Chapter Text
He sits there until Merlin goes cold in his arms, until the sun’s beginning to set and a winter chill sweeps through the air.
Arthur blinks, and suddenly he’s bent over a creek, scrubbing desperately at his fingers and watching the blood wash away under the moonlight.
It doesn’t help, doesn’t quell the sense of wrong underneath his skin. He can scrub for as long as he likes, but Merlin’s blood will always be on his hands.
He scrubs harder.
It’s early when they reach Camelot, the rising sun leaving a blue hue to the air. People stare as he walks past, and it’s no wonder. Merlin lies stiffly in his arms, wrapped up in the red wool of his cape. Arthur doesn’t acknowledge their stares or their whispers.
All that matters now is getting Merlin home.
Gaius doesn’t notice at first glance. He urges them both inside, has Arthur set the body on a nearby cot, and opens his mouth to say something before it abruptly snaps shut.
The raven hair is the only thing visible from under the cloth, but it’s enough.
”Arthur,” croaks Gaius, and he reaches out to pull back the fabric before snatching his hand back as if burned, “Tell me that’s not - “
“It is.” Arthur’s voice sounds numb to his own ears. He doesn’t cry, isn’t sure he’s capable of it anymore.
”I’m sorry, Gaius. I - I tried - “
”Who?” He can just barely make out the question through the man’s stuttering sobs, and Arthur can hear the rage underneath it.
”Bandits,” he answers, and Gaius nods, as if that’s all that needs saying.
Is that all that Merlin’s death boils down to? He survives poisons, magical illness, an undead army, and some drunkard comes along and kills him on a fucking whim?
”Dead,” Arthur says, to himself and to Gaius, “All of them.”
Part of him recoils at the sick sense of satisfaction that rolls through him at the words. He’s never enjoyed taking lives. It’s always been an evil sort of necessity, not something to revel in.
But knowing that Merlin’s killers spent their last moments choking on their own blood is an exception he’s willing to make.
Arthur leaves them, then. He knows that Gaius needs to say goodbye, needs time to grieve, but it doesn’t make letting Merlin out of his line of sight any easier.
It’s bizarre, almost horrific, the way his instincts still screams at him to protect, unaware that such an impulse is now useless.
He’s not sure of where he’s headed. The thought of going back to his chambers is sickening. Merlin brought so much life to the space. Arthur wishes he would’ve told him so.
”Arthur! We weren’t expecting you back so soon,” says Gwen as he passes her in a dimly lit corridor. His chest does something painful and strange.
He stares at her, at the tired smile she wears, oblivious of Merlin’s body lying dead a short distance away.
He hadn’t thought about this. There’s so many people he needs to speak to. Arthur nearly chokes. Hunith. This’ll kill her.
Gwen takes one look at the blood on his chainmail and laughs, “I suppose you had Merlin take the meat to the kitchen, then?”
Arthur opens his mouth, intent on saying something, anything. She should hear it from him.
Instead, he turns and spills his guts across the castle floor.
Gwen makes a noise of alarm and reaches out to steady him. He flinches away from her touch.
”Arthur, are - “
She stops. Her eyes widen. She must see something, something in his eyes perhaps, and the concerned crease in her brow goes slack and her skin goes ashen.
She takes off in a run.
”Gwen, wait - “
It’s too late. She’s gone.
Her unexpected arrival has lead him to an upsetting realization.
It falls to him to speak to the knights.
He pulls himself together as best he can, calls them from the training yard, and explains what’s happened in the most firm yet gentle way he can manage. His mouth still tastes of his own sick.
Gwaine punches him. A few times, actually.
Searing pain lances up through his nose, and it’s almost welcome compared to the unfeeling coldness that had been there just before.
There’s shouting, and Gwaine’s weight is being pulled off of him, even as he screams obscenities at Arthur. He doesn’t bother defending himself, painfully aware that every syllable is well deserved.
There’s anger and confusion rolling off of all of them in waves. Arthur had expected nothing less.
“Did he suffer?”
It’s Lancelot. He doesn’t seem as angry as the rest of them. He doesn’t even look like he’s breathing.
”No. He went quickly.”
It’s a lie. But Arthur can’t bear to tell them anything else.
”He died a hero,” is all he can offer in the ensuing silence, and his voice cracks on the last breath. Gwaine’s face twists up in an ugly snarl.
”He lived a hero.”
When Arthur finally returns to his chambers, it’s cold. Frigid, even. He casts a look toward the unlit fireplace, where he can still imagine Merlin stoking a flame, making some snide comment about the chill in his own room.
Arthur had dismissed him then, assumed that m Merlin was complaining only for the sake of pestering him. But now, he lets the icy air settle into his bones, and he wonders how many nights Merlin went to bed shivering beneath his covers.
He dismantles his armor piece by piece, lets it clatter to the floor.
“I don’t see why these damn things need polishing, anyway,” Merlin says as he brushes at a spaulder, “We’re going to be the only ones to see them!”
Arthur’s face twists up at the memory.
He all but falls into bed, his limbs heavy and weak with the journey. He lets his head sink into the pillows, and ignores the blood that drips from his nose and onto the sheets.
When Arthur lets his eyes fall shut, he knows that sleep won’t come for him.
Gaius tells him that he’ll contact Hunith himself, and that she wouldn’t want them to wait to put her son to rest. Arthur finds it odd, but doesn’t argue.
He also has a few specific requests for the services. Arthur doesn’t dare question the wishes of a grieving father, and he’s honestly a bit relieved that the ceremony isn’t left to him.
He’s been a wreck, as have they all, and the drunken tremble in his limbs makes him wonder if he’d be able to come up with anything satisfactory.
They dress Merlin in a velvet coat with the Pendragon seal embroidered over the heart, one of his ridiculous little scarves adorning his neck.
The ride to Avalon is dead quiet, save for the thud of the horses’ footsteps and the occasional caw of a raven above them.
They fill the boat with winter heather and primrose. They’re rather pretty, he thinks, and believes Merlin would feel the same.
Lancelot and Gwaine send him out into the water, and Gwen’s grip on his arm grows tighter.
She’s crying, Arthur can feel it as she shakes against his side. He would be too, if he could manage it. Arthur pulls his arm out from her hold and and wraps it around her shoulders.
A prayer is offered. Arthur never did hold much interest in religion, but as the words leave his mouth, he finds himself hoping that there’s someone on the other end willing to receive them.
“Forgive us our failures, dear Lord, and welcome Merlin into paradise. Amen.”
He raises his bow, and Leon lights the arrow. For a moment, his hand is frozen stiff around the string, refusing to pull back.
Arthur pictures the vessel in which Merlin lays going up in flames, and something inside him weeps silently at the finality of it.
He flexes his fingers, pulls the string back, and releases it with a pained breath.
They all watch as the boat catches fire. Gwen’s given up on holding back the tears altogether, and Gaius is the one who gathers her in his arms.
”Sire?” Leon asks, when the fire’s died out and Merlin’s sunk beneath the surface.
Arthur doesn’t want to go back. He thinks of his father, how the pain of Morgana’s betrayal had driven him to madness. He can feel the same sort of insanity beginning to creep up on him.
”I’m alright, Leon. Let’s head home.”