Chapter Text
Was it dark, or was he merely blinded?
Arthur couldn't tell. Merlin was out there somewhere, beyond the haze, fighting for his life. Arthur couldn't hear him anymore. He could only hear the creaking of the wind in the old wooden tower, the ravens crying as they gathered on the window ledge. He could hear the rain as it struck the glass, and he felt it as is carried inside, cold as ice against his skin.
He could hear the low moan of ghosts clamouring in the grave yard, and in his minds eye he could see them. Pale fingers reaching up, up towards him. Perhaps they were done with Merlin, perhaps even now they were winding thier way up the tower walls, seeking his warmth and his life.
The thought struck him cold. He fought to rise, but the darkness remained. Blindly he stumbled. His steps were loud and echoing. His palms reached the damp wood of the tower walls.
Merlin! He wanted to scream. Where are you? But the fear of silence held him back. At one point he tripped over something blocking his path.
Dead body. Merlin.
The thought jumped down his spine before he could rationalise. He felt it in the dark. Warm still, wet. It smelled of blood and death. But from the shape of it, Arthur could tell it wasn't Merlin. And that's all he let himself dwell on.
On he went feeling his way down. He was uncomfortably aware of the rising howls. The greedy sounds of the ghosts in the graveyard. He must be moving closer to them. He tried to turn, but fell, tumbling down, until he struck cold hard steel. He felt it. It was a door.
He remembered it. When they had come here, the door lead to freedom. Unhindered.
Run. Whispered the voice in his mind. You are if no use to Merlin if you die here.
He stood, shaking, bruised, but shoved against the door. It slid open with a long, low howl.
And then he was out. Out in the dark and the rain and the wind. He could hear the trees lashing, could feel the long grass whipping his legs as he ran. The howls of the ghosts reached fever pitch and in his minds eye, he saw them persuing him. A cold dead mist rolling across the grave yard.
"Merlin!" He screamed. His fear of silence had be replaced by the much colder fear of being lost and alone. The wind snatched his voice away. The ghosts howled louder.
He tried again. And again. Wishing the dark would leave him. And the rain was so cold it blinded his senses.
Onward he ran. Tripping and stumbling. And he fell, so suddenly into some sort of deep pit.
A grave. He couldn't push the thought away.
And then another realisation struck him, as he lay there briefly sheltered. Without the wind in his ears he knew it.
The realisation struck much colder than the ice or the wind.
The ghosts were silent.