Well, have this, my fine friends. I know it's not 'My lord' but, it is something. (It's English practice). I should have more time soon because it's nearing the end of the school year and so I am, hopefully, gonna star uploading on here again. Don't worry. I will never stop writing. Anyways, have this angsty fic.

(This fic was inspired by The Tin Box Boys- Warden)

Enjoy!

IDONOTOWNMERLIN

Sometimes, Merlin dreams.

Not all the time. It's not every day nor is it every night. It's not always the same. Oftentimes they're pleasant. Dreams of gold and peace. Of Albion. Those are the dreams. The ones he tries to make himself believe are real. The ones he wants so desperately to be real.

Sometimes they aren't so pleasant. He dreams of the flames, his flesh melting and dripping onto the dry wood crackling under his feet. He feels the hellfire lapping at his heels. He feels the agony of his brethren so vividly and so multicoloured behind his eyelids that he feels if there was a past life then the pyre was his parting memory. That would have been the way he died. And yet, despite the bubbling, blistering, blinding pain, he never once screams or begs or pleads. He never made a sound once. He always stayed silent. He woke up so silent and so still he felt it was the afterlife. His ears still ringing with the flicker-flame and the cheers of the crowded audience. It's not the flames that he fears the most but the cheers. The people he once looked up to. His friends. These people all calling for his demise. Whenever the pyre visits him, the empty, dry air always whispers behind him;

This is your penance.

And he knows.

Hell, how he knows it is.

These nightmares visit him on the worst of days. The days were Fate wants to push a fallen soldier into the ditch. The days where She wants to be the breath of air that pushed him over the edge. The days where Doubts crawl on his skin like an ant, burrowing deep down into the fleshy layers and hollowing him clean. The days where fear is like a black hound following him around, dribble and snot dripping constantly as He wonders when He'll pounce. The days where his hands won't stop shaking. The days where he is so empty that he craves the pyre that visits him in sleep. He craves it in the way that a wounded soldier begs for a merciful death. They're so scared, so hurt and alone that they want nothing more than the quietness that the void will bring, they don't want to die but anything would be better than the way that the heaviness has settled in their chest, the way their skin ripples with every breath, the way that the bruises show on even the inside of their eyelids.

But, sometimes, Merlin dreams.

He dreams of a noose, some nights. Others he dreams of an axe. Those would be a kindness. A small liberty. A merciful death. A death he knows he doesn't deserve. He stands ramrod straight. He stares into Arthur's sad eyes. Steely and cold walls built up from the ashes of the betrayal. His shoulders are heavy but he holds them high. The rope is itchy against his neck. The grainy texture digs in. The bag is placed over his head. He can barely make out the blurred shapes of his friends, his family. He breathes a sigh of relief. Mercy, he thinks. Mercy. He is so heavy. His feet tickle with a faint feeling of the flames. He takes one last breath. He's ready, he thinks. He's ready to leave. The noose tightens around his neck as they drop the floor.

He always wakes up after they drop him.

This is your penance.

Once, Merlin dreamt.

His ending was so much sadder and so much more fitting than the pyre or the gallows or even Arthur's sword. Once, he dreamt his end lying in Arthur's waterskin. His kind eyes telling him everything that he needs to know as he hears his friend echo his own words. He takes the water, already knowing what ending lies in wait inside. Hemlock, he tastes it on his blue lips as he lies so still in Arthur's arms. He never makes a sound as his friend cradles him, begging for forgiveness. It's so ironic, how this would be so sad and so kind. This ending is more than Merlin can hope for.

He knows, though, that should that day come that Arthur has to question which way to end him, Merlin would build the pyre by hand, he would tie the noose, pour the poison and fall down with his neck at Arthur's blade. He would hold his hands out to be shackled- he was never free in the first place. He would stand on his knees and whatever Arthur decided his fate was he would go along willingly because it is the small things that would show his atonement. He would work through the blisters and the hurt and the heaviness in his chest. He would wear his crown of thorns, and as Arthur questions, he would work with his blood and sweat pouring into his eyes. If Arthur recoiled at the gold in his iris, he would pluck the eyes from their sockets and throw them into the fire pit. And if Arthur asked for revenge he would press the whip into Arthur's hand and would throw himself against the dungeon wall.

And if anyone questions why he works so tirelessly to create his own downfall. If anyone asked why he would submit himself to such torture. If anyone enquired why he would help the man who wanted him dead so soundly and so quietly, he would say;

This is my penance.