Author's Note: Wow! Finally I found the guts to upload this story! It was originally meant to be a chapter fic, but halfway through the "first" chapter, I realised the only reason I wrote it was to find a way to deal with the ending of "Merlin". So, this is what came out. Hope you'll like it.

He was and old man now, both in appearance and mind. Well, his joints did not ache, nor did his teeth fall out, but his hair was white as snow and his skin wrinkled and bleak. There were nearly no traces of the boy he used to be. Only his eyes were the same- shockingly blue- all too bright for a man his age. He wasn't sure if he had changed or not, even though he was fairly certain he must have gained quite a lot of wisdom over the years. He was scarcely taken aback by anything and the world was a familiar place by now. He had been everywhere he'd been able to set his foot (and some places no feet were needed), he had traveled across the earth hundreds of times and seen it develop and change, while he himself stood still.

He had met Galileo, drunk sweet autumn wine with Da Vinci, seen Shakespeare's plays when they were shown for the first time (and cried mercilessly when Horatio spoke his last line in Hamlet, even though the acting was nothing short of terrible), he had watched as King Olav The Holy was betrayed and stabbed on a battlefield in the cold north and witnessed these great men become legends like himself. He had stood idly on the sideline during the Norman conquest of England, followed myriads of crusades and watched the human race nearly destroy itself during the First and Second World War. Yet, despite all the bloodshed and hatred, the world grew. Its people grew, and their ideals, their habits, their faiths, it all grew – went on, even though he never aged a day.

"I have lived over a thousand years and watched civilizations rise and fall."

Therefore, he felt like a child in comparison. A young man with his head stuck in one place, deranged by his own narrow perspective. He had lived through millennia, but he still felt an awful lot like he had done the first time he'd left home, eager and restless, setting off to fulfill his dreams. He knew a lot of things, but was secretly suspecting himself for not having changed at all; for he was stuck and couldn't move on. Stuck in his own idealism, in his faith, desperately clinging to his hope; that one day his destiny would be fulfilled.

"No man, no matter how great, can know his destiny."

Time had ceased to speed now. For years, he lived happily convinced that over time, seconds, minutes and hours would no longer be of his concern. He'd believed that at some point, he would not be able to tell the years, decades, or even centuries from one another. That'd he'd one day wake up and find that another thousand years had passed without him noticing, seeing as "time flies when you get older". However, that hadn't been the case. In fact it was the other way around. After several lifetimes, time had begun to slow down again and he now felt to his core how the minutes ticked by. He was aware of the presence of time itself and every second seemed like an eternity. His magic had seeped into the surroundings of the lake. Into the tall grass, the moss covered stones and the pebbles by the shore. The trees closest to the waterline never dropped their leaves, not even midwinter, and on late nights the wind would rustle them in a way that made them whisper his name. Sometimes it sounded almost like a mother's soft cooing, while other times it reminded him of a lone wolf's cry.

"Emrys."

The water would join in, lapping at the banks, splashing gently against wet stone and roots, and even the fog above it, soundless as it was, would twist and coil, group and scatter, gracefully spelling his name in the air.

"Emrys."

It wasn't the name he so longed to hear, the name he couldn't even remember how to utter properly. It was a long time since he had used his voice at all, and even longer since he had tried speaking his other name. In the early years after the fall of Camelot, he had often repeated it to himself, trying his best to put the pressure right- but he had always failed. No matter how he said it, there was something missing and the word lost its meaning and became hollow. So he stopped trying and as the decades passed by, it was covered in dust and blissful oblivion. The man he's used to be, he was no more, and the man he had become, he wasn't sure he knew.

"Emrys."

Many strangers had come up to him over the years, held his hands and thanked him for what he had achieved. For bringing magic back to Camelot and creating a safer world for those who wielded it. They would also call him by this foreign name, touch his face and smile at him as if he was some long lost cousin. These were people with magic, some quite extraordinary, but all of them mortal, destined to leave earth at a certain time. Unlike him, whose destiny was to live forever, just to wait for the return of the Once and Future King. Kilgarrah was long gone and the echoes of his farewell had long since died. Yet, the warlock remembered his words clearly, as if they'd been spoken only a day before and they haunted him day and night.

"He is the Once and Future King."

This was why he was sitting by the lake of Avalon every single day, still waiting, still hoping for something, anything to happen. But the lake was ever calm, except for the soft moaning of the wind.

"Emrys."

He hadn't had a visitor in years now, magical people becoming fewer and fewer. The past hundred years or so, he had only encountered a handful and it made him wonder if one day he would wake up and be the only one left. Somehow the thought didn't really sadden him, it only added to the emptiness he already felt. He rarely made friends with them, but politely listened to their speeches and declined with a sad smile when they asked him to tell them about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Not because he wanted to be cross, but because he didn't want these people to think that they knew them, just because they'd heard stories about them.

"The story we have been a part of will live long in the minds of men."

They all told him the same thing; that they understood, while in reality, none of them did. Even if they knew him by name and deeds, none of them knew his real self. The self he had buried that fateful day when his life had been deprived of meaning. Only the fire seemed to remember him. Sometimes, when he out of habit, lit a one by the lake, it would crackle and snap and –quite on its own – summon little golden dragons, floating in the air for a few seconds before vanishing. Whenever that happened, he had to look away, the familiar pressure in his chest threatening to choke him.

"What will I do without you?"

Some places, the ground was covered with tiny pale-blue flowers, forget-me-nots, he had often mused with a bittersweet irony.

"You will remember me."

He wouldn't allow himself to reflect upon what they symbolized. The pain those memories withheld was too great, even after all this time. He had almost come to despise them, and still, those were the only real memories he had, the only ones that mattered.

"A half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole."

The first ten years that had passed since that day where now nothing but a mass of events, all mashed up like a bowl of porridge without as much as single raisin to compete with the dull colorlessness of it all. It had taken him a long time to appreciate living again even though he was still a young man when it happened. Now, fifteen hundred years later, he still hadn't recovered completely, although the intense grief he'd felt when it happened had subsided. He wasn't broken anymore; his body had somehow mended its wounds with the passing of time, but a part of him was still missing, a part he couldn't regain until the dragons prophecies came true.

"Cheer up, will you?"

It wasn't that he was unhappy or depressed to the bone, he was simply indifferent. Not to everything of course. He still had moments of both joy and sadness, but his heart was scarred in so many ways and he'd traveled in the deepest valleys of sorrow before. It took a lot to move him now, but on a few occasions he'd enjoy life and almost forget completely for a few wonderful moments.

"That's better."

One of the memories that stood out from his new life was one where he'd helped a family of four in the 15th century. The mother, Joanne Creevey, had died in childbirth and her newborn child was close to death when the eldest son in the household came to him asking for help. He'd gone under the name Franklin Custard back then, a wealthy, middle aged physician living in a great mansion close to the lake. He'd supposedly inherited the estate from an uncle without other heirs, while in reality the mansion was a gift from an old sorcerer who used to live there. The sorcerer's name was Thomas Dayne and he'd reminded the warlock of Gaius a bit, always treating him as a son or nephew, even though he was in fact nearly thousand years younger than him. Dayne never worshipped him like others with magic did and more often than not he would ask favors of him and expect him to run his errands, simply because he was –as stated by Dayne himself- a lot lighter footed than him, and untroubled by the turnings of time. He was the only one who'd never ask him about Camelot, somehow sensing the other man's discomfort whenever the topic came up.

When the Creevey family asked Custard for help back then he had in secret performed one of his greatest deeds throughout the ages, saving the newborn baby from death, despite the fact that healing had never been his strong point. He sat with the little bundle day and night, trying to let his magic flow freely, hoping somehow that it would know what to do even if he, himself did not. By some miracle it worked and the infant boy grew up to be a smiling, chubby toddler and later a curious young man. His given name had been John, after his dead mother, but everyone called him Wart because he used to cling to everyone's feet as a baby. Custard had taken him as his apprentice and taught him how to save lives, something which seemed to come naturally to the boy. He was an eager student and his devotion to the art of healing was touching. The wizard suspected it had something to do with the fact that he had been exposed to healing magic during his first weeks on the earth. He was bright as well, and full of idealism and courage. He would often bicker with his teacher and always demanded thorough explanations. Sometimes, when while engaged in heated arguments about this or that, the wizard would almost smirk at the resemblance to… well, almost smirk anyway, and he decided early on that Wart was meant for greatness.

"Some men are born to plough fields, some live to be great physicians, others to be great kings."

He had been right, for the boy soon gained an important position at the Royal Court of England, serving as a physician under Queen Elizabeth herself and married a wealthy girl with copper locks and mesmerizing green eyes. Her name had been Guinevere and she was named after the then mythical Queen of Camelot. When the wizard saw her name on the wedding invitation his heart had stopped for a moment, old memories resurfacing with a pang. Memories of a graying lady on her deathbed, her hand outstretched towards him asking him to take care of her kingdom.

"For the kingdom you helped me build."

He hadn't been able to do that of course, for it was out of his hands and Camelot's destiny had already been written down in the book of fate. Yet, he had taken care of her business after she'd passed, only to see her throne slip to someone who did not manage to hold it. Eventually the kingdom fell and the castle was destroyed by Mark of Cornwell, a man who would later become legendary for this very action. Gwen died happily, not knowing what was to come and he could still remember the last word she had uttered.

Somehow it didn't bother him that it was Lancelot.

Wart, of course did not know this, so when he introduced his wife to Custard, the old man had to blink back a few tears much to the young woman's surprise. She had been kind to him and offered him a seat, thinking he was tired, but he had smiled and asked her for a dance instead. Wart had been delighted, although a little puzzled, for he had never seen an old man quite so fit before. The celebrations had ended with beautiful fireworks and when he bid the newlyweds goodbye they had been locked in a tight embrace underneath the flaming sky. That was the last time he ever saw them. The warlock often thought of Wart and whenever he did, his mood would brighten and his chest would feel a little less heavy. One day, he thought, maybe he'd be capable of thinking about others in that way as well.

The years had passed since the Creevey family, but they weren't the only ones with whom he'd spent a lifetime. In the early 1700's a sheep-herder named Gale came to the lake and with him over a hundred sheep. He had names for all 107, and he loved to play the flute by the fire at night. The warlock, then named Michael Flemming, (supposed grandson of Michael Custard, the great grandson of Franklin Custard) would often sit with him by the lakeshore, listening to the boy's various stories, all of them including sheep. Gale was a simple soul, but his heart was pure and his spirit made up for what his mind lacked. Besides, he made wonderful stew and always shared the little he had. He would return to the lake every summer for thirty-seven years, until one year he did not come. The wizard figured he had died, seeing as he'd rounded fifty, which was an old age for a sheep-herder back then.

Apart from Wart and Gale there had been a woman named Jenny- and it was of her the wizard thought the most. He'd met her one February afternoon, in 1893, when she was no more than a girl of eight. She had been homeless and wandering around in the little village nearby the lake looking for someplace to sleep and had eventually ended up at his doorstep. At first, he hadn't known what to do with her, but after contacting the local police-station and finding neither her parents nor her real hometown, he took her in and gave her a spare-room in the now restored mansion left to him by Dayne.

He was then called Colin and posed as a young man of twenty-two living in the household of his ancestors. Even though he had no clue of how to raise a child, he did and she lived with him for seven years. She was a precious little thing with a brilliant mind and a fierce temper. Her eyes always seemed to be searching for something and her voice rang like little bells whenever she talked. He taught her how to read, how to calculate and draw. He bought a piano for her and together they explored the mystical universe of music. She would play for him in the dim evening light and he would sit there and listen, thinking that her music was magic far beyond his own. He'd even take her to the lake sometimes, and together they would sit and watch the sunset, her often dozing off on his shoulder so that he had to carry her home when the night drew its blanket around them. Those years were the happiest he'd had since the death of his King.

When she turned the proper age, he sent her to an all-girls boarding school in London, where she spent six years studying before returning to him. Jenny, whom had by then turned twenty-one, proved to be a great housekeeper and an amazing cook, so he let her stay another year. During that year, something strange happened; something he had not at all expected or foreseen.

One night, while he was sitting in his study, she entered with a candle in her hand asking him to kiss her. He did, because he didn't know how else to respond and because he wanted to, for she was as beautiful as she was bright, her hair the color of white gold and her eyes resembling one of those great glaciers in northern Europe, glimmering with blue and silver.
It didn't frighten him or appall him in any way, so he took her to bed that night and for the first time he experienced what it was like to make love to another human being. She had fallen asleep in his arms and while he listened to her soft breathing his thoughts traveled to the other times he'd held someone like that. This time it was different, because Jenny wasn't crying or scared, nor was she dying. She was happy, content and warm.

"Just hold me. Please."

While she was sleeping soundly, he got up and carefully made his way across the room to the open window. Outside it was snowing and the moon was hidden behind a soft veil of clouds. He stood there for hours, just watching the snow tumble down against the windowsill, thoughts traveling to another snowy day long ago, a day where his worst fears had come true.

"Hello Arthur."

One memory followed after another and when he climbed back to bed, he was chilled to the bone. Jenny slept on, seemingly unbothered by the shivering body next to her, but when the first rays of sunshine crept through the curtains, he woke up alone. He never saw her again and on the pillow next to him there was a lock of her hair tied up with a small black ribbon. He kept it in chest-pocket where it was wrapped around a round medallion that once belonged to another woman with the same blonde curls.

The years came and went, and the wind still called out his name in the night.

"Emrys."

He let his body grow old and his beard white. He moved out from the mansion and found himself a hut even closer to the lake- a crooked, windswept building that had seen better days. Some nights he would lie awake and listen to the way the walls creaked and moaned, they also familiar with his identity.

"Emrys."

He got a sheep and named it Gale, but within the first month of his staying, Gale became Gail, because he –or rather she – gave birth to a little woolen thing later referred to as Wart II. Both Wart II and Gail were good listeners and the warlock, who'd discovered how to turn himself into an animal by then, would sometimes do so, just to be able to have a decent conversation once in a while. Some days, when the weather allowed it, they would all trot down to the lake and together they'd watch the sunset and even with his sheep-ears he would hear the water licking at the shore.

"Emrys."

Eventually they too passed away, Gail due to age and Wart II because of a reckless truck driver. He buried them both in the backyard and lit a fire in their honor. After that he didn't speak much and decided that he was done with both sheep and human alike. He lived in peaceful silence for a few decades, not even talking to himself. And then the dreams came.

One morning in January, 2013, he woke up screaming, his magic exploding around him, knocking out all the electricity in the cottage and turning the bedroom upside down. He couldn't remember the dream at all, except for a faint sound of drums in the distance and the image of a setting sun.

"For brother will slaughter brother, for friend will murder friend as the great horn sounds a cold dawn at Camlann."

It was the first of many dreams to come.

Some nights he would dream about Kilgarrah, only it wasn't the dragon heard when the beast opened its mouth, but his father. Balinor's steady voice telling him that everything was going to be fine, for it was his destiny to save and protect The Once and Future King. That he should not weep for the fallen and that time would someday stop taunting him.

"No man is worth your tears."

Other nights he dreamt of Camelot, of the castle itself and the forest surrounding it, the flags and the spears, the town and the surrounding villages. He'd see the faces of old friends; Gwen laughing with Elyan, Lancelot looking back at him while stepping through the veil, Gwaine flicking his hair out of his eyes, Percival handing him a blood-red cape, and Gaius raising his brow in amusement … he'd even see Morgana.

Sometimes, he'd find himself in the woods, surrounded by darkness and she'd be there, among the trees, face hidden by the shade of her hood. She'd walk up to him, touch his face and whisper apologies in his ear, claim that she was sorry for everything. Every time he'd kill her. And when he pulled Excalibur from her flesh, it would crumble to dust and scatter on the forest floor, vanishing alongside the light in her eyes.

"Goodbye, Morgana."

He'd dream of Freya dying in his arms, of Uther, stonefaced and regal on his throne. Of Nimueh and Morgause, and of the wretched day a druid boy in a dark green cloak came running through the main gates of Camelot. He'd see his mother standing outside her little cottage in Ealdor, tending the flowers with careful hands and Will, grimy and worn after a hard day's work. He'd see images of a young prince with sky-blue eyes, a little too long hair and a smug smirk, a boy whom he barely remembered ever existing. A boy untainted by war, trouble and heartache, with no sorrow in his eyes, no impossible burdens on his shoulders, or a crushing destiny.

"Do I know you?"

He'd dream of flying daggers, a poisoned chalice, malicious spirits in the night and that boy kneeling in a room painted golden and red, his expression solemn and bare, a heavy crown looming above his head.

"Long live the King!"

He'd see a round table in a moonlit cave, a yellow flower clinging to a stone wall, an enchanted sword being pulled from a rock and a golden dragon floating in the air above the fire.

"I'm a sorcerer. I have magic."

He'd see that golden boy, now a man, look up at him with round and frightened eyes and feel his soul unravel at the sight. And he'd know with every fiber of his being, that he loved this man despite of all his flaws and mistakes. He would gladly have given his life to him.

"Why did you never tell me?"

He'd see those eyes close for the last time and hear the echoes of his own grief ringing in the night and he would weep soundlessly into his covers. He'd feel his world caving in and his heart ripped from his chest, only to watch it glide away from him in a wooden boat fading slowly into the fog.

"I will protect you, or die at your side."

He tried everything to get rid of those dreams, even darker magic, but no matter what he did sleep would not take pity on him. Every night he'd relive his nightmares and every morning, he'd wake in the harsh light of day, shuddering and torn, defeated by the ghosts of his past. Until, one night, something peculiar happened.

The dream wasn't, unlike the other dreams, a collage of situations, faces or landscape, nor was it covered in that almost invisible veil that exposed the dream for what it truly was. It started with the low, yet disturbing calling of a war horn and then a hill materialized beneath him. He found himself standing in tall orange grass, dressed the way he was dressed when he was still the King's manservant and above him, purple clouds were rolling, crushing together like before a storm. The land before him was scorched and lifeless; nothing but vibrant red sand and that strange orange grass from horizon to horizon. He stood there for a few seconds before something in the atmosphere changed, and then he saw it. Far, far ahead, a lone figure was walking towards him, his silhouette stark against the flaming backdrop. Minutes, hours, days would tick by and he stood stand completely still, legs glued to the earth, as the man before him came inevitably closer. His heart hammered wildly in his chest, for he knew that man; he knew that walk! When he reached the slope of the hill he stretched his arms out, but when he got almost close enough to touch, the scene dissolved and he was laying in his bed.

Only, he wasn't alone.

There, sleeping soundly on the pillow next to him was King Arthur. The King looked exactly like he remembered him; golden hair painted almost white by the moonlight, fair skin, square jaw and sculpted lips, slightly parted in his sleep. The warlock just lay there, watching him, drinking in the sight of his long lost friend, longing to reach out and touch him. He looked peaceful, childlike even, ethereal in the pale blue glow of the moon.

Suddenly his eyes shot open and they were staring at each other in the gloom. For what seemed like an eternity they just lay there, gazes locked in what was more intimate than any embrace, while the world around them narrowed down to a single bed in a moonlit room. And then, slowly, the air tightened around them and their eyes grew wide at the same time. He felt it then, how his stomach dropped, how his muscles turned soft and how a pool of fire nestled deep in his belly. And he found himself falling. Falling, falling, falling- until nothing but those clear blue orbs and the soul hidden within them kept him tied to the earth.

That morning, when he woke up, change was in the air.

The day was just like any other day by the lake. It was raining and the downpour had been going on for weeks, leaving the landscape sunken and gray. The air was loaded, like before a thunderstorm and the birds were louder than usual. There had been no signs, no forewarning of any kind, and yet, when he made his way to the local grocery store something caused him to stop dead in his tracks, suddenly filled with a strange kind of anticipation. The birds, the trees, the wind, even the fog above the water seemed to halt with him and for a few moments the entire universe held its breath. He closed his eyes and lowered his head and in a sudden moment of clarity he knew.

It was time.

The moments that passed after that he would never again recall and how he made it to the shore would forever be a mystery, but when he was standing there, breath short and ragged from the run, a powerful gust of wind took hold of his beard and the grass fell flat on each side of him. The sky above him changed color and over the howling of the wind, he heard a voice he hadn't heard in lifetimes.

"Now, Master Warlock, it begins!"

A roaring laughter filled the air and the sky split open. Lightning struck the ground only feet away from him and suddenly, he felt his body change, his back smarted and the air was knocked out of him. When he peered down at his hands, whey no longer bore the marks of time, his chin felt smooth and his clothing no longer sagged around his shoulders.

His legs moved on their own accord and when he was in waist-deep, the water started glowing a vibrant green. At first, he only saw his own reflection, but then, as he was watching, it blurred and underneath the surface a land emerged. A green and mysterious land with deep forests and playful rivers, where fairies were dancing in the treetops and little blue flowers were scattered in the grass covering steep, shadowy hills. Where strange birds nestled in every willow and mermaids played near shores of pure white sand.

Avalon.

For the first time in over a thousand years, a joyful smile settled on his face and magic streamed through his veins from hidden chambers in his heart. He felt his eyes flash golden and the laughter stopped, only to be replaced by an ancient, foreign song that rose from within the dark forests beneath him. The music filled his ears, his body, his soul and before he knew it, tears were streaming down his face. Something moved in the water and just as the sun broke through the heavy clouds and bathed the lake in a glimmering sheen, he heard it. The name he'd longed to hear for so long, spoken by the man that was not only his destiny, but his entire world.

"Merlin!"

It wasn't what he'd expected. He actually sounded a little pissed.
Typical Arthur.

"Thank you."