so i feel like this fic will be a four-shot. i didn't get quite far plot-wise in this chapter, but arthur's feelings.
still deciding whether or not merlin lives(code words for: still deciding whether or not i should break your hearts[along with mine]).
i'm really having fun with this fic. hee.
warnings: same as last chapter, but there is also some SLIGHTLY GRUESOME IMAGERY. if you really want to know, it's just BLOOD blood blood, blood everywhere. so, really, if you're not into that stuff, take caution.
word count: 1028 words
disclaimer: i do not own merlin.
canon setting: between season four and season five
Falling
Chapter Two
It Can't Be Him; It Can't Be
He doesn't feel the impact when he hits the cobblestone path. He doesn't hear the townspeople's screams. He doesn't see the pack of red, silver, and gold rushing towards the crowd. He doesn't see the swath of royal purple, see a glittering crown fall, or hear a woman's shrill shriek. He doesn't see a wobbling figure in faded blue robes fight through the knights keeping the crowd back. He doesn't see him scream at the infamous tavern knight, "He's my son! He's my son!" and rush over when the knight lets him through with tears in his eyes. He doesn't see him fall onto aged, wonky knees, or hear the raspy, tearful demands. He's trapped somewhere between heaven and hell (Is it purgatory? He doesn't know.), and he's floating, still flying towards the ground.
And he's alright with that.
When he's not kissed awake by Gwen, Arthur knows something is wrong.
The sun's already creating this blasted, bright light through the window. It makes his head thrum and his eyebrows furrow and he's wondering just where the hell she is.
A wild bout of knocking at the door is quenched with George rushing into his room, scarf and hair tousled. If anything, George doesn't look like George, and when that happens, Arthur can only assume something terribly awful has happened. The splotchy red across his face and the shaking of his hands just makes Arthur's thoughts turn darker.
"Sire – sire, it's Merlin – "George gasps, looking like he's going to cry any second now. Despite his servant's obvious distress, Arthur decides to play the role of the exasperated king (even though he's very worried, very worried indeed).
"What's that idiot gone and done now, George?" he drawls, leaning back on the fluffy pillows the mentioned manservant punched for hours after Arthur complained about them being far too flat and lumpy.
"Sire, you don't understand – Merlin's gone and done the unthinkable," George replies, seemingly holding back an anger Arthur's never encountered before.
Arthur barks a laugh. "He does the unthinkable every day, George."
Wrong reaction.
Now George's stomping up to the bed, and his face is closer to Arthur's than it's ever been before. The king can see the tears in his eyes developing with his anger, and his eyes are glaring with hard cold daggers that Arthur can only pinpoint as raw care for Merlin, and he doesn't understand. Why is George acting this way? What is going on? Why is George crying? Why is George here instead of Merlin?
What did Merlin do?
When he reaches the crowd, it parts for him like the Red Sea. All is silent; the citizens of Camelot are watching their king, wondering how he will react to Merlin's hideous deed. At the end stands a row of knights blocking off the scene, and Gwaine doesn't give him a smile or anything. His eyes are dead, except for the tears falling into the shadow of a beard he wears. He looks broken, but determined. Determined to keep standing there, not letting anyone else sully whatever is behind their backs.
That's when he hears the weeping.
"Merlin – Merlin, why?"
"Oh, gods – I – I don't know what to do – "
"Merlin! Merlin, wake up, dammit!"
The voices only make him walk faster, even though he's not sure that he wants to see the scene beyond the knights' cloaks. He's not sure if he even wants to be here, but it's Merlin, it's Merlin, so he has to.
As he reaches Gwaine's shoulder, he can see the trailing of a purple dress. A shock runs through him as he recognizes the dress; he'd recognize it anywhere. It's Gwen's dress – his favorite dress on her.
A harrowed wail and a shifting of the fabric is all it takes for Arthur to shove past the line of knights.
And he's not prepared for what he sees.
The first thing he notices is that there's so much blood spilling out onto the cobblestone path. There's a wide pool of it, and in the center of it all, a trio sits, clutching the source of the damned red substance.
Gwen's face is contorted in anguish and tears fall into the blood as she wails, screams; he doesn't know if there's a word to describe how much she seems to hurt. Her head bears no crown, and it's lying off to the side, but still touched with blood. Her dress is a sight to behold; long gone is the deep purple he adored, it's stained with dark red, a red darker than Camelot's own. It cover's her abdomen and her hands, and if he didn't know any better, he'd say she was the one who had the wound.
Gaius is on his knees, hunched over and showing his age properly. He's shaking and sobbing and his hands are splayed on the bloody ground. He's wailing – more like pleading – with the body between him and Gwen. He's softer, quieter than Gwen, but his cries echo off the stones, showing his grief.
The body in the middle shocks him the most.
It's covered in blood, from head to toe. It's unmoving, head turned to the side, unresponsive to their words. Time seems to slow down as Arthur sees the blue neckerchief, the brown leather jacket, and the brown hair matted with blood on the body.
It's not him. It can't be him.
But he finds himself falling on his knees, scrambling towards Merlin. His knees and hands are covered in blood, but he doesn't care, he has to reach Merlin, he has to.
He can't be dead, oh gods, please don't be dead, please don't be dead, Merlin.
But he's not moving, he's bloody, he's – is his chest even moving?!
Arthur's sobbing before he even knows what he's doing. He's collecting Merlin's head into his lap and brushing back his bloody hair. Merlin's pale face makes the blood stand out awfully. Arthur sits there, caressing Merlin's face, because what else can he do? Merlin might as well be –
No.
Don't think that.
Don't you dare think that, Arthur.
He's not dead.
He can't be.
