36 A friendship's quest

Merlin awoke first – perhaps the greatest of small mercies.

Had it been Arthur, with no village past, no serving years, no life-time of doing what had to be done just because it had to be done – tend to the cattle, till the field, look after the garden – things might have turned out differently.

As it was Merlin who came to first, he got up, and still under the black cloud of gloom and mourning, he just did what had to be done. Cautiously, dreading an awake and talking Arthur more than the plague and all hell-fire, Merlin dragged Galla from under the limp body of his father.

In a sunny, peaceful spot not too far away, Merlin's magic dug a hole in the ground. He didn't even think about waking the dead child's father before he spoke a few silent words and buried the boy before he did the same with Armand.

However, he spent somewhat more time in front of the High Master's grave. For here lay all that was left of the Old Religion; - magic, the Blessed Isle and everything that had so far defined the very coordinates of Merlin's life and fate.

The young man, physically still in his twenties, but mentally as old as the world – or that was how he felt – soberly pondered what he was looking at.

In front of these two graves of Arthur's son, and Arthur's nemesis, Merlin Emrys took stock. Of what he had been, of what he now was, and of what he might possibly become.

It wasn't a very encouraging balance sheet.

He felt in his very bone that Khilgarrah was no more. He was a Dragonlord in a world without Dragons.

For all he knew his was the only magic left. He was a magician in a world without magic. The warlock born of legends had turned himself into a fairy tale.

He was a fulfiller of destinies no longer worth a farthing, a father without a child, and a lover without a love – the emptiness in his hand only mirrored the emptiness in his heart. His palm remembered the lost touch of Morgana's hand as if it was an open wound, bleeding and brutally painful.

One had to admit - not much was left.

In fact, one had to admit it: All that was left could be summarized in one word: Arthur.

If that word still meant what it once had meant.

One look at Arthur's face revealed an age that had come from grief beyond what compassion might yet share, but not from grief alone. Time had passed, many, many years. When Merlin had been taken from Arthur's side, Galla, the lanky youth he'd laid to rest, had been a toddler. In fact, Merlin wouldn't have recognized the baby in the boy had it not been from Arthur's clinging to the boy, and from the rare combination of dark skin and sky blue eyes.

A teenage Prince, his father, and Armand's dead body – and no one else?

Nothing of what Algernon had told him – or, rather, hinted at, had really prepared Merlin for this sight.

Where were the others? What on earth had happened to Camelot?

All those years Merlin had missed – what had they really brought to Arthur and his realm?

How long had Merlin been on the Isle that was no more? How long had he and Morgana been sleeping? Almost twenty years? Arthur looked as if in his forties…..

Oh, Morgause, what have you done to us?

Gwaine, Gwen, Leon, Lance… and Gaius had been an old man even back then…..and Hunith….

What had happened? Were they…..

Merlin gasped when his heart ached in a sudden cramp. Arthur would know, he calmed himself. Arthur would tell him, and then they would go home. Whatever had happened, whatever had become of them all, Camelot would still be there. They would go home, and everything else would somehow sort itself out, eventually, somehow, step by step, but it would sort itself out.

The old life may be gone, it would be left behind on this hill, never to return.

What of it?

They would make a new one. As nothing else could be done, this was what they would have to do.

Merlin turned, searched, and found what he was looking for. He took it, walked back to the graves, spoke a few muttered words, and his eyes flashed a determined flash of gold. Armand's grave sank into the ground – and was gone without a trace.

On Galla's grave there now was a huge stone, roughly formed like an old-fashioned anvil. Merlin raised Excalibur, and with all his supernatural strength he drove the blade into the rock up to the hilt.

This stone would never part with the steel. Not even Arthur Pendragon would get hold of the accursed blade again. Excalibur was laid to rest with the other few remains of what had been Merlin Emry's former world.

Lastly, Merlin brought a bucket of water from the near-by spring. He did not trifle with finding a bucket, or actually fetching the water, he felt as if he'd never again have the need to hide any of his gifts; neither would he feel the need to expand them or to try them out.

He would just use them as they were, and how he saw fit.

He took the conjured bucket with the ice cold water from the air it was hovering in, raised it, and emptied it over Arthur's head. As he had planned it, the swell left Arthur cleaned of any filth.

They might as well start as Merlin meant them to go on from here. Afresh!

Sputtering, spitting, Arthur darted to his feet – or wanted to dart, for he had some trouble forcing his stiff joints into the necessary action to even stand upright – and turned round with wide eyes.

"Hey" Merlin said without a smile. "Guess what, dear King? I'm back for good."