A/N: No idea where this came from. Dark!Merlin and Nature!Merlin.
I do not own Merlin.
Shadow and Flame
It's always been there, a constant pulse in time with his heart. While other children would walk with a stumbling cadence, the beat perpetually changing, he would stride to the rhythm that pounded through his veins.
His mother termed him a "sorcerer" and begged him not to reveal his true nature. She didn't quite understand, he realizes now. He has spoken with Gaius and flipped through his book, and they didn't mention the surge of the earth as heat rises through the soles of his feet and the lava paints his eyes fire-bright gold.
Gaius' amazement at his magic was exceedingly comical, now that he can remember it without the consuming fear of death and rejection. Do you need to say words to move your hand forward and firmly grasp an object? It's the same principle, he thinks. He is the magic, the lifeblood of the world, and the magic is him. They are indistinguishable.
That is, perhaps, why he was eternally casting magic, gleefully, right under Uther's nose. When Uther tried to "eradicate magic," his zeal and religious devotion to his goal was unutterably amusing. He would have had as much luck declaring that he would ban air from his kingdom. Magic throbbed all about him, and his executions of the poor souls who are unlucky enough to have the talent to siphon it off was an exercise in futility.
He is Emrys, the shadow of Arthur Pendragon, and he will bring magic back to Camelot, they say. They wonder why he stands behind a Pendragon, a murderer, but they are blind, deaf, and dumb. None of them can feel it, the thrum of the earth beneath them, the singing of the trees, the whisper of streams pouring over water-worn stones. The world sings for Arthur, for his courage, his compassion, his honor, his resoluteness. He would gladly die for Arthur in order to preserve the dreams of the earth. There is nothing he wouldn't do for his king.
Which is why his eyes flash gold, accentuating his harsh and unforgiving expression as he stares at the ragged and pitiful man. He and his comrades had conspired against the king, executing an assassination plot that had come too close to success for Emrys' tastes. He is the last; his friends lie in the unmarked gravesite that Emrys magically excavated without a sound. His eyes plead for mercy, but Emrys thinks of knives and whispers in the dark and gaping wounds pouring blood.
Emrys turns away from the man as he begins to scream, the flames licking at his feet. He feels a wave of vicious satisfaction. He has protected his king and exacted just punishment, and this man will never pose a threat to Arthur again. His death is a small price to pay for order in Camelot.
Beneath his feet, the earth hums in contentment.