Author's Note: Goodness, this was a fun one. Thanks for the reviews! More, please, more! I'm very much hoping for feedback on this chapter... some parts seemed rather far-fetched to me, but perhaps I am mistaken. On a sidenote, Old English is a fascinating language!

Merlin was tired of the Sidhe's toying. This had gone on long enough, and Arthur was getting weaker by the second… Merlin could see his friend's eyes glazing over, and it was obvious that Arthur had already lost the will to fight for life. "Will you do as I ask?" He said quietly, his words weighted and weary. "Or – must I do it myself?"

"We will not help you, Emrys. You have taken one too many from our number, and this we cannot forgive. You may be destined to bring about the dawning of an era of hope and understanding for humans, but we have no cares in the human world."

"So be it," Merlin answered coldly. His patience had already worn thin, and he had never truly expected the Sidhe to agree to his offer. What was the life of a servant, after all, in return for that of a king? Not much, Merlin thought. Not much.

With nothing left to say to the Sidhe, he closed his eyes, recognizing the path he was now forced to take. Would his magic be powerful enough to save Arthur, so close to death? Merlin knew that he was magic, in the simplest meaning of the phrase; his moments in the Crystal Cave during the battle had showed him things about himself which he would never have imagined. But, the question was, was magic itself strong enough to break the power of a sword forged in a dragon's breath? There was only one way to find out.

He opened his eyes, feeling the magic coursing through his veins even more distinctly than usual. Was it some trick of his mind, or was it magic itself that seemed to pulse through his veins? No matter. Merlin lifted his eyes, and turned his head to gaze at Arthur, ignoring the Sidhe still hovering in front of him. "O mé drýcræft, ic ásende þé butan mé bánsele!" His words began quietly, building along with his emotions as he finally gave voice to his wishes. By the end of the spell, he was shouting; this was not magic similar to anything he had ever done before. This was pure power – speaking in the language of the Old Religion, he demanded that his magic leave him for another being. "Ic álætee mé bócriht æt þé; áfær æt sé æðeling sæl ond tóweardnes!"

Merlin shook with the power building in his veins. His jaw clenched as the magic that was his life-blood seemed to gather in his chest– in his heart. In one moment, as Merlin had expected, the magic flung itself out of his body, lighting him up like – Well, Merlin thought wryly, like an angel. He knew he was anything but an angel; he had had his share of darkness. It was a strange sensation for Merlin– as if all of his power were enveloping him in a blanket of nerves. He felt the heartbeat of the Earth, the movement of the stars and sun… he could sense the life-forces of every spirit in Avalon, from the smallest mouse to the greatest Dragon.

And, even stranger, he could identify them. Merlin felt the rush of power as he broke his gaze away from Arthur in awe, recognizing his father's spirit, and Morgana's, and Mordred's. These spirits would not hurt him, he was certain of that, but the sheer power of the moment moved him beyond the capabilities of human consciousness. Like the time in the Crystal Cave, this experience both delighted and terrified Merlin.

Then, for a brief instant, he saw them, all those who had died at his hand or for him… Uther, Will, Gwen's father, Balinor, Morgana, Mordred, and Lancelot, along with so many others. Too many, he realized. What have I done? Their shadowy forms shone blue, and he realized that these were indeed the true spirits of his friends and enemies. Although, he noticed with a sudden start, Morgana was smiling– not cruelly, as she had done so frequently in the past few years, but her own smile, the smile of her years as Uther's ward. Perhaps her true spirit had not been as evil as she wanted it to be.

The sight of Lancelot nearly broke his heart. Of all those he had lost, Lancelot's death still hurt the most: his best friend, the one who had supported him despite his magic and sacrificed himself that Merlin would live. He almost turned away, almost pulled the magic back inside himself to escape this reminder of the sacrifices made for him and by him… but Arthur. Arthur was the reason he was doing this, and Arthur would not be allowed to die, not if Merlin could help it. And, as he had realized from the moment that Arthur had begun to fade, there was a chance – a very slight one, but a chance nonetheless – that he could.

He drew a deep breath, looking the spirit of Lancelot in the eye before crying out his final request. "In the name of the Old Religion and the name of Emrys, I demand that you restore Arthur Pendragon, Once and Future King!" His words sounded hollow even to him: an empty recitation of hallowed words and titles.

To his surprise, Lancelot grinned at him. The same old grin, the same eyes, the same face that had smiled at him from so many dreams since his passing… although a fair bit bluer than he had been in life. "Merlin, you need not demand such a thing," the spirit of Lancelot chuckled. "All you have to do is ask."

Morgana laughed along with him, her beautiful smile and bubbly laughter still charming Merlin as it had done when he was only a boy. "Did you think that we would refuse you?" He watched, entranced, as her eyes twinkled with a levity that had not been present there for many a year. "Merlin…"

"Morgana." He sighed, confused. Was she truly the same as she had been in the early days of his time in Camelot? It seemed impossible.

"I am sorry," she said simply, her laughter fading. "I was… not myself."

Merlin's lips twitched upwards in a sad imitation of a smile. "How many have died because of you, Morgana? And all because you were not yourself…"

"Merlin… I…"

His gaze hardened. "There can be no way for you to redeem yourself, Morgana. Too much blood has been shed." Merlin's tone was dangerously light, almost daring her to say something against him, to show her true self once and for all.

"My son." Balinor's voice cut through Merlin's distrust, and he turned his gaze upon the father he had known for so little time. "Do not harden your heart against the fallen… even those who seem beyond redemption can make amends."

"… Father?" Merlin's voice broke in his surprise. Surely his father, of all people, would understand his decision to refuse Morgana forgiveness?

Translation:

O mé drýcræft, ic ásende þé butan mé bánsele! Ic álætee mé bócrihtæt þé; áfær æt sé æðeling sæl ond tóweardnes! : Oh my magic, I send thee from my body! I renounce my right to thee; go to the Once and Future King!