Quiet.
Not silence. But quiet.
It is not apparent what the quiet is against. What noise still occupies the background of the empty. But it is there. And it is quiet.
Empty. Empty seems an apt word for this place. Mist carpets the floor, swishing and undulating and swirling with the gentle movement of hidden currents.
There is no light here. Nor darkness, nor blackness.
There are no objects obscuring vision, no color to reveal the shape of the world.
Oblivion.
Merlin takes a deep breath inward and realizes with sudden clarity that there is no need to breathe. Not here. His eyes blink, but the action brings no moisture. It is simply the habit of the body to continue on even after the effort is futile.
Next to Merlin stands the figure of Achlys. It looks at him, ruby eyes now dimmed to the soft glow of a dying ember.
"I have been with you all your life," Achlys murmurs.
Merlin stares at the creature. It is on eye level with him, all flickering and darkness and dread.
And, Merlin realizes with a start: sentient.
Empathetic.
"Sorrow, misery, and despair," Merlin says back. His words are replete with the lightness and innocence of recognition. There is no fear, nor dread, coloring his voice. Simply acknowledgement.
"Sorry, misery, and despair," Achlys repeats. Its words are a hopeful sigh. They shine with the same color and temerity as flower petals turning their faces toward spring sunlight.
It sounds so much like Mordred had. So desperate to be understood, to be named. To be recognized by someone. To have another shine a light on them and acknowledge.
Merlin knows his heart should twist just the same as it had all those other times faced with the paradox that is the druid boy's past, present, and future. He anticipates the shock of distrust, the remembrance of the violence, the sorrow from the past and the misery of the present and the despair of the future.
But it doesn't come.
It is quiet.
"We know each other well," Merlin says quietly, as if posing a gentle reminder or admonishment. "But you are not all mine. Just as I am not all yours."
"No," Achlys says. "But I favor you."
Merlin gives the creature a nod.
"I don't know why," the creature says, gliding forward. "I was commanded to watch over you since birth. And eventually… to call you here." It sweeps a hand through the air, indicating Oblivion. "Home. But I don't know why. And I am sorry."
"You cannot help your nature," Merlin says. Not unkindly.
Achlys blinks slowly, the light from its glowing eyes caught and lost in the emptiness of Oblivion.
"Must it be my nature?" Achlys whispers. "I never wish to harm you. Nor anyone. I do not wish to be sorrow, misery, and despair."
"But you are," Merlin says quietly. He studies the face of Achlys, and continues, "But that is not all you are."
Achlys lifts its head up slightly, now more eager than self-flagellating or pitying. "No?"
"No," Merlin says. "Look at you. Do you really only feel sorrow on my behalf, or despair at my failings and wounds, or sorrow at my losses?"
"No," Achlys says slowly.
"What do you feel?" Merlin asks. His voice is genuinely curious, dulcet, encouraging.
Achlys blinks a few times, mulling over the question. Then, he says finally, "Companionship."
Merlin nods again, as if this is the answer he expected.
"It is hard," Merlin says slowly, "to escape the penumbra of your nature enough to appreciate you, isn't it?"
"What do you mean, Merlin?" Achlys asks.
"You call me Merlin."
"Of course."
"That's interesting."
"Is it?"
"Yes."
Merlin is quiet for a few moments, contemplating the creature in front of him.
"Everything is gone here," Merlin says quietly.
"Except me," Achlys says. "And you."
"We are not long for this particular world," Merlin says, casting his eyes about. "It is Oblivion."
Achlys takes in Merlin's face–the relaxed set of his jaw, the sharp eyes taking in the nothing, the slight slant of his lips that could hint just as easily at a smile as at a frown–and finds itself once again mesmerized by the calm intelligence of the human before it.
"I have done you great harm," Achlys begins. It feels within it entirely too-familiar emotions, ones that should have been claimed by the ephemerality of its nature: guilt, sympathy, love.
"You are not harmful, though, are you?" Merlin replies thoughtfully. "You are simply what follows harm. You are a companion through the best and worst of times."
"I am the echo and inverse to joy," Achlys says, uncertain of the warlock's words.
"Yes," Merlin says. His tone is soft and gentle as the mist at their feet. "The bitterness to our sweet."
"I am sorry," Achlys murmurs. "But I could not stand it if you went through centuries with… with just me. I could not bear it. No one could."
"You have acted out of turn," Merlin says gently. "But I cannot say I blame you."
"Why?" Achlys asks.
He does not elaborate on the question. All the possible endings hang in the emptiness between them: why are you being gracious? Why can you not blame me? Why do you say that humankind can appreciate me? Why did you say I am not harmful?
"Why?" Merlin asks, turning the word around in his mouth as if truly contemplating its taste. "Why indeed."
Merlin and Achlys are quiet for what might be a long time.
"I had said," Merlin begins, "that it is hard to escape your shadow long enough to appreciate you."
"Didn't you mean to understand me?" Achlys asks.
"No," Merlin says. "And I didn't mean shadow either. Penumbra is what I meant. Appreciate is what I meant. You occupy the space between hope and hopelessness. As long as you are around, Achlys, humanity remains human."
"I don't understand," Achlys says.
"No," Merlin says, chuckling. "We rarely ever understand ourselves, do we?"
"Merlin–"
The man in question fixes the creature with a strong stare.
"It has taken me much too long to understand how human you are," Merlin interrupts. "You are tragically human, aren't you?"
Achlys pauses, then says, "I could say the same of you."
"I think so," Merlin replies. "I hope so."
"I did well by you, didn't I? Somehow, the crimson glow of Achlys's eyes seems to communicate a sudden desperation." Achlys asks suddenly. "No one could live so long with only me for company. It is unbearable."
"Achlys…"
"I proved that, right? I… I saved you. I saved you from an unbearable life."
Merlin declines to answer. He simply looks at Achlys. Studies it.
From behind them, a new voice speaks. It is genderless, ageless, ringing with power and desolation.
"You have done your duty, Achlys," the voice says. "Now rest."
Achlys turns one last, doleful gaze on Merlin. Then the shadows and mist of its body return to the blanket of fog on the ground.
Merlin turns around.
Behind him stands… a form. Human, surely, but flickering at the edges, hinting at something larger and less than the silhouette it takes on. At once slender, fat, scrawny, broad, tall, short, male, female. Everything. Everyone.
Nothing.
Behind him is the concept of a person, pieced together from the nothing around it into some kind of recognizable shape. It is at once everyone Merlin has ever known and no one he has ever laid eyes on.
Perhaps it is made from shadow, or something darker than even the absence of light. It seems to be discernible only in the mind, and tentatively at that. Every so often, something bright and distant–perhaps white in color, though that is the only approximate adjective Merlin can conjure in his mind–flashes amid the nothingness of its shape. Blinking stars amid a void.
Something tells Merlin that the flashes are lives, objects, things that have once existed now fading from memory and becoming…
"Oblivion," Merlin says.
"Emrys," the master replies.
Merlin imagines that it spreads it arms wide, though he cannot for the life of him track any visible movement. Just the impression of motion remains in his mind.
Merlin looks at the–deity? Monster? Concept?–the being for a long time. Then, he places himself cross-legged against the ground and puts his chin in his hand.
"Would you indulge me in a conversation?" Merlin asks congenially.
Oblivion may have smiled.