Summary: It's the end of the world and Merlin is the only one left standing.
Warnings: Depressing weird stuff. Death and destruction.
Word Count: 270
Author's Notes: ‘Apocalypse’ in merlin_writers' Tropes Bingo.
He spreads the blanket out and carefully smooths away the wrinkles and bumps. He gently sets the canteen with his last drop of water in the centre and sits down behind it. The sky was already flooded with flowing banners of light. How dared destruction celebrate its arrival with such beautiful colours? Like a victorious war lords triumphant arrival, with dancers in flowing silk and shimmering gems to lure you closer only to ambush you by an army of flames and death and agony.
This was the fourth wave of the solar eruptions. It would be the most horrific, the scientist had said. If anything had managed to survive until then, this would be the end. There was more to come later, but it didn't matter.
The giver of seasons and source of life was taking back her favours. As the sun rays started to slip over the horizon, Merlin's skin was already burning. He is too dehydrated to cry. Too tired to do anything. Surely he had to be the last thing left to claim. Surely now he would be allowed to perish. He exhales not air but steam. Gold fades from his eyes and leaves them empty. By then his mind has gently let him slip away.
The colours dance around the dying planet. Among them are streams of magic, no longer bound to soil or souls. There is no-one left to use or adore. There is no-one to fear, to prey or to pray and there is no one left to remember that there once was. And it does not matter.
Magic never cared. Magic simply is.