Chapter Eleven
Sight... Sound... Smell... Taste... Touch...
Nothing.
Sight... Sound... Smell... Taste... Touch...
Nothing.
Light—golden and bright and blinding. Sound—silence so thick he could hear it—no, no that couldn't be right, could it? Smell—coppery and metallic and red—but no, you couldn't smell colors, could you? Taste—something bad, a lot of it, something that tasted like...red. Touch—nothing...
Bright... Silence... Red... Bad... Nothing...
Blinding... Hurt... Red... Bad... Nothing...
And then the pain came.
It ripped him open, devoured him, left him empty; a hollow shell of a man who used to be.
"No! What have you done?" Ah, now there was sound that made sense. "Oh, Arthur. Don't you see I was giving you mercy?"
Mercy? Could he taste that too? Maybe he could touch it instead, that sounded better than touching nothing.
"But oh well, if this is what you wanted in your last moments, then who am I to deny you?"
Who are you? He wonders dreamily—dreamily, what a funny word. Did that make him a dream? He hopes he's a good dream, he doesn't want to be one of those other ones...what were they?
"Arthur? Open your eyes."
A ba—the word is on the tip of his mind, he can feel it—oh good, that must mean he's not broken beyond repair if he can still feel.
"Open your eyes, brother, and see what you have done."
He opens his eyes.
Arthur Pendragon screams.
It tears out of his throat and swallows the silence whole, envelops it so completely in a sound of pure loss.
Nightmare. That's the word he is looking for. Nightmare; that's what he's living in, what he has been living in, what he will always live in. Nightmare; that's what Morgana is, what she chose to become, what she has thrown herself into, mind and body and soul. Nightmare; that's the reality he's living in. Nightmare; that's what a world without Merlin in it is.
What his world has now become.
He's still screaming himself raw and he absently wonders if he'll even have a voice left when eventually Morgana completes her tale of death and betrayal.
Merlin's body—his corpse lies right in front of Arthur. A dagger embedded in his heart. No breath left in his too still body. The warmth leaking out of him as quickly as the blood he no longer needed. His eyes were still open, wide in shock, but there was no humor or joy or laughter or life within them now.
And there never would be again.
No.
This couldn't be happening.
This isn't happening.
Merlin had promised.
"That's right, Arthur, you killed him," Morgana laughs and there's more than a hint of madness in her eyes, "What I've tried to do and failed for years! But you, Arthur, you succeeded! You should consider yourself talented—that's a man of prophecy you just murdered."
No. No, Merlin couldn't be dead. It was as impossible as...the most impossible thing in the world. Merlin couldn't leave Arthur to fend for himself in this cruel, cruel world. He'd promised! Merlin couldn't possibly be dead. Not now, not ever.
"Oh yes, you did this. Serkats couldn't defeat him. The pyre refused to burn him. Poison wouldn't keep him away from you. Even my beautiful formorrah couldn't kill him."
No.
"Not even my sister could manage such a feat as this—not for lack of trying," Morgana is laughing, gleefully and maniacally; reveling in her victory that couldn't be happening.
It isn't happening.
"But you, Arthur Pendragon, have managed to defeat him. The only one who never betrayed you and you killed him in cold blood!"
No, Arthur thinks again, definitively and knows without a doubt that this can't be because Merlin wouldn't let him do such a thing, wouldn't let him take such guilt upon himself.
"Are you sure, Morgana?" Merlin—Merlin alive and real and here— asks in a voice as casual as if he were talking about the weather.
Morgana whirls around but Arthur doesn't look.
He doesn't need to.
"Did you really think I wouldn't expect this?" Merlin tsks, "After all this time, you're still just as naive as you always were."
Arthur turns slowly around as Morgana looks frantically between Merlin, standing so innocently by the door—blood drips from his hand, and there's a gash on his face that hadn't been there before but his chest is void of any more damage and there is no dagger in sight—and Merlin's dead body—still gently laid out, blood pooling around Arthur's knees, the dagger still implanted in his heart.
"No! How is this possible?"
Merlin steps forward, "This? This is what's possible when you believe in someone other than yourself," and while his voice is still so nonchalant his eyes blaze with a loyalty far stronger than any hatred Arthur's ever seen, "This is what's possible when you trust someone more than you trust yourself."
He raises his hands and Morgana shrinks back; terror written in every line of her body, but defiance engraved in her eyes.
She hisses a spell, her eyes flash gold, and fire is hurled at Merlin.
Merlin smiles—cold and dangerous and terrifying—and his own eyes turn molten gold; the fire disappears into the air without damage and Morgana's eyes fade back to green. "Now, now, that's not the way you do it," he murmurs as if correcting a child, "Would you like me to teach you how to really do it?"
"And risk hurting your precious king?" she asks sweetly and turns to him.
And Arthur's dagger slides so smoothly, so easily into her chest, cutting through skin and muscle alike. Blood drips from the edges, once again staining his hands red—always red...
She stares at him in shock then gasps out a laugh, "A dagger, do you really think that will kill me, I am a hi—" Blood spills from her mouth. "I am a hi—priestess—"
Arthur just looks at her.
Morgana falls, panting for breath, desperately trying to grasp at magic that won't come to her call.
"Poison seems a fitting end for the life you chose, Morgana," he answers her finally. It isn't just poison of course; they hadn't been certain regular poison would be able to kill her.
But Merlin's magic that had made the dagger shine so bright and feel so much heavier is strong. Stronger than even Morgana it seems.
"Why?" She gasps out, her hands reaching out to them as if even now, even after all her betrayals, and all the death she has caused they would still help her.
But Morgana's hands are stained with far more blood than even Arthur's.
It's Merlin who answers as he comes to stand beside Arthur—a warm and real and breathing and alive presence, "Because you're wrong, Morgana, and it's time to rid the world of your hatred."
"But I—but I...deserve more—"
"No, you don't Morgana," Arthur interrupts because he doesn't understand her even now, "this is exactly what you deserve."
She raises her hands again, weakly shouts some words, her hands twitch towards the dagger in her chest.
Arthur moves faster.
The dagger slides out just as easily as it had entered. He looks into her eyes for the last time, "Why Morgana? Because you hurt my people," he says then thrusts it down again.
The life fades from her eyes and Morgana Pendragon breathes no more.
It's over.
It's finally over. No more war. No more betrayal. No more death. No more Morgana.
It hardly seems possible, but he can see the evidence in front of him; shock and horror and fear written in her eyes that will never blaze with fire or passion or life again.
It's over.
Arthur falls to his knees.
Good, he thinks distantly, now maybe my people can be safe at last.
"Arthur!" And Merlin is there—and it's just like before except this is real and Arthur would never hurt him. "It's okay, we'll be okay. I'll fix it, I promise," Merlin rambles, like he always does and that's good. Arthur has always secretly loved it when words poured out of Merlin's mouth like rain from the sky; loved it when he just talks about anything and everything because he could; loved it when Merlin talked to him as Arthur and not as prince or regent or king.
It breaks Arthur's heart to know this will change.
"Don't..." he can't get the words out like he wants to. He can't breathe right; not with his collarbone rattling against his skin trying to break free with every movement, can't draw in enough air past his broken ribs—he almost doesn't want to because every time he does breathe in it hurts more than he has ever imagined it could. But he has to tell Merlin now while there's still life left within him, "I don't want you to...to change."
"Of course not, I never have, why would I start now?" Merlin mutters absently, his hands doing such horrific things to Arthur's body that he tries not to focus on them.
Merlin would change though, Arthur knows, when he breathed his last. Merlin's smiles would disappear, and his laughter would be shut away and his rambling would be stopped and his light, always so clear and bright, would fade and and...and Merlin wouldn't be Merlin anymore.
Arthur wishes he could change that; what his death will do to those closest to him, to the kingdom—though he knows his Guinevere will rule with wisdom and fairness. "I want you..." he starts again, the words trickling out of his mouth along with blood, "to always be you."
"Arthur, no! Don't you dare say goodbye to me!" Merlin orders and Arthur wonders how he can still sound so determined though he must surely know that nothing can save Arthur now. Not even Merlin and all his magic. "Not after everything, you can't leave me alone, you can't! You won't!"
"Merlin," Arthur breathes, too tired to say anything else, too hurt to focus on what he wants to say, what he needs to say. He needs to tell Merlin he's sorry; for everything, for treating him the way he had, for hurting him, for not being stronger than he is, for leaving him. He needs to tell him thank you; for bringing peace at last, for staying with Arthur through everything, for helping him build this kingdom, for being Merlin.
But the world is fading before Arthur's eyes.
"Arthur, stay with me!" Merlin sounds so far away and that can't be—never that!—so Arthur forces his eyes to focus on his friend—blurry and shapeless and distant already—forces his arm—cold and heavy and trembling with pain—up, up, up to grip Merlin's head and yes, Merlin is still here, still holding onto Arthur, still trying to save him.
It's Arthur who's leaving; who's fading with every second that passes; Arthur who can hear his heart beating so loudly and knows with surety that they are his final heartbeats.
"I'm not going to let you die."
But it's too late.
Arthur's hand falls.
Author's Note: All recognizable dialogue is either directly taken from or slightly rephrased from The Diamond of the Day Part Two.