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“तेरे बिना गुज़ारा, ऐ दिल, है मुश्किल।”
“to live without you, my heart, is arduous.”
“ये रूह भी मेरी, ये जिस्म भी मेरा, उतना मेरा नहीं, जितना हुआ तेरा।”
“this soul is mine, as is this body, but they are not so much mine as they are yours."
Receiving the strike that had been meant for Arthur was the best thing Merlin had ever done.
There wasn’t much he remembered, the minutes or hours had welded into each other in hazy increments. There had been him, the so-called Emrys, and a dead army. There had been Mordred and Arthur. The white-hot agony of a mortal wound. Another death after that; the last of the battle.
Then, a ringing silence, and a bottomless darkness.
•••
Merlin’s muscles had been revitalised by the time he awoke again; the creases in his skin had been smoothed out, the scratching had left his throat. Gaius had given him the de-aging potion in his sleep, then, despite knowing its futility in the face of Merlin’s predicament.
Merlin wouldn't have been able to tell he was back in his youthful form without his eyes open—he felt boneless, like a rag doll long forgotten; the wound in his gut screamed in agony, like it had never known anything but pain.
He was dying, and it was only a matter of time.
His senses also seemed to have been affected—he only noticed Gaius’ presence when the man was mere footsteps away; to Merlin, his silver hair and maroon robes appeared just out of focus. A groan escaped Merlin’s throat. He did not want to die in company.
“How are you feeling, boy?” Leave it to Gaius to remain curt and detached even as the only son he had ever known faced certain death.
“I’m going to die. In about twenty four hours,” Merlin’s voice tried its hardest to match Gaius’, but it instead just sounded strained and parched.
“I see the skills of a physician have not escaped you, even in your condition. That is commendable.”
So much for commendation. If only Merlin could heal himself with those skills. Of course, that was impossible. The blade he had been struck with had been emblazoned in a dragon’s breath: Aithusa’s. Merlin could feel a shrapnel of the metal lodged jaggedly between what he suspected were his liver and his kidneys, embedded with magic so potent it was well beyond any dragon to reverse; and well beyond the powers of Emrys.
It was futile to voice any of this, so Merlin opted to stay silent. Perhaps saving his breath would make his passing easier; not only on himself, but also Gaius. And Arthur, if he was still around. Merlin hoped he wasn’t. He hoped Arthur had left, had gone back to his castle, to his wife, to his subjects. Arthur was not just the king. He was the sun—he was the light of all of their lives. And Merlin was dying, therefore undeserving of stealing that light for himself. Merlin felt only a small twinge of resentment at not being able to stick around to witness Arthur’s Golden Age; but at least he had not failed him.
“You must eat,” Gaius urged, rational and tranquil.
Heart, be like Gaius, Merlin thought.
Perhaps the plea had worked a little too well, because Merlin found himself surrendering to the pull of sleep once more, his stomach anyway too heavy with sorrow to accommodate food.
•••
Of course, Merlin’s wishes were never fulfilled so easily, because when he woke, Arthur hovered over him. Merlin’s eyes had still not fully recovered, bleary as his vision still was (and perhaps they never would)—but he could have recognised that silhouette anywhere, standing proud no matter what, a strong jaw followed by a strong chest, clad in chainmail and sturdy boots, and always with a sword, sheathed or not. It was this silhouette that had guided Merlin in the blur of battle countless times: in the heat of the moment, Merlin had always worked to keep this one silhouette in the centre, destroying everything around it if need be, and making sure it was still able to be standing proud, no matter what.
Recently, ‘everything around it’ had included himself. It was the best thing he had ever done, but Arthur didn't think so:
“–lin! What on earth were you thinking?”
Merlin blinked sluggishly, only belatedly managing to tilt his head to face Arthur. Not that it did him much good; the features of Arthur’s face only appeared to him fuzzy at best.
“Wasn’t,” he slurred in response to the question. “Was saving you. Ungrateful prat.”
Arthur stared, and Merlin hoped he stared back.
“Why?” Arthur demanded at last, with a fragility in his tone, that he had clearly desperately wanted to hide behind the droplets of spit that met the skin on Merlin’s face at the sheer force of the word.
Merlin scoffed. “It’s not the first time, Arthur. Difference is there’s no saving me this time.”
He watched Arthur’s jaw clench, the way it did when he was particularly determined, and something in Merlin’s gut twisted. The determination was misplaced, it would go to waste, taking Arthur’s spirit with it, because Merlin was sure to die.
“There has to be a way,” Arthur’s sharp eyes met Merlin’s own again, sharp enough to momentarily clear Merlin’s vision too, before the clarity was rescinded once more, “and you will tell me what it is.”
“No.” It was not a lie: there really was not a way. And Merlin wasn’t going to raise Arthur’s hopes only to have them shatter as they inevitably crashed to the ground. He knew his death would be hard enough on Arthur.
“Merlin,” Arthur said, and Merlin knew him well enough to recognise the thinly veiled rage in his otherwise smooth cadence, “tell me the way.”
Arthur was no longer asking as a friend, but as a king, Merlin could tell by his straightened back and the finality in his tone. What had seemed to escape his notice, however, was that Merlin’s entire existence had already been treason; he was under no obligation to comply now.
“Arthur, there isn’t any–”
“TELL ME!” Arthur roared, and for the first time, Merlin flinched. Arthur’s voice had shaken, this time, unmistakably, raw with emotion and a hurt so deep-rooted Merlin was sure he would feel it reverberating through his bones for all his remaining hours. He remained silent.
“Merlin, I know you know. And if you don’t tell me, so help me God, I will run myself through with this sword.”
Somewhere deep in Merlin’s rational brain, he knew it was an empty threat—Arthur killing himself would achieve nothing for either of them—but it seemed to have done its job all the same, shocking Merlin’s system enough so the next thing he knew, he was spitting out: “The Lake of Avalon! The– the Lake of Avalon. The Sidhe. They cou– might help. Might not.”
Merlin knew they would not help. If Arthur had been the one dying, then perhaps: he was, after all, destined to unite the lands of Albion with magic once more. But Merlin? Not a chance. The Sidhe hated Emrys.
The crease in Arthur’s brow cleared: Merlin could make out the shift of the shadows in the relief of his muscles, and Arthur’s jaw clenched once more. He now had a goal, something tangible to work towards. Merlin knew he was doomed to fail, and it somehow caused the no-longer-gaping wound in his side—oh, Gaius must have dressed it—to throb insistently.
“Wh– where’s Gaius?”
“He left for Camelot. I am to aid you.” Arthur’s back was now turned to Merlin, and Merlin had to strain to make out his words.
“Arthur, you can’t save me,” he bit out, a horrifically rhythmic hammering in his head starting to overwhelm his senses as his throat struggled against the liquid that threatened to flood it.
Arthur did not reply, and Merlin passed out, choking on blood and guilt.
•••
When Merlin regained consciousness, Arthur was attempting to make dinner.
“If you don't stir the pot, the food will burn,” Merlin laughed, which soon turned into an agonising, wet cough that left pigmented flecks on his clothes, as he observed Arthur’s unmoving silhouette sit on a log and glare a hole into the metal of the broth pot. The fire danced along the strands of his golden hair, adorning him with a halo. Merlin found himself glad, all at once, that this was one of the last things he was getting to witness. Camelot needing its sun be damned.
Arthur’s eyes snapped to Merlin’s when he spoke; it was almost as if he had forgotten Merlin was even there. Merlin recognised the expression of concentration on Arthur’s face—it usually preceded a battle.
“Well, I’ve never done this before,” Arthur snarled. Then, seemingly regaining some self-control, and starting to move the ladle: “Gaius said you needed to eat.”
“Surely he also said there was no way to save me.”
“He said you needed to eat,” Arthur reiterated, not letting his frustration mount anymore, “and he told me. About you.”
It took a while for Merlin’s enervated mind to process the words. “You mean, about my–” he cut himself off, not trusting his mouth to do the correct thing beyond that.
“Magic, yes,” Arthur finished for him.
Merlin hummed, tired. “You must have been confused why Dragoon was suddenly me.”
He supposed he should have been more nervous about Arthur knowing the truth. It wasn't that he was apathetic, not at all. In fact, he was deeply ashamed of how he had lied, time and time again, year after year, right to Arthur’s face. The shame had wrapped its ugly, disfigured branches around him, had dug into his very skin, until it had penetrated his organs and sucked the life out of him. In a way, he was glad he hadn't had to tell Arthur himself, hadn’t had to wrestle and fight the blackened branches away from his body; for at this point, he had almost become one with them. And oh, perhaps that was why he was so calm.
“Everything you did…” Arthur began, and Merlin realised with a slight start that he must have been contemplating Merlin’s betrayal in the absence of anything else to occupy his time, because of course he had. “You shouldn't have to give your life, now, too.”
That wasn’t what Merlin had been expecting him to say. He struggled to rationalise it. What he came up with was this: Arthur had been forced to come to terms with it all in an unfairly short amount of time, because Merlin was dying. The twin fires of guilt and shame danced again in Merlin’s heart.
What could he even say to make it all better?
“There is no way I would rather go, Arthur. I was born to serve you. And I’ll die having served you. Everything, my magic, my life. It’s all for you, I’ve only ever lived for you.” Even Merlin’s best attempt at alleviating some of Arthur’s guilt would have been shoddy at best, let alone his own. The brain fog was getting to him, and this jumble of words was all he had been able to come up with.
“Then continue to do so,” Arthur gritted out, bitter but not yet resigned. Merlin wished for death to claim him now so Arthur wouldn’t have to suffer any longer than he already had. But Merlin’s wishes never did come to pass.
“I’m sorry I never told you,” Merlin said, hoping it would serve as enough of a distraction, “I didn't want you to have to choose between me and your father.”
“That’s what worried you?” Arthur huffed out, and Merlin was glad to note that he sounded sufficiently deflected for now.
“Would you have executed me?” Merlin’s voice rose up, almost in a challenge, though it did not land as one due to the continuously weakening state of his body, affecting both the volume and the resolve behind his speech.
“I don't know what I would have done,” Arthur said, and they both somehow knew that was a lie. Arthur would not have killed Merlin; he had proven as much when he had blown the Horn of Cathbhadh. “But you– you never sought any credit, never seeked a prize.”
Merlin chuckled arduously. “Watching you become king was prize enough. I know you will unite Albion, and if you choose to remember me when you do, it's more than enough.”
Nighttime had fallen, and all Merlin could see was the faint glint of the still-burning fire on Arthur’s blissfully unharmed chainmail.
“Right, budge up. Let me feed you.”
Merlin would have let out a hearty chuckle, but his attempt at one came out as another coughing fit, the phlegmy blood coating the forest floor in an eerie sheen. “Arthur, I can feed myself.”
“Really,” Arthur questioned, and Merlin didn't have to be able to make out his face to know exactly which expression of apprehension he wore. “Lift up an arm. Any arm.”
What arms? They may as well have turned to tree trunks, because all Merlin managed to do was wave his hand and… accidentally conjure a spoon. His eyes snapped to where Arthur was, and Merlin knew he wouldn't be able to read Arthur’s reaction, not with his deteriorating eyesight, but he could damn well try.
Arthur spent a little too long staring at something, something vaguely in the direction of Merlin, but Merlin couldn't tell if it was the spoon or his gaze. He cleared his throat, making it rip apart on the inside. “I’m sorry, I’ll make it disapp–”
“Leave it,” Arthur ordered, and Merlin scrambled to draw his magic back inside. A moment later, the spoon was being snatched from his hand, and then held against his lips, piled with mush that tasted like sand. Arthur’s body was suddenly only a few hairs apart, and Merlin didn't want to eat, he wanted to beat both his fists against Arthur’s sturdy chest (Arthur could definitely take it) and demand for him to stop being so damn kind. It wasn’t like him, not when it came to Merlin, and Merlin wanted to feel like himself. He was dying.
He was dying, and therefore he had not the energy to do any of that. He parted his lips, and chewed, and it hurt, it really hurt, but he repeated the motions dutifully, again and again, weakly clenching his fists in an attempt to divert his anger at the sheer pointlessness of it all. He was dying; he didn't need food, or care, or Arthur there with him.
Merlin supposed most people’s wish was not to die alone. He had never been like most people. Perhaps it had once been his wish too, back when he had been a fresh-faced newcomer in Camelot, barely seventeen summers old and had never taken a single life.
But now? If there was anyone that should die alone, it was him. After everything, he wasn't sure he was worthy of the gentleness that came with death: the soft caresses, lingering gazes, wistful words, all too similar to a first romance. Especially not from Arthur.
“We ride at dawn,” Arthur stated, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.
•••
Merlin didn’t deserve the gentleness that came with death, but he did deserve the ferocity. Fever had finally broken out during the night, allowing him only a brief and restless sleep, and it had not let up even now, on horseback.
The wound in Merlin’s abdomen protested loudly every time it shifted, which was always, considering the moving horse underneath Merlin—he was sure he could feel every hair of the movement of the sword’s fragment as it grazed periodically against the tissue of an organ within him. And yet, despite the immense pain, the exhaustion was trying its very hardest to push Merlin back to the other side of consciousness—staying awake was taking its toll.
“‘Thur–” Merlin panted eventually, once it was so unbearable he was sure he would crawl out of his own skin, “We need– Stop.”
“We need,” Arthur insisted, “to soldier on.”
“‘M not a soldier,” Merlin mumbled, not sure what saying that would achieve. But something seemed to click for Arthur within his words anyway, because the next thing Merlin knew, he was being manhandled.
He screamed, and he was sure it pierced through the valley. He had been dying for hours now, but he was suddenly dying faster, his wound practically lighting up with pain. He knew Arthur was being as gentle as he possibly could, but it wasn't helping, because Merlin saw spots in his vision, he was about to crush his teeth to dust with how hard his jaw was clenching, about to tear chunks of his own hair out, lack of muscle coordination forgotten, he was about to black out again–
Then, sweet relief. Or, as much relief as could come with a wound that was still out to kill you. Merlin was temporarily boneless with the pain that was now only thrumming instead of igniting, and it took him some very long seconds to realise what was happening.
He was in Arthur’s arms, the horses following along behind them, treading at a leisurely pace. Arthur intended to carry him, bridal style, all the way to the Lake of Avalon.
Naturally, Merlin began to thrash. Naturally, as foretold by the nature of death, he did not succeed in thrashing, his muscles too sickeningly impaired.
“Put me down,” Merlin demanded weakly, but his voice was almost failing him outright, and he was a dying man fighting a warrior in his peak.
“Never,” Arthur replied, his own voice robust, and reassured, and gut wrenchingly hopeful. And Merlin couldn't tell if it was a front.
He couldn't tell if it was a front. Merlin knew, in that moment, that he had only a couple hours left. If there was one thing he knew in the world, inside and out, it was Arthur Pendragon. To not be able to place his tone, it meant that Merlin was losing his grasp.
Merlin relaxed. It was almost over.
He let his neck fall back as he detachedly observed the wizened and mangled roots of the trees in this part of the forest as they clung onto the fertile soil like aged fingers clawing on plump skin, as if seeking the last tendril of life before succumbing to a bathetic death. Merlin could sympathise.
When his neck felt like it could snap from the lack of support, he almost let it. But he wasn’t sure he could get the angle right for it not just to sprain nastily rather than kill; and besides, he only had a couple hours left anyway. “You should probably hold up my neck,” he said, his voice almost imperceptible at this point.
But Arthur had keen ears, it seemed, when it came to Merlin. “Shit, sorry–” he let out, as adjusted the position of his hand.
“Don’t apologise. And don’t swear, it doesn't suit you,” Merlin cut him off, not knowing where he found the strength to do so.
“Don’t tell me what to do, Merlin,” Arthur replied, and the words were achingly weighed down with emotion compared to the featherlight manner in which they would have been said, once upon a time.
•••
Merlin needed water, but he didn't ask for it, because it didn't matter. His breathing was laboured, as if his bronchi were waterlogged, and his alveoli stuffed with cotton. Dehydration would perhaps facilitate his passing. Good.
Arthur gasped all of a sudden, his face going ashen, as he stared at Merlin. His expression was painted in abject horror, striking enough for Merlin to be able to tell even with his now very strained vision. Merlin had been around enough of Gaius’ patients to know a reaction to a death rattle when he saw one. “‘S a… normal thing,” Merlin slurred, “You probably know. ‘Ve seen soldiers dying.”
“You’re not a soldier,” came the reply from somewhere above Merlin, and he was glad to note that there was finally a wobble in Arthur’s tone, a sign of fear creeping in. Resignation was Merlin’s goal, and it followed fear. They were on the right path.
“But I am dying,” Merlin stated, as firmly as he could muster, even with wetness gurgling in his words. He wanted Arthur to admit Merlin was right, and leave him to die, and head back to Camelot to live out his destiny-foretold happily-ever-after. Arthur had other, more frustrating plans.
“Your eyes glow gold,” Arthur changed the topic, and oh, the irony. Merlin had never imagined the topic of magic would be a respite from heavier conversation, but here they were.
Merlin didn’t say anything. He had only witnessed it happen once on himself, when he had temporarily procured a looking glass from one of the maidservants and whispered a simple incantation, just to sate his curiosity. They had glowed. He didn’t have the strength nor the drive to tell Arthur any of that, and he never would. He never would be able to recount to Arthur all the times he had used magic to save the kingdom and its King. Nor any of the (few, but not non-existent) times he had used it for fun—an occasional butterfly here and a particularly plummy rose bush there. Merlin just hoped that Arthur would at least hear it from someone, since it couldn’t be him; most likely it would be the next sorcerer that would run along to Camelot, to Arthur’s side, to take Merlin’s place.
“C’mon,” Arthur urged, “don’t you want to tell me about magic?”
“Can’t,” Merlin gasped, hoping Arthur would understand. He couldn’t—even if he could physically manage it between rasping breaths, Merlin wouldn’t risk his potential last words being reminders of a decade’s worth of betrayal. He knew he meant something to Arthur; more than he had let himself realise, and that would just be cruel.
Merlin thought he heard Arthur sigh, but he wasn’t sure.
•••
Merlin ached for sleep, or better yet death to claim him soon. He had, for some reason, been conscious for a few hours at this point, and they had been spent in utter silence. Only the occasional snap of a twig or gust of strong wind that Merlin could barely sense on top of his soul-crushing pain would break through the pinching tranquility.
Of course, Arthur eventually had enough of the quietude, the entitled, imperious prick. He probably wouldn’t leave Merlin in silence even if Merlin made it his last wish, which he was very close to doing.
They had just made their way up a particularly arduous hill, the apex clearly providing Arthur with relief like fresh morning dew.
“A beautiful view,” Arthur said, having stopped to catch his breath. Merlin turned his head. The horizon was a blur of shapes and colour washed in the early morning sun, and Merlin would have found it beautiful, too, once.
When Merlin turned back to look at Arthur, Arthur was looking back. Oh. The view he had been talking about wasn’t the horizon.
Merlin didn't know what to make of his new interpretation of the comment.
Arthur just kept looking—despite Merlin’s probably gaunt face, and the ugly wound in his side, and his failing rag of a body—with that expression on his face that had always escaped Merlin, ephemeral and eternal at the same time; the same mixture of awe and melancholy and what Merlin had come to know as love that he had witnessed Arthur reserve for Merlin and only Merlin.
Merlin found himself unable to do anything but look right back. Merlin could see how someone more beautiful than himself would look magnificent painted in the rich, golden light that shone from the powerful summer sun. He wasn’t the right person for that. Arthur was. If only Arthur could see himself, now. Arthur needed to leave; leave Merlin behind along with all the heartbreak he inevitably brought in his wake. Arthur should not need Merlin. Arthur should not–
“I love you, you know.”
A silence followed, the likes of which had never before presented itself between Arthur and Merlin.
“Don’t.” It was the hardest word Merlin had ever forced out.
And it had been for nothing, because Arthur doubled down. “I mean it. I do, I love you.”
“I know,” Merlin gritted, because how could he not? He wasn’t blind. “Don’t.”
Arthur complied with the instruction this time. And for the first time since the whole stabbing ordeal, Merlin felt like crying.
He and Arthur never spoke this directly, and Merlin knew it had only happened because Merlin was dying, and Arthur knew that now. But Merlin didn't deserve all this gentleness. His was just one life, slipping away because his time had come; he had always held too much life inside of him for his own to be a very long one anyway. Besides, his life was just one life, the termination of which would finally, finally bring peace to the land, and more importantly, to Arthur, his King.
Just one life, he thought, and by contrast, he had taken an estimated ten thousand of them in one fell carnage-infused swoop, just around sixteen hours prior. No, Merlin certainly did not deserve the gentleness.
But by the gods, did he love Arthur back.
He had loved him through the extra snacks he would bring that he knew were Arthur’s favourite when serving him dinner; he had loved him by combing his hair for him in the morning to help him wake up for the day; he had loved him through dedication and bickering and touch. He loved him even now, in death, and forever beyond.
Merlin loved Arthur, which was why he wanted Arthur to leave. What good would it do Arthur, to carry a dying man to safety that would never arrive? To watch the light fade from the eyes of that dying man (whom Arthur unfortunately also loved back)? To return home changed and scarred?
But Arthur was as stubborn as they came, and was carrying Merlin with the last vestige of his strength, like a bride down an altar. What awaited them, however, were not the vows of eternal partnership—not even as they loved each other—but the promise of eternal death.
Arthur descended the hill, beyond which Lake Avalon glimmered and shone under the beautiful summer sun. They were too late, regardless.
•••
Merlin loved Arthur, which was how he had ended up killing his father. Which was why, when the time came, he killed his sister.
His mind clouded by the haze of death, Merlin hadn't realised before why death hadn’t yet cradled him in its arms; why it had only been Arthur that had done so thus far. He knew as soon as death started to glide its fingers down his sides, his ribs and over his heart, because it was the moment Morgana fell.
They had been mere footsteps away from the shores of the misty lake, and Morgana had approached the two of them, radiating confidence and cruelty. Merlin had felt so very sorry for her.
She had immediately had Arthur engaged in a fight, fierce magic clashing with brutal metal. In the end, no mortal man could combat the ancient and immense power of magic.
Good thing I’m not mortal, then, Merlin had thought, I’m only magic itself, even as he had used the very last stows of any energy he had had left, fighting against death itself to clear his vision enough to see what was going on.
He had failed, but it hadn’t mattered as he had felt the ground shift against him as Arthur had been disarmed. Excalibur had lain on the ground next to him, and grasping for its hilt, Merlin had known what had had to be done.
Judging from Morgana’s increasingly smug, violent tone of voice (which had by this point grown quite muffled to Merlin, as if he had been underneath the waters of the Lake), she had had Arthur cornered. Merlin didn’t know where exactly he had drawn the power from, at that moment, but the leaf-coated ground, the roots that grappled it, the animals that sheltered in their hallowed wood, the great expanse of the sky itself, had all seemed to know that Emrys, the embodiment of magic itself, had been on the cusp of fulfilling its destiny.
Somehow, the sword pierced the witch’s back; if magic or muscle had caused it was anyone’s guess. But the cause of it had been Merlin, and that was what mattered. Then she fell, and Merlin knew there was nothing left for him here. He let the pain and grief and bitter anticipation of death consume him once and for all, his body giving in and crumbling from the strain and the aches that seemed to turn his nerves to grated cheese.
For the time before the last, his eyes closed.
•••
“I’m sorry, about Morgana,” Merlin said the final time he awoke.
The words were more difficult to force out than ever; his thoracic cavity was flooded with the unrestrained fluids of death, and every push and pull of air felt like heaving a cart of lumber back and forth. Merlin knew they had been some of his last words.
Arthur did not reply. Of course he didn't, because what would he have said? It’s okay, she was only my sister that betrayed me in the foulest possible manner?
He was kneeling, Merlin realised, against the shores of the Lake that Merlin was glad he couldn’t see. He had watched enough of his friends float away on its deceptively calm waters. Merlin’s back was supported by the flat of Arthur’s strong hand and the inside of his forearm, his legs sprawling. They could have kissed, like this.
“You can’t die,” Arthur insisted instead.
Merlin chuckled, and it was the frailest sound he had ever made.
Arthur recoiled. “Call the Sidhe. They can help, you said they can.”
“No.” Merlin shook his head, “They can’t.”
Arthur growled, as if to say you never do as you’re told. Merlin was sure Arthur had refrained from voicing it because Merlin was dying, yet oh how Merlin longed to hear the words. But when had life ever granted him the little bouts of escapism everyone else seemed to enjoy?
Merlin didn’t have to look (not that he would have been able to see, anyway) to know Arthur’s jaw was working as he tried to come up with something, anything.
“Fine, I’ll call them myself.”
Don’t bother, Merlin would have said, but he knew Arthur would try anyway, and besides, he wanted to save himself the pain of superfluous talking.
Arthur bellowed into the valley that cradled the lake, for someone to help him, for someone to help his friend. It reminded Merlin of the times he himself had called for the Great Dragon, and he felt a pang of sadness that he had no strength to do so, now. Perhaps it was for the better, since the Dragon could not have saved him this time, anyway.
Naturally, Arthur’s pleas fell to deaf ears.
Merlin didn’t know how long he had kept shouting, but by the time the last echoes had rung throughout the mountains, Arthur’s voice was hoarse and thick with tears, and as Merlin finally, finally sensed the fight leave his body, Arthur’s back slumped and he pressed his forehead to Merlin’s.
Something damp pressed against Merlin’s face. Tears.
“Thought you said–” Merlin paused to cough away the blockage in his throat. “Thought you said no man was worth your tears.”
“Not worth your tears.” Arthur gulped. “But you’re–”
You’re worth mine, was what Merlin had learned Arthur well enough to know he would have said, if he hadn’t cut himself off. Merlin also knew Arthur had never been the most forthcoming about his feelings, even at the best of times.
This was not one of those times.
It was a brilliant day: the sun was shining, and the birds were singing Merlin’s premature lamentation as if they knew. They probably did. And yet, Merlin couldn’t hear the birdsong—he could barely hear Arthur when he spoke—and nor could he see the brilliance of the day. Because the light was fading, at least in his eyes.
“How am I meant to rule without you?” Arthur asked, his breath ghosting featherlight against Merlin’s lips. Merlin wanted to tell him, you don’t need me, or as you’ve always done. But Merlin knew what his role was, and always had been: not Arthur’s manservant, nor his sorcerer, but his friend—perhaps his only friend.
As such, Merlin made his last request.
“I’ve always had faith in you, Arthur,” he heaved, even as the world faded further and further out of the realms of his consciousness. Perhaps the other way round? He wasn’t sure anymore; he wasn’t even really sure he existed anymore, what with the tips of his extremities going numb, his vision spotted and unclear, his hearing strained. All he felt was Arthur. But that was enough for him to power through another sentence. “Do something for me: take my faith with you before I die, and keep it.”
Arthur sobbed.
Merlin wanted to leave him with something nice before he went; something Arthur could think back to and remember to keep within himself Merlin’s faith in him.
“I love you too,” he whispered against Arthur’s shallow breaths, and the words were like a trigger that finally, finally, allowed him to sink into the inky depths of eternal slumber.
He had been too late, just seconds too late, to feel Arthur’s lips brush against his.
•••
Arthur Pendragon returned to Camelot changed and scarred.
There had come a time in his journey back in which he had considered turning abruptly, and becoming a farmer in a small village. Or a cage fighter, or a mercenary, or a bandit, or a smuggler. He hadn’t really cared.
But Merlin needed a proper funeral, befitting a king, and that was what had kept him going.
His arms had turned to rubber carrying Merlin’s dead weight back, and he hadn’t stopped for food or drink or even rest until he had reached the walls of his citadel. Merlin’s corpse had begun to rot: the vile, damp shades of decomposing his organs penetrated through his pale skin, and the pungent stench of decay permeated the air around Arthur and Merlin, who was a corpse.
Someone who was stronger than Arthur, which could have been anyone at that point, had snatched Merlin away from him, and Arthur had begun planning his funeral.
“I’m busy,” he had snapped at Guinevere, who had tried to approach him in their bedchambers. “You know what I’m doing. I need to do it.”
“I know,” Gwen had sighed, and had left Arthur to write his eulogy.
It was now the day of the funeral.
The pyre stood high in the courtyard, and Arthur Pendragon, for the first time in his life, had run away.
If one were in the castle, one would have heard shouts of “Where is the King?” and “Please tell me if you see His Majesty the King!”
Arthur was not in the castle, because he did not want to hear those shouts. Nor did he want to face the ash that would become of Merlin.
Instead, he was skipping his best friend’s funeral to take a stroll in the woods. He thought it was something Merlin would have appreciated, anyway. The gaps of sunlight through the verdant leaves, the soft summer breeze, the spotless and azure sky: another beautiful day, just as Arthur was sure the day had been when Merlin was born.
He would have to ask Hunith—who had anyway come to Camelot to attend her son’s funeral—about that.
There was a disturbance in the trees. Arthur didn’t investigate. He was swordless and all his armour consisted of a flimsy linen tunic, as Merlin had always wandered. Best leave it, then.
And yet, despite his best efforts to ignore it, as the shuffling moved closer and closer, like something was scurrying through the vegetation towards him, he couldn’t help but investigate. Arthur was—used to be—a hunter, so it did not surprise him when he found what he was looking for. What surprised him was what—or rather who—he had found.
A little girl, no older than seven, hiding shoddily behind a bush. Her dark hair ran down her shoulders in coils, her complexion tanned and healthy.
To her credit, she recoiled only slightly as Arthur approached. “Hello. What’s your name?”
“Aalis.”
“Do you live in Camelot, Aalis?” She nodded. “Then why are you all the way out here?”
Her expression shifted completely to something conspiratorial, as if within a single moment she had forgotten to be scared. “Because I heard someone died,” she whispered.
Despite everything, Arthur chuckled. Leave it to a seven-year-old to state plainly what everyone else had been trying to get him to process through vague references and ridiculous euphemisms.
Arthur hummed. “He was my friend.”
Aalis’ brows furrowed. “Who was?”
“The man who died.”
“Oh.”
They stared at each other for a bit, as Aalis tried to decide if she should talk to this man who had apparently known the person whose funeral she had run away from, and as Arthur contemplated the best way to get the girl back to her parents. Aalis was quicker.
“Was he nice? Your friend? Who died?”
“He was stubborn and never listened and very rude and painfully clumsy,” Arthur reflected. It wasn’t much of a eulogy, but he would return to give the long version that evening anyway, and why not vent out his posthumous frustrations about Merlin when he could?
“Then why were you friends with him?” Aalis’ face scrunched up in confusion, and it achingly reminded Arthur of Merlin’s own mannerisms.
“Because,” Arthur replied slowly, and damn it all, Arthur was about to give a shortened eulogy anyway, “he was also the sharpest, kindest, most loyal and bravest man I’ve ever known.”
“My mum says magic isn’t allowed,” Aalis said, and for a moment Arthur was thoroughly confused by the subject change, before the girl produced a perfectly pretty daisy from her palm and presented it to him, “but I hope this makes you feel better.”
Even through his mild shock, Arthur accepted the flower, inspecting its beauty. He supposed he should have been more unsettled by the magic, but all he felt instead was the simple love the little girl had poured into the plant. The girl’s magic had felt natural, almost elemental, and holding its creation in his hand made Arthur finally feel what Merlin had felt: the vibrations in the earth, how nature sang a tune that should have been discordant but somehow wasn’t.
“Thank you.” Arthur cleared his throat. “My, um. My friend. He had magic, too.”
“Oh, why didn’t you say so before!” Aalis exclaimed. “My dad says that means he’s not really dead, because his magic has gone back into the earth and the trees and the squirrels!”
The girl’s words triggered a memory in Arthur that he had, amidst the haze of having lost Merlin, forgotten he had made. Just a few days earlier, Gaius had said something. He had said that Merlin had not only had magic, but that he had been magic; magic incarnate. Which meant that Aalis’ flower held a piece of Merlin himself.
“You’re right,” Arthur said finally. “Tell me, Aalis. Do you know a lot of people with magic? I won’t tell, I promise.”
Aalis hesitated. But she had taken a liking to Arthur, and was apparently quick to trust, like Arthur himself. “Yes,” she admitted, “loads of people. But it’s forbidden.”
Arthur would have to change that. It wouldn’t do for Merlin himself to be forbidden in Camelot. “I’ll have to change that, then.”
Aalis’ eyes widened, almost comically. “You can do that? Wait… who are you?”
“My name is Arthur,” said Arthur, as he remembered Merlin’s request to him: to keep faith in himself. That request, paired with Merlin’s final words, were what allowed him to say, “and yes, I can do that. Now, let’s get you home.”