Contents:

Chapter 1 = the direct aftermath of Arthur's death 537 AD

Chapter 10 = 5 years after season 5 532 AD

Chapter 16 = 20 years after season 5 557 AD

Note - this won't be historically accurate for a while, allowing for Arthur's descendants and such.

- I'm not a historian, so please feel free to correct me on anything that I get wrong (same goes for Old English spells)

- Enjoy reading! Thanks to all of you who've reviewed/favourited/followed!

Disclaimer- I do not own the BBC's Merlin in ANY shape or form, and I'm not taking ANY profit from this. It's for my own entertainment.

He frowned blearily, blinking. He was sure that he wasn't here before. But... he? He didn't know anymore - it was all so confusing. White fog curled all around him, impenetrable and impossible. Did it matter where he was? He couldn't remember. "Hello?" He called. He reached for his sword and rested his hand on the hilt and turned around slowly.
"Arthur Pendragon." A face appeared in the mist, followed by a body. It was smiling slightly. No, she. She was. And he was Arthur Pendragon.

"Who are you?" Arthur asked, frowning. Had he seen her before? He couldn't really remember. Her dark eyes shone and her pale arms floated down to her sides. She wore a dress the colour of passion, and she was beautiful.
"Do you not know me?"

Arthur frowned. "I...I don't know."

"You didn't know me before. It's not too late. My name is Freya."
She studied him curiously and tilted her head. "Do you remember?"

"What is there to remember?" He racked his brains, bewildered as she laughed softly.

"You're a riddle, Pendragon."

"Am I?" He remembered saying that to someone before. Worlds ago, where the grass smelt fresh and the sun scorched his skin. His eyes widened. "Merlin! I..."
She shot him a searching gaze.

"It is returning to you?"

He sank to the floor and put his head in his hands. He was dimly surprised to find her join him. "I... I can't..."

"You see him, don't you. In the fog."

"What?"

"No? You will learn to. But first."

Suddenly they were standing upright, and she held his sword.
"I'm going to need that," he heard himself say.

"Yes, you are."

"Then... Can I have it back?"

"You need to get it yourself. You need to understand."

Her voice changed, into more husky and mellow tones, and she closed her eyes. "No. I'm afraid he must figure this out for his own, sorry."

Arthur frowned. "I don't understand."

"Where are we?"

Arthur was taken back by that question. "Well, of course, we're..."

She raised her eyebrows. "Yes?"

"I...I don't know."

"Think. You will need this sword, but to get it, you have to know where you are."

"I was with Merlin, and he was crying..."

"No. He is crying Arthur."

"Is he?"

"Why is he crying?"

"Because... Because I got stabbed? Because he's... He's a sorcerer."

She smiled. "He is the sorcerer, the immortal, Emrys."

"Merlin will live forever?"
For some reason that thought saddened him greatly. Why was that so sad? Because... Because... Because he was dead.
"I'm dead, aren't I."

"You caught on quickly. Far more than most. Everyone dies, and everyone comes here eventually."

"But not Merlin?" Did that mean that he would never see him again?

"Even Merlin," she corrected gently.

He paused. "Can I have my sword now please?"

"Where are you?"

".. Dead."

"But where?"

"We were by a lake, the lake of... Avalon." His eyes widened.

"Yes. And I am the lady of that lake. Your sword is yours, Arthur Pendragon. Catch it."

"What?"

The scene shifted, and the fog turned to grey, that shook his senses and woke him up. Catch it, she had said. He looked upwards and stretched his arms up, kicking through they grey. He dimly recognised it as water, but it had lost it's substance. It was no more water than air, and he breathed it in freely. He struggled and kicked, he needed his sword. He needed it in his hand. And then the water cleared, and he looked up into Merlin's hollow eyes, as he looked down at the sword in his hand and threw it with a cry. From here, Arthur could see the vibrant magic rippling from him. He was powerful. At the last moment, he shot up and caught the hilt tightly, then sank back down into the fog. Merlin didn't fade immediately, and Arthur saw him sit down and stare in front of him.

Without fully realising it, he was there, crouching down right next to him. "Are you alright?" He asked gently. As he got no reply, he ruffled his hair slightly as stood up, sighing. It would be hard for them all. The fog enveloped Merlin, and Arthur was left alone.

He remained by the water's edge. Night fell and the moon shone brightly. His mind reeled and his body grew numb. His eyes were dry – he had no tears left to give. As a small child he wept if he fell over in the woods, while running away from an imaginary beast that thundered through the trees, disguised in the shadows. He would run all the way home, and his mother would open her mouth to give him a gentle scolding for staying out so late but would notice the small cuts on his face and limbs, and instead open her arms to his small form as he wept, and secretly enjoyed the comfort that she provided, the warmth that filled the tiny house. His cuts and bruises were quickly forgotten.

Not now. The monster had caught him, and torn his body to shreds, and all the while he was stuck in its grasp; he could feel its long fingers wrapped around his torso, squeezing him until it hurt. His heart ached, and nobody was there to slay the beast. Were the creature real, Arthur would have surely slain it, then stood there proudly, looking at Merlin. His face would be worried, and then a grin would split across it. But his greatest friend couldn't help now, there were no arms open to him. Not yet. One day.

So he wrapped his arms around himself, folding his knees up to his chin. He waited. The tiny part of him that was still thinking reasoned that the time of great need that was prophesied about wouldn't arrive in a matter of hours. He ignored that voice. Camelot may not be in a time of great need, but he was. He needed Arthur again. He needed the once and future king to remain as a constant. To sit with him, right there on the ground to his left. He could almost see him there. He lounged slightly, his legs outstretched and his hand subconsciously resting on the hilt of Excalibur. His blonde hair would shine in the moonlight as his bright eyes watched the dark and gentle ripples of the lake. And then, noticing Merlin's pain, he'd lean towards him slightly, clear his throat, and ask gruffly, "Merlin... Are you alright?" Oh to hear that voice again. He'd once thought it arrogant. He could hear him now, his first and last thank you swam above the lake surface, dipping and gliding through the grass. And just now, when Merlin was finally able to reply honestly, to tell Arthur what was really troubling him, Arthur was no longer there to ask him. He was completely alone, the night was clear and his breathing was sharp. He didn't like that – he didn't want to be able to hear himself. Because he was real, the cool breeze that ruffled his hair was still real.

"No," He thought, and tightly screwed his eyes up. His magic flared and the breeze ceased, his world fell completely silent. He didn't want this to be real. This couldn't be – this wasn't. So he waited in silence for his king to rise.

His neck jerked up and his eyes flew open. He sat up slowly, blinking his sore, dry eyes. Huh. It was morning. All but sight removed from him, he surveyed the scene. A pale grey sky, bright nonetheless. Several black birds flitted in the sky. The trees were still. Deeming it safe, he mended his hearing, and the harsh cries of the birds flooded his ears. That was good – that was surreal sounding. The world of the night was too beautiful for times such as this. It didn't belong. It was perfect, but his world was ruined. He should be feeling more pain than he was – Arthur deserved that much. He hadn't intended on falling asleep - it was careless of him. He made no attempt to move as his stomach growled loudly. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten, but remembered dimly Gaius saying something about preparing his favourite meal for him when he returned. He wasn't sure that he wanted to return. He didn't really want to move at all. If he moved, then it would all break, and it would be real. He wanted to stay here forever. Arthur needed him.

His stomach tightened in hunger. Would he be much use to Arthur if he collapsed? Without really paying any attention he stood, and the picture shattered. He never took his eyes off the lake. The horses were gone and there was no food. He would have to find some. Reluctantly, he dragged himself away and wandered aimlessly through the trees. Never before had he felt so alone in the forest. Surrounded by trees that were closing in on him, their sparse branches jutting out menacingly. The pattern that they formed was unfathomable – nothing seemed to make any sense.

He found very little in the way of food, and although he didn't expressly try to, he didn't end up back at the lake. He could see it all too clearly imprinted right behind his eyes. Everything had happened so quickly, and now it was over. So he drifted though the forest, forging a path into the unknown. When the air grew cold, his magic kept him warm; fire exploded from the tips of the tree branches, like bright, inextinguishable blossoms. When he was tired, his magic gave him strength, gave him a dreamless sleep. And although food wasn't exactly in abundance, he was never so hungry that he could no longer walk. It was like he lived in a dream – senseless, void of purpose.

"Merlin!" Somebody was behind him, the leaves crunched under their feet. The voice registered dimly in the back of his mind, and he felt as large hand on his shoulder. It was too big to be Arthur's. He turned slowly, with dim eyes.

"Merlin, what happened? I came to warn you; Morgana, she-"

"She's dead, Percival."

Dead. That was a horrible word. So final.

"Dead? Are you sure?"

Even in his current state Merlin noticed the eagerness in the larger knight's voice.

"I killed her."

"Then-"

"I stabbed her, in the back, for what she did. I wrenched Arthur's sword into her body."

He could picture it – her lifeless form on the ground, her face covered by her black hair. He had started it, so he had finished it.

"All of Camelot's looking for you," Percival stated simply, with an unspoken question. "You and Arthur..."

He stopped in disbelief as Merlin visibly flinched.

"Oh. No." He sounded so tired, and so hopeless. "No, Merlin, tell me that's not true."

Merlin avoided his gaze and fought past the lump in his throat. He wished with all his might that it were not so. "Why... Why are you searching for us on your own?"

"I'm not. I wasn't." Percival sounded so small as he said that, and Merlin's insides writhed at the possibilities, each worse than the next. He couldn't face it – he was too drained. Too tired.

"Where's... Where did..."

"I sent him to rest in Avalon." Merlin's voice cracked a little. "I know that... Gwen... But I couldn't just..."

"I know."

They stood opposite each other, Merlin building up the courage to utter: "Who?"

Percival drew in a long and shaky breath. "Gwaine."

Merlin's face froze in disbelief. Not Gwaine. Gwaine's always there. He always makes it.

"Show me."

Percival led the way as they swiftly moved through the trees. They didn't talk much, only half muttered the questions that flooded their minds.

"How did... Where have you...?"

"He was wounded in battle." Merlin didn't mention Mordred's involvement – why make things harder for Percival? "I tried to take him to the island, where the old magic is strong, but... I... I couldn't get there in time. The blade was enchanted."

"He was betrayed, and he was angry. We sought out Morgana – it was foolish of us. Stupid. She knocked us out, and then... and then I heard him screaming, and..." Percival didn't continue, and Merlin didn't press him. Their wounds were so deep, so fresh that blood still flowed from them. It all felt so unreal.

Percival had buried Gwaine under a large oak tree, the only sign being the freshly dug earth and a large gouge in the bark. They knelt on the ground, in Merlin's case fell.

"I'll miss you Gwaine," Merlin whispered. Percival didn't speak – he had already said everything – but he didn't cry either. He just surveyed the grave as if he was almost surprised that it was there, as if he had no recollection of digging it, as if it contained the body of an enemy Saxon. Merlin could understand that – so many had died. It was easier to forget, and continue on with life as it should have been.

"How are we going to tell them?" Percival asked. Merlin thought about it. About Gwen, the widow queen. About the knights, deprived of a leader and a friend. About the people, who would surely blame him for the death of their king.

"What is there to say but the truth? I will not have them dying a lie. They sacrificed themselves for Camelot. We are all indebted to them."

Percival nodded firmly, and for a moment Merlin thought that he was going to break, but he retained his composure, keeping his mouth a thin, straight line, and swallowing heavily. He was set in stone, his features firm and determined. Merlin, however, felt as though he was floating away from the ground. Seeing another human again, especially one as strong as Percival, had reminded him. He was chained to the rock by his feet, and couldn't fly away.

It occurred briefly to Merlin that their surroundings would be causing Percival great pain as he relived the worst. He reminded himself that Percival, unlike him, had no assurance of Gwaine's resurrection, and that inside he could be hurting more than Merlin did. So they left, for Camelot, without a word.