Chapter Text
so why do you fill my sorrows
with the words you’ve borrowed
from the only place you’ve known?
and why do you sing Hallelujah
if it means nothing to ya?
why do you sing with me at all?
6th September 537 AD - Isle of Avalon
Merlin doesn’t know how long he stands in the water. He is not cold, nor hungry, nor tired. He simply stands. He waits. Arthur will return one day, when the world needs him most. And Merlin will wait because Merlin needs him now, has always needed him.
Time does not stand still. Merlin can feel its ebb and flow around him in the same way he feels the trees grow and the water dance in the wind; but he couldn't care less for time or the trees or the water anymore. His eyes remain fixed on the island in the lake, and he waits. His hair grows longer, he grows a beard that he does not shave, and still he does not move. There is nothing that matters but this vigil, and Merlin commands the magic of the isle to sustain him for it. The isle cannot refuse him, though he feels its grief that the most powerful warlock to ever live is reduced to this — and he is angry because he knows it does not share his grief. It laments that he grieves at all.
After what might be days or weeks or months, something changes. It takes Merlin much longer than it should to focus his sluggish mind and longer still to quiet the surge of disappointment and betrayal and fear when he realises that he has been disturbed from his catatonia by the approaching beat of a horse’s hooves and not by his king rising from the water as he’d dared hope for one blissful moment.
The rider draws closer and Merlin feels his fists clench unbidden, muscles tense and poised for whatever action may be necessary. His eyes remain trained on the island across the lake, but his mind races as he considers who it might be that approaches, what they might intend, what he is willing to do to defend this place.
Merlin listens as the horse slows and then stops mere metres from the water’s edge. There is a soft thud as boots land on the muddied ground, yet still he does not turn. Something in him, a dark thing that he had not known he harboured before he knew the depths that grief could truly reach, waits almost gleefully for an attack that never comes. There is no blade to his back, no blow to the head, not even a disarming kick to the back of his knee. Instead Merlin feels the magic of the lake swirl around his ankles, lapping at his legs in time with the rippling water as it is disturbed by the newcomer coming to stand at his side.
“You loved him.”
It isn’t a question, nor a judgement. Leon, voice familiar and ever calm, simply states it like the fact it is. Merlin works his throat, isn’t sure he could speak around the lump in it even if his voice were not hoarse from long weeks of his self-imposed silent vigil. Instead he nods. He doesn’t have the strength to deny it in the wake of so much raw grief and crushed hope. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Leon nod too.
Merlin doesn’t know how much time passes before either of them speak again but it is long enough that Leon, without magic to sustain him, begins to shiver. Merlin opens his mouth to speak and finds that he cannot make words come. He clears his throat to try again, to tell Leon to leave this place before he catches his death, but he is interrupted as the knight commander speaks once more.
“I did, too.”
It’s whispered like a confession, almost lost beneath the gentle lapping of water and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Leon doesn’t take his gaze from the island at the water’s centre. When Merlin finally turns his head to look at his friend, Leon’s face shows no sign of uncertainty — his expression is sad but at ease despite the enormous gravity of the words he has just uttered.
“Leon—” Merlin’s own voice is choked. Here Leon stands before him, as equanimous as ever, yet once Merlin begins to truly look, the depth of his grief becomes clear. Leon’s eyes are dark and hollow as if he hasn’t slept well in a long time; his face is clean and well-groomed as ever, but his hair and beard are both longer than Merlin has ever seen, as if he hasn’t bothered to cut them recently. He slowly raises a hand to his own chin, feels the beard that has grown as he’s stood here unmoving. It seems impossible to him that anyone else could understand what the world has truly lost with Arthur’s death, and yet here stands another man apparently as stricken as he is by it. “I had no idea. I’m sorry. I—”
Leon shakes his head and Merlin understands. There are no words that can ease this shared heartbreak, nothing that needs to be said between them. For the first time in long weeks, Merlin is aware of the fact that light is beginning to fade as the night moves in, the sun and the moon continuing their cycles as if nothing has changed at all. With the creeping darkness comes a deeper chill and, stupor broken now, Merlin is aware of it. He is aware for the first time of his sodden clothes, the tiredness that sits deep in his bones, the ache of hunger.
“Return to Camelot with me. Gwen is worried for you, Merlin. We all are.” Merlin shakes his head but Leon presses on, either not noticing or not caring for the wordless protest. “There is nothing to be gained from this. It won’t— he won’t come back to us. Come home. Be with your friends, please. Don’t make us grieve for you too.”
He wants to argue, to say no. He wants to sink back into the unfeeling semi-consciousness that had settled over him since he choked out his final farewell to Arthur. Somehow, though, Merlin knows that he will not be afforded that luxury again. It was not a conscious choice to suspend his body that way, more that his magic and the magic of the lake itself reacted to his distress in a way that kept him from dropping dead of starvation or exhaustion or any number of other things. Now that he has broken that trance-like state, he does not think it will be attainable again. Now, like Leon, he shivers where he stands waist-deep in the cool water. He thinks of home, of Gaius and Gwen and the rest of the knights, and his heart aches with a different type of grief. He nods.
Beside him, Leon’s gaze has returned to the island where their shared love rests. They stand in silence a moment longer, each lost in their own thoughts, each gearing up to return to a Camelot devoid of its warmth and light, its heart. It’s Leon who moves first, turning his back to the isle with his lips pressed tight against emotion he clearly hopes to hide. Merlin forces himself to follow. With one last glance he turns and, too tired to be embarrassed, accepts Leon’s help to climb up behind him on his horse.
“Ready?” Leon’s voice is steady when he speaks again, and when Merlin nods he spurs his great stallion into a canter. Neither man looks back as they ride together into the forest.
9th September 537 AD - Camelot
Half an hour’s ride from the citadel, not far into the woodlands surrounding it, sits a small hillock. Silvery birch trees line the clearing at the peak, and somewhere nearby a stream babbles on its journey towards the sea. It’s a peaceful place, a secluded haven away from the troubles of the city.
It's here they buried Gwaine.
Merlin had, in his grief for Arthur, not considered what else Camlann might have cost. He has been welcomed back to Camelot by Gwen and Gaius with open arms and sad, watery smiles. He knows that they too are grieving their fallen king, though he had not spared a thought for the impact his loss must have had on anybody else before Leon had come to break him from his mourning.
It is not until several hours after his return to the city, after he has bathed and eaten and hugged and cried, that he even registers that he hasn’t seen any of the knights beside Leon. His first instinct is that they must be busy elsewhere with patrols or training or somesuch. A second, more sinister, thought follows that they must be avoiding him after he abandoned them to their grief to languish in his own heartbreak. Gaius hasn’t stopped looking at Merlin with poorly concealed worry since he returned but it turns openly to concern when Merlin questions the absence of his friends.
“Merlin, my boy. I was hoping to find a kinder time to tell you, your heart shouldn’t have to bear yet more pain. Arthur was not the only friend to fall that day. I’m afraid we also lost Sir Gwaine.”
There’s a part of Merlin, not at all as small as it ought to be, that wants to scream at Gaius for referring to Arthur as his friend — as if that could even begin to encapsulate what the king was to him — but he pushes it down. This isn’t Gaius’ fault, and Merlin fears he will lose his feeble hold on himself if he lets himself dwell on the thought of what Arthur and he could have been and never will be. He isn’t proud of the fact that it’s easier to focus on the admittedly sharp sting of grief for Gwaine’s loss than to even consider the things that could never and will never be with Arthur, but as unfair to Gwaine’s memory as it may be, it remains true.
There’s an uncomfortably long pause in which Merlin does not react outwardly to the news. It shouldn’t have been possible for Gaius to look any more worried, but he manages it somehow. Eventually Merlin clears his throat and forces his voice into something mostly steady. “And Percival?”
Gaius shakes his head and sighs heavily as if he thinks each piece of bad news he has to depart is some personal failing, which, Merlin supposes, he probably does. “He lives. Though I fear that his heart may take longer to heal than the physical wounds he bears.”
That Percival loved Gwaine, and that Gwaine loved Percival in return, was no secret amongst those close to them. Merlin had often lamented how easy it was for them, how they never worried about what others might think, or about destiny, or about whether or not one of them might have to marry a woman and produce an heir to the Pendragon line. Now, however, all he can feel for Percival is overwhelming sorrow. He knows all too well how it feels to lose your heart, and for all that his grief for Arthur runs as deep within him as his magic itself, he feels the fool for realising only now that he is not alone in loss.
Later that evening Merlin rides out to the hillock in the woods with Percival at his side. Neither speaks, though their silence is not uncomfortable. Leon may have loved the same man as Merlin, but he carries his grief close and private. Percival grieves like Merlin. He may not have had magic to sustain him in a constant vigil, but Gwen told Merlin how he carried Gwaine’s body here himself, dug the grave and constructed the marker alone. It has been almost two full months since the battle and still Percival rides out almost every day to be with his love. Merlin does begrudge him that, because now that he’s left, he isn’t sure he will ever return to the isle on the lake. It’s hard enough to offer his final farewell to Gwaine here; he cannot imagine the strength it takes for Percival to return time and time again knowing what he has lost, what can never be again.
Merlin doesn’t think he has that kind of strength to offer.
20th March 538 AD - Camelot
Gwen rules Camelot with natural grace. She is well-loved by the people and respected by the court. Her rule is firm but kind, informed by a life lived amongst the common folk and a heart that has never been anything but good. And still, she is a widow.
It is no real surprise to Merlin when he hears murmurs amongst the court that the queen must begin to look for a match. She has had long enough to mourn, they say, and the future of the kingdom must be secured. It is also no surprise to Merlin that Gwen holds her ground. She will remarry when she is ready, she tells them each time the topic is raised. She will not fail the kingdom.
Merlin had been handed the position of court sorcerer almost immediately after his return. There is something bittersweet about working alongside his dear friend to see magic returned safely to the kingdom, knowing that it should be Arthur fulfilling this destiny. Still, despite his official position, Merlin tries to avoid actually attending court as much as possible. He just wasn’t made for stuffy rooms and stuffier old men arguing about things that don’t actually matter or dictating what must be done just because that’s how it’s always been.
On this particular day he is striding past the throne room on his way to decidedly ignore the summons of the small council in favour of running some errands for Gaius when he is stopped in his tracks by the doors bursting open with enough force that the guards at either side jump to instant attention. For the briefest second Merlin is transported back to the years before Uther died, sees Arthur storming out of the room to disobey another harsh order from his father, but the flurry of crimson cloak that explodes from the doorway now does not belong to the young, hotheaded prince. Merlin almost doesn’t believe what he’s seeing when he registers that it’s Sir Leon striding away down the corridor, so far from the calm and collected man he has come to know even in the face of adversity. When he hears the knight commander snap at a squire to move out of his way, he knows something is drastically wrong, and changes course to follow Leon instead.
Merlin follows Leon out of the castle and across the courtyard to the stables. By the time Leon is readying his horse with aborted, angry movements, Merlin has caught up and begins to hurriedly prepare his own mount. If Leon is aware that he’s being followed, and Merlin cannot see how he wouldn’t be, he makes no effort to put an end to it. Instead he swings up onto his stallion in one fluid movement and urges him into a powerful canter straight out of the stables, riding far more recklessly through the square and out of the city gates than Merlin has ever seen from any of the knights in times of peace. He hurriedly scrambles atop his own mare with much less grace than Leon had managed even in his anger and urges his horse forward to follow.
Merlin isn’t sure if Leon is just too angry to effectively hide his tracks or if some part of him wants company, but whatever the reason may be, Merlin has little trouble following him. He catches up to Leon when the sun is low in the sky, his horse tethered to a tree nearby as Leon himself sits with his knees pulled up to his chest on the bank of a stream. He seems to be lost in his thoughts, eyes watching the water flow past him without any real focus, but he does not startle when Merlin carefully dismounts and approaches like he worries he might spook him. The dejected apathy that seems to have settled over Leon now that his bright anger has burned out is just as out of character, yet infinitely sadder.
Merlin sits beside him on the muddy bank, trying to pretend to be comfortable sat in the cold and damp after his impromptu hard ride and pointedly trying not to think about how reminiscent it feels of the banks of the Lake of Avalon all those months ago. He says nothing, simply watches the sky growing darker as he waits for Leon to speak. When he does, after long enough that the sun is no more than a sliver of light throwing haunting shadows through the trees as it sinks below the horizon, Merlin’s heart breaks all over again.
“I am to marry Guinevere.”
Leon speaks the words clearly, but Merlin hears the way his voice strains with barely controlled emotion and he understands with a sharp, sudden clarity why it is that Leon has allowed Merlin to follow him here. There is nobody else who could understand the gravity of this and what it truly means to Leon. There is nobody else who could possibly understand that if it is not bad enough to mourn the man that you loved deeply and secretly, it is infinitely worse to have your hand forced into marrying his widow in the name of duty to the kingdom.
“She asked me herself to make the proposal. She told me she couldn’t bear to marry a lord twice her age, or a man she’s never met. How could I refuse? Even if she weren’t my friend, Arthur would never have forgiven it if I allowed her to be pushed into marriage with some unknown brute.” Leon pauses, exhales shakily and lifts his gaze to the sky as if he might find strength or answers somewhere amongst the stars. “I can marry her if I must. For her and for the security of the kingdom, I can do that. But to take Arthur’s crown? To be king in his shadow? To… to produce an heir with the wife he loved, knowing that I loved him instead? I don’t know if I can do that, Merlin.”
There is nothing Merlin can say to that. He wants badly to tell Leon that of course he can do it – that he’s the strongest, the most courageous man that he has ever known – but he doesn’t. He’s sure that there’s nothing he could say to make this more bearable so instead he simply leans into Leon, pressing their shoulders together in the hopes that physical comfort will go some way to showing Leon he’s understood, even if Merlin can’t help. There’s no arguing the sense of the union when it comes to Gwen’s safety and Camelot’s security; Merlin only wishes Leon’s heart wasn’t the cost of continuing peace.
4th February 542 AD - Camelot
Merlin hates delivering bad news. It’s something he’s had to become better at since Gaius officially retired and handed him the role of court physician, but that still doesn’t mean he likes it. As awful as it always is to have to tell someone something they don’t want to hear, it’s infinitely worse when those someones are your friends, and your lieges.
Almost four years since their wedding, Leon and Gwen have found a comfortable peace in their relationship. Merlin has never asked for details, but he’s almost positive Gwen knows now how Leon felt for Arthur. Their marriage is one built on a deep and enduring friendship, on mutual respect, and on a love that has never been romantic. The people of Camelot do not know the difference between it and the enduring, passionate romance that defined her marriage to Arthur, but it matters little in the grand scheme of things; the kingdom’s security is assured and their reign is peaceful. All that remains is the matter of an heir. That is the very matter which Merlin has come to discuss with them today.
He knows that at first, after a difficult conversation filled with a lot of embarrassment and a few tears, Leon and Guinevere had decided to tackle the task as pragmatically as possible with the aid of a glass vial and a bronze syringe. When, after almost a year, there had been no success Gaius had gently suggested that perhaps a more physical approach would be necessary. Merlin also knows that, after reassuring himself that this was for the good of the kingdom and not in fact a slight on Guinevere, Leon had brought himself to the edge to thoughts of Arthur and finished inside his wife, who too closed her eyes and thought of the very same man.
Both Leon and Guinevere have grown more anxious with each monthly bleed that comes, neither one immune to the weight that this duty carries, and Merlin has come to offer them an end to it. He cannot bear to see his friends governed by the disquiet that builds in the anticipation of each attempt, nor can he stand the whispers of the court, the weighted comments that serve no purpose but to deepen the frown Leon so often wears these days. Still, despite knowing that this is a chance for their troubles to be over, Merlin is anxious over what he has to say.
His friends are sitting close together at the table in their chamber. Leon looks the picture of calm, Gwen wrings her hands in her lap; Merlin knows they’re both as anxious as he is. He offers them a small, awkward smile, and tries not to feel like he’s walking into an interrogation as he takes the seat across from them at the table where he used to serve Arthur his dinner.
“You look like you’ve got something to say that we don’t want to hear,” Leon begins, though his expression isn’t unkind. “I suspect we already know what it might be.”
Merlin suspects that he’s right, though he feels more than a little guilty for being relieved at the fact. He nods, forces his hands to still in his lap instead of giving into the nervous urge to fidget like Gwen, and begins.
“I know you both understand what it means that you haven’t missed a bleed in over three years of actively trying to produce an heir, Gwen. I didn’t come here today to tell you of new ways you could try, or to convince you to try magical means. I’ve come to ask for permission to formally address the small council with the opinion that all possibilities have been exhausted. I want to tell them that you’re barren, and there will be no heir.”
Silence hangs heavy in the room for a long, painful moment. Guinevere and Leon are Merlin’s closest friends, yet in this moment he feels a million miles from them. He looks across the room to the window, to the courtyard beyond, in an attempt at affording them a little privacy. They don’t speak, but Merlin can hear the way Gwen tries not to cry, sees from the corner of his eye the way Leon reaches to squeeze her hand in comfort where it lies limp now on her knee. They must reach some kind of silent agreement because after a painfully long moment Leon clears his throat softly for Merlin’s attention, looks once more to his wife and, seemingly finding the answer he needed in her eyes, gives Merlin a decisive nod.
“I think I always knew,” Gwen speaks softly, before either man can find the right words. “Arthur and I — we wanted a child. I thought maybe the stress, with Morgana and everything, maybe that was affecting one or both of us. And then I thought up a million explanations why it might not be working now, with Leon. But I think really I knew all along. I just never wanted to admit it.”
Merlin nods, choosing his words carefully. “I could — if it’s that important to you — I could look into spells. I won’t do for you what Nimueh did for Uther. But there might be something I could try. Maybe something that would —”
“No.” Gwen cuts him off, her voice steady despite the tears in her eyes. “If this is the way that it is, then I will have to accept that. We will have to accept that. There’s already so much that Leon and I have given up for this kingdom, for Arthur’s legacy. It’s time to accept that we’ve done all we can. If the Gods are kind, there will be many years left before we have to name a successor in the absence of an heir. Leon’s brothers are good men, as are their sons — we won’t leave Camelot to ruin when our time on her throne is over.”
Merlin is certain then that he is sitting in the presence of the strongest person he has ever known. Guinevere is stronger than he could ever hope to be; stronger than Arthur ever was, stronger than even Leon. Leon seems to know it too, the soft gaze he offers his wife saying everything that words never could. Merlin nods, resolved now, and reaches across the table for Gwen’s other hand before he speaks again.
“Then I’ll address them in the morning.” He turns his eyes to Leon, doesn’t think he’s imagining the relief he sees flit across his face. “And you can start to put all this behind you.”
18th April 549 AD - Camelot
Four days after Leon’s 46th birthday, he and Merlin sit at a quiet table in the corner of the Rising Sun. They drink in comfortable quiet for a long while, Merlin waiting for Leon to work out whatever it is he’s brought him here to say. It takes four mugs of ale before he apparently finds the courage.
“Do I look old?”
Merlin blinks in confusion, biting back the urge to immediately answer as any supportive friend would, cheerfully denying the inevitable process of aging - if Leon needed a tavern and multiple drinks to ask him, this is clearly important. He takes a sip of his own drink as he looks Leon over; dark blonde curls, grey-blue eyes, high cheekbones. Handsome, if he lets himself admit it. And yet, as close to fifty as Leon is there is nothing to show for it. No grey in his hair, no wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, not a blemish on his smooth skin.
“No,” Merlin sets his ale down. “You don’t.”
“But I should. I’m not a young man anymore. Guinevere is six years younger than I, but as beautiful as she remains, the evidence of her years cannot be denied. I could be mistaken for a man of thirty.”
Merlin says nothing for a long time. He taps his fingers absently against the table as he considers. “Do you remember all that time ago when Iseldir saved your life after that ambush?”
“How could I forget?”
“Well, all right. Do you remember how he saved you?” He could see the exact moment that Leon reached the conclusion he was guiding him to, finding himself once again the harbinger of unwelcome news.
“I was thirty-three,” Leon says slowly. “And now… I will remain thirty-three?”
“I don’t know,” Merlin chooses his words carefully, all too painfully aware that immortality is not the great gift so many who seek it believe it to be. “It could be that you’re aging, but much more slowly than you should. I – I used to age normally. I noticed sooner than you that it had stopped. At Camlann, I think. Arthur is my destiny and I think…I think I’m destined to live as I am until his return. If it was the cup of life for you,” he shrugs, “I’ll do some research.”
“Thank you, Merlin.”
Merlin drains the end of his ale, buying himself a moment before he can meet Leon’s gaze with a nod of acknowledgement. He has noticed before now, of course, that Leon’s aging has slowed or stopped, but he has not allowed himself to dwell on the fact; the rush of relief that he may not have to face the seemingly infinite stretch of years ahead alone was always immediately followed by a rush of guilt for wishing that on his friend. Now that Leon has come to the same realisation and must face the possibility of never finding rest, Merlin finds that he wants nothing more than to be wrong.
27th July 582 AD - Camelot
Guinevere passes away peacefully in her bed; an old lady, well mourned by a kingdom forever changed by her rule. Merlin and Leon sit by her side, one of her hands in each of theirs. Neither weeps when her last breath passes her lips, their loss inevitable and deeper than anyone outside of this silent bedchamber could possibly begin to fathom.
It’s Leon who moves first. He lifts Gwen’s hand to his mouth, presses a kiss to the wizened skin there. His lips tremble with emotion that he cannot, or will not, release here. Merlin averts his gaze, trying to offer Leon a little privacy. He knows that Leon did not love Gwen the way that the world expects a man to love his wife. While his heart, like Merlin’s, remains with their king on his island in the lake, Leon has loved Gwen fiercely as a sister, a friend, a teammate. Together they have seen Camelot into its golden age, their kindness and wisdom far stronger than Uther’s hate could ever have hoped to be. Leon has, like Merlin, allowed magic to age him as he would were he not destined to remain a man of thirty-three. Soon there will be a decision to be made; allow the kingdom to learn the secret of his immortality, or allow them to believe he too has succumbed to the inevitable ills of old age. Merlin doesn’t need to ask to know which path Leon will take.
“I will inform the council.” Merlin’s voice feels too loud as he stands. Leon will be afforded the customary day of mourning before Gwen is tended by her maids, dressed and laid in state for the people of the kingdom to visit before her funeral. Leon doesn’t answer, doesn’t need to. They both know what this means for them. With no heirs to continue their legacy, Gwen’s death feels like the beginning of the end of Albion.
3rd August 582 AD - Camelot
“I cannot stay here.”
Leon speaks the words before the door has even shut behind him, standing in the threshold of Merlin’s personal chambers with the sort of urgency that Merlin hasn’t seen from the king in decades. He knows that Leon has come here, not two full days past Guinevere’s funeral, because his mind is made up. Merlin hauls himself to his feet, old bones groaning in protest, and crosses the room to face his only surviving friend.
“There will be no returning from this.”
Leon nods, a seriousness to him that betrays the youthfulness masked only by Merlin’s spell. “I never wanted this, Merlin. You know that. I took Arthur’s crown to secure the peace he died for. I wed his wife to secure the freedoms she deserved. I have served my time for Camelot, and now I can bear it no longer. If I am cursed to live forever, I cannot do so here. Imposing my immortal rule on Camelot would make me no better than the people my friends have died to stop.” He offers Merlin a small, rueful smile. “I know you will tell me I would rule for the good of the people, and it’s true that is what I’ve always tried to do. But I am old, older than Gwen was. My time should have been up years ago. The people of this kingdom deserve to see its rule continue naturally, and they deserve a king who will not rule with his head and heart stuck in the past, a king who will not one day come to resent the throne he chose not to give up. I have every faith that my sister’s son will be a good and kind king. I am only sorry that I must deceive the people when they are still mourning their queen.”
“We will tell them you have died of a broken heart.”
“They will believe it. I think I might have, once, were I able to die at all.” Merlin nods. He knows they are both remembering the same island in the middle of a lake neither has returned to in almost fifty years. “You must promise me,” Leon continues, “that you will take care of them all.”
How Leon knows that Merlin will not leave Camelot, he does not ask. He left Arthur behind that day Leon came to save him from himself on the shores of Avalon, but he has never once doubted that he remains tethered to Camelot by a destiny left unfulfilled. He will stay behind when Leon is gone. He will serve the new king, and the king after him, and all the kings to come. He will tend the resting places of their friends; Gwen in her ornate tomb below the castle, Percival finally at rest with his love amongst the birch trees on the hill. And for Arthur, he will wait.
Leon touches his fingers to the back of Merlin’s hand, the brief gesture far more intimate than it ought to be, before he too nods, breaks the contact as he steps back. “I will not ask too much of you. I don’t want to cause any more upset than we must. Whatever you can do to make it seem as if I have passed in my sleep. Then we remove your aging spell, and I will be gone.”
8th August 583 AD - Forest of Balor
It’s almost too simple, in the end. Merlin had prepared a simple potion that mimics death and delivered it to Leon’s chambers under the guise of a medicine to ease the pain that had been troubling his heart since his wife’s passing. The next morning he had announced Leon’s death to the council. Now, two days later, as the kingdom mourns an empty tomb, he stands amongst ancient trees and awaits a man he has not seen since his youth.
When Leon emerges into the clearing where they have agreed to meet, Merlin almost cannot believe what he sees. He had prepared the antidote to the aging magic himself, and yet the soft blonde curls and handsome face startle something inside him all the same. Leon leads a stallion Merlin has never seen before, laden with the light load of a traveller. There is nothing to suggest that this rider is leaving behind a home of seventy years except the sorrow in his eyes that he hides to all who do not know him well enough to see it. Merlin supposes he is the only one left who does.
“Merlin.” Leon tethers the horse, crosses the short distance between them. Merlin watches his approach, wonders at the hollowness in his own chest as Leon pulls him into a tight embrace. “Thank you. For everything.”
A hundred thoughts flood Merlin’s mind, but there is nothing to say, no response he could give that wouldn’t cause Leon to feel guilty for Merlin’s loneliness. Merlin is happy that Leon can have his opportunity to move on, to escape the endless vigil of a kingdom they have both sacrificed so much for, that already they no longer recognise as their own. His pain is not Leon’s to bear, and so he simply embraces him back for a long moment before he nods, breaking their contact entirely as he steps back.
“Go now, Leon. And good luck.”
Leon does not linger, his resolve as strong as it ever has been as he saddles his mount and leads it to the path that will take him southwest over the White Mountains, away from Camelot, from Merlin, for good. “Goodbye, Merlin. I hope to see you again some day.” And with that, he’s gone. Merlin stands and watches long after he’s lost sight of his last surviving friend, the weight of all his years heavy on him as he finally turns to leave.
11th August 583 AD - Isle of Avalon
The Isle has remained unchanged in the half century since Merlin last stood here. Arthur’s resting place looms through the fog, cold water laps at Merlin’s feet, and Merlin does not weep. The magic here is restless, pressing into him and through him, demanding to know where he has been and why he will not stay. He ignores it. He cannot, he knows, succumb to it, to his grief. It is his destiny to wait, undying, until Arthur returns, and he will, but there will be no Leon to rescue him this time if he allows himself to unmoor again.
It is Camelot that needs him now: his duty to his sleeping king, to the legacy Leon and Gwen have left behind. He must give himself to this ever-changing kingdom, see her safely through new kings and the troubles they will bring. For how long, he doesn’t know and he does not care to guess; afraid the loneliness of it all will crush him if he acknowledges it at all.
Merlin’s sigh is deep, shaky, carrying each one of the endless years ahead of him as he gathers himself, closes his eyes, and turns to leave. “Goodbye, Arthur,” he whispers.