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In the time since Arthur’s death, Merlin has had a considerable amount of time to think about it. The death and the time. He turns them over in his mind the way he watched the knights turn daggers in the quiet waiting between battles and quests and hunts. Something sharp, something to be cut on if focus was lost.
He thinks the time is something Arthur would shame him for—Arthur’s father died and he became King. Merlin’s king died and he became a husk. This he does his best not to think about.
The death plays again and again behind his eyes. It was nearly constant in the beginning , and it didn’t stop when he slept, the way he hoped it would.
He knows it was excruciating. A quick blow followed by a slow cut, all the way to the heart. He thinks he feels it sometimes, when he dreams of the battle and everything after. He dreams that he’d gotten there sooner; that he’d never had to leave to retrieve his magic; that he was in the thick of the battle instead of high above it, at Arthur’s side and able to step between him and Mordred’s blade.
The blow lands in those dreams, but it never has the decency to kill him. It only aches, nestled in his chest until it becomes a part of him.
Seeing Gwaine aggravated the wound. Another blow, in line with the first.
Reading the letters Gwaine left behind may as well have torn the rest of him open.
He hadn’t wanted to touch them at first. It was hard enough knowing they were in the same room. But after days of feeling like he was slowly bleeding out, he reached for them in hopes they would staunch the flow.
Of course, as soon as he saw Gaius’ hand, he felt a different hurt begin to bloom like a bruise.
“Merlin,
I am praying Gwaine finds you well in Ealdor and that my worry is nothing but that of an old man.
I know you must think you have failed. If you have, it has not been you alone. There are many things I would have done differently, had I known the outcome. But you and I both know the dangers of such things, and no matter how strong, regret cannot change the past.
You were tasked with a destiny no man should be asked to bear alone. It has become a burden to you. I can only hope that with time, it may become easier to carry.
News of Camelot has almost surely reached Ealdor by now, but if it has not, I shall tell you: We may have been weakened by war, but Gwen is a strong leader, and her subjects are loyal. Many of our enemies were defeated in battle. We are safe, for now.
If solitude is what you need to heal, I will accept your absence for as long as it is needed. But should you ever wish to return to Camelot , I will always welcome you. I believe I owe you your favorite meal.
Gaius”
It had taken another handful of days for Merlin to approach the other missives. It seemed that there had been a campaign of sorts: one from Leon and Percival each, a joint letter from some of the other castle staff that must have heard Gwaine’s intent to find him, and two letters from Gwen.
He read through them slowly. Balked at the well-wishes. Of course, his friends wished him well. He wasn’t sure he wished the same.
The last letter he left was one of Gwen’s. Her first had been more official, distant: from Queen to subject. Thanking him for his loyal service to the crown the way a knight disabled in battle may be thanked.
(He couldn’t bear to keep it, knowing its contents. It burned in his hands until he held nothing but ash. His mother had been concerned when she returned home to the smell of smoke; he’d hidden the blisters on his fingers until they healed.)
The second of Gwen’s letters was personal. He knew without unfolding it that it would be the most difficult to read. The grief they shared was too similar; he felt it buried in the ink, breathed it in and out as he took in the words, feeling the same as he’d felt in the woods by the lake. He might have burned that one, too, if he thought it would make the feeling go away.
At the end, after he’d made the ink bleed with shed tears, Gwen had thanked him again.
“I know you would have done anything to keep him safe. That if anything could have been done, you would have seen it done. I’m glad to know that he had you by his side to the end.”
Gwen hadn’t asked him to return to Camelot. None of them had. And it was that, more than anything, that convinced him to go back.
At the very least, he has a horse to return