Fizz (rainbow_prophet) wrote in britannia_ny, @ 2009-12-28 02:01:00 |
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Current mood: | blank |
Current music: | Wearing and Tearing - Led Zeppelin |
Entry tags: | enfys walters, meghan fay |
Who cares for medication when you've worn away the cure? (mostly-closed: tag Meghan)
Sometimes – only occasionally, and only in private, in the darkest recesses of the mind he and Enfys found themselves sharing – Merlin seemed to be glad Nimue had trapped him in that tree. Sometimes, he would whisper when he thought she wasn't listening, sometimes he even missed it.
Enfys was beginning to appreciate why; she'd found herself wishing the cool calm dark of the earth would close around her more than once. She used to think missing the world would be the worst part of that prison, but maybe it was a blessing not to have to watch the rest of the Arthurian ensemble when they seemed so dead set on messing everything up. Besides, then no one would be able to blame her for not doing more to change things. It would be a blessing, to be taken out of play before she could become impotent, to be removed from the board rather than have to watch the other pieces move around her without rhyme or reason and hurtle towards the inevitable without a measured hand to guide them.
It wasn't that she didn't want to meddle. But the magic which he claimed came so naturally... didn't. Not to her, at least. He'd picked a poor vessel, and there was a shame in that which didn't go away, which only grew when they both realised someone else had been having more success. It hurt not even having the skill to figure out who – because it wasn't one of the major players, that much she knew, and the pawns tended to blend into one however much she rebelled against the idea; it was just the way his mind worked – even if there was no way in hell he'd let her go to them and beg for some enlightenment.
Gods, it was all so distant, far wide and wandering and lost to her. Maybe this was the old age that had never truly come to him, the senility he'd skipped. Maybe she was broken somehow, or ill, or crippled. Magically disabled? Could that even happen?
Maybe she was losing her mind.
She might as well have been trapped in a tree of late, barely leaving the house save to pick up supplies for spells that never worked or books which contained new ones to try that might (that had to. Something had to work. Sooner or later), not even venturing to Ken's wall for fear someone who knew might stop and challenge her, ask about the magic, and she'd have to admit it wasn't her – they had their pride, after all, both of them (Merlin's insufferable bloody pride, as it was) – and besides, nothing changed. Arthur was still with the bitch, Morgan still hadn't shown her hand, what the hell was the point? If something important was to happen then she guessed Fate wouldn't let her miss it because the dreams didn't let up, taunting her.
Maybe she ought to rename herself Cassandra, seeing the future but unable to change it, unable to get anyone to take her seriously.
Eventually, though the food ran out, and she found herself wandering, some vestige of the mind that had been before Merlin moved in recognising the healing power of pizza. Her hair had grown longer and wilder since the date-that-wasn't, the circles under her eyes darkened, the colour gone out of her cheeks, and she wandered like a zombie. The person behind the counter could have been anyone.