"Arthur! ARTHUR!"
The young warlock kneels not feet from the lake of Avalon, his king and friend clutched in his arms.
"ARTHUR!"
He begs the dying man, the lake, the Sidhe, the world. Don't let him die. He can't die. He won't die. He can't. He can't. He just needs more time. Just a little more time and he can save him. He knows he can.
"NO! ARTHUR!"
And just like that, time slows, just as it had on that first day in Camelot and so many times since. The leaves stall, their frantic tossing played out in miniscule fragments of time. The wind has not ceased to blow and yet none can feel its movement for they move as slowly as it.
"Not. Yet. Not Yet."
Time slows even more. Now the warlock can feel the tug, the resistance. They pass yet time does not and he's never held it for so long before but there is no spell just a will. A will for his king to live. A plea for more time.
"This will not happen."
A great wrenching in his heart causes the scruffy, grief covered body to arch. Soundlessly he cries out for the last time.
"ARTHUR!"
Time stills.
Then with a blow that seems to strike all and none forward progress sweeps back across the world.
A pitcher half fallen from the Queen's fingers shatters against the cold stone as Percival lays a hand of solidarity on her back.
A flame ignites in the physician's fireplace from the spark cast by Gius' magic. He has promised a supper waiting for his boy when he returns. His favorite supper.
A mighty roar enters the air and a set of wings continues their downward sweep as the last dragon races towards the last of his human kin.
On the silver shores of Avalon a bird calls out to its mate. The gently rolling waves break against the shore. A breeze ruffles the grass smoothing out the impressions two bodies had made there. The king and his mage are gone.