He never knew leaves could be so yellow. Not Golden like in a fairy tale; not burnished nor bronzed, just yellow. Like Sunlight. Like the sun beats within each vein, saturating the tree tops the same way it paints the clouds. It is a particular kind of yellow, as if the sun itself rests on earth and no one knows it. They walk past, he watches them hurry by; not noticing. Not seeing that such a tremendous power rested just above them as they scurried about their lives; vermin like in their actions and in their manners.
Colour had never been so offensive.
The sunlight seemed to make everything gleam. Arthur hated it. From the rich velvet of his father's robes to the jewel tones of the banners which fluttered gently in a subtle wind form the south. The weather was joyous, smiling down on his own personal hell. It seemed as if the world was set to mock this day. Bright light, bright colours and the noise was loud enough that he wished that it would just end. Turn him deaf, anything just so the noise would stop.
Armed guards flanked his seat, as constricting as the tunic he wore. On one side a young red-head and on the other a senior guard. The youngest had been sympathetic, a survivor of the banquet he had seen and heard much of the conflict; including Merlin's role. The other man, a large bear of a man, was Uther's man through and through. Arthur didn't know which was worse.
On his left, on burnished throne, sat his father. Arthur felt sick. His skin crawled and despite scrubbing himself raw again and again he still felt dirty by mere association. Sadistic smugness permeated the air and made it hard to breath. Arranged behind him sat Morgana and Gwen, they flanked Gaius; gripping each of the old man's hands. They were his only anchors; he seemed paler, thinner as if he would tear at the slightest breeze. Unkempt and withered, he seemed to Arthur to be a broken man set between two weeping blooms; rooted and unable to move. He prayed to God that Gaius was as comatose as he seemed, that he was elsewhere and unaware of what was going on in front of him. Unaware of the tears which all three shed, mingling on cheeks and clasped hands as they shook and clung for comfort. Arthur couldn't cry anymore. Something seemed to have broken in him. Feeling was muted. Maybe it was his own greyness which made sharp edges of the emotion filled shouts of the people, made them pierce and cut away at him. Either that or it was just the horror of the situation which affected him so.
Through all this Arthur sat and watched; hands gripping the armrests till his fingertips bled white, the crowd jeered and Merlin waited to burn.
Uther had forgone the irons and tied Merlin to a thick; rough cut post. Stacks of kindling was piled around him by both righteous and heavy hands, any protest however was drowned out by the demonic glee of the King. The ropes tying Merlin to the post were some of the only things which were opaquely dead, the dried and brittle fibres twisted; twisted and curled around his body, hiding almost all of his customary blue, only a flutter of red could be seen spilling over and down the front of his chest as it burst from his neck.
This lick of crimson mirrored darker smudges which had seemed to have wiped his customary smile off Merlin's face, leaving only the calm and driven form of Emrys. He hadn't struggled as they lead him out. He hadn't tried to run as he was tied to the post. No magic tricks or incantations. No flashes of gold. Just yellow. A sick colour. A mocking colour which hovered like giant gaudy carrion birds overhead. And for all he had done for him, sacrificed for him- Arthur hated Merlin at this moment. Hated him for not struggling, for not running. For not saving himself. Neither Arthur or Gaius had had the heart to send word to his mother. Merlin's death should not be accompanied by her own; grief stricken they both knew she would have thrown herself on the flames or hurled heart stricken words at the king. They couldn't bear to face another death and in truth neither could bear to face the look in her eyes, the pained accusation on both their heads. They hadn't been able to stop her son from dying.
Drums beat and the sun burned the back of Arthur's neck. From the platform he could see the torch tops weaving their way closer. Arthur tensed. His breathing became frantic and he tensed, wanting to move to do something. Anything. But the moment ended with a smile. Merlin, god-blessed goofy Merlin, was smiling; grinning at him. God! Why was he doing that? He must feel the heat as the executioner was signalled to lower the torch, as the flames sputtered and took hold. As it climbed higher and higher up towards Merlin's feet, his knees, his torso. Why was he still smiling at him? Eyes locked Arthur came to a brutal understanding. Merlin was comforting him. He, as he burned, was still trying to help Arthur, still protecting; still reassuring Arthur like a mother would a broken child. Finally Arthur felt the cool slide of tears down his face. He never heard himself shout Merlin's name or the deadening hush which swallowed the crowd at his cry. He never felt the hands of the guards as they restrained him, never notice the girls cover Gaius' eyes so, even unseeing, they wouldn't have to witness the death of his son in all but blood. All Arthur saw was Merlin's blue, blue eyes and the smile he gave him, gave to him freely; as he sat, unable to save him.
So Merlin writhed, and smiled, and burned.
And as the flames consumed the last of his smile and the screams began and ended, two destinies died.