[the smile remains on his lips, but there's something in his eyes that seems heavier, older. instead of sparkling with mirth or mischief, a reflection like violet glass.

she had no idea what he's done. what he could do. if he reached out, used blood and patience and time and delved deep into the heart of things. the mess he's made of lives, the unspeakable acts he's committed in the name of goodness and the future. she had no idea what he'd seen, and what it meant to have quiet inside his own head.]

I've never hidden from you who I am. I'm not sure why the truth now is so offensive.

[or for that matter, why he cares about making sure she understands. he steps forward, so that the tip of the blade is touching him, pressing on his robe. she could do it - he'd let her, in the end, if it made her feel better, and he'd just wake up back in Avalon. enclosed in the heart of the world, not even allowed to rot.

(how many times had he thought about doing this, running to the Throne of Heroes, as if that solved any problem? running, that's all he ended up doing. away from a town, a life, a realm, a true smile. Merlin can't even understand his own reasoning half the time. why does he run? why is he standing here, instead of running away? why did he come here?

why does she care, when he proclaims he doesn't care? why can't he justify himself how he pleases?)

drawing the blade from his staff, he uses it to gently push hers down, smile now absent.]

You can't be hoping I'll lie and say I'm a better person than all of that.

[but he will honor her weapon with the same.]