I may be writing fic,
I may be depressing myself.
This is the end of Arthur.
He sees it in the sharp cheekbones, too sharp now and hollow, hollow, hollow as a fey thing, all bone and no light. The twist of his mouth every night, thin thin thin arms waking him up from his bleary nightmares. The sighing and the huddling over mugs of tea he can barely hold, contented breathing become thoughts of without and slow warmth turned endless search to be warm. The shivers and the shakes of cold cold cold, swamped in sweaters in the heat of fevers.
Merlin is dying and it will be the end of Arthur.
Hoo boy.
This is the end of Arthur.
He sees it in the sharp cheekbones, too sharp now and hollow, hollow, hollow as a fey thing, all bone and no light. The twist of his mouth every night, thin thin thin arms waking him up from his bleary nightmares. The sighing and the huddling over mugs of tea he can barely hold, contented breathing become thoughts of without and slow warmth turned endless search to be warm. The shivers and the shakes of cold cold cold, swamped in sweaters in the heat of fevers.
Merlin is dying and it will be the end of Arthur.
Hoo boy.