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He became that bit of nostalgia everyone had for one time or another.
The memories so vivid they seemed tangible. Recent, but not quite yesterday. The ones of a time that ended on no specific date, just with a slow fade.
He became the vase on the pillar outside of Uther's bedroom Arthur had grown up seeing.
Just a fact of life.
So present it was forgettable.
Arthur didn't notice it's absence until nearly a fortnight after it had been broken because he'd never looked its way.
Before he noticed it, he only felt the off putting air of emptiness outside the king's quarters, the notion of a foreign scene muddling his thoughts.
Merlin cracked enough jokes, enough smiles to be himself.
He never seemed tired or more cranky than normal.
He ate as much as he always did, though he probably couldn't get thinner if he tried.
He complained and he chatted and he was Merlin.
He was the steadfast. The only unchanging thing any of them had.
He was the afterthought because of course, Merlin's okay.
He's him.
He was Merlin the complaisant.
He let the world happen around him. If the knights were a bit too mean today? No bother, forgotten by tomorrow.
Had he gotten an injury he couldn't quite talk about because the circumstances might get him burned? Just another week, he'd picked up enough knowledge from Gaius to heal himself.
And as long as he never had a problem, he could do as he wanted.
He left with a whisper.
He'd been gone for a while by then.
A silent last exhale, a gentle little wave, and nobody would notice until he gave in and became that solemn bit of nostalgia everybody tasted in their morning tea and carried in their pockets on the way to the market.
He let himself be carried off in the summer's breeze because, like any windy day, the next gust would always come.