Prompt 26, Merlin
He’d been to two of his friend’s funerals now.
He watched as Percival was laid in the ground, eyes dry and face blank. He knew it had been coming, the man had been looking older and older, magic beginning to prove unable to prevent his aches and pains. The man had been a goliath in life, even as he grew old and lost some of his bulk. The last knight left, he and Merlin had spent much of their time together after Leon’s death. At that point, he and Gwen were the only reasons Merlin ventured out of the woods anymore. He had no need to buy supplies, the books left to him by Gaius would likely last him for centuries, and materials were plentiful. He had no need for many things anymore, requiring little to no food and water, nor did he get sick. Any injury was healed within minutes, and he had long come to accept his new immortality.
They lowered the casket slowly, and Merlin watched it settle to the ground. Dirt soon began to cover it, hiding away the elaborate illustrations of the man’s achievements.
He met Gwen’s gaze, the woman standing next to the grave and wiping her eyes with a silk handkerchief. She was still affected by death, and Merlin was unsure if he pitied her or envied her. Her face was lined deeply, both from grief and mirth, the latter far less frequent in the years after Arthur’s death. He knew what people had thought when they had seen him with Percy or Gwen, his immortality apparent by his preserved youth. He was still limber and agile, albeit a clutz, his skin smooth and eyes clear. He had no right being as comfortable as he was around them, as friendly, knew many saw him as a presumptuous upstart who had no real idea of suffering. Watching the workers fill in the grave, he could have laughed at the irony. He'd lost nothing, and at the same time he'd lost absolutely everything.
He nodded from his spot at the tree line, a sad smile curving his lips. He hiked his bag higher on his shoulder and retreated into the woods. He would meet Gwen when she returned from the ceremonies-to celebrate the long, honorable life that Percy had lived-the two keeping each other company so they wouldn’t have to wade through their grief alone.
He spent more time at the castle than ever that year, almost always by Gwen’s side. She was slowly withering, the death of her last friend a blow that she couldn’t seem to shake off. She was refusing food, throwing up whatever she did eat. She barely left her bed, and Merlin was glad that he had urged her to pick and train a successor a couple of years before. She couldn’t lead her kingdom like this, and he was beginning to doubt that she would get better. He had never met the girl that Gwen had chosen to become the next queen, needing new blood since she and Arthur had been unsuccessful in conceiving before he had died. Instead of remarrying, she had ruled alone, steeling herself against the world. The kingdom respected her as well as they could, honoring her fierceness and loyalty to the king that they had held in such high regard near the end of his life.
Merlin understood, and he also understood her want for the child to know him, her wish for him to guide the little one after Gwen was no longer able to. It was a constant argument between the two, as although Merlin genuinely wanted the best for the kingdom, he could not fathom having to watch more people he cared about grow old while he himself stayed the same. He had been through enough.
Within the month, Gwen had passed. Merlin laid her to rest himself, lowering her casket down and waving a hand to cover it with dirt. With another wave a tree sprouted above her resting place, growing until it became a small sapling.
Merlin looked down at the grave, tears coming to his eyes after so long. This was his last friend, he realized, there was no one left for him that would understand how he suffered. Not that the other survivors had either. None of them could ever understand holding the person you cared about most in your arms and watching them bleed out, especially when you were so close to salvation. To have them accept a part of you that had been hidden and that they despised, only to fall limp and for you to lose the ability to apologize, to show them the truth.
He breathed in deep, turning and walking from the grave. Someone called out to him as he left, a hand latching onto his coat for a moment before they were repelled back a couple of meters, unable to get closer.
He vanished into the woods, bare feet padding along the ground, mindless of the scrapes and cuts that he was accumulating. He barely felt them anymore, they healed seconds after they were acquired-another benefit of his immortality. He could barely get hurt anymore and was unable to die, which had made him question his seemingly incredible luck in the past. Had he lived because of his actions and efforts, or because he was fated to live, no matter what?
Damned fate. It had taken his loved ones away from him, left Arthur bleeding out on his lap despite all of the efforts he had put in to ensure that the man lived. It was idiotic, he was sure that the gods were laughing at him as he found himself back at the lake. He stared blankly at the water. Knowing that Freya shared his plight was soothing in a way, although it made him feel guilty. He had been unable to save her too, nothing but a failure. Everyone he cared about was dead, why was he the one that got to continue living? He wasn’t anything special- his magic might be, but him? He had no particular bravery or skill, cunning or drive. He was a manservant, and even in that he was lacking.
He turned away from the lake and ran, deeper and deeper into the woods. He had no desire to watch the world from a distance, his allegiance to Camelot finally dying with the death of its queen. His Arthur wouldn’t be back until Camelot needed him the most, and he selfishly wanted to hasten that process. However, his remaining humanity, so sapped by his suffering over the decades, prevented him from taking that route. From destroying the very kingdom he swore to protect, the people who had done nothing but live.
He couldn’t die, that he knew. He’d tried every method he could think of- drinking all sorts of poisons, getting himself stabbed, jumping off a cliff. He’d gotten his head chopped off, set up his own pyre, but nothing worked. The poisons acted like nothing more than water, stab wounds healed within minutes, his head reattached, and he emerged from the fire with no sign that he’d ever been in it other than his missing clothes.
Eventually he could no longer run, his legs shaky and burning, tripping and tumbling to the ground. He didn’t know where he was, he could have gone a hundred miles or a hundred feet from the lake. He didn’t care, rolling over to stare up at the sky through the trees. It was a bright blue, puffy white clouds drifting through the gaps in the branches. There was a flock of birds flying high above, and he could hear them squawking distantly. Squirrels skittered through the trees, the wind whistling through the leaves and ruffling their fur. The world was beautiful, but he felt distant, viewing it as if through a fog. It didn't really matter now, did it? He should be dead, not alive to see this wonder, this majesty of life. He was supposed to have been the one who died, his blood staining the grass, Arthur the one that got to live. The kingdom had needed Arthur, not Merlin, who needed his king to do anything of substance.
Finally, tears began to leak from his eyes, quiet sniffles quickly muffled by the brush around him. He let his hands fall to his sides, slumping deeper into the earth. What he wouldn’t give to be able to lie here and rot, to let his body feed the animals, maggots infesting his flesh. It would be a nice resting place for his bones, in the open air, no stifling casket, no iron to muffle the spread of his magic.
He laid there as the sun moved across the sky and it grew dark, unmoving even as animals nudged at his still body, even as the sky opened up and it started to rain. His clothes soaked through, the rain disguising the tears still running down his face, washing away the remnants of his sorrow until it was impossible to tell he had been crying in the first place. The shower was gone as quick as it came, the world moving on even as he found himself frozen still.
He was so tired.
So tired his bones hurt, that his magic picked at his skin like knife blades, that his eyes felt like they'd been lit on fire. So tired that he wished he could sleep forever. That he could lay here in silence, unknowing, unmoving, until Arthur needed him again.
He closed his eyes, and let his magic envelop him. A feeling of calm covered him like a warm blanket, and everything was finally dark.
He hadn’t expected to wake up. He had hoped that he would stay there, buried in the ground, until the world stopped moving and he could join his friends in the afterlife.
Against his best efforts, however, his eyes blinked open. They felt encrusted with dirt and grime, almost slimy as he wiped at them with his shirt sleeve. He began to cough harshly as he took his first breath out of his slumber, the air burning his nose and throat. He squinted to peer through the smog and found a blurry figure standing in front of him, light causing his golden hair to gleam.
As his eyes focused, he realized that the man was covered in dirt and mud, as well as what was possibly blood. He was wearing armor, the kind of which Merlin had never seen, skintight and made of black material that looked a bit like a turtle’s shell. He was reaching out a hand, and Merlin’s breath caught as the smoke shifted enough for him to see the other’s face. He had hoped, of course, had wanted his magic to keep him asleep. He peered up at the other, blinking his eyes to keep relieved tears from falling down his face.
“Get up Merlin, you lazy sod,” Arthur says, grinning crookedly and sticking out his hand. “We have work to do, and we aren't going to get it done if you're sitting on your arse.”
Merlin let Arthur pull him to his feet, falling forward into the other's arms. They wrapped around him tightly, brawn against his twig-thin body as Merlin buried his head in Arthur's neck. Merlin shook, quiet sobs escaping, tears leaking out to soak Arthur's jacket. Arthur held him to his chest and let him cry, rubbing his back in a gentle show of affection.
"I'm sorry Merlin," Arthur whispered into his hair. "I didn't want to leave, but I'm here now. We're all back, and it'll be okay this time around."
"You swear?" Merlin asked softly, voice breaking as he sniffled.
"I swear, you big crybaby. Everything will be okay."