"No man, no matter how great, can know his destiny. Some lives have been foretold, Merlin. Arthur is not just a king. He is the once and future king. Take heart, young warlock, for when Albion's need is greatest, Arthur will rise again."

It had been a year since Merlin had heard the Great Dragon speak those words.

A year had passed since he had watched the ship carrying his best friend sail out into the waters of Avalon.

Yet after a year, the pain hadn't left him. His heart was no closer to finding rest. What had been the whole bloody point of it all if Arthur ended up dying in the end?

True, he finally had the recognition he had once longed for, he no longer had to hide who he was. The citizens of Camelot had praised him as a hero. Queen Guinevere had made him her personal advisor and the court magician. Gaius had not stopped mentioning how proud he was.

But, even with all the hoopla and fanfare, Merlin didn't feel like a hero.

I've failed you. What's the point of having magic if I can't even save the ones that matter most? Most powerful sorcerer ever? Merlin snorted at the title he had gotten so tired of hearing about.

Freya, his love.

Gwayne, the comedian.

Lancelot, the brave.

Arthur, his closest friend.

"Mordred," Merlin whispered. He painfully reminisced about the young boy who had been so eager to please his king, so eager to prove himself worthy before his fellow knights in the court. He shuddered at the memory of the part he had unwittingly played in the eager youngster's demise. In all his attempts to serve and protect his king and friend, Merlin had been inadvertently working out the prophecies stacked against him.

"Son of a Sidhe!" Merlin cursed. He threw the goblet against the wall, wine splattering everywhere in the midst of the dissonant clang.

His servant Uhrig ran in at a brisk pace. "Master! Is everything alright?"

Merlin smiled. "I'm fine, Uhrig." He remembered a time when he would have groggily protested having to go investigate a noise in Arthur's room in the late hours of night. Now, he longed for those days with all of his heart.

"Master are you sure, I thought I heard a –"

"Uhrig, really, I'm fine."

"Okay, master. But you know where to find me if you need anything" The door creaked to a close. Merlin was alone again, left to face the dorocha hiding in the scary recesses of his mind.

Wine didn't help. The life of the court tired him.

Merlin had no desire for women companions anymore. After all, why would he want anyone he cared about to share in his misery? No one could help him.

Hunnith, Merlin's mother, had been so worried about him that she had left Ealdor to live in Camelot. Gaius had told her the sadness was something that would pass with time, but Merlin knew better. His heart had taken too much.

He immersed himself in the business of the kingdom, poured out his life for those who needed his wisdom, his counsel, and dove headfirst into helping the poor who needed solutions when facing impossible situations.

The ban on magic had been lifted. And with it had come Queen Gwen's top priority: the rebuilding of trust between the magic community and the Royal Household of Camelot. She invested a great deal of time into this task, particularly interested in hearing the cases of orphans and widows whose loves ones had been executed during the Great Purge. As a result, she would often send Merlin as her personal emissary to the various villages in the countryside.

She rules just like you, old friend, Merlin thought. Everything she does has you all over it.

The responsibilities of the Kingdom had not been enough to numb the pain. The citizens of Camelot knew him as a joyful young man, one who smiled and always offered his trademark humor. But only those closest to him knew the darkness that shrouded him, the deep, gray sadness that crippled his mind.

Kilgarrah's words ricocheted around in the hall of his memories. "when Albion's need is greatest, Arthur will rise again."

What if I need you, Arthur? What if I can't be a fool without my clotpole? The choice of words actually made Merlin laugh for a few moments. The thing he missed most about his friend was the banter that they had shared in the seven full years that Merlin had served him.

Merlin sighed. Maybe for once, I'll try to sleep.

He had a big day ahead of him tomorrow. Tomorrow was the one year anniversary of the Battle of Camlan and Guinevere was throwing a feast to honor Merlin and the remaining knights. For the first time in a long while, he was about drift off into a somewhat peaceful slumber, when the clang of the goblet was heard again.

"What the wyvern…" Merlin didn't have the chance to finish that thought. He nearly fell from his bed upon seeing an elderly, ivory-bearded man sporting a winter jacket and worn out Adidas sneakers, standing in the center of the room and staring directly at him.

"Emrys. Merlin. Younger self. Don't look at me like that! There's no time to be shocked. We have much to discuss."