It wasn't the echoes of the lost sorcerers and witches, magical creatures or people that bothered him. Not even the ghosts he could sense inside Camelot's walls. Not the first rain drops on Autumn. Not the last rays of smoke that smothered themselves as people got burnt alive in the courtyard.

It wasn't the throbbing pain in his chest and his mind everytime he held someone dying in his arms. It wasn't the nights he woke up screaming. Not even the scars he had all around his body.

It wasn't about the secrets or lies. It wasn't about titles or names. It was

about them.

Real people.

Real people getting killed. Getting burnt. Getting him dying a little inside every time.

It wasn't the magic inside him, that shifted and turned, beated with his heart. It wasn't about him.

It wouldn't be about the legends that would carry his name after centuries, people whispering his name as he would be a god.

It was real pain. Eating, agonizing pain, every time he looked those people in the eyes. It was falling down knowing that no-one would catch. It was hurting yourself knowing no one would notice. It was crying alone knowing that nobody did really care.

It was sad, empty faces around him, knowing that even if they saw him, the couldn't really see. It wasn't the voices that haunted his sleep at night.

It was him.