Merlin felt weak, so utterly, utterly empty. Gaius appeared somewhere above him. Gaius was injured… he was vaguely aware of murmuring a few words of concern before darkness consumed him.
When he woke up, he still felt… wrong, somehow. He felt grey and faded. His skin felt too close to his bones. Yet he couldn't put his finger on the problem. He denied it when he at first couldn't move the cup; it was obvious, really. It was the tingle and ripple of pure magic beneath his surface which he was missing. He hadn't considered it, still didn't accept it, because it was just too impossible.
He had failed Arthur, Kilgarrah, his Destiny. Without his magic, he really was just a simple manservant. He wasn't brave, he wasn't wise. He was pale and weak and worthless. And he had ruined everything.