Merlin had always thought that he and Arthur would always make it out alive in every battle. Though, that was the case. Arthur had died, and it was Merlin's fault. Had the warlock listened to the Great Dragon all those years ago, everything would be different.
It had been at least a month after Arthur's death, and Merlin would spend his nights in the tavern, drinking as much as he could. The warlock was depressed, his mental state was unstable as much as unstable could get.
So, sitting near one of the lakes near Camelot, here was the warlock, drunk as could be skipping stones. He hadn't officially returned to Camelot, but he'd come close, then decide not to go in.
It was too much guilt, too much pain. Every time he'd close his eyes, he'd see Arthur laughing and hear his laughter and that added to the guilt.
Merlin was a walking mess of pain, guilt, and loneliness. That was a fact.
He was lonely, and in mourning.
And the Warlock would wait forever until Arthur rose again. Because that's all he had left.
