5, 183 words. Yeah. Longest chapter I have ever penned...typed...whatever.
So the story behind this story is that after the epilogue of Through Golden Eyes, I had the idea for another, slightly more angsty deathfic. But before you punch that poor back arrow, I just want to let you know that it probably won't be as bad as you think, because I'm going to add another chapter, though whether it has a happy ending or an angsty ending will be up to the reviewers.
Merlin and Arthur are considerably older; not quite old men, but somewhere forty/fiftiesh. Just so you get that image in your head.
Hope you enjoy!

Chapter I

"Arthur, please stop it."

Had it been under any other circumstances, he would have responded to such a direct statement with a cuff to the back of a dark head and an unnecessarily strident,

"Who wears the crown here, Merlin?"

As it was, however, when the weak and pained voice reached his ears as he paced from one ancient stone wall to another, Arthur Pendragon could do nothing more than obey, the mere sound of the words cutting through him like shards of ice to his very soul.

Silently, he moved to the opposite wall of the little shack, past the unnervingly silent fire, to the dark corner where the flickering light did not reach. As he carefully lifted the water flask with the telltale purple ribbon (torn from an old neckerchief after its owner received a luxurious purple cloak in the place of the over-worn cloth) tied around the top, he cursed the day they had arrived at this ice-covered place in his mind, damning himself for his own, destructive fault.

Why had he had compassion upon his weary knights and allowed them to rest? Why hadn't he known the monster sent to destroy him was so close? How could he not have thought it would find them if they stopped? Why hadn't he expected Merlin to take his place as victim of the wretched hell-demon? Why hadn't he stayed awake to guard over him like the courageous king he was believed to be, instead of slumbering like a slothful, arrogant fool and allowing his dearest friend to meet this horrible fate?

Why had Merlin had to be such a stupid, noble hero? Why couldn't he have just let the beast kill him? Why had Merlin done this to him?

He turned back to his sorcerer, who was slumped like an ailing vagrant against the cold wall, his indigo cloak wrapped tightly around him, with its edges sprawled across the old mattress left behind by a sentry long ago. Merlin had warned him it would be infested with vermin, and Arthur had insisted they both take it anyway, for they would need all heat they could secure, and Merlin could banish every undesirable pest with the blink of an eye, so why was he bothering to warn Arthur when he could just do it and they could get some rest already?

Now, the bed, with its tattered rags for blankets and deteriorated wooden frame, looked eerie and foreboding, and the sorcerer in its center, with his scrawny knees pulled against his heaving chest and his flesh paler than the dirtied coverlets, looked so frail and vulnerable in its clutches.

Arthur resisted a shudder at the sight.

Merlin was high sorcerer of Camelot; he was formidable, and mighty, and good. He was too good, much too good to be bent so feebly around himself in silent agony, and to be holding the pitiful whimpers resolutely in his throat, with his eternally wise and changeable eyes dim and his flesh so sickly gray. He was too precious, too valuable, to die this way, in a lonely shack in some icy, foreign kingdom when he deserved warmth and security and peace in his beloved home…not like this, not like this….

"Surely there must be something I can do," he murmured…begged…before he even knew what he was saying, as he leant down and pressed the canteen into the shaking hands, watching as his friend summoned his remaining strength just to lift it to his dry lips.

"She took my magic, Arthur," came the whisper when Merlin had forced the cool water down, in a voice so hoarse and tired and utterly hopeless it surely couldn't be his Merlin. "There's nothing anyone can do."

A fight rose in Arthur's chest, a denial, an argument—something, there must be something. He had learnt so long ago that it was all but futile to fight with his trusted advisor, for Merlin never spoke in such an uncompromising manner and with such cold iron in his eyes unless he was absolutely and unreservedly certain, and Merlin was never wrong.

Why can't he be wrong?

Arthur looked away, knowing it was less than useless, but still the fight did not leave him. He was angry; he needed to be angry. He needed to wage war, to battle against something, to fight for Merlin. If he was only given the chance to fight for him, he would be victorious. He would do anything to win...anything to escape the grief.

"How could you do this, Merlin?"

He cursed himself when his voice faltered.

Merlin raised his head wearily, gentle eyes a sorrowed gray as he observed his king in a way only he could.

"I had no choice, Arthur," he spoke quietly, and unlike all the times when they had been here, just as they were, with Arthur angered to the point of shouting because of Merlin's self-sacrificing loyalty, his tone was neither confrontational nor challenging, but pleading for forgiveness, only pleading, for the wise sorcerer knew what he had done would be permanent and irredeemable. "She would not have stopped until she thought she had destroyed you."

"Then you should have let her, Merlin," Arthur's voice was a furious hiss, as he turned piercing blue eyes to the trembling sorcerer.

Merlin hardly flinched, but held the accusing gaze as steadily as he had always done.

"You know I couldn't have done that, Arthur," he said simply; his hands twisted tightly in the cloak embracing him, but he struggled to show no other signs as a flare of silent pain tore through him.

Arthur, for all his frustrating blindness to the feelings of those around him, saw the pain of his friend immediately, and his eyes dropped at Merlin's words, because yes, they both knew that Merlin would never, no matter the cost, let anything hurt his master when he could stand between Arthur and the danger.

This time, however, the cost was too great. Much too great.

Silence then, and Arthur knew he would have to move eventually, that he could not kneel before his dying friend forever and merely savor his company, that he must rise and ultimately find a way to exist.

How does one go on breathing without his guardian angel?

A cough, soft and vulnerable, and a whine of anguish arrested Arthur's attention and made his blood run cold; bile rose in his throat as Merlin bent forward, half-choking and moaning as dark, dark blood spurted past his lips and splattered across the dirt floor.

Arthur could do nothing but watch, petrified, as Merlin clutched his chest, blood flooding from his mouth, choking on it as he cried out with the excruciating agony.

It seemed as though it would never end, but at last, Merlin rolled onto his back, panting desperately for breath, his eyes shut tightly, lids quivering.

Arthur was completely silent as he tore a section of his royal garment and, gently as he could manage, wiped away the drops of remaining blood staining Merlin's pink lips.

Blue eyes rimmed with green met his own.

"S-sorry, Arthur."

And for one, brief instant, he felt like striking Merlin himself for his apologizing for something like this.

Merlin remained still as Arthur pulled the half-tattered blankets up and around his slim body, but his eyes ran over his master's face in that ever-familiar, searching manner.

"You're tired," he perceived at last, his face full of sympathy for his king. "You should lie down, Arthur. You can't help either yourself or me when you can barely keep your eyes open."

Arthur felt a peculiar swell of emotion, the likes of which rarely struck him, and he had to pull his gaze away or he knew the deep grief Merlin's kind words struck within him would spill out from his burning eyes. For the innumerable amount of times he had huffed puerilely and proceeded to do just the opposite of what Merlin asked, he found whatever shaky rebellion within him crumbling like stone in an earthquake. How could his wondrous sorcerer possibly love him so absolutely that he could bring himself to care about Arthur's petty discomforts while he lay here, dying from this agony?

A hand reached out and weakly tugged his wrist with insistence, and his automatic response was to look up.

"Lie down, Arthur," came the command, and not for the first time, Arthur Pendragon wondered how his friend could be so infinitely humble and yet so damnably authoritative all at once.

The king clenched his jaw and very carefully climbed over to the empty spot between Merlin's cold form and the sturdy stone wall. The sorcerer's eyes followed him as he settled down, putting bare inches between them, propped on his elbow so that he could look clearly down into Merlin's gentle face.

Merlin was smiling softly, though most of it was lost in the paleness of his countenance. He opened his mouth to speak, but then, like a bolt striking him, he twisted beneath the blankets, striving to hold the agonized scream in his throat.

As a cry like a wounded dragon tore from Merlin, Arthur ground his teeth until he could feel the pain running in his temples, cursing himself and his inability to stop it, this fatal deficiency of magic, from tearing Merlin's body apart, to stop it from hurting him.

This attack lasted only a few seconds. Arthur was thankful for the pain to cease, but even so, he knew the shortening of its time could not be a sign of improvement.

Merlin relaxed again, his breathing slowing only slightly so that he continued to pant for air even after the jolts of pain died away. His hand reached up, shaking only slightly, the backs of cool fingers settling against Arthur's cheek. The look in his weary eyes as he gazed up at his friend was brighter and more open than it had ever been, so powerful Arthur knew he could never truly be good enough to deserve it…and yet, there it was, a glowing mixture of admiration and affection and love, shining brighter than the moon on the face of the fading sorcerer.

Though he had not shed one, Arthur knew Merlin, in all his wonder, could see the tears like liquid sorrow in the corners of the king's royal blue eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Arthur," he said, and he truly looked so very sorry, as if Arthur was the one in pain….He was. "I wish I hadn't had to do this. I really do."

As the king looked down into Merlin's eyes, feeling mesmerized and pitifully lost all at once, the fingers continued to stroke along the soft, blonde beard along Arthur's jaw.

"Why are you growing a beard, Arthur?"

"I'm the king, Merlin. I have better things to do than keep up with my shaving. And while we're on the subject, why are you growing one?"

"I'm the king's High Sorcerer. It's my image."

"You're an idiot, Merlin."

"I know, but you like me anyway."

"If I didn't, you'd be dead."

"So you admit it, then!"

"Merlin. Shut up."

"Yes, sire."

Arthur smiled sadly. The Merlin before him now looked so frail and ancient now in comparison to that Merlin of only…had it really been five years ago when they had had that light and playful conversation as they poured through records in the castle library? Even in the midst of the tragedy, Arthur could not help but marvel at the years that had gone by since the beginning of this great venture. It seemed so distant in the past, that day he'd first caught sight of Merlin, walking alone on the street just outside the castle, with his hauntingly mystical face and that ridiculous neckerchief.

But then, he thought, looking down at the polished silver button which held the habitual cloak securely around Merlin's lean neck, perhaps it wasn't so long ago after all.

Arthur felt as though the room was darkening into death-shadows around him. After these many years of near-constant companionship, his perception of Merlin was about to change, for Merlin was going to be gone. He was going to leave him.

Oh, gods, he couldn't leave him.

"There has to be something," he said, and it came out like a growl, startling Merlin, whose hand fell to his side and lay limply there, shaking atop the off-white blanket.

Arthur sat up, his entire body trembling with his barely-contained energy, eyes ablaze with that determination which had so long characterized him.

"There must be something, Merlin." Almost like a command. "Tell me what there is I can do to save you. The knights are just outside. I'll send them to the nearest town; they'll get whatever you need."

"Arthur…"

But the king refused to let him finish; he didn't want to hear it, didn't want Merlin's inarguable prophecy to reach his conscious mind, where he could not fight or deny it.

"Tell me, Merlin," he demanded, leaning toward the sorcerer in his agitation. "There has to be something…some spell we can use…"

"I have no magic, Arthur," Merlin told him with sad patience. "There is nothing you can do…."

"Shut up, Merlin!"

Merlin did, not because he feared the acid in the king's voice (for he had never actually been afraid of it, much to Arthur's frustration), but because he could hear the pure fright and stubborn defiance underlying every word. He could see it marring his master's tanned and still-handsome face, weeping in the tears he had yet to shed, glittering in the sapphire eyes.

The sorcerer—former sorcerer—inhaled shakily; the pain beat in his empty chest like endless thunder, but he ignored it doggedly and kept his attention focused on the man before him.

"I'm dying, Arthur," he whispered as kindly as he could, putting his hand over the king's heart, the closest place his hand could reach.

"No." Arthur shook his head, pushing Merlin's hand away gently. "You are not dying, Merlin. You will not die. You've saved me, and now I'll do the same. It's my obligation to do so, as a knight and as a man. I'll save you."

Desperation laced every word more powerfully than the last.

"You have no obligation to me," the sorcerer told him intently. "I told you once that I was happy to be your servant until the day I died. Now you know I wasn't lying."

"No…Merlin…"

"Don't you see, Arthur?"

The king raised his head from where it was bowed over his and Merlin's hands (which were still intertwined, for he had not let it go). It took his overwhelmed mind several heartbeats to realize Merlin was smiling, and it was one of his truly Merlin smiles, so much stronger and gladder than the faint one of before.

"Everything is finished now," he went on, his voice sounding oddly contented and heartrendingly acquiescent around the pain, his eyes continuing to shine as though he saw some wonderful thing that Arthur could not. "You are the king of Camelot, and the greatest one ever known in time past or ahead. You've brought prosperity and peace to the land beyond what any ruler has ever done before."

Arthur let go of Merlin's hand and clutched the old blankets in his fists so tightly that his fingers throbbed, for he had a dark suspicion that Merlin's mind could not be changed on this matter, and Arthur had to change his mind, for that was the only way it could be possible to save him. If Merlin just told him something he could do, some monster he could fight or spell he could mix, that would mean Merlin saw hope, and if Merlin hoped for a remedy, Arthur would do anything to make it real. Anything.

"We've united Albion, you and I," Merlin continued, his bright eyes shining with pride for what they'd done as he watched Arthur, taking in every curve and line of his old friend's face, as if trying to rememorize each feature though he knew every one by heart. "We've set magic free in the world, Arthur. You have the respect of the Old Religion and the love of your people."

His eyes suddenly dimmed, his nails stabbing his palms and his brow furrowing as another wave of fiery agony struck him. Arthur pushed his hand beneath Merlin's, not holding it, exactly, but letting Merlin clasp his fingers until the pressure made his blood darken the tips. Merlin loosened his hold eventually, but he did not altogether let go, his long and graceful fingers wrapped lightly around Arthur's.

"I've done what I was meant to do, Arthur," he murmured, the light having faded slightly from his eyes but the joy lingering in the soft half-smile on his lips. "I've stayed with you and protected you; everything I have and everything I've done has been all for you." His eyes fell to the golden chain around Arthur's neck, to the generations-old amulet which distinguished the royalty of Camelot. "I made you king, just as I was destined to."

His fingers, still wrapped around Arthur's, raised up and brushed against the cold amulet. Arthur could not pull his eyes away from Merlin's face as his beloved advisor nearly glowed with memories of his extraordinary life…

…a life which was now ending; Arthur could not deny it now.

"I've fulfilled my destiny," came the quiet whisper, profound in the stillness of the place, pure awe touching every word, as if it was some stunning revelation. "I have no more tasks to complete. I've won."

Arthur could feel himself trembling from the sheer sensations emanating from Merlin's soul, which had so long been connected with his in an astronomically supernatural accord; a power entirely different from the bitter-sweet magic flooded the room. Merlin was happy. Here, in the last few minutes of his life, he had overcome the trauma and hardships which had tried so often to destroy him, and he was happy.

Arthur looked back over the decades in his own memory. He had endured much, but Merlin had so much more. He had watched unfeeling Death swoop down and steal those he loved from him—his fellowmen, his friends, even all the family he had…first his father, then his mother, and finally, perhaps the most painful of all, Gaius. He had seen horrible things worse than hell-born nightmares, and defeated evils no man should ever have to face.

And he had done it all for Arthur…always for Arthur. He had never lived for himself, or sought out happiness and tranquility away from the threats terrorizing him. He had gone through all the tortures and adversities the wicked world had to offer, and fought it all without fear. He had done it for Arthur.

And now, it was for Arthur that he held fast to life, enduring the pain, for again he ignored himself and kept Arthur safe for as long as he could from the grief they both knew was swiftly approaching.

Arthur ran his thumb along the cold hand around his own, watching the blue veins, now deficit of life-giving magic, winding beneath the flesh. His eyes caught sight of a white scar on the otherwise perfect wrist. It was only one of many.

Merlin had given everything for him. Who was he to demand more?

"You're right."

Merlin blinked, surprise flitting across his pale-gray face at the unexpectd, hoarse confession.

Arthur looked up, and one, lonely tear slid from his eye, marking the old mattress where it dropped. Merlin watched it fall, and said nothing.

"You're right, Merlin," he said again, and all the yet-unshed tears choked his throat.

Merlin remained silent, listening intently, as Arthur shifted so that he was close enough to him to see the flecks of purple lingering in his sorcerer's eyes.

"You've done everything for me," he whispered, intensely. "You've given your life to me, and never have you asked anything in return."

His hand, shaking more than Merlin's, brushed a strand of long, dark, silvery-flecked hair from gray-blue eyes, as the fire continued to die in silence beside the old bed.

"I need you, Merlin," he whispered, swallowing hard as another tear threatened to leak past his collapsing wall. "I will always need you. For as long as I live, there will never be a time when I don't want you with me. Surely you must know that."

He let his hand rest beside Merlin's head so that the tips of his fingers almost touched the strands of soft, dark hair arrayed over the old, cream-colored pillowcase. Arthur dropped his eyes, and Merlin could see the somber and painful emotions sweeping across the king's handsome face as he fought within himself. At long last, the silence was broken as Arthur took a trembling breath and spoke the words he dreaded with his whole being.

"But that is selfishness," he stated, every syllable like a knife to his heart. "I have had you for so many years all to myself, Merlin, and never have I done anything to deserve that."

He lowered his head again as another rebellious tear fell.

"You deserve peace now, Merlin." His voice was as soft as the gentle breeze outside, so obviously broken and yet so sincere. "After everything you've been through...after all the good you've done and all the light you've brought...to—" He choked, but resolutely continued. "—to me especially."

He raised his gaze again to meet Merlin's wide-eyed one, and neither spoke of the three more tears which fell.

"You deserve to be with your father and your mother, and Gaius," he murmured, his fingers moving to push another lock of hair from Merlin's sweat-beaded forehead. "You deserve to be rewarded in the presence of the gods for your triumph here. I cannot deny you that now, at the end of your fight, when you have done more than any other to earn it."

He raised his head, a new fire igniting his eyes even while it burned up his heart.

"I…" his voice broke, despite his efforts. "I release you from your guardianship of me, Merlin. You are free."

A single, glimmering tear rolled unhurriedly down Merlin's cheek, even as a deep-rooted fear darkened his pale, pale face.

Arthur smiled at the familiar apprehension, and touched Merlin's shoulder.

"I'll be fine, Merlin," he reassured, even while his mind argued forcibly that he would not be…how could he ever be? "Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself for a little while, you know; I'm not entirely helpless."

The smirk had returned, only for a moment, and then it disappeared again.

"You must understand, Arthur," came the solemn whisper, heavy with emotion and pleading for understanding. "I am not leaving because I want to go."

Arthur felt his heart sink lower. Truly this was the end.

"I am leaving," Merlin went on, "because I'm being forced away." His hand touched Arthur's face again, and the conviction of his voice burned into the king's memory forever. "My place is, and always will be, at your side. It does not matter if I am merely in another room or in another world; even should my soul be in paradise, I will never stop thinking that I should be with you, here."

His eyes lingered tiredly around the frigid, shadowed room, then returned to Arthur's face, where his fingers continued to touch, feather-light, at the tender place in front of Arthur's ear.

"I'll never stop wanting to be with you." It was a promise, pure and sure as sunrise. "You have a part of me, sire, and I will not forget that when we are apart. You must remember that when I am gone."

Arthur bent his head down, hiding two more tears in the dark hair, smelling the odd, floral aroma that had always been Merlin. There had been a bitter, fragrant, and powerful trace in the scent, but now it was gone, for Merlin's magic had been drained from every corner of him.

Merlin said nothing, only turned his head to touch his cheek against Arthur's, and smiled as he thought of how the man would have been appalled at his own behavior in those early days.

As he lay there in the embrace of his king, quietly he hoped with all his soul that though he had said little for his dying strength, his words would be enough to convince Arthur of this truth: whether it was planned from the dawn of time or if it was a miracle in itself, it mattered little from where his love came or how it began. He had been born with the power of Emrys to return magic to Albion; his was the destiny which lay wrapped together with Arthur's, and his magic had been the sole reason for their bond. Even so, now that his task had been completed and the power of Emrys vanished, the bond was not broken, for while Emrys existed only to free magic and bring peace to Albion, Merlin had chosen to exist only for the man who was his cohort in this calling.

After the magic was freed in the world and the Old Religion was eternally satisfied, he never left, for he never ceased believing it was yet his place and his alone to be at Arthur's side, to guard him and guide him and love him with all he had. It was no longer by the power of the Old Religion that he felt this way, he realized now, but it had become of his own, free will. His soul had been wrapped around Arthur's in a permanent harmony. Though it had never been foretold by the ancients, his destiny made him Arthurs in body, mind, and spirit.

Though his magic no more felt a bond, his heart forever would.

Merlin felt the weight of his king beside him, and could feel him mourning for him, and he was never gladder that he hadn't left, for who could he have found to love him so strongly as Arthur did?

The king kept his face beside Merlin's, feeling the fading warmth of the sorcerer's slim body beside his, and for what felt like hours, he felt as though he was lost within his own mind. It was as if he was in that strange state just before one falls asleep; he was thinking of something, he was sure, but each coherent thought was lost from one moment to the next. Only one root thought stood out, the source of all the other spinning images and memories and feelings.

Merlin.

He was all Arthur could see, all he could think of, all he could feel. Merlin was everything.

Merlin was dying, and it was devastating him, distorting him like some mind-numbing poison, making his mind as blurred as his vision. He could not reconcile the torturous truth, could not force himself to accept that Merlin was leaving him, not when he could smell his scent and feel his warmth and hear his breathing all around him, not when he was so used to it all being there always.

At long last, something tugged urgently on his attention, and he lifted his head to see the firelight was dwindling to nothingness, and the pale hand resting consolingly on his arm was barely shaking any longer. The gentle face was looking away from him now, toward the dying flame, the murky eyes fluttering rapidly and blearily as long shadows danced in the contours beneath his cheekbones and turned his soft hair an inky black.

Merlin was fighting. Even so close and so exhausted, he was still fighting to remain with Arthur.

The king felt his own self-pity further reduced by his love for this man, this extraordinary man. He knew it was time for him to let him finally go, no matter how much it would wound him…and, oh, how it would…Merlin should not have to hold on any longer for his sake.

Arthur leant down, and though he feared it would, his voice did not tremble as he whispered into Merlin's ear.

"Go in peace, Merlin." He felt it when Merlin tensed, listening. "But never forget who you are. You are Merlin of Ealdor, son of the Dragonlord Balinor."

Fingers twitched, and he could see the dim light glinting off the silver ring on Merlin's right hand. (1)

"You're High Sorcerer of the Court of Camelot," he murmured, eyes locked upon the symbol etched into the silver of the band, "advisor to the King, hero to all."

The words of the great dragon Kilgarrah drifted through his memory. The warlock of legend…

"You're the Emrys," he said the omnipotent name with quiet wonder, feeling so small and insignificant with reverence at it, "the immortal."

"The idiot."

Though Merlin was too weak to speak now, Arthur still heard the humor in the mouthed words, and he huffed on a laugh despite himself. How like his sorcerer to remind him that no matter what the world might declare or how he would be revered, Merlin saw himself as none of those things, but only as a clumsy servant of the king, as his over-talkative and over-sensitive companion. As his friend.

"The greatest there ever was," he agreed with his whole heart.

Merlin's breath stuttered on his own chuckle.

Arthur settled beside him again, let his arm lie across him like a protection, his lashes tickled by dark hair, sharing his warmth with Merlin as though it would share his strength as well.

But he could not, and he could feel the life of his friend—his other half—draining away with each passing second, so as the room grew colder and as he could feel it all ending around him, he pressed himself against his friend's side and put his mouth against his ear.

"I love you, Merlin."

And though it had been a silent understanding between them for these many, many years, to admit it aloud, to let the words ghost from his lips to Merlin's heart, the last true unfinished aspiration, felt like the lifting of a years-old burden.

Merlin, whose eyes were shut and breathing scarce, gathered his falling strength and pushed his fingers—the middlemost bearing the silver ring—between his king's, a silent binding, and Arthur could nearly hear the words drifting between them.

And I you, Arthur.

He would remember it always, would lock those four words away in his heart. This knowledge, that Merlin, who could destroy evil with a single word, and control dragons with a motion of his hand, and make anyplace beautiful with his mere presence, and who was the kindest and gentlest soul in the world, loved him…this would be his strength in the coming time of shadows and lonesomeness.

And when he opened his eyes the following morning to silence, those four words were the first thought in his mind as he felt the coldness beside him and knew it was over.

To be continued

(1) See Epilogue of my fic, Through Golden Eyes, for info about the ring.

So...how about it? I think I pretty much have my mind made up, but I'd like to know who wants Merlin to come back and who wants him to stay dead in the next chappie.
And thank you all so much for reading!