1 Work in Fics I would read in Alexandria
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The trees above him are hissing a warning when he shakes from his stupor.
It hadn’t been long. He didn’t think so, anyways. There were no webs on his jacket and no moss at his boots. The distant calls of horns and shouts barrel closer. He blinks and becomes the pointed tusk of a boar. Breathes and is the pummeling rush of horse hooves. A second and now wrapped inside flesh again with wilting petals in his hand.
All at once, a hunt is around him.
A boar charges, skidding around, screaming as dogs latch on its ankles. There’s shouts and confusion and he cannot think to move. It’s not his instinct to avoid danger.
Then a hand is under his arm, pulling him up and back—he drops the flowers—even as a spear is thrust unevenly forward and gives an ugly gash to the creature’s side. There’s noise and wind and the boar is taken through the side. It dies roughly.
He slowly eases himself out of the man’s hand, turning to see bright eyes and golden hair and a face younger than the one he wears.
— Merlin is Myrddin and Arthur is a Prat and Magic is Weird —