A/N: At long last, this story draws to a close. Thank you, thank you, thank you to all those who have stuck with me through all the years of waiting, all those who have left such kind words, those who have let me know that even after all this time there are still people out there who are awaiting this conclusion. You kept me going, more than I can ever express, and I hope this final chapter does right by you.

Special thanks to my friends MagicGirl41 and Heather from the wonderful writing site StoryScribes for looking this over. If you're looking for a supportive writing community, look no further - it really is fantastic.

I've gone back and made some very minor edits to previous chapters - mainly word choice and grammar. As always, translations will be at the end. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 7

"Don't," Merlin said quietly, hopelessly, as Arthur drew near, and for once in his life Arthur listened to his unspoken plea, and came to a halt several paces back.

For a long moment silence reigned, silence and the indomitable force of the sea that was the only thing holding Merlin together.

"What were those things?" Arthur finally asked.

"I…" Merlin began, but he couldn't find the words. Arthur waited, the most patient Merlin had ever seen him, until he hesitantly continued, "I don't know, exactly. It's hard to explain. I suppose they're… focal points. They're magic incarnate, in a way."

There was the slightest pause, just a half-breath of hesitation, before Arthur commented, "Like you."

Merlin went numb down to his very core, a frisson of fear running through him like lightning. He knows. He knows. How does he—?

But deep down, in the newborn part of his soul that had somehow been there always, waiting to be remembered, he knew that this had been inevitable. The force who had spoken through him had no concept of secrets, and did not care that this one had been driven so deep into his marrow that he didn't know who he was without it, had no reckoning of what its unveiling meant for him or for Arthur, and had therefore given it away without a thought. He could remember nothing of what had happened, and yet, in a way, he knew every second of what had transpired. And though this whole conversation had an odd air of certainty to it, as though he'd lived it already and was merely retracing his steps, still a hysterical laugh of fear bubbled out of him before he could stop it. "No," he answered, head bowed, and the laugh that followed sounded more like a sob. "No, not quite like me."

The noise that escaped Arthur was almost lost in the shifting waves, but Merlin could still understand every nuance of it; he had not spent the better part of a decade with this man for nothing. Confusion, curiosity, doubt… but above all, bitter betrayal, as Arthur released the last of his hope that this was all an elaborate hoax, that Merlin would just play this off as some huge cosmic joke, and somehow retract the undeniable proof of his magic. But they were beyond lies, now — beyond fabrications about somehow overpowering Arthur with a tree branch, beyond any paper-thin excuses that Arthur had accepted in the past.

Neither of them could speak in the face of this, until finally Merlin spoke to the horizon. "We are… we have always been connected, Arthur," he started. "Since the day we met — since before we were born, we were meant to be. It's been prophesied that—"

"Look at me," Arthur suddenly interrupted, his command laced with a plea.

Merlin froze, then shook his head. "I… I can't."

"By the gods, Merlin, after all this, if you don't even have the decency to—"

"It has nothing to do with decency," Merlin bit out, head canted down so that he could cast his words behind him, hands fisting around the sopping hem of his shirt. "Arthur, since — since I woke up, I…" He hesitated as the ethereal voice in his head distantly echoed, You are forever. "I looked at the physician, and I saw his entire life. He was a child, and an old man, and a young one, all at once. I saw the death of his daughter, who doesn't exist yet, but I know he will bury her, and I saw him die, withered and alone. I looked at Gwaine, and I—" He took a sharp breath, steeling himself, and forced out, "He dies so young, Arthur. So young that it has to be soon. And you, I just — I can't look at you, Arthur. I can't know."

Silence. Then, quietly, so quietly that Merlin almost didn't hear it, Arthur recited, "'We look at you and see you yesterday and tomorrow and now, all together, all that you were and are and all that you ever will be.'"

Merlin dipped his head in affirmation; he hadn't expected Arthur to remember what had been said so exactly, much less understand so quickly. "Yes," he said simply.

"So they lied."

"I—"

"They lied," Arthur repeated, and though Merlin couldn't see his face, he could picture his expression: stubborn, angry, a little indignant at yet another untruth. "They said they'd released you, but if you can do — whatever this is…"

He trailed off as Merlin shook his head. "They didn't lie, Arthur. They're gone. I'm… I'm myself again."

"Are you?" Arthur said bitterly.

This sent a lance of pain through Merlin's heart, a swift puncture to the lungs that drove all his breath out at once, and he spent several long seconds trying to get it back. "I'm sorry," he said finally, knowing this was inadequate, knowing there was no way to hide the hint of tears lurking at the corners of his voice. "I wish I could show you how much, or that I could explain why, but really I — I was just… afraid."

"Didn't you trust me?" Arthur demanded, but the pause before his question was a heartbeat too long for Merlin to mistake it for anything except hurt.

Of course, he wanted to answer. Of course I trusted you, with my life, with everything— but that was a lie, one that Merlin had long denied even to himself, and they were past that now, when everything was being laid out at last. "No," Merlin confessed softly, truthfully, to the sea, and Arthur must have read his answer in the slump of his shoulders even as that damning word was drowned beneath the implacable waves, because he could hear that betrayal in the pursuing silence.

The minutes stretched out, taut and prickling, and though Merlin wasn't looking — couldn't look — at Arthur, he had been at Arthur's side for enough betrayals to know exactly what he was doing, exactly how his arms were crossed as if to shield himself, exactly how his heart was breaking; and he knew exactly what Arthur would say next, so he could hear the unspoken, visceral Why? — after all we've been through, after all we've seen together, after everything that you and I are—?

And this, this was too important, too central to risk misunderstanding, and so he took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, rebuilding his shattered defenses to fortify for the hard truths coming to thrash them down again, and turned to face his king, his friend, Ætsamne ond Forþweard, because he had to make sure he was heard at long last.

"It's not that simple," said Merlin with a sigh, still very carefully keeping his gaze fixed on the water. "Arthur, you don't understand — my magic has been a secret my entire life. I was born with it. Mum told me I first showed signs of magic when I was a month old. Have you ever even heard of something like that? I learned to keep it a secret before I learned the words to tell someone — I've never told a soul. Anyone who's found out has done so by accident. I've always wanted to tell you, more than anything, more than anyone, but… keeping that secret is part of who I am. And you — your views on magic have never been very… reassuring."

"You might have changed them." There was a hard edge to Arthur's voice, one that Merlin could hardly bear because it was deserved.

"Maybe," Merlin said, after clearing his throat of the sudden lump there. "Maybe. And I almost tried, so many times, but you have no idea... no idea..."

He struggled, then, to try and put to words the terrified, lightheaded recklessness he'd felt countless times, one breath away from spilling everything on some sun-blessed morning, some lazy afternoon, some starlit night with a campfire crackling between the two of them, any moment where he'd felt such comfort and peace with this man that he'd almost been able to forget the consequences if his trust was mistaken — but words failed him. Every time he had heard his mother, heard Gaius, heard his nightmares warning against trusting anyone, anyone, even Arthur, especially Arthur, and so he'd swallowed down his outburst every time, too paranoid to even speak a word in favor of magic in case it gave him away, as he'd done his whole life, as he'd done since before he could remember.

His first memory of Camelot was of an execution; his first memory of life was of his mother catching him performing some harmless, intuitive magic and scaring him to tears using Uther's threat of the same.

"You are too much your father's son," he finally said, driven by that last thought more than anything; Merlin almost glanced at Arthur's face then, fearfully, gauging his reaction to a subject that was all but forbidden, but instead forced himself to keep looking at the waves breaking at Arthur's waist, letting the words fall between them.

"My father," Arthur said slowly, dangerously, "was a great king. A good man."

Merlin didn't even bother to hide his bitter laughter. "Uther was a monster, Arthur," he answered softly, scarcely believing that he was finally able to say it aloud, and he wanted to shout it, to scream it to the heavens until the very stars shook with that truth, and this is what freedom feels like, isn't it?

"He's a monster," he repeated more firmly, because he could feel Arthur's hot protest scorching the air, unvoiced and instinctive. "All the unspeakable things he's done, the thousands he's killed—"

"He was fighting a war," Arthur bit out, his voice whip-sharp. "He was protecting Camelot—"

"From who?" Merlin exploded, surprising even himself. "From magic? From sorcerers? From people? Because that's who they were, Arthur: people, regular people, like me, like Gaius, like Morgana used to be, who went about their daily lives in peace until your father turned against them. He had them dragged from their homes, hunted and torn apart like animals, terrorized until of course they fought back, but that only added fuel to their pyres, and — gods, Arthur, have you ever actually read the books? The annals that Gregory wrote, the records of names that they kept, of the people who were executed? I know you've seen it—" added to it, he didn't say, because that was a hurt too deep to explore — "but have you ever actually sat down and read it, tried to comprehend the actual meaning of it, the sheer magnitude of what he did? Because I have."

He paused for breath then, though the air seemed inadequate, too sharp and thin to fill the cavernous ache in his lungs, and he pressed his hands to his head as if to ward off the onslaught of memory. He hadn't been able to finish reading, hadn't been able to bear it, it had been too much, because— "Did you know there's more than one?" he continued quietly, his voice ragged, hands raking through his hair to clasp at the back of his neck. "Do you know how many names — how many people — how many lives that is? And that's just the ones that were written down, let alone the ones we've forgotten — did you write down the names of that druid camp—?" But that was the forbidden territory, part of the bitter reckoning that could never be reconciled, so he bit off the rest of that diatribe with a rough exhalation and forced himself back to sins that were a little further removed. "There were whole families, generations, even the children... the youngest name I saw was Milla Thatcher, age 3 — three — executed alongside her parents and five siblings.

"And do you know what I did when I read her name, Arthur?" Merlin said, his voice calm and deadly. "I closed that book, put it back on its shelf, next to the others, and went upstairs and served your father dinner."

For a moment he couldn't continue, choked on bile at the memory, at how he'd watched Uther listen to Arthur and Morgana bicker with a crinkle-eyed, benevolent smile, absent-mindedly gesturing to Merlin to refill his wine with a hand so stained with blood that it seemed black and rotten to the bone — and Merlin had done what he always did around Uther. He'd stood in the corner and he'd simmered and boiled and burned, until his heart had nearly broken with the strain, until the hatred in his smile could have passed as polite subservience to one who never expected anything else. And he'd watched as Uther leaned in to intervene with a wry comment, as Arthur had turned towards him, fond and surprised and so full of love for this man, this monster, this nightmare caged in human skin, and Merlin had had to turn away—

—just as he found himself turning away now, only partly, enough to swipe furiously at his eyes with trembling fingers and an expulsion of breath that Merlin felt as if he'd been holding his entire life.

Sarignes? the stones asked, distant and curious.

Nā, Merlin answered. Ormódnes.

There was so much left to say, so much more to explain, and he was still trying to gather himself to continue when Arthur asked, "Why did you let him live?"

And gods, what he wouldn't give to see Arthur's face right now, to try and decipher his expression, because he gave away nothing in his tone. But this question, at least, was one he'd wrestled with enough on his own that the answer itself came easily.

"For you," he said simply, then tilted his head and added, with a detachment he'd spent a decade on, "I'm still not sure what that says about me."

"I almost killed my father once. Over just these accusations. Do you remember?" Arthur demanded; the water rippled around him as he shifted, but Merlin had to look away from even this movement, careful not to catch a glimpse of him.

"Yes," Merlin said quietly. "Yes. Of course I do. You almost killed him, and I almost let you. And I couldn't. I couldn't do it. It was everything... everything I'd wanted, everything I'd dreamt, except for the fact that it was you. And even then..."

"Was it so easy for you to make such decisions?"

Arthur's tone had returned to careful neutrality, but for a moment Merlin was too nonplussed to speak, producing a near-hysterical scoff before managing to get out, "Easy? Arthur, I — never. Never. I've done... horrible things. Unspeakable things. At the cost of almost everything I've held dear... except you. You were always the reason. I stopped you from killing your father that day not because I didn't want you to, not because he didn't deserve it, but because I knew you never would have forgiven yourself."

After a pause to allow Arthur to absorb this, Merlin continued hesitantly, "I made those decisions because they needed to be made, and I was there. I didn't know what I was doing half the time. I just wanted to protect Camelot, protect you, from threats that you weren't able to handle yourself — that you didn't even know about, most times—"

"And you didn't think to tell me?" Arthur asked, sounding as if he were speaking through clenched teeth. "To warn me, to — to bring me in? I could have done something. I could have done something — fought my own battles, or — or at least made my own decisions! Who are you to have made them for me? To make them for all of us, without regard to consequence?

"Without regard to consequence?" Merlin repeated in disbelief. "You think I went into these decisions blind? Arthur, I have been at your side for a decade. I've suffered through the same boring meetings, listened to every report, served you at negotiations and state functions. I've followed you into battle and been with you through every crisis. I am your closest advisor in all but name. And I have faced down threats you couldn't even imagine; yes, because I kept them from you — but you could not have solved them without magic. And yes, I should have told you, you had every right to know, and I'm sorry that I took that choice from you, truly. If I had told you, things would be different — maybe better. But if all my worst fears, the ones I was told as bedtime stories, the warnings that Gaius still gives me to this day, turned out to be true… Arthur, that was a risk I couldn't afford to take, and not only for my sake. If Uther — or you — had me executed, then everyone we know, everyone we love, would be dead, especially you, and Camelot would be lost.

"Because who am I?" He drew himself up a bit then, straightening his spine and squaring his shoulders; he could feel the same pulsing indignation he'd felt back on the plains when Gwaine had questioned him, but this time it didn't feel strange or frightening, it felt earned, as if a gauntlet had been thrown between equals, and he wished he could look Arthur in the eye for this assertion of self, this reclamation of magic that had been too long in coming.

"My mother named me Merlin, but the druids call me Emrys. I was born because of you — for you — to protect and aid you in achieving your destiny. Our destiny. You are the Once and Future King, Arthur, and since the dawn of time you have been destined to unite the kingdoms of Albion under one rule and bring peace to the world once more. And so I was born to restore magic to its rightful place, because there cannot be peace without magic, without making peace with magic. There cannot be balance without it. We are that balance, you and I — two sides of the same coin. Or so I've been told, and you know... I've come to believe it."

He fell silent then, his words all but spent, but seconds stretched out without so much as a sound from Arthur, so he swallowed hard and added, "I know this is... a lot. And there is so much more to tell — so much more that I've wanted to tell you for so long. But I want you to know... it was all for you. I may not have always served you well, Arthur — gods know I have my regrets, my mistakes, my failures — but I have always served you faithfully, and to the best of my ability."

Silence, but for the sea, and the birds wheeling overhead. The sun was beginning to set, and he watched the golden-red light shimmer on the waves pooling around them, feeling oddly at peace as he waited for Arthur to gather his thoughts. He had told his truth for the first time in his entire life, had finally set down the burden of that secret, and there was nothing else to say. And then —

"Why?" Arthur said quietly. "I — gods only know why, but I believe you. But if magic is so important, if you're so powerful, why am I even necessary? You could have just taken the throne and restored magic yourself, and spared yourself all of this."

This startled a laugh out of Merlin, and this time it was genuine. "Rule Camelot? Me?" he choked out. "Arthur, I would be an abysmal king, and you know it. I've spent too much of my time in the shadows. And besides, how do you think it would go over if I were to overthrow you and declare magic has returned? Oh, I don't know, probably just about as well as it went for Morgana, and she's a much better leader than I am. No, it has to be done the proper way, with a proper leader that people trust. Do you have any idea just how much work it's going to take—?"

"So that's all it is, then," Arthur interrupted, a trace of bitterness in his voice. "You just needed a figurehead while you controlled them from the shadows."

Merlin's jaw dropped. "I — what? No. Have you listened to a word I've said? I believe in you, you absolute clod," he said exasperatedly. "Arthur, you were born for this. Literally, yes, with the prophecy and all, but even aside from that — Arthur, you are an incredible king, and one that I would never even consider — would never even want to control. You're a good man, one who cares for his people, who cares about justice and peace and fairness. I can, and have, always trusted you to make the right choice, in the end. And I have always believed that one day you would make the right one about magic. About me. And I still do."

"I hope so," Arthur said softly, and took a deep breath. "This is — I'm going to need some time with this. All of this."

"Of course," Merlin said cautiously.

"And you. I... understand your reasons for hiding this. Or I'm trying to, at least. But ten years is a long time. Especially because, well... you should have known. You should have trusted me. And it saddens me more than I can say that you didn't."

Merlin could say nothing in response to the hidden hurt in Arthur's voice, only nod miserably, because it was true.

"But..." Arthur continued, and though he sounded unsure and hesitant, a spark of hope flared in Merlin's heart. "...I trust you. Despite all of this, for some reason. And I think, in time... we can do great things, you and I."

For a moment Merlin stood frozen, hardly daring to believe that he had heard correctly, because his whole life, even as he suffered and sacrificed and bled for a future where magic was restored, where he and his people were free, he had never been able to picture the truth of it, because it seemed too impossible even to dream in the face of his daily reality. But now, as Arthur's words sunk in, now he felt his heart would break with happiness, because now the future was limitless, this future was real, and all his fears of failure and darkness fell away as their path stretched out before them, clear and bright and true.

And now, undaunted, unafraid, and finally free, he lifted his head and looked Arthur resolutely in the eyes — his friend, his king, Ætsamne ond Forþweard. "For Albion," he said, holding out his hand, breathless with hope.

And Arthur, his face unclouded by the maelstrom of time, stepped forward and took it.

A/N: Translations:

Sarignes? - Sadness?
Nā. Ormódnes. - No. Despair.
Ætsamne ond Forþweard - Once and Future

Thank you for reading. All my love.