Well... ah... he he...
Don't throw things! And if you must, throw them gently underhanded from twenty feet seven inches away! it will give me time to run!
So, sorry about the long wait...I thought I might have a problem with electrical gremilns and sacrifices to digital volcano gods, but that was cleared up. And my paranoid friend was proven wrong about the serial killer, so that's a nice ending.
The doctors say that reviews are feeding my imaginary self-image and delusions, so you know what that means...REVIEW ON!
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Arthur understood the words coming out of the tiny boy's mouth, but his mind recoiled, throwing up denials as it worked frantically to deny the clear meaning of the statement. Even so, his breath was slammed out of his lungs, and abruptly he felt detached from the reality of the world, hovering above uselessly, ineffectually.
Distantly, he heard a quiet, horror-filled "What?" from Elyan.
No, no, it couldn't be true. Couldn't be real. Merlin couldn't just be gone. It was wrong, so very wrong, as the previously solid world spun and heaved as Arthur struggled to hold himself upright while leaning against a tree.
The tiny kitchen boy, tears trickling down his face, looked wretchedly at Elyan. "H-he'll be bur-ried or -" abruptly the sentence was cut off. "Buried. He'll b-be buried."
Arthur barely registered the words. He was lost, adrift, and suddenly his mind that seemed to be moving at both the speed of light and the speed of growing trees threw him into a future without Merlin in it.
No more volleying insults. No more being woken unceremoniously by blinding light and loud proddings. No more annoyingly cheerful commentary on whatever came to mind. No more ludicrous, wildly improbable explanations that Arthur had only a short while ago realized had been to cover up whatever covert protection the servant was engaging in. No more stupidly loyal actions that scared Arthur half out of his wits and made him think there wasn't a single self-preserving bone in his friend's body. No more of the strange, unwavering faith he seemed to hold in Arthur, the faith that pushed him to live up to it, to not let his closest friend down.
No more Merlin.
If he had been thinking, if he had just stopped plotting and planning against traitors to the crown - how stupid the crown seemed right now, so meaningless, when it didn't do a thing that helped Merlin - he wouldn't have let him go off to the kitchens, would have assigned Gwaine to keep near him, would have stayed near him himself, would have, could have, should have...
Because now he could do nothing but see all his mistakes, in agonizing clarity.
"Arthur?"
With an effort, Arthur focused on Leon, who wore an aura of quiet grief.
Leon hesitated, as if trying to figure out how to say words properly. "Arthur," he tested, as a thought rose up in Arthur's mind that he could count the number of times that Leon had called him 'Arthur' instead of 'sire' on one hand
Answering would take far too much effort, so Arthur just stared at Leon.
Leon nodded his head toward the kitchen boy, Bedivere, who wore a look far too old for a small boy.
"I - I can take you there."
There.
The graveyard. Where the dead were.
Where Merlin is.
Would he see his friend's body? Would he have to be given tangible, undeniable proof that his world had been callously ripped to shreds in the space of a heartbeat, the heartbeat that he possessed but Merlin did not?
Would he have to say goodbye?
He had to know for sure, had to make sure he was understanding, because he couldn't afford to make mistakes any more.
"Is he there?"
Arthur vaguely realized his voice was rough and unsteady, even speaking only three words. He had meant to say at the graveyard instead of there, but somehow the words wouldn't come out the way he wanted them to.
Bedivere nodded slowly, making sure Arthur understood, then said quietly, "Both of them."
Both.
Merlin wasn't there alone, he knew, had known, of course. Someone else had to bury the... people who had gone.
Someone also had to have killed them.
Arthur felt an icy, diamond hard fury grow into a cold ball in his chest.
Merlin's killer was burying him.
That was wrong. Before, when Merlin had jumped into some precarious situation from which it had seemed he might not come back from (but he always had, always, because he was Merlin and he always came back, always lived, but not now, not this time), Arthur had always thought of his friend's death with (terror, of course, but he couldn't push it away no matter how many times he told himself it wouldn't happen because he knew it could) the knowledge that Merlin would have a decent burial, by friends who would know him and mourn his passing. Not by some hired knife who didn't care, didn't see Merlin for who he was, regarded him as a job to be done, the one who had killed him.
That was wrong.
That.
Was.
Wrong.
"Where?" Arthur asked in an equally quiet voice as the boy. Liquid fury ran through his veins. Not the scorching, hot-blooded rage he remembered from many a time before, but something that was more powerful, calm and so icily cold it burned.
There was no answer.
Arthur turned to look at the boy.
As soon as their eyes met, Bedivere froze so completely he might have been made into marble.
Some distant part of Arthur sent him a faint warning, but it was obliterated by the still-burning fury that whispered in his ear over and over as he stepped closer to the boy that Merlin is dead, find his killer, Merlin is dead, he won't tell you where he is, Merlin is dead, dead, dead...
"Arthur." Elyan's voice was sharp, cutting through the haze Arthur was in. Arthur felt a hand jerk his arm.
Arthur suddenly registered two things.
Bedivere was rigidly pressed against the tree, a look of utter, mindless terror on his face.
And Arthur's hand had been on his sword.
"Arthur," Elyan said from clenched teeth, "stop. I want to find this man too, but you need to stop for a moment and calm down."
Shocked, Arthur stared at his hand.
I know him, he's only five years old!
A child. A child.
Beneath the ever-burning fury, Arthur felt abruptly sick.
Silently, he stepped back, avoiding anyone's eyes.
Elyan hesitated for a moment, then crouched down at a nonthreatening distance from the boy. "Bedivere," he said haltingly, and the boy seemed to relax a fraction upon hearing his name, "can you please take us to the - place?" They all noticed the way he didn't say graveyard, but nobody commented on it.
Jerkily, Bedivere nodded.
"Okay, Bedivere. That's...good." Elyan paused, then said carefully, "You can ride with -"
"Gwaine." The boy interjected.
Elyan nodded and glanced over at Gwaine. "Alright."
Gwaine stepped forward and the boy skittered to his side. Arthur could practically feel the aura of Gwaine's grief, but the knight helped Bedivere onto his horse with no comment.
They mounted again, Gwaine leading the way this time, and set off in silence for the graveyard.