It's over. It's done.
The evening sunlight cast him in a golden glow. Slowly but surely, it crept toward the horizon. It hadn't happened. Destiny had lied. It hadn't happened, and it never would.
Merlin stood at the edge of the lake. It's over. It's done. A plane roared overhead, but he didn't notice.
In his hand, he held the blade, that wicked blade. He hadn't wanted to kill her. He hated himself for it.
But it was over, and it was done—what was the point in thinking about it? What was the point in thinking at all? He still looked young, but his heart had not felt joy in a thousand years.
The sunlight was gone now, just like the King.
The metal was cold; he winced as the world faded.
It's over. It's...