A/N: Partially based off legends, but mostly my own take.
Disclaimer: I, in no way, shape, or form, own BBC's Merlin and take no credit for the show's plot and characters.
Merlin had always known it would come to this – that he would be the one standing over Arthur's body at his vigil, not the other way around. For all his talk of laying down his life for Arthur, he had failed.
It had been destiny.
He hated destiny.
Because, Merlin had always known, deep down – since that very first moment he had realized what was within him, curling through his stomach and chest, was actually magic.
That he was actually magic.
Deep down, he had known that he could never die – not as long as there was magic in the land. Merlin had merely tried to deny it by trying, again and again and again, to lay down his life for Arthur.
But, here, before the long-cold flesh of the one who he had so desperately tried to protect, Merlin knew he had failed. And that he would live forever.
So, he took Arthur from that place, from the dark, cold chapel where he had once remained all night for his father, and left without word to any, without any notice from any. And he knew they would spread rumors. 'He's not truly dead; you see, his body disappeared,' they would say, 'None of us even saw him die.' 'He was our king once, and this is proof he will be our king again.'
Merlin wished such could be.
Instead, he carried his dearest friend across the land to the lake where, long before, he had first glimpsed Avalon.
There was no fire this time, not at this burial. Just a carefully whispered spell when the boat was so far out he could no longer make out Arthur's form – one that simply slipped the boat beneath the surface of the water with barely a ripple.
And he never returned to the citadel.
He was empty. He felt dried up, like a corn husk left in the sun for too long.
His days passed slowly in the forest where he made his camp, doing little more than stare at a fire and remember.
And that was why, when she came for him, eyes dancing with glee that she would finally overcome him, Merlin simply intended to let her do as she wished.
But, when she called to the trees around them, to trap him and hold him until they died – until he died – he found himself unable to completely give in. There were words running through his head – years and years of encouragement and goading to finally pull his weight in a fight.
And he simply couldn't give up. Not against her, not against anyone.
So, he called to the tree, there, that one. It wouldn't matter which, though, he knew them all by name, but this was the one she had chosen. It wouldn't matter because, this, this was where they, just the two of them, had come so often for hunts. For what Arthur called hunts. Instead, they had been times the two could sit next to each other and laugh as friends, without the expectations and limitations of anyone else on their shoulders.
He knew this forest.
And the forest knew him. Knew them.
And he let himself fall into the tree's gentle embrace. And he let himself rest.
He waited, for centuries, feeling the land shift. Feeling the rising and falling of magic in the land. Waiting.
When the time finally came, he was surprised. Surprised to find himself suddenly released one day, dropped to the forest floor without warning.
And, rising, he was no longer in the form he had once – long, long ago now – called Dragoon the Great.
No, he was once again Merlin – simple manservant.
A gift from the oak, a repayment for the quiet companionship they had enjoyed.
Much was different, he found, but, it seemed, just as much was unchanged.
The lay of the land was just as clear to him as it had been before, though the people who walked it were a different sort than the ones he had known.
Merlin found himself as a loss. He had nothing in this new time; he had nothing to work for, no one to look after, not even any simple chores to complete.
It took quite some time, but he managed to avoid all the large settlements between himself and the lake.
Because he knew not where else to go.
Because he had nowhere else to go.
Because, in the end, everything for him always came back to Arthur.
And, when he finally found himself there at the lakeside, he had nothing to do but sit and press his forehead to his knees and whisper, "What do I do now?"
Do what I would do.
Well, what's that? he asked.
Mer-lin.
Protect my Camelot.
Protect our Albion.
Merlin was breathless for a moment, and almost suffocated himself by pressing his hand against his mouth and nose too long.
You idiot. Besides, what is this? Some poorly planned surprise party you rigged up for me? Who's this girl? She keeps going on about how she wants to repay you. Honestly, Merlin, you were always hopeless with the girls. And what's this? Lancelot's the only other person you could find for me? Some manservant you are.
Merlin stifled a laugh.
Didn't even leave me my sword – this place is bloody boring and I can't even train with the only other knight here.
That's Avalon, Arthur, Merlin chided in reply, and mortals are supposed to be blessed beyond belief to be able to see it.
A snort was all he heard in reply. Merlin couldn't help but imagine Arthur charging around, yelling at the Sidhe about 'who did they think they were? He was the King of Camelot – they should be bowing down before him!' and Lancelot following after him with a small smile on his face, easing raised tempers.
I won't spend eternity in a lake, Merlin.
Some twisted form of a half-sob, half-laugh came out of his mouth in reply.
I won't.
Merlin never returned there again.
So, Merlin set about protecting Albion. The people were so often changing; armies met and fought, and lost, and won, and this king reigned, or that king, and he knew it would be hopeless to try to watch over just one of these peoples.
For that reason, Merlin protected the land instead. Not the surface of it, not the appearance, but the deep-down foundation of what Albion was.
The land for which he and Arthur had worked so hard.
So, he strengthened and shaped and protected and, here and there, cleaned up after the people who resided there. He never interfered with their goings-about, though, never interrupted the expansion further and further into their land.
But, he did pour himself out, pour most of his strength into great patches of their forests and their mountains and their plains, and kept those safe in the middle of it all.
But, mostly, he merely watched.
And, in his watching, Merlin often found himself drifting into long bouts of memories. He would come back to himself in a random cave or ravine or forest clearing and barely recall what he had been remembering.
The memories escaped him like half-waking dreams at times. And, Merlin couldn't stand it, couldn't stand to lose any part of himself, of his life, of Arthur.
But, there was nothing he could do.
It had been one of those mortal bites from such-and-such beast or a wound from such-and-such blade and Arthur had been close. So close to his actual deathbed.
And he had pulled Merlin down by his neck with surprising strength and tapped their foreheads together and weakly offered, "So, in the next life…"
Merlin wanted to say 'Stop. You'll pull through,' but found different words instead coming from his mouth. As if his mind knew he might never have a chance to say this again. "I've already turned down that offer once – I wouldn't be your servant, Sire," Merlin replied, tacking on the address to add to his playful tone.
Gwen came in before he finished and fussed over Arthur.
But, I'd be happy to be your friend.
There were times he would find Kilgharrah and Aithusa – holed away in a cave in the mountains more often than not. They tended to sleep most of the time now, deep slumber that lasted for decades.
And when he was with them, they would merely sit in silence. They were kin and had said all they needed to say between them.
Kilgharrah would always bring out Excalibur when Merlin arrived – showing it shining and bright as it had been the day Merlin had returned it to him. It was unmarred from countless battles and tourneys, unlike Merlin, and he almost nearly hated seeing it.
But then he would remember who wielded it, there at the end, and a burst of nostalgic longing would run through him. And he couldn't wait to see it again.
He had once, so far back now, accepted a ride from Kilgharrah as he once had before. And he had whooped and hollered through the air, completely happy.
And, when they landed, Kilgharrah had looked at him and said, "What troubles you, brother?" Brother now, no longer young warlock.
And Merlin had replied, "I had wanted Arthur to someday go up with me, with you." Because, it always came back to Arthur. "I had hoped he would scream like a girl and I could finally call him a petticoat." Was that his voice that was cracking so much and pitching all over like a boy barely old enough to work in the fields?
Kilgharrah had said nothing, simply looked at Merlin with half-closed eyes for a long moment in which Merlin didn't breathe for fear of bursting into tears.
As he watched, Merlin became horrified. Horrified at what these peoples created.
What they created to destroy each other. Fierce weapons that could kill more in a single attack than any sorcery Merlin had ever seen wielded.
It was devastating. And threatening.
Threatening to what he wished to protect.
What he had been charged to protect.
So, Merlin found himself spreading his magic across the land, to those places with the weakest defenses, and helping here and there to defend.
And, occasionally, he would interfere in the people's battles and protect this building or that statue – merely because they were ones he thought Arthur would have liked to see.
And, he would fervently prevent any and all from reaching that place – regardless if they meant harm – that place he himself no longer saw.
Because that was where he was, and Merlin would allow nothing to disturb his rest.
There were times a person caught his eye as he made his way across the land, through fields and the occasional small town.
Someone who he would take a long moment to recognize, from the growing fogginess of his memory. Someone who would appear like one he once knew.
They would pause when they noticed him, and stare for a moment – as if they were trying to recall if they had met him previously.
Once, it was a child who he knew, somehow, would someday grow old and look exactly as Gaius had – and he ran away as quickly as he could.
And, once, he saw a woman and a man at a distance that he almost happily realized looked exactly like the silhouette of his father and mother that he had imaged long, long ago. It was heart-wrenching to pull himself away from them, but he knew he must because they would not know him.
None of them would know him.
When it was Leon or Percival or Gwaine, he found it much easier to turn his head and be on his way. When it was Gwen, however, Merlin was pulled between seeing her and hating her and wishing she were with him and wishing she had never been. Because of what she had done to Arthur, long ago before they had even married.
Regardless, though, of who he saw, he would retreat to the farthest corner of the land from them and wait, wait decades until he was sure they would no longer be there for him to see.
He barely ever went into the cities – monstrous things full of noise and people everywhere that Merlin could never adjust himself to again – but, when he did, he would find quiet, unnoticed places and set to work.
Those places that just happened to have the right amount of space between buildings and just the right angle of sunlight for a tree to grow – little havens in the midst of all the noise.
It took him decades to realize they were all mirrored some part of the lakeside.
But, he couldn't stop himself from creating them, from nurturing them, from leaving subtle paths that a few people would follow to discover what he had made for them.
What Merlin had made wishing he could show to him.
And then, one day, he felt it – like a thread deep inside him had suddenly snapped – and he took off running. And he ran until each step covered miles – calling to the wind and the earth to speed him on his way.
And he ran there, to the one place he had kept the most safe, though he had never approached it again.
He ran back to the lake that held the three people he had loved most in this world – Freya, the only woman he would ever, could ever, love; Lancelot, his greatest, most loyal friend; and Arthur.
And there, he stared out across the water, full of fiercely roaring waves, and looked for him – though he almost forgotten how he had appeared.
The brush of skin along his neck and the weight of a warm hand on his shoulder shocked him – for it had been so, so, so long since he had felt such contact.
And his voice.
It snapped everything in him back into its proper place.
It was like coming home.
"Were you ever going to tell me you're a bloody sorcerer?"
And he laughed.
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