A/N:

Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with Merlin, other than through my immense adoration of the show.

Hello! I hope you enjoy this long thing I spontaneously wrote whilst ignoring sleep (which is for squares-looking at you, Spongebob!) and work... I need to cease my procrastination; I think it's a little too good...

No slash, unless you squint! I try to keep my stories accessible and enjoyable for all Merlin fans, so I choose to stick with canon ships. You can ship whatever you want; I don't really like writing romance stories, anyway.

Note: I wrote this long ago, running on next to no sleep. I only just uncovered and polished it, so it may not be in tip-top shape. Any grammar or flow tips are welcome! It's really strange to revisit a different writing style, even if the difference is subtle...

Spoiler-y Note: The telepathy thing is kind of a plot device, I know. I just like to think that, if necessary, Merlin can form a telepathic link with non-magical people. All involved parties can only communicate for as long as the magic-user maintains the connection. I don't remember if this contradicts the canon or not, but oh well. On with the story!

The bitter, morbid pounding of the executioner's drum reverberated through his bones, which were so close to his skin that he would not have been surprised if he were mistaken for a rotted corpse with eyes and hair still intact.

His unhealthily exposed skeleton was wrought with shivers, sent through him by the crisp early morning air that he had once adored.

He almost chuckled mirthfully at the realization that his bones would be cold no longer; they would be the agonizingly intense opposite of cold.

The poor boy, disheveled and covered from head to toe in numerous injuries of varied severity, was led on the final trek of his short life.

You've only these next few steps left to take, he thought, bittersweetness consuming his entire being. Relish them.

So he did.

He inhaled deeply, smiling faintly as the cool, refreshing winter air entered his lungs and exited his nose in a billowing cloud of steam. He grinned as he spared a glance at the tall stone towers that had both awed and frightened him upon his arrival here. He practically beamed at the sight of the wonderfully familiar Camelot crest.

Then, his wide grin slipped into a small frown as he realized that this grand place, although the very last one he would ever consciously be (much to his delight), was ultimately responsible for his demise.

The frown deepened as he heard the hysterical cries of a painfully familiar woman; Guinevere. She had been his very first friend here in Camelot, and he felt touched that he would spend his final moments here with her, no matter how horrid his last few minutes would be.

Thank you, Gwen. You've been a lovely, loyal friend. Do not weep for me; I do not want to be the cause of your despair. Also; do not let anyone stop you from seeing Prince Prat. I can hear the wedding bells already, and in time, so will everyone else. Be sure to tell the kids a bit about me. …Goodbye, Guinevere; I thank you once more for that purple flower you gave me so long ago. Such a regal color suits you. I just wish I could be around to see you wear it. You'll be a wonderful queen when the day comes.

He was idly aware of the way her sobbing increased in volume after he sent her his telepathic farewell.

She didn't listen to me, he thought sadly.

Please, Gwen; do not cry. I'll be fine, watching over you and your dollopheaded husband from afar, waiting for you. Do not weep, for we shall meet again. Never forget this; I will always be there, Guinevere.

He heard her crying, still, but the sobs were quieter and more controlled.

Thank you, he finished simply. These two words were filled with more emotion than anyone would believe possible. While the ability to convey such emotion was nearly impossible with simple speech, telepathy was capable of increasing the amount of feeling that could be communicated. After all, simply dropping one's personal thoughts into another's head tends to result in a lack of separation between emotions and words.

The boy turned to face the crowd, and caught sight of his mentor, his surrogate father, who was holding a distraught Guinevere close. He was a physician, after all, and physicians are trained to nurture and comfort.

Gaius, the boy whispered into his mind. He faltered, unsure of what to say.

My boy, he responded, his telepathic voice laden with emotion.

Thank you so much, Gaius; for everything. You were, are, and always will be the father I never had. Thank you.

Anytime, my boy; anytime. I should be the one thanking you, not just for being a son to me, but for your company, assistance, and loyalty. I fear I was your only source of acknowledgement, for which I am immensely sorry, but nonetheless, completely honored by. Good job, my boy; you've made me proud.

The sickly pale and skinny boy flashed Gaius a soft, yet happy smile filled with gratitude and familial love.

Gaius discreetly wiped away a tear, but his ward noticed. He always noticed.

Could you do me a favor? he asked after a moment of contemplative silence.

Anything, came the immediate response.

Look after everyone, please, but look after yourself first.

Gaius sent him a feeble attempt at an impish grin.

I am a physician, son; it is my job to look after people.

I know. You know what I mean, though, don't you?

A pause.

Yes, I do.

I love you, Gaius. Thank you for taking me under your wing.

I love you too, Merlin. I could not have wished for a better fledgeling to tend to. I am glad that I managed to witness you spread your own, and it gladdens my heart to hear that I helped you to fly.

They exchanged bittersweet glances, both incapable of saying farewell.

"This man has been found guilty of practicing magic and enchantments in Camelot. He has allowed himself to succumb to the temptations offered by the devil, and has passed the point of no return. Thus, there is but one sentence I can give; death by fire. He dared to shake hands with the devil; it is only appropriate that he perish at the devil's hand."

"You are absolutely correct!" an incensed female voice shouted vehemently. "You are the devil incarnate, Uther Pendragon!"

Merlin watched as Morgana was restrained by the guards and carried away from the scene of his imminent death, kicking and screaming abuse.

Well, the boy thought with a mirthless chortle, at least she's fighting for me, and not against me. Perhaps she will not have to suffer the hardships of destiny; perhaps she will stay good. After all, it is supposedly her destiny to die at the hand of Emrys… me.

"Sorcerer," Uther spat, venom oozing from his every pore, "have you any final words?"

Merlin smiled, his eyes twinkling despite the sadness that lingered there. "I once said that I would die for Arthur. I am honored to make good on that promise. Your son will be the greatest king Albion will ever know; I am proud to have played a part in his legacy. I die with a clear conscience."

Uther seemed rather surprised by the young warlock's words, seeing as most convicted sorcerers wasted their last breaths protesting, accusing him, cussing him out, and/or screaming vengefully. Uther, despite being such a close-minded man, recognized true loyalty when he saw it. He was momentarily touched by Merlin's words, but was almost immediately blinded again by the fact that the boy was a sorcerer, which was, in Uther's book, unforgivable.

His final thoughts on the boy were something along the lines of, "Pity he turned to the dark arts; he would have made a great knight, if not for that gangly physique and lack of noble status."

Uther then ordered the executioner to affix the boy to the pyre. Once the warlock was secured, Uther lowered his hand in a morbid fashion, ordering Merlin's death.

The executioner threw his torch into the wooden heap before him, his gut filled with remorse.

I'm sorry, the executioner thought morosely. He was sorry about all of them.

I forgive you, came the voice of the man upon the pyre, startling the executioner out of his wits.

The executioner wiped away a single tear as he realized that he was being forgiven for the very first time.

As the flames crept higher, Merlin had to swallow down his terror. He had feared the wrath of the pyre since he was old enough to understand what it was, what it meant, and what it was capable of. Merlin had always known in his heart that he would not be granted a peaceful death.

Well, if he could not pass away peacefully, he would pass away fighting.

Suddenly filled with renewed resolve, the young warlock raised his head, weighed down by a messy heap of ebony locks, and held it high, surveying the crowd proudly. His heart stopped as his gaze landed upon the one person he had wanted to avoid, and yet, the person he had wished the most to see.

Before him, struggling against some of his father's strongest knights, bawling, rage emanating from every fibre of his being, was Arthur.

Calm down, prat.

The man in question immediately ceased his violent resistance, head snapping up abruptly to meet the gaze of the warlock who had telepathically spoken to him.

Merlin, he responded breathlessly.

Yes, clotpole; it's me.

Gods, Merlin, I'm so sorry, I'm so, so terribly sorry—

This is not your fault, so stop apologizing. Quit blaming yourself, please; for me.

I-I can't! Arthur internally exclaimed.

Merlin smiled cheekily. What? Denying a dying man his final wish? You really are a prat!

S-stop it, Merlin! Stop it! You… you are not going to— he cut himself off with a sob that he tried in vain to conceal.

No, you stop. The sooner you cease your negation, the sooner the two of us can be at peace.

You… you really are an idiot, aren't you? came Arthur's admittedly tearful response.

And you're a dollophead. I suppose we're even, then.

A moment of near-silence passed, in which nothing but the crackling of fire and exclamations of terror, sympathy, and disgust could be heard.

Did you really mean what you said earlier? Arthur inquired hesitantly.

Merlin smiled, responding instantly. Every word. I spoke nothing but the truth; I am happy to serve you until the day I die. I pray that I can somehow continue to serve you beyond the grave. It's been an honor, Arthur; thank you for everything.

No, thank you… idiot, Arthur replied affectionately.

Merlin smiled at him, then severed their connection.

It was then that he became aware of the fact that he was burning.

And it hurt.

He recalled his earlier thoughts on his execution, and honestly? He preferred the cold. At least that way, he would fall into a peaceful sleep before perishing. Now, though? His final moments would be spent in agony.

And agony it was.

Merlin grimaced as he felt the flames lick at his boots, eating through the warn leather to reach his calloused feet. As soon as the devilish little b—gers tasted his flesh, they screamed their approval, suddenly acquiring a taste for human flesh; more specifically, Merlin's flesh. They became all the more ravenous, tearing into his bubbling flesh with vile vigor, sending smoke and the acrid odor of burning skin through the air in their jubilance. They decided that his skin wasn't enough, so they went on to feast upon his muscles, then his bones. Their teeth were sharper than thousands of enchanted blades, their touch more revolting than that of a troll. They were skilled little torturers, trained to slowly consume one's body before finally putting them out of their misery. They asked for no information, only the sadistic joys that pain brought them.

Merlin refused to scream.

Sure, he knew that he was not the first person to die by fire with such an idea, but he was determined to be the first to keep his word. He would not surrender to the will of the loathsome flames that, bit by flaming bit, claimed him for their own.

He was now up to his hips in fire, and oh gods, he wanted it to stop!

Merlin shut his eyes tightly in pain, refusing to openly display his agony to any of the witnesses. He wouldn't let Uther win; he wouldn't hurt his friends—his family—with his own inconsequential discomfort. He couldn't.

Merlin did not cry out as he felt his entire lower half grow numb before crumbling to dust, although several bystanders shrieked, making their abject horror known to all.

Instead of sobbing, screaming, begging, or the like, Merlin smiled; his torture was almost over. He was halfway to Avalon, to Freya, Will, Balinor, and every other person he had lost in his short life.

He would finally be free of the unforgiving curse that was his supposed destiny.

Merlin smiled as the flames enveloped the rest of his being, burning away the shackles that bound him to his destiny, severing the ties that kept him amongst the living. He would miss all of his friends and family terribly, but he knew that they, too, would eventually depart the mortal world, and join him in the afterlife. He would wait for them, no matter how long it took. He would greet them at the gates of death, welcoming them one by one as they met their ends, providing them each with a new beginning. He would wait.

I will wait, he thought, closing his eyes serenely as the flames began to dance upon his eyelashes.

Soon, Merlin was no more than a smoldering pile of ashes.

Nobody made a sound, shocked by what they had witnessed. It is a very disturbing thing, to see a man such as Merlin alive one minute, then see a pile of ash in his place the next, the process not even accompanied by the faintest of whimpers.

The first noise made by a human following Merlin's death was an inhuman roar, one so intense that the ground shook and the sky thundered. The scream was so emotional that the whole of Camelot felt the pain that had caused it. The source had lost its other half, and was now incomplete and alone in the world.

Everyone turned to the pyre, half-expecting it to have come from the victim, but there was nothing but a mound of ashes amidst a sea of flames.

When they found no closure, they looked around wildly, desperately attempting to pinpoint the source of the scream that had tugged mercilessly at their heartstrings.

To their great surprise, the one responsible for such a sound was none other than their very own prince, Arthur Pendragon.

Arthur paid the incredulous looks of those surrounding him no mind as he was filled with rage, grief, and agony pertaining to the cruel demise of his closest friend. Arthur was scarcely aware of what was occurring in the physical world, too lost amongst his despair to notice anything else.

Arthur did not notice the way the knights and guards who had restrained him during the execution struggled to maintain their hold on him, nor did he realize that he had knocked them all to the ground with one fearsome, ferocious roar.

Arthur did not notice his sanguine vision become tinged with flecks of gold as the courtyard trembled and stones were shaken from their very foundation, narrowly missing the people who had been thrown to the cobbled ground by his grief.

Arthur did not notice his father's look of absolute horror as his son slowly, brokenly, approached the dying embers of his best friend's personal crematorium.

Arthur certainly did not notice the way his scarlet gaze became overwhelmed by gold, nor did he hear the whispers and terrified shrieks of those nearby. He didn't even feel the way his gilded hair was whipped about by a nonexistent breeze as his fingernails punctured his palms.

What he did notice, however, was the spontaneous combustion of his deceased manservant's pyre.

Arthur was snapped out of his fervent stupor as a new shade of gold flooded his vision. Blinking, tears running down his rugged face, Arthur stared, entranced, by the gorgeous, swirling flames that had sprung up before him. In their shimmering midst, a blindingly bright figure rose from the ashes, silhouette gradually becoming more and more familiar. Just before anyone could place it, the shape within the flames suddenly imploded, leaving a magnificent glowing dragon, gentle, yet mighty, in its place. The dragon-figure turned to Arthur, staring at him for a moment, as if politely scrutinizing the young prince. The creature then nodded sagely, warmth and care contorting its elegant visage, replacing curiosity with pure compassion and pride.

The fire-dragon suddenly vanished, leaving the smaller figure in its place once more. The slight form of the original being danced and flickered at the very heart of the benevolent flames, head lowered solemnly, eyes concealed by luminescent eyelids. The figure gradually became more and more stable, appearing less and less like a peculiar flame and more like a human being. They seemed to be comatose, locked in a state of severe unconsciousness, one that ran as deeply as death. It seemed that their eyes would not be opening soon.

Without warning, their head was forced backwards, eyes flying open.

Astoundingly powerful pillars of intense golden light emanated from the figure's eye sockets, twin beacons of hope and purity penetrating the dark skies, blackened by the smoke of the executioner's fire. The gilded flames produced no smoke, however; they only radiated light and warmth.

If hearths were hearts, this fire would be the paragon of a golden one.

As the aureate beacons began to retreat back into their host, returning to rest within their soul, said host's eyes became visible. The irises were a deeper, richer shade of the gold that had shone beyond the heavens mere moments prior. The eyes seemed to radiate the very same luminescence as the beacons. They illuminated a pale, strikingly sculpted face, and eyelashes and brows darker than a moonless night.

Bit by bit, the figure was colored in by the light of their oculuses. First, wild and unkempt hair, sable and short. It was then succeeded by endearingly overlarge ears, between which hung a charming piece of vibrant crimson fabric that was wrapped around a neck that seemed paler than bone. Beneath this strip of cerise cloth lay a faded cerulean tunic, upon which rested a well-loved and well-worn leather jacket.

Arthur, Uther, Gaius, Guinevere, and everyone else in the courtyard gaped at the figure in shock. It was unmistakeable; before them was Merlin, seemingly untouched by flame. His skin was visibly smooth and undoubtedly softer than it had been in years, as far from charred as could be. There was not a speck of cinder upon his person, nor was an inch of his being ash any longer. Merlin had returned, brought back by the very element responsible for his death in the first place.

Slowly, the boy lowered his head once more, stopping as soon as his face was angled directly forwards. His eyes were glazed over, irises still alight. Merlin retrained his gaze until it rested upon one man; Arthur.

Merlin's eyes, though no longer the brilliant blue the prince of Camelot was accustomed to, still remained the one feature Arthur knew the best. Merlin could have sported an entirely new countenance, and still, Arthur would be able to identify him by his eyes. They held a sort of wise naïvety, sinful purity, and an odd, joyously morose gleam within them that was contradictory in every possible way, yet, at the same time, uniquely Merlin.

Said eyes were framed by lovely little creases as his eyes focused on the blond prince before him, and his mouth was pulled into a radiant smile.

Arthur was filled with more joy than he had ever thought possible at the sight of his manservant's familiar, distinctively lopsided grin. He was overcome by adoration and brotherly affection for the boy before him, shoving aside the petty urge to hide his emotions with the usual banter.

Arthur rushed to Merlin, mirthful tears slipping down his face faster than he could covertly swipe them away. He decided not to care about them or his pride for the time being, and pulled the raven-haired boy into his arms. Arthur laughed, beyond relieved that the boy he had come to love as a sibling was not lost to him forever after all.

As Arthur pulled away, he became aware of bittersweet tears that ran down Merlin's defined cheeks, falling and landing gingerly upon his signature accessory.

Arthur frowned, taking in his manservant's sad smile.

Merlin, he whispered worriedly, what's wrong?

Merlin started at Arthur's voice creeping into his head, a look of astonishment overtaking his features.

You… but… how?

Arthur's frown was replaced by a slight smirk.

I think I ought to be asking those questions instead.

I-I'm sorry; you are correct. It's just… never mind.

Arthur's frown returned, deeper than before.

Merlin, Arthur replied softly, yet warningly, tell me.

Merlin paused, biting his lip.

Only certain people can initiate telepathic conversations, Merlin replied quickly. Certain people with… magic.

Arthur gaped at him.

Oh.

Merlin gave him a look that could only be described as bemusement.

You aren't upset?

No. Just… surprised.

Ah, Merlin replied. I see.

The two of them fidgeted uncomfortably as a melancholic moment of silence passed.

Arthur pursed his lips as he watched Merlin, noting the oh-so-subtle signs of atypical sorrow laced within his mannerisms. Arthur greatly disliked seeing his manservant upset by anything (excluding particularly frustrating or demeaning chores), and it struck him as immensely paradoxical. Although he was aware of the fact that the usually-cheery boy was human, and thus experienced all sorts of emotions, positive and negative, just like any other human being, he was always unsettled by the sight of such things upon the visage of his friend. Merlin was the epitome of hope, happiness, and pessimistic optimism in his mind, and to see such a paragon tainted by its polar opposite unsettled him.

Merlin, please; tell me what is troubling you, the prince pressed, eager to help his friend overcome his sorrows.

Merlin's golden eyes swarmed with tears, and he looked away morosely.

One of my worst fears has come true.

I am so sorry about the pyre, Merlin. I—

It's not the pyre, Merlin interrupted bitterly. It's got absolutely nothing to do with that.

Arthur blinked, rather taken aback by this.

Oh.

Merlin wiped furiously at his orbs, still avoiding the prince's gaze.

I-I'm sorry; I should not have snapped at you. I'm just… distressed, I suppose.

Merlin's molten eyes met Arthur's once more, filled with a sort of sorrow that sent Arthur's stomach into to his boots.

Arthur, I'm… I'm immortal.

Arthur stared at his manservant in shock as he burst into tears, his shoulders trembling with silent sobs that sent waves of pulsating sadness through the entirety of his slender body.

Merlin…

I-I'm sorry, Merlin repeated. I'll be okay. It's just a lot to take in.

Tell me about it, Arthur agreed, gingerly placing his hand on his manservant's shivering shoulder.

The duo stood there for a moment, both completely oblivious to the fact that time that stood still around them, simply taking comfort in each other's presence.

We will get through this, Merlin. You… you have my support. I only hope that… you would be willing to help me come to terms with everything as well.

Merlin looked his friend in the eyes, a faint smile on his face.

Of course I'll help you, you prat.

Glad to hear it, Arthur replied with a fond smirk.

Merlin looked at the scenery.

Oh dear, he muttered, somewhat amusedly. It seems I've accidentally frozen time again.

Hm, yes, that seems to be the case. Could you maybe get it running again? I don't exactly fancy having to walk everywhere, seeing as the horses are also frozen.

Look on the bright side, sire, Merlin responded, his golden eyes glimmering impishly.

What, pray tell, is the bright side of all this?

The stables will actually stay clean for longer than five minutes!

Arthur sighed, secretly (or so he thought) quite amused by his manservant's antics. Nonetheless, it was his duty to keep Merlin in line.

Merlin, seeing as you've frozen time, the stables would technically still be ruined within five minutes.

Merlin pouted childishly.

Ugh! …It seems you are actually right, for once.

Arthur narrowed his eyes at the insult, but shrugged it off in favor of getting things moving again as swiftly as possible.

So… does that mean you will unfreeze time?

I never said that, Merlin replied cheekily.

Merlin…

The boy in question sighed melodramatically.

Oh, if I must…

With that, a new age came into fruition. A golden age of magic, amity, and acceptance that would be unrivaled by all ages that followed.

Uther was forced to relinquish the crown, as madness took root in him as he realized that both of his children possessed magic, the thing he loathed above all else. Morgana became the Crown Princess. Despite the prophecies that told of her corruption and downfall, she became the third greatest ruler that Albion ever had. Guinevere, true to Merlin's predictions, became the Queen of Camelot, and, upon her husband's demise, the second greatest ruler in Albion's history. Arthur Pendragon, the Once and Future King, greatest ruler of them all, became a reality, no longer restricted to legend and whispers amongst the persecuted. At his right hand was Merlin, known to some as the great warlock Emrys, advisor and Court Warlock to the Once and Future King. He would advise every ruler thereafter, starting with Arthur and Gwen's eldest son. Although he was pained by the loss of so many dear souls, he knew that, one day, he would see them all again. They, too, would rise from the ashes, ready to defend the world they worked so hard to build. Then, when all was well, they would return to whence they came, arm in arm, Merlin right alongside them, free at last from the fiery clutches of his destiny.

A/N: That's a wrap! I wrote this insanely large story ages ago, whilst very sleep-deprived, so please excuse (and POINT OUT) any errors that you may find. I did my best to polish it, but, of course, I am sleep-deprived once again. The ending is quite hasty, I know, as I literally just typed it. Sorry if it isn't to your liking.

Hopefully this is enough to satisfy you until the next chapter of Champion by Right is up! Also, on an unrelated note, I'm a BETA READER now! I might not be able to get to your story right away, as I am a busy person, but I am going to do my best to contribute to this wonderful community of authors.

I hope everyone's holidays were amazing, and that the new year is the best one yet.

Happy penning!

~King Dollophead