Warning: Character death.

Let the depression ensue.


Dead. All of them were about to be dead. There was nothing that Merlin could do about that. He was going to be die in a few minutes himself. Or was it seconds? Maybe he was already dead. No, the pain. He was still breathing. Why was he still breathing? Every breath was a painful chore. He was just delaying the inevitable. He couldn't get up. He didn't even have the strength to try to stop the bleeding. No one knew where he was, except of course for the people who were about to kill Arthur, possibly murder several other people, and then proceed to take over Camelot. If Merlin could he would stop them. He was just too busy dying.

He wouldn't be in this situation if hadn't been trying to save Camelot. Merlin had tried to spy on a band of renegade sorcerers. He believed that none of them were aware of his eavesdropping. He was wrong. One of the sorcerers had sunk over to where Merlin had concealed himself. Merlin hadn't know that the man was there until it was too late. Seconds later his gut had been sliced open.

Now, Merlin was lying on the forest floor. He was too weak to save himself or anyone else for that matter. It really hurt to breathe. He didn't want to die, but he couldn't bear the pain anymore. He never expected to die like this. Killed by a nameless sorcerer and unable to so much as warn his friends.

His head hurt. He wasn't breathing. Merlin tried to pull air into his lungs. It was in vain. He was too weak. Dark spots were burring his vision. No, no, no, he couldn't die like this. He had to breathe. It was such a simple thing. He could do this. He tried again, to no avail. He couldn't see anymore. He tried to tell his lungs to inhale. He couldn't feel his own lungs. Seconds later he was dead.

Merlin was dead, starring with sightless eyes, where no one would find him.


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