This is my first Merlin fan fiction that I'm willing to put online. Pack your bags, kids. We're going on a feels trip. The idea is that... well... Merlin's destiny is 'over', and we know that *spoiler* Arthur dies at the end, yet, Merlin does not 'truly' die. He lives on to wait for Arthur's second act, to help the world become balanced once again. All that fancy junk. So my take on it is, yes, Merlin dies, but he's reborn. This is a one-shot of how Merlin died. I'm not sure I'll put anymore of this on here, since then it's delving into non-cannon ideas (cough came from a role play cough)... so... yeah. :D Enjoy.
The background noise faded out to a low hum. His eyes closed, slowly, gently, with his body's last breath. Tears splattered down his cheeks, but they weren't his own. They were too cold to be from a living body. His question of 'who' faded before it began. Foreign weight pressed on his chest, a soft gasp echoing in his ear. It was his last sensation before the world went dark, the smallest of smiles forever printed on his corpse.
Merlin's eyes opened, soaked black hair draped over his forehead. It stuck to his skin as rain fell, forcing it to curl around his cheeks and plastering his locks against them. Dead. Arthur Pendragon was dead, and the sorcerer had the fortunate job of being the bearer of bad news to the family that war left behind. Poor Guinevere, Merlin found himself thinking. What would her life be without her husband?
They were closer than he had ever seen two people become, regardless of how far away they were so often. It was an unbreakable trust he wished he could experience with at least one person in his life, and now that was gone from her forever.
Merlin dreaded seeing her face as he mounted his steed. What would her eyes hold? Sadness? Despair? Or would they hold vengeance? He stopped himself just as he adjusted in his saddle, his hand trailing to the bag behind him. Guinevere was better than that. He knew it in his heart. Why he had even thought she would become full of hate, Merlin couldn't guess, but the hope was gone from his eyes. He silently pleaded to all those beyond the veil that she would recover and keep being the woman he remembered.
He tapped his horse's sides lightly and gave the reins a gentle pull, body language reaffirming which direction to go. The beast began the long trip home, leaving Merlin alone with his thoughts of Camelot.
He didn't know if returning was the right thing for him to do; he was sure someone had finally figured out what he was, that he practiced magic. After all the bloodshed and death, Merlin wasn't sure that it was wise to show his face. Distrust was still in the air. Hate still circulated the masses. What that meant for him, Merlin had no idea, but he had his duty to tell someone what had happened. If he lost his life now, he wouldn't regret what he had done.
His horse was stopped at the gates. The guards searched the bag. Their faces paled out at what they found.
"That's the king's sword..." one mumbled. The other nodded a single nod and looked to the man on the horse. They recognized him as the servant of King Arthur. If they hadn't, the man wouldn't have been able to go another step without being hung or burned for the death of their monarch, for the use of magic. "Proceed," came the order after a moment of hesitance.
So they noticed finally.
With a slow, short salute, Merlin nudged his mount to the base of the stairs leading into the main part of Camelot's castle. Guinevere Pendragon, in a silk black dress, bowed her head to the horse and its rider. It wasn't how he pictured returning, somehow. Merlin dismounted and took the sack off the horse beside him.
"You returned," Queen Guinevere said softly but loud enough to carry over the snort of the animal and the sliding of cloth on saddle. Merlin went to her and clasped her hands to the hilt of the sword inside. "And he has left us..." Her voice wavered at the end, and her body moved forward. Merlin's arms came to wrap around her. He truly feared she would pass out or fall to her knees. Neither action was befitting so noble a woman.
The sorcerer inclined his head, to touch his cheek to her forehead in a caring gesture, before glancing back to the horse. His gaze remained downcast, looking through the beast rather than at it, modest even, all to avoid the distraught look of the lone queen. "His body was burned on The Lake Of Avon. He had a proper sending..." His voice trailed off as he fought to keep from tearing. It was the last thing she needed: an unsteady shoulder to cry on. Merlin was doing his best not to need a shoulder, but he felt like he had lost so much more than a friend, more than his destiny.
"Then... let's inform the kingdom of the change in power, and let's declare that the war is over," Guinevere said stronger than before. She moved from Merlin's embrace and picked up the ends of her dress, returning inside.
He followed obediently. If he wasn't Arthur's servant, then he could at least be Guinevere's friend and trusted adviser... so long as she still trusted him. Merlin felt a spark of hope inside that she did. Not once had she brought up magic, witches, sorcerers, or anything of supernatural nature. The expression he saw was sad, yes, but it was knowing. Guinevere knew.
What felt like years passed as celebration after celebration came and went. With the war won, life continued on. Victory sent the people from mourning straight to glee. The harvests were held, people returned to their homes, and Merlin even accepted the position of court wizard for a time. It had been many years since that spot was filled... Before King Uther, before King Arthur, and even long before that.
And yet, something was missing. Magic wasn't outlawed in Camelot any longer, and the five kingdoms had a treaty of peace. Guinevere brought prosperity in the name of her husband and peace where he gave his life to achieve. Those who used magic were not persecuted, even though the old fears lingered. If a mage died for the use of magic, it was only because that magic had been used to harm a fellow human or ruin someone's life.
What was missing, Merlin just couldn't figure it out, but then a plague hit after years of living in a shadow. Gaius, the only man that ever felt like a father to Merlin, was one of the first to give in to the disease, leaving the warlock alone and depressed.
As the only remaining physician, Merlin put himself in the face of disease in hopes of curing it, just as Gaius had. He treated the sick and eased their passing with all his might. He went from door to door to try to help those who needed it, and even those who couldn't afford 'proper' medical care elsewhere. He gave them cures as fast as he could concoct them, but not all survived even with his help. Some rejected the cures more than the virus, sending a pain deep into his heart and filling him with guilt.
Magic. The illness was born of magic. As he found out, sometimes that magic was stronger than his own. Sometimes, his cures completely backfired on the patient and pained them more, quickened their death.
It wasn't long before even the greatest sorcerer, the greatest wizard, succumbed to the disease that had killed hundreds already. The magic it was born of was truly the strongest sickness magic he had ever encountered. Nothing he did could truly stop it; he had no choice but to let it run its course. No one had a choice. The potions and elixirs he passed out prolonged The End at best.
First came vomiting with a high fever, the usual sign of an infection or a virus the immune system was trying to fight off. Those days he laid in bed with a few of the students he had amassed over the years, those who had been truly interested in magic or druids who came to him for advice and further learning. They were kind enough to take care of him, but none ever seemed to get sick. What kept them safe, he never did find out.
He insisted on making his usual rounds, though, treating those he could. Even the druids seemed unsure of what protected them from that fatal illness, or if they were truly protected at all.
Next came heavy robe wearing. Mild festering on infected skin had become a problem shortly after the fever began. It was almost like his skin was trying to rot away from the outside inward. Merlin eased the itching with aloe, but only just barely. What was worse, though, was the final stage. Necrosis.
His organs began to die inside of him, as if his body was overheating and boiling away his life. Merlin became weaker and weaker as time went on, sometimes coughing up blood, but he stubbornly went to ease the pain of others before his own. Usually once he had given out all the pain-killing medicine he had, he left not a drop for himself. The process of finding the herbs nearby became almost impossible as more and more fell ill. His pain came second to those around him; his destiny had been fulfilled; everyone else had so much more to live for.
Some days, it felt like he was almost punishing himself for the death of The King. Perhaps he was, though. His last years had been spent trying to make a destiny come true, yet he had failed. Merlin had thought he had completed his destiny, but the thought of the Old Religion punishing him for his failure popped up in his mind more than once. He realized The Once And Future King would return, but when? It certainly wasn't now.
He collapsed in the street on his final day, his body too tired to carry on home. His rounds were completed, and his empty medicine bottles scattered around him. Finally, he couldn't help but think, it's finally over.
He glanced up just in time to see a raven-haired young man over him, eyes black and full of tears. Those eyes made him feel like he was being sucked into nothingness, but, at the same time, they brought him comfort. Something about how deep and dark they were relieved his worries, made Merlin smile just faintly enough. It was odd to think that someone without whites in their eyes could bring such a calmness over another; monster would have been a more appropriate description. The young man's pale skin was almost too contrasting to his black hair and black eyes.
If he had known what a photo was, Merlin would have sworn he was seeing in black and white. The sky behind the young man was white with clouds; the trees were gray in the eerie light before the storm. The stranger that brought him a sense of not being alone lacked any shade of color. The world was fading out to black as Merlin's eyes lowered. Every detail receded to black.