Warning:Slight gore
Disclaimer: Merlin belongs to the BBC
The stench of blood wafted up to his nostrils, he couldn't seem to move a single step without the pain jarring through his entire body. He was a warlock, the most powerful sorcerer ever! How could he miss something so stupid like the man sneaking up behind him-no, he knew how- that stupid prat,disappearing like that, always seemed to try to find some way to make things worse for him. And now he was alone, stranded in the middle of a field of the dead and dying, stumbling through the corpses, some fresh, and some from many battles ago. It was just supposed to be a small trip, not some elongated war against a new enemy, then again, nothing else Merlin had done seemed to work out. He stumbled over a fallen flag, and pain flared up from his bleeding chest and made him collapse to the ground. He forces himself up slowly, holding his chest and just trying to breathe. He doesn't even know if anyone survived- no, they had to, Arthur had to. He raised himself up and trudged forward, the black tunnel vision hiding away the things he had never wanted to see. He was alone, but he can't-won't- die like this. Just one more step. Then another, he curses as he falls to his knees. He can't. It is over, he won't make- "IDIOT, what do you think you were doing going off like that... bloody- Merlin!" He can do it.