A/N: Following my PMD (Post Merlin Disorder) I felt I needed to write my own ending for Merlin (or should I say, continuation)
Anyway, I hope you enjoy and can join me on the long road to recovery that has a dead-end.
"Mummy, who's that man?"
"Annie, it's rude to point. Come along, don't stare."
"He looks funny."
"Annie, no!"
The haggard-looking woman grabbed the waving fist (gleaming slightly from the saliva that covered it) and pulled the intrigued toddler away. She turned back to cast an apologetic glance to the old man, but he was gone. With enough things on her mind to not be perturbed, they continued on their way.
The funny old man had slipped between a gap in the nearby bush and was hobbling down a leaf-strewn pathway. His beard that looked like cotton-wool and his long ivory hair quivered in the gentle breeze. His bony hands were clasped around a wooden stick, presumably one he used for walking.
The winding path opened out onto the bank of a great lake. The grey waters stretched, glinting, over the horizon, but in the middle stood an island. No one really knew much about this island. The people of the town nearby left it alone. Why? Legend held that it was haunted.
Yet every day, without fail, no matter the weather, this old man sat by the rocky lake edge and stared out at the island. He moved only when night had completely blackened the sky and returned before the sun had even risen.
The townsfolk all knew the man by sight. No one knew his name. Just like the island, they felt it better to keep their distance. They called him the Watcher, because that was all he ever did. Watched. He wasn't ridiculed, nor feared, only met with interest and confusion. The people didn't understand him. The slightest ripple on the water caused him to flinch, only to shrink back as a fish leapt between the waves. But why?
Some of the local fishermen would try and strike a conversation with him, remarking on the weather or the bounty of fish they'd caught. He was polite enough, but rarely spoke. He just watched.
"'Ere, my rod's gone funny!" One of the fishermen shouted, his brow furrowed as he tugged. "I've caught somethin' 'eavy!"
"Ain't no big fish round 'ere, John." One of the others looked half-nervously at the water.
"I'm tellin' ya, Mike." John's voice sounded slightly weaker. As the fishermen gathered around in anticipation, the old man's eyes flicked over to them.
With a sharp tug, John managed to pull whatever it was ashore. There was a dull, metallic clang. "What in the name of..."
A sword lay on the sand.
"Ah, some kid probably threw it in there – probably just a fake." A tall, beefy man waved his hand in dismissal.
John bent and picked it up then gasped. "It's bloody 'eavy!"
Mike grabbed at it, his hand closing round the blade, and yelped. "It's sharp!" Several drops of blood splashed on the sand.
"Do...do you think it's real?"
"Who has a sword in this day and age?"
Several of them laughed and they started to plan what they would do with it. See if it was valuable, obviously. They guessed at prices and argued as to how to split it. Amidst the hubbub, they didn't realise that the Watcher had moved.
"May I see it?"
They fell silent as the rumble of power that resonated in the old man's voice struck them. It was far greater than could have been imagined from his frail body. With a slightly shaking hand, John passed the sword to the man.
He held it up and stared at the hilt. Then, without a word, turned to face the island and suddenly a flare of sunlight shattered against the blade and burst into a thousand glittering pieces on the sword.
A murmur ran through the fishermen, growing in volume like a storm. In their usual humdrum lives, usual humdrum things happened. But when things like this happened...well...these country folk weren't prepared. The most excitement they had was when the baker had something available that didn't have odd lumps all over it.
None of them knew what to do. The old man just stood staring at the sword as if it were priceless. Was it? Half of them were prepared to ask for it back. In the end, they came to the decision to return home. Just as well, because a sudden flurry of heavy rain struck, and within a minute they were drenched. (Though funnily enough, it stopped as soon as they got home.)
The old man was left alone. A smile, strong enough to light up the entire sky, erupted over his face. "ARTHUR!" He roared, his voice cracking with triumph.
But...nothing happened. He shouted again, louder, the one word echoing around him as if yelled a thousand times. There was no reply.
His dark overcoat was dripping a puddle at his feet as he simply stood and waited. Any minute...
In a shadowy corner, the Watcher sat alone. The barman of the King and Lionheart pub kept one eye on him. Almost all the other customers had cleared out, and he had wanted to close up, but he couldn't bring himself to ask the old man to leave.
As he stifled a yawn, the door banged open.
"Excuse me, but do you happen to know where I am?"
The Watcher's head snapped round.
Standing in a suit of shining silver mail and with a face of utmost confusion, stood Arthur Pendragon.