:.:
"Until your bones eat their way out of your chest, you'll never see the death as skeletal eyes crying out in the crowd of perpetrator-vacant crimes.
If my skeleton broke free of my skin, would you finally recognize the deeper meaning in brittle calcium?
Flip a coin, flip a switch; the weather is predicted more easily.
Sympathy is generating excessive cells. Soon, tumors of pride will mask what use to be.
Surface skin can peel, why speak without blood on my tongue?
Reminiscent of fire, pungent and stark.
If the words I speak are too meaty with organs vibrating anxiety to your skeletal awakening, why bother spitting out the blood?
Internal bleeding isn't messy. It's quiet.
And maybe, if calcium disintegrates under layers of pine and sediment and granite, you'll finally understand that we're all going to our graves.
White flags slowly twist over your eyes.
What cause are you for?
You curse the soil and maim their honor since you simply won't comprehend. Love thrives if you take time to conclude your deductions, noticing red palms and sinister minds that turned you against your friend."
-Calling All Sensationalists
:.:
Fingers twisting, pounding.
1 2 3, 1 2 3, 1 2 3...
A symphony, Waltz de Muerte, recording in his mind, a broken record of past and present; every reflection a crystal, his mind a cave.
Racing, flashes of memory churning and fragmented, eclipse all but the raw, negative emotion.
Fingers sticks, heart a drum.
1 2 3, 1 2 3, 1 2 3...
He'd watched through warped glasses for months as those around Merlin carried his tune of spirit with a fragile melody, encouraging onward, seeking a harmony that would be on key with the rest of them. Ever since Arthur and his confrontation, the man gazed at him when he thought Merlin didn't notice, the broken edge of a haggard king steady with morose in his eyes. There were times where he acted as if the words, show me what you've done today, were on his tongue, but Merlin hadn't the energy to entertain this guest with a display of gruesome coping mechanism.
Arthur would string him along to more hunts, council meetings, even request him to be good company in his chambers. The cold and brittle walls echoed the gloom of a missing adulteress, her warm skin and gentle hands retreating as the only comfort Arthur could've needed against Merlin's depression.
Underneath the teasing manner with which Arthur carried himself, Merlin course sense the terror, the fear that if he let Merlin out of his sight, the man would turn up dead. Why Arthur felt he was the sole connection straining Merlin from Avalon was surely a mystery to the man, and to all but simple Merlin.
1 2 3...
The past two days, Merlin took time off of his duties for what Gaius deemed the beginnings of a cold. Neither mentioned how his physical symptoms were more trying and in accordance with his mental state than a cold could ever muster, or that somewhere in the fractured being of Gaius, he could tell Merlin wasn't long for this world.
The years had taken a toll on the elderly physician, now feeble, his gnarled fingers that grasped Merlin's wrist the largest comfort he could give. Whenever their eyes met in the silence of their chambers, Merlin could see his pleading, and yet, resigning. Gaius was not an illogically selfish man.
Occasionally, Arthur would knock upon Merlin's door. Met with a man hunched underneath linens, rocking slightly and shaking in the shoulders, Arthur almost wished that Merlin would be spared of this illness by whatever means. But never truly.
Arthur would sit on the stool beside Merlin, prattling on about nonsense that occurred during his day, about the transactions between obnoxious visiting nobles, how Gwaine had taken to picking him rose's before every practice with an insincere 'M'lady' as he bestowed it to him, the color of the ripening harvests and the joy of the people. Merlin would add a comment in here and there to reassure Arthur that he was listening, or even cared.
They refrained from sharing anything too deep or close. Whatever was left unsaid, quite frankly, didn't need to be said.
By the time Arthur would find Merlin's bed empty, he'd understand.
He'd crept through the hallways in his nightclothes, hiding behind the tapestry until dawn hit and Arthur struggled, drunk with exhaustion, out of his chambers to attend his duties.
Merlin brushed his left hand on the marble of the floor. It kept him grounded and resounded the tempo ever constant on his right hand...
1 2 3, 1 2 3, 1 2 3...
His bones vibrated underneath his skin, quaking in terror, whilst nausea curved the empty lining of his stomach in waves. No rest for the weary.
His body rocked along with the tempo, on the floor of Arthur's chambers, absent of all accept the subtle echo of Merlin's finger tips. It was terror, it was the overwhelming brutality of mental illness suffocating him as its greedy hands clenched his chest.
His love for his friends and family, for Camelot, for the fate of Albion, collapsed in an avalanche of agony that was living and breathing.
Destiny be damned, Merlin couldn't hold on any longer.
It wasn't a conscientious act that happened next, merely an instinct to escape what caused unbearable pain in life.
Merlin picked his shaking form from the flooring and stumbled towards Arthur's bedside table. Excalibur sat heavily, it's hilt pressed to the wall beside, gleaming the hint of sun filtering through the glass windows.
No rest.
Merlin took the sword, rubbed it's golden imprint, read it's foresworn tale.
Take me up,
Cast
me
away.
And with a hint of psychotic mirth at the finality and irony, Merlin slit his arm open.
:.:
Well damn
That happened
...
Hey, reviews are nice
They make me wanna commit less *finger guns*