The World is Ours To Take

He had never wished to outlive his king.

It was too hard – to be left behind, in a existence that was more arid than the lands made of sand that he heard about in stories, that he now experienced with his raw toes.

There was nothing he wished more than to follow Arthur into his end – but he couldn't; it wasn't the end, after all, just a long pause.

The months became years, the years became decades – maybe even centuries. The lake of Avalon was no more – the word in which it existed was no more. The isle now rested beyond a veil of mist that hid the green land surrounding it – ever green, just as he was ever alive.

There was darkness in the world, and magic seemed to disappear from view, but Merlin could still feel it strong in his bones, in the rumbling of the earth even as man lost touch with it. He could see it even in the middle of the carnage that claimed every inch of the city that was meant to be saint's place for the people around him.

But this was too small, too easy – the dreams of small man, not enough to wake up the his king. There was, of course, still some of him in the world – in the courageous glint of the lion-king that had his throne now, on the deep loyalty of his people. He lived still, not only on the reflexes and dreams of men that heard his story, but also in the pulse of the land – every land, not only Albion.

And Merlin waited for the darkness that would inevitably come and bring his beloved back to their midst, ready to face it by his side as before and to follow him into the end.