#magic doesn't die

brush the curtain aside the heavy velvet folded crimson over and into itself, there is glass, a shimmer in the once gas lights water contained upon this long ago stage and more a man, a memory—in wool and metal, wet and reversed he is the magician, he is the hanged man, the king of wands, and cup upon cup upon cup of water piled up in stocks and stacks and saucers safely contained in milk cans and chambers, splashing over with danger river water rushing against your lips a drink of thirst, a drink of success, my glass raised to flow, to fullness drunk enough to swallow our fears and vitamins, and medicine, and competition alive and don’t forget the needles and thread wash them down, deliciously, a glint in the glass, in the secret glow of your mouth into your body, along with your body while you give the whole house their wish allowing them to worry over and again that you will drown asleep under the tunes, as time ticks away and gasp after gasp escapes the audience’s dry mouths, wishing after wanting you watery, with the stage lights reflecting and you are wet and removed, right side up, and all at once improved breathing in gasps, a mess of triumph as if you are feeding upon their applause, their shock, like electricity and you shine, illuminated out of the shadows dancing about your edges, the crinkles dancing about your eyes this is what i remember and your hands in a rush of cards and coins, buttons, ties the quick click of small mechanisms, the perfect slip of a key, fitting quietly how everything can fall into place its place, a place the fast rush of the narrows beyond the stage the hollows of theatres that you have filled how they hold you, how you haunt them because no one is forgetting the feeling of your being your life still being mapped, traced back, marveled at and that is magic—how do you do that? your ability to go on inhabiting i hear you in the fret and force, where the handcuffs fall with nuance and knowing and the skillful turn of pick and phrase a dance of fingers, with no fumbling and i have to say that i love how your wrists look unadorned, unlocked free by their own practiced means, blood and tendons and pulse held within tender skin because this is physical— grit and groan and come into your own a sigh sighs seeping through submerged crates, a flooding of sighs and you must escape before you get in over your head and beyond your breath another sigh a semblance of strength within this stretch of time rabbits cradled in your arms, the velvet of their ears so near your precision joints, arms unveiled because you want us to think what you want nothing hidden, nothing held back the labyrinth of corridors from upside down to dressing room, your damp footprints pressing a path the truths, your stories, both scattered and stretched in print, spoken through your stillness i think of exponential handcuffs, seances spread like tea parties, hung from my heels surety, your mouth under the water of an icy bathtub, your mouth under the water of an icy river, salt air in the wonderwheel lifting you up from sand and city, an illuminated island of dreams beyond dreams will wonders never cease? it is all still you, your name given in exchange at the ask of magician cards turned over and palmed velvet curtains, velvet rabbits Harry, here and now a magical habit

I don't know how many people have noticed this or if it's just me, but throughout the show, pretty much all Secret Meetings take place in the Darkling Wood, especially when it's Secret Magic Meetings, and there's a good chance that's where Morgana was hiding out in her little goth cottage, so... what's up with the Darkling Wood? Is it the cool name?

Headcanon that the Darkling Wood used to just be part of the general "forest" around Camelot until the Purge. We already know that sorcerers aren't allowed marked graves, and I doubt Uther even cared if they were buried properly at all, only that they were dead. We also know a lot of people died in the Purge, obviously, so...what if instead of mass graves or burnings, Uther just had the bodies dumped out there in the woods? I imagine most of them ended up buried properly (just because the king is a tyrant doesn't mean all human decency goes away) out there, and eventually that part of the forest became "The Darkling Wood," full of the ~spirits of evil sorcerers~ooOOoohh~

Except...Uther being a disrespectful asshole really did make a semi-magical wood. Twenty years, the forest has grown over all those bodies, put down roots in the bones and blood of all that magic. Maybe nothing overtly magic ever happens there, no talking trees or singing flowers, but people of magic feel its power and are drawn to it. Same with magical beasts, which is why there's always a beast in Camelot. And even though it still looks like a normal wood, still loses its leaves and goes dormant in winter, the Darkling Wood stays green and growing through drought, through fire, through blight.