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Merlin had never experienced pain to such an extent before.
Nothing could compare to what he felt now, not the serket sting, not even when watching Morgana slip away from them. He cried, wet, salty tears spilled out and down his face as he screamed in pain.
The battle should have been an easy win, the knights were strong and Merlin, now the court sorcerer, could use his magic freely to help.
But something had gone wrong, the enemy had snuck behind them, using long forgotten passages and separated Camelot's forces. Merlin was a formidable opponent, almost flying across the battlefield knocking down enemies so easily it looked effortless.
But no one can truly escape death.
The druids had told Merlin he was immortal, that it was part of his destiny to live eternally. But that made Merlin careless.
What they did not realise is that destinies can change, the future is not set in stone.
The Golden Age of Albion was happening under the rule of Arthur.
He had freed magic, legalised the use of it for all. The world could breathe again.
And there was no need for the Once and Future King to return, for he had changed the future of Albion forever.
And so, Merlin was dying.
He lay on the muddy battlefield, the distant sounds of swords ringing.
Merlin felt alone.
He wasn't truly alone, the bodies of both armies lay with him, the dead and the dying together. There was no difference in sides after death, the lives of each body irrelevant and forgotten with the horrors of war. The choices of those in power leaving the nameless, the faceless to die for their greed.
He felt so cold, he hurt so much. He knew he was losing too much blood, the warm liquid spilling out of the wound on his chest and poured over his side, pooling in front of him as he lay curled up.
He could hear shouts of someone calling his name, the person becoming more desperate, more frantic. More voices joined in, but he had no strength to call out.
He would never be able to say goodbye.
He could never tell Arthur he loved him.