Work Text:
Merlin has done all this before: closed other eyes, laid a hand on other cool skin. Wrestled other bodies into the trim boats that will convey them to the next shore. Pushed magic into the ground, let it come curling out of the pores of the earth like dough forced through a sieve, pink-gold and white and green, green, green. Like an offering, like life in the midst of death, or perhaps like something less divine; perhaps no more than a soft bed to ease a friend’s journey to the end of the world.
There are no flowers, this time.