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Poets often described scenes of grief and mourning, as if they were in the middle of a stormy day, grey clouds that pressed upon one's soul and pouring rain, that was supposed to be a metaphor for the tears left unshed.
The scenes themselves were set in a stormy day because what could possibly be worse than suffering alone and with darkness all around you? What could be worse than the sun itself disappearing when you need the light the most? The entire world pressing down on your chest while you are so desperately trying to breathe?
Poets, apparently, thought that a torrent of darkness and rain was what you should dread the most when you grieve the loss of a loved one.
Poets had it all wrong.
Merlin hated spring.
Because spring is the last thing you want around you when you are hurting on the inside. He should, by all accounts, feel invigorated by the bright sun of a beautiful day, the birds singing and the flowers blooming, the world awakening in all its glory.
But he did not, how could he?
By the Gods! The world shouldn't awaken, so full of life when the person that deserved that the most was dead on the bottom of a lake! The flowers, that he once loved to look at while picking herbs, now outright disgusted him, because how dared they bloom in a rainbow of colors when those same colors were drained from the person that had eyes made from the sky and hair of the sweetest honey? How could the nightingales sing wonderful songs when the only melody Merlin wanted to hear was the voice of someone that was long gone? And the sun, curse that source of energy and light, when the clouds parted and its rays touched every single life form, it appeared as if it was the brightest thing in the entire world and everyone decided to ‘run outside, quick!’ so that they too, could bathe in all its warm splendor. The sun was probably one of the things Merlin hated the most during spring, along with all the life he could feel turning and spinning around him.
Because it wasn’t the brightest thing that had ever touched the earth, it couldn’t even begin to compare to the way Arthur had shone every single moment of his life, so bright and so beautiful.
Once, Gaius had told him that Spring, being a force of good, would eventually notice Merlin’s hardships and will aid him in getting past them by gifting him of what he needed the most. A ‘helping hand from nature’ as the old physician had described it at that time, even though Merlin couldn’t remember when exactly, not too long before that day though. It didn’t matter either way, Merlin hadn’t believed his mentor at the time and definitely didn’t right now, Spring had never helped him, not even once and if he was completely honest, it looked like she disliked him as much as he did her.
Few things didn’t make Merlin’s stomach turn in anguish this time of the year, one of them was kept in the middle of the castle grounds, right before the set of stairs that would lead into the old stone building that once, he had considered his home.
Merlin made his way to it, with a hood drawn over his head to shield himself from the majority of the light and some of the sounds, through the crowd of people hurrying through the busy streets, the ever-present confusion that didn’t falter even after the king’s death. The events after Camlann were confused and blurred together, Merlin lost track of time, he just knew that not long after it, sweet Gwen got rid of the ban on magic and he knew that he should feel happy about it, but it hadn’t been Arthur to sign it, so what mattered anyway? How long ago had it been, it couldn’t have been much, since he couldn’t see nor feel anyone practicing a few tricks around him, probably still too afraid from the years of killing and bloodshed.
Again, Merlin felt a tendril of anger moving in his insides, that then proceeded to curl around his heart, constricting it: how did they not feel that something was wrong; missing, and just went about without a care in the world, as if it wasn’t outright falling apart?
Gritting his teeth, he continued, shutting his eyes for a second.
He knew what he looked like. He couldn't not, Merlin could keep his head down and avert the people’s gaze all that he wanted, but he couldn't ignore how his eyes felt hollow, a dull ache behind them that he couldn't quite get to, and how his back hurt from the way he curved. But once again, he moved on.
The statue was there, as it always were, too tall to look at the figure in the eyes and just a bit too short for it to be visible by the entire courtyard; Merlin spared a minute to take a look at it again. It wasn't perfect, not by a long shot, his hair was way too long and reminded him more of Lancelot's or even Gwaine's, as the locks were sculpted so that they reached his jaw. A jaw that had, for some reason, a bushy beard that was even longer than his hair, so different from how his king usually kept it, almost unexistent, Merlin guessed that people associated wisdom and wit with that long beard.
If one set those couple of imperfections in the statue though, Arthur’s features were surprisingly accurate, so much so that Merlin imagined that this is what the King might have looked like if he had got the chance to grow older, if he hadn’t been killed before his time. If only Merlin hadn’t failed him.
He let himself drop to his knees, maybe because they suddenly stopped supporting him under his own and the guilt’s weight, or maybe because he simply wanted to read the inscription, carefully carved into the cool stone; either way, Merlin didn’t bother to dwell on how exactly he got there.
ARTHUR PENDRAGON, KING OF CAMELOT
Under it, a few more details and pieces of information were added in Latin, nothing Merlin hadn’t already read or known, just something that might have interested future generations that passed through and decided to take a look.
He traced the pads of his fingers over the name a couple of times, ever so gentle, as if what he was touching wasn’t immovable stone, but a fragile crystal, that could break if only held too tight and lost himself in his memories, noises from the world suddenly muted, as if he was submerged in water.
Slowly and with hood still hiding him from the people’s view, he leaned in and pressed his lips to the white marble, eyes closed so that the tears wouldn’t escape them and remembering a time when he would have found soft warmth against him, answering the gentle kiss, instead of an unmoving coldness that was now making its way through his body and into his heart. After what couldn’t have been more than a minute Merlin backed away, still on his knees, now ready to open his eyelids and the first thing he saw when the light had stopped blinding him in the first couple of seconds, was the last line of the Latin inscription, that translated read:
THE BODY OF THE KING WAS NEVER FOUND
The sounds suddenly came back at full force, dizzying him just like the light had done a moment ago, so he couldn’t blame himself when a hand dropped on his shoulder without him sensing anyone coming closer and jumped only slightly on the spot.
“Hey there? Are you all alright?”
Heart still beating in his chest, Merlin turned around and glanced up.
The man was tall, the sun behind him hid his main features from view so that the only thing he could see was the toned silhouette of someone who worked out often and the sorcerer stood up from his crouching position, knees buckling a little.
“Yea,” he began to answer, wishing that his voice could be a bit steadier, “sorry, just reading what it said.”
Now that he was up and didn’t have the sun in his eyes he could make out the details of this man’s face.
He was tanned, eyes kind even though there was a confused look to them.
They were very green, while the hair and beard were of a vibrant red that Merlin didn’t see often in this part of England, behind him, a young girl that looked the exact copy of the man was looking between Merlin and the statue.
“Ah, sorry to bother you man, my daughter just wanted a picture of that you know? She’s really into this mythological stuff, aye?”