gingersincardiff:

You do it again; you check him again, calloused fingers running up to touch at the pulse in his neck, in his wrist. You can’t feel anything. A small part of you hopes that maybe it’s just slow; still there, but beating far too quietly.

The majority of your mind, your heart, knows that he’s gone. Forever. There’s no point staying now. Looking at him only reminds you of what little you had, and how very much you both had left to give.

You remember, as you turn away, as you begin to find it difficult to hold back the water, flooding to the edges of your eyelids, you remember everything he placed in your possession. The smiles. The stupid comments. The wisdom. Your life. He gave that to you, and back to you, more times than you can even count.

It’s not fair. That’s what you’re thinking, when something suddenly grasps at your arm. You’re thinking of how unfair it is, that Merlin is the best thing that has ever happened to you, and he’s been snatched away, before he even had a chance to show the world that he was the best of them. The best out of all the knights, and all the Kings, and all the nobles. Perhaps the best out of all the men, who had ever entered this damn kingdom. Ever been born upon this damn Earth.

But there are fingers, closing around your cloak, brushing against your chainmail, and your heart springs to your throat, as you turn around, and dammit, a tear has escaped, and you don’t even have the strength to hide it. Shock has numbed you.

Because he’s looking at you.

There is breath, leaving and entering his body, passing through pale lips, over and over, and he’s just staring. His head lifts slightly off the pillow, his neck straining, dark hair sticking up at all angles, eyes heavy lidded, and expression disorientated, as he tracks that one droplet of water, which is making its way across your jaw.

“You’re alive,” you whisper, and he nods, slowly, still a frown of confusion on his face. His hand slips down your cloak, and for a moment you are seized by fear; fear that he’s going to let you go.

But, of course, he doesn’t. He only reaches for your fingers instead. He has never let you go. He probably never will.

(Source: carlesjowashere, via zutale)