Block the Light
Mist trickled in through the north. From his lookout point at the top of the tower, Merlin saw it coming. Although he could have easily directed it away with a few words in the ancient tongue, he did nothing as he leaned against the stone parapart.
Mist only came at the worst times. It was an omen, bearing news of evil magic and the twisted lies of the sorcerers that cast it.
Mist was cold. It seeped into the bones and disheartened, drawing out the deepest worries, the greatest sadness, and the darkest hour.
It blocked the light, it buried the sun, and it destroyed the hope.
But Merlin needed the mist. He needed to devour them all, to obscure their vision.
If it came, it would hide the carnage. It would hide the torn, scarred land. It would hide the bodies of his friends, the blood leaking from their wounds and veins and their sightless eyes and they stared up at the clouding sky.
It would veil the truth from his eyes.
He needed the mist. Before the images were seared into his brain and he recognized them for what they were.
He needed it.