Merlin barely has time to process the party’s abrupt end when something in his pocket starts to buzz. He retrieves the offending stone, which starts to flake on contact with the water from the Falls. Its wings flutter, shaking off black stone like old paint, revealing gold beneath. The cicada stone releases a loud, long wail, and Merlin feels pulled once more toward that foggy vision he’d only gotten a glimpse of before. Sound reaches him, muffled, but still nearby.
"YOU! Hey FUCKO! I'm talkin' to YOU!" a voice, strained to the point of breaking, slices through the fog. It's familiar. Merlin knows the voice. Younger, less gravelly, more… well, sober, but it's Mr. Youngblood all the same.
"Wybie, what are you doing?" Another voice, both familiar and not, young and strangely accented.
"You FULL or some shit? Why don't you come back and finish what you—" A flash of pain radiates through Merlin's left leg, so white hot it seems to make the fog grow denser. There’s noise, the smell of smoke, but Merlin can’t make sense of any of it. Too much, too fast, and confused by that strange pain. When Youngblood speaks again, it’s weaker but still full of that same fire from before, “Y’don’t need me! You need HIM—”
The voice cuts abruptly. Merlin jolts, stirring from his reverie with a soft gasp. That searing pain is gone, barely a memory, as if it hadn’t been his pain at all. His cicada stills, but its golden wings are unfurled, and now it stares up at him with unblinking carnelian eyes.
END OF THE NIGHT: MERLIN
"YOU! Hey FUCKO! I'm talkin' to YOU!" a voice, strained to the point of breaking, slices through the fog. It's familiar. Merlin knows the voice. Younger, less gravelly, more… well, sober, but it's Mr. Youngblood all the same.
"Wybie, what are you doing?" Another voice, both familiar and not, young and strangely accented.
"You FULL or some shit? Why don't you come back and finish what you—" A flash of pain radiates through Merlin's left leg, so white hot it seems to make the fog grow denser. There’s noise, the smell of smoke, but Merlin can’t make sense of any of it. Too much, too fast, and confused by that strange pain. When Youngblood speaks again, it’s weaker but still full of that same fire from before, “Y’don’t need me! You need HIM—”
The voice cuts abruptly. Merlin jolts, stirring from his reverie with a soft gasp. That searing pain is gone, barely a memory, as if it hadn’t been his pain at all. His cicada stills, but its golden wings are unfurled, and now it stares up at him with unblinking carnelian eyes.