Arthur Pendragon was a man of little fear. It’s not that he had some sort of ability to be without, but simply that almost everything in the world a man in his position may fear, he had thoroughly risen above. No manner of unearthly beast, villain or dragon had ever crossed him and survived, after all, and the blade he held was specifically endowed to be able to conquer even a force that could erase this world.
The point of saying all this is, if something could ever bring Arthur to tremble, it was of monumental consequence.
Which is precisely why it was such a shock beyond belief that the ghost before his eyes brought his knees to buckle.
Excalibur clatters to the ground loudly, Arthur nearly falling as his stumbling step backwards brings him to trip clumsily over his feet.
“M...Merlin...?!” Arthur should his head incredulously, “...How...? I thought that...?”
Perhaps Artoria had grown callous and indifferent with the curse of her position, but Arthur’s heart had never hardened so. Though a perspective outside emotional bias could perhaps have let him understand his lifelong manipulation, he had only ever seen Merlin as a mentor and dear friend besides. Sure, she’d been hard on him, pushed his body and spirit to the point of breaking time and again...but his position demanded he work harder than any other man who’d lived, right?
The fall of Camelot. Mordred’s cruel revolt against him. The heartless and petty manipulation of Morgan le Fay that had brought their end to fruition -- at the time of the battle, he couldn’t find her...
“I thought...” His voice cracks. “That Morgan might have taken you from us...”
