I'm dreaming, thinks Arthur, strangely lucid for a man almost dead.
Above him, two gold moons float in the ether, glowing and oscillating like Apollo and Artemis, the divine Greek twins he learned of as a child. It's the most beautiful dream he has ever had and he smiles, weakly raising his hand to caress the celestial bodies as they spin, seemingly within reach.
"Oh," he sighs, as his fingers slip through blackness, feathery and soft as raven's wings. Arthur thinks he's never been this blissful, and it's a horrible irony, seeing as he's about to die from a sword wound. Even in his dreamlike stupor, he know he stands at death's door while blood seeps black and poisoned into his dressings.
The golden moons whisper incantations in strange, sibilant tones, and Arthur floats among the heavens, his hands both now firmly entwined in the decadent firmament, tugging and sifting it through his fingers as though it was hair, beautiful black hair, soft as lambswool.
He sighs, feeling the burn of the sword recede from his side, the itch of healing suddenly demanding his attention.
Dreams shouldn't be this real, he thinks, as the moons weave their elaborate spells in words Arthur doesn't understand. He grasps the feathery blackness, and the spinning, gold orbs dim, as though they were eyes drifting closed under cover of heavy lids. They sigh and moan as Arthur's fingers knead and caress, and as he falls into the deepest sleep of his life, Arthur could swear they were Merlin's eyes, hovering over him, protecting, healing.
Helpless, he sinks into oblivion, wishing he might dream like this forever.
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branchandroot
Vision
Date: 2012-03-27 09:12 am (UTC)Above him, two gold moons float in the ether, glowing and oscillating like Apollo and Artemis, the divine Greek twins he learned of as a child. It's the most beautiful dream he has ever had and he smiles, weakly raising his hand to caress the celestial bodies as they spin, seemingly within reach.
"Oh," he sighs, as his fingers slip through blackness, feathery and soft as raven's wings. Arthur thinks he's never been this blissful, and it's a horrible irony, seeing as he's about to die from a sword wound. Even in his dreamlike stupor, he know he stands at death's door while blood seeps black and poisoned into his dressings.
The golden moons whisper incantations in strange, sibilant tones, and Arthur floats among the heavens, his hands both now firmly entwined in the decadent firmament, tugging and sifting it through his fingers as though it was hair, beautiful black hair, soft as lambswool.
He sighs, feeling the burn of the sword recede from his side, the itch of healing suddenly demanding his attention.
Dreams shouldn't be this real, he thinks, as the moons weave their elaborate spells in words Arthur doesn't understand. He grasps the feathery blackness, and the spinning, gold orbs dim, as though they were eyes drifting closed under cover of heavy lids. They sigh and moan as Arthur's fingers knead and caress, and as he falls into the deepest sleep of his life, Arthur could swear they were Merlin's eyes, hovering over him, protecting, healing.
Helpless, he sinks into oblivion, wishing he might dream like this forever.