Has rust, taste in your mouth.
Your side, your breath and his lips become rust. Rust you would suffocate with hands that cling to his arm, hands seeking support for all that gray that invades your body, Merlin's words gradually throttle you. As he continues to kill you, thrusting the sword into the depths. Gray sword bathing to your red. He, the only man in whom you have placed your trust, actually continues break you. For the second time.
And then you understand many things while you lower the head, tightening it with all the strength that you still know how your eyes no longer green emerald.
And maybe have been better to fall in love with Arthur, as that girl with full lips and smile pungent told once in Camelot, at the top of the stairs which had gone up before her see you. Confide him your darkest and intimate secrets, giving all of yourself in his hands then to be poisoned without rethinking and destroyed without apology.
It would have been easier to deal with his blue eyes and not falter in indecision to turn them off forever, sticking with calculated rage. Righteous anger. Anger motivated.
Perhaps it would have been easier to love Arthur, only to see him fail and hurt, adding one more reason to your hatred towards him and the desire to see him die before thy gaze satisfied and contented. And instead you had chosen him. You had believed in him. You trusted him.
You opened the door whenever he presented in your rooms, at any time, day or night, hiding at all – even yourself – that you waited him. You hoped that.
You told him all your secrets, leaving to him the privilege to know you for what you really are. For that which no one had ever seen. You've stripped in front of his confessing to him your fears, begging in those bright eyes since the early morning sky the support you wanted.
"Sweet dreams", you wished to him the night when you happened of crossing between the cold corridors of the Castle. And you smiled, waiting for his signal, an anchor to which lean not to drown.
Merlin, instead, compressed his lips into a smile weird. Very wide.
He didn't wish you nothing; but he gives you the flowers. Not always, not often but when you least expected. "Like a gesture of courtesy", you heard mutter from Arthur while mouthing off alone, removing the dark belt. You never wanted to kill him. You didn't ever wanted.
And now that he is there, that pierces the only sword that can kill you, you wouldn't want to do that: would you like to shake your hands around his neck, forcefully to shut him up. Because he continues to talk to you. Continues to explain what will put an end to your short and turbulent existence, while you, as a foolish idiot, didn't do anything other than imprisoning him trembling in the darkness of a cave.
You can't breathe. The air escapes out of your mouth just like all dreams of vengeance, to fight for the right to be who you are, they become grey dust. Rust smoke. Life turned to ashes.
It hurts, the awareness of having lost. More harm than death. More badly than that damn sword challenged by that traitor Emrys. More harm to yourself.
Don't want to you go and never you are convinced, not even when you feel imperceptibly taking Merlin behind your back. He tightens while you're going to die a second time.
But when everything becomes insignificant rust, the one thing that sustains, bringing you late is the blank stare Arthur you feel on your skin like a scar, then the damp grass on which yet another wrong man in your life has you lying.