Tears were rolling down the great Arthur Pendragon's face. Tears of pain, loss and sadness. Merlin was dead. He had just died. A Mercenary had slain him. He didn't ever carry a sword around – he said they got in the way. He didn't have anything to defend himself with.

Arthur would not except that he was gone. He shook the limp lifeless form of the man he loved as a serving boy, loved as a best friend and hell to it, loved like a brother. But to no avail. Blood was still flowing from Merlin's chest. The blood on his face however had been washed away by Arthur's tears. Arthur had never cried so much in his life. Not even when his father had died.

So much for the great Arthur Pendragon.