OK, it might sound strange but this is kind of bitter-sweet angst. It's also kind of a different style of writing to what I usually try, so let me know what you think :)
He lies there on the damp earth and listens to the rain fall all around him, lets the gentle patter of the drops on leaves soothe him. He should move, he tells himself, should get out of the rain before he gets too wet and too cold, but he can't bring himself to care. The rain soaks his clothes, his hair, cools the burning of his flushed skin, washes the blood and the dirt from him until he can almost pretend that this is just a normal day, were it not for the rivulets of warm blood running through his fingers.
He takes some small comfort in the pain, odd as it may sound. Throughout his short life, pain has always been his constant companion. He is no stranger to physical pain – cuts, bruises, broken bones. He can handle that, he welcomes it, even. It distracts him, takes his mind away from the wounds that nobody else can see. Ever since the day he was brought into this harsh, cruel world, he was branded as a murderer. He sees it in the glances of the people that he meets in the street. He sees it written on their faces, in the way they shrink away from him as they hurry on by in case death is contagious. But worst of all, he sees it his father's eyes, in the eyes of the man whose wife he killed.
He shifts position slightly and a cry of pain forces its way through his lips. A fresh wave of blood spills out from between his fingers, where they are clamped over the gaping hole in his stomach. A shiver runs through his body. He is cold now, too cold but he doesn't want to move. If he stays as he is, looking up at the trees, he can see nothing but the colours of their autumns leaves in all different shades of reds and yellows. But if he turns his head, he will see the red of blood splattered across the floor, will see the yellow dragon of Camelot trodden into the dirt. He will see the bodies, the final screams of agony forever frozen onto faces that only hours before were laughing, smiling, full of life. He will see the cold, dead, ever-staring yet sightless eyes of the men he had killed.
It was supposed to be a routine patrol, nothing out of the ordinary. Yet all the way through the forest, all along the route, the knights were unnerved, insisting that there was someone – something – watching them. Arthur had felt it too, felt the icy cold fingers of fear grip him, felt every nerve, every fibre of his body sing with the tension, had felt adrenaline course through his system at some nameless terror that he could not identify. Danger. Yet he had insisted that they press onwards, hurry on their way. He had wanted to get back to Camelot quickly, had wanted to prove to his ever-demanding father that he could be trusted with the safety of the entire kingdom. Instead, he had led good, honest, innocent men into pain, fire and anguish. He had led them to their deaths. Worse – he had condemned them to their deaths.
They were ambushed, attacked, outnumbered two, three to one. Screams, cries, the clang of metal on metal filled the air, echoing from the trees until it sounded like the whole world had descended into madness. The scent of blood and the stench of death hung thick and heavy in the air as the two sides fought. Arthur had tried to be everywhere at once, a parry here, a thrust there, spearing one man through the chest with one quick blow then taking off another man's head on the backswing. And then he had seen one of his knights, barely more than a boy, out on his first patrol. He was on the floor, his sword lying feet away from his outstretched fingers. And there were two other men, wide grins on their thick brutish faces as they drank in the look of terror in the boy's eyes. Faster than thought, Arthur had lunged towards them, impaling one man on his sword. And then blinding pain as the other man's sword was buried to its hilt in his stomach. He had staggered, staring first at the enemy man, laughing even as he was cut down by another Camelot knight, then down at himself in disbelief. Droplets of blood had spattered the fallen leaves on the floor and Arthur had gasped with the pain. It was like nothing he had felt before. He had felt his skin part underneath the keen edge of the blade before it bit deep into his flesh. Arthur stumbled, fell. He screamed as the sword was driven from his body by the impact of his fall, clattering to the ground besides him, and then darkness, darkness and nightmares, fear and fire had taken him.
He had woken, some time later, fever wracking his body, his hands flying to the gaping wound in his stomach. And there he had lain, as the heavens opened and the rain had fallen. Alone, amongst the dead.
He is tired now, his energy completely spent. His hands fall to his sides and blood runs steadily from his wound. He doesn't want to die, but he knows it is inevitable. He sees no point, no purpose in clinging to false hope, clinging to helpless delusions rather than facing the bitter truth of reality. Better to live well and then to die honourably than to simply exist, ever-watchful, ever-fearful of death lingering around every corner. He doesn't want to die. He knows his soul is damned for all eternity to the fires of his traitor's hell, knows that he will burn forever as penance for the blood that stains his hands.
He used to dream, used to have nightmares. He dreamt that he was drowning in blood, that it seeped from his pores, ran in rivers from his mouth, fell in tiny crystal drops from his eyes. So many deaths caused by him, so much life stolen by his clutching, greedy hands. His mother, his knights, all the innocents he had killed, merely because they had been branded sorcerers by a tormented and grief-stricken mind. They came to him in dreams sometimes, staring, whispering, strips of greying flesh hanging from rotten hands clawing and grabbing at him.
He can see the stars now, winking at him far above. It is getting colder now, darkness setting in fast. He starts to shiver and finds himself unable to stop, tremors seizing him. He sees his breath hanging in the air above him and knows that every breath could be his last. Yet still he fights, tries so hard, so desperately to live, drawing in each greedy breath like that alone will sustain him. This is not the first time that he thought he was to die. But this is the first time that he has known it, with certainty. He will not leave this place. He will not see his father, his family, his friends, his home again. He will die, alone, amongst the dead.
His vision is dimming, greying. He feels less cold now, has stopped shivering. He knows that this is a bad sign but had resigned himself now for the end. He wishes he could have seen the families of his dead knights, wished he could have told them the news then let them rage and shriek and sob, curse him, spit at him, blame him. If he could take away their pain, carry it upon his shoulders, he would do so. Maybe that would have lessened his punishment, made retribution for the killing he has done less severe. But he will not leave this place, and the mothers, wives, children of those men will be left to shoulder their burdens alone.
He hears footsteps approach him. He would turn his head to see who it was that would step around corpses on a field of blood and carnage, simply to get to another body, but he doesn't have the energy to move. Besides, he doesn't want the staring eyes of a man he murdered to be the last sight he sees. Much better just to keep looking up at the stars.
The footsteps stop right by him. The person – whoever they are – leans over him but he can't make out their features, only able to tell where they are as some of the stars are blocked from his sight. He feels a warm hand placed against his brow. His head is lifted up and then he finds himself cradled in someone's lap. Rain begins to fall again, droplets splashing onto his face, until a thought forms through the grey fog clouding his mind: the droplets are not rain but tears. Someone is crying for him. He looks up, tries to make out who the person is, until he realises that his eyes are closed. When did that happen? He tries to open them but they feel so heavy, and he is so tired. Better just to lie there and feel warmth and love one last time.
A voice.
"Arthur?"
He knows that voice. He has heard it before, many times before.
"Arthur? Arthur, please wake up. Please Arthur, don't go"
His heart nearly breaks. It is Merlin, of course it's Merlin. Arthur had always tried to protect him, to shelter him from the cruel hardships of the bitter world. The younger boy had always seemed so innocent, so blind to the hate and anger and grief in the world. Arthur had wanted to keep it that way, for he saw in Merlin a glimpse of what he could have been, saw the life he could have had. And now Merlin has found his friend dying on a killing field, with bodies of the innocent strewn about him.
"You did good Arthur. You did real good. They all came home. Every single one of your men came home"
Arthur would have laughed if it had not taken such superhuman effort to do so. He knows they are dead. He led them to their deaths and they had followed because they had trusted him. And he had killed them.
"Did you hear that Arthur? You brought them home. Every last one. They came home"
He scrapes together the last dregs of his energy, focuses harder than he has ever done his life, forces his slurring tongue to achieve some degree of coherency.
"…boy…wha' 'bout the boy?"
Merlin understands, takes Arthur's blood-soaked hands in his own.
"He told us how you saved him Arthur. You saved his life. Arthur, you're a hero"
Tears leak from the corners of his eyes. They are alive. He did not kill them. They are alive.
"You saved his life"
The world grows colder still, until he can no longer feel the warmth of Merlin's hands around his own.
"Arthur, you're a hero"
He hears every long, laboured breath rattle in his chest.
Hero.
And then, with one final long sigh, he is gone.
Review, please :)