Merlin walks through the snow blindly. The early morning sun reflects off the icy gleam of the ground in the few places it manages to break through the snow-laden ground, leaving scars of light behind his eyes. It doesn't matter in the slightest. Despite all of Arthur's ribbing, Merlin knows these woods like the back of his hand.
So he stumbles through them, half-blind with terror and sorrow and the reflected light of the blush-colored sun which sears the mirror's image of the winter ground into his eyes.
Flashes of images race through his brain: Freya's shuddering body covered in blood, Lancelot's accepting smile, Mordred's sword striking in a lethal arc, Morgana's expression of shock and betrayal, Gwaine's entire body a macabre frieze of horror, Will's accusing and noble glare, Arthur's stony mien, Timothy's petrified corpse, Heda's earth-shaking sobs, Gretel's eyeless face.
The images consume him like flame caught to too-dry and too-broken tinder. He notices more than feels his body stumbling over roots and into trees, battering bruises into his already abused body. His boots tear troughs through the snow. His feet feel too heavy and his head too light. It feels as if walking should pose more of a difficulty than it currently does.
Freya's bloody body, Lancelot's accepting smile, Mordred's striking sword, Morgana's betrayed expression, Gwaine's statuesque horror, Will's accusing glare, Arthur's stony mien, Timothy's stiff corpse, Heda's desolate sobs, Gretel's horrible face.
The walk takes an eternity, and all too soon, he is at the mouth of the cave.
Merlin doesn't pause in his stride once it is caught on open ground. His body takes over as an automaton would, driving him forward when he cannot. Though he remembers it as small, the cave's mouth now gapes. An open maw waiting to swallow him whole.
Come home, Merlin.
Merlin walks into the cave and does not bother with light. No torch, no spell, no spark of flame or magic alleviates the oppressive darkness as he presses further into the cave. The light has not reached here. Perhaps not for centuries.
Freya's blood, Lancelot's smile, Mordred's sword, Morgana's expression, Gwaine's horror, Will's glare, Arthur's mien, Timothy's corpse, Heda's sobs, Gretel's face.
He knows, somewhat distantly, that this cave is shallow. It provides enough cover for four men and no animals, which is why it's preferred when the weather has turned and the knights decide they'd rather sit back and wait for things to pass rather than trudge forward, back to Camelot.
Back home.
Come home, Merlin.
The cave is dark. The air here is stiller and colder than outside, carrying with it the scent of earth and rock. Something far away tells him he should stop. But his friends are in danger, and he had been told they could be saved.
So many foolish deeds built upon such a promise. And yet… and yet, here he is again, facing oblivion in service to his friends.
His destiny.
His purpose.
The cave does not end where it should. Where Merlin should run into an expanse of cold stone, he instead pushes further. Deeper into the earth.
Freya, Lancelot, Mordred, Morgana, Gwaine, Arthur, Timothy, Heda, Gretel.
Again and again and again.
Tears roll down Merlin's cheeks, noticeable only for their stinging warmth. He walks for an eternity, and time seems to flow too fast around him. He walks, and he sees them all again, as if walking through his own memories of sorrow, death, and despair.
Merlin's body comes to a stop.
The visions stop.
Merlin's mind is… quiet.
Peaceful.
Blessedly empty.
He pauses and listens, searching. And in the darkness, there comes a voice, silken and diaphanous and evasive as mist itself.
"Are you ready to come home, Merlin?"