Chapter Text
It was always hardest in the morning.
The sun had risen, bringing the light to the day that Merlin never felt. His quarters were dark, cold and filled with the reminiscence of tinctures Gaius had been making months ago before he fell sick.
Once upon a time, Merlin had been up at the crack of dawn, cheerfully ripping back the curtain and waking up-
Now the weight of the years crushed his chest like a stone slab, and the morings brought nothing but more pain.
Merlin's eyes blinked open to a ceiling half-rotted with rain, stone cracked like old bones, beams warped by time. His bed creaked beneath him, the straw in the mattress poking through the worn linen sheets. Dampness clung to his skin, but he didn’t move. He hadn’t moved for some time.
The dawn light poured through the crooked window, spilling across the floor in slanted shafts of gold. Dust danced lazily in the beam—soft and warm, like Camelot once was. Like Arthur once was.
And then it struck, as it always did. That familiar, cruel memory.
He was gone.
Arthur was dead.
A sharp inhale caught in his throat. Merlin’s fingers twitched, curling into the blanket. His lungs refused to expand properly, as if the air itself was too heavy. It was always like this—just before he moved, just before he dragged his feet to stand. His heart pounded too fast for his breath to keep up.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
He tried to prevent it from happening again, his body not being able to take an attack this early in the morning. But the panic curled up from his gut like rising smoke. It prickled his skin, tightened his chest, deafened him with his own racing pulse.
“Breathe,” he told himself hoarsely. His voice cracked from disuse.
He never spoke anymore. There was no one to speak to after all. Everyone was either dead or dealing with things on their own.
Gwen didn't speak to him. She hadn't spoke to him since he yelled and screamed that she didn't understand anything. That was five years ago. She hadn't looked in his direction since he tore down half the castle in a magic wave; the only thing left behind was his room. It was lonely without his friend, but he had been the reason for it after all.
Percival had changed, he had turned to the tavern after the loss of Gwaine. He turned violent when he wasn't slumped in the corner of the old drinking area. There was nothing left of the once valiant knight; pulled apart from loss and betrayal. Merlin was one of those betrayal's, the man having not spoken to him once he realised the lies Merlin had told him since the beginning.
And then there was Leon. Leon stretched so thin when trying to keep Camelot alive, his friend from drinking himself to death and his newly born child healthy to one day take the throne. He had tried to keep speaking to Merlin, tried up until three years ago when they got into a fight. Leon had accused him of never doing anything with his magic, he never helped people and always messed something up. He blamed Merlin for his quick temper as he screamed at anyone who mentioned the late King's name. Ever since then Merlin had hidden from the knight's gaze, not wanting to hurt the man any further.
He sat up slowly, elbows on knees, head in hands. His fingers dug into his scalp as though pressure might squeeze the pain out. He didn’t cry. He couldn’t. That part of him was wrung dry years ago.
Arthur’s name still sat heavy in his throat. Five years, and Merlin hadn’t said it aloud more than a handful of times.
What was the point? There was no one left to hear it.
The fire in the hearth had long gone out. He hadn’t lit it in two days—maybe more. Not since the last time Gaius had stirred and called his name in a dazed whisper. The old man slept almost all the time now, too weak to even sit up. Merlin checked on him when he could bear to. When the silence in the room didn’t feel too loud.
He didn’t use magic to help Gaius. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, there was no saving someone from death. He had learnt that. He could either slow i down or speed it up with his magic. And he couldn't do that.
Not anymore.
The thought of it—of summoning that part of himself—turned his stomach. Magic curled beneath his skin, a quiet hum, a pulsing ache like a phantom limb. Every day he kept it buried, caged, shackled. And every day it clawed at him in protest.
Arthur had died not long after Merlin revealed the truth. He could still see the look on his face. Confusion. Pain. Betrayal—or was it just fear?
Merlin never got to ask.
So the magic stayed inside now, rotten and restless. He clenched his fists, knuckles white. His joints ached with it, his chest burned.
Arthur wouldn’t want—
No. He didn’t know what Arthur would want. He never got the chance to find out.
He was dead.
Merlin rose slowly, moving like a man twice his age. He couldn't outrun the slow process of growing up, not when he still was a kid and forced to face things to big for him, and not now. His back was stiff, limbs reluctant. His shirt hung loose on his frame, more bones than boy beneath it. He hadn’t looked in a mirror in weeks, perhaps months. He didn’t need to.
He stepped over a cracked floorboard and picked up his scarf from where it lay discarded. The red cloth was frayed, stained, but he wrapped it around his neck with mechanical care. Like armor. Or maybe a noose.
Outside, the village near the edge of the woods stirred to life. Smoke curled from chimneys, carts rattled along the cobblestones, children laughed somewhere far away. It all sounded muffled. Distant.
He passed the threshold of the door, into a world that no longer felt like his.
The forest was dense this morning, fog slipping through the trees like ghosts. His boots made no sound on the mossy path. He moved on instinct, not direction.
It was easier that way.
He passed through the lower town around Camelot, keeping to the edges. He didn’t want to see anyone. And yet—he couldn’t help it.
He saw Gwen once, across the courtyard. She stood in quiet conversation with one of the castle’s new advisors, her brow furrowed. She wore Arthur’s colors still, though they looked dull now against the grey stone of the kingdom.
Merlin didn’t approach.
He crept further into the shadows just incase she looked up.
She didn’t look up. She never did.
He saw Percival, too. Just for a moment. A blur of broad shoulders and a too-thin face, ducking into a tavern before the sun was fully up. His gait was uneven. Drunk already, or still?
Merlin looked away.
He carried on, pulling his hood up onto his head.
Leon passed him on horseback, nodding politely to the hooded figure without realizing who he was. Merlin said nothing. He was a ghost in this place. A relic. A shadow of something that had once mattered. It was better like this.
His feet carried him to the lake before he even knew where he was going.
Where he’d last held Arthur in his arms. Where he’d wept so hard he thought he might split open. Where the world had ended quietly, with only the sound of wind and water and a king’s last breath.
He sat down on the edge of the shore, knees drawn to his chest. A breeze rippled over the water. It looked peaceful now.
It wasn’t fair, he thought. How calm it looked. How still. As though nothing had happened. As though the world had simply moved on without noticing the weight it had dropped.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small leather pouch he always carried.
Inside, a tiny, chipped figure. A dragon, carved years ago. Arthur’s. He’d found it buried among the king’s things after the funeral pyres had burned down to ash.
Merlin turned it over in his hand. His fingers trembled.
His magic stirred in his chest, wanting out. Wanting something.
He clenched his teeth, shoved the pouch away.
“No.”
The pain settled back in, dull and familiar.
He had things to do. Gaius would need water. The herbs needed gathering. The roof was still leaking. The world spun on, even when it shouldn’t.
Merlin stood, slowly, and turned away from the lake.
He didn’t look back.
Not today.
There was no need to afterall, he would be back soon enough.
He just had a few things to do first.