He wishes he was alive like he used to be.
He wishes sometimes that he could still remember how to feel.
When he first came to Camelot, it was all he knew – he had a heart of air back then, bright and buoyant and beating fiercely somewhere inside him, a heart flimsy and weightless, a soul that had never known suffering as he knew it now, but still a heart that had loved, and loved deeply at that, a heart that had laughed, loud and wild and unrestrained, and never dreamed there might be a day when he couldn't even smile; a heart that was not afraid to cry when it must, to mourn, to grieve, to ache and weep, a heart that cracked upon cruel words or bruised at a touch, a heart that felt, keenly so, the pain of those around him, and longed to ease it in any way possible; a heart that wanted nothing more than to see everyone he knew happy, a heart that wanted to make Gaius proud of him or Gwen smile at him, a heart that wanted Arthur to see him as more than a servant, as a friend, as an equal; a heart that had desperately yearned to tell Morgana the truth, to ease her fears and doubts, but cowered at the consequences.
He could still remember that heart – but now, it was no more.
He had a heart of stone now, and it hung heavy in his chest, knowing nothing of air or emotion, only duty, only ever duty.
And all he could feel now was tired – beneath his skin, his bones wept in their weariness, begging him to rest, and violet bruises born of exhaustion stood stark and prominent under eyes that longed to close – but it was the sort of tired that wouldn't go away with a good night's sleep, though well had he tried to make it so.
Oh, how he missed his heart of air.
notes: first sentence was actually a writing prompt i found online i don't own it! also this turned out so much like one of my other works ((Good Man)) that it isn't even funny but merlin's internal conflict of seasons 4 and 5 was literally the best-written thing i've ever seen so i'll never stop writing about it.