A/N: Okay, so a couple of days later than I had intended, but here you go!
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Warnings: Angsty angst, character death, dark!Merlin, implied slash
8. Abominable—worthy of causing disgust or hatred, detestable
This life ends, as so many do, in pain and blood and murder. The difference is, that instead of Mordred standing over Arthur, dealing the final deadly blow before meeting his own end—the cycle that has played out over and over, shifting slightly, shifting drastically, but still held as inevitable—it is Merlin. Merlin whose eyes pulsate between brightest gold and pure black, who needs no weapon other than the forces of the world around him, who holds his hand outright and reigns destruction upon the person he hates most in the world. Mordred stands just behind him, laughing, running hands over him, and there is no contesting who has won. Morgana is running towards them, too late, far too late, the images of what was supposed to be and what is pulsing behind her eyes, and she sees Arthur fall twice. Once, he is caught by Merlin, cradled, caressed, held—but this blinks out in favor of reality, where Arthur slumps forward, blood trickling from his mouth, and there is no one to catch him except for the soft embrace of the muddy ground.
Mordred laughs, and Merlin—when the magic pulls back under his skin, letting the color come back to his eyes—joins in with him. Their laughter mixes with the shrieking calls of carrion birds come to feast, and Morgana clamps her hands over her ears. Too late, too late.
There is no telling how this lifetime goes so terribly wrong, but this is a reality that should never exist as it does. This is not to say that fate has never twisted unexpectedly before, not to say that there is one set path for King and Warlock, not to say that things have never gone wrong. They have suffered through the lifetimes. Fate plans out her paths carefully, setting her pawns in proper order each time, creating perfect paths to follow and then letting go, and after that they are privy to the other forces of the world. She tries to keep her creations to their paths, but there are thousands of variables, hundreds of intangible forces that push and prod and twist things about, and at the end of the day there is still some manner of choice inherent in the souls of Fate's children.
This time, though, what happens is wrong. It is not a matter of something going astray; it is a matter of pure destruction of the path. Something twists so violently in the makeup of this lifetime that those unspoken rules that guide the fates of Arthur Pendragon and Merlin Emrys are torn from what should be. This is the spiraling oblivion of chaos, playing out in the forms of two men whose destinies are always bound together, for better or worse.
This is the worse.
This is one of the rare times where the past is hidden. Neither Merlin nor Arthur know anything of kingdoms or knights or magic, save the old legends and the power that always thrums in Merlin's veins. He has no conscious control of it, has no name for it, just feels it rush through him. As always, it reacts to Arthur's presence, baying up like hounds scenting prey, and when he feels it Merlin will call it this: hatred. He does not remember that once he called it something else: love. (Next time though, they will remember, both of them, and the memories of this life will be scars, dark across the map of their minds, engraved deep in their souls.)
Perhaps the capacity for hating Arthur always lies in Merlin's soul. Maybe it is another facet, something that can always be, should circumstances allow. After all, if he is capable of loving the man enough to tear the world apart, he must also be capable of hating him with enough magnitude to bring about the same destructive end. Whether it is something born in him, something created by circumstances, some trick of a greater power, or some manipulation, it will root in Merlin as pure hatred for Arthur Pendragon. And Mordred will come to his side, smiling and encouraging and driving the hatred deeper; he will touch Merlin and kiss him and whisper to him in the night that they have to destroy Arthur in order to make everything better. Without him, he'll say, the world will be perfect. We will be perfect.
And Merlin will listen. He will nod and plot and every time he sees his foe his magic will nearly tear out of his skin. He takes that as a sign that Mordred is right. Arthur Pendragon must be destroyed.
(And so he is.)
Merlin will drink in the sight of him crumpling, will nudge his body over and smile into his dead eyes, and he will kiss Mordred in the middle of a bloody field and laugh and laugh. When Morgana approaches, picking her way through a course of bodies and bloodied grass, he will laugh and reach out and draw her into an embrace, spinning her around. It is her victory as well, after all. What he won't see is the way she avoids his gaze, or the tear tracks across her cheeks, or the way her lips will form two words—I'm sorry—right before she casts the fatal spell at his turned back. He will gasp when it strikes, slump to his knees, watch as she strikes Mordred down. She will bend over him, her hair a dark curtain obscuring a gray sky, and she will stroke his cheek. He will try to ask her why, but the words will froth on his lips and never emerge.
And his body, when it falls, will be a perfect mirrored position of Arthur's.
(In the next life he will be unable to look Arthur in the eyes for years without guilt. He will look at his hands and know that they killed the person he loves most. He will nearly kill Mordred the first time he sees him. And the first time he sees Morgana, he will hug her tightly and bury his face into her shoulder, and whisper 'thank you' a hundred times.)