No movement. No sound. Just the steady slicing of rough breath in a throat. And bitter tears landing on the saturated ground.
No coldness, nor warmth. Just a numb, empty gaping hole in a beating heart. Shivers travelled up and down the lanky body. But they were not heeded.
No hope. No light. No love. The world was empty. His destiny was shattered.
The great dragon's words were no comfort. Maybe he had not failed his destiny, but he had certainly failed his dearest friend. And all those who were waiting for the king's return.
For he would not return. He was lost forever
The harsh misery of grief flooded again, and the sorcerer wept.
Percival was the one to find him, rocking on the beach, staring across the water. Dry, drained eyes hollow and lifeless. He didn't achlowedge the knight's presence. He didn't shift from his unblinking survey of Avalon.
The resting place of the greatest man he'd ever known.
He was so tired. So lost. And yet the tears continued to leak out.
He was dimly aware of hands shaking his shoulders, begging him for an answer. He didn't move. Didn't speak. Silently crying, silently dying inside.
"Where is he? Merlin? Merlin?"
He was lifting into the air. His mouth let out a sharp cry of pain as his bruised body was manhandled.
But worse still, as his battered soul was dragged from the king's lake. His king.
He tried to struggle, lashing out with magic and limbs. But all strength had died as Arthur's eyes closed.
The familiar soaring walls of Camelot brought a new wave of broken grief. He screamed, the pain of his dry throat remaining unheeded.
Percival attempted to shush him, but the realisation he had attempted to hide through detaching himself from his body had gone.
He ached. He burnt. He sobbed.
Then there were too many voices, all chattering. He covered his ears and screwed his eyes against the dark world and tears.
Then he stood before the throne, clean and well. Except for the bleeding rift in his heart. The once bright and happy room was flooded in blackness.
And the woman he had once considered a friend was sitting on his throne. Usurping a place that only hecould fill.
The past days were a blur. Only Arthur's final words looping in his head. He did not notice the tired old man by his side. The misery in the warrior's eyes. The tears flowing down the queen's face.
"What happened?" demanded the woman.
Nothing could bring him to respond. Not a thousand heated daggers, nor a million other torture methods. He would not tell them. He could not. He could not.
"I have a right to know!" the finely dressed woman said.
There was an imploring note in her voice. But the sorcerer heard it not. All he heard was the much loved voice. And saw the familiar eyes meet his for the last time. Times gone by.
He was sitting in a room that was once familiar. Now it was hateful. Something lumpy and grey was before him. The man opposite told him to eat. There was sadness in his face. But it did nothing but make the resentment grow.
They had not suffered. They had not watched the very cause of the existent die through their many mistakes.
They had not failed.
Then he was before the traitorous woman. She was holding his hand, rubbing circles into the emaciated flesh. He saw a raven haired man looking at him in a mirror. His face was dead, his eyes were nothing more that blue orbs of pain. Ghaunt and skeletal.
There were red cloaked people about. There faces seemed to leer.
They were not loyal. They had not remembered.
But he would.
He was standing on the tower parapet, staring down into the courtyard. How easy would it be to join his heart? Just a step.
He would have done it, had not a rough, uncaring hand yanked him away, tearing him from the veil between death and life.
As he was escorted back to the room he spent endless, torturous hours he saw a room through a door which made the rift in his heart split it beyond repair. So familiar. So painful. All lost, forever. Like blood, the tears caused by the opened wound slowed.
He was standing, alone in a forest, listlessly wondering. Gone was the place with faces which drew tears. He had left behind the rooms so familiar, and distant.
He had left it all behind, and would wait.
Wait for his light to return.
For until then all was broken.
All was dark.
My venting after 5x13. In a few ways I think it was the right decision to kill Arthur, but it's still heart-wrenchingly cruel. This story is basically how I think Merlin could go after Arthur's death.