At first, Arthur barely hears him. The room had been so still, so completely silent save for his shallow breathing and the bustling citadel beyond the walls of his chambers. He lies in his bed, the scarlet blankets soft and heavy where they cover his body. The sweat makes the sheets stick to his skin and the extra weight makes breathing a far more difficult task. He can't find the strength to move them.
Thin light streams through the crack in the curtains, illuminating the otherwise black room. Arthur can tell that the sun is setting, and when darkness falls the townspeople will gather to begin their vigil. He suddenly dreads the night, when it will be totally, utterly silent, and there will be no noise to distract him from his thoughts.
Through the sound of his own breathing, Arthur hears a footstep. It's light, and barely more than a whisper against the stone floor. For a moment Arthur thinks he imagined it because he should be alone in the room and the door did not open. The last people to be near him were Sir Leon and Jerold, and they had left long ago. Sir Leon, the last of Arthur's original knights, had protested against leaving the King alone, arguing that he had no one else to watch over him. But Jerold had shepherded him away with the claim that as Court Physician, he knows when the King needs his rest.
Young Jerold was a good physician and served the court well. He got the job done, perhaps even more efficiently than Gaius did before him. Nevertheless Arthur often missed Gaius' care. The replacement wasn't half as skilled as his predecessor, but he did his job well and was kind enough to his patients. Jerold was trustworthy, certainly, but he lacked the warmth and experience to truly be called a friend. So Arthur didn't.
Days earlier, as Arthur lay in his bed, the same bed he had occupied since he was a boy, he heard the new physician mutter that the King was "not long for this world," when he thought Arthur was asleep. The same words he had said to Arthur with regret years ago, just before Queen Guinevere was laid to rest.
Another footstep– yes, there's definitely someone here. With feather-light steps and no sound of breath, the entity is approaching the bed. Arthur resists the urge to look at the newcomer, instead staring up at the underside of his canopy. He traces the gold fastenings and rich red cloth, woven around polished wooden posts, immaculately cleaned. There's not a trace of dust there, courtesy of his manservant, Harold or Howard or something like that. Always quiet, always efficient, that man. It's something that has always irritated Arthur.
The hangings around Arthur's bed rustle just slightly, and there's no doubt in Arthur's mind that it's him. He's always known he'll come back, someday. For revenge, perhaps. For reconciliation. Or maybe just to watch.
When the rustling stops, Arthur lets the silence stretch out before he summons the strength to speak.
"Of course you would come to me on my deathbed," He says, voice raspy with illness and croaking with age.
He turns his head finally to one side. Merlin stands there, looking not a day older than he was when Arthur last saw him. His hair is as black as night and his eyes are blue as day, and his skin puts the pale, bright moon to shame.
Arthur expected there to be hardness in Merlin's gaze. He expected his lips to be turned down in anger and his eyebrows set in contempt, the very picture of vengeance. Instead Merlin's mouth is quirked into a fond smile, as though to say, "You dollop head, what have you gotten yourself into this time?"
"Merlin."
"Hello, Arthur."
Arthur cringes at the sound of his name. It's spoken with such ease, so soft around the edges.
"You look well," he says, and Merlin smirks.
"I am, surprisingly. Can't say the same for you, though. You look a lot different than I remember."
"I got old," Arthur says, the feebleness of his voice proving his point.
"I can see that," Merlin replies, moving his gaze to the head of gray hair and papery skin. "It's been longer than I thought."
"Too long."
Merlin says nothing to that, instead meeting Arthur's eyes again and holding his gaze. Arthur forces himself not to look away and give in to the fear stirring in his stomach.
"So," Merlin drawls, "King Arthur of Camelot. Just like the dragon said."
The dragon. Where is that beast, anyway? The day after Merlin's execution, he was nowhere to be found. Uther had ordered him to look for it, but Arthur hadn't had the heart to make a very thorough search. The dragon was allowed to fly to wherever he pleased, and he never bothered Camelot again.
"Did the dragon say what kind of King I would become?"
"A great one," Merlin replies without delay. "He said you'd be the mightiest King that Albion has ever known. I'm sorry I didn't get to see that come to be."
Arthur swallows. "I'm sorry, too."
At last Arthur sees it: A flicker of sadness in Merlin's eyes. It's gone as soon as it appears, as Merlin moves to sit on the edge of the bed.
"Why are you here?" Arthur whispers, unease at the close proximity gripping his chest. "Have you come to punish me?"
"Why would I want to do that?" Merlin frowns, as though he finds very idea is ridiculous. "I came to see you."
"Why? I didn't come to see you, back when...well, you know when."
Merlin smiles again. Arthur wishes he wouldn't. "That doesn't matter. Anyways, I had Gwen to visit me." He glances around. "Where is she, anyway? I thought she'd be with you?"
"She died, some time ago."
"Oh," Merlin's face falls. "I'm sorry."
"She was a good Queen," Arthur says, "Fair and just."
"Of course she was. No wonder you fell in love with her."
There's more sadness when Merlin says this, but his smile remains on his face, gentle and unyielding as ever.
"She wasn't you."
"No, she wasn't" Merlin agrees. "Obviously not me. Would've been weird."
The light from the window has dimmed well into evening. Arthur strains to hear the sounds of his people's lives outside, but it is still.
As if sensing Arthur's thoughts, Merlin rises and goes to the window, peering out through the crack in the curtains. Arthur tracks his every step.
"There are people down there," He reports, "Gods, that must be all of Camelot. This must be serious."
"Well, their King is dying."
"I'm sorry."
Arthur shudders. "Will you stop saying that?" He snaps, bidding Merlin to turn around in surprise. "Stop saying 'sorry.' That's the third time you've said it tonight."
"You are dying, though," Merlin points out, coming back to the foot of the bed. "I'm not going to say I'm happy about it."
"You should be."
Finally the smile drops from Merlin's face, and his expression turns to anger. The fear within Arthur's chest grows until he's almost consumed, but with it comes a small stroke of relief. Merlin's anger makes much more sense than his being content.
"I'm not angry with you," Merlin says firmly, his voice loud in Arthur's ears.
"Why not?" Arthur demands, attempting to sit up. His bones creak in protest and he falls back down onto the linens, the small burst of energy leaving his chest heaving.
Merlin quirks an eyebrow at him as he waits for Arthur's coughs and breathing to slow. "I'm not here for revenge, if that's what you're thinking."
"Then why are you here?"
Merlin frowns, and for a moment Arthur is afraid that he's changing his mind, that suddenly Merlin will do to Arthur what Arthur did to him.
"I think I'm here to help you get to Avalon."
Arthur's eyes fall closed for a moment, then he lifts them again.
"I'm not quite sure how I'm supposed to do that, to be honest." Merlin says with a shrug. "Any ideas?"
Arthur just blinks at him. If he had the strength he would shake his head, but he doesn't.
"I'll just wait until it comes to you, then." Merlin rises from the bed and goes back to the window.
Night has fallen now, and the room is black except for the flickering candles from below. The light illuminates Merlin's pale face with color. Arthur marvels at the unblemished, youthful skin. It's a painful reminder of the truth. Instead of his skin becoming withered with wrinkles like Arthur's, it was blackened and burned while he was chained to the pyre.
It's wrong, Arthur thinks. Merlin should have grown old by his side. He would have thrived in Camelot, as he was already beginning to. He could have spent years working in the palace as personal manservant to the prince – and eventually the King – maybe even have become a court advisor. He could have seen Arthur's coronation and aided in the governing of the kingdom. Maybe he would have even found a wife and had children. Merlin would have been happy, and so would Arthur.
If only Arthur hadn't been such a coward in the face of his father, or if he hadn't been such a foolish little prince. When Uther caught Merlin using magic to fold laundry– laundry, of all things! – Arthur should have put up a fight to protect him. He should have shouted and raged in court, or ordered for the pyre to be destroyed. Instead he stood by, obedient to the King, as his friend was burned alive.
Perhaps if Arthur had been given more time to think he would have stopped the execution. Perhaps he would have helped Merlin escape, giving him a horse and telling him to run back to Ealdor. Maybe he would have marched up to Uther and demanded that Merlin be pardoned. But Arthur hadn't had time to think. All he knew was that his manservant of several years, who had grown to be his dearest friend, was a lying, corrupt, probably evil sorcerer who must be destroyed.
So Merlin was burned, and Arthur was given the rest of his life to think.
The rest of his life to think about how Merlin pleaded with King Uther at court– "My Lord, forgive me, I only ever wanted to serve the crown. I meant no harm, My Lord, I only wished to protect Arthur, I'm sorry––" But Uther's heart was barren and he sent Merlin to the dungeons, ordering for the construction of the pyre. Merlin hadn't fought. As he was dragged away, his eyes locked with Arthur's. Arthur was the one to look away.
Arthur didn't sleep, too conflicted to get a moment's rest. His thoughts strayed to the boy below, curled up in the cellar to wait for his doom. Only the rats were keeping him company down there, the only company suitable for traitorous magicians. The next morning Merlin was pliant as he was chained to the post, and his eyes sought out Arthur where he stood at the head of the crowd, back straight and trembling hands clasped behind his back. As the flames leapt higher and higher, he mouthed two words, "I'm sorry," before closing his eyes and he was obscured by the smoke.
Arthur's frail heartbeat is faint in his ears, counting down until Arthur draws his last breath. He knows he doesn't have much longer.
Merlin still hasn't looked away from the window. It's a starless night, and the candles in the hands of the citizens of Camelot glow in their stead, as though the sky fell to the ground.
Arthurs heart aches for his people, standing below to watch over him on his final night. Their loyalty and devotion is astounding, but Arthur knows he doesn't deserve any of it. True, he did his best to serve them and to build a fair and just kingdom. To the best of his ability Arthur had tried to reconstruct Camelot, to make up for what he did when he was just a foolish young prince.
It was all folly. Everything he did, every decision he made, was wrong somehow, had to have been, because how can Camelot be perfect without Merlin in it? How can Arthur be the King the people so admire, when he committed such an awful crime? How could he possibly make up for that?
At this moment in time, Arthur feels the weight in his bones, the weariness woven into his skin and taking hold of his body. Years of governing a busy kingdom, underneath the crushing weight of guilt, wash over him now. The tears form in his eyes at last, the last he'll ever shed.
"I'm sorry, Merlin."
Merlin turns from the window and looks surprised to see the moisture in Arthur's eyes.
"I don't think I've ever seen you cry," he comments, meant to sound light..
"I've never really stopped since you left."
"My, how you've changed since then."
"Please, Merlin, listen to me," Arthur pleads. Wildly he thinks that maybe Merlin doesn't want to listen to him. Maybe he is angry after all, and he's just here to prolong Arthur's final moments and make them as agonizing as possible. If that's his goal, it's working.
As soon as Merlin hears the desperation in Arthur's voice he sobers, moving to kneel at the bedside so that Merlin's bright, almost-living eyes are level with Arthur's weary ones.
"Alright, I'm listening," he says.
"Merlin," Arthur mumbles, and somehow he can tell from the amount of effort that word took that his breaths are numbered. "I know I do not deserve your forgiveness, but..."
With what feels like a tremendous amount of strength he removes his hand from underneath the covers to reach towards Merlin. Merlin leans in so that Arthur doesn't have to reach very far, and Arthur gasps when his hand comes into contact with cold flesh.
"Could you forgive an old man for the sins of a foolish young boy?" Arthur asks, his hand trembling where it cups Merlin's wrinkles and liver spots are ugly against Merlin's perfect skin.
"My Lord," Merlin smiles, bringing up his own hand to lightly take Arthur's. He turns and drops a tender kiss to Arthur's knuckles. "You were never the one to blame."
"I was naive," Arthur protests, "I was an ignorant coward, I didn't even try to stop my father. And now you're dead, Merlin, I'm sorry–"
"Stop apologizing," Says Merlin, holding Arthur's hand in both of his own. "I never blamed you. I knew you would grow to be a great King, much better than your father. I forgave you long ago."
Fresh tears pour from Arthur as Merlin talks, sobs heaving from his chest.
"I don't deserve you."
Merlin rubs soothing circles in Arthur's skin. "Of course you do. I was born to serve you, Arthur. It was my destiny, and if that meant sacrificing my life, then so be it. I'd saved your life enough times for that to be worth it. I don't regret a thing."
Arthur's vision is blurred by his crying, so he focuses on Merlin's hands grasping his.
"Think about all the people out there, praying for you," Merlin continues, "They wouldn't be here if they didn't love you. You ruled Camelot fairly, far better than Uther ever did. You were a great King, Arthur, and a good man."
"I'm sorry..." Arthur says once more.
"Hush," Merlin murmurs, leaning closer. "I know, love, I know."
Suddenly the room seems to get darker, the light from the window disappearing by degrees. Only Merlin's face remains, and Arthur blinks to make sure the image is clear in his mind.
"Not long now," Merlin says, his voice unbearably soft. "Don't be afraid. Avalon will welcome you. I'll be waiting for you there."
Arthur's hand drops and his breathing stutters; this must be it.
"Close your eyes," Merlin whispers, and Arthur swears he can hear him in his head. "Go to sleep."
Arthur obeys, and lets the darkness surround him.
For a while he's floating, suspended in nothingness. Then the darkness clears and he finds himself standing on the shores of a beach. Looking around, it resembles the one he and Merlin once visited, arguing over who would drink from the poisonous goblet.
He shakes his limbs. The old skin and gray beard have fallen away, and Arthur is young again, in the body of a young prince once more.
Someone speaks his name behind him, and he turns to see Merlin standing there, wearing a grin so bright he could turn night to day. Arthur smiles in return.