The bluish object sails closer, as objects in flight often do, curtailing the distance between itself and his forehead in a tidy little display of ouchiness followed by a thick, snickering PLONK.
The red snake appears before him, draining across his eye; it’s just as the vision inscribed on his mind not two seconds ago.
“You prat!” Merlin yells as he holds up his hands; there is gold pouring from his fingernails, gold flowing from his nostrils- gold slips from his skin like a thin butter dust, powdered and metallic.
“STOP THROWING IT AT ME! YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD!” he screams, adding that to the pain shunting through his muscles.
The last word from his lips is a single telling noun, aimed at the previously unidentified object, now re-established in the vernacular as the slightly worn and weathered Blue Box sitting demurely behind him.
There’s a smear of blood, just barely there against one indigo corner.
Thousands of tiny fires alight in his brain.
He falls to the ground, his new fingers touching new dirt and deeming it fine... perhaps in a sandwich. A pudding? A... oh what is it he...
His fingers snap; he finds himself in drag, wearing the same bit of blue, half-unraveled frump-rough he used to play the old hag in front of Arthur that time he saved creepy Guinevere from, well... being remotely entertaining.
Rags to rags, so they say.