I'm the one that's drowning now.

For the longest time, Merlin waits.

At the lake, he watches the distance between his and Arthur's body grow until he can no longer measure it. He still stands watching, and at first, the greatest thing is the shock, like a numbing factor that leaves him trembling, terrified, and confused.

Arthur can't be dead.

Merlin looks down at his shaking hands and starts to sob; his arms that are meant to hold his lover are now empty. His world crumbles apart, slowly at first, then all at once. The greatest pain breaks his heart too fast, too strong, and it dawns on him that this is real.

But it's too soon.

He falls to the ground, wretched sobs taking over his body. For the longest time, he cries. First, there is a solid anger, and he curses in an unintelligible tongue, blaming himself, blaming destiny. Destiny, that he has always loved, has always believed to be worth it. Every loss, every step of the way, he had believed to be creditable - but nothing, not even destiny, was worth losing Arthur over.

Hold me.

Merlin wakes up screaming.

"It's just a dream," he sighs, relieved. He gets out of his bed and pulls on his nightgown, then goes outside. There's this nagging feeling in his mind, like he's forgetting something important, but it doesn't bother him much until he sees the temple.

There are too many flowers and too many letters, but the statue is big enough that the flag on it's head isn't hidden. Merlin doesn't need to read the inscriptions to know what they say, Long Live King Arthur. Though it isn't the first time, the pain hits him just as strong as it always does, and he doesn't know how to cope with it. He can't imagine ever learning to live without his second half.

This time, Merlin doesn't cry, but he clenches his fists. His nails dig into his skin, and he looks at the sky, begging whatever power, please, please, wake me up. He can't be gone.

But time stretches on, and Merlin doesn't know what to believe in anymore. His days are torturous, long, endless. His nights are frightening, full of nightmares that are true. Denial makes him tired, and he's stuck in a loophole, his subconscience refusing to accept his reality before it's forced upon him, each time like a sword stabbing his heart, only worse, because instead of dying he is obliged to live alone.

Solidarity.

Merlin walks into the water. It's freezing, but he doesn't feel it.

The waves crash around him, asking him to fall over, to succumb. He doesn't fight it. He stares into the distance, his heart as numb as his body. He looks around him but there's nothing to see. The water level rises to his chest, making it harder to breathe.

Merlin turns around slowly, searching. For a second, he thinks he almost sees him, like the sun bursting out of the sea, but it's only an illusion.

The more time that passes, the harder it becomes, and though the wetness on his skin is frozen cold, his insides burn a dark shade of loneliness.

The last thing Merlin thinks before going under is "I miss you." This water – it's the only part of Arthur left alive, the only tangible thing Merlin can still hold on to, and Merlin yearns to be complete again.

When the water surrounds him, he can remember the precise shade of Arthur's blue eyes. He can remember the ring of his voice, the fondness in his touch. The memories only strengthen his solidarity, but he would pick the cold of the ocean over the cold of reality any day. The quiet of the water isn't as vast nor as loud as the quiet of the emptiness in his mourning.

You're not coming back.

There's a certain pain in being able to see loss. Merlin is forced to learn this when his nightmares give in to nostalgia, and suddenly, Arthur is everywhere. He is the face of Camelot, so it is no surprise that Merlin can't walk the streets without sighting him.

It's a slow descend to insanity, Merlin thinks, but it's just like Arthur to visit him in his sleep, calling him an idiot and teasing him for his obsession. Merlin regards him with weariness, almost wanting to smile, but the pain is too deep and too recent to allow it.

Instead, Merlin begs. "Come back." He whispers, "Come back, please."

Arthur doesn't answer, and that hurts more than being able to see someone you can't touch.

Merlin shakes himself awake, and for a while he can still feel Arthur's presence in the form of a warmth trying to reach him, but he turns away from it. He isn't impressed by his daily visions, Arthur laughing in the corridors of the castle, Arthur in his armor, Arthur just like he'd always known him, and then sometimes, different. That's the Arthur that hurts the most – arriving when least expected like a silent visitor, almost real, keeping Merlin company, watching him and breathing nothing. Merlin wants him to speak, but he's scared of what he might say.

When his friends and family have passed, Arthur remains. Merlin regards him patiently, almost used to his presence, never fully there but never fully absent, always not enough and too much at once, never comforting. Sometimes Merlin forgets it isn't real, just a figment of his imagination that he shouldn't be so attached to.

Yearning.

Eventually, sorrow makes place for something just as sore: longing. The more Merlin ages, the more he yearns, Arthur's return being the only thing that fills his mind day after night after day after night after day..

That's when his magic comes back to him. While he mourned, he forgot about the sorcery that tingled beneath his skin, because without Arthur he had no cause for it. But the yearning – it makes his magic come back to life within him, and he waits for Arthur to do the same. He wishes it could be that easy for the both of them, that the wanting that was strong enough to make him useless and broken could revive the man he loves the same way it revived his powers. But in the end, it is beyond his control. All he can do is face the pain and remind himself, I will see him again.

Though the thoughts bring him an inkling of hope, nothing can shadow the bitterness of his need. It is something he can do nothing with – it bears, rooted deep within him, and grows upwards, wraps itself around his heart. Like a plague, it is murderous, but better for him than the bleak of loss. Love brings with it the gift of patience, and Merlin knows he has no choice. He would wait, even if it takes eternity, even if it is a different sort of torture.

Such a long time.

Time. It was endless. It was empty, useless, wasted time. Merlin tries not to think of it that way, tries instead to grow with the centuries, but it doesn't always work.

Life without Arthur is different, harder. The stars shine a little less, the night is a little darker. Merlin searches with desperation, night after night, pleading whatever power to help him find Arthur again. He's somewhere, Merlin would cry, I need to find him. But he never does.

It is failing that makes it so hard, causing Merlin to lose sight of himself. On the worst of days, missing Arthur twists itself inside of him, in his mind, and he almost convinces himself that Arthur is back. He would be afraid of the lake, then, afraid of the memories, so he stands a foot away, too scared to feel.

I need you. Every day. What greater need can there be? How can it be that I am here and you are not?

The lack of response, the stillness, makes Merlin want to scream. There is no one left for Merlin to ask things like am I going crazy?No one left to ground him, and Merlin has to hold it all within, his rage like the weight of a mountain on his shoulders.

His tears are fueled by aggravation and frustration. More than anything, he hates himself for doubting, when years back Arthur was the only thing he could ever be sure of. But time changes everything, and ever since it took away Arthur, the essence of Merlin's being, he wasn't sure whether he would ever be the same again. Truth became an illusion, a stained glass window shadowing stories he wasn't sure of.

Pining.

A thousand years pass. Merlin has new friends, new families, wonderful people Arthur would have loved. But they pass before Arthur returns.

The only thing that doesn't change is a small passage that leads to a wide lake that faces a mountain and a monument. There, two worlds meet: Merlin and Arthur's.

One world is a quiet light, waiting to be reborn. The other, a fiery standstill, waiting for his purpose to return. Neither is whole without the other. Eventually, Merlin accepts this, that he will wait no matter how long it might take. Once the first thousand years have passed, he is used to it. There aren't too many joys in life, but that lake is one of them, like a passage to the past. The water, however, is more than that.

Merlin knows it's the lake that will give life back to his lover, but he also knows it is the lake that has taken his soul hostage. Although he has a code of defense, he can't help the sadness that sometimes washes over him in waves.

It's an odd feeling to be a half, an even stranger one when you've met your soulmate, have held him in your arms and loved him with all of your heart. Merlin thinks of those days as treasures, but sometimes refrains from thinking of them at all.

Merlin sits by the lake and watches the passing of time. He thinks, it no longer matters how or when Arthur returns, only that he does. If he gets to see that vibrant smile, gets to kiss those soft lips one more time, he swears, he won't let Arthur leave without him again.

The saddest part is Arthur can't hear him when he cries, his tears a bittersweet display of his woe. Arthur can't hear him when he holds his own hands to stop them from trembling, saying to the massive openness of the night, "I miss you."

Pick me up.

Merlin's hands reach for Arthur's. Their fingertips are so close, so near, but it just isn't enough. Arthur falls through the cracks and disappears, once, twice, and the third time he doesn't return.

Merlin's heart aches, tears burning his skin. There's nothing he wants more than to go after him, to pick him up, to hold him. He lays on the ground, cries into his palms, and the pain is a river that swallows him in. He doesn't know when he will be able to see Arthur again, doesn't know why his fate is to love and lose and love and lose, a thousand times over, searching for a world that he, for all his power, can not reach.

Arthur sees him, but Merlin doesn't know this: that there are two types of pain, one, to lose someone who is as much a part of you as your heart, which keeps you alive, and two: to watch the person you would die for fall apart for you. Both are impossible to overcome and impossible to fix – Arthur knows, because he's tried countless of times to pick Merlin up, to wrap his arms around his small body and heal him, to love him gently, to say, "I'm here, I'm here, can't you see me?"

But Merlin can't. The two worlds are as fragile as the red string that holds the lovers together, but without Arthur, Merlin is not strong enough to endure them. The space between them seems endless, and he is as thirsty for comfort as a man lost in a desert is thirsty for water.

Merlin prays with a lack of faith. There is nothing he can do but hope for mercy, and wait. At night, when their souls meet, it is hard to wake, but Merlin does with hope that this time, Arthur's return will be more than a dream.

It's just a spark.

A thousand and five hundred years since the day Arthur died, Merlin dips his toes in the lake. The water is a nice temperature, and he takes his first step.

When he is waist deep in the lake, he closes his eyes. He begins to sway with the movement of the water, and a soft rhythm begins, like a sacred dance. Merlin listens.

He is familiar with the quiet that greets him, familiar with the touch of the water on his skin, the lull of the waves. He keeps his eyes closed, his heart open, and it starts to feel like a bit of a ritual.

He doesn't go any deeper, nor does he return to shore before the night falls. Instead, he tries to enjoy the freeness of the water, the possibilities and the wonders that live inside of it. He knows Arthur is there, somewhere in the blue of the water, looking forward to their reunion. He isn't sure what Arthur is experiencing, but he hopes it isn't painful – even dares to hope that Arthur is happy.

The accent of the waves hushes Merlin's thoughts, until everything goes quiet and the only thing that remains is a dance. He follows the breath of the water, and for the first time in over a thousand years, he feels at peace.

When he's opens his eyes, the moon has come out. It shadows the land, a mighty and beautiful spark, leaving peculiar shadows in the water. Merlin thinks to himself, this is home, and soon, you will be here too.