Everything was over.

Excalibur had defeated Merlin, and some of the memories he'd regained had been sacrificed to fuel such a thing. Surely the ones he'd forgotten would understand--if he could even remember whether or not he'd done anything to cause that. It was the end, and here he was. Everything loomed before him like walls pressing in, and for once, Elium was not afraid of it. He had already made his choices, made peace with them as well--even though some had been difficult and painful, he couldn't surrender them. The memory of that shadowy figure--that one pained him the most for reasons he couldn't remember, but sacrifice was something he was too familiar with. He would not let it happen again, not now that everything was safe. There was nothing left to do now. The Legacies were at rest, and Excalibur had fulfilled his promise.

He knew that he had done things worthy of being forgotten while in this strange, shadowy realm. There was wonder still here, as if to spite its surroundings with its lingering presence, but more often than not, that wonder hid equally terrible things, whispering just beneath the surface, coiling and twisting underneath its boundaries like a predatory python in wait. It would not be restrained forever, and this was a fact that had to be reconciled. This world seemed so fragile, and yet so utterly tumultuous that it was a miracle that it had even sustained itself long enough for them to complete their quest. Elium had fought and killed here, had died here, even--he'd torn out his heart for a Goddess that had brought him forth from the void for some unnameable purpose that he couldn't bring himself to decipher. And then everything had made itself clear, and the Great King had brought him back from that which he had began from again. He'd been himself now, actually himself--not some facsimile created by shards and fragments, blessings and tasks. Things felt different, yes, but at the same time, it was right. The shadowy shell he'd worn with a heart glowing blue could only last so long, and now, here he was--no longer Imuiel, but Elium once more. He remembered his name, and that was half the battle.

The door loomed before him, and it wasn't long before Elium realized that he was at a crossroads. He had to choose, now; this was the only chance he'd get. He knew he didn't need to forget, but did he want to, even after all of that? Could he live with himself afterwards? That was a bit of a redundant question, there. Of course he could--he wouldn't remember that anything was wrong. As far as he knew, nothing would have been sacrificed. But yet, he wondered--did that go for everyone else? Would it wipe the memory of what he wanted to forget from all those who held it within their heads, within their hearts? Unlikely. He would be deluding himself, plain and simple. It would be plucked from his mind and cast aside, but that didn't remove it from the world. He could deal with his own problems by himself, he reasoned--leaving it all behind here wasn't an actual end. There was no closure, no resolution. It was simply the abandonment of the burden, and that just seemed...dishonorable. It was leaving duty behind, throwing it to the wayside to decay away until it was truly forgotten.
No, that would not do.

There were things he could do to forget, and some that he refused to. Elium realized this, and acknowledged that there was, in some cases, a very fine line between these things. It wasn't a simple matter to discern what was sacred and what he wanted to discard, but most of the time, it wasn't too terribly difficult. And these memories, these thoughts and fragments and images, bundled up with feelings and purpose--they made him who he was, regardless of what he thought of them. They were his, they were everything, and there was no way he could simply pick and choose to remove those fundamental thoughts that had chained themselves together with links of cold iron to forge who and what he was. To do so would be sacrilege, a heresy beyond all hope of redemption.
And that was unacceptable.

He left nothing behind. If he was going to come out of this, he would do it as whole as he could, not in pieces trailing behind him like shattered glass. The door didn't resist him as he pushed through it, even if every single memory did, burning him like he'd reached out to touch the sun. The agony was almost enough to bring him to his knees, overwhelming and subsuming him with every white-hot pulse--

--and then he was free.

The door was open.

Everything was over.