Merlin stood next to lake. Its shimmering surface gleamed from the dimming light of the sun. Down beneath the water he knew there was a man, a man trapped by his own hubris. Merlin's hubris had sent the king of Albion to the bottom of the lake.
There was a bitter taste in the warlock's mouth. It had been there for the three years since the battle which had ended Morgana's, Mordred's, and Arthur's lives. Guinevere sat on the throne of Camelot, but she too had withdrawn from the world. She'd lost her husband, and that was a major blow to her. Her responsibilities had grown, not to mention she and Arthur's son, Elyan, had to be raises by the court since the young queen had no time to raise a child.
Merlin felt selfish. As much as Gwen was facing the troubles of the real world, with responsibilities, he felt like he'd taken the loss of his destiny more severely. That's what had motivated him the past decade, but without Arthur or Freya, whom his heart still rested with, he felt the need to withdraw.
And so he did. Merely sitting beside the water of the lake, he was seldom visited. His magic kept him alive. Once Elyan was older he began to visit the slowly aging sorcerer. Eventually he fell out of the practice and became king. Camelot began slowly dying, once her golden age had passed.
Merlin knew it was too late. His mother was dead. Gaius was dead. Everyone he had known or loved was dead.
One summer's eve, the last dragon, Aithusa, came to him. It was hot, but the warlock no longer noticed. The dragon had grown since the year that Merlin had called her from the egg.
He stroked her scaly neck, showing her the affection he no longer gave his fellow man.
The next day, Aithusa ravaged Camelot. The last dragonlord was of no help to the screaming peasants, the king charred upon his throne.
His mouth still tasted of bitter blood and decay.
Hundreds more years flew by, and eventually even the last dragon died. The dragonlord mourned for his last attachment to his time. Now he was bearded and thin, and an iron grip had taken his once-loving heart.
Eventually a new civilization began to rise - and it stayed. The old warlock was grey-bearded and elderly, although still possessed a certain vigor from his long life. He used spells to keep up his stamina.
He didn't know why he was still alive. It was all painful. The memories of Camelot. When his friends were alive. He'd shut out the world - and it didn't matter. He was still near Avalon. He never strayed far from where his friend had sunk or where his Lady now rested. He wished that she would have the chance to rise again. Just once, so he could see Freya again.
The bitterness consumed him. His insides fell out. He began to take it out on the ruins of the ancient kingdom. He threw flame and lightning and anything else at them, further more severing him from sanity.
And then, there were footsteps. Heavy and clopping, metal against stone. There was a man approaching him. The old warlock turned his head, seeing a familiar face on a young blond man.
No, it was impossible.
"Arthur?" The dragonlord said in a hoarse, unused voice. "Is that you?"
The man chuckled uneasily. "My name is Arthur, yes. How did you know that?"
Merlin couldn't believe it. Over a thousand years of waiting.. And there he was. The stupid dollophead that he'd worked for in Camelot, reborn into this strange day and age.
"I know a great many things." He said vaguely.
Arthur was wondering what this old man could know about him, about anything really.
Then he seemed to be remembering something. Kind of like when you remember an old birthday party, except it was with.. A medieval faire? No, his father never let him go to one. He was dressed like a knight, and this man like a servant.
A name floated to the front of his mind, and he spoke it without thought. "Merlin."
His name. That was good to hear. The warlock slowly approached the young man. "You remember Camelot, do you not?"
" is just a fairy tale, a story for kids."
"It's not. I was there."
"Then how are you alive?"
"I was waiting for a dollophead of a king."
Both of them smiled, as if having an understanding between them. The ice on Merlin's heart was quickly melting. Maybe Arthur would be the same a thousand years later. Maybe he'd still be his friend.