Inspired by original answer and question here.

The Conclusion of the Emanation

It all started with two boys but it will end with two men. For what they have been through all these years, they have earned their titles. They have earned the glory and honor they deserve. They have walked into legend and there they will stay, forever men and the brilliant king and sorcerer they were.

But who will tell the story?

Who will tell the story of the birth of King Arthur and Merlin The Wise? For they were never truly living until they met the other. These boys who have been through so much and have lived, who have felt so much and managed to survive; hearts barely intact but still beating as one, the pulse of the other the only thing urging it on.

Many depict Excalibur as a weapon of destruction, pain and terror, wielded and commanded by the strongest for only he can harness its power. But they are wrong, they are all wrong. As are those who describe it as flawless and immaculate, with perfect balance and the smoothest blade.

They describe it as without fault.

And they could not be more wrong, for it is the smallest flaws that make it perfect.

The chip at the tip of the sword's blade where Merlin had dropped it while he was sharpening it, the discolored metal of it's hilt from years in Arthur's capable hands, tightening and loosening as he practiced and as he marched onto battlefields along side his men, his friends, his knights. They were all equal here.

The rain is falling; the cold echo of Camelot's stonewalls brought the King no comfort as he stares into the worn edges of his wooden table, soft with age and use. He runs slender and calloused fingers on it's edges, feeling the indents and cuts in the wood from where Merlin had no doubt pierced the table while polishing his sword all those times.

He covers his face with his hand, his breathing low and slow as he struggles to hold the waves of tears and pain at bay that threatened to fall upon him. He is vulnerable here, in his chambers that he has lived in ever since he was merely a prince.

He is broken but he tries to piece together what little bits of his dignity and his pride that are left. But then he hears the soft creak of his doors opening and the soft footsteps that wander over and King Arthur realizes that maybe, just maybe dignity and pride mean absolutely nothing when it all comes down to it.

He doesn't move his face still buried in his hands when he feels a palm come to rest on his shoulder. He leans into the touch, grateful but silent. He need not look up to see who it was, only one person was allowed into his chambers all these years.

And maybe that same person was the only one who has ever truly, wholly understood and accepted his heart.

And maybe that is where everything went wrong.

Maybe that is why Guinevere left him, alone and broken; taking her love with her and leaving her crown, stealing his most loyal and bravest friend for her own.

For years she watched Arthur and Merlin together, their easy laughter and affectionate banter. She knew they were close, but soon the resentment and bitterness began to fester in her heart; for it was obvious to all that Arthur loved another.

She couldn't bare it, the ease of which her king let his friend into his heart.

But it wasn't like that to Arthur. Merlin didn't feel like someone else, more like they were of the same being, connected at the very core of their souls and hearts. Merlin felt like a part of him.

No one has ever-accused Arthur of loving himself too little.

Arthur's fingers tighten the hold against his hair as he tugs, frustrated and angry before he feels cool fingers against his own. He feels the deep-rooted pain and betrayal that is buried in his heart now, the pain that his most loyal, his closest, dearest friends would do that to him.

A voice inside his mind shouted, sounding affronted and offended, telling him that he simply must be blind or more of a stupid ungrateful arse than it thought.

"We never did manage to teach you how to knock, did we Merlin?" The King feels the fingers flick his ear, albeit softly, though he still turns his face up to glare at his friend while he rubbed his barely sore ear.

His eye catches a flash of deep purple outside his window from the corner of his eye but he ignores it, he won't look- he couldn't.

His friend just smiles at him, ruffling his hair affectionately, but when he spoke he voice was serious. Arthur pauses, his mouth open in a retort, but if he has learned anything in all his years it's that the least he can do is to hear Merlin out when he sounded like this.

He wouldn't always listen, but it was an improvement.

He doesn't listen most of the time, if he's being honest. And he has sat through enough of Merlin's I-told-you-so rants where he goes on and on about how the next time he wouldn't save Arthur's royally stubborn arse as punishment for it.

But Arthur knows it's not true and Merlin certainly does too.

"Their last look of Camelot should be of friends. Come, Arthur."

Merlin's dark blue eyes shone as he held back the tears.

Arthur sometimes forgets they were his friends too.

Merlin intertwines their fingers, pulling his king to the window where they waved at Guinevere and Lancelot as they rode away from Camelot.

He feels a tear trickle down his cheek as he sees his friends wave in reply, relief flooding their faces; smiles wide. He is torn, having to watch his friends leave together off to adventures that would no doubt rival those of their youth when all were friends and the threads of deceit and betrayal had not yet tightened around their necks and hearts.

He feels the sadness hit him, the all too familiar discovery that so much has changed. Yet he is glad, happy almost that it is them that are leaving, their backs now facing them as they are swallowed by the forest, his arm dropping to his side mid-wave.

He is happy that Arthur's warm hand is in his, their sides pressed together as they stood still staring out the window. That it is not Arthur riding away on Hengroen, leaving Merlin all alone.

He hears a whisper from next to him, hesitant and confused. "They are not our friends."

Merlin turns to his King, their hands desperately clutching the others as they struggle to support each other; struggling to raise their head above the raging water.

"You know they are, Arthur. The truest. Lying to yourself will not soften the blow, it will only prolong the pain."

When blue eyes meet those darker still, the walls fall and the King lays himself out by his friend's feet- broken pieces and all. They left him to drown, they pushed him in- "They left me alone."

Arthur sobs, his shudders racking his body as arms pull him in, fingers combing through his hair comfortingly. "You are not alone, Arthur. You have me. You have my magic. You have my loyalty and my friendship. You have your people's love."

… And you have mine.

It is unspoken, but the words are there, loud for only the two of them to hear.

"Our people, Merlin. Ours."

His friend smiles.

Arthur lifts his tear stained face of his best friend's shoulder, his lips split open as he laughs breathlessly, Merlin's face reflecting his own.

"There are times, Merlin, when you display a sort of- I don't know what it is… I want to say… It's not wisdom."

Merlin smirks, his mouth twitching upwards in a smile. "No. Of course not, Sire."

Arthur glares at his friend at the condescending tone that laced his voice, but he continues.

"But yes. That's exactly what it is."

Merlin's eyes twinkled with delight, his face lit up in a smile so bright Arthur thought he'd been blinded.

"Why are you looking at me like that? Stop it. You look like an idiot. That doesn't mean you're not still lazy, useless, ridiculous and I'm still not positive you don't have some sort of mental affliction."

Merlin glared at Arthur but his mouth ws still etched with a small affectionate smile.

"That's enough my friend."

Arthur smiles, his tears drying; his heart filling with joy when he realizes that no, Merlin is so much more to him than that.

"Do I know you?"

"I'm Merlin."

"So, I don't know you. And yet you call me friend?"

"You're right. I wouldn't have a friend that could be such an ass."

Arthur tackles Merlin, holding his head under his arm as he ruffles his friend's dark hair.

Merlin shrieks, laughing and flailing wildly.

"Who do you think you are! The king!"

Arthur pulls away, smiling at Merlin.

"No. I'm merely the servant of our people."

Merlin smiles at his king, his heart beating fast in his chest as he heaved for air. He leans against Arthur, nudging him with his side barely moving him as he did so.

Arthur laughs, long and hard, his smile wide on his face; his crown laying on his bed beside Excalibur.

Merlin realizes he's never been more proud of him; look how far they've come.

Arthur does the same and nearly sends Merlin sprawling as he guffawed next to him.

"Don't be such a girl, Merlin."

He glowers at Arthur.

He was still a prat though.