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The worst sight Merlin had ever laid eyes on was the boat that had become Arthur’s fireless pyre. It was burned into his eyelids with all the strength of the invisible fire, and he would never forget it. Nor would he ever forgive Arthur for such a heinous crime, for leaving him in such a way.
Seeing Arthur dead was so wrong. He had always been so alive, so vibrant and bright and present. The sight of him with no life, eyes closed, limbs limp, is too much, far too much. He had never quit in his life, not once, and it makes this more unnatural than death ought to be.
Arthur made a lot of promises in his lifetime, and Merlin did not hold him to all of them. He always thought he would be able to hold him to the promise that they would always stay together, side-by-side, brothers, lovers, everything in between. Arthur broke the most sacred promise, and Merlin could not forgive him this. It would only encourage such behavior.
He would never quit, not Arthur. Why he would quit now, Merlin did not know. Merlin was plagued by this question, by a never-ending list of questions, by Arthur’s lifeless face swimming in front of his eyes, waking and sleeping. It was horrendous. It was unfair. It was life; it was death.
Arthur broke his promise. He broke himself; he said he would not leave, and he did. He never quit, and then he did. Merlin did not understand. But he could not forgive. No, he would never forgive himself.