When Arthur dies it is still not anticlimactic, even though Merlin has been expecting it.
Every night for years he has woken into the pitch darkness, a cold sweat sending chills down his spine. One image lingers from his nightmares. Arthur, dead. Face down on the battlefield. Dead. And every night Merlin climbs out of his bed and softly creeps over to the door that joins Arthur's chambers to his own. Opening the door with a whispered word to the hinges so they do not creak, he checks on Arthur, watches him until he can see the slow rise and fall of his chest. Merlin counts those breaths, sometimes only up to ten, sometimes to a thousand. Sometimes he watches Arthur breathe until the sun rises over the horizon. Then he crawls back into his own bed until Arthur awakes.
He never tells Arthur of what he has seen, and he never tells him that he watches him sleep. Merlin needs to watch him though, needs to reassure himself that Arthur is alright, that Arthur is still alive. It is a safety net. But Merlin knows that Arthur will still be breathing, because Merlin knows how Arthur will die, and it is not in the comfort of his own bed. Every night that Arthur is still alive just reaffirms that fact. Merlin almost wishes that one night he could find Arthur dead, lying there in peaceful oblivion. But it will not happen, that future will not be so. Merlin knows this, Merlin has Seen.
And yet still, he does not think that this battle will be the one. It is a minor skirmish, an army of rebels amassing on the far borders of Arthur's lands. But by no means the largest army he has ever faced, nor the greatest.
They arrive at the battlefield, ground already turned to mud by the knights who have been fighting the rebels off for the last couple of days. Merlin suspects that given time, these knights could fight off the army all by themselves, they have been trained by the best, they have been trained by Arthur, after all. Merlin suspects that Arthur is only here because he has grown bored of meetings, of discussions, of politics, and merely wants to feel the comforting weight of Excalibur in his hands once again. Merlin suspects that Arthur doesn't even really need to be here at all.
So it is with a heavy irony that Merlin recognises this battlefield, even though he has never stepped foot on it before, recognises it as the landscape of his nightmares, the one place he visits every night without fail.
"Arthur..."
Merlin never calls him Lord, or sire, or king any more. Not out of a lack of respect, but because the way he says Arthur is a benediction, the greatest form of respect. Arthur hears it in his voice every time.
"Yes, Merlin?" Arthur sighs, exasperated.
"The, er, knights seem to be doing a stellar job without us, it seems. Perhaps... Perhaps we're not needed?" He sounds unsure, an unsteady lilt that Arthur barely recognises coming from him; Merlin never sounds unsure anymore.
"Not needed Merlin? I am their King." His tone is imperious, but his eyes are teasing.
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After two days of low level fighting, Merlin thinks that perhaps he was mistaken. This is quite obviously the right battlefield, of that much he is certain, but what if this is not the only time that Arthur comes here to fight? Arthur is enjoying himself, enjoying the rhythm of an honest fight. He keeps giving Merlin that easy smile that has been so missing recently. And really, Merlin can't quite regret coming here, either way.
Merlin spends most of his time just watching Arthur as he fights, movements as fluid and graceful as any dancer. Arthur notices Merlin watching him and smiles. However that small moment of inattentiveness costs him, and his current opponent manages to break through his defences and catch Arthur across the cheek, drawing blood. Arthur slays the man easily, the wound is not so deep.
Merlin goes towards him immediately to tend to him, a sinking feeling in his stomach. This cut across his cheek has always been present in his nightmares, this cut is as familiar as the battlefield.
As Merlin reaches Arthur his king smiles at him, eyes soft, and that's when it happens. Merlin and Arthur are blown off their feet as a deafening explosion bursts across the land, shaking the ground underneath them like an earthquake. When the dust clears there is a lone figure standing amidst the carnage. It is Mordred.
He raises his hands towards Arthur, and Merlin cannot move fast enough. It is like his legs have turned to jelly, or a thousand ton weights. It is as if the air has turned to stone and there is no way through it. Merlin wants to throw himself in front of Arthur, tries to throw his magic towards Mordred, but it is not enough, he is not quick enough. Merlin feels the wave of magic that kills Arthur, feels it blow through his hair, feels it deep down in his soul. All he can do is scream, his magic finally responding, bursting out of him in great waves of raw devastating power, completely wiping Mordred from existence, as if he were never there at all. But it is too late, the damage has been done.
He holds Arthur's lifeless form in his arms as he sobs, grief torn from his body in unintelligible sounds. He has failed him. This death is his fault. Surely the whole point of Merlin seeing this in his dreams every night was so he could prevent it. Was so he would know it was coming and stop it. He should have prevented him from ever coming here, taken him away to the Otherworld, the Land of Eternal Summer, where only those of magic can go, where Merlin will one day go. Merlin should have taken him anywhere but here.
And yet here Arthur lies, cold in his arms. As dead as every nightmare Merlin has ever had.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
A year later Merlin is ready to depart these lands. He visits Arthur's resting place for one last time, traces his fingers over the inscription; hic iacet Arthurus, rex quondam rexque futurus.
"My king..." Merlin barely speaks but his voice carries in the deserted clearing.
He kisses the place his fingers trace, and whispers "I'll come back for you one day."
And one day he will. In England's darkest hour, her king shall return.
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Slowly Merlin picked his way through the overgrown thicket, thorns grasping at his clothing, at his exposed skin. He could easily have used magic to turn the branches away from him, but he did not. This journey, the thin lines of blood that it drew from him felt like some kind of penance, a price. One that he deserved to pay.
His duty had been to protect his king, and one mistake made in the arrogance of youth had ultimately cost him the heart of his existence. Mordred, that young Druid boy whose life Merlin had once saved had fulfilled his destiny, he had taken Arthur's life. And Merlin had watched helplessly as Arthur had died in his arms. Part of him had died along with Arthur on the battlefield that day. However it was his destiny, his curse, that he was not permitted to die. He was Emrys, after all; the immortal. He was not allowed to die along with Arthur, it was his punishment. He deserved it for failing.
The trees seem to bear down more oppressively that they had done in the past, but he had not returned to this place in many years. Eventually the dense overgrowth started to lessen, and Merlin knew he was close. He stopped for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady himself, before breaking through the last of the thorns. Hesitantly he stepped forth into the small clearing, eyes closed, as if in prayer. After a moment he opens them, looking straight at the raised dais in the centre of the grass. Upon a wooden plinth, unrotted by time, was a casket of sorts. Wrought out of gold and glass it looked as new as the day it was made. Merlin should know, he had made it himself.
He made his way to stand beside the casket, legs like lead with each step. At the base of the plinth, carved into the wood in a simple flowing script is an inscription in Latin; here lies Arthur, the once and future king. Living a hundred lifetimes without Arthur by his side, Merlin had prayed for his own death, for the chance to finally be at peace and join Arthur in Avalon. But that oblivion had never come, and yet, finally, the day that Merlin had not even dared hope for had come instead. The day that Arthur would be reborn, the day when he would live again.
Silently, he dissolved the glass covering his king and with trembling fingers he brushed the hair from Arthur's forehead and placed a gentle kiss in its place. Merlin has passed the generations living in the Land of Eternal Summer, never growing older. He looks at Arthur lying there, as if asleep, and it seems as if Arthur had been there too; he is completely identical to how Merlin remembers him. The thing he remembers most, what he has missed the most, is the blueness of Arthur's eyes, and he longs to see them again.
Watching Arthur, so seemingly at peace, Merlin once again feels all the regret that the intervening years had failed to dull. Regret that he could not save Arthur that day on the battlefield, regret that his place had been here, in this cold dead casket, and not in the Otherworld with Merlin.
Softly Merlin leans over, lips hovering an inch above Arthur's, breath ghosting over that familiar face.
"I would have taken you with me, if I could," he whispered into Arthur's skin, and then gently pressed his lips to his king's, eyes leaking silent tears.
Arthur had been king of this land once, and soon he would be again.
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