A/N: I only wrote 3000 words for this? Kill me?

No but really I expected to write a lot more for this. anyway here's yet another ongoing fic I am so sorry

Darkness was approaching.

He'd seen it time and again; a fade of consciousness, a loss of function and feeling, barely grasping at focus or linear thought.

Death was not a light.

Instead, it was a black haze. A simultaneous lightheadedness and clarity. On one hand, all of what Arthur had said to - to this being, was true. On the other, it'd all been spoken through the mist of his slowly fading existence. Every word of betrayal, every line of praise, every declaration of ultimate appreciation escaped his lips with a gradual amount of desperation.

It was not that he meant it any less. It simply may not have been said, or said in the same way, under different circumstances. He could not be blamed for that. A man is different in death than he is in life. He is more honest, more open, ready to say what needs to be said before he is forced from the mortal world.

Death was darkness.

Arthur spent his life learning to kill honorably and be killed honorably. He knew not to show his pain, how not to show his pain, not to let it overwhelm him, but by the Gods, did his side hurt. It wasn't like any agony he'd experienced. It was sharp and dull at the same time, both burning and freezing. Like death itself, the wound spread the feeling all throughout his body.

It was more like having a debilitating sickness than the shard of a sword stuck inside of him. All the symptoms told more of a plague than anything else, with how he could barely walk, could barely stomach any type of food, could feel his temperature rising and falling at random. But even then, even then, his mind was far too busy to worry about the type of discomfort he was in.

Life at that moment felt far too quickly fading. He'd experienced every emotion possible, all with a tint of grief and guilt.

Death was -

"Merlin."

He didn't know if he'd actually spoken the name, or if he'd imagined it. His lips moved to say it, moved to say many more things, he knew, but it didn't feel right. Almost nothing felt right in that moment. Almost.

In the end, he knew he needed to put all of his energy into expressing what was most important. He could have said a million different things, would have done so if he'd had enough time to, but he knew what Merlin had always needed. He knew that after all that time, after so little credit was given, after he'd risked his life and sanity for Arthur and for their kingdom, his first priority had to be gratitude.

Merlin gave so much. He gave and gave and gave, barely ever took, barely ever was allowed selfishness.

This is enough, he could doubtlessly think.

It could have been enough, to finally grant well-deserved recognition, to express his inordinate admiration while in the embrace of the one he could clearly, blatantly see was most important to him.

Had Merlin stirred a bit of cowslip inside of his last retched meal? Fitting, it would've been. It certainly would have explained why he'd been in such a daze, why his head could be so concentrated on his feelings toward his manservant. Or, well, the man who claimed to be his servant. How he could keep up the charade even then, Arthur couldn't comprehend.

Yet, the sorcerer did not seem as though he'd been acting. He was truly convinced of his destiny, of his fate as Arthur's servant. Not only convinced, but more than content to be within such inescapable Moirai.

As his life vanished, his deep affection for his friend grew.

It felt as though he'd aged far beyond his true years.

Darkness approaching.

Merlin's tearful begging filled his ears, the hopeless and unintelligible muttering, the shouts of the king's name, they were all steadily engraving themselves into his disappearing mind, like a figurative tombstone. One only significant to him, one only he could see. He'd wanted so badly to reassure his friend, to say with his relaxed expression how it was his time, how it wasn't Merlin's responsibility to keep him alive.

He couldn't, though. He couldn't even speak anymore, breath coming out too slowly to form coherent speech.

As his eyes rolled slowly up, the last of his vision did not catch Merlin's eyes, but instead the slowly brightening sky. That had, perhaps, been his final regret.

Darkness enveloped him.

From somewhere far away, he was being called to. A light voice spoke to him, telling him to open his eyes, but he couldn't, because he was dead. Dead people aren't supposed to cling desperately to a life they no longer are capable of having. It would have been shameful to grasp in hopeless vain for a moment more, for one last minute with - no, he couldn't think about it.

Could it have been his time to go back already? It felt as though Arthur had been asleep for less than a minute, but perhaps his consciousness disappeared for a time. It did not feel like sleep, but more as if he'd completely vanished, as if he momentarily no longer existed. Perhaps it had been years - ages - since he'd escaped from his mortal shell, and he had no idea.

He could faintly feel the pull of magic surrounding him, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not open his eyes. Had he finally passed, or had he returned to the world of the living? Either sounded just as likely, and he wondered if they felt the same.

"Innocent people are dying."

Merlin.

Such a distant voice, a muffled statement, barely audible, but it brought Arthur somewhat to his senses. Was that Merlin? It had to have been. That meant Merlin's was the first voice he'd heard since his death which, if he were in some form of afterlife, would make a bit of sense. Yet, even that, he hadn't received direct confirmation for.

A scream, then a loud crash. Gwaine. Arthur knew, not just because the knight had such a distinct battlecry.

This had happened before.

"I know what you want."

His own voice. Arthur recognized his voice and had an idea of where he was, of when he was.

It all sounded familiar. It felt familiar. He'd heard those exact words in that exact order before. His hearing and feeling were returning to him, pushing him down the road of believing what he was experiencing had to have been reality and not just the afterlife. It felt too much like something he'd already gone through before. He felt too alive to still be dead.

But then, why was he there? Then?

Back when they'd closed the Veil?

Back when Lancelot sacrificed his life for them and for the safety and balance of their world?

If this was a product of his mind forcing him through visions of his past, why would it start there, and why focus so intently on the scene? When he'd heard stories of the dead having their lives flash before their gaze, he assumed that it would literally be a flash. But it wasn't like that at all. Actually, it seemed as though it was going just as slowly as life.

"I'm prepared to pay whatever price is necessary."

A crash, and why? He knew why. He remembered why. Arthur was thrown to the side like he'd weighed nothing, knocked out by the blow as soon as his head hit the ground, and that memory suddenly felt so much closer. That had to have been...

He couldn't know for sure, but he assumed automatically that it was Merlin. Another instance of being unknowingly protected by the sorcerer, by his manservant, by his best and only true friend. If he could hit himself in the head, he would, but he felt a bit too incorporeal for the ability to do that. He felt like the embodiment of darkness. Like he was being held in place by an unknown force.

Not only that, but he couldn't see anything.

Arthur was, for the time being, blind.

His vision was a shaking abyss, ever flowing and twisting and turning, and he could feel the overwhelming magic escaping the Veil, could sense the sudden alarm in the old woman as his consciousness warped into existence. The intense emotions raged around him - her shock and dismay, the apprehension in the others present - and, if he was correct, Arthur himself had been one of the others.

He felt like he was inside of the Veil. Like he was the Veil.

Could he feel his other self? He tried with his returning strength, yearning for the soul of one similar to his, and felt a force pulling him back.

It had to have been her. She had a tight grip on his spirit, cruel expression turned to one of contempt when Merlin stepped forward.

"Your time among men is not yet over, Emrys, even if you want it to be."

Emrys. He'd heard that name before, countless times.

Her crooked voice rung through his ears and he could feel her holding him back, as if she were about to at any moment let him free from her grasp. He was connected to her, for the moment; he could feel her aggitated heartbeat, the divided attention between keeping his reaching spirit at bay and ensuring Merlin of his fate, words Arthur was never before able to hear.

Arthur could feel the heat of Lancelot as the knight stepped toward the screaming rip in reality, the resignation and selfless air around him growing ever stronger. As if the king had truly become one with the entity, he attempted to feel out within the darkness, and sensed a shift within his friend and within the dark sea.

The knight halted before the Veil, not of his own accord.

"Your time," the decrepit woman stretched her fingers forward and Lancelot felt his body betraying his intentions, "Lancelot - bravest and most noble knight of them all. Your fate shifts as the sands do. Another shall take your place."

Without warning, a thump, then another. And even without his sight, Arthur could tell from the sound what'd happened. She must have knocked the other two out, as Lancelot's heat disappeared and Merlin's expected protest was nowhere to be heard. A few moments passed in complete silence as, presumably, the Cailleach weighed her options and analyzed the situation.

Things Arthur couldn't possibly do.

That helplessness he'd felt all through the time he'd been dying came back full-force, hitting him quickly and painfully. That, however, was blanketed by a feeling of release, a sudden and rapid push. His entire being was traveling faster than he thought possible, faster than he knew any human was feasibly able to move.

And then, he could feel. Really feel.

The cold gravel stung his cheek and the air hit brutally against the freezing metal of his chain armor. Though his bearings were heavy, they still couldn't shield him from the chill that ran up his spine. He'd never been so alive. So very, extremely, definitely not dead. He'd only a few minutes prior been nothing but a soul leaving his body, and he'd suddenly become perfectly fine.

His clothed hands pushed himself up, still somewhat disconnected from his mind.

While his eyes were focused on the darkness of his gloves, thinking, waiting, trying to piece together his circumstances, her footsteps clicked loudly across the stone. He quickly pushed himself up and over, back against the hard ground. Before him, that wrinkled face appeared, falling somewhere between furious and bewildered, though still harboring the same perpetual sadness.

She spoke as the wind shook.

"...You are an older soul," she stated slowly. "Only slightly, but older. Misplaced. Lost. Your eyes are not the same as the ones I'd seen before."

Somehow, she knew that his very existence was amiss. Within her lied a level of understanding.

The Cailleach could feel his disorientation. She knew exactly how adrift his soul had truly become.

"It was not of my own accord," he responded crookedly, as if he hadn't spoken in years.

"This is true," the woman stated. The acerbity in her eyes and pursed lips overtook her previous wistfulness. Her gaze moved quickly to Merlin's unmoving self and back to Arthur. "His soul is not present, so you shall pay the price in his place. Two spirits must not exist within one mortal coil, and as sacrifice, I take this physical form's old soul. Should your spirit make any attempt to return to its own time, your body will be nothing more than an empty shell."

She said it as if it were rehearsed, as if she were mildly annoyed, but the words hit like lightning or a sword straight through his chest. Return? Shell? Arthur slowly began to realize the situation he'd been placed into.

He'd died. He could feel himself shutting down, but even after that, Merlin did something. His surroundings were becoming more clear. He could easily see the tear in reality, could feel the magic still pulling at his adjusting spirit and flowing into their world, could see both Lancelot and Merlin lying still on the ground, and knew where and when he was.

This was...yes. Lancelot, one of his bravest knights, had sacrificed himself to close the Veil. This was that moment, the moment he'd been unconscious for.

"That makes no sense, what - "

Running a hand through his hair, a million questions flooded his mind. If his body were left an empty shell...no, it made no sense at all. He could not exist if he were to lose his soul, nor could he go back to his body in the right time. In the end, he knew it was a rotting corpse. He would have nothing. In his current flesh - no, his old one - he turned himself to lie on his back.

But, then, such a fate couldn't be.

"Your reality would be destined to collapse."

He died. Arthur died.

Wind blew softly as he stared into her face. Was this a dream? Was this the afterlife?

Yet, neither of those explanations gave reasoning for why it all felt so clear and real. He felt alive, much more alive than he'd felt in his last hours. Though, in all of his physical exhaustion and extreme confusion, he couldn't draw his sword at the old hag above him, no matter how much he knew he wanted to. He wanted to cut her down, to berate her for speaking of impossibilities as if they were so acceptable.

More than anything else, he wanted to slice her head off for what she'd done to Lancelot, what she'd done now to his previous soul - and, how could that have worked, exactly? He hadn't the time nor energy to argue, to wonder about his lot in life or what this all meant for that.

As he propped himself up with his elbows, he let out a humorous huff and raised his eyebrows. "You won't have to worry about that," he said in a gravely voice, head pounding as he slowly came back to reality. "Haven't got a body to return to, anyway."

Her eyes narrowed, turning to inhuman slits, before she gave a wicked and disgusting grin.

"You must not inform Emrys of your circumstances," her voice boomed in the shadows, cracking like thunder, like she were placing a terrible curse upon him. "Your knowledge of what is to come and his fearsome power may upset the very equilibrium of our reality. Your world would not be the only one placed in peril. Heed my warning, youthful king."

As the Veil closed and grew dim, her form followed.

Her despairing, mournful stare pierced through his very essence.

Arthur let out a deep breath.

Without a word, she was completely gone, and with it was the rift between Albion and the Spirit world. His last residing place, he came to understand. How long had he been in there? He had no way of telling accurately. He swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, allowing his vision to become accustomed to the sole light of the moon.

In the dead of night, Arthur stood.

He found it difficult to adapt to his body's balance. It was relieving to be in a decidedly not dying body, though he was still working through the consequences and repercussions of such a miracle.

His first priority was obvious.

The only thing he needed to place his attention toward was how he arrived, there, in that time, in that body. He assumed it had everything to do with Merlin - at least, it had to do with magic. Yet, Merlin had been the last person he was with before he'd died. It had to be Merlin. It had to be his fault, why Arthur was alive, why he was so misplaced and why everything was wrong.

That moron.

That absolutely selfless moron.

He'd take back that promise of two days off, without a doubt. But, then, this Merlin - the one lying just a few feet away - couldn't have been the one who'd sent him back, or to...wherever he was. It couldn't have been the one from the same place or time as him. That Merlin would have taken the old woman out in a heartbeat. Or, at least, he wouldn't have been pushed into unconsciousness so easily.

Then again, Arthur wasn't entirely sure of what Merlin would have done. He'd been convinced of Merlin's loyalty, not his level of mercy.

His sister's death flashed through his mind for what seemed like the millionth time. He shivered, then blamed that reaction on the cold, despite being alone.

Cutting through the silence was a low groan.

Arthur's attention turned immediately to the shifting body behind him. It seemed that Gwaine would be the first to awaken.

In a way, he was thankful.

Their return to Camelot was much calmer, less bittersweet, as mourning for a fallen nobleman never came.

Lancelot was alive.

"Arthur," a very much alive Lancelot placed a hand upon the current prince's shoulder as they walked alongside their exhausted horses, speaking low as to not catch the attention of the others. "You know nothing of what happened to close the Veil?"

He should have seen it coming, but he didn't.

It was hard to process the knight's question, at first. All Arthur could do was think, think, never stop thinking, because he had so much to consider, so much to reconsider, that anything not immediately on his mind felt so insignificant. He stared blankly for a moment, then replied, "Where was your attention? She used magic on me - forced me to the ground and knocked me right out."

A lie, but he'd expected it to be believable enough. Anyone present who knew them would have thought that woman the reason Arthur had been tossed to the side so unnaturally. Though, she made no movement. Had Merlin made a movement? He couldn't imagine that the case.

Because, well. If Merlin were to have moved at that exact moment, it would have been obvious. Anyone with a brain would have known -

Wait.

Arthur's response gave Lancelot pause. He'd seemed, if only for a second, puzzled, before something akin to realization washed over his face. "Yes," he said in what sounded much more like agreement than remembrance. "Of course."

And the hand was gone.

Throughout the rest of their travel back home, Arthur refused to speak. Even through Merlin's concerned and confused gaze, even through his and Lancelot's quiet conversations, even through the increasing tension between them all, Arthur wouldn't say a word.