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Merlin used to tell himself that he would be okay without Arthur. Any time anyone asked, he was okay. Any time he questioned himself, he was okay. Yet, he knew it was a lie each and every time. Every time the thought crossed his mind, every time the words reflexively fell from his lips.
In all honesty, he was just proud of himself for making it as long as he did before the first time he tried to give up. That first attempt, so many lifetimes ago, he remembered bitterly thinking he had simply found yet another thing that he wasn’t good at. A twisted façade of Arthur’s voice had haunted him when his eyes opened again.
“Honestly, Merlin. Couldn’t even off yourself properly.”
It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize that death, for him, never lasted. Though the scars did.
He had stumbled his way back to Camelot in the wreckage of his life. Half out of his mind, he almost expected to find it had all fallen in his absence. In Arthur’s absence. It almost hurt more that it hadn’t.
Everything was moving forward. There was sadness, of course, but life didn’t cease entirely just because Merlin’s world had shattered. And he hated it. He hated it all.
The laughter that died out when he entered a room. The pitying looks. The gentle words. The worried glances. Everyone tiptoed around him. Everyone knew.
So he passed like a ghost through the halls of the castle throughout the remaining life of Camelot. Occasionally he would surface from his inner turmoil to notice those around him aging. And then he noticed that he wasn’t. The realization didn’t even surprise him, just served to depress him further as he realized that he was doomed to a cursed life that would never end. Not without his other half.
One by one, the people he used to care about faded away and by the time Merlin had it in him to feel upset about it, Camelot itself was gone. It had crumbled around him along with its people until he was the only thing left.
That was when he began trying again. When there was no one left to disappoint or upset. When he was truly and undeniably alone.
And again, he woke from his death.
Centuries passed in a haze as Merlin watched the world around him evolve while he remained the same. The only thing that served to mark the passage of time on his body was a new set of scars every year on the anniversary of Arthur’s death.
And every year, on the following day, he woke again.