The longer Percival follows the tracks, the more familiar his surroundings become. There comes a point when the trail goes cold but he keeps on going, trusting his instincts to guide him to the lake that Gwaine had told him of. The lake of Avalon.
When he crests the final hill, he's rewarded with clear view of the lake and of the island at its centre. From this far away he can't tell if the dark specks on it are people or part of the brush. For all he knows Merlin and Arthur aren't even there yet, as close as it is to the deadline. If that is true, he just has to hope that Morgana isn't either.
Suddenly a dark mass rises out of the treeline only a short distance in front of him. He ducks, mouth gaping open in awe as the unmistakable shape of the Great Dragon soars over the lake. Impossible and yet unmistakable real no matter how many times he blinks. How can it be? He hadn't been there for the attack on Camelot but Leon had described it to him many times. The Great Dragon should be dead, slain by Arthur himself.
As absurd as it seems, Percival can't really afford to think about it right now. Even if he could slay a dragon all by himself (he knows he can't) he has much more important tasks to complete. Like warning Arthur. Like killing Morgana. He'll just have to hope that the dragon will just continue to remain as little a problem as it has been.
Rushing now, he almost slides down the steep downwards slope that leads to the lakeside. Mud cakes his breeches and his muscles burn with exhaustion. There's a small voice in the back of his mind saying that he's already much too late, that there's no way he could have caught up on foot while she rides on horseback, no matter how determined he is to not let Gwaine's last words be wasted. Indeed just as this thought begins to take a hold he spies a body on the ground.
Morgana.
So that's it. It's over. He feels no happiness in this victory. Perhaps pity, towards the once-fair enchantress lying at his feet. Some righteousness, surely. And sorrow. For Gwaine, for Elyan, for Lancelot who he'd known a lost first so long ago now. Hot tears spring up in Percival's eyes but he does not allow them to fall. Not yet. Rising from his kneeling positon, he turns back towards the lake. He has but one task left now. To find Arthur. To find what has become of him and his faithful servant – their friend - Merlin.
The lake's waters are still. The world suddenly seems grey here, as if the life has been drawn out of the sky and the earth and into the depths of the water at the centre of the lake. Fervent and breathing harshly, he scans the shore for figures, eyes roving across the waters, to the island and across once more.
Then he sees it.
The boat.
It's simple, of a flawless craftsmanship to be sure but seemingly unmanned. And yet it drifts steadily in a straight line against the flow of the water. Pushing outwards from the island at the centre of the lake.
Somehow he knows what it is. Who it is.
Numbly, he steps closer to the water. A single tears from the pool he has held onto all day flows unbidden down his cheek but he doesn't move to wipe it away. When he closes his eyes he can see him. Lain out on a bed of wood, resplendent cloak of Pendragon red spread out beneath him. Golden hair where once a golden crown sat atop. Blue eyes closed. Almost as if sleeping. But the body is much too still for that. And it always will be.
When he opens his eyes he finds himself ankle deep in the water, a small boat next to him. Unable to resist – or perhaps he simply doesn't care any longer - he climbs in. The small boat moves of its own accord, driven by whatever magic this lake holds. Soon enough the bank rushes to meet it and he moves on cue to disembark.
Mud oozes around his boot with every slow, heavy step. He doesn't think about where he is going. The island is too small for him to get lost and inevitably he will meet up with other side anyway. He just keeps moving forward.
Eventually a familiar figure appears in his line of sight. He stands with his back to Percival, overlooking the water from where the boat can be seen shrinking into the distance. The bright signature neckerchief stands out amongst the grey-green surroundings, the only trace of Pendragon red left to be seen on this stretch of land. He is alone.
Merlin.
The sight of those slim, shaking shoulders stops Percival in his tracks. His weighted boots seem suddenly melded to the mud around them. He doesn't need to see his face to know that Merlin is crying. Sobbing silently, in unbridled anguish.
This is the last confirmation he needs. There is no denying it now.
The king is dead.
Torn between comforting his friend and processing his own grief, Percival simple waits. His eyes never once leave the boat as it sails away from them but somehow he loses track of it. It just disappears. Like blinking there was no sound or flash of light. One moment it was there and the next it was not.
The sun has well and truly set when Merlin finally turns to him. There's a vacant look in his eyes and tear tracks mar his smooth cheeks. He doesn't seem surprised to see Percival. In fact Percival is suddenly hit with the inexplicable feeling that Merlin knew he was there all along. No words of greeting pass between them. Merlin simply bows his head to Percival and makes his way past to the tower behind them. Just as he reaches the crumbling doorway he stops. He straightens up, visibly lifting his chin. When he turns there's an intensity to his eyes the likes of which Percival has never seen. Then he speaks.
"Camelot needs to know."
It's a request that Percival knows he cannot deny. "Will you return?" He asks.
"Yes. Not yet but soon."
Percival nods in understanding. "Take care of yourself, Merlin." He steps forward to place a hand on the smaller man's shoulder. The tremors from before are gone. Percival can feel the aura of strength coming from him and he admires it, even if he can't understand it. Merlin has always been somewhat of an enigma to him. But he's someone Percival is glad to call a friend. Right now he has a dire need to hold onto as many of those as he has left.
"Thank you, Percival." As he steps back Merlin smiles at him. It is as genuine as ever, if etched with sorrow and grief. It feels wrong but at the same time right. It's the Merlin he knows, unchanged even as he's grown. Loyal. Kind. Courageous.
They part ways after that, neither looking back. Percival travels back in the convenient little boat across the lake, back up the hill where he found Morgana. He thinks to bury her – no matter what evils she has inflicted it feels wrong to leave her – but when he goes back there is no trace of the body.
The journey back to Camelot is two days of silence and thinking to himself. On the first night his dreams replay the events of the past few days. Sometimes he sees the battlefield. Sometimes he sees the boat and Merlin. But more often than not he sees Gwaine - joyful, proud Gwaine - in pain and defeated by the knowledge that he had unwillingly helped Morgana. He shouldn't have died like this. None of them should. It frustrates and saddens Percival to no end that for all his strength he was unable to save those who mean the most to him.
The second night, he doesn't sleep at all.
On the third day, as the sun rises in the east, he finds Leon waiting to meet him at the steps of the citadel. Like all others Percival has encountered in these past few days, he is alone. Percival isn't sure whether he'd prefer him to be flanked by another knight or if the fact that it can never be Gwaine would be too much right now.
Leon embraces him fiercely, pressing their fore heads together and Percival can hear the relief in his haggard breathing. It seems he's not the only one barely holding it together. There a shuffling of feet nearby and when they part he sees Gaius ready and waiting to look him over. And Guinevere. His heart stops when he sees Guinevere. She stands tall and proud, welcoming smile and fond softness in her eyes. But her jaw is set. She somehow knows what news he has brought.
He steps towards her and kneels. "My lady."
He hears her suck in a breath. Her voice wavers only a little as she asks, "Arthur?"
When he looks up into her eyes to answer, the tears are already streaming down her cheeks. It seems there are now words needed. After she bids him to rise, Gaius takes his arm leading him away to tend to his wounds.
For all the emotional turmoil he is in, there is little physical damage to his body. A few cuts and burns from the ropes that held him, easily remedied by one of Gaius' salves.
"Merlin," he says when they're done. Gaius pauses in his ministrations to look at him imploringly. Percival continues. "He's alive."
A small sad smile graces the wizened features. "Thank you, Percival."
Leon comes to get him not long after. They have a gathering to attend.
Outfitted in a fresh uniform, Percival stands amongst his fellow knights on the front row in front of the two thrones. The Queen sits on her own, head down, studying the small ring in her hand. There's a moment of silence before she finally raises her head. Leon steps forward. As ever he remains stoic in his duty, giving voice to those dreaded words that no man or woman has dared speak since Arthur was crowned.
"The King is dead."
God rest his soul.
"Long live the Queen."
Percival only manages a single chant before his voice gives out but his mouth continues shaping the words long after.
"Long live the Queen."