There are some days that stick out in Arthur's mind clearer than others. Some good, like the day he got his first sword, some bad, like his eleventh birthday (every birthday) when he first saw death.

The day he first met Merlin is a strong one, and the day he disobeyed his Father to find the flower for him.

One of his favourites, is the day Merlin first clumsily kissed him. He likes that one a lot. He wants to be back there, beneath the green trees, upon a grassy bank by the river, smelling the sweet scent of flowers, ones he couldn't name but he was sure Merlin could.

But instead, his mind fills with not so good days.

Like the day Uther had found out about Morgana. He was devasted by her death, much more than he thought he'd be, though for his Father's sake he pretended it was her betrayal that hurt him. Merlin had held him that night, and they'd both cried. It was the night Merlin had finally come clean. The poor boy was shaking with terror, but he calmed down after a while, stroking and kissing Arthur's hair.

Or the day an assassin had stuck Uther down with a crossbow bolt, and had died in Uther's arms. He was shocked at himself for not being upset, but then he realised what he should have known for years- he no longer loved his father. That had been the hardest thing, even though Uther had grown even crueller in his old age, possinly because of poor Morgana.

But the worst day, was when Merlin died. He'd been King for a week. He remembers it all so clearly now. Slipping out of the crowded hall, out of Lancelot's feast. One of the first things Arthur had done when he'd been crowned was to find Lancelot and order hom back.

He remembers the warmth of ale in his stomach, remembers being more than a little tipsy. The cold, smooth stone as he made his way to Gaius's rooms, who was still at the feast. He remembers opening the door, and being greeted with an empty room. He can't remember how he knew Merlin was not at the feast, perhaps the ale had marred his memories, but the next thing he sees is implanted in his brain forever.

He opens the door to Merlin' room, and hears a creak. Not the creak of a door, but the creak of a rope. He remembers screaming, remembers crying. For strung from the rafters was Merlin's body, stiff and paler than he'd ever been.

To this day, he still does not know why Merlin killed himself. But it has been long years, and those years have not closed the Merlin shaped hole in his heart.

Jolted back to the present by the feel of cold steel at his throat, Arthur knows he's going to die.

He was never devout, and does not know whether he's bound for Heaven or Hell, but he knows where he wants to be.

Sat on a bank by a river, the cool breeze blissful is the stifling heat, the grass tickling his hands. Smelling the sweet scent of flowers (Roses, Merlin tells him. Rose and lavender and honeysuckle) , tipping his toes in the water. The soft sound of birdsong and his manservant's clumsy kisses.