Arthur falls first, to an enemy's sword.

Merlin, watching him fall in shock and horror, rains disaster down upon the battlefield. The fire engulfs people whole, and his unstoppable rage is eclipsed only by his grief as he shouts himself hoarse for his dead king, his friend, his everything.

His Arthur.

It still won't be enough. Camelot will collapse just like her king did, regal and golden even as he fell to the ground with a sickening thud, crumpled and broken.

So much savagery and blood. He mourns, mourns Arthur with every recast spell, every foe he sets aflame, every battalion he decimates as they scatter and cry, "Sorcerer! Sorcerer! Emrys!"

Merlin isn't the sort to just leave the battle for Arthur, to be with Arthur, no. Not while the battle is raging, still. And Merlin fights, too, determined to harness all the power he has at his disposal against his enemies. He's run ragged, all reckless and vicious now. There's nothing to live for anymore, not with Arthur gone, not when hopelessness is washing over him and the army like a choking wave.

And then, then. It's all ruined, Camelot's finest soldiers have fallen. The battlefield is scattered with broken swords, bloodied shields. Merlin, heavily injured, grits his teeth and casts one last spell to take the rest of the enemy's armies with him, and thinks of the warm blue eyes of his ruler as he does so.

His One and Future King.

As the rest of his magic leaves him and his consciousness fades into death, as the screams of his enemies resound in his ears and he has at least defended Camelot to the best of his ability - he meets Arthur in the blinding light later.

Arthur, who is smiling in his royal robes and crown, hand outstretched.

"Coming, Merlin?" He mocks, smug grin on his face as always, impossibly young with his cloak sweeping around him. Arthur, as always, makes Merlin's breath catch in his throat. The impossible dusky wheat-gold of his hair, his imposing figure, and how beautiful he is in the light. Arthur, his Arthur, even in death. "I can't wait around for you forever, you know."

Arthur looks just like when he'd newly ascended the throne, all nerves and limbs but absolutely magnificent with kingly grace the way only Arthur can be.

How his heart aches for him.

Merlin laughs, eyes bright and wet, and makes a show of rolling his eyes as he strides over. "Some things never change even in death, I see, sire," he drawls, his insolence ringing with every deliberately enunciated syllable. Merlin's young again, too, he notices. Young again, at the prime of his youth, at the prime of his magic. Honest, naïve Merlin, blue-eyed and proud: Dragonlord, and the most powerful sorcerer Albion will ever know.

"Of course." Arthur clucks his tongue, a little immature gesture, familiar and warm. "And no matter how many years pass, my formidable Court Sorcerer..." He moves closer, rubs knuckles gently against Merlin's palm, brushes affection onto his cheeks. "No matter how powerful you are, Merlin, you will always be my incompetent manservant."

Turning his palm up to join with Arthur's, Merlin snorts. "Awfully presumptuous of you, your Majesty."

"Am I wrong?" A quirked eyebrow.

Merlin's expression softens, and he leans in to kiss his damnable rogue of a king on his lips, raw and sweet. "No. Never."

"Are you sure?" And Arthur's just taking the piss, now, he's sure of it.

"You just want me to say it, don't you?" A muscle twitches in Arthur's cheek, and Merlin draws a thumb over those lips.

"I was always yours, sire," Merlin breathes. "Always."

Arthur's smile is as brilliant as the sun.

He takes Arthur's hand, and together, they disappear into the unknown, a quiet peace they've earned after the winds of war.

At long last.

Fin