Waiting for the Future
Set during and after S05E13. Covers what happened after Arthur's passing and his prophesied return.
Warnings: Legend-wise and historically inaccurate. Character death. And spoilers.
He didn't know how long he sat on the bank of the lake before Percival found him; only that it couldn't have been more than a day. The sky had only darkened once.
He vaguely felt a presence enter the barrier, tingling at the back of his mind while memories and prophecies played in the front in a despairing loop. A rustle in the back alerted him of a presence, and the gentle footfalls told him who it was.
Percival stopped a good yard from where he sat. An apology hung in the air, telling him that he must've looked pretty pathetic. Arthur was king, after all. It wasn't just his loss. But even then, he felt his heart sink, for though the battle was won and Camelot remained thriving, the loss was greater than any of them had anticipated. And even so, he silently accepted the pity directed at him because while Camelot lost her king and Albion her prophesied future, Merlin felt like he had lost everything.
"I couldn't save him," he sniffed, and vaguely became aware that a salty, disgusting mix of sweat, tears and snot covered the majority of his face.
"It wasn't your fault," the knight's voice was tight, as though the words had struggled from his throat and were only half meant for him. Yet, it was gentle and sincere. "It's not."
The lake was silent for a few moments, with only the soft rustling of the wind barring it from becoming deafening, before Percival seemed to force his next words from his lips.
"Merlin," he tried, hesitating, "Gwaine, he…"
He didn't need to continue for Merlin to understand what he was trying to say. Something tore at Merlin's heart, overlapping against Arthur's loss, and he had to force himself to breathe. He remembered Gwaine's reluctant leave back at the mouth of the Crystal Cave, his teary gaze as he handed him the sword he knew he wouldn't need. He remembered the feeling of trust that surged through him at that moment, remembered almost telling him, and remembered Gwaine looking at him as if he was waiting for him to. He remembered letting the moment pass, and wished he hadn't.
I hope you find what you're looking for.
He did. He wanted to tell him that he did and that it was all thanks to him, and if it meant bringing them back, he would gladly give it up.
But it wasn't a price to be paid; it was his, but not his to give up.
"Merlin," Percival's voice rumbled gently. "We have to go back."
And Merlin knew he can't. Not yet.
"I'm sorry," he replied, and despite its vagueness, Percival seemed to understand.
"You can't stay here forever."
"No," he agreed. "But… just for a while. Please."
Percival's footsteps drew closer until they stopped beside him. He knew what he was doing, and he wanted to tell him he didn't need it, but as his friend knelt down beside him, clamping one hand reassuringly on his shoulder and handing him the hilt of his sword with the other, a perfect imitation of Gwaine's final gesture to him, he felt the words screech to a halt in his throat. Instead, he accepted the weapon with a shaky hand silently.
"Swear to me you'll return," he said.
Merlin felt his lips curl to one side, "Why wouldn't I?"
Percival gave him an equally wry smile. "I've seen men who've lost less than you never find their way back."
Merlin looked back into the lake. Wind from it blew past his cheeks, fluttering through his hairline comfortingly. It almost felt like Hunith's embrace, warm and reassuring. He'll return, he thought, one day.
"I'll be fine."
And he nearly felt convinced.
After a couple of days of sitting idly on the banks of the lake, his bottom had protested violently enough to warrant action. It was numb and prickling with pain when he lifted his weight off of it, and he wondered if sitting for as long as he did without shifting was enough to bruise it. He stood and felt his knees buckle and he almost tumbled back to the grass when he tried to stand completely. Thankfully, the pain receded fast enough for him to stretch his limbs awake and stomp the blood back into the veins of his legs.
His mind drifted to the battle, to Arthur, to Mordred, and inevitably, to Morgana. He blinked at his hands guiltily and glanced towards the sloping forest.
She doesn't deserve it, part of him whispered, and another part responded with the same words but pertaining to a completely different matter. In the end, he found himself walking towards the forest.
She didn't deserve it, he agreed. Morgana was a person broken by lies and propelled into a darkness she could have scarcely recovered from. He couldn't blame her entirely for while she had a choice, Destiny has its way of making it seem like one didn't. He couldn't assume to understand, not entirely and neither did he wish to, how Morgana could have turn on them as completely as she did, but he knew and, to an extent, he could sympathize.
Her body lay where he and Arthur left her. He closed her eyes with a gentle touch of his fingers, and for a moment, he saw the woman who had fought for servants and alongside peasants, the princess who let herself be chained in a cell for her beliefs, the friend who had forgotten them and herself. It was a faint image, fuzzy in contrast with the fresh memory of the sorceress besotted with revenge and anger. But it was the Morgana he knew, now lying cold on the earth as she did in the room she left behind in Camelot, without nightmares to haunt her sleep, nor life to wake her from it. For the first time, he let himself weep for the friend he had lost in her.
He swept a hand over her and the soil swallowed her up as gently as a feather sinks to the ground.
Merlin's eyes shone and rocks piled one on top of the other where Morgana's body once was.
A marked grave for the person she was.
She didn't deserve it, his mind echoed. He pushed the thought away, because he hadn't forgiven her, and he wondered if he ever would. He hadn't forgiven himself either, and he wondered about that, too.
He felt around the earth, his eyes seeing through forests and plains, sights reaching leagues and miles away from where he stood until his vision finally zoned in on a mound of rocks, similar to the one he just made, piled neatly on a slope with a chipped sword stabbed in tribute on the ground in front of it.
Something at the back of his mind was nagging him of the possible danger wrought by the fact that the sword was just right there. He acknowledged it along with the mound's significance despite its passiveness, because both were important. And both were probably his fault, too.
The first time he spoke to the lake had been around a week after he sent Arthur to rest.
"There's a lot…" he said. His throat felt dry, scratchy and tasted of iron, and his voice was a sorry excuse for a croak, unused. "There's a lot I wanted to tell you. And a great many things I wanted you to know."
His throat protested then, burning painfully as though he had gulped down a tankard of sand. He sighed miserably, not really feeling up to responding to his bodily needs, but he approached the lake nonetheless. He placed a hand over its surface and waited. It thrummed pleasantly under his palm, and he graciously cupped his hands and drank from it. He watched as the water slipped from his fingers, and remembered how he saved the king from being made a tribute to the beings of this very lake all those years ago. He thought of how his feelings regarding his destiny went from utter disapproval to slight reluctance and wondered when exactly it evolved into absolute devotion.
Wind from the lake blew past his cheeks, fluttering through his ears. A low buzz tickled his earlobes, forming words in a voice he knew could have only been a product of his imagination.
Then tell me, it whispered welcomingly.
"I don't know where to begin," he blurted out before he could tell himself it was all in his head. He remembered the dragon's first words to him about his destiny, about Arthur: The Once and Future King and the most powerful warlock to ever walk the earth—two sides of the same coin. He remembered hearing the same words uttered by different people, both in reverence and hatred.
"When the dragon told me I was meant to protect you, I thought he was joking…" he began, and the words poured out of him as steady and as strong as a river after a storm, fast and unrelenting. And as the confessions he had dreamed and dreaded to tell Arthur for so long—every horrible decision, every sacrifice, everything wonderful and beautiful magic had showed him, and everything he wanted to show and share with Arthur were spoken at last, rolling off his tongue as swiftly as the memories reeled in his head, it almost felt like a proper alternative.
It would have been perfect if somewhere beyond the lake, somebody was listening.
Eventually, he felt well enough to leave the punishing sanctuary of the lake. He returned to Camelot, but he didn't stay for long.
He went straight to Gaius, inevitably crossing paths with Gwen who, after crushing him into a hug, had punchedhim square on the cheeks while Gaius only looked on with a glint of morbid fascination in his eyes, saying that he would've punched him if Gwen hadn't, which was, according to the old physician, better because Gwen was stronger. And she had a ring.
After a meal and several updates about Camelot in the Queen's Quarters, Merlin had told them about his plan to travel to learn more about magic—something he hadn't had the chance to do with the weekly evil sorcerer attacks Camelot had been plagued with for the majority of the Pendragons' rule. He needed to master his power before Arthur's return. And more importantly, he needed answers.
"Merlin," Gwen had pleaded. "I—
"This is something I have to do," he told her, and she clamped her lips together and reluctantly acquiesced.
"I'm sorry, Gwen. I promise I'll be back. I need to do this for Camelot."
For Arthur.
The first time he brought something to the lake was when he visited after an unexpected (and surprisingly pleasant) stay in Odin's capital. The memory was still strange to him.
It was either he passed by the kingdom or fight his way through a forest deathtrap, said a rather polite troll after he'd gifted it with a few gold coins and a couple of sticks of bread on an old, abandoned bridge on his way to a meeting with the leaders of a druid settlement further north. He wasn't particularly inclined to meet with druid leaders bloodied and battered, so the capital, it was.
The papers did say they were at peace.
Upon arrival, he was greeted by a handful of soldiers, and he had to ask himself if the peace treaty Odin signed with Camelot had contained anything stating its nullification upon Arthur's death. Or if he had, in fact, just dreamed the whole thing up.
He was grateful for his decision to wait things out rather than blast the black clad knights out of the way and go through the deathtrap after all. He was escorted to the throne room without trouble where the king welcomed him with a somewhat disturbing smile.
"If I hadn't known who you were," he said, "I would have been offended at how Camelot chose a lone servant to bring us news of King Arthur's passing."
Merlin made a mental note to not mention the part where he was just passing through and did not, by any means, come to his kingdom to make any sort of official announcement that his king was dead. And that he wasn't even here for Camelot at all. He wasn't even sure if there were rules about needing to send people to your allies to announce your death, even for formalities.
"But you're different," he continued, blissfully unaware of Merlin's mental monologue. "You are King Arthur's servant, yes, but you were also the one who advised him to spare my life."
Here, Merlin wondered if Odin was always like this to the people he liked. He looked pleased and warm and, dare he say it, happy—the complete opposite of the vengeful man Merlin met no more than a year ago, on the fatal end of Arthur's sword.
Or maybe he was just happy that Arthur was dead.
That didn't really go over too well with Merlin.
Odin made a gesture to one of the servants and one of them came forward with a box. The king took it and presented it to Merlin.
"Inside this box is a flower and a letter," he said. "I'd like to deliver them myself, but alas with the current festivities within my kingdom, I cannot leave its walls. The letter is to be delivered to your queen. And the flower is to be placed on your king's resting place, as a sign of my farewell."
Merlin looked at him warily and made no move to relieve the king of his gifts.
"Do not look so suspicious, lad," he said, stepping forward to give Merlin a better reach. "He offered me peace where others would have simply given me death. And if the roles had been reversed, I am almost certain I would've given him just that. To even consider sparing the life of his enemy at the words of a servant…" There was a thoughtful pause and with a solemn nod, he finished with only little reluctance, "His reign was short, but he was a good king."
Merlin took the box with a nod for a bow. "He was."
Odin had offered him a room in the castle that night and insisted he stay another day to attend a feast. The mood was festive in the lower town, and he was able to snag a couple of rare herbs from a travelling merchant for Gaius, and a carved dragon peculiarly resembling the dragon on the Pendragon crest. The feast was great, too, and he didn't feel as put out as he thought he'd be (though he did feel extremely awkward when he was given court clothes to wear and asked to sit with the king). Odin had kept him occupied with talks about his land's traditions, a few stories about his son and a past where Camelot and his kingdom had been good allies.
"You have the chance to be that again now, sire," Merlin had told him with a bit of certainty, if the fact that no one had tried to kill him in the past twenty-four hours was anything to go by.
Odin hummed in approval. "And it's all thanks to you."
He declined a third offer to stay the following day along with the offer to be escorted by a group of knights, and he promised to deliver the items to Camelot.
The meeting with the druids was pleasant, too. They taught him what they knew and he gave what little knowledge he could offer. Despite his shortcomings, the druids were still painfully insistent on pledging their loyalty to him. Merlin told them they didn't need to, but they said that it was the least they could do. For what, he had no idea.
On his last day, he asked if they knew Mordred, promising them that he meant no harm. As it turned out, they weren't the group that knew Mordred personally and like the others he had visited, they had been reluctant to speak of him despite his promise, no doubt knowing what he had done, but they were kind enough to point Merlin towards the location of other settlements. He waved as a farewell, and they automatically bowed in return. It still flustered him, knowing he has yet to be the man they were bowing to, but he learned how futile his attempts to make them stop were, and it eventually tired him out.
He returned to Albion and delivered the letter to Guinevere as he had promised the changed king, and gave Gaius his gifts before travelling to the Lake of Avalon.
"Odin said you were a good king," he beamed, with just a hint of nostalgia. "Can you believe that? If I didn't try any dispelling charms on him, I would've been sure he was an impostor. You should've seen him." He laughed wistfully. "I was asked to give you this. It's supposed to be a native flower or something, I didn't really listen."
His heart clenched. He could almost hear the 'you idiot!' thrum playfully in the air, but his ears never quite caught it.
"But," he continued softly. "I do remember him saying it's a symbol of farewell. I wasn't that inattentive."
He hesitated, stroking the smooth stem of the flower with his thumb. He approached the waters and threw the flower in. His eyes glowed gold and the wind shifted towards the island in the middle of the lake, carrying the gift with it.
"Arthur…" he called in a soft breath. He shook his head, swallowing the lump in his throat, and felt the wind pass through him soothingly. "I'll see you soon."
The time between his returns to Camelot and his travels varied, but none lasted more than a year. On one of his trips to Nemeth from Mercia, he was intercepted by one of Princess Mithian's guards with a message from Guinevere, and he rushed back without rest. As soon as Camelot came into view, he made his horse trot faster than it did the last couple of miles and rushed to Gaius' chambers where he was greeted with a smile and a barely audible 'my boy' by the old man lying limply on his cot.
"There is nothing to be done," he had told him with a serene smile, and Merlin wanted to throw his spell book to the fire.
"Why?" Merlin wailed miserably, "For all my power, why can't I ever save the people who matter?"
Gaius wiped his tears away. "But you have, Merlin. You must stop punishing yourself by thinking you have failed where you have not."
"But Will, Elyan, Gwaine, Arthur… and now, you. I don't—
"If you'd let an old man say his piece," the physician interrupted before Merlin could continue his litany. "It's not your fault, Merlin. There are forces in this world that even Emrys can't control." He gave him a pat on his wet cheeks, "I don't believe you've failed. It was probably not always in the ways you imagined, but you've saved us all."
Merlin lowered his head beside Gaius', his shoulders shuddering pitifully. He knew, since the day he dropped a chandelier over the witch posing as Lady Helen to save Arthur's life that he couldn't save everyone. And he knew since Gwen's father died that he couldn't save everyone he knew. And he was forced to accept that he couldn't even save his friends the day Will took that arrow. He might have saved a good number of people, and Camelot a good number of times, but what was the point in it all if in the end, they'd still end up cold and ruined and lifeless because it was beyond his power to save them? If he couldn't save the people who mattered, what was the point in him?
Gaius dragged a heavy hand flat above his tangled locks.
"I love you, Gaius," Merlin's voice cracked. "And I wish there was something I could do."
"There is something, Merlin," Gaius whispered, and Merlin automatically straightened, alert and his eyes suddenly sparked with hope.
"What?" he urged.
Gaius smiled at him, and held his hand. Merlin could feel the smooth scars from stray cuts and burns, and the rough bumps from hardened skin under his own calloused hands. He met Gaius' eyes and his heart sank and a sob sprang from his throat. He would have done anything, just as he had and would have done for Arthur. But just like Arthur, Gaius did not wish to be saved.
"I only wish for your happiness, my boy," he said. "I do not need saving, but I've long since begun to think that you do."
Merlin pressed the old man's hand to his cheeks, his tears running around where it touched him. He sobbed messily and miserably, and though no words were spoken, Gaius still heard his pleas. Don't go.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Please, Merlin. Find happiness. You deserve it more than anyone."
He took things to the lake after he did Odin's tribute. He gifted it with little trinkets—random things—and had a tale to tell for each: tankards, swords, and at one point, a cat.
"She peed on your covers," he had told the lake as the feline growled at it testily, "I don't know how she got in, but she did."
He'd sometimes hear the wind laugh, and on rare occasions, he could almost hear words. It soothed him and maybe, he thought, it wasn't just his imagination.
He brought a lot of things, but he never brought flowers. Flowers were things he brought for Lancelot and Freya and Gwaine and Gaius. They weren't for Arthur.
He left again, with Alice agreeing to take Gaius' place as Court Physician while he was away. And when he returned a year and a half later, bringing news about the goings-on in the rest of Albion, including the unfortunate sickness that befell Lot's Queen, he was met with what Gwen had been busy dealing with while he had been sulking and absorbing gossip from all over the land. She had proposed to lift the ban on magic and sorcery, and Merlin's jaw almost unhinged when Leon told him before scrambling to the queen's chambers.
"What?" he spluttered, not bothering to explain himself nor hide his alarm, his greetings completely forgotten.
"Merlin!" Gwen sang happily, "You're back!"
"Yes, well…" he shook his head back into topic before he got distracted. "Leon told me."
"It's about time, Merlin," she insisted. "You're living proof that magic isn't evil. I don't see any point in prolonging its persecution."
Merlin had then assured her that he was happy about it being considered, but to suddenly repeal the ban would cause chaos among the people who had their fair share of magic-induced misfortune. But Gwen had persisted, reasoning that the people had seen magic in action during better times, and it was Uther's persecution that ultimately led magic itself to be hostile. At Merlin's teary face, she quickly added how the council wasn't doing much about it, so it probably wouldn't be implemented for another year. Or several years.
In the end, Merlin had no choice but to support her. He put his travels on hold and came to stay, assisting Gwen (and saving her from the old lords who didn't like the way she was leading the kingdom) and taking on the role of court physician (giving Alice a chance to go around for a year before joining Gaius) while training an apprentice when he wasn't.
At one point, Gwen found out that he was the Dolma after seeing the dress they gifted the sorceress in the bottom pile of his wardrobe. She howled with hilarity and said, "You'd make a beautiful woman," to which Merlin had no inclination to agree with. When her laughter had calmed and her breath returned, she thanked him and if anything, her determination to lift the ban was reinforced.
A year into the discussion, a plague came over Camelot, brought by a merchant from Lot's kingdom. The discussions to lift the ban on magic had been put on halt (not that it had been making significant progress with the way most of the council casually commented at how stupid an idea it was and promptly making a joke of the topic), and talks of isolating the plague to the lower towns took over the council. Seeing the council members think so little of the people Arthur died to protect had been the final straw, and they found their wits scattered about when Guinevere roared her disapproval with the ferocity of an enraged dragon, her eyes promising pain to anyone who would dare make the suggestion again. The council immediately shut up, cowered and mostly too shocked to even close their mouths. Merlin, though a bit surprised, was calm enough to be proud.
"We can't delay this further," the queen said, still fuming as she looked at him meaningfully. "Merlin."
Merlin returned her gaze, but said nothing. Gwen pursed her lips, and the council watched on.
"For Camelot."
He knew what she meant. For Arthur.
It was a low blow, but it was effective. He glanced around the room. Leon and Percival were blocking the door. Both knights gave him a nod. He gave a shaky breath, and with an unnecessary flick of his finger, the curtains of the room shut close, emphasizing the gold of his eyes on the last second.
"Please," he said before any of the lords had the chance to scream bloody murder. "I can heal them if you'd let me."
"He's a sorcerer!"
"Yes, I am aware of that, Lord Arawn," the queen sighed. "And he's also Camelot's savior. For more than several occasions, I imagine."
"He's a sorcerer!"
"We've established that!" Gwen bellowed. "Yes, he's a sorcerer. He can close curtains and strip all of us bare if he so wills it without lifting a finger." Half the people in the room paled at her words. Merlin shook his head at Gwen's choice of imagery.
"And," Gwen added firmly, ignoring the council's aghast reactions and planting her hands on her hips, "he can also save our people!"
She leaned on the round table, "I am not asking you to discount your cautiousness and blindly follow what I say, because God knows you won't. I am asking you, as a queen to her council, to consider this properly and seriously before Camelot pays for our ignorance."
Lord Geoffrey was the first to acquiesce, and soon the rest agreed and the discussion was reopened. In the end, they decided to give Merlin a special order to use magic solely to cure Camelot of the plague.
In less than a week, the citadel was cleansed with minimal casualties, and the council began talking about the issue with newfound interest. They presented proposals on laws to regulate the use of magic in place of a total ban, they reviewed and polished and amended until the set was approved. In less than half a year, the ban on magic was lifted and a new decree was announced to the public.
Guinevere stood beside Merlin, as the announcement was passed. The people's reactions varied. Some cheered, glad for the fact that their savior wouldn't have to be rewarded with death, some grew anxious still believing magic to be evil, and others were relatively neutral. The queen smiled, knowing that change would come naturally, and that those who have yet to understand would one day do.
"It's what he would have wanted," she said.
She didn't need to say who she meant.
"For Camelot," he agreed with a small nod.
Gwen's smile widened and she held the warlock's hand.
"For you."
He stayed in Camelot for the majority of the transition, leaving only to meet with the druids and to visit the lake. He was given a seat in the council as an advisor on magical affairs, and was finally given the chance to study magic freely.
Things were changing. But he hadn't realized how much of it he'd be watching from the sidelines.
He saw a glimpse of it one cloudy day, on the tenth anniversary of Arthur's death. Gwen, Leon and Percival had accompanied him to the Lake of Avalon. They made it through the barrier with his guidance (he still didn't know how Percival got through that one time), and they stood a foot away from the sacred lake.
Gwen sat by the waters, pinning her skirt between her thighs and calves to keep it out of the way, and scattered the petals from her basket on the edge of the lake. Her fingers sent small ripples that were promptly swallowed by the waves. When the last petal took its place on the waters, she resumed her place beside Merlin. Gwen looped an arm around Merlin's, and with a wordless command and no more than a nod of his head, the wind shifted towards the lake and they watched the petals float gracefully towards the small island.
"I'm not going to see him, am I?" Gwen said after a moment's silence. "He's waiting for you just as you're waiting for him."
Oh, how he had been so optimistic then. Too optimistic and too self-concerned to see what his friend had subtly implied.
"We'll see him again," he had assured her stupidly. "He'll come back, and we'll be there to give him a hard time."
Gwen only smiled, her eyes crinkling slightly with a touch of sadness.
"Waiting is hard," she said, returning her gaze to the lake just as Merlin turned his on her. "And it will only become harder."
She looked worn and drawn; being a ruler did that to you, he had told himself, remembering Queen Annis and Arthur himself.
But Gwen, while still very much a beauty and as radiant as the skies of spring, looked weary and significantly older than Merlin had remembered. Her hair had a few streaks of gray, her face was lined and her skin slightly wrinkled. She looked at him with sadness, understanding, and pity. Her eyes shone with the wisdom he often saw in Gaius', as though for all his experiences and alleged wisdom, she still knew something he didn't. And she did.
But it wasn't until two decades and a half later, when she slept one night and didn't rouse to his shouts and pleas that he found out what it was.
She knew. She saw what Merlin only vaguely noted but never truly considered until it was too late—until it crept up on him and all too cruelly tore at his heart.
Because he knewhe had to wait a long time.
But not that he had to do it alone.
After Gwen's passing, he had gone to the lake, carrying with him the Pendragon crest. The line ended with Guinevere. The crest remained honored and remained to be Camelot's sigil, but its reign had ended and had been passed onto Leon's family. He stood on the bank like he always did and said nothing for a while. His mind struggled to stray away from thoughts of it, but it kept going back as though in an aimless loop where it was the only way to go. The crest dug at his skin and he could feel the dragon imprinting itself onto his palms. It felt like another part of him had died.
He cried, and confessed how he feared what was to come because he had never imagined living a long life. He had always thought he'd be dying in Arthur's service before anyone else, and now, ironically enough, he discovers how great of a possibility it was that he'd be outliving everyone he ever knew. He feared change and how he'd quickly realized how he feared not changing more as he watched the knights tire out while he remained strong, and his friends grow old while he remained the same. But most of all, he feared the wait. He feared to tread a life where he knew no one and no one could know him. He feared waiting alone, soul and life withering despite the immortal power flowing through his veins.
He fingered the crest and knew he couldn't let the waters take it as he had let it take all the other things he had brought with him in his visits. So, instead, he takes the dragon sculpture he bought years ago and made it float to the middle of the lake before lowering it, letting it sink to the depths.
He kept the Pendragon crest, fingered and palmed it for a while longer, before slipping it into his pocket, promising that the next to touch it after him would be his king.
As Merlin's identity continued to recede into stories and myths, the legendary warlock who commands the universe, Camelot's silent protector, he journeyed to find Kilgharrah like the dragon used to in response to his calls. He found him resting in a deep cavern in the mountainous regions near the borders of Albion. The dragon looked surprised and, dare he say it, a little bit touched; his usually booming voice turned down several notches into a fond grumble as he called his dragonlord's name. Seeing him seated in the dark, looking at him with tired, wise eyes reminded him of Gaius.
Merlin stayed with him, hunted for him, and petted what he could with his compared-to-the-bloody-dragon small hands (for which the Great Dragon had profusely protested that he was no dog, but Merlin still knew he enjoyed the attention). He did what he could to mend his weary wings and heat the long nights. And then, on one particularly sunny day, Kilgharrah had uncharacteristically offered him a ride. Merlin gave a halfhearted laugh and reminded him of what he said about not being a horse, to which the old creature simply agreed that he wasn't and was only offering it this once.
"As a sign of my gratitude," he explained, a hint of fondness touching his gaze. "There was no need for you to go out of your way to accompany me, young Warlock. And yet, here you are. Despite my sins, and the decisions you made because of my counsel."
"You are my friend," Merlin said, "I wasn't going to leave you alone."
Merlin then climbed his back and, for the first time, they flew across the morning skies.
"Thank you, Merlin," the dragon said as he landed on the banks of Avalon. "It's time for you to return."
Kilgharrah's head sunk to the ground just in front of Merlin and gave him a gentle nudge. Merlin leaned on the dragon, his friend, and stroked his snout soothingly. Tears prickled his eyes, but he swallowed them down.
"I know," he said, and in his mind, he commanded, Rest. He felt Kilgharrah's head slump, pushing him slightly as it rested on the ground completely, and his eyes fluttered close.
"Goodbye, my friend," he said softly. It is only his mind that heard the reply.
"The cycle of life never ends, Merlin. We will see each other again."
As he prepared to lift the dragon to the lake, just as he had done for many others, a rustle behind the line of trees stopped him, and a broken growl made him turn.
Aithusa emerged from the forest, easily crossing the barrier, and padded unsurely towards the dragonlord. She was bloodied and her wing was bent at an unusual angle behind her back. Purple bruises patched her white skin, and bones protruded from everywhere they touched, as if ready to burst out of the dragon at any moment. It looked like she walked a good portion of the way here.
Merlin had a good mind to send her away, even kill her right then and there, but there was sadness in her eyes—a sadness she could not express through words she did not know how to speak. She was the last of her kind, just as Merlin was the last of his, and just as Kilgharrah had been before her birth. And she was his. He had named her, and she was supposed to embody hope. The irony was not lost to him. In a bout of compassion, Merlin stepped back, and the white dragon made her way towards Kilgharrah, leaning her head on his and settling down beside him. He gave her time, and when she stepped away, he uttered a spell and the dragon was lifted gently off the ground and was claimed by Avalon.
As he was walking back, Aithusa looked at him with lost eyes.
Do not let my sins be the cause of the destruction of my noble breed.
He sighed in defeat, and very nearly wept. The words of the dead truly were powerful. He knelt and pressed a hand on her broken wing and muttered an incantation. His eyes glowed gold, and he young dragon winced with a short cry of pain as the joint of her wing popped back into place. Merlin gave her a slightly hesitant stroke between her eyes and up her head before directing her a tentative smile.
"Let's go."
There came a time when everyone from Merlin's original life had moved on, leaving him alone on the mortal plane. He was approached and sought for counsel by the elders and those who knew him from books he never knew were written, but he didn't stay in Camelot. Instead, he watched over the kingdom he and Arthur built from afar.
Aithusa stayed with him, and little by little she recovered from her injuries and trauma, and she learned how to speak in the human tongue. Still, he grew lonely and weary. He found himself alternating between life in the capital and complete isolation after teaching Aithusa a transformation charm. The one thing that didn't change was his visits to the lake, and his travels, visiting druids (and sometimes staying with them) and other parts of the world, always learning and subconsciously planning out how he was going to tell Arthur about everything that has happened. He found out how much of the world they haven't seen despite their many missions and just how fast the world itself was changing, forging its future into the present.
He came to the lake with Aithusa following him in the skies, invisible to mortal eyes. The air tingled around him and playfully prickled his nerves, but he wasn't in the mood for it. In fact, he wasn't in the mood for anything for the past months. The endless waiting (almost a millennia now) and the way his faith and hope had continuously been trampled on by an onslaught of minions Destiny had no doubt sent just because it felt like crushing the mighty Emrys—the same way it just felt like trashing his sacrifices and everything he had done and just letting Arthur die despite it all—frayed on his nerves, and he felt like he was a light touch away from breaking. His heart was hardened, brittle, and his mind was half manic and he was recently nursing a bubbling desire to burn the world down and have his way for once; Destiny be damned.
As soon as he passed the barrier, he felt a rush of life. His heart warmed and he almost let hope wiggle its way back in. But he knew it wasn't what he wanted so desperately to believe, and he couldn't bear another whack of Destiny's hammer. So, despite the enticing warmth he determinedly ignored, he stomped his way out of the forest and into the clearing.
A woman sat on the bank, back to him with her golden hair flowing down to her hips and settling on the ground in elegant curls.
"Emrys," her voice droned, sweet and gentle. For all the dark emotions rotting Merlin's insides, he still managed a respectful bow and a "my lady" as his mind ran through a list of possible beings the woman could be. He settled for Goddess.
"I have come to ease you of your worries," she said, standing from the banks. Her veiled, white dress caressed the ground, but no stain marred it. She stepped over the lake and hovered over it.
Merlin, to his dull surprise, felt his heart sink further from the place he thought to be the lowest it could go. Hope is never gone, he knew that, but if something could kill it completely, this was probably it.
Then again, this was about Arthur. And despite everything, he couldn't bear to give up on Arthur.
"You have to let go," the Goddess said as if reading his thoughts. "You still have much to do, Emrys."
"What about Arthur?" he couldn't help but ask, mindless of the bitterness that coated his words.
"The time when Albion's need is greatest has come to pass," she said. "But while the Once and Future King is no longer demanded, Emrys always will be."
"Haven't I done enough?" he roared, vision blurring with tears as centuries of frustrations culminated into that moment. He acknowledged them all, letting them loose for the first time, his stomach churning from anger and loathing, and the despondency and pain he thought he'd gotten over. He felt so tired, so angry and so used. "I had only one reason for staying, and wasn't this world! It wasn't everyone! It wasn't you, and it certainly wasn't destiny!"
He looked away from the silent lady, stubbornly refusing to cry despite the tears heating and teetering on the rims of his eyes. He faced the ground, letting the first drops fall straight to the grass, and hissed out a shaky breath.
"I did everything I could to save Arthur. I gave everything, but he died anyway without even becoming the king everyone kept saying he would be," he said, gritting the words through his teeth, ignoring the saltiness of the tears that slipped through his lips. "And your stupid prophecies said that he was going to return, and what else could I do but wait? Wait and watch everyone I ever knew leave and die, and Camelot slowly dwindle to nothing. I've waited centuries! All in the hope that he'd come back. Because I believed you, and I should have known because if I hadn't then, then Arthur would have probably lived through Camlann! And instead, here I am with my ears perking up at every clang of sword against sword, every fire of a bullet; every drop of blood spilled had me on my toes, fueled my hope that maybe this time, he'd wake his royal arse up and just get your bloody lies over with!"
Silence settled around the clearing, but Merlin could hear his voice echoing and ringing over the forest and it was all he could hear beside the blood pounding mercilessly on his temples. The Goddess observed him from the waters, fortunately calm and annoyingly unperturbed by his outburst.
"We did not lie," she said at last. "And we do not lie."
Merlin hung his head, hating the world all the more. In the end, even his waiting had all been for nothing.
"If he's not coming back," he said, voice small and vulnerable as he was powerful, "then, what am I still doing here?"
"You're Emrys."
"I did not ask to be Emrys."
"And we do not lie, Emrys," she repeated firmly, and Merlin let himself snort at this, but the lady paid him no mind. "Albion still needs you. It will not be as you imagined, but as the prophecies had foretold, you are a side and he is the other. Two halves of a whole. Eternal. It is the one thing you will never be denied."
Merlin shook his head in disbelief and his lips quirked to one side in scorn.
"But," she continued, her eyes boring unto Merlin's, and for a moment, the lady was silent and her eyes shone with some sort of meaning he wasn't sure he was supposed to get. And she continued, "You must not deny it, either."
Merlin eyed her with the contempt of an innocent man before the gallows. He wasn't even sure what she had been referring to.
"Have I any choice?" he asked finally.
"Please," the lady said. "Have patience, young warlock. I know it's a lot to ask, but I hope you find it in yourself to be the man you were—the man you still are."
If he remained silent and if he appeared jarred, he would've blamed it on the title the lady had called him by. And if his reply sounded weak and broken, he would refuse to admit that it was because he was.
"And who was I?" he murmured, all semblance of respect forgotten. "Who was I before you lot came to screw me over?"
The lady looked at him again with an expression of regret. She approached him, appearing to glide through the ground, and held the sides of his head firmly. Her hands were cold and at the same time warm, and life radiated from her, seeping through Merlin as her eyes urged him to believe, to remember.
"A good man," she replied kindly. She brushed a thumb tenderly across his cheek and craned over to plant a kiss on his forehead.
"Remember, Merlin," she whispered, and with her breath she was gone.
Wars ravaged the land, and kingdoms rose and fell. Alliances were formed and mergers became necessities, and one day Albion was united. And no one else knew it was because it was united under a different name, a name that echoed somewhere deep in his memory in Arthur's voice. And Merlin watched on, interfering sparsely knowing that he couldn't run away from change and resisting it was not always a wise decision.
And so, the world continued to change. Inventions that made what was once only possible through magic were innovated, and little by little, magic receded to the shadows once more—neither persecuted nor welcomed by those without it. New lands were discovered (though Merlin hesitated to use the word because surely, the lands in question have long been 'discovered' by their inhabitants), and kingdoms expanded and were consumed. Battles came and went, and with them the hope of Arthur's return. For each slash from a sword, and then, further into the future, each bullet fired, he felt more sick and at the same time madly delighted at the possibility that maybe now was the time. Before he knew it, he began treating each death as a step closer to Arthur's revival.
He came frighteningly close to becoming the very thing that caused his losses, and he had come too close to understanding Morgana's insanity in her final moments when he had found himself wishing for war, for chaos, and at one particularly low point, considering to cause them himself just to hasten Arthur's return. On one of his drunken hazes, he must've let slip of this mad plan. A man in the same tavern—or pub, as they call it nowadays—who had, at some point in the night, decided to join him and was drunk enough to listen to his rambles was, fortunately, not drunk enough to let it slide, and he felt a heavy hand slam on his cheek, sobering him slightly.
"Don't be daft, boy. If anything you've said in your previous ramblings is true, magic aside, then the man you are waiting for, if he is anything like the King Arthur of the legends, would not wish to awaken to such a world."
The man, Merlin was almost ashamed to admit, was infinitely younger than he was. Through his clouded vision he saw a round face and beady eyes twinkling with enthusiasm and courage beyond the reaches of alcohol. He exuded an aura that was both familiar and foreign.
"The people of this nation are under enough threat as it is without their supposed allies attacking them from the inside."
"You look familiar," Merlin slurred, his tongue feeling distinctly heavier and uncooperative as each word was dragged haphazardly across his tongue. He had a distinct impression that he wasn't making proper conversation, but his mind jumped over it, and it was completely forgotten.
The man laughed at him, "I would hope so, my friend. We have been talking for the past three hours."
The man was right, of course. But it was only when he saw him again on the black and white screen of a hotel lobby, speaking eerily familiar words against tyranny, greed, and spite that he remembered just what it was that made the plump old fellow so familiar. It was like a thick and heavy fog he hadn't even realized was there until it was gone was cleared from his mind, and he remembered the world and how it didn't exist to mediate Arthur's return. Not like he did. He saw the people, the people of what once was Camelot, and along with the goodness he came so close to forgetting, he remembered his friends—Gaius, Gwen, Lancelot, Gwaine and all the other knights, Kilgharrah—and everything they've fought for and died believing in. Words echoed in his mind, and it felt like Arthur was speaking to him.
If we betray our beliefs, Merlin, that is what would destroy everything we've strived for.
It shook him, more than anything, more than the failed hopes and wrong choices; that he had come so close to becoming the destroyer of the very things he lived to protect—ideals and the legacy Arthur had left.
And one clear-skied day, he found himself in front of a white, sooth-dirtied building, asking to meet the plump man and his cigar. He guiltily enchanted the guard into bending the rules for him, and he was graciously led into an inner room where he waited, suddenly not knowing what to say. He didn't understand it either. He simply found himself willing to once again offer his services to someone worthy, someone with similar beliefs and that awful, gut-wrenchingly brilliant valor—the person who, for the first time in centuries, had reminded him of who Arthur was and why destroying the world wasn't the way to bring about his coming.
"It appears, as it happens," the plump man chuckled, disbelief still coloring his eyes despite the solid proof that came in the form of a levitating stack of documents sorting themselves out on his desk, "You weren't crazy."
He simply smiled at the man. He introduced himself as Emrys, and was promised confidentiality while the man insisted to call him Merlin privately. They shook hands, the man more fascinated and delighted than he had thought anyone would be, and he once again found himself a consultant to a sovereign.
Times had been hard, but they pulled through. As planes danced in the skies in exhilarating victory somersaults and runs, the man clapped a hand on his back cheerily as he puffed his cigar through giddy laughter. He, in turn, clapped a hand on the shorter man's shoulder and made an offhand comment about founding a secret school for sorcerers.
"It'll be a good asset," the man said.
"But no one would know."
"Then it'll be our trump."
Merlin frowned, "We're not weapons."
"No," he agreed. "You are a man, a brave man who would do what must be done to protect his people."
And even as the man himself died, his words were seared in his mind: never give in, never give in, never give in…
The government kept him as a consultant, and he let them, but not without making his freedom and allegiance clear. Things got better, and the people (much to Merlin's relief) learned from their mistakes and moved forward. As for him, he kept himself in line, and made sure he never forgot again. He occasionally fingered the crest he always kept in his person, and on good days he'd visit the lake and let himself be lost in memories of polishing steel armors and swords, and of kings and queens and wars and destinies, and thoughts of a future less distant than the pasts he had lived. In his mind, he recalled and relived the increasingly fading memories of a land of myth and a time of magic.
The cycle of life is never done, he was told.
And so he waited, still.
When he first saw the floating figure in the middle of the lake, he felt an intense need to vomit.
It was winter in the second to the last decade of the twentieth century, and he awoke to an overwhelming cackle of magic in the air. It was invigorating and everything suddenly felt alive like they've been asleep all this time and nobody knew the difference until now. A symphony was playing, the earth drummed and the mountains sang and the wind played an uplifting melody; the world suddenly seemed happier and every fiber of his being tingled and throbbed and celebrated. He laughed, as though he was being tickled, and he felt giddy for a reason he could not name.
"You're in an awfully good mood, sire," a familiar voice commented as he walked out of his room, fully dressed for the day.
"Everything just seems brighter, doesn't it?" he told Nathan, the man assigned to be his secretary, a title he often thought of as a fancy way of saying manservant. Only, he never made the man drink poison or fight dragons or juggle. "And it's Emrys, not sire."
"Of course," he replied, and Merlin just rolled his eyes. He tugged at his cuffs and straightened his coat as he walked, and the other smartly dressed man followed diligently. Nathan wasn't old per se (and he always felt reserved about using the term 'old' because despite appearances he was considerably older than anyone currently alive on the planet), the lines on his face looked like they belonged there, and regardless of his strict countenance, he was always gentle and even funny. He was certainly competent, always remembering the significant chunk of the things Merlin ought to (but doesn't) remember as a consultant and advisor to the government. He was like Merlin's own George, without the brass jokes and the weird hair cut.
"So what do I have to do for the day?"
"Nothing."
Merlin was positive that his giddiness was affecting his hearing. "Pardon?" he asked, turning around to face the man, "I thought I just heard you say nothing."
"That's because I did, sire."
Merlin pulled up a brow in a gesture Nathan knew to mean 'explain, please.'
"Her Majesty and His Eminence have both agreed to give you a day off," he complied.
Merlin gave him a long look, and Nathan stared right back, completely unfazed.
"You're not joking."
"No."
"Okay," the warlock said, utterly lost.
Nathan, despite himself, smiled. "The only thing they left on your to do list is to have a good day."
Merlin nodded warily. Breaks were never for free, if his past experiences were anything to go by; that rule simply never changed.
"They're not secretly working on a plot to kill me, are they?"
"It would be a spectacle to see them try, sire."
Merlin snorted in amusement. They reached the castle lobby and Merlin whispered a call to Aithusa before turning to Nathan. "So I suppose it's your day off, too?"
"Quite the opposite, sire. I'll be stuck in those horridly boring meetings in your place."
Merlin was suddenly thankful. "Really though," he wondered, "Why are they being extra nice today? Did something happen?"
The secretary gave him a bemused smile. "Nothing that should concern you."
The warlock frowned at him as he tied the red scarf he'd conjured from thin air around his neck. "You know, that usually means the exact opposite."
"Merlin!" he turned in time to see Aithusa, in the form of silver haired young lady, waving at him from the entrance. "You called?"
"I'm free for the day," he said, the frown still present. "Are you sure there's nothing I should know?" he inquired, feeling slightly bothered as he turned to look at Nathan again. The secretary just gave him a cryptic smile and said nothing. Merlin didn't miss the unnerving glint in his eyes as his dragon dragged him away.
"Enjoy your day, Merlin," was the last he heard from him before Aithusa promptly pulled Merlin's arms around her neck and took off into the skies as her true self, invisible to those who were not looking.
"He never calls me what I tell him to," Merlin sighed despairingly.
Aithusa carried him across the land, occasionally landing among ruined castles and old forts, appearing as nothing bigger than a bird to the closest eyes. He remembered his first flight on Kilgharrah's back, the exhilaration he felt then was similar to how it was now, like letting magic invade his senses and letting himself feel free for the first time; everything felt like they were new, like the world had just begun and everything was unmarred and unexplored, like this wasn't the twentieth century but a time closer to his heart, a time where Merlin truly felt alive.
It was dark when Aithusa landed on the snowy banks of the Lake of Avalon, the snow crunched beneath his boots as he dismounted. He petted the dragon and she crooned delightedly, agreeing to wait by the forest. Merlin knew she went off to visit someone else, and he let her.
Something flickered in his line of vision, and for a second, he thought it was the goddess coming back to check if he's lost it again. But it wasn't, and his heart dropped to his stomach before bounding painfully to his throat. He dropped the sigil found by an archaeologist who descended from the druids, the same sigil he forged for Lancelot all those years ago, and felt the blood drain from his face. His breaths came in intermittent puffs of white fog and he found himself staring at a glowing outline of a person—a king —in the middle of the frozen lake. His stomach lurched painfully.
"You're here?" he stammered. He felt terribly small and powerless as the world around him sizzled with power. He stumbled towards the lake and didn't realize he was on it until he was sliding on thinning ice. Hope flared in him with renewed vigor, much like everything from today felt stronger and better than they have in a long time, and his mind automatically compromised everything to this moment because of course he was going to feel it when Arthur returns. What else could it be?
"Arthur…" his voice hitched in his throat. He didn't know what he was waiting for. He's imagined over a thousand different scenarios of how Arthur would return; from a boat making a return trip from the island, to an armor clad Arthur jumping from the lake, like the hand that caught his sword, only to sink in the water a second later because of all the metal. He was sure that an apparition was bound to have been in one of the many scenarios he's conjured over the years but it didn't really matter right now because it was here. He was coming.
He remained still, as if fearing that any sort of movement would stop whatever process was going on with the projection, and he waited. He didn't know for how long, but he ignored the pain in his limbs from balancing himself over the fragile ice and the still frantic thumping of his heart. He waited and waited and waited. He waited for movement, for a voice, anything. He focused on the outline until he heard a rustle from the forest.
"Merlin," Aithusa called forlornly. She's been there for a while, he surmised.
"He's coming," was all the warlock said, his eyes glued to the specter. "I felt it. I can feel it."
"Merlin, it's midnight. Let's go home."
"I can't… what if he comes and I'm not here?"
"Then you'll know, and I promise to take you here as fast as my wings will let me," He felt Aithusa nudge his back, "We can come back tomorrow."
The dragon dragged the reluctant dragonlord away from the lake and gave the dropped sigil back to him. Merlin calmed himself and let the wind carry the sigil to the ice beneath the specter. He left the story out and rode on the dragon's back, his heart sinking painfully despite the hope that previously made it soar.
Merlin came back from the lake, frantic and at the same time ecstatic, and one look at his secretary and he knew. He remembered the evasive answers and the verging on mischievous glint he caught in his eyes before he and Aithusa took off twenty years ago. Nathan dutifully greeted him with his neutral expression and plain greeting. Merlin sent him a seething glare, an angry grin plastering itself on his face. He was too frustrated to even care why Nathan was greeting him like a loyal butler at this hour, but he was really considering pitting him against Aithusa one of these days.
"You sneaky bastard," he gritted, and the secretary gave him a bright smile as though it was the best compliment in the world. He handed him a black case. Files, his mind supplied. He should've known.
"We've been keeping an eye out," he said. "We only thought to save you the trouble, sire."
He came back to the lake regularly. And every time he did, he'd see it: the faint outline of a king standing over the sacred lake, glowing and majestic even in death, floating at exactly the same spot. Nothing touched it, and only its light touched the world.
The sight of it always sparked the increasingly fading hope he had for Arthur's return before disappointment and what Merlin came to call reality quickly dampened it before it spread too far. It felt like the hope and the belief that the reason he found in Arthur brought had been snatched from him all over again. Weeks became months, and months became years, and for every visit, the lake grew quieter and he found himself hoping less. The world still felt alive, as if coaxing him otherwise, but nothing was changing, and the prospect of waiting another thousand years, possibly for nothing, frightened him.
When the tenth year since the specter appeared came, he was beginning to accept that Arthur wasn't coming back. Or at least, accept that he had to begin accepting that he wasn't coming back. But his heart, forever traitorous to him as it was—is—forever loyal to Arthur, refused to stop believing.
On the twentieth year, he acknowledged that there was no destiny for Arthur to fulfill. Magic was free, Albion was united in a sense, the golden age had come and pass, and peace came to stay (in this part of the world, anyway) after years of war. The things that were promised in the prophecy had come to pass, just not how he imagined it would—without Arthur in it.
All Arthur would be coming back to, if he did, was Merlin. He himself was tired, and felt no great desire to fight a debate on whether that was a good enough reason for The Once and Future King to rise again.
And so, he decided to take one last visit.
Nathan bid him a good night while stuffing a bunch of documents in a black case. The secretary told him to be back before dark for some final business for the day or another, but Merlin waved a dismissive hand at him. He considered calling Aithusa, but decided that he wanted to walk.
And so, he did. He walked down the familiar streets of Wales, tracing the steps he's made and left no less than a thousand times before. He felt significantly lighter this time.
Also, he brought flowers. Pendragon red.
He crossed the barrier and stopped where the earth met the water. He stood tall, purposeful, before the specter.
He's seen it many times. And now, he knew better than to believe it was real. He came here because he knew it wasn't, but it didn't stop the traitorous leap of his heart. In fact, he came here today because he knew it had to stop someday.
And so, before he could change his mind, he let out a foggy sigh, threw the flowers he had brought to the waters, and took a last longing look at the specter before turning away, deliberately slow, eyes downcast and hands in the pocket of his new coat, waiting (for the last time, he had told himself) to be called back.
He didn't expect to be, despite his wishes. Not really. Ever again. But for the first time in twenty years, he heard the wind call out to him.
"Merlin," it whispered in Arthur's voice, like it had always sounded like with the strange mix of contempt and fondness and that little emphasis on the first syllable. He froze in place. It was so clear and so close and it almost seemed like he was truly there.
The specter mumbled something to the icy wind, and Merlin could barely hear it through the thumping in his chest. He spun around and saw it smiling, no longer a simple outline. The wind blew across the clearing, and its—his—cape swayed slightly to the side.
Merlin felt his knees weaken. He was too shocked and too afraid to have hope snatched from him all too cruelly all over again. The specter repeated his words over and over, and by the time Merlin had deciphered it, he had desecrated Arthur's name more than he's ever done in his lifetime combined, his knees had buckled under his weight and he was shaking as madly as the time he last saw his king.
"Find me," the specter—Arthur—commanded.
A crazed smile ripped Merlin's face apart. He sniffed obnoxiously, and he laughed at the way the specter almost cringed at the disrespectful gesture, all the while tears streamed messily down his face. He never thought he'd say it again—he was only beginning to accept that he wouldn't, for crying out loud—but here he was. Here they were. And nothing else mattered.
With a mix of delight and giddiness and the fear that had not quite yet faded, he clutched the crest resting warm in his pocket and promised with the vigor of a vow renewed, "Yes, sire."
Author's Note: I didn't mean for it to become this long. But anyway, this was originally intended to be a sort of story-description of an artwork I made after I watched the finale.
The initial idea was for Arthur's return to be when Merlin was ready to let him go. I wanted a happy ending for Merlin, and I wanted the Gods of the show to think he deserved a happiness outside of his destiny and actually grant him it.
Also, vague-as-fuck references to Sir Winston Churchill and a blonde Ceridwen.
Feel free to leave your comments, and thank you for reading!
Edit: Sorry, I'm still a bit unfamiliar with the site. But for some reason, the page breaks don't seem to be working on some parts and I can't fix it D: If somebody would be kind enough to teach me how to fix that, I'd be really grateful.
Link to art: viscountxela. deviantart art/Waiting-for-the-Future-351295519