Epilogue

With magic's acceptance, a golden age of legend rose up, growing larger and more magnificent with each passing year.

It wasn't without trials, opposition from those who had been hurt by magic or factions who saw Arthur as bewitched or foolishly led by a trickster, but as magic flourished, so too did the kingdom, first of Camelot and then of Albion. Sometimes, Arthur would yell at his Emrys and the fights would grow loud and raucous, but there were also the quiet times, two sides of the same coin enjoying beauty and butterflies dancing in the sunlight and laughter. And tears.

If Merlin's smile was tinged with sadness from time to time, there was relief, too. For while he couldn't be the man he'd once been to Arthur, he became the sorcerer, the advisor, the rock Arthur needed, that Albion needed.

It was almost enough.

But with all good things, there was always an ending.

Arthur lived a good long life, moving into old age. He'd seen his Gwen die years before; there had been no children. Merlin had refused to use magic on Gwen, but his cousin's boy was fostered in Camelot and Cador would be the next high king. Gaius had died years before that and his knights kept changing as they moved into domestic bliss, or while defending the kingdom, losing their lives. Old and new and each year, Arthur moved a little slower, even as Merlin tried to help.

Magic could not cure everything, though, no matter how much Merlin might want it.

George died after many years of service, and magical advisor or not, Merlin wouldn't let anyone else replace him, taking on the role of manservant once again. He never did tell Arthur who he really was though, the Sidhe's warnings always present, but they became almost as close.

So on one fine spring morning, when Arthur's breathing grew slow and heavy, Merlin was so concerned about him that he wouldn't stop trying to fix things, with magic or without. And apparently it was driving Arthur mad.

"My bed clothes are fine, my armour is fine, the spider webs… over the mantle are gone and all is as it should be." As Merlin fluffed up Arthur's pillow once more, Arthur clutched at his arm, using leverage to pull him down, to get him to sit on the bed. "I'm dying of old age, not a septic wound or a broken heart… or anything really that you can just magic away… so let me be. Stop fussing so, Merlin."

At first it didn't register. Merlin smiled fondly at the old worryguts, tried to think of a new insult to make him laugh and then he couldn't breathe.

"Sire? Did you hit your head while I was getting your breakfast? You seem confused." He put one hand on Arthur's forehead, frowned at the coolness there. "You don't have a fever."

Arthur batted his hand away. "Merlin, stop."

It couldn't be. After all this time, it couldn't be. It had to be a mistake. Perhaps Arthur was growing addled; Merlin had hit him on the head far too many times over the years and maybe, just maybe, it was finally coming back to haunt him.

Patting Arthur's hand and then pulling back when he sent Merlin a frosty glare, slowly, carefully as if speaking to a child, he said, "Sire, I am Emrys. Merlin died a long time ago."

Arthur shook his head, looked at Merlin as if he was the one that was addlebrained. "Really, Merlin, I am not that… stupid. I've known for quite… some time. Since that monster dog tore my guts out… and started chewing on them." When Merlin looked down at him in horror, Arthur gave a little cough, seemed to catch his breath, then said, "I heard you talking… to Gaius."

The world turned grey, black-tinged around the edges, as if Merlin were going to faint at any moment. There was a roaring in his ears, too, and his heart seemed to have stopped. He couldn't talk, couldn't do anything but gape at Arthur.

"You… I can't. I'm Emrys. I have to be." Voice catching, wanting to thrust the sudden grief out of his throat and away from his chest, he said, "You'll die."

Arthur's smile turned fond and he was the one patting Merlin's hand this time. "In case you haven't… noticed, I'm dying anyway."

"Arthur…." He couldn't do this, couldn't let Arthur know the truth. It was too much to ask of him.

But Arthur wasn't one to leave things alone, even dying. Like a bulldog, once he got his teeth into something, he'd never let it go. As Merlin tried to come to grips with this, Arthur smiled up at him, reached out and pulled his beard a little. "I'd like to see your face… just once. Not this long white beard. Not the false face of… Emrys, but yours. Please, Merlin, grant me… this."

Never able to tell him no even when he was being an utter prat, all but begging for something Merlin could grant, for him to hear the slow rattle in Arthur's voice and see his king's fading strength was too much. And underneath it all, Merlin knew that there was very little time left.

Nodding, he gathered up his power, still full and sun-bright in his chest and glorious, and pushed inward, along the lines of transformation, through all the black symbols in his skin, forcing them to disappear, never to be seen again when he said, "Onhlíde."

He could feel the difference. The beard was gone and the white hair, the gnarled hands smoothing into youth. He'd not known but it would seem he was his younger self once more, that age had not touched him in all the years he'd known Arthur.

Painful the difference now with Arthur laying there, old and dying. Merlin couldn't explain it, either. Most sorcerers aged normally but apparently not him.

But Arthur didn't seem to care. His face was glowing happiness, as delighted as he had ever seen him. Reaching out, his hand shaking and cold, skin paper-thin with age, still he cupped Merlin's face, touching his cheeks, ruffling the dark hair, all the while a sense of wonder in Arthur's eyes.

"There… you are. I've missed you, you idiot."

"I've been right here, all this time." Merlin wanted to cry. Instead, blinking back tears, he smiled, saying, "I've missed you, too, clotpole."

Arthur let his hand drop to his side, as if the effort was too much for him, but Merlin missed the connection. Twining his fingers with Arthur's, he brought their hands back to his face, let his warmth seep into Arthur's fragile skin.

Arthur smiled again, seemed to enjoy the touch. "When I'm gone, do not… mourn. We've had a good run." Breathing growing more difficult with every word, struggling to get it out, he said, "I'd not have wanted anyone… else at my side… but you. You mean more… to me than I can say."

"The Sidhe told me once that I loved you too much for my own good." With Merlin's other hand, he brushed Arthur's hair, then cupping one thin cheek, he said, "Still do. Always will."

Arthur was sinking fast. Breath harsh, stumbling with words, fighting to get it all out before it was too late, he said, "When I am… gone, don't bury me.. in the crypts. I've always… preferred the forests and… the fresh air. Let me go… in the old… ways."

"I promise."

He tried not to sob, not to beg Arthur to stay, but his cheeks were wet with grief. Arthur must have felt it, his fingers still caught against Merlin's skin and he gave Merlin a little smile, then struggled to turn his head, kissed Merlin's knuckles.

It was too much effort, no strength left in him, and he fell back into the pillows. "I loved… you, too…, you know. The best friend… a man could… ever… have."

One last breath and the smile was still there but it melted into a grimace and then into death.

Merlin sat there a moment, his hand still gripping Arthur's, as numb as if plunged into a freezing river. He wanted to scream, to cry out his grief, to annihilate the world for taking Arthur away. But that would have obliterated Camelot and Merlin could never destroy something that Arthur had loved so much.

So instead, outside, lightning cracked and it began to rain. And rain. And rain.

They'd found him next to Arthur's cooling body, a young Merlin weeping over the dead king. The guards tried to drag him away but lightning outside and in proved too much for them. It wasn't until someone, Geoffrey, ancient though he was, recognised him, and told Cador to leave him alone.

Geoffrey proved invaluable, then, reminding Merlin of his duty, of Arthur's final journey, of a need for the late king to lie in state in the Great Hall so that the people of Camelot could say their final farewells.

It made a distant kind of sense and he let himself be led away.

It was three days, three days where lightning continuing to pour out of the sky and the rain flooding rivers, washing away fields, collapsing bridges and homes before the new king finally had enough.

Cador found him kneeling before Arthur's bier, Merlin never taking his eyes off his beloved king, all the while knights and nobles and the townsfolk huddled nearby. "Emrys, you have to stop this."

When Merlin didn't reply, Cador said, "Arthur wouldn't have wanted this. You stood before him and promised to help Camelot and protect its people. This is not the way."

Grief still stained his heart and he could barely hear what the High King was saying but something got through.

When Cador reminded him again of duty and magic and Arthur's own wishes, Merlin drew a deep breath and rose up. He looked at Cador, glanced around at all the frightened mourners, then said, "My name is Merlin."

Nodding, he turned, swept out of the Great Hall, walking away from his Arthur.

Behind him, the noise of a dozen arguments were drowned out by one last lightning strike, a huge crack echoing in the hall. And then as the thunder rumbled away, the rain stopped and a weak sunlight seeped into the castle.

There was a collective sigh of relief but Merlin could only think of one last promise to keep.

And when night fell, he crept back into the hall, and stole Arthur's body to take back to Avalon. He didn't want anyone following so he left a glamour behind. No one would ever know the difference but Merlin.

The lake was swollen high with rain but Merlin was able to find the boat easily enough.

A bier worthy of Arthur Pendragon, the boat filled with sweet flowers and scented pine, Merlin had laid him out in Pendragon red, his armour polished as bright as moonlight and Excalibur gleaming in his hand. Out amongst the tall trees and rain-cleansed air as he had asked before leaving Merlin forever.

He'd brought him back to Avalon, thought the Sidhe owed him something after all. He'd helped to return magic to the land and that is what they had wanted so long ago.

And now it was his turn for a favour. "Gwynn, show yourself."

No Sidhe flying around, silence except for a lark singing in the distance and the gentle lap of waves against the shore, but Merlin wasn't having it. "Gwynn, I've done as you asked."

From behind him, the beating of wings, and as he turned, a tiny Gwynn was there, looking as blue as ever, mistrustful and cautious as he glanced down at Arthur's body and then back at Merlin. "Yes, with a little help from us." When Merlin scowled, his eyes narrowing in anger, Gwynn grew and grew until he was man-sized once more.

Merlin stood there, arms folded, grief and fury mixing in a toxic chaos of emotion. "Sending the Cwn Annwn was not helpful. He almost died because of you."

"But he didn't. And you fulfilled your destiny and his. And he lived a lot longer than he would have had we not interfered." Gywnn didn't look impressed, merely shrugged his disinterest, then stood there, waiting.

Hating this, hating having to ask something of a people known for trickery and deceit, still he owed it to Arthur. Taking a deep breath, letting it out, trying not to look at Arthur's corpse, he said, "You said once that he was long awaited in Avalon. I've brought him to you."

"We know it was difficult. But he will be honoured amongst our kind." Gwynn seemed to soften at that, looking down at Arthur and back up again at Merlin. "But you must send him on his way."

How could he when Arthur was his whole world? But that world was gone and there was nothing left of destiny or purpose or love. His eyes filling with tears, he raised his hand, and with one last look at the man who had meant everything to him, he said, "In sibbe gerest."

The boat floated out into the mist, Pendragon red fading, fading, and Merlin couldn't see him anymore, the tears smearing everything into a watery kind of blur. And then there was only the lake, the boat disappearing as if it had never been.

Beside him, Gwynn said softly, "Do not mourn him, Emrys, for his time is not over."

Noise, nonsense words as his heart beat torment against his chest and he couldn't believe he was still breathing, his head so full of anger and hopeless devotion that nothing else seemed to matter. But as he drew another breath and his heart didn't stop, Gwynn seemed to understand what he was going through.

"Merlin, listen to me." That caught his attention. He'd been Emrys for so long and only Arthur had called him Merlin in those last few precious moments, and it seemed as if Gwynn was trying to say something. Concentrating, shoving his sorrow aside for later when he could nurse it and think about dying, too, he nodded.

"In the years to follow, the once and future king will return when Albion's need is greatest." He'd heard these words before. Kilgharrah had said something about it, too. Perhaps it wasn't just another trick. He listened harder, tried to focus on what Gywnn was saying.

"You must be ready. For Arthur will need your help when he does." Still confused, still holding onto a grief so deep that nothing could penetrate it, Merlin didn't answer, just stood there.

"Wait for him… he will come again."

It must have been all Gwynn wanted to say. With a sweep of his arm, he flew into the air, growing smaller with every beat of his wings, and then he disappeared off into the mists where Arthur had gone.

Merlin was alone. To think, to feel, to mourn. To find nothing but confusion and chaos and grief. And yet, something was there, the merest spark of hope, hidden beneath the lightning storm of destruction in his chest.

Kilgharrah had said the same thing, that Arthur would come again, that he was the once and future king. That there was a future for Merlin after all, a destiny more than endless loss, and he only had to wait for Arthur's return.

He only had to wait for him.

Over the centuries, the legends, the myths grew strange, pulled and tore the fabric of Arthur's life and rearranged it into new tapestries of song and story. There were tales of Merlin living in a crystal cave or beneath the hollow hills or perhaps in the heart of an oak tree and each age added another layer of lies to it.

But in one thing, the stories were true.

Merlin waited for Arthur to return, even as arrows became bullets, horses became tanks, and the birds of the air grew metal wings and flew high enough to touch the sky. Waited for Albion's greatest need and its greatest hero to return. Waited with a despairing heart and endlessly broken hopes as years became decades, became centuries, and then millennia. Waited for Arthur to rise again and smile at him and call him idiot. Waited through all the lonely years.

Merlin is waiting still.

The end.

Evil spirit, depart you from this body. = Yfel gæst, áfierre þu fram þisnelíchaman.
Ascend, dragon.= Upastige draca
Remove eternity's curse. Draw breath, Arthur, and live = Abire wyrgþe écnesse. Bregdan, Arthur, und leofae.
Light, find him. Find Arthur.Léoht,, abeþece hine. Abeþece Arthur.
Show Emrys his true appearance. = Aetíe Emrys unswicendean andwlitan.
Make light. = Léohte
Mountain (burial place), cover the dragon. = Beorg, áhelle draca.
Butterfly = Fífalde
Repair/fixSwíðe
Heal thoroughlyThurhhæl
I heal your wound thoroughly =Ic þé þurhhæle þínu lícsár.
Raise, stone =Abregdan, stán!
Bone fracture, heal = Bánbryce, þurhhæl
Cure = Gelácne
Heal (wound) = Lácne
Unicorns, playAnhornas, læce.
Change = Behwierfaþ
Hide = Bedígle
Move the powerful sword; slay the hellish monster = Bregdan anweald sweord; ácwele helrúnan
Fever, cool = Feberádl gecælee
Intestinal wound, heal (wound) = Innoþwund, lácne
Reveal = onhlíde
Rest in peace = In sibbe gerest.