A/N: Eheh. Eheheheh. I realise how late this is. And I apologise. I have excuses, I have reasons, but I doubt you'll wanna hear them. So, let's just say it's been crazy and leave it at that (bah exams)

Now since it's been so long since I posted and the epilogue is STILL not finished, I'm here to post part uno! Yeah, there'll be two parts. I'm going on hols tomorrow to France (I'm going to Pierrefonds! *squeals*) so I can't work on it for the rest of this week, so I thought I'd best post something as an apology. So here it is! Part 1 of the epilogue of 'The Untold Prophecy'!

Epilogue (I)

Arthur Pendragon sat at his father's beside, his hands clasped together and his chin rested on his closed fists. His magic remained silent, watching its Master's father out of his eyes, sorrow filling its core. Anyone who looked close enough would've seen the gold tickling away at the blue in his eyes – his magic, vying against its Master's recently-acquired control over it to catch a glimpse of the King. Nowadays Arthur's magic hardly burst out of its shell; only in the most worthy moments. Banter with Merlin. Time with Gwen. It pretty much avoided council meetings and remained dormant in them – it despised them as much as Arthur himself did.

Another time it loved to be present (or rather felt it should be, to protect its Master) was when Arthur was at his Father's bedside. Arthur's magic had - shall we say - 'mixed feelings' about the King. Feelings of anger at the near genocide of his race was existent, but Arthur could not bring himself to dislike his Father. Unlike Morgana, he was not bitter and spiteful to that extent. Sighing, Arthur cast a quick glance towards the window, and sighed as he saw the rain trickling down the window. He wondered if he and his magic were responsible for this solemn weather.

Uther Pendragon had been mentally ill for a long time. It had been almost a year since Morgana had betrayed him, and yet Uther still spent the days moping in his room, staring hopelessly out of the window just in case his beloved ward-but-daughter returned safely home, her magic vanished and the old Morgana back.

But Arthur was not as foolish. He knew that Morgana would never come back – she had been corrupted; she was too far-gone to ever return. Arthur had lost all hope that Morgana would come back a long time ago, but Uther's denial was relentless. Arthur feared that his father would die waiting for Morgana to return. And Arthur was haunted by the thought that his father's death was nearing like a galloping horse, on course to crush him.

As of two days ago, Uther had become bedridden.

Arthur had spent the last few weeks since he'd learnt about his magic the same way he had spent them prior to it – filling in for his father's duties as well as conducting his own. Arthur had wanted to start learning about his magic from his manservant (and unofficial teacher) Merlin – how to control it, how to understand it. He had spent so long in the shadows and now he was out in the light he was ready to understand everything that came with being a magical creature.

However, he had been so busy in the last few weeks. He had completely misunderstood just how ill his father was, mentally, and his duties that used to be his father's had now increased tenfold. Arthur was officially exhausted.

And so adding magic lessons to his schedule was hardly high on his priority list.

He didn't completely disregard his magic; that would be foolish. Merlin had advised him (Merlin had advised him) that his magic needed to be kept… active, he described it as. Merlin had been convinced that, since Arthur had not just decided to begin using magic one day (unlike many other sorcerers) that he was actually just like him. They were two sides of the same coin, after all. Arthur would smirk at the fact – just like Merlin? In more ways that one, he begged to differ.

A few days after Arthur had learned of his magic Merlin said that, if his situation was anything like Merlin's; his magic was a part of him, not just a skill but a personality trait. With that in mind, it wouldn't just stay hidden for long; should Arthur keep it dormant for long enough, the magic would probably seep out and perform some insignificant, yet noticeable spell. Merlin then explained of a time when he had, under his mother's instruction, forced his magic to hide away. It was about six days later when a branch on the large oak just outside Ealdor had set on fire, almost incinerating half of the tree. Arthur was sceptical as to how Merlin could classify that as an 'insignificant' spell, but Merlin had been quick to announce that, since he was this all-powerful 'Emrys', his magic was much stronger than most other sorcerers'. Arthur had held back a rude remark which he'd coupled with the word 'prat' in his mind and then realised the oddity of it and so kept his mouth firmly shut.

And so Arthur had been advised to learn one little, unimportant spell; one he could use for his own benefit, to keep his magic active so it didn't get jaded and misbehave. It was the spell to light a small fire – Forbærne – which Merlin had taught him. It had taken him a few times to get the pronunciation right, and it was his first proper spell – much different to casting magic without an incantation – but once these problems were solved he could cast the spell easily and would do it as often as possibly to disallow an untimely or unwanted revealing of his magic. He would cast it when it got dark on a candle; he cast it one night when he and the knights were out searching for bandits. Merlin was usually around at these times, and Arthur found himself mildly proud when he pleased and impressed Merlin. It was an irrational, odd feeling, but he would ignore it.

Merlin walked in on Arthur's vigil at his father's bedside. Since Arthur had come to see his father about two hours ago he had been asleep, and Arthur didn't have the heart to wake him. He would tell him of council matters tomorrow; now, his father needed rest.

The warlock (for Merlin had insisted to Arthur that, really, he wasn't a 'sorcerer') gingerly approached Uther's bed. He looked uncomfortable – like he was almost ashamed for walking in on such a private moment between father and son. Arthur, sensing his servant's unease, gently ushered him closer, showing that he had no objections to Merlin's presence. Merlin's steps were surer as he continued, in a quiet pace, towards the bed.

"Is he okay?" Merlin asked in a whisper. Arthur swallowed.

"He's been sleeping since I arrived." He said, cursing internally as his voice threatened to crack. "I haven't spoken to him."

Merlin held up a small vial, "I visited Gaius – he said that he should drink it as soon as possible."

"What is it?" Arthur questioned, taking the vial from Merlin's gangly fingers and studying it. It was a repulsive green colour, and Arthur guessed from experience that it tasted disgusting.

"I don't know," Merlin admitted, "but I think it's some kind of pain relief."

Uther stirred in his sleep, groaning uncomfortably. The first noise he'd made in over an hour.

"Thank you, Merlin," Arthur muttered, wrapping his fingers tightly around the vial as if it were his father's last lifeline he was protecting. "That'll be all."

Merlin blinked, "Are you not going to bed? You have council meetings in the morning. You'll be exhausted."

Arthur frowned, knowing Merlin was speaking the truth, "But my father-,"

"Will be here when you get back."

"Don't interrupt me, Merlin." Arthur scolded half-heartedly. Merlin clearly didn't take the comment personally though, and Arthur didn't try to apologise for it. The two sat in silence for a few seconds, before Arthur told Merlin to get some sleep. Merlin's forehead creased.

"Arthur-,"

"I'll be fine, Merlin." Arthur whispered, giving a small smile, "Contrary to all your beliefs, I can protect myself."

It was a surprise to Arthur that Merlin decided not to argue. Giving the Prince a little nod of the head, Merlin got up and headed for the door. He anxiously and slowly exited the room, his eyes never really leaving the Prince until he was out the door.

It was a few minutes later when Arthur finally caved in and decided that he needed to sleep. He turned to Uther's bedside table, where the candle he had magically lit a couple of hours ago sat flickering gently. He recited the only other spell he knew - the spell to put out the fire that his other spell created – and the little flame died out. He dryly thought that it was important for his magic to get some variation in its 'exercise' – it often got bored of the same trick and Arthur wondered if Merlin would ever choose to teach him another one – before he stood up and made for the door, leaving the little vial on the bedside table.

Arthur gasped as something clutched onto his wrist. He turned back in shock to see his father, eyes open, looking helpless and pitiful. Arthur could've screamed out at how weak his father looked, how unfamiliar the face of his own parent was.

Arthur then started to panic as he wondered if his father had seen him perform magic. He thought up a simple explanation – he would say that his father had been hallucinating, perhaps. A cruel lie, but a necessity; for now, anyway.

But if Uther had seen the trick, he did not seem to care. He stared up at Arthur, his wide eyes hollow but painful, like a thousand fears were floating around in the two orbs of nothingness.

"Arthur, no."

Arthur's heart sunk. Had he seen? "Father-,"

"Arthur, don't leave me."

Arthur didn't know whether to be relieved or upset. "Father…"

"Please."

The crack in Arthur's armour was broken through as he heard his strong father's pitiful plea. Sinking back onto the stool, his eyes never leaving their locked position on his father, he squeezed his father's hand in comfort.

"Don't leave me." His father continued to beg.

"I won't, Father." An old fear of Arthur's dredged up; a fear that had existed upon when he first discovered his magic. A fear that said he would abandon his father – the sorcerer killer, the man who was weeding out his own kin. Determined, Arthur spoke, "I'll never leave you." He promised.

Arthur remained by his father's side for hours afterwards. He gave him the tonic Gaius had prepared, talked to him gently about the day's events, and stayed for a good few hours after Uther fell into slumber. It was early morning when Arthur blew out the candle and left his father's bedside, hoping to get a good couple of hours rest before the first council meeting.

Arthur despised these meetings. Maybe it was because his father was usually the one to take them and so he wasn't used to running these meetings in such a way. Maybe he would rather be out training or spending time with Guinevere or learning about his magic whilst teasing Merlin. Or maybe he could feel every eye of the elder members of the council fixed on him, judging him as a leader, as the King he would one day become.

He didn't know whether they saw his eventual reign as a good thing or a bad.

He was grateful to finally escape that cursed room, and even more grateful to find Merlin in his chambers afterwards, with all of his gear ready for training the knights. After training, Merlin was again there, ready with Arthur's lunch. During lunch, Arthur ate while Merlin polished his armour (with his magic, mind you) and cleaned Arthur's room a little. Once Merlin had finished his chores, Arthur suggested that Merlin should sit and join him, and the two of them enjoyed the precious free time they had. Arthur was even gracious enough to offer Merlin some meat and a handful of bread, which Merlin munched gratefully. Arthur scolded Merlin for his awful table manners, but did it with a smile. He didn't mean it – he was just grateful to see skinny little Merlin eat something, and with such pleasure.

They kept up light conversation throughout the lunch. Merlin asked about training and the council meeting and Arthur replied politely, trying not to moan about the tedious meetings and the new, less-able trainees that had just came in with hope to join the Knights and their family's seal to prove who they were. Arthur was fed up of that tradition and didn't understand why it was still necessary – after all, a small handful of his most trusted and skilful Knights weren't of noble descent, and Arthur found himself growing closest to those men, anyway.

The topic of magic was pretty much avoided. Arthur made a small joke about Merlin using magic to do his chores and asked if he had done this before, to which Merlin had replied with a false 'no', but that was all that was said on the matter. It wasn't avoided like the plague, though; more like a closed matter that was done, dusted, and behind them. Both of them now saw their magic as a neutral, maybe even good, thing. Arthur still was a little hesitant on the matter (especially concerning both his own magic and Merlin's secret-keeping) but he wasn't constantly complaining or worrying, like he had been in the earlier stages of his recently-awakened magic possession.

As Arthur took the last few bites of his food, Merlin choked down the last piece of his bread (which had lasted him a long time, considering his animalistic table manners), before getting up and finding one of Arthur's sleeveless jackets for him to wear over the blue tunic he was now wearing. Merlin sighed before he asked Arthur, "So how was your father?"

An innocent enough question. Arthur knew his servant meant him no harm, but he couldn't help feeling the words as physical injuries. As a warrior, he loathed feeling so weak. He longed for the days as a child when he could crawl into his Father's lap and hold him tightly until all his fears vanished. The very image of that strong, dependable man he'd seen his Father as when he was young, alongside the weak, frail shadow of that man from last night, made Arthur's skin crawl and his eyes sting.

Arthur was grateful that Merlin didn't pick up on these things, though. Or maybe he was just choosing to ignore it. Maybe Merlin was finally getting it – Arthur didn't enjoy being babied on, and so in his weakest moments he preferred it if people just walked on by. Unhealthy? Maybe. But Arthur was perfectly fine with bottling everything up – at least, for now.

"I've seen him better," Arthur admitted, before frowning, "But I suppose I've seen him worse."

Merlin nodded, his encouraging gaze inviting. "What happened? Did you give him Gaius' tonic?"

"Yes," Arthur recalled, making sure he could picture the little vial in his head, completely empty.

"Do you know what's wrong with him?" Merlin pressed, trying to remain soft in his tone.

Arthur shrugged. "He's… unwell." He admitted. "He looked so broken. So unlike his old self." Arthur then scoffed, but the noise lacked humour. "Imagine how much worse he'll be when I tell him the truth."

Merlin frowned, sensing Arthur's discomfort. Though Arthur had warmed to the idea of his magic, the idea of telling his father was still as cold as ice. "Arthur, if you don't want to tell him-,"

"And then what, Merlin?" Arthur demanded, his voice low but his deep-seated anger that always bubbled away when difficult topics involving his father were concerned, "Spend my whole life after his death knowing that I lied to my own father in his final time in this world? Hate myself for my entire life because my father went to his grave not knowing who I truly am?"

Arthur rested his heavy head on one of his hands and his elbow on the desk, a look of exhaustion on his face, as well as pure regret. Arthur knew he couldn't let his father die; not without telling him of the events of the past few months. However, that day was assumed to be coming faster than necessary. It was pretty much an unspoken truth that Uther had little time left to live – Gaius had diagnosed him when he had become bedridden and was trying to discover his illness. But, somehow – whether his magical instincts or his blood connection with the King were the reason – he knew that the day was nearing that he would have to take the thrown, and he hated that. He didn't believe himself worthy, ready. Merlin and Guinevere were more positive on the subject, but Arthur wasn't sure he could do it – not without the closure that he needed from his father. He just needed to talk to him, even if it was one last time, with Uther in a fully conscious, healthy state.

He despaired that this was just some hopeless dream. He feared that last night was the final time he would see his Father awake and alive, and that the final memory of his Father he would possess was the image of him as that weak, piteous ghost of a man.

And as a knock on the door alerted him to his space and he was faced with the elderly Court Physician and that solemn face he wore, his heart sank to the bottom of his chest.

He knew what was coming.

...

...

...

Dying.

The thought tore Arthur asunder.

He was dying.

As in, he was alive, but not for much longer. Now he was alive. Soon he would be dead.

Dead. He would die.

And then the young Prince would be alone.

All alone.

Looking back he knew that this was not the case. He had Gaius, he had Guinevere, he had Merlin, and he had his Knights. But that was all he could think of, as Gaius explained that his Father merely had days to live, at best. He restricted himself from becoming angry. Why hadn't Gaius discovered this earlier? Why hadn't he done this before? Why did his Father have to leave him now – he still had plenty to learn and so much to say and he couldn't just sit by and watch as his Father died.

Died.

Dying.

"I'm sorry, Arthur."

Sorry. Why was he sorry? It's not like he'd tried his hardest to save the King, only to fail. Then, maybe Arthur could've accepted the apology. But how could the Court Physician possibly be sorry? He hadn't tried, and so he hadn't failed. He wasn't going to fail. He was the greatest physician in Camelot, right? So why didn't he do something?

"Arthur, it's going to be okay-,"

Okay? How the hell was it going to be okay? What was that stupid sorcerer thinking? Uther had raised Arthur, and was the reason for many of his traits, his lessons, and his skills; both good and in-need-of-improvement. Arthur still had so much to learn – so, so much. And he had so much to say. About his reign. About how he loved his Father. About his magic.

His magic. The worst company of all at this time. Also the company that, unlike Merlin and Gaius, he couldn't order to leave the room. It stuck there like Arthur's shadow, trying to be comforting but making it worse. Arthur laughed bitterly as he thought that the magic was essentially like a gangly, awkward boy stood in the room with him, trying to make everything better and failing miserably. Merlin had not been wrong when he had said that he was magic. They were both terrible company.

As Arthur sat as his Father's bedside, his thoughts were rather cyclical – dying, sorry, okay, magic. Back to dying. Maybe an odd cry for his Father's well-being; for his love for his Father; praying for him to get better.

Useless. Never had he felt so utterly useless. Because he could protect his Father with a sword – he could protect his whole kingdom with a sword in his hand. But what was he here, as this pitiful, hopeless wreck that kept following the same pointless circle of unhelpful thoughts?

He needed his Father's advice. Father, what do I do? He would think to himself – not much use voicing his questions to his unconscious Father to himself – help me, please. No matter how Arthur admired his Father as a King, though, he doubted he could help to heal himself, or he'd have done it already.

But he couldn't. And so Uther was just as useless to himself as Arthur was to him, as Gaius was, as anyone was.

Useless. Even with his magic.

Magic! Where was Merlin? Now he felt awful for telling Merlin to leave, but he had just been so angry and Merlin had been so falsely optimistic, telling him it was going to be okay.

Okay. No, not it wasn't. How could it possibly be? Maybe Merlin had only said that because he was sorry for him.

Sorry. Why was he sorry?

Because his Father was dying.

Arthur's head jolted up as he heard a tentative knock on the door, followed by Merlin's head popping around the side of it. Arthur sighed, but for all it was worth, he just didn't have the heart to send Merlin away again. He beckoned Merlin over, and the warlock smiled for a brief second before coming over. He bowed at both Arthur and Uther in his bed, out of respect. Respect? The warlock and concept combined were a laughable notion.

"How is he?" Merlin asked.

"Fine." Arthur responded. Ha. What another stupid thought. Fine. The dying man in the bed wasn't fine, and neither was Arthur.

"I'm sorry." Merlin said, after a long pause. First Gaius, now Merlin. Arthur didn't need their sympathy. Or maybe he did. He didn't know anymore. To be honest, at that point, there was nothing he wanted to do more than fall into a heap on the floor and scream. "I wish there was something I could do. Something I could do to help."

"There's nothing." Arthur murmured, "Nothing can be done to save him." A spark fuzzed inside of him, "Unless… your magic…"

Merlin's face fell immediately. "I tried." He said.

"Well, try harder." Arthur demanded, even though something in Merlin's voice showed that he already had.

"Arthur," Merlin sighed.

"Merlin." Arthur interrupted. There was a look that Merlin gave him next. Something of an apology; that Merlin had done all he could. He just wished he could do more. Arthur realised that even magic had its difficulties. His hopes collapsed again, and he turned back to his Father, chin balanced on his knuckles. "I wish there was some way I could talk to him." Arthur confessed, "Just one more time. And not just as that crazed, weak man – as the man he was before. Healthy and strong and well." He twisted his view to Merlin again, "Is that so much to ask?"

Arthur could've sworn he saw it. Merlin's eyes danced suddenly at a thought. The spark of hope flickered again, like a candle he would light again with his magic after putting it out, just for pure entertainment. Arthur hoped that, unlike the lighting of the candle, this spark would not be extinguished so quickly again.

"What are you scheming, Merlin?" Arthur asked, sarcasm only just playing at his tone. Merlin was now smiling; a small one, but one nonetheless.

"His dreams." He mused, "His mind. You could enter his mind and talk to him. I could send you in there with my magic-,"

"Merlin, what are you on about?" Arthur called after him, but Merlin had jogged out of the room before Arthur could stop him. He returned a few minutes later with a thick book he had announced as the spell book Gaius had given him in his first few days in Camelot. He held it up at a particular page, but of course, looking at hundreds of scribbles of nonsensical words really didn't help Arthur understand what Merlin's plan was. After a few seconds of Merlin glaring at Arthur, expecting a response when Arthur had nothing beneficial to offer, the warlock just sighed with irritation.

"Back before you knew about your magic, I transported myself into your dreams, remember?" Arthur nodded, "Well, maybe I could do the same now! I could send you into your Father's dreams – it's probably the same concept; just change the names and we're good-,"

"Merlin." Arthur interrupted, "Probably?"

Merlin gave an innocent smile. "Probably." His little smile grew into a grin, "You don't need to worry, Arthur – I'm perfectly practised."

"Indeed." Arthur grumbled, before waving his hand in an uninterested signal. However something bubbled inside of him with excitement – the prospect of being able to talk to his Father, even if this was the final time, was invigorating and nerve-wrecking all at the same time. He had so much he needed to say, so much to thank his Father for. Would he have enough time to do it in? "Get on with it, then."

Merlin's smile turned reassuring, before he turned his attention to the impressively thick book. He flicked through a few random pages, before letting out a small "Ah!" and holding up his hand, ready to cast the spell. Arthur closed his eyes, took a breath, ready to hear the foreign words. But Merlin said nothing. Arthur huffed, "Get on with it, then."

Merlin huffed back in response. "Well, I need your help first."

Arthur opened and rolled his eyes, "Oh lovely." He muttered, "Magic's getting exercise a little earlier today, hmm?"

Merlin just fixed Arthur with a stern look which made Arthur almost chuckle.

"You don't have to do anything magical." Merlin stated, "Just… cross your legs. Put your hands in your lap."

Arthur pulled a face, but did not argue. He struggled to cross his legs – something he hadn't done since a child – but once he was balanced (albeit precariously) on his seat, cross-legged, he nodded to Merlin for his next instruction.

"Close your eyes." Merlin said, and so Arthur did so, "And after I say the first part of the spell, I need you to start picturing your father. Everything that makes him who he is, or made him who he was."

"Right." To see his father once more, Arthur was more than happy to comply. Though he couldn't see with his eyes closed, he heard Merlin take a deep breath and could almost picture him lifting his hand to perform the spell. Merlin began talking in that different tone, in that foreign language.

"Ábeþecest þá swefn sylfum Uther Pendragon."

Merlin took a breath, and so Arthur started to do as he had been asked. Picture his father. He grasped on to every memory, every moment that involved his father. From when he was just a child to even the most recent conversations. He had a perfect picture of his father in his mind and knew Merlin would be pleased. Arthur wondered if Merlin had to picture Uther too, and knew that Merlin's perceptive of his father may be a little darker and weaker than his own. He hoped that wouldn't cause any problems.

Arthur knew now that both of their magic was being used in the spell – he could feel both his magic and Merlin's sparkling – albeit his was sparkling a little brighter, despite his lack in talent when it came to the art of sorcery. He squinted an eye open just a little and was shocked by the glowing blue bubble that surrounded him, tinted with red around the edges, swirling around like blood in a stream. This must've been his own magic, and his own memories – aiding Merlin with the spell. Arthur heard Merlin begin speaking again, this time much louder, his voice far deeper.

"Scéawungmin drút þá swefn. ÁseteArthur æt se blædsylfum Uther Pendragon."

A/N: To be continued... :)

Yeah, so, I dunno when the second half of this'll be up. Oh well. At least it's not finished yet :P

I hope you enjoyed that! Hopefully it made up for my awfully long absence... *face palm*

~Amy x