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It’s cold, he notes vaguely. He didn’t think that was what he’d notice. The cold. But here he is. He wonders absently if he’s in shock. Is that why all he’s feeling is the cold?
The warm blood that once circulated his body is leaving him now. He’d always thought it would flow in patterns, run like water. But it doesn’t. It’s thick, spreading in a pool around him. A dull shape, no rivers to distract him. The blood doesn’t choose a path, It flows over all and conquers as it will.
He doesn’t have the strength to move any longer. He watches his blood spread. It’s sickly slow, like it’s testing the way before it goes, like it knows it’s not meant to be there, outside of the familiarity of a body. Merlin has the delusional thought that he should ask nicely for his blood to come back.
But he doesn't think he can speak, his jaw is clenched so tight. Why is that? He figures it’s because of the chattering. He really is cold.
He’s alone, too. He wonders if this would have gone differently if he weren’t. Maybe someone would have gotten him help by now, stitched him up and sent him on his way. But life is unfair. Not everything gets solved.
He has a sudden bone deep ache for Arthur. To see him again one last time. He doesn’t want to forget his face, tries to think of it, but his mind is becoming fuzzy. He can’t think of- He can’t think of Arthur’s face! What does he do? He knows his face, he knows, he knows it. How could he forget the face of the man he loves?
He’s panicking now, his heart sluggishly trying to speed up. There are tears falling helplessly over his cheeks. He doesn’t want to go, he realises. He’d always thought that when the time came, he wouldn’t fear death. Would take it nobly. All things come to an end, he knows. But he doesn’t want to go.
What about all of the things he has left to do? What about all of the things he’s left unsaid? Who will protect Arthur, if he’s not there to do it?
He tries to blink away his tears but it doesn’t work. They defy him. Flowing as they please.
There are patterns now, he sees. Water meets blood. Red swirls. Two liquids dance together, red tendrils winding their way to the hearts of the droplets. Blood consumes water. It’s almost as if his blood is growing greedy, ready to feast on the anguish he provides. There is nothing shy or questing about the pool around him now. It may be slow, but it is sure.
He lets out a sob. He’s scared. He cries out for Arthur, but there is no one around to hear him. He doesn’t know what’s awaiting him, doesn’t know what happens next. He’s tried to picture it before, curious as to what lays beyond the veil.
He doesn’t want to know anymore.
He wants Arthur. He wants his friends. He wants Gaius. He misses them. He needs them. He’s never felt something so certainly in his life. Is it selfish? To not want to die alone? Is it better this way? To not force the ones he loves to see the life drain from his eyes?
What will they do when they find him? Will they find him? Maybe he’ll lay here, forgotten. His body would serve as food for the animals that may wander here. How long will anyone search before they give up? How long will anyone keep going in false hope?
Although, maybe it would be better that way. If they never find out what happened to him, they can hold on to the possibility that he’ll be back. But does he want that for them? What if their situations were reversed? He would rather know Arthur is dead than hold onto some false hope of him coming back only to never find him again.
Merlin looks up into the trees. He expected pain. All he feels is numb. His physical pain seems meaningless now. Why was dying so slow? Why does he have to lie here for so long torturing his own mind with these thoughts?
His mind blurs now, he can feel it coming. At this point he doesn’t know if death is a blessing or a curse, he just wants it to be over. He’s tired of thinking, tired of feeling, tired, tired, tired.
In the end his eyes don’t close.