A/N: Hello, all. This is just a one-shot I came up with. I warn you that it's a bit sad, but hopefully not too confusing. Please tell me what you think if you have a moment, I really appreciate the feedback and it helps me learn as a writer. Thanks for reading! :)
DISCLAIMER: idom
One last time.
He remembers marveling at the strangely dark tint of the sky, despite the lack of weather to accompany it. It now seems oddly fitting that as the day had progressed, it had become stranger and more unnatural. After all, it makes sense that nature would be out of sorts when the world ended. Or, to be more appropriate, when his world ended.
You trust me, don't you?
It had been an awful battle, one to rival all others he had witnessed before. People, his people, were dying, and he felt helpless to prevent it. The approaching army had systematically cut down house after house, burning everything they passed, lighting up the darkening scenery with roaring flames of orange; he had sent every knight, every guard he had, to try and slow them down. His main priority had been getting the people to safety, and with mercenaries surrounding the entire kingdom, that meant the citadel. Everything was in chaos, with screams and crying and broken forms everywhere. It had hurt his heart in a way that he wasn't sure he would ever forget.
I was always sincere.
He had ignored the itch to go out and fight himself, hold the line, throw himself into the thick of the battle. He had longed to go out and do something, join his men in their bravery and self-sacrifice, save his people. Yet, being the king, he was forced to organize the attacks and remain in the less-dangerous areas. He had kept everything under control, and he had been doing a fairly good job of staying out of the fighting. Until a group of soldiers managed to sneak past defenses and attack him.
I was always loyal.
That had been the point at which he was forced to take action, cutting down the men and rushing out into the fray. His cover was blown; more were on the way, and he had to move. He was only leading them towards his people by staying 'safe', and he now knew he had to do something. His men were falling, the strong wall of opposition slowly giving way to the overwhelming pressure of the vast army facing them on all sides. As they continued to steadily advance, closing in on the citadel and all that was left of his kingdom, he knew he had to stop it. And that meant cutting off the head of the beast.
It was all for you.
He had sought out the warlord behind it, the monster who was said to be unbeatable. He knew he must be here somewhere; the demon always liked to be in the midst of his own destruction, reveling in his own power. Arthur had run around the citadel, weaving in and out of the mayhem, keeping a low profile while still taking out a few men here and there. He'd searched for where the army was at its thinnest, knowing he would find the man there, for he was a proud creature and didn't like to hide behind his own soldiers. And besides, it was said that he had enough power within his grasp that he was invincible. It was unclear whether he himself was a sorcerer or it was supplied by a third party, but he had powerful magic, more power than had been seen in over a hundred years. However, Arthur had refused to believe that this being was invincible. Not because he thought it unlikely, but rather because he couldn't afford to believe it. He had to hope it was all rumors, because if it was true, then there was no hope left. Magic or no magic, Arthur would take him on, and if it turned out that he was in fact undefeatable, then at least Arthur would go down fighting for his kingdom.
I've always been at your side.
It had been during his search that he'd come across the last person he should've expected to see, and yet some part of him hadn't really been surprised. He had sought temporary refuge from some prowling soldiers behind a pillar, and found a familiar face suddenly next to him, sharing the cover. He'd been enraged that Merlin was out in this chaos, risking his life with every step he took, and he had yelled at the man to go back and stay with the others. But Merlin had ignored him. And then Merlin had spoken.
I have few regrets.
It was slightly off-putting, how serious and intent Merlin had been. His statements were direct and to the point, and throughout, he had only one simple request, a request that seemed hardly worth asking and rather spontaneous. It had all taken Arthur aback momentarily, before he replied with the obvious answer, the only answer he knew he would ever give.
Please trust me.
Merlin had thanked him with a strangely desolate expression, and then grabbed his arm in a manner not unlike the way knights greeted each other. He had simply gripped Arthur's arm firmly for a minute, perhaps even tightly, and Arthur had just begun to wonder about it when Merlin let go. Just like that, he was gone. He was no longer anywhere to be seen, and when Arthur had glanced around in search of his friend, he saw only a retreating figure, already fading into the smoke and the orange-tinted darkness. He had pondered over the words he had heard, and was reminded suddenly of a moment, strange as this one, back in Ealdor when he was young. Merlin had asked the prince not to think any differently of him, and he'd had the same expression. He had seemed both confident and scared, the feelings warring with each other in his gaze. This was the thought that made Arthur realize what he had missed, the critical detail of what Merlin had just said to him.
Just this one last time.
In seconds he had been running after the figure, feeling a worrying sense of panic as he tried not to consider what those words could mean. Why did they have to sound so final? Why hadn't the implications of those simple words dawned on him earlier? He ran and ran, dodging attacks and slicing through mercenaries wherever he could, thinking only of finding Merlin. He was worried he would never find him in all the chaos, until he saw a bright flash of light illuminate the smoke a few streets away. He had paused only briefly before running even harder towards the commotion, until he skidded to a stop.
I am your friend.
He had been in a wide street lined by the remains of burning buildings; while there was rubble littering the ground everywhere else, the middle of the street was completely bare in a circular area, as though everything had been blown back from what stood in the center. Or, more precisely, who stood in the center. There was the monster who had caused this, the warlord who had brought on all this suffering, and directly across from him stood none other than Merlin. They had been staring at each other, one with an outraged expression and the other with a calm but grim look. Arthur had yelled out to the latter, desperately trying to comprehend what was happening, what he was doing; he had watched as Merlin turned to look at him with an expression on his face, one of those looks that was all contradictions. Scared, content, regretful and serene all at once, it was a whirlwind of emotions all rolling around. Arthur hadn't known what to make of it, but it gave him a very bad feeling.
I have always trusted you.
He had tried to run towards his friend but found that suddenly he could not move, his legs unresponsive to his directions, and he saw Merlin holding his hand out, preventing him from moving forward with the gold swirling through his eyes. Arthur had barely registered this before Merlin turned back to the warlord, telling him that it was over. The warlord had yelled furiously and hurled what seemed to be light at Merlin, who had deflected it with a single raised hand, causing another great flash to fill the air. Merlin hadn't even fought back, but simply defended himself, and it seemed to cause the warlord only more anger. He yelled out at Merlin, taunting him, but Merlin only smiled slightly in response.
I just need to know that you trust me.
Merlin had glanced back at Arthur once more, as if to communicate some deep feeling, maybe to apologize, or to remind him of what he'd said before. Or perhaps Merlin had needed to remind himself of something, something important that would give him the strength to do what was to be done. Arthur only considers this option much later, because at the time, all he'd been able to do was watch as Merlin closed his eyes and seemed to concentrate. He'd watched as Merlin began to glow, his form adopting a soft hue of gold that strengthened with each passing second until it was a bright light. He had watched as the warlord's roar of anger turned into something more like a scream of fear, and it had been a moment before he realized that there was more than one scream, as another seemed to be coming from himself as well. He had watched as the light consumed everything, as it grew brighter and brighter until he could not look anymore and he had to shut his eyes tightly.
Please, it's important to me.
By the time the light had died away and he could open his eyes without being painfully blinded, he had found himself alone in the street, darkness coating everything with a soft blanket. It was strangely quiet, with only distant sounds of battling in the air, and the smoke seemed to be clearing up. Although the magic binding his legs was gone, he found that he could not move a single inch.
Trust me one last time.
As the sun begins to rise, the people emerge, the army defeated or running away. They take in the damage and they mourn for the heavy losses, but they also celebrate. They have won against all odds, and they are optimistic. They tend to the wounded. They salvage anything they can find. They make plans to rebuild. Overall, they are relieved at how many were saved and how few were lost in the grand scheme of things. They survived, and they rejoice.
When they reach the street, they cannot seem to understand why their king is slumped on the ground, refusing to move or acknowledge help. They cannot understand why he isn't smiling with them, nor why their thanks and praises cause him pain instead of pride. While they revel in their own survival, Arthur can only think of the sacrifice that made it possible. And despite the people crowding around him, the King of Camelot feels an awful emptiness shrouding the street.