the final stand.
.:the character of Death is inspired by the character of the same name, in The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. song choice ~ Luce by Ludovico Einaudi:.
I am haunted by humans. - Death
Death was waiting.
Though the crowd gathered in the square could not see him as he made his way slowly and deliberately through the onlookers, his raw presence betrayed him – the cold inevitability, the biting finality; the impending sense of grief and loss, and a very raw, human guilt beating in the waiting hearts of those gathered.
They were all waiting, but none more than Death.
Death had found himself in this very courtyard many times in recent years. Sometimes he would have to wade through a burning pyre in order to reach the condemned soul – sometimes he would find the body severed at the neck, with the soul wandering aimlessly between the detached head and the knelt body. He had seen so many meet their ends here. Men. Women. Children. How he hated to find the souls of children on that wooden platform.
It occurred to Death that it was dark. This, in itself, was not unusual, but peculiar for the general standards of Camelot upon execution. Such events were, as a rule, held in daylight with the sun smiling down bitterly as another ( much more human) light down on the platform below was snuffed out. But, nevertheless, night surrounded the crowd. They clutched candles and torches as if in vigil. The king, who had not yet graced the scene, had perhaps hoped that by holding the deed in darkness he would not have to cope with too many nameless citizens coming to pay their respects. He was (as usual, thought Death) so very, very wrong.
A cloaked figure pressed past Death with a gentle, easing urgency. The cloaked one slipped between the citizens, uttering a whispered apology to every last one, and stopping only upon reaching the platform itself. And then the hood was lowered; a dark mass of loose curls tumbled forth, and the pale complexion pockmarked only by ruby red lips met the ensuing darkness. She came to join the vigil.
Morgana was waiting. Waiting to see Uther's face falter as he gave that final command. Waiting to see him hesitate. Waiting to see him fall.
It was so desperately cold. Death did not feel it, but the towns' people had swathed themselves in layer upon layer, determined not to let the cold halt them from paying their respects. Their fingers quivered against the coarse fabric of their tunics.
Cold was generally favoured by Death. Cold and dark. Death, after all, had no time for irony.
The king's arrival moments later was not announced by fanfare or by extravagant proclamation. He strode out from the castle to the centre of the balcony in silence – blank, emotionless, unfeeling silence. The crowd's heads seemed to rise as one, and Death, too, turned to survey the imposing figure of the king, and not for the first time.
Death was amused by Uther Pendragon. He was amused by the way in which he regarded himself. Immortal. How very, very amusing, thought Death. Uther was, after all, the most mortal of them all. The mighty king saw Death as a punishment – something he could beckon whenever and wherever he pleased to punish the unwanted of his kingdom. How foolish a man could be. How foolish, and yet how powerful.
Uther was waiting. Waiting for the sorcerer to be done with.
The tears amongst the townsfolk were a peculiar breed. The norm was hysterical, piercing and passionate – the wails of those the damned had held in their heart filling the air and leaving stricken those within earshot. There was none of that tonight. Therein lay the oddity. Nothing but silence hung about the square.
The only tears Death saw were those glistening on the darkened cheeks of the maiden he stood beside. Her hair was unruly and unkempt, her face fearlessly bare of any such guise. Her heartbreak was clear on her features, but she was dignified in its display. Death remembered her. The daughter of the blacksmith, Tom. He had held his warm soul close years before, in the cold depths of Camelot's dungeons as the man had made for freedom.
Gwen was waiting. Waiting for some sort of miracle. A miracle that, this time, would free the innocent and save the true. Though sorcery and innocence stood apart, and never as one. Not in Camelot.
Death's gaze flickered about the place. The city was worn and tired, unravelling from within; war and hatred had taken their toll on the once grandiose city, and now she was close to admitting defeat. Death traced the familiar patterns of the castle walls with indifference. So human. So naively human, to think walls could withstand Camelot's enemies.
The lights in the castle were out – or so it appeared to Death upon first glance. The window panes of Camelot's great pride stood bare, where only blurred imitations puppeted by the candles clutched in the onlooker's hands seem to dance.
Save one.
There were heavy bars across the window's face – jail-like and restricting. A dull light flickered in its midst. Light caught blonde hair but for a second, before the hair seemed to shift slightly to the right.
Death peered closer.
The young man did not show his face. He did not need to. Death knew who he was.
As he contemplated the blank expression upon the subject's handsome features, Death pitied the boy. The prince's guilt was fruitless, and unnecessary. There was a reason bars stood across that window, after all. And yet the young prince basked in his remorse. His remorse was, thought Death, his own sentence. Yes, Uther knew how to punish well. His own son was rotting in the cruelty of his justice, imprisoned for his endeavours, forced to watch his closest friend meet the most of final of ends.
Arthur was waiting. He couldn't take much more of this.
The clatter on the cobbles from the cart's steady journey was soft, but against the hush of the scene the sound broke through the vigil with tasteless brutality. All eyes darted to the heavy blackened bars and the boy they restrained.
Death felt the humiliation.
The crowd parted slowly. Hands unwound themselves from tunics, from within sleeves, and reached out – they pressed their trembling fingertips to reach out to the condemned. Wordlessly, a thousand things were spoken. Of gratitude and sorrow, of pity and of grief; of pride and of affection; there was no blame among them. No hatred or loathing or burning desire for revenge.
Those were left to rot in the heart of the king.
The boy's name was murmured about the square, but no-one's lips seemed to dare to move. Merlin, they whispered silently. Merlin. We are here.
His face was far from the one Death remembered; the fresh-faced youth with the flush of country air upon his cheeks, still blessed with naivety and the child-like intrigue of an infant. His blue eyes had blinked up at the scene with breathless horror at a scene of execution years before, his rucksack pressed keenly to his shoulder-blades as he had watched his first sorcerer's beheading.
And now, he was at the scene of his last. His own.
Bruises hung at his jaw-line, marking his cheeks, his eyelids. Lips bloodied and dry. Cuts and wounds littered his pale forehead and cheeks, and his cheekbones were gaunt. The shadows of the cage bars lined his young face with chilling severity. How weak he looked, sat with his back pressed to the cage bars. Death watched him curiously. Normally the sorcerers would stand, brave in the face of Death, on their way to the centre of the square. The boy was slumped, bones pushing against the fabric of his tunic, with closed eyes. It was as if he was already hanging in limbo.
The cart reached wooden platform within minutes. Guards moved swiftly through the gathered throng, raising heavy wooden boards to deter those intending of running to the rescue of the young sorcerer from slowing the procedure. There was a tense anticipation in the hearts of all those present – they wanted this over, and quickly, so they could return to their lives - forget this ever happened, forget the servant boy they had loved, and let his memory wane. The theatrics of earlier executions had been laid to rest. No drums, no woefully patriotic speech from the king to his subjects. There was no time – and more importantly, no inclination.
Two nameless knights clambered from the horse-drawn cart. The executioner slowly ascended – his face hidden under the darkened hood. One of the knights approached him quickly, pressing to his gloved palm a small pouch with a few whispered words to the man's ear; the executioner nodded once, slipping the pouch into his pocket and out of sight.
The other knight unlocked the cage door. He clambered inside, his hand gripping at Merlin's sleeve. The boy's eyelids flickered, eyes opening but a fraction. He placed bloodied hands either side of himself, trying to push himself upwards from his slumped position – his arms quivered and faltered, falling back limply to his sides as he shuddered. Exhaustion racked his frame. He tried once again only to fail once more – the knight, seeing his struggle, heaved him to his feet himself and dragged him slowly from the cart's hold, carrying Merlin's dead weight.
Death watched as the other knight came to his aid – the two of them, half-carrying the weakened sorcerer, led him to the steps to where the executioner stood waiting.
The axe rested impatiently at his side.
Closer to him now, Death concentrated his gaze solely on the boy clambering the stairs towards the waiting axeman. He could see much in a person, and yet Merlin's emotions – save sheer exhaustion – seemed guarded and unclear. Curiosity burned deeper in Death still.
He knew there could be only moments left.
The guards lowered Merlin gently to his knees. One of their hands lingered somewhat at his shoulder – their helmets shrouded their identities, but there was a familiarity between the two of them, shown for a moment in the small tribute the knight had dared to show.
Still silence befell the crowd.
Even kneeling seemed to drain the boy. The knights hold seemed to be the only way he kept from falling to the blood-stained floorboards – his eyelids flickered on, his gaze trying to reach that of his king's, only for weariness to fail him. Death felt a surge of sympathy rise in the hearts of those around him.
He would share in it if he could.
Merlin.
The voice of his king.
Death watched closely as the sorcerer drew breath, his gaze now fixed to a spot a little further away on the platform floor. A final act of defiance. Refusal to meet the eye of his killer.
Have you any last words?
Death supposed this Uther's final act of kindness. Foolish, loathsome, hateful man.
There was a tense moment where the crowd's eyes suddenly seemed to fix upon Merlin's kneeling form; they seemed to implore him to say something, anything, that they could take from this night as renewed hope – but the boy merely shook his head, clenching shut his eyes. Death wondered if he would ever again open them.
It was time.
Death readied himself, poised to do what he came to do as swiftly as possible, as the executioner reached for the heavy axe. Renewed tension broke out amongst the people of Camelot; they clung to each other, gripping tightly at one another's sleeves, youngsters burying their faces in the stomachs of their mothers to shield their gaze. Fear gripped them afresh. They could not brace themselves for this.
The figure in the window of the castle leant forwards, his face now pressed to the bars that restrained him. Arthur's gaze was fixed down upon the boy, whose neck was being lowered to the age-old execution block, and Death could see the warrior's trembling frame. How gaunt the mighty Prince Arthur seemed; how frightened, how child-like. As Merlin had aged in his features, it seemed Arthur had regressed. His emotions were explicit – there was no guarding of his feelings today. Death felt his pain, as raw and as agonizing as if it were his own.
The knights slipped away from the wooden block, until only two figures and their shadows were left for all to see. Death knew it should soon be over.
The length of the axe was traced once by the forefinger of the executioner – one long, torturous length that gripped the people so tightly they seemed tremble in unison.
A little away from Death, the people parted slightly, their gazes diverted momentarily to the square's cobbles. Death turned as Gwen dropped to the floor, her dark hands pressed to her face as she knelt in grief-stricken reverence. Her body wracked with silent tears, and hands reached for her, stroking her curls tenderly, comforting and warm.
There could be no such help for the boy now knelt at the hands of the executioner, waiting for his end.
The executioner took his place (cold and emotionless).
He stepped towards the waiting Merlin (he is still. He does not so much as tremble).
The axe was raised (the prince cannot look. He turns his face away, and the flickering candle light catches the lone tear track at his cheek).
They breathed as one.
Everything seemed to slow.
The very descent of the axe; the turning heads of the towns' people; even Death himself.
But the words, the words that rang out in the town square, were as loud and as clear as day.
Alysan mec heonan.
Death felt himself forced backwards, stumbling from an unseen force that suddenly blew from the centre of the square. Merlin trembled, but the weak, dismembered form of moments before had vanished; his eyes glowed a brilliant, godly gold. There were gasps among the crowd – some cowered, shielding their faces as others looked on, astonished. Death saw the Prince in his window sit bolt up-right, his fists clinging tightly to the bars as he gaped down at the scene below.
Then came the light.
The boy's skin seemed to suddenly to catch alight – no flames, just sunlight shining from his bare flesh as some majestic vision. Uther cried out, but his shouts went ignored – knights feared to approach as Merlin clambered from his knees to slowly stand, his head tilted towards the darkened night sky as the executioner stumbled backwards, the axe clattering to the floor.
And for the first time, Death noticed the stars.
Rippling upwards from the feet of the sorcerer came a strange, swirling gust of what appeared to be wind, though it was clear from its texture that this was of magical making – Death thought he saw miniature birds and flying creatures swirl upwards with the gale that surrounded Merlin, whole scenes of fields and of castle walls reflected in a single man-made storm; the greyness of the wind seemed to swirl with a thousand different colours, some of which had no earthly name – until Merlin had vanished from view entirely. The crowd watched in stunned awe as the storm seemed to rise heaven-ward. Almost as a tornado, the wind spiralled onwards and upwards, gathering speed, becoming larger and larger in its steady ascent.
There were cheers and shouts, but Death heard one word louder than them all, stumbling from the lips of a dumbfounded prince.
Prat.
The Prince was smiling.
The storm found the clouds, and they seemed to embrace one another as the wind was lost in the sky.
The whispers that began that night, Death knew, would continue ceaselessly for years to come.
He turned quickly on his heel and fled the scene and the bewildered crowd, indulging himself with a small smile as he passed through the bolted gates of Camelot.
Uther, said a voice.
A familiar voice, and the very gravity of it was inhuman. The voice of Kilgharrah rang out across Camelot.
Uther, it said. What have you done?