A Knight's Cloak Part II
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Merlin closed his eyes.
The memories came back unbidden, but he welcomed them gladly.
The grass was cool under the palms of his hands, the smell fresh despite the slight autumn dryness of it.
He'd been a great pilot. An exceptional pilot, even without his magic. With it… with it he was their stalwart anchor, their good luck charm, the one they followed as he raced forward with a roar.
Magic flowed down his arms, reaching out. He felt the lapping of the water against the lake's shore, the respiration of the trees, the wild magic of the earth.
In the leading section he opened the Spitfire up and took off, the Rolls-Royce "Merlin" engine thrumming beneath him, heading south-east, climbing, climbing, 12,000 feet and through the clouds. Above them the sun was bright and brilliant.
The expanse of his perception grew slowly outwards and merged more and more with that around him. He let his humanity slip gently through his fingers like a trickle of water. He breathed with the trees, skimmed the top of the water as a dragonfly, shifted bodily in the breeze as a blade of grass.
There! Fifty of them, roughly 1000 feet higher and turning to come down on them like a massive swarm of insects. The squadron was among them in the space of a moment and Merlin's heart leapt into the fray. The next ten minutes felt like ten seconds and ten years and was a blur of diving and weaving and rolling machines, tracer bullets coming from everywhere, sheets of flame. Then, just below him, climbing quick - a Messerschmitt. He closed to 200 yards and gave a three-second burst.
He'd been a pilot in the first war (though his squad was not to know that), but his skill was something more. Something even more than the pride of defending his homeland, of protecting Albion.
For he was the kin of dragons and he was made to fight in the sky.
There was no Merlin, no Martin, no man at all. Even the dream of his past began to grow fainter. He was the water of the lake's depth, cool and heavy, shifting ever so gently with the motion of the world. He was the stones on the shore, being worn away and rounded smooth as the eons progressed.
He'd always been a warrior, though only Lancelot had ever seen. He may not have liked to kill, but he could. He may not have clamoured for a fight like the younger knights with their blood up, but when the danger came his heart was steadfast and ready. He was a spirit of nature, born both for renewal and battle, for nature was both gentle and brutal.
And though his soul ached for those he shot down, when he put on that blue RAF uniform he felt he'd finally been given his Knight's cloak.
For he was finally - openly and completely - part of a brotherhood.
Sitting by the lake, palms to the ground and joined to the magic of the earth, for the moment he escaped from his grief in the dance of the rain as it started to fall.
-x-
Lancelot, more attuned to the Lake of Avalon than perhaps even Arthur, found him there hours later. He brushed some of the dark, rain-plastered locks from Merlin's forehead and then carried him home.
Author's greetings:
Hmm, guess that last chapter really struck a chord! Anyway, thanks to all of you and to everyone who has reviewed/favourited/followed any of this little bits.
As for this particular one, I don't know whether to keep it going or not. There is more I planned to say, but I kind of like ending it this way. Opinions?
P.S. - The engines in Spitfires really were called "Merlins", though they were named for the bird of prey, rather than the mythical sorcerer. Later they were upgraded to "Griffons".