I seem to be propelled entirely by tragedy these days but I've always wondered what it would do to Arthur to lose Gwen because I think she meant more to him than anyone realized. Even when she "betrayed" him, there was still the possibility of her. This is my hypothesis about actually losing her would do to him.

If you're the sensitive type, maybe keep chocolate on hand. Also, I'm sorry.

Destiny Lost

The stillness was alarming.

It felt like the air had been punched from his lungs. Like the shocked breath after a wound.

And really, what else could it be called? What else could Merlin compare it to?

And Arthur…well, Arthur's room had been eerily silent for several hours now. Despite his protestations and pleadings, the guards stationed by the door would not give Merlin entry to the prince's chambers. The King had ordered none to see Arthur until sunset to give the spell time to lose its power. Only after a few of the kitchen's pastries did they tell him that the prince had gone into a rage at dawn but that he was quiet now.

So Merlin sat in the hallway, until his bones were numb, watching and waiting as the sun crept across the sky. Mind and heart numb. Fingers drumming a rapid beat on his kneecaps.

As the stones began to redden with the disappearing light, there was a click and then the guards moved away. Merlin didn't waste an instant and was through the door before they'd scare made it three steps.

He entered a disaster. Dishes, armor, and furniture was strewn about, shattered into pieces across the stone floor. Bedding and tapestries were torn from their places. Wine ran across the groves in the stones, gathering in little eddies and trailing towards the cold fireplace.

Merlin shuffled inside, stepping over the chainmail that appeared to have made contact with the door, and looked about for his friend. In the mess, his search took several moments.

Arthur sat curled in the corner of the room as still as death, back against the wall, with the last glimmer of sunlight touching the gold of his hair. His eyes were vacant, staring endlessly into space. His hands rested on his knees were outstretched before him, knuckles rent and torn.

Merlin moved forward, catching a relatively clean cloth from the floor. "Arthur..."

The prince did not react in the slightest. He didn't even blink.

"Arthur," Merlin tried again with a louder tone. "Arthur, you've hurt your hands." The wounds appeared to be free of debris but it was difficult to say without inspecting them closer. Some salves from Gaius would certainly be in order to prevent infection. Merlin's train of thought was abruptly cut off.

"Leave it, Merlin."

The prince's voice was so low that Merlin barely caught the words. "What?"

"I said…leave it."

"But sire-"

And finally, Arthur's gaze shifted, pinning Merlin with one of the most intense stares he'd ever faced. Arthur's eyes were hollow of anything but unbridled pain, like his soul had been carved from his chest and only a shell of flesh remained.

"There's nothing you can do for me now."

Merlin felt his throat close and the pain in his chest intensified. His hands moved along the cloth, aching for something to do. On an ordinary day, he would have made a joke, teased Arthur for sitting alone in the darkness, but he couldn't even muster a smile now. It didn't seem right. So he kept his silence and Arthur continued.

"I could have spent my life with her. We could have been happy. I could have made her happy." Arthur looked up at Merlin and he saw silvery tracks of tears down Arthur's cheeks. "Instead, my actions took her life."

Merlin's eyes began to burn, and he struggled for control, struggled for a response. But Arthur didn't seem to be finished.

"I've lost her, Merlin, and I don't know what to do."

And what could Merlin say to that? What was there to say?

What good was his magic when he forsook him at the most critical moment? Nothing he had tried had worked. The aging potion had failed miserably, save to give him a powerful headache and to render his magic inert. Gaius advised him that his magic would return but that seemed so useless now.

Gwenivere was dead.

Merlin had skidded into the courtyard to see her figure wash over with flames and to hear her cries pierce his ears. He had stood there, immobile, until the flames died away and the crowds milled away from the spectacle. Only when he caught sight of Uther, eyes cold and flinty, step away from his balcony was Merlin spurred to motion and to where he now crouched before the broken figure of his friend.

He tried to find his voice, swallowing hard. "It wasn't your fault. You did all you could-"

Rage unlike anything Merlin had ever seen consumed Arthur's expression. "I should have tried harder! I should have done something! Anything! I shouldn't have left her side!"

"Your father-"

"My father is a coward! I will never forgive him, Merlin, I swear it."

Merlin believed him. To his very core, Merlin believed him. Arthur made no idle threats, nor did he speak lightly. He was all passion, and fervor, and drive combined with an unparalleled capacity for stubbornness. Arthur was a force to be reckoned with.

It seemed Uthur would face that reckoning.

Merlin could say no more and spent the remainder of the day in Arthur's room, trying to block out the smell of ash and the acrid smoke curling up from the courtyard.

That day marked a change in Camelot. Fires were strictly forbidden in Arthur's room. The prince could barely stand the sight of torches without going white with rage. He became cold and distant, never spending more than an instant in his father's company.

On Merlin's part, he woke regularly to blink away dream-induced flames and the sound of a woman's cries thundering in his ears. He could not escape the pressing feeling that his destiny was irreparably lost.

For Arthur, Merlin did what he could, bringing food to Arthur's rooms when he refused another state dinner and polishing the prince's armor until his hands were raw to keep an eye on him when he was particularly moody. Arthur's things had never been in such good care. But Arthur seemed indifferent.

Uthur seemed to notice a difference in his son, gaze occasionally softening into something resembling pain, before hardening again and the crusade against magic would be increased tenfold. Arthur refused to participate in them, locking himself in his room or disappearing to the woods. Gone were the raging arguments or the blatant disobedience. Cold fury kept Arthur brooding in his room and impassive to Merlin's inquiries.

One morning after a nameless execution, Arthur disappeared completely, his room ever cold and the bedclothes undisturbed. Even the Pendragon red was left behind.

At first, there was great commotion. Uther demanded contingents of soldiers to search night and day for his lost son. Time passed and slowly, conflicts with Mercia and other troubles leeched the troops away. Uther became a recluse almost entirely, save to oversee executions.

Merlin searched, with the aid of Leon, when possible. Sleeping in between tasks for Gaius and on the back of horses deep in the woods. No trace of Arthur was found. Merlin was not truly surprised. The prince could be cunning when he wished, the dollophead, and there was no sign of magic or foul play—much as though Merlin would have wished it.

In their absence, the city grew gray and weary.

Time passed and yet the wounds the city had endured only festered. Then, months later, deep into the cold of winter, Arthur suddenly returned with an army of druids at his back.

His eyes were icy and his face scarred. His orders were efficient and brutal.

When the stronghold was taken and the streets were filled with the wails of the wounded and dying, Arthur marched on the throne room, Morgana's imperiously smiling gaze following him. Morgause stood only behind him, magic springing from the gold in her eyes and shattering the wooden doors.

Arthur was not moved by the pleadings of his father and those of his advisors, cutting them down mercilessly. That was how Merlin found him, turning away from the corpses, bloodied sword in hand, and shoulders taut.

Arthur caught sight of him and stopped. "Merlin…", his voice hoarse.

Merlin found words difficult to say. He wanted to tease him, slap him on the back, and then sprint down the hall to avoid a chiding for being disrespectful. He wanted to be happy to see his old friend. But he couldn't. "What…what have you done?"

Arthur's frigid expression returned. "I have done justice. It is better this way. Now no man or woman may be killed for the practice of sorcery. His reign of cruelty has ended."

Horror surged through his veins. "But not like this, Arthur. This isn't how it was supposed to be! I was supposed to help you! You were to unite the kingdoms, not destroy them!"

"Unite the kingdoms? Merlin, you really are an idiot. These kingdoms are corrupted with greed and superstition."

"Gwen wouldn't have wanted this." Her name fell from his lips before he could think better of it and Arthur's response was grave indeed.

The leather of his gloves creaked as his hand tightened around the sword. "Do not speak of Gwenivere."

Merlin, for once, did as he was told, and held his silence. Waiting.

After an age, Arthur sighed and looked at Merlin steadily. "I have ended the madness."

Merlin felt the work of years crumble to ash and shook his head wearily, suddenly so tired of fighting and trying and losing everything and everyone he ever loved. "No, Arthur, it's only begun anew. You've killed your father and another will kill you for it. It will never be enough."

Soldiers surged towards him, violence in their eyes, but Arthur waved them back, handing his sword to Morgause. "Leave, Merlin. This is no place for a servant." He paused, speaking more quietly now, "or for friends."

Merlin didn't know it was possible but he felt his heart flay open with pain with the finality of it all. "I was to protect you." The words burbled out and he didn't even recognize his own voice it was so empty.

Arthur's reply sounded much the same. "But you didn't protect her."

Arms closed about his wrists and he was pulled from Camelot, his last glimpse of Arthur standing in a ring of cheering druids but somehow terribly alone with his head bowed and hands stained scarlet.

Merlin could have brushed the hands holding him away with a breath of magic, with a few muttered words he could be rid of them. But Merlin knew that it wouldn't matter. Arthur was gone from the moment Gwenivere was lost to him.

For while Merlin protected Arthur's body, Gwen had always held his heart. And without a heart, what can a person hope to be but a shadow?