AN: I'm trying a new writing style today. Let me know what you think. This was one of those you-won't-be-able-to-fall-asleep-until-you've-written-this ones, so this was first written with a short, worn down grey-lead pencil in my notebook on my pillow, by light of my mobile phone at 3.20 in the morning.
Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognise.
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The Flash of a Blade in the Darkness
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A flash of gold.
A branch snaps and a bandit falls.
A quick grin of triumph. Sharp, quick movements as he spins on his heel, looking for his next target.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, the flash of a blade in the darkness, too close and too fast to avoid.
Pain flares, sharp and hot.
Blue eyes widen in shock; lips part in a wordless gasp.
The bandit grins.
Knees hit the forest floor, his hands press blindly against his stomach as the world goes blurry.
Blood. So much blood. Too much blood.
The bandit's still grinning.
The founds of battle blurring in the background; fading.
Eyes blinking rapidly. The black spots don't clear.
A holler, suddenly, standing out from the rest of the muted sounds of the battle. Outraged. Horrified. Terrified. Furious.
A sudden flash of golden hair and a silver blade, and the bandit's not smiling any more.
Hands. Large hands, one at the back of his neck and the other pressing over his own over the wound.
Blue eyes, emotions clear in them. Concern. Horror. Terror.
"Merlin? Merlin – listen to me – it's not that bad. It's not even that bad, ok? It's just a scratch. Merlin?"
A wave of pain; a shuddering gasp. Leaves crackling on the forest floor; large hands guiding him gently down.
The hands leave for a moment. Come back with a bright red cloak. Press it against his stomach.
Red. There's lots of red around.
The Prince is speaking, a long continuous stream. The words blur into an indistinguishable murmur.
Gasping lungs, struggling to take in oxygen.
Not much time now.
A small, blood-coated hand drifts up. Grips desperately – weakly – at cold chainmail.
"Ar...th'r..." he manages.
So many things to say.
Arthur, I'm a warlock.
Arthur, look after Guias.
Arthur, you'll be a great king.
Arthur. I'm sorry.
But not enough time.
Blue eyes roll under a dark fringe of hair. His body goes suddenly, bonelessly limp.
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Eyelids flutter feebly; blink slowly open.
A familiar roof above his head.
Eyebrows flutter in a frown of confusion.
He shifts a little. Sudden, sharp pain. A breathless gasp of agony. Huh. Not dead then.
Movement from his left. a face moves into view, worried. Cross. Relieved.
"Gwen's taken your measurements. I've taken them to the court blacksmith."
A pause.
Eyebrows furrow, utterly bewildered.
"It's clearly time we got you some armour," Arthur clarifies, buoyant voice doing nothing to hide the recent worry and still-a-little-bit-there anger.
A moment of silence, blue eyes locked on blue eyes.
The tanned face sobers.
A large hand reaches down to grip his shoulder.
"Never do that to me again."
Another pause.
"Idiot."
A quick, shared grin.
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AN: Please tell me what you thought of the writing style. It was a bit of an experiment for me. Thanks for reading!
Bundi.