A/N: I don't own Merlin. That was the luck of the BBC
This is it guys - the final chapter. I thought about waiting until tomorrow but it's finished and I'm impatient.
Chapter 8
Merlin feared little, he feared the death of Arthur, he feared the fall of Camelot, but most of all he feared fire. Every burnt sorcerer's anguished screams haunted Merlin, not knowing if he was to be the next. He would often wake in a cold sweat, their voices torturing him. You were too late Emrys! You didn't save us. Everyone he couldn't save plagued his every waking thought and often his nightmares. Be it a nameless, faceless sorcerer: a crying healer or an orphaned child, or those closest to him: Will, Freya, Lancelot and Balinor. In his torment he would scream hopelessly at the universe. Why was this thrust upon him? He never chose this! He only wanted a simple life, like the knights had, like Arthur, Gwen, and Gaius had. He hated the pain, hated the fear. He hated lying to those closest to him. Why couldn't he just be normal? He felt that this was why he had sympathised so when Freya had confided in him. Merlin knew something about being cursed.
'I'm sorry.'
Those were the last words he spoke, addressed to no one and everyone. His guardian, for letting him down, his Queen and the knights, for not being able to confide his secret in any of them, but most of all to his King. There were no words that could sum up his suffering of having to lie every single day to the man he considered his brother, his other half. The decision to save Arthur from a potentially fatal arrow soaring towards his head had been easy, even though he knew revealing his magic so openly in front of the King would spell the end of Merlin, but it was his life for Arthur's, always. He'd allowed himself to hope in some dark corner of his mind that Arthur was ready to know his secret. The look in Arthur's eyes told him everything he needed to know. The King clearly wasn't ready, although Merlin was beginning to think he may never be, if he wasn't by now. Above everything though he hoped that Arthur knew none of it was a lie. He had meant every moment he spent being the King's manservant. Every wisecracked joke, every playful push, every meaningful conversation. Merlin hadn't held any anger towards Arthur, not once. Not when his glassy eyes pierced Merlin's heart like a knife, not when he yelled for the knights on patrol, not when they'd run in to Gwaine who had to be restrained lest his anger get the better of him. Not when the guards had put him in the one place he really, really did not want to go, (how does this place even still existence?) Not even when dawn broke as he forced himself to allow being dragged unceremoniously to the pyre. He had passed by the knights, sat miserably in their tiny cell, clearly locked up to prevent any attempts to assist Merlin, everyone knew they would if they could. He couldn't bear to meet their gazes, though he knew they were angry. He wrongly assumed that their anger was aimed towards him, when in reality, Arthur's knights could not believe their King would send his best friend to his death. Though Merlin couldn't help but let the smallest glimpse of a smile tug on his lips as Gwaine called to him, only love and painful acceptance clear his voice, no trace of anger or hate towards the warlock. (See you in the tavern in the sky, mate.) As much as he tried though, Merlin couldn't escape his fear of this day. He never wanted to burn. But he would never hate Arthur for this. Never.
Merlin feared little, he feared the death of Arthur, he feared the fall of Camelot, but most of all he feared fire, however he did not scream, or shout, or beg, not even as he burned.