While I love OUAT and the world that Adam Horowitz and Adam Kitsis have built for us to enjoy, I have to admit that I have been relatively disappointed with season 5 thus far. I know it's not quite over yet, but I really wished that something had actually come out of the Camelot story arc, instead of just bringing us full circle back where we started at the end of season 4. I started writing this for myself last summer, and figured that I might as well share it with the rest of you.

For anyone who might be confused, I'll be trying to correct some timeline inconsistencies as I go along (Only two hundred years of Dark Ones? C'mon –like that makes even the slightest bit of sense). Feel free to comment or message me with questions at any time if you have them.

If you've got hate for the story or where it's going to go, please keep it to yourself. If, however, you have CONSTRUCTIVE criticism of any kind, I would absolutely love to hear it . (Also, good comments are wonderful as well.)

So, here's my rewrite of Season 5. Enjoy.

- Pendragon -

- Part One -

- From the Journal of the Sorcerer Merlin, Guardian of the Holy Grail -

- and Advisor to King Arthur Pendragon of Camelot -

As one who is blessed – or perhaps cursed, depending on your point of view – with the "gift" of foresight, I must be the first to admit that, in all reality, I know very little of the future. I can hardly predict events to come better than any man, regardless of the magic flowing through my veins. Time is a sea of possibilities rather than certainties, and – as should be evidenced by the story you are about to hear – plans rooted in those possibilities are apt to go amiss.

When I first held the Lady Igraine's newborn child in my arms, after having played my morally questionable part in its conception and birth, I was stunned to silence. After everything – after everything I'd put that poor woman through with Uther Pendragon and her husband and that terrible night I'd exchanged their places without her knowledge – all my efforts seemed to mock me in the small, tired smile creeping across the face of the infant I held in my arms. For a moment, I ignored the shouted questions and demands coming from the tyrant King who'd barged into the birthing chamber in an attempt to stop me. I couldn't have cared less about what Uther wanted – he had been the one to accept this price for a single night with Igraine, after all. All I could consider was the cruel twist of fate staring up at me, surrounded by soft, pink blankets.

This child was supposed to have been a boy – a boy who would save Camelot and its people from a future of certain ruin, a boy who was to have been the greatest king who had ever lived or ever would live. Instead, Fate had dealt out an X chromosome instead of a Y, leaving me with a small infant girl instead of the bright future I'd been so certain of.

I had never felt so cheated. A girl! A girl could never have enough claim to the throne to dispute Morgana's future queenship. A brother, even a younger brother, would have inherited Camelot before Uther's witch of a daughter. A sister, however…

Still, a deal had been struck, and I was determined to have my price. It was not one of my prouder moments, I'll admit. I ignored Igraine's cries and pleas, ignored Uther's threats as he drew his sword with the intent of running me through, disappearing into a cloud of smoke as us sorcerers and wizards tend to do. The stone walls of Castle Pendragon disappeared from my sight, replaced by the small cottage I'd arranged to be the child's home for the next several years. I felt I had little choice but to continue with the plan I'd constructed, even if it all seemed to be in shambles at my feet. Perhaps by the time the girl was grown, I'd come up with some way to save the terrible futures I'd seen in my dreams should "Arthur" never come to rule Camelot.

I should have known better. By the time the girl's eighteenth birthday rolled around, I had no more idea of what to do than I had when I'd left her at the cottage. Still, Uther's health was in decline, and I was running out of time. I'm ashamed to admit that the prevailing thought in my mind was to somehow marry the poor child off to some noble lord, hopeful that she would produce a male heir to Camelot's throne before the old King finally kicked the bucket. And perhaps, if anything had gone differently, that's what I might have done in my desperation. I will forever be thankful that events did not go as planned.

"Tori?" the old shepherd woman answered when I inquired about the girl I'd left in her care. "She's up at Sir Ector's castle, she is. Got it inna her head she's gonna be a squire – gonna git 'erself killed, I said. Ne'er met a girl so stubborn as the one you lef' me wit'."

As much as the woman complained about her charge, there was a definite hint of pride in her voice when she talked of the girl. "Tori," she'd called her. I supposed that was a fine enough nickname for the unfortunate moniker I'd saddled her with. Still drowning in my hopes for an "Arthur," I'd compromised on "Artoria" as a suitable name. Tori was much better, I would admit.

Confusion and no mild degree of concern filled me as I made the muddy trek up to Sir Ector's castle, thinking only of how I was going to get the girl out of the mess she'd made for herself. A squire? How could she be so foolish? If she should be caught – impersonating a boy of noble blood in her misguided attempt to pursue knighthood – the punishment would most certainly be dire. Death, if not something worse. A dead Pendragon was no use to me, even if it was a dead woman of a Pendragon. But when I finally came to the castle, quickly finding myself confronted by a boy in a mud-and-straw-covered doublet emerging from the stables, I failed to recognize the sight that stood before me. Instead, he introduced himself as "Wart" - a less than clever tag engineered by Sir Kay, himself, for his small, scrawny little squire – and led me up to the castle an Sir Ector. One long, awkward conversation with the rotund knight and his somewhat arrogant son later, I'd discovered that "Wart" was properly known here as "Arthur," and from there it was only a small leap to realize my own foolishness. Tori had managed quite well on her own, without my help, on deciding what she wanted her future to be, heedless of what her world might demand of a poverty-bound shepherd's daughter.

If I had known, then, what kind of fate I was about to condemn her to – the tragedy that would follow the King of Knights to the end of her days and past – I don't know that I would have had the heart to ask her to leave that castle with me. Even now, the guilt I feel regarding her tale is hardly eclipsed by the knowledge that she wouldn't have had it any other way – even had she been aware that to save Camelot she would have to condemn herself, she'd happily have done it.

I wish I could have done it differently. I wish I could have spared her that fate worse than death that was becoming a great king.

- Merlin

- Avalon -

- Present Day -

The irony was almost physically painful.

For nearly three centuries, he'd adamantly avoided this place, pointedly ignoring the memories lingering hauntingly in the back of his mind. Before Neverland. Before Milan. His biggest regret, his most devastating defeat, his worst failure. And here he was, once again drifting slowly through the eerie, silent mist clinging tenaciously to the glassy, still surface of the lake. With every inch he moved forward, guiding the ancient boat through the water towards the island he knew lay concealed in the dense fog, he felt the knot in his stomach tighten with some unnameable emotion. He knew very well what waited for him in those ruins at the center of the island. He knew that where Snow White and David and Regina and the others expected to find the ket to beginning their quest, the first clue in their search for Merlin, he would only be able to see a tomb – a monument to his inadequacy, to everything he'd lost so long ago.

Never in a million years would he have expected to have to come here of all places to save anyone, let alone his Emma Swan. But he wasn't about to turn around now. He'd failed three hundred years ago. He hadn't been there to defend her that day, only receiving news of her fate weeks later in a dockside tavern at a port far from home. And even then, he'd been entirely unable to bring himself to face the truth of it, to make the long journey to her grave so that he could at least pay his last respects. But he refused to make the same mistakes this time around. He refused to fail Emma like he'd failed her.

Ever attuned to his shifts in mood, Emma's slim white hand found the stump of his wrist above his hook and squeezed gently, no doubt trying to impart some small degree of comfort to him through the gesture. Guilt coiled in his gut as he met her green gaze, wishing he could bring himself to tell her of his part in that ancient tale. Perhaps someday he would, but even after three hundred years some wounds were still too raw. For now, it didn't matter. That part of his past was dead and gone, along with the young, idealistic man he'd been the last time he'd set foot on Avalon's ruined shores.

"You alright?" she asked softly. Since entering this world between worlds – this small pocket of magical space, which somehow existed without existing at all, that was the gateway between more worlds than he could count – no one had dared speak above a mere whisper, unwilling or unable to disturb the sacred silence permeating the air as heavily as the mists. He couldn't very well blame them, remembering that he'd been the same way on his first visit here. He'd had much less company then – and a much less critical mission.

He managed to force a smile onto his face in response, though he knew it wouldn't reach his eyes. For a moment, he wasn't sure how to answer her. If he could only manage to stem the tide of memories flowing freely in his mind for the first time in centuries, pieces of stories that had since become little more than legends. For the first time in a long time, he'd begun to truly feel the weight of his age. The tale of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, their adventures, their victories, their defeats – they were little more than bedtime stories to Emma and her family and to millions of people across the realms. The people he'd known – in some cases, grown up with – were little more than characters in a novel to them. They remembered the stories. He remembered the events that had inspired the tales.

So no, "alright" was not the word he would use to describe himself at the moment, but he hated to cause Emma more distress than she already suffered. She had the burden of the Dark One's curse on her shoulders, she didn't need to bear the weight of his past as well. With any luck, they'd be finished here within the hour and be on with their damned quest and that would be the last time he'd have to find himself surrounded by these bloody mists.

"Of course, love," he answered after a small pause, pulling her closer to him and pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. Even after the months they'd spent together since returning from Zelena's time rift, he still got a small thrill from touching her, from having her close to him, from feeling the heartbeat race beneath her skin. There was little he enjoyed more than having her golden strands slip like silk through his fingertips as he kissed her. Yes, he'd do just about anything for Emma Swan, even this. "Just anxious to be on our way."

She looked for a moment as if she were about to press the issue, disbelief and suspicion etched mildly in her perfect features, before she gave him a small smile. She hadn't questioned him when he'd revealed his knowledge of Excalibur's resting place yesterday afternoon, just after having found Emma in the Enchanted Forest, the young Queen of Dunbroch writhing in the clutches of the Dark One's magic. Be a consequence of her own inner guilt or the fledgeling relationship she'd built with the pirate, she'd merely taken the new information about him in stride, telling him with a smile that she'd follow wherever he led her. And the others – although he could see the sharp, cutting questions forming unasked rapidly on Regina's lips – had followed the Savior's example.

He'd never felt so unworthy of their trust.

If the others had heard them, their curiosity over his demeanor was short lived as the boat bumped gently into the shore of the island. The black sands stretched out before them, swallowed up by the swirling white clouds clinging to the rock. Amidst the bustle of leaving the boat, the splashing of feet in the water as they made for shore and the small, whispered discussions of which way they were meant to go now, Emma's fingers found his, entwining themselves easily together so that their palms pressed gently together, and Killian knew she was afraid of what was to come.

"This way," he called out softly to the others, not bothering to watch to see who followed. He hardly had to think of where he was going as his booted feet picked up the familiar path up to the ruins. He knew the way by heart, entirely unsurprised when the black stone walls rose up to meet them, crumbled in places with age and weather. The sand beneath his feet gave way to cobbles, and then to flagstone as he led the way into the dark, dank corridors of Avalon, the mist curling around him like an old friend. The further into the dilapidated fortress he walked, the more he could feel the tingle of magic against his skin, and he knew that Avalon remembered. As much as the pirate had tried to forget all that had happened here, the island remembered.

And it grieved with him.

He could feel the deep sadness in the air, and by the sobering expression on Emma's face he knew that she could feel it as well. Tears rolled quietly down her face as she walked beside him, though he was certain she had no idea at all why she was crying.

"What happened here?" Her voice was unsteady as she spoke, shaken by the emotions running through her that were not her own. Killian, if only to alleviate the guilt gripping at his heart, couldn't help but answer.

"You know the story of King Arthur, yes? After the Battle of Camlann – when Mordred and Morgana defeated the king and his knights for control of Albion and Camelot – Arthur's knights took him here to bury him. Avalon grieves the death of Camelot's king." It was simple, but it was enough. It helped that Arthur's tale was nearly a household story by now, flawed and inaccurate as it may be.

It was Belle, naturally, who had questions. While normally Killian found the bookworm's inquisitiveness to be somewhat endearing, he wished she could lay it to rest until they could leave this cursed place. He didn't want to stay in Avalon a moment longer than he had to. "'Avalon grieves,'" she asked. "You mean it's alive?"

"Not in the strictest sense, no," he answered, trying to set his mind to legends and factual knowledge instead of on what was ahead of him. "But the magic here is… different. Some say it's the Lady of the Lake – the being who rules this place, I suppose – that gives this place its unusual capacity for feeling, but I've never seen such a creature here before. To my knowledge, Avalon is simply… Avalon. I'm sure there are a number of books which might speculate on the subject – I'll endeavor to find one for you in the future."

Rude. He knew it was rude. But he couldn't help himself. The further he delved into the fortress, the more he longed for solitude – to walk these corridors towards the tomb he knew lay at their end and simply remember for a moment everything that had come before. Remember once, and then spend no more time dwelling on past adventures. Still, he couldn't deny that this place held meaning for him – had always held meaning for him. To have it be a subject of academia, no matter how innocent or compassionate Belle's intentions might be, was bothersome.

He didn't need to put her off for long, however. One more corner and through the last doorway and he was greeted by the sight he'd been dreading since the Apprentice had said the old sorcerer's name. Standing stones rose up ominously around the circular courtyard, a cold, pale blue light emanating from the swirling designs etched in their surfaces and reflecting off the damp flagstones covering the floor. The air nearly sizzled with magic, as it always had – Avalon had been built by the druids, of course, and the druids had always had a way with their wandwork, perhaps even more than the fairies who'd come from them. At the far end, glittering in a halo of unearthly light, the large red jewel in its pommel blazing proudly as if it were aflame, stood Excalibur, waiting once again to be pulled from its stone prison.

But the sword failed to hold his attention, even as the others approached it with some strange combination of reverence and excitement. No, Killian found himself instead in the center of the standing stones, staring brokenly at the stone dais rising from the floor and the body lying still and silent upon it, separated from the cold surface by little more than a torn and bloodied battle flag emblazoned with the Pendragon colors.

The emotion was staggering, and for a long moment he couldn't help but hate himself fiercely for waiting until now to come. She was just as stunning now as she had been so long ago, the centuries seemingly failing to have touched her as she rested. Her auburn hair, still cut short as a man's, curled up at the edges to frame her pale face, the light dusting of freckles across her cheeks and nose just as he remembered them. It was as if she'd died just yesterday, the dirt and sweat from her last battle still staining her skin and armor, the knights who'd followed her having fled to Avalon hunted and in disgrace, having nothing more at their disposal than what they had in their hands to honor their fallen king.

For a moment, he could almost believe that no time had passed at all – that it was Gawain and Percival and Galahad bickering behind him rather than the heroes of Storybrooke. He could believe that Milah and Neverland and the Curse hadn't happened yet, that he'd somehow stepped back in time to do what he should have done so long ago. He could almost hear the accusations of the knights he'd once known, their voices weary from battle and hard from grief.

Where were you? You should have been there with her – you who she trusted. You who she loved best of all. How could you let this happen?

And in a moment, it all was gone, replaced by the cruel reality of the present. He was centuries late and she was dead, lying there cold and hollow before him even as he endeavored to save the woman who'd taken her place.

Belle's voice broke him out of his reverie, kind and soft as it always was. Some part of him knew he'd never fully forgive himself for trying to kill the woman when he'd first come to Storybrooke, but things had changed so much since then. And for once today, he found he didn't mind her questions.

"'Here lies Artoria Pendragon,'" she said slowly, somberly, reading carefully from the etched inscription that he'd failed to notice. "'Known as Arthur, King of Camelot and the Isles of Albion, and Guardian of the Sword Excalibur, Forged from the Holy Grail. May All who Enter Here, Remember.'" Rather than comment on the somewhat obvious discontinuity between what was written in the stone and what Killian was sure the woman had heard in the tales, Belle yet again did not fail to surprise him. "That's a heavy set of titles for one woman."

Through the water he hadn't noticed welling up in his eyes, he managed to chuckle briefly. "She never cared for them much, either."

A curious gaze smiled back at him. "You knew her?"

He nodded briefly, his eyes drifting back to the dais. "It was a very long time ago."

"Wait, did I just here King Arthur was a woman?" came Emma's incredulous voice, followed quickly by the grey-clad Savior finding her way back to his side. Belle excused herself with a small smile and went to speculate with the rest of the group on the best way to pull the bloody sword from its stone.

"She'd have liked you," he answered, pulling Emma closer to him for a moment. "The two of you are not terribly dissimilar, to be honest."

"Me," she stated drily, clearly unconvinced. "And King Arthur. Sure, maybe that would have been true last week. Now..."

He shook his head with a small smile. "Tori," he corrected, "was no stranger to sacrificing for the people she loved. I'm sure she would have held you in the highest respect – especially now."

"So you did know her," she shot back, cleverly trying to avoid that particular train of thought. "Considering how well you don't get along with David, I have to admit I'm having trouble imagining you palling around with the oh-so-valiant Knights of the Round Table."

"Is it just that you can't imagine me in armor?" he joked, mood considerably brightened by Emma's antics. He felt a momentary swell of gratefulness that he'd managed to win this woman's heart. "But no, it wasn't like that at all. It was much more… complicated."

"Complicated?"

As he was about to answer, perhaps being coaxed into having enough courage to tell her the truth regarding this part of his past, he found himself cut off by Charming calling them both over to the sword, claiming something about needing additional ideas of how to release it from its stony confines. To be honest, Killian wasn't entirely sure it could be done – hundreds had tried to claim Excalibur before Tori had finally done it, and he was sure there had been others to make the journey to Avalon to try since her death. But, if it was at all possible, he was certain that one of the heroes in the party would be able to manage it.

Emma left him at the dais to join her father, squeezing his hand gently as she moved away. "I'll let you say goodbye."

For a moment, he mulled the word around in his mind. Goodbye. That is what he should do, isn't it? Now that he'd finally made it here, surrounded by people he cared for and who cared for him in return, he had to actually let go, not just forget. It should be a simple thing, especially after having three hundred years to come to terms with the fact that she was gone. He'd done it with Milah, after all – although his quest for revenge had admittedly helped him along on that front rather significantly in some ways. Saying goodbye was what people did, wasn't it? However else he'd failed her, Tori deserved that much from him at least.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, loud enough only to reach the unhearing ears of the fallen King. He ran his fingers gently through her roughly shorn hair, marveling that it was still soft beneath his touch after all these years. He hadn't the faintest idea of what else to say. There was so much he wanted to tell her, to ask her forgiveness for. He'd done so much that he was certain she never would have been able to have condone. Likely she'd have hated him by now, dirty pirate that he was. But now that he had his chance to tell her, to say at last what he'd carried with him for so long – he couldn't give words to the thoughts.

He looked briefly back to Emma, knowing that he'd been right in what he'd said earlier. Tori would have loved her, he had no doubt about that whatsoever. Dark One's Curse or not, Swan would likely have earned herself a knighthood and more by now if times had been different. And, regardless of what had happened between Tori's death and finding Emma, Killian thought that the King of Knights would have been proud of him at least for letting himself find that precious piece of peace and happiness he had with Swan. Everything else – the piracy, the theft, the drinking, the vengeance – didn't much matter after that.

"I hope you knew," he continued after a long moment. "I hope you knew that even after everything – even when I..." He sucked in a deep breath of air to steady himself. "You really were everything that mattered."

Words somehow didn't seem like enough, falling pitifully short of what he needed so desperately to express. And so, without a thought to the consequences or the implications, without another second's hesitation, he found himself carefully cradling the dead weight of her head in his hand and moving towards her. And, for the first and last time in centuries, he pressed his lips slowly to hers.

From somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard Snow White's gasp of surprise before he felt the breath of air against his face.