Not for the first time, blood soaked through Arthur's tunic and chain mail to leak onto his hand, a liquid evidence to his own blistering mortality. This time, however, the legs that carried him felt old and weak, there was no Merlin to heal him with bargains of life and death or pure power or incredible stupidity and Excalibur hung heavy and useless in his hand, still dripping with another's blood – his ward's blood. This same ward lay on the ground before him, eyes rolling in his head as he choked his last bubbling scarlet breaths into the mud that was practically sacred in comparison the letch and traitor that dared to die on it. Mordred's spear was still clutched in his hand as the shaft sunk towards the ground, the head still twisted and stuck in Arthur, just below his heart.

So this was how he was to die, how Camelot was to die, at the hands of a pathetic child driven to revenge at a father's death years before. No. Even as Arthur, old, old, looked down at the young wretch he had just cleaved in two, he could not blame Mordred for Camelot's destruction. Arthur could feel the flames that devoured his prized land and castle from the battlefield hundreds of miles away and knew that of all its inhabitants, he was most to blame, but a group would be called to stand judgement, for all their innocence.

Gwen, his not-wife, who loved him as he loved her, as a friend and never as anything more and yet had become his wife on the off chance that it might distract him from his grief after Uther died and who only shared his bed the night after Merlin vanished. Gwen, whose only guilt could lie in being so damn foolish and indiscreet around Mordred, within a hundred miles of Mordred. Lance, too, the noblest of his knights, would stand with Arthur and Gwen and answer to the crime of loving a woman who had been taken by another for no good reason. Arthur could only pray it would be years before they faced any kind of retribution – as he staggered towards a knot of his men who were running to their King, desperate to save the dead, Arthur could only wish his friends well.

Arthur knew that he would have to pay most severely for Camelot's destruction. He had failed the great kingdom in his foolishness, his grief, his dependency and his pratishness. How long had he tried to avoid the idea of having to rule alone, without Merlin? How badly had he failed when he did? Still, in those haunting nights before the battle, Arthur had not been able to help wondering if Merlin would face the judgement with him. For failing to teach him, for loving him, for leaving him. But blast it, he didn't even know if the man was dead. He couldn't hope to meet him again, even in death.

Bitter tears met his eyes as Arthur's knights rushed to bear him up as his feet, unsteady, slipped in the blood-soaked sod. Ever the king, the leader, the warrior, he tried to find flippant, carefree, or even grave inspiring words to stop the flow but he could not. He had been left precious few words and they were full of necessity. Two surfaced with a gasp as his left knee gave way and only Sir Gawain's grip kept him standing.

"The Lake."

The faithful knight Sir Bedevere was confused amid his worry for his king. "Majesty, the lake of Camelot is many days ride away. You – We would not get there soon enough." The words, though faltering, sounded true to each knight assembled. Only Galahad, who had come after Uther and trusted magic as the others could not, could see a hope for his King. Even as he gazed at the man he would have given his life for, the blue eyes met his and the knowledge was shared.

Barely above a whisper, Galahad murmured, "The Lake is coming, Majesty." As if on cue the sky, already dark with death and much blood, turned almost black and rain poured out over the battlefield. As the knights and their king watched, the scene of treachery and defeat was washed away, covered by a large lake which, though rain continued to fall, stirred not with even a single ripple. The mirror stretched off in front of them as far as the eye could see, the woods they had been fighting by disappearing until no knight could tell if it was they or the lake that had moved, since it was undoubtedly the lake of Camelot.

A gasp brought the astounded men back to themselves as Arthur sank further, his eyes now barely seeing them. A fumble sent Excalibur into Sir Bedevere's arms. "Cast," rasped Albion's greatest king. He could not speak the other words of the inscription but listened hard, refusing to give up until he heard the splash that would signal that a promise older than the earth had been kept. Excalibur was too powerful, always had been. And now the weapon forged for him would return to the home marline had been the first to give it.

Listening so, Arthur heard Bedevere's tears as the man came to the sickening realisation that his king would be gone in a few moments, and the man's humanity struggling with his honour as he hesitated at the water's edge. Finally Arthur heard the singing of his steel companion in flight, a gentle reminder of its flying forger, and opened his eyes to watch Vivian's hand grasp the hilt and drag it under, as though it had never been. His knights, unused to such things, dropped back slightly, leaving their king bent in the mud, but Arthur, who had seen such things practically daily with Merlin could only smile at fond memories of days spent on the banks of the Lake.

Still, there was a sight remaining to appear that the king had never seen. A black barge, lit by a single lantern, glided over the surface leaving no wake as though it were black ice towards Arthur. Four women in black robes stood, their arms outstretched towards him, while their hooded bargeman guided the boat with miniscule movements of his fingers. The barge came to rest at the edge of the Lake a few yards from the king, but none of its occupants moved to help the man.

Instead Galahad, too young and pure to fear the unearthly visitors quietly supported Arthur, turning his face to hide his tears as he felt the king's blood warm his tunic. As the two men, young and old, slipped down the bank the women reached forward and with a fluidity and strength that seemed unnatural, caught the king as he staggered forward and lifted him into the craft.

As silently as it had arrived the barge slipped back across the Lake. The knights on the shore tried to follow the craft with their eyes but it slipped evasively out of their vision and the Lake itself faded from view leaving them back on the battlefield. The stench and sorrow hit them and they wretched and cried at the desolation.

Arthur lay on a bed of dark furs as the bargeman negotiated a sea that belonged to neither the world of the living or the dead. Opening eyes that were no longer dim or caked with blood, he stared at the women around him. Feeling his looks, they turned from their sentry duty to return the gaze. Arthur could not help but be shocked.

Morgana's powerful stare attracted his attention first, and Arthur was struck by her youth. He had seen her last a raving ally of Mordred, driven insane by visions and a hatred that sprung from outside her own mind. She had been killed by his own hand, and it had felt as it should have, like murdering his own sister, however different she had been from the woman of his own adolescence. She had once been everything to him and, though the last ten years had seen only enmity and death passing between them, the smile Morgana bestowed upon him seemed to remove the spear in his side and allow him his breath.

She turned back to her post and Arthur's view shifted to the next woman. The face that met his made him shrink back, confused, as the still beautiful Sophia confronted him. It had been years since Arthur had discovered the truth of his enchantment from a more honest Merlin, but the idea of losing his control to such a woman had still chilled his bones. As he turned away, horrified, Arthur was shocked as he met the one woman he feared and hated most of all.

Nimue smiled at him, her lips blood red. Anger filled Arthur's chest, replacing any pain he felt, along with the dull certainty that had dominated his life for twenty years. Words now came easily to the king, though they were no less eloquent than they had been in life. "You. But you – You took him from me. You killed Merlin."

The smile grew, and Nimue, the most confident of the women, replied to her cargo. "Yes and no. I took Merlin where we are taking you. It was his wish, believe me. He had achieved his-"

"Don't give me that destiny shit!" Arthur felt with surprise the youth in his voice and looked down at himself. The wounds, scars and other relics of battle were fading from him, slipping up his body to the white hand on his shoulder that absorbed them. Craning his neck he saw the final lady, older than the others, with a sorrowful but familiar face. "Who are you?"

Nimue spoke again. "She cannot speak. Your new religion knows her as Mary, but her true name is Mariam. She is the true mother, but you cannot see her. You see your own mother, do you not? Look upon the face of Igraine, Arthur. She gave herself for you, Arthur. Looka t the face of the first woman you murdered, of all of us. This is only the truth, Arthur, for only the truth can be spoken here, so don't argue with me. She died for you. Look at Igraine, my friend, your-"

Arthur turned to order her to stop, or even beg, but the bargeman turned his hooded face towards the offending guardian and growled in his throat and Nimue fell silent immediately. Silence reigned on the boat for a few moments before Arthur cleared his throat. He paused again, listening as the bargeman guided the boat through the water before asking, with a hint of an old arrogance that he had never truly lost, "And who are you, bargeman?"

As he spoke, there was a gentle jolt as the barge bumped land that had not existed a moment before. The bargeman leapt up to assist Arthur off the craft, though he needed none. Life of a kind flowed in his veins, his hair had lost its grey and no trace of his wounds remained except his blood stained clothing. And yet, though this should have been strange and disturbing, the presence of the four enchantresses and the mystical craft only gave it an overwhelming sense of normality.

Taking his first steps on land a new, young man, Arthur turned to the hooded figure imperiously. "I asked you a question, bargeman. Who are you, amongst these women?"

"Oh, no one in particular, sire."

The reply, when it came, was coated in a voice much to young to match the last recollection Arthur had of its owner, but the grin that, though not visible, shone through the words, was unmistakable. For the first time since Arthur had felt the spear enter him and his life begin to ebb away, he allowed tears to fall. How had he ain there, questioning Nimue, when mere inches away there he'd been? More to the point, how had he managed to stay away from Arthur?

Apparently not easily, since Arthur found himself moments later in a tight embrace he had no wish to leave. Morgana muttered "Welcome to Avalon," under her breath, but Arthur couldn't even spare the time to spend wondering if she was peeved her moment had been stolen by a servant. Instead, Arthur's face was buried in his lover's neck, repeating his name over and over into the warm, decidedly not dead pulse point he found there.

Merlin's grin looked as if it couldn't grow any larger as his hands ran lightly over the body he had craved and missed for twenty years. Gently, ever so gently, he led the king by the hand further into the island, revelling in the light and colour that surrounded them after the darkness of the barge. However, no matter how dazed Arthur was, he would not allow his servant to forget the rules, especially when he had so many questions, and Merlin found himself on his back in the lush grass, a thoroughly satisfied looking king on top of him.

"Hello."

"Nimue said you chose to leave. Is that true?"

Merlin sighed and looked away. It was admission enough for Arthur to move off him, though he stayed beside him, gazing up through the trees. The question of why remained unspoken, and whilst Arthur had missed Merlin too much to shy away from his touch, he did not grip the fingers that found his as hard as he might of. Despite his anger and confusion the ere feeling of Merlin being there was too much to be able to escape from, and Arthur knew that Merlin didn't have to answer him – he was to important to the King and would be forgiven anything.

But Merlin was not the kind of man to take that option. An eternity later, he began. "I fulfilled my destiny-"

"But-"

"Listen. I fulfilled by destiny and the Old Religion rewarded me. With knowledge. Knowledge of the future. All of the future. Yours. Not mine, though, but as soon as I knew everything else I knew I'd do this." There was a pause, and when Merlin spoke again his voice was thick with guilt and grief. "I was selfish, Arthur. I couldn't stand the thought of what was to happen, and I knew I couldn't live through it, live to watch you die. So I left. Arthur, I'm so-"

He was cut off with a kiss as Arthur determined to spend the rest of his afterlife forgiving Merlin every way he knew how and making up for the twenty years he had lost.

As the legend changed and shifted, they remained. Waiting to be called, some say. I don't think they're listening that attentively though. Do you?