Arthur had been wrong about a lot of things.
Merlin presses his shoulders against the wall and tips his head back so his grey hair brushes the brickwork, watching the cars trundling over the road in front of him and thinking about how much everything's changed – no more wooden wheels, no more horses, just the zip and flash of alloy and the sting of petrol in his eyes. It's soothing, to concentrate on the small details amidst the chaos.
This world is chaos. But the world had always been chaos. He's used to it. He's grown with it, for more than a thousand years.
He wonders if it's wrong to want the world to end, just to see someone he knew.
He's getting away from his train of thought. His brain doesn't keep itself on track nowadays; there's too much inside it.
Arthur had been wrong about one thing in particular.
The darkest hour is just before the dawn.
The darkest hour for Merlin is just after dawn; in the first seconds of waking, where the dream of Arthur laughing vanishes into fantasy, and Merlin remembers how alone he really is.
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End.