Lancelot
This is my interpretation of, what I believe was, one of the most powerful moments of the programme's history, Lancelot's death. It's a little rough around the edges, but apart from that, enjoy.
Lancelot knew he had to do something, he couldn't let them sacrifice themselves, they were both too important, they both had so much to give. He walked towards the veil. He knew what came next, his breath came as if it was made of lead, his heart beat against his chest like a drum. He could smell the stench of his own death, fear and adrenaline, as every rational fibre of his being tried to pull him back, to make him see sense. He didn't listen, it wasn't just Merlin who had a destiny to protect. He had made a sacred vow, to Gwen to protect Arthur with his life. And he would be damned if he was going to let her down.
He inhaled the night air, letting it consume him, he was determined to remember every last detail, just as it was. And then the scream. Oh, that scream. The sort of cacophony that reverberated back through the ages, piercing the hearts of all who heard. And then the darkness enveloped him.
When he was a child he had been told stories of how death was wonderful, how you were met with a chorus of angels, it would be warm and safe and the wealth of your new world stretched out before your eyes.
This was a lie.
There were no angels, there was no warmth or safety, and there was nothing before his eyes but never ending darkness.
Lancelot was alone.
He thought dying would hurt. But it didn't, and that was the worst part. Because it meant there was nothing else, nothing to distract him from that feeling. The feeling of his soul being ripped from his body, it wasn't painful, it wasn't like that, it was indescribable. It was so unique a feeling it was almost… perfect.
His last thoughts were of Arthur and the knights. Lancelot wondered how the prince would speak of him when he got back to Camelot. He was sure he would give him honourable recognition, after all Arthur Pendragon was incapable of anything else. Although at times he seemed cold and detached, the young prince really did care, he could make a murderer sound like a hero. In his final moment when he felt the last dregs of energy leave him another thought entered his mind, a thought so pure and magnificent. Guinevere. He knew that she would be his dying hope so he allowed her memory to fill him up, until he could see nothing but her face, hear nothing but her laugh.
And then it went dark.