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Walking through Avalon always felt like walking through death itself.
Even though he did not truly walk, the chill of the dying still ran its course through his bones. Perhaps it was precisely because he sent a projection of himself to walk through the flowers that the feeling of rot was so pervasive. Even though he slept soundly in his tower, only a few hundred yards away, Merlin still felt everything—and that included the hint of the afterlife.
It never was the true afterlife. It never could be. Not for him, at any rate, special as he was. He should have offed himself all the way back when while he still had the chance. He should have heeded his own prophetic visions and gut intuitions. He should have stayed with Artoria until the very end rather than running away so cowardly. He should have lived a cleaner life. He should have never been born at all. He should have, he should have, he should have…
But he didn’t. He couldn’t have fulfilled all those things, really.
Not only did Avalon feel like death, but it felt like guilt and remorse, too. Yes, of course. The garden and the tall, tall tower felt it.
Not I, he thought, without a single hint of irony. Never will I feel guilt.
If someone were to walk past Merlin the great Magus of Flowers as he was right at that very moment, the guilt and self-imposed sins would clearly be visible without any sort of Clairvoyance. It would slough off of him in never-ending, thick, uncomfortable waves, and one would see him as he truly felt. Not that he would ever admit it, of course.
Merlin—rather, his projection—sat on a bench. He placed his hands on his knees, and he closed his eyes, tilting his head back with the faint afterimage of a smile on his lips. He listened to the wind rustle the petals and leaves that surrounded him in an endless sea of plant-life. Far off in the distance, a wind chime rang, singing along with the birds of paradise. A storm, that wasn’t really a storm, for Avalon was destined to never have storms, brewed off in the distance.
“Merlin,” someone said.
His eyes snapped open, and his head twisted to and fro, but he saw no one else. Just to be certain, he activated his Clairvoyance—scanned the entire garden, including his tower, and found no pesky intruders. Not even a squirrel or buzzing bee.
It was just him, as it always has been, as it always will be.
He couldn’t shake the feeling he wasn’t alone, though.
“Ha ha ha,” he breathed, and he closed his eyes and tilted his head and felt the breeze on his cheek once more. “I must be losing my touch in my old age…”
The rustle of the leaves and petals. The wind chime rang again—twice more. The storm inched closer, the deep, dark clouds roiling. He paid it no mind. He breathed in, then out. In, then—
“Merlin,” someone said, their tone impatient. A touch annoyed.
This time, he did not react as quickly, for he knew it must be a trick. In fact, he did not react much at all, keeping his eyes closed, forcing the exhalation out of his lungs until he thought he may pass out. These projections were getting more and more life-like as the days went on, he thought.
Someone sat on the bench beside him. He did not move.
Their presence felt familiar. In actuality, Merlin already knew the owner of the voice and this phantom body beside him, but he dare not think too hard about it. He couldn’t.
The phantom of Romani Archaman tapped his foot against the ground. “Are you going to answer me?” he asked, voice rich and full and irritated as ever, as if he he were really there at his side. When Merlin did not say anything, breathing in then out in a steady rhythm, Roman continued on. Merlin felt him turn his head away, looking back to the sea of flowers. “That’s fine. Though… I don’t know. If you don’t say anything, it gives me the creeps.”
Merlin smiled.
Roman, the ghost of him, leaned back on the bench. A weight pressed against Merlin’s shoulder—it took him a second to realize it was Roman’s own shoulder.
“… I guess I’ll talk then,” mutters Roman. He sounds sheepish, somewhat embarrassed. Like he doesn’t want to, but he will anyway. “But I don’t know what to talk about… Sheesh, can you throw me a bone here? Anything at all?”
Merlin did nothing but smile. He breathed steadily.
“Let’s see, then… What can we talk about?” He paused, thinking. “Oh, I know. I wish you had been at the Temple of Time, Merlin. Honestly, we could have used you. If anything, we could have said goodbye—but you always were a coward. Right?”
The phantom spoke the truth, and he spoke it with Roman’s voice.
“And now you’re out here hiding… What are you even hiding from? You know you can leave this place anytime you wish, right? But you won’t. That’s why I died, and that’s why you’re nursing a broken heart. Supposedly. I don’t know if you actually loved me, as you now claim you always did. A trick of the light—a trick of a cambion.”
Merlin could not think of anything to say. His smile grew wider, but his cheeks hurt. He sat there, on the bench, frozen. If he moved, the illusion would break, and even if the illusion spoke the words he did not want to hear, it was still speaking to him.
A lengthy pause followed, and Merlin could tell Roman was waiting for him to say something.
Roman ran a hand through his own hair, frustrated. Gloved fingers clenched at his sides. “You’re not asleep, are you? This would be just like you if you were! I mean, really? A once in a lifetime meeting, and you’re asleep? I didn’t even know you slept out here, so you must be faking it, right? Even if you’re the Magus of Flowers, you seem too prim to sleep out in nature… Ugh! Whatever.”
And after that, Roman did nothing but frown. He did not breathe; at least, Merlin did not feel this phantom chest rise and fall.
They sat like that for God knows how long. Merlin did not move, and neither did Roman. Eventually, though, it came to an end, like everything but Merlin, unfortunately, did. The phantom stood up, and Merlin felt his eyes on him. His breathing hitched, and his smile flagged, and the guilt washed over him until he couldn’t breathe properly at all.
“Roman, I—”
“Don’t forget me, Merlin. Don’t forget you didn’t do anything to help.”
“… Please, don’t…”
Merlin opened his eyes and reached a lone hand out towards Roman; for a fleeting, ephemeral moment, he felt the brush of fabric against his fingertips, saw the figure of a man he longed to be with even if it meant he would be hated before—before his gaze adjusted to the newly welcomed light again. The presence was gone. There never was anything there to begin with, was there? Was it all in his head, or was Romani Archaman traveling through Avalon, the beautiful garden on the underside of the world, to berate and chide him? All to say:
You should have helped. You should have saved me. You should have protected everyone. You should have, you should have, you should have…
Merlin pulled his empty hand back to his chest, curled into a loose fist. His other hand gripped the edge of the bench until his knuckles felt sore, until splinters of wood embedded them into flesh that he would not be using the next day. He squeezed his eyes shut, took in a few deep breaths, and stood, turning back towards the tower in the distance.
Walking through Avalon felt like walking through death itself—oh, how the storm clouded the skies overhead, and oh, how it began to rain.