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Summary
His beautifully awful words would drown his thoughts for the next few hours.
“Just-just-just hold me”
But Merlin could not hold onto him any longer, as Arthur’s body lay limp and cold. Soon he would fall through his hand like sand, and find a place within the lake.
Merlin had seen death—Merlin had been the cause of death—but nothing compared to the emptiness he felt as Arthur’s skin no longer gave him the warmth he longed for.
Merlin’s cheeks were dry and salty and his mind rang a constant buzz.
It was as though his limbs were directing him, his mind back-seating, as he prepared his final goodbye to his king.
This was not how it was supposed to go, this was surely not the end of their tale.
Merlin lit the boat, and the body—Arthur’s body. The flames grew red, and hot.
He felt it again, the stab of pain. His legs went weak and his vision began to blur as he saw his other half drift off into the World of The Dead.
No
This was all wrong. Arthur and Merlin were two sides of the same coin. Where would that leave Merlin? Off falter forever, forced to walk Albion alone for an eternity?
No
He would sooner have chaos than let this be the end.