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What is beauty?
Merlin sat atop the roof while gazing into the star-filled sky. The village lay silent beneath him, blanketed by the calm of the night. Moonlight traced the edges of the trees and rooftops, its silver glow giving the world an ethereal stillness. Above, the heavens stretched endlessly, speckled with countless stars that shimmered with untold stories.
The question had always been a curiosity rather than a pursuit. Beauty was an arrangement of forms that fit neatly into the void of his desires. A flower in bloom, its petals flawless and symmetrical, was beautiful. The distant stars, untouchable and unwavering, were beautiful. Yet, neither flower nor star held meaning beyond their forms.
A flower does not weep when its petals fall, nor does the cosmos sigh when a star fades. Why then do humans cling so desperately to the fleeting and the imperfect?
Such thoughts had once defined his view of the world. Detached, analytical, and wholly unburdened by the weight of human sentiment, he saw beauty as a phenomenon to be consumed, not cherished. Yet now, as he sat under the cold light of the stars, fragments of a new understanding began to surface.
His thoughts turned to the day's events. For example: His mother's hands, dirtied by hours of tending the garden, had shaped an arrangement of herbs she called imperfect. Paul's voice, gruff yet strangely soft, had rung out as he spoke of crafting a new blade. And Sylphy, with her wide-eyed wonder, had clumsily attempted a spell he had shown her, her determination burning brighter than any star in the sky.
"Flawed, incomplete," his thoughts mused. "But I know that is their charm. A beauty born not from perfection but from striving toward it."
This notion was familiar and foreign at the same time, uncomfortably so. For effort was simply an expenditure of energy, an inefficient means to an end. He found himself drawn to these imperfect fragments, unable to look away.
A faint smile tugged at his lips, though it lacked his usual jest. What had changed? Was it this mortal body, with its fragile heart that felt so much? Or had the years spent among these people, these times coming past, left their mark on his soul?
For the first time in countless centuries, he felt the stirrings of a true answer and tried to recall all his previous musings. Beauty was not something distant, cold, and untouchable. A reflection of struggle and connection to life itself. A mother's tired hands, the trembling grip of a child on a wand, even the worn walls of this simple home—all of it told stories that transcended mere form.
That's why he adored humans.
"It is... warm," he thought, and the realization startled him. Beauty, in its truest form, carried warmth.
The stars above remained distant, their light unchanged. They were as they had always been—perfect and indifferent. Yet, as Merlin sat under their cold glow, his thoughts wandered not to their grandeur but to the quiet lives beneath them. The imperfections of humanity, the transient moments they wove, had begun to eclipse the timeless splendor of the cosmos in his eyes.
"Indeed," he mused, "this is what it means to see the world as they do. To find value not in the eternal, but in the fleeting."
In those days, he saw no difference. People lived and died, their lives little more than sparks that flared briefly before vanishing into darkness. Like stars, they burned brightly for a time, but their brilliance was distant, untouchable, meaningless.
"It's not the same." The Wizard realized, "I was mistaken."
And yet, as Merlin sat beneath their familiar glow, he felt a quiet unease in that old comparison. It no longer fit, no longer captured what he had come to understand. The stars above were unchanging, their beauty fixed and sterile. They gave nothing, took nothing, existing solely for themselves. But the lives of humans were different.
"I was wrong!" he laughed while holding his belly.
"Stars do not change," he thought, his lips curling into a faint, bittersweet smile. "They remain as they are, distant and cold, until the moment they cease to be. But humans... they burn with a warmth that is entirely their own."
Now he sees them perfectly for who they are.
He thought of his mother's soft laughter as she tended to the garden, his father's resolute stance as he trained, and Sylphy's shy but determined smile as she cast her first successful spell. Each moment was so beautiful to his eyes.
Stars did not falter, nor did they stumble in their path. They did not strive to improve or cling to each other for warmth. They shone alone, each light isolated in the vastness of the cosmos. Humans, by contrast, lived in motion—falling, rising, reaching out. Their imperfections were not flaws but the very essence of their existence, their fleeting nature lending their lives a brilliance far greater than the stars he once admired.
"What a curious irony," Merlin mused, his tone light but tinged with melancholy. "I once envied the stars for their permanence and thought humanity the same comparison. Yet now, as I sit here among them, I find the stars dull and lifeless, while humans..."
They burn brighter than ever.
He paused, his gaze shifting downward, toward the home where his mortal family slept soundly. The soft glow of the hearth inside flickered faintly through the windows—a light far weaker than the dots in the sky but infinitely warmer.
Humans shine not because they are eternal but because they embrace the brevity of their existence. They fight, love, create, and dream, knowing their time is limited. And in that struggle, they find a beauty far beyond his cold ideal of beauty.
This time the stars above offered no reply, their light as distant and unfeeling as ever. Merlin tilted his head, a trace of amusement flickering in his expression.
"It seems you haven't changed," he said, his voice soft, almost fond. "But I have."
The thought surprised him, but he did not push it away. Where once he had found comfort in the detachment of a mere observer, he now felt a quiet satisfaction in the warmth of humanity's impermanence. Perhaps it was not the stars that had grown dull, but his own view of the world that had shifted.
And as the night stretched on, Merlin remained on the rooftop, his thoughts weaving between the heavens and the earth, caught between what he had been and what he was becoming.
The village lay in peaceful slumber beneath him, unaware of the silent guardian above. His eyes, once indifferent to the celestial tapestry, now perceived a subtle shift—a premonition woven into the starlight.
In his previous existence, Merlin possessed the ability to foresee events by interpreting the stars, a practice known as Stargazing. The patterns they created, while fixed in their course, would eventually align in ways that shaped the future. This ancient art allowed him to glimpse fragments of the future, much like the legendary vision of the red and white dragons battling beneath Vortigern's tower.
Now in this new life, their light coalesced into a hazy vision.
Ruins.
Ash.
Scorched earth.
The visions struck like fleeting fragments—
Collapsed walls.
His house.
Gone.
The images blurred together, but the weight they carried was undeniable.
Destruction.
Calamity.
Loss.
It lasted only moments, yet it lingered, cold and heavy, in the pit of his stomach.
Like a puppet with its strings cut, Merlin collapsed to his knees, his breath short and uneven, gasping as though his lungs refused to cooperate. The air felt thick, and heavy, as if each breath required a strength he suddenly lacked. His eyes fixed on the ground, blurred shapes danced before him, but the visions continued to burn in his mind.
His hands, trembling like leaves in the wind, clenched into fists. He needed to move— he had to do something, he had to act—
But no.
Not now.
The first step is to calm down.
He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to focus on his breathing. One breath. Another. Slower. Calmer. With each second, the chaos in his head began to lose its frantic intensity, giving way to clarity.
His unruled thoughts slowly began to untangle, but one of them broke through clearly, like a thorn digging into his consciousness.
I was alone when you left. Why do you think of changing anything? Are you such a twisted being?
The voice in his head was familiar, far too familiar, yet it had no face. These were not the words of someone else; they were his own.
An echo of the choices he had made long ago, in another life. The ones who let fate unfold. He left the pain of others behind with nothing more than a shrug, never once looking back.
But the thought of his home being destroyed brought an immediate response. This was different but how was this situation different?
"Indeed," he thought, a bitter smile creeping across his face, "it seems I'm that kind of selfish and twisted existence no matter what skin I wear."
The words that filled his mind were both an accusation and an admission of guilt. But this time, he would be bold and change something. Not because he had to. Not because someone demanded it from him. But because he wanted to.
Perhaps he was not someone who had truly placed the good of others above his own from the very beginning. Perhaps it had simply been less obvious, buried beneath layers of his fascination and detachment. It was easier to live that way, to hide behind the veil than to confront the discomfort of personal involvement and true understanding of emotions.
He did not see it as his duty to intervene in the lives of others but that of curiosity. He had chosen to avoid the weight of that responsibility, preferring to let them pass rather than fight them.
What if he needed to clash with that?
He had told himself this before, hadn't he? He had made a promise, to be honest with himself about the feelings he harbored, to face the truth of his human heart. That had been the promise he made not that long ago, and it echoed in the back of his mind now. He would see the end of it personally.
To protect them all from what the present couldn't see. The stormy clouds that lingered just beyond the horizon.
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