A/N:

You guys are all so awesome! I am totally gobsmacked at the number of follows, favourites and reviews you've all submitted already. Thank you again to anyone who signed in as a guest and sent me a review - your words of encouragement are the wind in my sails...

So, here we are at last at Merlin's POV. If you like angst, I hope you enjoy it...if you don't, no worries - life would be boring if we all liked the same thing :O)

Disclaimer: In my dreams I own Merlin, but since this isn't a dream, I don't...


Chapter 3

Why couldn't everyone just leave him alone? Couldn't they take a hint? It seemed like every five minutes someone was asking him whether he was alright or if there was anything they could do to help or why didn't he eat something or if he wanted to talk about it. NO! In fact, the last thing he wanted to do was talk, there was nothing anyone could do, and he'd be a lot more bloody 'alright' if everyone would just LEAVE...HIM...ALONE!

Gods! He was so fed up with it all. He hated the secrets and lies. Even after all these years, when they should come as naturally to him as breathing or remembering his name. They still burned his mouth every time, like that first spoonful of hot stew, being shovelled into his mouth in an effort to appease his guardian, and get back to completing his long list of chores as quickly as possible. Above all, he hated the pain. The pain of just being alive, and having to live with himself. Every minute that he breathed added another lead weight to his soul. How could his friends possibly understand or help with what he was going through? How could they ever comprehend what it felt like to be him?

Did any of them have magic, and therefore the constant threat of being burned at the stake hovering over their head? Had any of them lost their childhood best friend, just to prevent his secret from getting out? How many of them had fallen in love and been planning to run away with a cursed druid girl, only to watch her die at the hands of his frie...master?

Were any of them responsible for very nearly murdering their King's half-sister with poison, thereby turning her to evil, when he could have prevented it all from happening by sharing his secret with her (letting her know that she was not alone in her magical predicament)?

Had any of them released a dragon; allowing him to cause so much death and destruction on the city that had become his beloved home? And were any of them a feared and hated dragonlord, who only had the job because his father had died, due to his own dire lack of skills with a sword?

And now he had lost one of the only people who had truly known who and what he was. Someone he didn't have to lie to every day; someone who knew about his magic and wasn't scared of him and didn't admonish him for using it. Someone he could be himself with, and who never judged him for it. Then in the blink of an eye - or in this case, a veil - he was gone. And yet again, it was all his fault. Maybe if he had not told Lancelot of his plans to stand in Arthur's place on the Isle of the Blessed, he would not be dead. Or if he had not wasted time trying to intimidate the Cailleach with his pathetically ineffective glare, and just got on with repairing the veil - as Lancelot had done - his friend would still be here; laughing and smiling and sharing the good times with his fellow knights, after a long training session with the King.

And then there was Arthur. His destiny; King due to his mistake, his meddling. If he had left things well alone - like Gaius had said - okay, King Uther would likely still be dead, but at least not by his hand. Morgana may have placed the amulet around her father's neck - or that snake, Agravaine, anyway - but he had uttered the spell that had ended his life. If he hadn't tried to bend Arthur's will to accepting magic, Uther would have eventually slipped away peacefully in his sleep, and there may have still been some chance of influencing Arthur somehow to accept that not all magic was evil, that his father's teachings were so very one-sided and blinkered. But not now, no. Arthur's hatred for magic had increased ten-fold, and had a dreadful permanency about it that would never be budged out of place, no matter how many times he saw it used for good deeds. He would eventually turn into his father: paranoid and vengeful and unbending in his rule.

And it was all. His. Fault. However hard he tried to do the right thing, everything somehow went wrong. So what was the point in trying anymore? He would just end up hurting or even killing someone else he cared about, and would be no further down the line in achieving his destiny. And with all but two of his allies gone - both being much older than him, they could have no idea of how he felt - he was so alone, so lost.

It was just too much...too much for one soul to bear. He couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't carry on with the lies, the fear, the pain, the guilt, the grief, turning every living moment into a suffocating haze of hurt. He knew in the back of his mind - somewhere where a small voice that could barely be heard now - that his friends were only trying to help, but there was simply nothing they could do. Nothing anyone could do. It was a quandary without solution and - destiny be damned - he had no will left to fight it anymore.

Merlin clenched his fists in a sudden wave of anger. What right did that bloody dragon have to dictate the course of his life to him? And who was to say that it had spoken the truth in the first place? How could he be sure the creature wasn't lying to him, to gain his trust for his own ends? Like achieving his freedom, from the prison he had been held in for twenty odd years by Uther the tyrant, perhaps. For all he knew, the only destiny he truly had was to live a nice, quiet life in a secluded village somewhere; with a wife and children, and where he could be free to be himself, with no other responsibility than to ensure they had a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. But instead, he had been told that the entire future of magic, the kingdom, and indeed Albion, depended on him. Who could possibly keep going against everything the world threw at them with that hanging over their head? Especially when he was no nearer achieving the task than he had been when he'd first set foot in the city, and been bullied into following the will of that overgrown lizard.

No, enough was enough! He was through with dragons and Kings and magic and destiny. Through with prattish masters who treated him like dirt, no matter how many times he had saved their life! Through with pretending that any of it mattered, that the many things he had done had made any difference, other than to make things worse. It was time to admit defeat; to stop flogging the dead horse.

Merlin reached the familiar, worn, oak door of the head physician's chambers and turned the handle. The hinges squeaked with an aching predictability, as he slowly pushed the door open, and shuffled with heavy feet over the threshold. He glanced around the chaotic room, but could see no sign of his mentor.

"Gaius?" he called softly, as he took a couple more steps into the room. He didn't want to disturb the man if he was busy brewing potions, and was frankly unable to summon the energy to speak any louder anyway.

No answer.

He walked over to the table, where they usually took their meals together. For once, it wasn't completely cluttered with the odd collection of herbs waiting to be prepared, half-mixed potions, and partly-finished experiments. Now, its only occupants were a plate, of what was most likely his dinner (a piece of bread, some cold, cooked chicken - left over from the previous evening's meal, a piece of cheese and an apple), a couple of unlit candlesticks and, leaning against them, a piece of paper with his name on.

Merlin picked it up, and turned it over to read the note overleaf:

Merlin

I've been called out to assist in a difficult labour in the lower town. Your dinner's on the table. Please go ahead and eat without me - I don't anticipate returning until very late tonight, or early tomorrow morning.

Don't forget you promised to get me some Larks Foot and Marjoram in the morning, before you attend the King.

See you tomorrow

Gaius

The warlock gave a sad little smile. He couldn't have asked for more perfect timing, to fit in with his plan, if he'd tried. With deliberate care, he placed the note back on the table against the candlesticks...not really sure why, but in the mood for some uncustomary neatness. It seemed more fitting to leave things as little disturbed as possible; as if his movements from here onwards should leave only the smallest impact on the future.

Then he plodded on up the stairs to his small room. Standing on the threshold, he gazed round at the messy state of his abode. Not something he usually took any notice of, but maybe just this once... He began gathering and folding each item of clothing, before placing them in the small, worn chest below the window. As he owned so few things, it took very little time. The two books on human anatomy he had always promised Gaius he would read - but never quite got round to, given the vast amount of his time he had to spend each day on chores and keeping Arthur out of danger - he returned to the shelf in the main room. Coming back to his room, he was surprised at how much bigger and more clinical it looked without his clutter. But again, it just seemed right to ensure the mark he left was minimal.

The last thing left out was his travel pack, still thrown in a corner after his last hunting trip with Arthur. When was it? Two, no three weeks ago? It was difficult to recall, with much clarity, the events of the last month or so; the days seemed to merge one into the other. A continuous monotony of busy nothings, none of which were interesting enough to spark any lasting memories. Get up, nibble a bite of bread or porridge; as little as he could get away with to prevent Gaius from admonishing him. Then tidy, clean, train with, dress/undress, muck out, fetch and carry, for pretty much the rest of the day. He didn't usually stop for lunch - no time or appetite for food anyway - and only had a few mouthfuls of stew (if he could be bothered) for his supper, before getting a handful of hours of fitful, restless sleep. And then it started all over again.

His destiny still unfulfilled, his achievements - such as they were - still unacknowledged, his company or opinion infrequently sought, and his presence barely noticed. What point was there in trying anymore? To get more insults from the King or his knights? Or threats of a sojourn in the stocks or the dungeons or a one-way trip over the border, never to return (unless his head and shoulders were content with a permanent separation from each other)? Or, if he was really up on his luck, he'd get to spend another long night polishing the apparel of the entire army. Joy!

Only one thing remained then, and he would be ready. Crouching on the floor, he lifted the loose floorboard and reached into the secret space beneath. Pushing aside the book of spells, and nudging the Sidhe staff out the way, he scrabbled blindly for a couple of seconds, a slight feeling of panic making his heart beat faster, until his fingers managed to locate the small, hard object; wrapped in an old cleaning rag. Grasping it firmly, for fear it would somehow slip out of reach again, he replaced the floorboard with his other hand, and pushed himself back off the floor. He dropped the item into his coat pocket, and with only a cursory look around the four bare walls, he trudged back down the stairs, closing the door after him.

Merlin took a few minutes to drink in the sights of the chambers he had called home for the past four years, as if adding the last strokes of colour to the painting he held in his head, sealing it forever as the finished work of art it was. The racks of bottles and vials - some empty, some full, some labelled some not; the bunches of herbs hanging to dry; the shelves of books - some well cared for, others crumbling away with neglect; the scrolls of parchment and bottles of ink.

He breathed in the smells deeply, savouring even the mustiness of a room, badly in need of spring cleaning. He looked again to the note Gaius had left on the table. He had played with the idea of leaving a note of his own, on numerous occasions, once tonight's plan had begun to take shape in his mind, but yet again he rejected it. Like everything else in his life, what purpose would it serve? He had no words of wisdom to leave (that would not be treated with contempt), no finger of blame to point (at anyone but himself), and no possessions of any value to bequeath. No, better to leave things as quietly and modestly as he could.

And he did, closing the door gently in his wake, head bowed to this single, last task.