Alfred freezes as that hand pries his own from the sword, grabs his shoulders, and turns his body around to face him.
Alfred stares down into green eyes and a cocky smile.
“There we go. That’s better.”
“Arthur,” Alfred whispers, treating the name like a porcelain figurine. “But…but I…”
I killed you I ran you through with a fucking sword you should be
Arthur takes one of Alfred’s hands and presses it to his stomach. There’s a cut in his hoodie, but beneath that, Alfred feels warm, whole, dry flesh.
“I’m just fine,” Arthur says with a grin. “And so are you.”
“How…”
“Shh.” Arthur presses a finger to Alfred’s lips. “You told me one night in a field that ‘Everything is going to be all right.’ I believe you, Alfred. I want you to believe yourself.”
Alfred can’t think anymore. He wobbles; he feels light-headed, weak.
Arthur is right there to catch him and lower him to the ground when he falls.
“Rest, Alfred.” A hand in his hair, soft lips on his forehead. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
It’s as if all he needs to hear is that, and Alfred lets himself fall into oblivion. ___
Arthur smiles as Alfred’s eyes close. It is all right, he realizes.
He lifts his head and smirks at Sycorax, who isn’t looking quite as beautiful anymore. Her green eyes are ablaze, turning into a very ugly color of red; her arms are getting thinner, her cheeks are beginning to hollow.
“Ariel, protect Alfred,” he murmurs, and feels a reassuring wind thread through his hair once again. Arthur steps past the ring of Ariel’s protection, braving the temptations of Croatoan to face Sycorax himself.
“I may be his namesake,” Arthur says, “but I am not King Arthur. I was wise enough not to throw the scabbard away. And I’m grateful that I didn’t now.”
“You,” she hisses, her eyes narrowing as her wings flutter.
“Quite the compliment,” Arthur shoots back with a smug smile.
Sycorax screeches, and the land around him erupts into dark wood and twisting roots.
Arthur is ready this time. He swings his blade and fells the wood; Excalibur shines bright and wild as Arthur holds it in front of him. The roots flail and try to twist away from that light; Arthur uses it to cut his way through the roots and towards the throne.
He’s not interested in Sycorax. His focus is entirely on the book, and on destroying it –
A hand curls on his shoulder, and there’s warm breath on his ear.
You think I will melt back into you and give in?
Arthur whirls around and shoves Excalibur through her stomach.
Think again.
Arthur takes an almost perverse pleasure in watching her eyes widen, in watching her body crumple to the ground. But he doesn’t focus on that forever.
He turns away and walks to the throne, made of twisted, black wood. The book is yellow, old with age; the leather binding is cracked. But the power there is ancient and strong; Arthur can feel it on his skin.
He can feel its corruption and its sickness, can feel it eating away at his mind with temptation.
I must be quick.
The box feels hot enough to burn as he pulls it out, fumbles with the lid with trembling fingers. Arthur barely manages to fetch the topaz before Pandora’s box clangs to the floor, useless, forgotten.
I can give you anything you want.
Arthur hesitates, clenching his hands and listening to the book in his mind.
Anything.
Arthur reaches down with a hand, slow, as if he’s in a trance.
Yes, it thinks, and it sounds very pleased as it wears Arthur down.
Arthur spreads his palm flat against the surface, feels the contentment of the magic as he touches it –
The book goes up in flames; Arthur jerks his hand back, glaring at the book as it screams in his mind.
“The only thing I want,” he hisses, “is to go home. With Alfred.”
The world starts to crumble as the book turns to ash. Sycorax screeches, her limbs flailing at the air; Arthur watches her body dissolve and blow away, watches her roots wither and crumble to the ground.
The world grows even more indistinct and blurred around the edges. Arthur runs to Alfred’s side, cradling his young charge and looking around him.
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Re: Croatoan [68]
(Anonymous) 2009-04-21 09:45 pm (UTC)(link)Alfred stares down into green eyes and a cocky smile.
“There we go. That’s better.”
“Arthur,” Alfred whispers, treating the name like a porcelain figurine. “But…but I…”
I killed you I ran you through with a fucking sword you should be
Arthur takes one of Alfred’s hands and presses it to his stomach. There’s a cut in his hoodie, but beneath that, Alfred feels warm, whole, dry flesh.
“I’m just fine,” Arthur says with a grin. “And so are you.”
“How…”
“Shh.” Arthur presses a finger to Alfred’s lips. “You told me one night in a field that ‘Everything is going to be all right.’ I believe you, Alfred. I want you to believe yourself.”
Alfred can’t think anymore. He wobbles; he feels light-headed, weak.
Arthur is right there to catch him and lower him to the ground when he falls.
“Rest, Alfred.” A hand in his hair, soft lips on his forehead. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
It’s as if all he needs to hear is that, and Alfred lets himself fall into oblivion.
___
Arthur smiles as Alfred’s eyes close. It is all right, he realizes.
He lifts his head and smirks at Sycorax, who isn’t looking quite as beautiful anymore. Her green eyes are ablaze, turning into a very ugly color of red; her arms are getting thinner, her cheeks are beginning to hollow.
“Ariel, protect Alfred,” he murmurs, and feels a reassuring wind thread through his hair once again. Arthur steps past the ring of Ariel’s protection, braving the temptations of Croatoan to face Sycorax himself.
“I may be his namesake,” Arthur says, “but I am not King Arthur. I was wise enough not to throw the scabbard away. And I’m grateful that I didn’t now.”
“You,” she hisses, her eyes narrowing as her wings flutter.
“Quite the compliment,” Arthur shoots back with a smug smile.
Sycorax screeches, and the land around him erupts into dark wood and twisting roots.
Arthur is ready this time. He swings his blade and fells the wood; Excalibur shines bright and wild as Arthur holds it in front of him. The roots flail and try to twist away from that light; Arthur uses it to cut his way through the roots and towards the throne.
He’s not interested in Sycorax. His focus is entirely on the book, and on destroying it –
A hand curls on his shoulder, and there’s warm breath on his ear.
You think I will melt back into you and give in?
Arthur whirls around and shoves Excalibur through her stomach.
Think again.
Arthur takes an almost perverse pleasure in watching her eyes widen, in watching her body crumple to the ground. But he doesn’t focus on that forever.
He turns away and walks to the throne, made of twisted, black wood. The book is yellow, old with age; the leather binding is cracked. But the power there is ancient and strong; Arthur can feel it on his skin.
He can feel its corruption and its sickness, can feel it eating away at his mind with temptation.
I must be quick.
The box feels hot enough to burn as he pulls it out, fumbles with the lid with trembling fingers. Arthur barely manages to fetch the topaz before Pandora’s box clangs to the floor, useless, forgotten.
I can give you anything you want.
Arthur hesitates, clenching his hands and listening to the book in his mind.
Anything.
Arthur reaches down with a hand, slow, as if he’s in a trance.
Yes, it thinks, and it sounds very pleased as it wears Arthur down.
Arthur spreads his palm flat against the surface, feels the contentment of the magic as he touches it –
The book goes up in flames; Arthur jerks his hand back, glaring at the book as it screams in his mind.
“The only thing I want,” he hisses, “is to go home. With Alfred.”
The world starts to crumble as the book turns to ash. Sycorax screeches, her limbs flailing at the air; Arthur watches her body dissolve and blow away, watches her roots wither and crumble to the ground.
The world grows even more indistinct and blurred around the edges. Arthur runs to Alfred’s side, cradling his young charge and looking around him.
This world is falling apart.
And the three of them are trapped within it.