Many years ago I wrote a massive outline for what was going to be an even more massive rewrite of the tragedy that was season five. The scattered scenes that I wrote for it have languished long enough, so I'm releasing them to the world. If any plot-related questions arise, I'll happily answer them; otherwise, enjoy.
warning: animal death
Merlin is six when a falcon that's nearly half his height lands on the fallen tree several dozen paces from where he's picking flowers for his mother and gives a low, pained cry. Merlin's hand stills around the stem of the daffodil as his magic shifts without prompting, reaching out toward a magic that's similar but fading.
It's the bird. The bird has magic, and the bird is dying.
Daffodils tumble into the dirt as Merlin races toward the falcon, unsure why he's moving toward a bird that he's seen rip small animals apart, but he must get to it, must help it, must save it.
He can save it. He knows he can.
The falcon ruffles its feathers as he approaches, and he skids to an ungraceful stop—he won't be able to help it if he scares it away.
"I won't hurt you," he tells it in a soft voice, and the falcon understands him, he knows it does, because the bird's magic is reaching out to his once more, warm tendrils that smell of a rain-cleansed sky and taste of crunchy rodents and feel like feathers that are silkier than Mother's fancy shawl, the one she pulls out for a single day each year in the spring.
But the bird's magic is weakening, slipping away from his even as it beckons him closer with a mournful, wavering note that burrows into his own magic and settles there with a dull ache. He doesn't entertain the idea of ignoring the bird's pleas—he knows he can't, same as he knows he can't stop existing.
The falcon's eyes, black and gold and wise and many, many years older than him, watch him without blinking as he lifts shaking fingers to its head, level with his own, before it dips its head to nudge against his palm. The feathers are softer than he imagined—even softer than Mother's shawl.
The bird nuzzles harder, and he giggles. "That tickles," he says, running his hand across the dark head and down the compact body. He's only ever felt dead birds before, and this is nothing like those stiff, cold bodies: there is power and grace and wisdom in every inch of this being, and, and, and...
He brushes his fingers against his cheek and pulls them away to stare at the glistening tips. Why is he crying?
Séaghdha, because of course that's its name, gives another soft cry, almost a coo, and Merlin knows why. He wraps both arms around the downy body and lifts. Talons scrape and catch against the rough bark, but Séaghdha doesn't struggle as Merlin holds the strong but fragile body to his chest and sinks back against the tree.
"Don't go," he whispers to the bird now cradled in his lap. Séaghdha's chest heaves with each breath, but his eyes aren't rolling and he's not trying to get away—their magic is linked now, and Merlin can feel the weakening heartbeat as though it's in his own chest; the fight for every single breath grows harder.
Magic gathers in his hand, and he can hear Mother cautioning him to never use his magic anywhere others might see him, but surely the life of such a majestic creature is worth the risk, so he places his hands over the deep hole, then flinches as more blood pushes up against his fingers, warm and sticky.
"Yuck," he whispers. He watches blood well around his fingers, as though it's trying to drown his hands, and he realizes he doesn't know what to do. The only time he's ever healed before was two seasons ago when Mother lost her balance while cooking and her hand landed in the fire, and he still has no idea what he did—he only remembers blistering heat, stinky fear, and stomach-twisting screams because he dreams of nothing else now.
His tongue tastes awful, more bitter than Mother's fever tonics, and he's shaking so hard that Séaghdha chirps sharply and pokes him with his beak, not hard enough to break the skin, but it still hurts.
He must do something. Closing his eyes always helps him focus, so he does. Instantly, the solution becomes clear. Why didn't he think of it before?
He gathers the magic in his hand and then pushes it into the wound... and the blood stops. It stops! He whoops with joy, almost throwing his hands in the air in excitement before remembering that's not a good idea.
"I did it!" he exclaims, grinning down at Séaghdha, who's slowly turning his head to peer at him from one eye, and Merlin's joy shatters upon witnessing the pain and exhaustion in its gold-flecked depths.
"Please, no," he whispers. "You can't die. I can save you. I will!" Magic gushes from his fingers, from his heart, and it's flooding the wound, spilling over the torn edges and soaking into the bloodstained feathers, but it's not working. Séaghdha's magic isn't responding, isn't reaching for his, and he can't see through the tears because the connection is lost forever—
He gasps as magic—Séaghdha's magic, cool and free and wild—curls around his own in what feels like a hug but isn't the same as Mother's hugs: it goes deeper, soothing his mind and heart with what feels like the spray of the sea. It twines itself inside him, blowing a soft thank you that resonates across the very essence of his magic, and then it lets go, slipping away into the wind.
"Goodbye," Merlin whispers, closing his eyes as he senses the magic return to the land around them. Grief still lingers around his heart, raw and heavy, but the thought of trying to bear it isn't as overwhelming as it was a minute ago.
As he clutches the bloody, now-still corpse to his chest, he gradually becomes aware of more magic around him. The trees, the leaves that are falling to the ground, the flowers that he picked, the pair of chipmunks that have stopped their nut gathering to watch him—they all pulse with magic, so bright the clearing is nearly glowing. He breathes deep as the humming gold washes over him, cradling him, whispering look, we're still alive, we're still here, magic will always be here with you.
He stands, slowly. Séaghdha's body seems heavier than before, and he allows a few more tears to run down his cheeks before blinking the rest away. He must find somewhere to lay Séaghdha's body to rest, but he doesn't want to bury him. It's wrong to force a creature that spent its whole life in the sky into the ground, especially now that it doesn't have any say in the matter.
The river, he decides. The other boys would claim the lake is more appropriate—he's heard their tales of great kings being set afloat in ornately decorated boats after they've fallen in battle; a true hero's reward—but he knows the river is where Séaghdha would want his body put, and so that's where he'll take him.
It is the first time he eases the passing of a mortally wounded being, but it's nowhere near the last.