My my, I am going quick tonight. So, anyway, the first idea that got this story going wsa what would happen if Merlin were to die? Obviously by this point he's not actually dead, I didn't have the heart to kill him off, but we wondered what other peoples reactions would be. Merlin's had loads of close-to-death experiences over the years but has never once actually died, again obvious. There was that five second thing in "The Poisoned Chalice" but we found that was hardly enough to quell my interest. What I particularly wanted to know was what Arthur's reaction would be. I hope I've done it justice.

The pacing is probably a bit quick in this story, but bear with me, this is my first fanfic. Hopefully it will slow out later ... hopefully.

I don't own Merlin, etc.

Gwen had a fine horse. It had been going at a fast trot since dawn, occasionally breaking into a canter. She was riding with just a few of the knights; Elyan, Gwaine and Percival. As she had expected, Arthur had stayed behind. He hadn't said a word to her before she left, so she had just held him tight and promised that she would be back soon.

It had taken less than a day to reach Ealdor, they had been slowed by the snow of course; it had been falling heavily ever since Merlin's body had been brought back to Camelot, but they had made good time. They would be back before the funeral.

As they rode over the crest of the hill, they finally saw their destination, Ealdor, the village where Merlin had grown up. They slowed their horses to a walk as they entered the village and people stared as they recognised the queen of Camelot, wondering what they could be doing there. Gwen led the way to Hunith's home, and dismounted as they reached the small hut. She could see Hunith inside, going about her daily business. Her nose and cheeks were red from the cold, her breath exiting her lungs in small dragon breaths. As the horses came to a stop she looked up. Her face broke into a smile when she saw Gwen; they had grown quite close in the few months she had been banished from Camelot. Unfortunately, Gwen could not return her smile and as soon as Hunith exited her home to greet them, she immediately sensed something was wrong. She saw the distraught faces of the four from Camelot and seemed to be preparing herself for the worst.

Gwen hated what she was about to do. Why did she have to be the one to tell Hunith that Merlin was dead? But someone had to do it, and they had all agreed it was better if a friend broke the news and not a complete stranger.

She opened her mouth to speak, and tried to break the news as softly as she could. It still wasn't enough of course. How do you tell someone their only son is dead? No woman should have to bury their child.

As the words finally left her lips, she saw Hunith turn stark white. She saw her legs give way and she fell to the ground. She watched her being caught by Percival, and saw the look in her eyes, desperate for her queen's words to be a lie, but she knew they weren't. She saw the woman before her crumble, tears leaking from her eyes, agonised cries escaping her lips. And she found that she had no words of comfort for her.

"Merlin …"

Arthur was at a loss for words. His friend lay on the table before him, deathly pale, with no trace of blood in his face.

This was Arthur's goodbye. This was where he would let go. If he didn't say it now he would never get a chance. The body would be burnt in less than an hour. He needed to stay strong, he was the king of Camelot; he couldn't be seen breaking down over the death of a servant, no matter how close they had been to him.

But this still wasn't Merlin. This was just a body. This was not his friend.

The man lying on the table looked so peaceful, like he could be sleeping if it weren't for the lack of breath in his throat and pulse in his neck.

"Merlin. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything. I'm sorry I wasn't there to protect you, and … I'm sorry I never gave you enough credit for all that you've done. You are the bravest person I know. Between and during battles. You also happen to be the worst servant in all the five kingdoms. You're rude and idiotic and you never knock! But you're also a good friend. Probably the greatest friend I've ever had. You've been of great council to me over the last few years, and I should have listened to you more often. Somehow you always turned out to be right. And despite sometimes seeming to be nothing more than a clueless, bumbling … clotpole, you're also very wise. In Camelot's darkest hours you would always be the voice of reason, the one giving us hope, guiding us through the dark. I don't know what we're going to do without you. I … I hope you can forgive me for all the wrongs I've done you. And I promise that I will make sure you are remembered."

Arthur paused, trying to think what else he should say, but he couldn't think. Merlin was dead, and that was all that mattered. So instead he leaned forwards and tied the neckerchief around his neck. Standing back, he noted that he was looking a little more like his old self.

"Goodbye, Merlin."

And with that he turned around and left the room.

Merlin wondered what was happening in Camelot. Was Arthur looking for him? Of course he would be; Arthur wouldn't just leave him in Morgana's clutches. But would he be able to find him here? She certainly wouldn't choose to live somewhere that could be found easily.

He would have escaped long ago, used his magic to free himself from his chains, but Morgana had always been awake and most likely watching him, so he couldn't risk it. And now he wasn't even sure he would be able to do it, even if she wasn't there. The blade had drained him in more ways than one.

Helpless, he stared at the fire she had lit to warm the evening up. He could not feel its heat at all. He glanced up to see Morgana lying on her bed. It had been over an hour since she had fallen asleep, he had waited that long just to be sure. She slept eerily quietly, making almost no sound, she didn't toss and turn as she might once have when she had nightmares, she was as still as the dead.

He turned back to the fire and whispered under his breath, "Forbaernan firgenholt."

Nothing happened.

He moaned in frustration and desperation. The Blade had completely drained him of his magic. He couldn't use it.

Ayra could hear voices.

That was odd. She was dead, wasn't she?

She was pretty sure she was. She had jumped in front of Merlin and taken Morgana's spell. Then she just seemed to stop existing. So, in theory, she shouldn't be able to hear voices.

Maybe this was heaven. She tried to open her eyes to see, but found she couldn't. She did have eyes, right? She tried to move her arm, but found she couldn't even feel it.

Okay, so she was completely paralysed and might not even have a body, but she could hear, that was good. And the voices were processing in her mind so that meant she still had a mind, even better.

Perhaps she had survived Morgana's attack after all, or maybe she had been reincarnated or something. That would be interesting.

She tried to move again, but to no avail. So instead she concentrated on the one thing she could do. Listen.

"He was a brave man," said a voice. "Braver than any of us gave him credit for."

She knew that voice. It was Arthur! Perhaps he could help her.

"Why did it have to be him?"

That was Gwen's voice! But what were they talking about? They sounded like someone had died. Wait … she had died. But she wasn't a man! What was going on? Where they about to bury her or something?

"Shall we get on with it then?"

That was one of the knights. Gwaine?

She felt the heat of a torch pass close by her face and started to panic. They were about to cremate her! No! I'm still conscious in here! she mentally screamed.

With all her might, she desperately tried to move, tried to send out a signal. Don't burn me! But she was completely paralyzed and couldn't even twitch a muscle.

Since the day she was born, Ayra had magic. She wasn't the most powerful of sorcerers, but she was certainly dangerous. She was completely incapable of controlling her powers, a trait that seemed unique among her kind.

Her parents – worried about their daughter, and scared of her sudden magical outbursts – had taken her at a young age to a powerful sorcerer, who had agreed to help them. Upon failing to teach her to control her powers, he cast an enchantment on her, chaining her magic, keeping it within her body so she would be unable to use it.

He had done his job too well. For years she lived like this, her magic bound within her, completely unaware of her powers.

Being unable to escape, her magic built up inside her, winding its way into every single fibre of her body, weaving itself into her very soul. Essentially, she had become magic. Yet it still could not escape her.

And even when she died, the enchantment still partially worked, her magic stayed within her body, but it was now free. Had she been alive she would have been able to use it. But because of the years of encasement, it had bound itself to her soul. So when the magic stayed in her body, her soul stayed too.

It was for this reason that Ayra still had a conscious thought as she lay upon the pyre. Her body was dead, yet her soul was very much alive. And so was her magic.

Her magic had always acted as though it had a mind of her own, never doing as she wanted, never doing well. But for once, just this once, it would.

Again, I need feedback! How is this story going? Stand by, you'll probably get an update in the next ten minutes!