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Merlin and Will were seven when Ealdor's butcher, convinced all boys enjoyed macabre displays, killed a chicken in front of them. As the knife chopped through flesh and bone, into the stump beneath, Merlin had felt a tug in his chest, a wave of cold fire pushing in through his inhale. It filled him, his mouth fell open with a gasp and his eyes closed in a moment of sudden, pulsing silence.
There were magics great sorcerers could perform with the sacrifice of a life. Just a child, Merlin had used the power of that knife's stroke and spurting blood, that ending and beginning and change to light every hearth in Ealdor, every candle's wick catching with such ferocity that the wax exploded outwards. It was the shouts of surprise that jolted Merlin from the magic's grip. It was the terror in his mother's eyes when she found him that made him swear never again.
But, in every deer, pheasant and boar, he felt that dark, ruthless side of magic that was careless and coincidental and merciless. Lesser sorcerers could fuel the greatest of magics with a human death. Merlin, with the death of one bird, had surpassed most of that potential. Merlin didn't like to hunt, didn't want to feel that power, because the temptation...
He felt the magic in death and he.. he.. wanted. It called and the magic in him called back and it whispered in Nimueh's voice, in Cornelius Sigan's voice, that things could be better. Wouldn't it be better than hiding, than suffering, than this, now, if only... just a little.
In his dreams, he gave in and there was a macabre display of Camelot's dead before him and it. wasn't. enough.