and pushed his mouth back up in a smile. “Well, it’s pretty amazing that you taught yourself. Don’t know many who can do that.” 

He gave the heavy sword in his hand a clumsy little swing, around in the air–nope, still nowhere near as quick or elegant as Arthur. “A short sword?” He flicked a glance back up at Ella, a bit startled. Was he that obvious? “I-I don’t know. I suppose I could try. I’m up for anything if I can get rid of this one, honestly.” He shifted the sword to his left hand and flexed his sore, empty fingers with a little wince. More than ten years to the day he had broken his right hand, and it still ached like mad if he held a sword or a quill for longer than ten minutes. Just his luck. He curled his fingers up in a fist and stretched them back out again. Yeah, a short sword might not hurt as much, at least. “Definitely up for a short sword. This one’s murder.”

“Keep it in a pocket of your mind when you inevitably go to do something stupid.” She replied dryly, but smiled to take any sting out of the words. She watched him closely, he didn’t seem happy with this little exercise of physical rather than magical. She knew he needed it though, she knew times when magic could fail you or you risked exposure and death by using it. Sometimes one was in so much pain that one cannot focus enough to send magic out. She’d let it go for now if he insisted but she’d bring him back again and do this. 

“Yes, I can tell how impressed you are by my abilities.” She replied sarcastically, still smiling though in response. 

She nodded at the question, “Yes a short sword.” She sheathed her own sword and waited for him to decide. “Then we should try a short sword, especially since if someone if close enough to you a short sword can be hidden easier. “ She watched him clutch his hand and clucked her tongue at him, “You’re in pain? Why didn’t you say anything you absolute cabbage head?.” She walked over to him, and held her hand out in a silent command so she could see his hands, “I can wrap your hands and wrists, that  should help some, and when we finish I will re-wrap it with some salve so it won’t hurt when we’re done. Tell me where it hurts.” She carefully pressed on different parts of his hands, watching him.

He had made the choice to follow his destiny, no matter the dark and dangerous roads it dragged him down, and now he had to live with that choice.

“Well, we all know an endless capacity for mindless brutality with sharp objects is just so lovely,” Merlin laughed. “You should come ’round here and fight Arthur sometime. I’d like to see that. It would certainly knock him down a peg.” He was pretty sure Arthur still hadn’t gotten over the fight with Morgause. To be bested by a lady again would probably prove more than the poor man could take.

He scowled--cabbage head was his word, honestly, she was as bad as Arthur, and at this rate, he would have no good insults left--but he brushed it off. “It’s not that bad, honestly,” he said, hastily, when she headed for him. He had the sudden, and very childish, urge to hide his hand behind his back so she couldn’t touch him. “It’s normal, it’s always like this every time I hold a sword too long. It’s not a big deal.” He tamped down the reflex, and let her take his hand--previous experiences with Gaius told him she would only fuss at him more if he didn’t--but he couldn’t hold back a little wince when her fingers pressed into the skin.

“It’s--” he broke off, with a sharp, sudden gasp, when she hit the right point, “--it’s just the knuckles, it’s not that bad. Don’t worry about it.” He mustered up a little smile. “I hold a sword much longer than this every day when I spar with Arthur, and I haven’t died yet.”

@powerof3in1​​ said: "Do you believe in destiny?“

Destiny. Even now, nearly seven hundred years too late, the word still burned in his ears, like white-hot wires pressed to his skin, and it still twisted his stomach up in tense knots too tight to break, and it still settled like the weight of the world on his shoulders, the whole earth so heavy on his back until he was sure it would crush him flat, until he was sure he would crumble, he was sure he would collapse. 

Even now, nearly seven hundred too years too late, with no part to play. Even now, when destiny wanted nothing more to do with him. Even now, it hurt. And the last thing he wanted was to see Prue hurt the way he had hurt. The last thing he wanted to do was take the earth from his own back and hand it off to her to bear. But he wouldn’t hide the truth from her. He wouldn’t tell her a pretty lie. He knew only too well the dark path that would take her down, if he did.

“Yes.” He leaned back on his hands and turned his face up to the bright, golden sun. Sometimes, the only way he could talk of destiny was out here, under the open sky, with no walls to hold him in, to trap him, the way fate had for so long. “Destiny is real. If it’s meant to be, it will be.” He had tried so hard to fight it all on his own, and he had really thought he could do it, couldn’t he? Goddess, he had really thought he could, he had really let himself believe he was just so special, he alone could cheat the prophecy laid down centuries before he had ever even come into the world. But he knew far better now. He would never make that mistake again. “And there is no escaping it. Trying only makes it even worse.”               

She didn’t even realize the words slipped from her mouth until he was answering the question she’d been afraid to ask for awhile. She was tired of hearing about her destiny…about how she was born into great power… Prue felt sick every time she was reminded that she held so much power as one person. She didn’t ask for it… she didn’t steal it… The young witch still didn’t even understand it all. Or why she was cursed in this way. 

Hearing his answer, her heart sank to her stomach, making her queasy. It was the answer that she feared all along. Truthfully, she’d hoped he would’ve said no. We create our own destiny. With the choices we make and who we become isn’t all just set on some wonky timeline before we’re even born. It was rubbish, wasn’t it? To think that the decisions one makes aren’t truly that person’s decision at all? That it was always going to be that outcome no matter what they chose? Or didn’t choose? 

Prue didn’t understand how it all worked…prophecies and Destiny and…Fate. She knew there were Angels of Destiny out there and it was still confusing and almost scary to think about. The only reason she was still alive was because of an Angel of Destiny intervening with the Elders, after all. She’d have been slaughtered to protect the world otherwise. Protect the world… from me. The Elders never trusted Prue’s existence…they hated it. The threat of her turning evil one day and being an almost indestructible force of destruction and chaos was too great from the moment they found out about her conception. It ate at the witch every day, haunted her, knowing that no matter how much good she’s done so far…it could all have been for nothing if someone managed to turn her…or if she finally snapped and turned herself… 

She truthfully didn’t know what to say in response. All her thoughts had jumbled themselves up again, making it hard to think … hard to breathe. “So it’s all pointless then,” is what finally came out. She stared out in the direction that he did, though looked on nothing in particular. “Can you … will you promise me, something? I can’t ask anyone else… you understand it though..it seems, and..” Prue turned her head finally, looking up at her trusted professor, her mentor, her friend… 

It would all be better, he had believed, if he had stayed in Ealdor all his life, and never learned a thing about himself, or his magic, or his destiny. 

He didn’t believe that now.

He knew better now.  

“No, I wouldn’t say it’s pointless.” He shook his head, and stared out over the thick, dark trees of the forest stretched out before him. “It certainly looks that way sometimes. Bad things happen. You make bad decisions. You make the wrong choice. You trust the wrong people. You lose the people you love, and you can’t do a thing to stop it because it’s destiny, and it hurts.” It still tasted bitter in the back of his throat, but he knew now to swallow it down and push on all the same. “But you’ve got a part to play, Prue. We all do. Great or small, good or bad, it’s your part, and you were chosen for it. And you’ve got to play it. Your existence has a purpose. It’s just that destiny has already picked out that purpose, and it will come to pass.”

Maybe it wouldn’t seem like much to Prue now--she was still so young, so innocent, and she wanted to matter. She wanted her life to matter. She wanted to go out into the world and do good in it. She wanted to cast off her destiny like a cloak, toss it behind her, step out from under its weight, and what would it take to teach her she could not? 

Merlin could more than understand her--he had wanted to matter once, he had wanted to matter more than his magic, he had wanted to matter more than his fate, but he knew now he never had, and he knew now he never would--but he couldn’t stand back and let her make all his mistakes over again.

But would Prue make his mistakes? She was better than him. She was better than he had ever been, better than he ever would be, and if he didn’t know it before, he certainly did know it now, when she asked him the same thing he had once wanted to ask Gaius, the same oath he had once wanted Gaius to swear. If I lose control, he had thought, a hundred thousand times, if I get too dangerous, if I hurt good people, if I go bad, please stop me, just stop me before I can take it too far, stop me before I turn into the evil I fight, please, promise me you’ll stop me, promise me you will not let me hurt my friends, promise me you will pour the poison down my throat with your own hands if you must.

But he had never been brave enough, good enough, to push the words past his lips.

Prue was.

And he knew the fear in her eyes--the fear of herself, of her magic, of the raw and unconquerable power she had inside herself--very well. He knew it in her because he knew it in himself, and he knew he couldn’t turn her away with pretty lies and empty promises.

“Yes.” He turned to look her full in the face. “You have my word. I will not let you go that far.” 

Merlin blinked, a little bit blankly, down at Sadie Green’s (abysmal) essay on the Salem witch trials before he flicked a quick glance up at his friend, half to make sure he had heard right, and half to make sure Wyatt was serious. “My help?” He wrinkled his brow. “I’ll do what I can, but I’m not sure if that will be much. You know I’m not good with your sort of magic.” He marked the grade down at the top of the page before he pushed it away and turned to face Wyatt full-on. “Let’s have it, then. What is it?”

“All right, all right,” he pushed his chair back from the desk, and got to his feet, “what do you need me to do, then?”

Her arms full of borrowed books from Camelot’s library, Mithian really should have taken a second trip, but that would waste time. Instead, she was unable to see clearly over the tower of literature, which caused her to bump into Merlin as they passed each other, sending books falling to the floor. “Oh! I apologize, Merlin. I didn’t even see you there. Are you alright?”, she asked even as she knelt in her fine gown and began stacking the books again.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” he winced, and hastily dropped down to his knees to help her pick up the scattered volumes, “it’s not your fault, I was going too fast--I didn’t expect anybody to be down here at this hour.” He hauled up a jumbled heap of the heavy books, and pushed himself up into a stand before he held out a hand to pull her back on her feet. “Why don’t I help you get these back to your chambers?” This would make him run even later in his chores with Arthur, but it was the least he could do after he rammed into her like a charging boar. “It would be tough even for Sir Percival to manage this on his own!” 

Merlin x Emily, Merlin x Freya

@aquestionthatsneverbeenposed

You know I want you It’s not a secret I try to hide I know you want me So don’t keep saying our hands are tied You claim it’s not in the cards Fate is pulling you miles away And out of reach from me But you’re here in my heart So who can stop me if I decide That you’re my destiny?

@powerof3in1​​ said: “You shouldn’t swallow everything you think, sir. Sometimes your thoughts are poison. If you don’t pour them out, it’ll slowly kill you in the end.“

Merlin had been so angry–so furious, so filled up with rage, so wild with temper, and if he shut his eyes, he could still feel the storm at his fingertips, the crack of the lightning, the roll of the thunder, the heavy fall of rain, and his throat sore and raw with all the savage screams on his lips–for so long after he had lost Arthur. He had just been so angry all the time–he was immortal, he was never going to die, he was going to go on and on and on, long past the time of Camelot, long past the time of Albion, long past the time of men, and he had never even gotten a choice in it, no one had ever asked him, hello, would you like an enormous destiny you can’t control and will never fulfill, because he would have taken it and he would have handed it right off to somebody else.

So long as it wasn’t him. So long as he didn’t have to do it. So long as he didn’t have to fail, over and over and over again, and live for all eternity with the weight of all that failure so heavy on his shoulders.    

But in moments like this, Merlin could see that was selfish. In moments like this, Merlin was almost happy destiny had picked him out instead of anyone else. In moments like this, Merlin was almost happy his life had worked out the way it had. If it hadn’t, he would never have known Prudence Starling. And, maybe, if destiny hadn’t picked him out, it would have picked out Prue instead. Destiny had already picked her out for a lot of things. Safe to say it would think little of tossing another enormous prophecy on her plate while it was at it.

“Maybe not,” Merlin said, instead of any of that, and he could even put on a smile, because at least it wasn’t her, at least destiny had picked him out, to fail, to fall short, to go wrong, and not her. “But if you could hear what I think, I’m sure the lot of you would be very grateful I do.”  

“Well I’m not,” she replied, shaking her head. “–grateful that you do that, I mean. I might not be able to read your thoughts, but I can feel your emotions. You put a lot of pressure on yourself. All of the time. You have self doubt, even though you’re one fo the greatest Wizards I know. You even..hate yourself sometimes. Me too.” It always made Prue incredibly sad when she felt the negative emotions of the man she so looked up to. Although she couldn’t fathom they why, she did understand the feelings themselves. It’s almost always the same way she felt about herself. Full of self doubt and loathing… sadness and pain. A lot of pain. 

Sometimes being around him physically drained the young witch, his pain was so much to bear for one person. She never quite knew how to approach him about it though, knowing that not only was it not her business, but also, how does one ask someone who’s carrying so much burden what’s wrong? It’s why she usually left him small gifts of food or items she’d found that she believed he’d enjoy from Hogsmeade. It wouldn’t take the burden off his shoulders, but maybe it would make him smile that day a bit. 

If Prue could feel all the things he felt, even for a moment, even for so much as a single heartbeat, she could never be fooled again. 

Merlin liked Prudence Starling a great deal--she was a wonderful student, a fantastic witch, far braver than all others in her House, bright as a Ravenclaw, sweet and loyal as a Hufflepuff--but she was still, in essence, only a little girl with more power than she knew how to hold. It was easy, he knew, for a child with too much magic to overstep. To infringe. To trespass. To cross unseen lines, to think, if I can do it, why shouldn’t I do it, if I have the power, why should I not use it? 

That was the logic of a child. That was also the logic of sorcerers such as Nimeuh and Morgana.  

Merlin dragged in a deep breath before he finally opened his mouth. “I appreciate your concern, Prudence, and I admire the strength of your abilities. But it is not appropriate to violate the privacy of others simply because you can. Empathy is a complex branch of magic. I understand it’s difficult to control. But an ability is not equal to a right. The knowledge of others that your power gives you should remain with you, Prudence. The mind is a private thing for many people. Don’t deliberately invade it unless you must.” 

The moment Ella slips off in a doze, Merlin shuts the heavy, dusty old textbook on his knees as quietly as he can–the poor girl looks like she really needs the rest right now, and the last thing he wants is to wake her right back up again–and he turns her dream over and over in his mind. From the sound of it, this one is nearly the same as the last dozen she’s had–all dark, with a strange man she can’t see–and maybe that doesn’t matter, maybe that’s not important, maybe she just dreams the same dream, again and again, night after night, because that’s the way dreams work. Maybe it’s nothing special. Maybe it’s only ordinary. Maybe it really doesn’t mean a thing.

Merlin would really like to believe it–of course, he would also like to believe all omens and oracles are absolute rubbish, and fate and destiny aren’t really real and prophecies never come true and an enormous, green-gold dragon with sharp teeth and fiery breath didn’t find him in his first year and tell him he had a prophecy of his own to carry out, he would really like to believe that wasn’t real at all–but Ella believes this is more than a dream. Ella believes this matters. Ella believes this is special. Ella believes this isn’t ordinary. Ella believes this means something.

And Merlin believes in Ella.

Dream or prophecy, this scares her. Dream or prophecy, this thing has eaten her up inside, it’s nearly eaten her alive, even, and he wouldn’t be a friend at all if he didn’t stand with her in this, and listen to her fears, and soothe her, and cheer her up, as best he could.    

If only Professor Gaius was here. If only Merlin could turn around and go straight to Professor Gaius with all of this. God knows the old man wouldn’t even need to be told a single thing, because he would already know Ella’s dream, he would already know if it was really more than a dream, he would already know all it meant, if it wasn’t, and he would already know what Ella should do with it. All before Merlin had even opened up his mouth to tell it.

But Professor Gaius isn’t here. Professor Gaius will never be here again.  

Merlin’s on his own.

He swallows hard–Professor Gaius was the nearest thing he ever had to a real father, and his heart still aches every day without the old man–but the sudden sound of Ella’s sad, soft voice pulls him back out of his head again. She’s awake again. Merlin shakes his head. He has to think of Ella. Not himself.

He pushes the heavy book off his knees, and leans up in his seat. “It’s all right,” he reached over the table to take her small hand in his, “it’s all right, it’s going to be all right. We’re going to figure this out. I promise. You’re not on your own in this. Come on,” he gets up on his feet, and nudges her knee, lightly, with the back of his other hand to push her to do the same, “you should try and get a bit more sleep. You’ll never get anywhere if you’re too exhausted to think.”

THE DISTANT SOUND OF HIS SUGGESTION SETS HER SENSES WILD AWAKE. her dark dreams spreading poisonous claw upon the awaken world. her mind boils with thoughts; feverish. yet she won’t allow it to rest willingly. not when this one old nightmare lurks within the depths of her mind; repeating itself again and again. 

fingers fiercely rub on closed lids as if pushing exhaustion somewhere distant where it could lay forgotten. ❛ it’s no use now, mon tendre. ❜ words heavy with accent switch languages with natural ease. ❛ whatever this dream has been showing me is now bound to happen. i can… feel it. ❜ arms protectvely wrap around her own torso; the best shield she could manage against intrusion from a near future.

feet agitates under the table as if earning for a fast escape from the terror which assaults her heart. she stands up; a graceful yet sharp move. golden strands of smooth hair cascade down her back as she walks back and forth. ❛ a feeling is not much to rely on, but there is something more to it now. le garçon, the one they say has survived le sortilège impardonnable. his name came out of the vessel of glory, did it not? even though he is too young to take part in the competition and all three champions have already been sorted. ❜ she stands still now, gaze lost among dusty bookshelves; mind filled with dark silhouettes that haunt her dreams. ❛ no one seems to know how that could be and yet… it seems quite possible that this strange occurrence and my dream are connected. ❜ words blown into a murmur escape her lips swiftly; spoken more to herself now than to anyone else.

❛ i’ve been thinking… ❜ voice dies in her throat; stuck like a boulder. however familiar his sweet eyes looked truth is she barely knows him. she hesitates upon having him involved; luring him into something dangerous as a consequence. he had been after all the first person in a long time to show her kindness. it was too much to ask from someone who has offered his friendship and sympathy.  ❛ i’ve been considering talking to professor trelawney. i heard she is a great seer. it might be a hasty move, merlin, but i’m afraid. j'ai très peur. ❜

It takes him much longer than a mere moment to puzzle out her words--Ella tends to talk in riddles when she talks of her dreams at all--but he puts the pieces all together in the end. “Harry Potter?” He frowns, and leans his back on the nearest bookshelf, his arms folded over his chest. “You think Harry Potter has something to do with this? With your dream?” It shouldn’t come as such a shock, really, because God knows Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, got right in the thick of things the second he stepped in the doors, and he never got out of it again. A bit like Merlin himself, really, but at least Merlin’s learned to stop looking for trouble ’round every corner. Harry Potter, as far as he can see, hasn’t gotten that far yet.

“You think it’s something to do with the tournament, then? Your dream?” He turns it over in his mind for a long minute. “You don’t think the boy is going to die in the tournament, do you? You don’t think--” he pushes himself, sharply, up off the shelf, “you don’t think the man in your dream is the one that entered the kid into the tournament in the first place, do you?” It sounds like a long shot, and Merlin can admit it, even if it’s only to himself, but it seems Ella hasn’t gotten the strange man out of her head since she got back to the castle in September.

Merlin wrinkles his nose, on reflex, when he hears Professor Trelawney’s name, and his stomach clenches tight--he doesn’t think the professors will take Ella seriously, he doesn’t think the professors will even understand--but if it will make her feel better, if it will ease her mind even a little bit, it certainly can’t hurt to give it a try, can it? “Yeah,” he nods, a little too slowly, and settles a hand, lightly, palm-down, on her shoulder, “yeah, I can imagine. You’re not alone in all of this, Ella. I’m here. I’ve got you. Do you want me to come with you? When you talk to Professor Trelawney?”