Instead of resolving myself to the horrible fate of this show, I am hereby building off of the heartbreaking series finale and twisting it until it has a lighthearted, humorous ending. Part 2 will be up later this week... Enjoy!

Of Old Swords (and Older Warlocks)-Part 1

Merlin's wizened head had shot up in shock. This in itself had been an odd occurrence. Over one thousand years of life tended to make one immune to the everyday shocks that plagued society. However, sensing magic—old magic at that—was definitely not just an everyday shock.

Old magic, familiar magic. Very familiar magic.

So, Merlin did what any thousand-year-old warlock would do in this particular situation. He grabbed his walking stick, crammed a hat over his wild white hair, and marched authoritatively towards the source of the call—Avalon.

He got many funny stares as he marched down the busy road, but Merlin had long since grown accustomed to such stares. He had not bothered to de-age himself for at least a century, and the entire town knew him simply as 'the mad old coot.'

Mad? Merlin sure didn't think so. However, he mused, it must seem so. Why would any sane person live in (what appeared to be) a crumbly old tower in the middle of a forest, not own a car, and have a favorite pastime of sketching and/or muttering on the top of Glastonbury Tor? No, Merlin didn't find himself mad, but he certainly could see why others did.

Old? Well, that part was true enough. The exact extent of his lifespan was not known—Merlin himself had lost count somewhere during the 17th century—but he definitely looked the part. Long white hair, raspy voice, wrinkles….several people had even taken to calling him Dumbledore. If only they knew how close to the truth they were, Merlin thought, smirking under his beard as he neared his destination.

However, the self-induced levity was soon lost as the sense of familiar magic increased. Merlin quickened his step as he set foot on the grassy knoll, following the pull of…..was that Kilgarrah's magic?...to the center of the former lake of Avalon.

As he neared his destination, he caught a glimpse of a glint in the corner of his eye. He turned, before freezing in shock as his eyes landed on the source of the glint. Merlin gained dazed look in his face as he was swept in a wave of memories, eyes glued on a sword—the sword—before him.

Meanwhile, a group of uniformed people came walking briskly from the nearby roadway. "I'm telling you, it was a sword," a man's voice carried across the field.

"A sword. In the middle of the Tor."

"Yes!"

The group of three brushed past the gaping Merlin, barely giving him a second glance. Their eyes were all drawn to the magnificent sword; gleaming in the waning sun, tip thrust in the soggy turf just far enough to keep it upright. A collective gasp ensued.

"I told you it was a sword," the youngest, no more than twenty-five, said proudly.

"That's no sword, mate," the only woman of the group said in a hushed tone, inspecting it from all angles. "This is Excalibur!"

"From the Arthur legend? How can you be sure, Em?"

Emily turned to her companions. "I have spent my life studying these legends. I think I'd know Excalibur if I saw it."

The third man began to take pictures with a fancy camera. "What do we do with it?" he asked from behind the lens.

"Do with it? Ron, what do you mean?" the young guy asked in confusion.

"It's bloody Excalibur, Colin. We can't just leave it here!"

Colin shifted nervously. "Well, I wasn't planning on leaving it here, exactly….."

"Well, what else were you going to do? Take it home? Hang it on your wall?"

"Oh, shove off, Ron," Emily said, rolling her eyes. "We are taking this back to the museum, where it should be."

Colin and Ron nodded, deferring to the voice of reason. Emily pulled on a set of latex gloves, before gently pulling out the sword. The three museum employees turned, beginning the trek back to the truck.

Colin jolted in surprise as his gaze landed on Merlin. Had the old man been there this whole time? He waved his hand in front of the vacant eyes, while Ron grinned and walked up behind him.

As soon as the warlock's aged eyes had set gaze on the sword, he had become lost in memories of the past. Memories of Camelot. Of Gaius. Of Gwen, of Morgana, Gwaine, Percival, Leon, Lancelot…Kilgarrah…. Arthur. The chores. The banter. The battles. The Battle. The last time he had seen Excalibur. Her arm, Freya's arm had emerged. Had caught the thrown sword, had taken it to Arthur. In Avalon.

So why would the sword show up now, over a thousand years later, on the site of the former Lake of Avalon? It wouldn't, it couldn't, unless…..No. Merlin couldn't go down that path again. Arthur had not come back the last several times he had allowed himself to hope otherwise, and he was not back now.

Was he?

Screw it. A simple spell would reveal the last wielder of the sword. Just one spell could ignite the spark of hope within him, or extinguish it once more. All he needed to do was be holding the sword….

"Oh, hello Old Coot!"

Merlin jumped, startled out of thought by the sudden voice from behind. He spun around, squinting at the man who had addressed him. "Eh?"

"Don't bother, Ron," Colin called, turning to follow Emily back to the truck. "The nutter's half deaf, he is."

Ron shrugged and jogged to catch up with his group.

Merlin, meanwhile, drew himself up indignantly and tried his best to look intimidating. His eighty-something year old appearance significantly hampered such efforts, however, so he settled for shouting. "Watch your tongue, boy!" he bellowed. The trio, however, had already gotten into the truck.

Merlin fumed for a moment, before turning back to the sword.

Which was gone.

What? No! It couldn't be gone! Not when he was so close to answers! He had to know! Where did it….no.

Oh no...

A sudden realization hit Merlin, and he began running as fast as his old bones would let him. "Hey!" he yelled at the retreating truck. "Halt! Stop, you crazy sword-snatchers! You can't just waltz up and take….take me…" Despite only traveling twenty feet or so, Merlin began panting heavily. The truck disappeared down the road, lost in the sea of traffic.

Merlin groaned, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. He had to get that sword! He had to. It was the key to everything.

But how?

Merlin bustled around the lower floor of his tower—formerly known as Camelot's physician chambers—hanging his hat on the rack and throwing his cloak across an ancient wooden chair. He then made his way to the cluttered bookshelves, crammed with both modern hard-backs and Gaius's own collection of leather-bound books.

Three shelves and four sneezes later, Merlin pulled out the correct volume with a triumphant "Aha!" He then proceeded to flip through the pages, muttering under his breath about annoying swords pulling on his magic and old eyes and forgotten languages and where-in-his-beard-was-that-magnifying-glass-

Oh, there it was.

The warlock squinted through the glass, slowly deciphering writing that he had not attempted since the early 1900's. He set a pot over the fire, boiling water. He then entered his old bedroom—which had been converted back into a herb-stock room—and began to locate the necessary plants and potions.

"No, no, yes," he murmured, stacking the necessary herbs on one side and the useless ones on the other, "no, yes, yes, no, yes, I still have this?!"

Merlin pulled out the offending vial, staring at it in shock. After a moment Merlin firmly set the ancient bottle of belladonna in the 'no' pile. "Not doing that again," he muttered, shuddering. With considerable effort, Merlin tore his eyes—and his memories—away from the evil potion of doom and refocused on the ingredient list.

"Where in the world am I going to find a frog liver?"

After nearly an hour of searching, brewing, and stealing a frog from that poor chap down the road, ("It shall die a noble death!" he had shouted in consolation as he snatched it from the boy's hands. Somehow, the kid was not as reassured as Merlin had hoped), the potion was finally completed.

The old man eyeballed the foul-smelling liquid, before shrugging and gulping it down. "Bleh!" he rasped. Still as vile as ever, that was.

He then inhaled sharply, feeling the potion begin to take effect. His extremities tingled, the sensation spreading up his legs, through his torso, up his arms. His body began to twitch. With a grunt, Merlin's back cracked and straightened, growing a few inches in the process.

The warlock squeezed his eyes shut, white knuckles gripping the table as facial hair receded, wrinkles smoothed, and shrunken bones elongated once more. The transformation took longer than usual—due to having kept his aged form for over a hundred years—but the tremors ceased after a minute or so.

Merlin blinked his eyes opened, immediately noticing the improvement in his eyesight. He stretched, letting out an energetic whoop as he enjoyed the newfound agility that came with his de-aged form. After a moment of thought, Merlin bounded up the stairs to the second floor of his tower, suddenly anxious to change out of the stuffy robes he currently donned.

He spent several minutes rummaging through his closet, before finally emerging in jeans and a blue t-shirt, along with a black jacket. He then approached the full-length mirror at the door, examining his twenty-something looking face in wonder. His appearance was not unlike it was back in Camelot, minus his neckerchief, of course. With a twinge of nostalgia, Merlin threw a red scarf around his neck and allowed a goofy grin to emerge. There we go.

Satisfied, Merlin laid on the couch. (The second story of the tower had been constantly upgraded to keep up with modern technology and furnishing. Couches and toasters were forever thought of as the best inventions of mankind.) He then closed his eyes and tried to ignore the pull of the sword on his magic, which had suddenly grown to desperate levels.

No use. He got up and began to pace, before groaning in frustration as Excalibur continued to call. "Nightfall," Merlin said to himself. "Just wait until nightfall."

He glanced at the clock. An hour until dark. An hour until he could enact his plan (which basically consisted of somehow-break-into-the-wherever-the-magic-pulled-him-and-find-the-sword-before-high-tailing-it-out-of-there).

The sword let out a particularly powerful pulse, causing the warlock to sigh in annoyance and collapse back onto the couch.

This was going to be a long hour.

Reviews are amazing, by the way ;-)