#utterly alone

Merlin can’t bring himself to go back to Camelot after Avalon. Can’t bear to look at the great empty space in the throne room, can’t bear to hear how the castle has fallen silent, can’t bear to stand knowing eyes witnessing his failure. He half-starves in the woods, barely able to find the strength to keep himself alive. 

Until he hears a couple passing travelers say the Queen is pregnant. 

When Merlin sees Gwen again her belly has already begun to swell with child, under a simple black mourning gown. There are dark circles under her eyes and a hollow to her cheeks Merlin knows has nothing to do with morning sickness. 

Grief and shame hit Merlin like a storm. He falls to his knees even as Gwen rushes over, his throat choked with sobs. 

“I’m sorry-” He shouldn’t have left her. “I’m so sorry-” He shouldn’t have failed her. 

“Merlin, Merlin–” Gwen meets him on the floor, throwing her arms around him. He feels that she’s trembling, too. “Please don’t apologize. I’m – I’m just so happy to see you again.” 

“I’m sorry,” Merlin repeats brokenly. It’s all he can offer her. It will never be enough. 

Gwen shakes her head where it’s buried against Merlin’s shoulder. Then she pulls back and Merlin sees the tears streaming down her face. “Don’t you dare. He – he would never blame you.” 

“I should have come back sooner,” Merlin insists. 

Gwen’s thumb tenderly strokes his cheek. She swallows thickly in an attempt to stem her tears. “When you lose the love of your life,” she says softly, “it’s hard to even find the strength to wake up in the morning.” 

Her eyes are too knowing, and it makes Merlin want to shrink back in panic - but there’s no anger or accusation in Gwen’s gaze, only an understanding as deep as grief. “For now I eat to keep the little one alive,” Gwen says, motioning down to her stomach. “I get out of bed so that he can be born into a kinder world.” 

“He?” Merlin asks, questioning. 

Gwen cracks a smile, despite herself. “I have a feeling.” She takes Merlin’s hands in her own. “Stay with me. Please.” She takes a shaky breath. “With your family.” 

- Words From A Neurodivergent Survivor, A True Story

May 9th–10th, 2025.

Somewhere between the ashtray olympics and sidewalk grief theatre, I respawned.

Not healed. Not whole. Just… alive.

I don’t know how to explain what happened, and I probably never will.

So here’s the redacted version, coded for public consumption and private screams:

– Dodge the fists.

– Dodge the pepper spray.

– Dodge your own sobs.

– Wrap the charger cord around your ventilation tube, not out of drama, but because it’s the only way to silence the grief machine's loudness to not summon the Grendel.

- Handed pleasant abandonment with a whiff capsaicin.

– Be gifted a sidewalk as your sanctuary and your things as a free yardsale for your legacy.

– Watch your only companion—furry, small, terrified—die quietly in your lap while the world just keeps spinning around you. Perfected the art of being reluctantly invisible on that sidewalk.

– Get rescued by the same hand that held the chaos. Again. And again. And again.

– Get handed another woman’s life, in the form of a purse grenade, like it was interchangeable.

– Feel a rage so patient it waits for a red light before exploding.

– Get back in your body long enough to reclaim your soul on the way out.

I survived. Somehow.

Wade Wilson didn't.

I carry that moment like a haunted charm in my chest.

I have trauma soup sloshing in my skull.

My nervous system is a powerline in a hurricane.

They’ll say:

“But you look fine.”

“You're so strong."

“You're so naive.”

And I’ll say:

I am. I am all of that. And also broken in places you’ll never see.

This isn’t a cry for help.

This is a survivor’s growl.

A testimony for the neurospicy, late-diagnosed, system-abandoned, emotionally flammable crew.

I survived that hotel.

I survived that body.

I survived them.

And if I disappear tomorrow, let this be known:

I screamed through the hole,

and the void blinked first.

The void is watching.