Merlin Fanfiction: Missing Merlin
Title: Missing Merlin
Author: drjenny88
Warnings: Character death (sort of). Some very minor spoilers for episode 7, ‘The Gates of Avalon’.
Rating: NC-17, just to be on the safe side.
Characters/Pairings: Merlin/Arthur, Gwen/Lancelot, Morgana/Other
Summary: Morgana returns to Camelot to find it and her friends vastly changed.
Disclaimer: The Merlin characters written about here belong to the BBC and Shine. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended nor is any money being made. All mistakes are mine.
Word Count: 5546
Author’s Note: With thanks to flamestone for the beta.
Missing Merlin
The carriage draws over the final hill and Camelot comes into sight, the view drawing a smile from Morgana’s lips as it always has. Leaving the servants to see to the horses and arrange the transference of her belongings to her old rooms, which have been made available for the duration of her visit, she makes her way through the familiar corridors and towards the great hall.
Arthur is waiting for her, as she had known he would be. He looks dreadful - his face lined and his hair greying - like a man who has been through far more than his thirty five years. The difference in his appearance is such that it is hard to believe that it has only been four years since she had seen him last.
As she enters, she casts her eyes about the room, noting at once Gwen’s position in the seat to the right of Arthur’s throne. Gaius stands to one side, looking extremely careworn and terribly old; the only other occupants of the room are two of Arthur’s most trusted knights, Sir Kay and, of course, Sir Lancelot, standing together near the door and talking in low voices. Morgana surveys them all but remains silent, walking determinedly towards the king.
“I was sorry to hear about Merlin,” Morgana says, forgoing the niceties.
“Who?” replies Arthur belligerently.
“Merlin,” Morgana says again.
Arthur fixes her with a cold stare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Morgana’s eyes fix on his and she understands, with the swiftness of a fleeing gazelle, that his denial is the same as the one she once employed when asked about her parentage. She knows that the very act of denial means not having to discuss anything, and she hates that she and Arthur now have this in common, hates that he has to feel about Merlin as she feels about her parents’ deaths.
Gwen’s letters have given her some indication of Arthur’s state of mind, but even the most descriptive passages haven’t prepared Morgana for this crumpled man. She regrets now not having visited sooner; the years since she had left Camelot have been long, and every one of them is etched on Arthur’s face, once so young and handsome, vivacious and arrogant. It is difficult to reconcile the young man from her memories with the ruined king he is now, although the change is understandable; by all accounts, he has been broken since Merlin- well, since Merlin.
She remembers Gaius’ words at the time - “Forewarned is forearmed,” another proverb - and thinks that the saying is wrong, that knowing hasn’t helped any of them and least of all Arthur. Her apology, perhaps, means the least of all, and she hopes that he can read the subtext in her words, that he knows she is sorry for it all but mostly sorry that her vision has come true.
“Arthur,” she says softly, and he meets her gaze again, seemingly pulling himself back from his thoughts with a great effort. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“No,” he says. Morgana has to strain to hear him. “You go, if you want. I’ll ensure everything has been adequately prepared for you.”
“I’m sure my room will be fine, Arthur. The servants are more than capable-”
“I said go!” shouts Arthur suddenly, slamming his fist against the deep wood of his throne, the chair that had once been his father’s; Morgana jumps, unused to this version of Arthur, used instead to the young man so in control of the way in which he conveys his emotions.
There is a hand on her arm and Gwen is at her side, smiling a small, sad smile and leading her from the room.
“He doesn’t like to spend too much time with others now,” says the woman who had once been her maidservant and is now the queen. “You’re lucky he gave you even that much.”
Morgana stops in the corridor and turns to face her friend, her green eyes raking over Gwen’s face, trying to read in those familiar features everything that has been left unsaid between them. “How bad is he?”
Gwen drops her eyes to the floor. “Bad,” she replies simply.
Morgana closes her eyes for a moment, the pain of regret and sympathy filling her up. She had never been prepared for the full implications of this and the guilt of it eats at her day after day, even now, three long years since her vision had been realised. She should have tried harder to convince Arthur that it was possible, should have given Merlin more detail, anything that would have meant they’d be more careful. But then, careful had never been in the natures of either of her boys; Arthur had been reckless since he was a small child, always acting before he thought and consequently getting into more scrapes than she could even begin to count; and Merlin had always run into situations headlong, leaving any doubts for afterwards, always eager to act, to try.
“He hasn’t grieved,” she says, and there is no question in her words.
“He hasn’t done anything,” Gwen rejoins. “Nothing at all. He delegates everything now, not just the paperwork, and he doesn’t go hunting with the others. Morgana, at first he at least tried to carry on! It’s like he’s given up.”
Morgana grips Gwen’s hand tightly between both of hers and pulls it to her breast.
“Help him,” Gwen pleads, her voice small.
“He won’t listen to me. He never has done.”
Gwen gives her the kind of expression usually reserved for small children or the elderly. “You were one of the only ones he ever has listened to. You and-” Gwen stops, choked. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, Gwen, why should you be sorry?” Morgana asks, confounded.
“I should have stood by him, after. I should have been there for him.”
“You were grieving too, Gwen. We all were.”
“And I- with Lancelot,” Gwen continues, needing to explain. “I’m his wife, Morgana, and I’ve cuckolded him… not only that, I’ve continued to do it when he needed me most and- oh, Morgana, what have I done?”
Gwen breaks down, unable to contain her anguish any longer, and then she is in Morgana’s arms, her former mistress holding her close and stroking her hair, whispering soothing words of comfort.
*
Kay nudges Lancelot in the ribs with a sharp elbow. “Go on,” he says. “It’s your turn.”
With a deep sigh, Lancelot steps forwards, knowing that Kay is right; the other man had spoken to Arthur earlier in the week when, prior to a necessary visit to a nearby village regarding a spate of burglaries, their king had ordered that a horse be prepared for his manservant as well as himself, apparently forgetting that he no longer kept a manservant and hadn’t for three years now. If Arthur refers to Merlin at all, it is as his manservant and never his advisor, as it used to be, in the days when they were both so young and happy, buoyed by love.
Lancelot walks quickly across the hall and rests a firm hand on Arthur’s shoulder, anticipating the violence Arthur has become prone to in these situations. Sure enough, Arthur throws a punch at him, but it is well below the standard Lancelot remembers from his inauguration into the knights of Camelot and he parries the blow easily. Arthur looks up and their eyes meet, and Lancelot is stunned to see the emptiness in those once-vibrant blue orbs.
“Come, Arthur,” he says. “You have every right to be angry, but don’t show it in front of the ladies like that. Lady Morgana deserves better treatment.”
Arthur closes his eyes for a long moment, collecting himself. When he looks up, the eyes that meet Lancelot’s have resumed the hardness he is now accustomed to, a steely blue gaze that offers a challenge he is all too prepared to meet.
“Merlin’s actions were rash and foolhardy,” Lancelot says. “But he is not the first man to be charmed by a beautiful woman, nor will he be the last.”
“Charmed?” Arthur sneers. “If you believe that, then you are a fool.”
Lancelot cringes inwardly; he had forgotten that Arthur prefers to think of Merlin as victim to a witch. “Ensorcelled then,” he corrects himself. “But, my lord, it has been three years. You must accept that he is gone.”
“I am the king of all Albion; I must do nothing.”
“Merlin is gone, Arthur, and he isn’t coming back.” There is a part of Lancelot that hates himself for saying it.
The shutters come swiftly down over Arthur’s face. “I don’t know who you’re talking about,” he says, repeating the words he had spoken to Morgana, words that have become his fallback whenever Merlin is mentioned.
“For God’s sake, Arthur!” Lancelot exclaims. “I’m talking about Merlin, the man who was your- your good friend. I don’t believe you’ve forgotten him.”
Arthur swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing prominently at his throat. “Maybe he was dear to you, Lancelot, but I don’t recall anyone of that name.”
Lancelot considers reacting to the obvious jibe at the nature of his own relationship with Merlin, when he had first come to Camelot, considers continuing the dance they do so frequently these days, but he knows that Arthur can and will continue his refutations ad infinitum and he hasn’t either the energy or the inclination to run the gamut of excuses and denials this morning. He offers Arthur a sad smile and makes his way back across the hall to Kay.
Kay isn’t surprised at his failure to draw Arthur from the cocoon of denial he has so thoroughly wrapped himself in, and he says so.
“Next time, he’s all yours,” says Lancelot, watching as Arthur rapidly exits the room.
“Oh, joy,” Kay replies sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “I can hardly wait.”
*
Arthur drops into the padded chair in his room, letting his head loll backwards to rest on its back. He hates this, hates it all really, but hates this effort especially, having to pretend that everything is alright, that he’s over it, when he feels quite acutely that nothing in his life is ever going to be okay again. There is no way it could be, not with Merlin gone.
Merlin. He had never thought he could miss another person as much as he misses him. It is as though everything has shattered inside him, and he can hardly breathe sometimes for the lead weight pressing down on his chest. The betrayal hurts almost as much as the abandonment, but Arthur thinks that if he could only see Merlin again, just for a day, an hour even, he could forgive everything.
Deep down, he knows Merlin hadn’t truly been to blame; the other man was trusting to a fault (and what a fault it was, thinking of what had happened) and Arthur can’t imagine him being suspicious of the young woman showing such a keen interest in him, in his abilities. But there is also a part of him that is so angry at Merlin for forgetting what had happened to him within the first few months of their friendship. Sophia had been so like Vivian, after all. Arthur thinks he now understands his father’s hatred of magic.
Suddenly, Arthur becomes aware that the room has become far too hot, stifling, and a growing sense of entrapment begins to envelope him, wrapping him in its vile tendrils, the weapons of his memory. He pushes himself hurriedly to his feet and walks quickly toward the door, following the corridors blindly until he finds himself standing outside of the castle and on the outskirts of the woods. He reaches out a hand and brushes his fingertips against the rough bark of a nearby tree, taking solace in its solidity, its realness, physically grounding himself in an effort to stave the flood of memories that threatens to sweep him away.
As he wanders through the woods, snippets of memory trickle through his self-imposed barriers, finding their way into his conscious mind and forcing him to see, to listen.
He is twenty five again and opening his bedroom door, already knowing that the other man is waiting for him; Merlin looks up at him with wide eyes and that welcoming smile, and Arthur realises just how deep this truly runs; they are hunting in the woods with the other men, when Arthur shoots out an arm and catches Merlin around the waist, pulling him behind a tree for a deep kiss; Gaius comments on how nice it is to see that they are finally getting along, and he and Merlin share a glance and cannot hold back their laughter; Arthur returns from yet another discussion with Uther about taking a wife and Merlin tells him he knows just how to relieve his tension; he is sucking Merlin off and pauses, looking up to see an expression of utter bliss on the other man’s face and he thinks wonderingly, “That’s me. I did that.”
There is more, of course. Once the chinks in his armour have been found, the tide of memories exploits it, tearing away his breastplate and leaving him completely exposed.
Morgana and Merlin are speaking in frantic, hushed voices that are silenced as soon as his presence is felt; Merlin is explaining about his magic, at first desperately afraid and so nervous and then, when he realises that Arthur isn’t going to turn him in (never, he thinks, I never would), he is excited; it is a year later and Merlin is showing him some of the newest things that he can do when Morgana enters the room and says she needs to talk to them, it is urgent; he and Merlin are in bed, discussing Morgana’s vision, asserting that they have always, between them, conquered her prophecies before; Morgana is married to a young nobleman and leaves Camelot; Uther dies and Arthur is crowned king at the still-tender age of twenty eight; Lancelot returns and Arthur sees that Gwen, Morgana’s handmaiden, is in love with him; Arthur and Gwen agree to marry, allowing him to continue with Merlin and her to see what can come of this thing she has with Lancelot.
He has held back the worst of it for as long as he can, but even the great King Arthur can hide from the past for only so long, and when it does come it surges up like a tidal wave, crashing down and engulfing him in a torrent of grief.
He has lifted the ban on magic and Merlin is now his advisor as well as friend and lover; a girl arrives in Camelot and makes a beeline for Merlin, showering him with flattery and the kind of meaningful glances that only work when he’s the one giving them and make her look like a mooning fool; Merlin doesn’t see this and appears to respond to her affections, and Arthur gets jealous; Merlin is spending less and less time with him and more time with Vivian, apparently teaching her magic; Arthur is growing suspicious and Merlin knows it, resents the fact that his lover cannot trust him; they are speaking less than ever and the sex has stopped completely; Arthur is the king and he shouldn’t have to take being made to look a fool in front of everyone, and he tells Merlin so; Merlin and Vivian take two horses out for a ride, as Arthur watches from the battlements; both horses return but they bring only Vivian and her news that Merlin is-
Arthur cannot think any more, he can’t stand it, it’s all too much and he’s breaking, he’s breaking all over again because without Merlin he is only half of himself and he can’t stand it.
A choked, gasping sob escapes him and Arthur is on his knees deep in the woods, completely unaware of how he got there or where exactly he is relative to the castle and not caring. Tears are pouring down his cheeks and he finally gives in to his rage and screams his anguish into the harsh wind that tears at his clothes as Merlin once had.
*
Morgana stands as Arthur pushes open the door to his room. His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot, his hands and face grimy. He looks like a man who has been to the very brink of human emotion and only managed to pull himself back through supreme force of will. Morgana thinks it says a lot about Arthur’s character that he can still summon that willpower in the face of such terrible loss, but she doesn’t say it aloud. Instead, she lifts a blanket from Arthur’s bed and moves forward to wrap it around his shoulders, pulling him close to her as she does so. Once, Arthur would have rejected even this smallest of human kindnesses, priding himself on his ability to cope, to withstand any sufferance, but this new Arthur, this devastated man, accepts the gesture willingly. He no longer has any fight left.
After a time, Arthur stirs in her arms, startling her; she had thought him to be asleep, he has been that still and silent. He pulls away and looks at her with eyes so full of hurt and need and longing that she yearns to be able to do anything, say anything to ease his pain.
“Tell me,” he says, and his voice is hoarse. “Tell me all of it.”
She knows what he means and so she does, relaying her vision from start to finish, surprising herself with the clarity of her recollections. Morgana tells of the arrival of a young woman in Camelot, beautiful and with long, dark hair that reached almost to her waist, and of how the woman tempted Merlin away with flattery and whispered secrets and, yes, some magic of her own. She tells of seeing Merlin and the woman bent over books and scrolls, staying up late into the night to practice the magic they shared, Vivian siphoning Merlin of his powers all the while. She relates the tale of Merlin and Vivian riding out into the afternoon, of their hurried dismount when Vivian claimed to have seen a disturbance in a nearby cave. Finally, Morgana tells Arthur the ending of the vision she had had so long ago, explaining that Merlin, chivalrous to the end, had entered the cave and that Vivian had used one of his own spells against him, moving the rocks until the entrance was sealed shut, imprisoning Merlin in his tomb, his magic stolen from him, buried alive and lost for eternity.
When she is finished, she finds that she cannot bear to look Arthur in the eye and so keeps her gaze trained on the worn stone of his bedroom floor.
*
Arthur knows the story - he has lived it, after all - but hearing it on Morgana’s lips makes everything seem so much more real and he feels something deep within him crack and splinter and finally, after three years of wondering, shatter.
Tangled phrases pass through his mind in a repetitive cycle: trapped in a cave… his own magic used against him… Vivian… lost for eternity…
“God, Merlin,” he whispers, closing his eyes and bringing his hands up to cover his face.
He senses, rather than sees, Morgana leave and he is grateful for her silence, too busy with the torrent of emotions within himself to even begin to contemplate taking on hers. He is never going to see Merlin again, and Arthur cannot even console himself with thoughts of revenge because Vivian is gone, had fled Camelot after delivering her morbid news.
The grief rises once more above him and this time Arthur gives in to it and loses himself in the flood.
*
Morgana has barely left Arthur’s room when Gwen sweeps down the corridor and accosts her, grasping her wrist and leading her into a small, disused side room.
“And?” Gwen demands without preamble, her expression hopeful.
“Dear Gwen,” sighs Morgana. “Did you ever think it would be that easy? I’ve done what I can. The rest is down to Arthur.”
“But what do you think?” presses Gwen.
“I think that, underneath it all, he’s still Arthur.” Gwen’s brow furrows in confusion, and Morgana explains, “He’s strong and he’ll do what he has to, but- Gwen, you know what it is to be in love!”
Gwen smiles at that and her smile warms Morgana’s heart. They need more happiness in this bleak world, and she is truly glad that Gwen has Lancelot. Morgana’s sleep is still as uneasy as it always has been and lately she has been seeing Arthur in her dreams; Gwen will need what happiness she can cling to, in the years to come.
*
It is with a slow tread and a heavy heart that Arthur makes his way to Gaius’ chambers the next day. The old man has kept his position as Court Physician, despite his increasing age and the keen grief he still feels whenever he is struck by a memory of Merlin, the boy he had never expected to grow so fond of, so attached to. And these rooms are so full of memories.
Part of Gaius suspects that he remains for just that reason, the memories themselves providing a link to the lost boy; moving would mean forgoing those moments when he turns and almost glimpses Merlin across the room. The boy will be thumbing through stacks of books in an effort to defeat whatever creature it is that’s threatening Camelot this time, or rushing past with a warning to avoid his room and - always - a promise to sort things out later. Gaius hates these moments for the way they take him unawares and fling him back into the stark realisation of his loss; he loves them because they prevent him from forgetting, and Gaius hopes never to forget Merlin. He suspects this is the same reason Arthur has returned to the rooms he inhabited before his coronation required him to move with Gwen into the state chambers.
Arthur visits often but his visits are usually spent in silence, the king sitting quietly on Merlin’s bed in the room that has never been divested of his belongings and remaining there, motionless, for hours at a time.
Today, Arthur hesitates at the door to Merlin’s old room. He turns abruptly and crosses the room to sit opposite Gaius at the workbench instead.
“I see him everywhere, Gaius,” Arthur says, with clear difficulty. “His face is in every shadow and when I close my eyes it’s on the insides of my eyelids.”
Gaius measures his words carefully, and then says, “I sometimes think it would be easier if he were dead. Such a terrible fate… but I believe he has enough magic left to project himself, even if he cannot summon the energy to escape. And it would make sense that he appears most frequently to you. He- you were such a huge part of his life, Arthur.”
Arthur’s jaw tenses and his eyes are suddenly watery. He rubs at them with his forearm, muttering something about fumes from the herbs. Gaius cannot hold back his smile, reminded so strongly of countless times Arthur had used the same excuse when Gaius had tended the wounds he sustained in training as a boy.
“Do you really believe that?” asks Arthur, when he has recovered himself.
Gaius does not reply and Arthur seems to realise the futility of his question because he poses another one, a better one: “Why do you believe that?”
“I believe in Merlin,” Gaius says simply.
It is enough, he sees at once; Arthur allows himself a genuine smile. The two men sit together for a while longer, sharing a pot of tea Gaius has made. They do not speak any further of Merlin but he is an underlying presence in every word.
*
Morgana twists in her seat as the carriage once again draws her away from Camelot and she watches as the beautiful castle that had once been her home fades away with a bittersweet pang. It is good to be returning home to her husband and son, but Morgana knows that the next time she visits Camelot it will be to bid Arthur goodbye on his final journey, the one that will take him to Avalon and, she hopes, back to a waiting Merlin.
The journey to Northumberland will be a long one, but Morgana always finds that the return trip, where one knows what to expect upon arrival, is always swifter than the outgoing one. Her journey to Camelot had been laced with uncertainties and worries, many of which had proven reasonable; at home, however, she knows perfectly well that her five year old son will be awaiting her, likely with rough drawings to offer and tall tales of childish adventure to regale. Motherhood excites Morgana more than any other experience in her adult life.
She has been lucky with her marriage, she knows; Sir Lucan is a good man, a kind man, and has been friendly with Arthur since the days of their youth. Uther had been good to her in his selection and Morgana is grateful. She does not think it is merely Lucan’s lavish estate and unswerving loyalty that led to his decision; even now, the attraction between them is still there, deep and pulsating with every breath, every word, every glance.
The journey will be long, but Morgana knows its reward will be worth every boredom-filled hour, every bump in the road.
*
When Arthur sleeps that evening, he enters the land of dreams to find Merlin waiting for him, sitting on his bed as he had done so often before. Merlin looks up at his arrival and a smile spreads across his face, now thinly bearded.
“I wondered when you’d get here,” he says. “But then, I suppose you don’t have me to remind you of your appointments anymore.”
“Don’t joke about it,” says Arthur, but he is smiling all the same, and then he is striding across the room and sweeping Merlin into his arms.
Merlin kisses him, his lips pressing tightly against Arthur’s, and it is just as Arthur remembers it, sweet and hot and wet all at once. He finds himself hardening almost immediately and isn’t surprised, although it has been years since he has reacted to anyone in this way. He kisses Merlin back with just as much tenderness, seeking those depths they had always been able to reach together and finding them in the brush of Merlin’s tongue on his.
As they kiss, Merlin’s fingers move to Arthur’s waist, sliding the linen shirt up his body and over his head before casting it unceremoniously to the floor. His hands move to Arthur’s chest, exploring his body with nimble fingers, running them over his pectorals and teasing the erect nipples, drawing quiet gasps from Arthur. One of his fingernails catches in the light smattering of hair on the other man’s chest, and Arthur hisses into Merlin’s mouth when he pulls it free.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, but Arthur has moved on, is already divesting him of his shirt and neckerchief with the determinism Merlin remembers from their youth.
Arthur’s hands are like perfection on his body; he has mapped every inch of it countless times before, knows it almost as well as he knows his own. Merlin groans as Arthur’s mouth suckles on his neck, just above the pulse point that beats so rapidly there, and his hands are still roaming over the other man, feeling for changes in the skin he knows so well.
Merlin pulls Arthur’s face back up to his and kisses him as deeply as he can, trying to pour all the unspoken words between them into the kiss, keeping his eyes open on Arthur’s all the while. He feels Arthur’s need, his impatience, and leads him gently towards the bed that holds so many of their memories, pulling Arthur down with him, never breaking their kiss.
The remainder of their clothes are lost somewhere on the journey. They land with an ungainliness Merlin knows Arthur will never admit to afterwards, and simply lay together for a time, hands and lips wandering over one another, seeking out the spots they know drive each other crazy, each seeking solace in the familiarity of flesh. He feels the moan on his lips before he hears it, anticipation heightening his excitement; Merlin knows full well that Arthur knows exactly what he is doing to him when he hovers his hand over his groin while his tongue swirls over his hipbone.
He pulls Arthur’s arm up to his lips and flutters his own tongue gently against Arthur’s inner wrist. The king’s breath catches in his throat and he holds himself so stilly that Merlin at first thinks his magic has somehow returned to him, but then Arthur is moving again, writhing against him with an urgency that brings a smile to Merlin’s lips.
They have only their spit to lubricate themselves and they both know that this will hurt almost as much as the first time but neither of them holds back, and when Arthur pushes into Merlin he presses right back. They are, both of them, revelling in the experience of feeling something, anything, after the long years of numbness. The pain reminds them both that they are still alive.
Their pace is achingly slow and Merlin’s blood soon joins their spit in aiding the lubrication process but the need to prolong this contact, this connection, runs so deep that neither man attempts to hurry things. Their eyes meet with the unspoken agreement that the longer this can last, the longer Merlin can stay.
Arthur reaches his climax and it comes with a dull roar instead of the vivid yell he remembers, and then he is stroking Merlin, remembering the techniques he has learnt and perfected through their relationship: that quick twist of the wrist on the downward stroke, a gently circling thumb on the head, a tight squeeze around the base with the thumb and forefinger of his other hand. Merlin moans and groans, hips arching off the bed towards him, and Arthur knows he is close, so close, and then Merlin is coming and Arthur’s name is on his lips.
They lay together afterwards, sated. Arthur wraps his arms around the smaller man, holding him close, and Merlin rests his head in the juncture between Arthur’s shoulder and his torso. They cling to the moment, holding tight to the happiness that has eluded them both for so long.
When the first light of dawn filters in through the window, Arthur stirs. He is aware that the familiar warm body is gone from his bed but still feels a sense of contentment, an inner peace that is the vestiges of Merlin. When he arises to ready himself for another day, there are traces of blood and semen on the sheets.
*
Gwen seeks him out later in the day and he can smell Lancelot on her but it doesn’t bother him because he is sure she can smell Merlin on him and, besides, it was so that she could be with Lancelot that he married her in the first place.
There is something different about him, but Gwen cannot quite put her finger on it. “How are you feeling?” she asks quietly, conscious that his temper has been so close to the edge of late.
To her surprise, he meets her with a smile which, if not bright, can at least be described as at ease. “Better,” he says. “Much better. And yourself?”
She smiles in return, relieved that Morgana’s words seem to have had some impact. “Oh, I’m fine,” she says. “Are you ready for breakfast?”
He takes her arm and escorts her to the dining room, chatting along the way about his plans for the day, his intention to call together the knights and other noblemen and set about restoring the kingdom to its former splendour. Gwen tells him that the task won’t be difficult; Albion has been mostly peaceful throughout Arthur’s reign and it is only in the last three years, when the kingdom has effectively been without a king, that things have begun to fall apart.
At the table he tells her to sit with Lancelot, and Gwen realises what is different about him; Arthur is wearing Merlin’s blue neckerchief.
*
Arthur fingers the frayed fabric around his throat absently as he stands on the battlements of his castle and surveys his kingdom. He knows now that he can continue through this life, that somehow he will hold together; Merlin has restored his strength to him.
Far below, in the courtyard, he sees Lancelot and Gwen walking together, engrossed in conversation, pausing to greet Gaius and his new apprentice. Not far from them, he can see Kay training some of the younger boys who have expressed an interest in becoming knights. Arthur sees these things and smiles, feeling that things are coming together at last, but he knows that there is a part of him that will always be missing Merlin.