The next couple of chapters are basically to tie up some loose ends. It might feel as if the story could end there, I am not even halfway done with the gang yet =)

Thank you for every favourite and alerts. I could not reply to some of the reviews, so, I am taking this to thank each and everyone of you for making the Muses very happy. And for making my day.

BagginsPotterPevensie (coolest ID), July, strawberry shortcake, whonewbie, Little Miss Demeanor, ellabellamj, , Anaisnine, rach-florance, Angelmygirl, Cassie, Maxx21, Rivendellover, Jess, Regenboge and of course, Peach. I wish I could give you all a hug, or at the very least, a cookie each.

Merlin painted all through the night, his canvas filled with angry slashes of red and vermillion and black. There was no pattern, not even an abstract one that could be culled from his latest painting. All that he knew was that he was angry and he was taking it out on the only way he knew. By the time he was on his third canvas, it was dawn, and the colours became softer, the brush strokes calmer; blue and green with hints of melancholic grey. This was his therapy and as usual, it worked.

His choice of colour may have changed, but his anger towards Arthur remained. Of course, he was angry with Guinevere too, but she left because her career justified it. Whereas Arthur let her go because it was easier for him to say goodbye than say he loved Guinevere. Three years was a long time to keep one's hope but Merlin had never given up on Arthur and Guinevere. Not even when Arthur introduced them to his girlfriends that none of them quite liked.

And then Morgana got sick and everything else seemed petty compared to what they were facing at the moment, so Arthur and Guinevere took a backseat momentarily. Merlin was not sure if Morgana had talked to Arthur about Guinevere. He hoped she had; Merlin was not prepared to loose Guinevere. Whenever she was in Rome, Merlin knew the bond between them would pull Guinevere back to them, one day, eventually for good. But with Morgana gone, the bond had somewhat become a little fragile. There would be less of a pull for Guinevere to return to London. Friendship should be effortless; if even any one of them felt as if they had to try to make things work, then the friendship becomes worthless. At least, that is what Merlin thinks.

He finished his painting just as the sun peeked above the horizon. He felt tired all of a sudden, as he usually does after he exerts himself to his craft. He soaked his paintbrushes in its solvents and tidied up a little, giving up after moving a few tubes of water colour from one end of the table to another. He was distracted by the lack of sleep that was catching up on his body, his emotions and by his artist's mind cataloguing the shade and nuance of every object he sees. He left his studio, the small powder room in Gwaine's house that was converted into a studio as a Christmas present by its owner to Merlin on the year he moved into the place. The room was at the front of the house and the first thing Merlin saw when he entered the living room on his way up to his room was Arthur stretched out sleeping on the sofa.

Merlin frowned. He had not heard Arthur coming in during the night, but then again, that was not unusual because when Merlin paints, he usually tunes out the rest of the world. He also did not like Arthur's presence in Gwaine's home. Arthur must have come straight to Gwaine's place after work. He was sleeping as if he had not care in the world, stretched out languidly on the sofa, with a cushion at the back of his head and one more clutched to his bare chest. The sight of Arthur strengthened Merlin's resolve; he will go to the flat and move his things out. The man cannot be trusted with his own feelings and Merlin had finally run out of patience. Arthur can go and date as many girls as he wants...and marry any of the bland, surgically-altered socialites. He had stopped caring as of seven o'clock last evening when Guinevere's flight took off.

Merlin turned away before the urge to smack Arthur grew. It irritated Merlin to see Arthur sleeping with his mouth just slightly open. Merlin turned away from the man who was his former best friend, making up his mind to never forgive Arthur for as long as he lives and beyond. He was about to go to the spare bedroom he had staked out earlier when Arthur's voice stopped him.

"Merlin? Where are you going?"

Merlin, who was determined not to talk to his former best friend, could not help snapping back, "Rome. Idiot."

"About that…"

"Shut up." Merlin was already up the stairs, on his way to his room. He could not care less what Arthur wanted to say; all Arthur has is excuses and Merlin is sick of excuses. Whatever Arthur has to say, he could say it Gwaine or Lance. Maybe they will be sympathetic. He hoped they would not and it would serve Arthur right if they punched him.

Merlin opened the door to his new room and stopped dead on his tracks. Standing in the middle of the room, looking at Merlin, with a smile as bright as only Guinevere could, a stack of clothes in her hands that she had been unpacking into the closet in the room.

"Tell me I am not dreaming," Merlin said, his voice breathless.

"I am as real as the tortoise there," Guinevere replied, glancing at a small aquarium at top of the chest of drawers near the door.

"He stopped you…" Merlin managed his voice thick with emotions. He was still standing at the door, one hand on the doorknob.

"Actually, he came to Rome," Guinevere told him. She did not make any sudden moves, probably want him to decide for himself if she was real or a hallucination caused by too much water – colour fumes.

"Excuse me for just one minute," Merlin said, leaving the room, closing the door behind him. He took a deep breath and clattered down the stairs, back into the living room, where Arthur had gotten up and was buttoning his shirt with a triumphant, almost smug, smile.

"Idiot," Merlin told him before hugging him quite suddenly. "Stupid bloody prat of an idiot."

Arthur was in the danger of being choked out of breath by Merlin's ferocious hug. "You're welcome," he gasped out.

Merlin did not wait a moment longer; he rushed back up the stairs, hollering for Gwaine. Gwaine, awakened from his sleep, came stumbling out of his room, halfway between sleep and wake but mostly confused.

Merlin did not answer. Instead, he threw open the door to the spare bedroom, revealing a rather startled Guinevere.

Gwaine's mouth fell open. "The Princess did it. The Princess actually did it."

"You're welcome, mate," Arthur hollered from downstairs. "I'll get the coffee started."

The three person hug was awkward, with the differences in height and Merlin being all elbows and all, but somehow it worked. There was simultaneous crying, laughing and talking. It felt almost as if the events of the last three years had not occurred. It was amazing how fast wounds healed and bad memories wiped clean, all thanks to the sustaining powers of their friendship.

The friendship was intact. And now, Merlin believed, their bond was stronger than ever before.

=X=X=X=

It was a hyper speed rush from sleep to wakefulness that rendered Lance at a loss momentarily. He blinked once or twice as an effort to coax his senses to reawaken. Moments later, he became aware of where he was and his surroundings; he was on his back, in his bed, looking up at the painted-on fluorescent stars on the ceiling of his bedroom. He became aware of the rain outside, both by the roaring sound and by the chill brought on by it. He was not aware of the time; having the drapes in his rooms drawn was a disadvantage as to determine if it was light or dark. Lately, Lance had not given much care for the time of the day; every day since he buried his wife was a cycle of numbness and pain. He had given up wondering why a heartbeat of a memory would bring forth misery that lasted for hours, days even. He coped by choosing to stay in his home, remembering Morgana. It was hardly the kind of mourning his wife would have approved, but Lance had decided long ago that since Morgana left him, she no longer had a say in the matter.

But that day, the moment he opened his eyes, he felt something different, something he had not felt for a long time. Ever since Morgana got sick, he could only remember waking up with the tight grip of grief that renders smiling, laughing and the very thought of happiness obsolete. That morning, however, Lance felt none of the grief that usually physically manifested itself as an invisible burden bearing down on his being. As his full consciousness returned, he remembered his dreams. Instead of the usual suffocating darkness he had been dealt with since Morgana's funeral, his dream had been bright. It was a replay of his memories the music festival at Glastonbury last year. They were at a Snow Patrol gig and all throughout the session, Morgana had sung along to every song the band performed. She sang 'Signal Fire' to Lance, embracing him tightly, her voice but a mere whisper in his ear. It had been one of the many perfect moments in their lives; never mind the rain or his ruined shoes. The dream ended with Morgana smiling up at him and Lance had awoken with remnants of his smile.

The image of Morgana's smiling face had offered a wonderful solace against the usual stark reality of waking up alone in a large bed that seemed even larger now. It was as if Morgana was assuring him everything was going to be all right, at least for the day.

Fully awake, Lance realized that he needed to get out of bed. He rolled over and reached for his watch on the side table next to bed, wondering if it was midday or evening. He was mildly pleased to see that it just past nine in the morning. He had almost ceased keeping track of time; it was not of any consequence when he spends his days drifting from one room to another in his flat and going to bed whenever staying awake became a chore. But that morning, having woken up at peace, Lance decided it was a sign from the universe that the time for healing has finally begun.

He got out of bed, fully alert. His boxers and t-shirt hardly offered any warmth, so he grabbed the jumper that lay on the foot of his bed and pulled it on. A stop in the bathroom and he made his way to the kitchen, past the tidy living room. The whole flat was neat; Arthur had made sure the domestic service came in for their twice weekly clean up. In the equally spotless kitchen, Lance started the coffee machine and he felt that maybe he could fix himself a full meal to eat.

With the coffee brewing, Lance went about the flat, drawing the drapes open. He did not bother with the windows, it was pelting outside, but it certainly did brighten up the place considerably. When the coffee was done, he poured it into a hideous mug painted with daisies in a horrifying shade of pink. The mug was Morgana's, who under Merlin's tutelage, made and painted six mugs and gave it to each one of them two years back. Lance and Arthur claimed a miracle occurred as both mugs broke at the same time the day it was given to them. Guinevere claimed she lost the mug and her entire luggage en route to Rome. Gwaine gave his to a kindergarten teacher he was wooing at the time, who agreed to go on a date with him, claiming she found it endearing that children in her class had better artistic skills than the person who made the mug. Merlin used the mug to keep his 'special' paint brushes, whatever that means. Only Morgana used hers to drink from, probably in defiance of all them for treating her work of art so contemptuously.

Lance smiled as he remembered the memory. As he did, he thanked God that he was able to think of Morgana and not break down. A small step today.

He took his coffee and went to his office room, a bit of space elevated from the rest of the living room that he converted into an office before moving in. He was a journalist, a writer with a travel magazine and his job hardly entails him to be present at the magazine office every day; an arrangement that had suited both him and Morgana tremendously well. His working space was a mess of papers, travel brochures, photographs and other debris associated with travel and his job hazards as a journalist, but Lance would not have any of it tidied because he was afraid it might disrupt his working 'chi'. There was disruption however, from the corner of his office. Merlin's art supplies were slowly encroaching out of the space Lance had lined out for him using yellow tape. Merlin had a functioning studio in his own flat, as well as in Gwaine's town house, should he be inspired at any times he should be in any of the mentioned locations. Having some space for Merlin's art supply in their homes was as natural as all of them having a spare change of clothes at any of their homes. It was something that did not need an explaining. It was a small detail of their friendship.

Lance put down his coffee mug on an empty spot on his desk and did a quick check of his e-mail inbox; nothing urgent, just plenty more of encouraging messages from well – wishers. His heart lurched when his eyes fell on an e-mail heading from Morgana. She constantly sent him reminders whenever he was away from home without her; naughty bits of poetry and prose and sometimes even visual aids (as she termed them) to help him cope, but mostly to make him rush back to her. Lance quickly turned his gaze away from the computer screen, shutting it down. He then looked at his phone and saw five missed calls.

Lance winced as he picked up his phone, knowing instinctively that his friends had called. Upon checking, he saw three calls were from Merlin and one each from Gwaine and Arthur. He was sure that it could not have been an emergency, because they had not rung his landline. They were probably checking up on him and Lance felt that he owed them a phone call.

Lance decided to call Arthur. It was just a little after nine and Arthur should just be getting into the office, unless of course he had an early meeting. As he waited for the call to connect, Lance wished that Arthur would be available to talk; he missed them all and did not particularly want to be greeted by an electronic voice.

"Lance?" Arthur picked up at the first ring, his voice a mix of surprise and apprehension.

"I'm fine." Lance forsook traditional greetings just so that his friend would cease worrying. "I am not hurt. I just called to say hello."

"That's good," Arthur remarked, sounding relieved.

"Busy, mate?"

"I took the day off," Arthur replied and Lance detected a certain sheepishness in his voice. Before he could say anything, however, Arthur had handed his phone to someone else.

"Hello?"

"Guinevere!" Lance recognized her voice instantly. And quickly realized the monumental change that had occurred in the last twenty – four hours. "Arthur finally stopped you from going to Rome?"

Guinevere giggled. "Technically, I was in Rome for five minutes before Arthur showed up," she explained.

"Private jet and all?" Lance guessed. "If that isn't showing off…"

"I think he is trying to impress me," Guinevere stage-whispered to Lance.

"It was a gesture," Arthur was heard hollering from the background.

Lance laughed, a genuine laughter since God only knows when. It did not surprise him that he is laughing because of his friends.

"It certainly was a grand gesture," Guinevere admitted and before she could continue, Lance heard a scrambling sound and Arthur apparently got hold of his phone again.

"She is most impressed, she just would not admit it," Arthur said, to the sound of Guinevere's laughter.

Lance smiled when he heard them. Arthur and Guinevere had been a foregone conclusion the day Morgana introduced her to the rest of them fifteen years ago. The rest of them had never really been comfortable seeing Arthur with another girl or Guinevere with another guy, on the rare occasions she does go out on a date. Morgana had vowed to smack Arthur across the head on the day he finally admits his feelings to Guinevere.

"Maybe Guinevere is not that impressed," Lance said, turning his thoughts to the present.

"That is why I got her a tortoise," Arthur remarked, sounding triumphant.

"There is a tortoise?" Lance asked, chuckling. "Mate, normal? Ever heard of that?"

"Mate, we hang out with Merlin," Arthur replied. "What do you mean by normal?"

Lance laughed. "I am so happy for you, Arthur," he told Arthur, his words as genuine as his feelings. "Morgana would have approved." The dull ache that Lance had been indifferent to since waking up throbbed a little sharper, but he was able to ignore it. It was hardly any jealousy, for Lance had lived, loved and enjoyed his life with the woman he loved and wished nothing but the same for his friends as well.

Arthur grew quiet on the other end of the line; not because of grief, but to acknowledge the fact that Lance was right. "Yeah, I hope so."

"How's Gwaine and Merlin?" Lance asked, moving on as quickly as he could.

"One is still as narcissistic as ever and the other has developed an affinity to Guinevere's tortoise in ways I never thought was possible."

Lance chuckled, missing his friends to a degree that it almost hurt. His exile from them had been self – imposed. He was thankful that they had managed to exercise restraint in allowing him the time and space to grief, despite the promise he knew Morgana would have extracted from them.

"Mate, come on over for dinner tonight," Arthur said, his voice quiet and hopeful. "Maybe we can find time to christen the tortoise as well."

As prepared as he was on taking the step in healing and moving on, Arthur's suggestion had, momentarily, felt blasphemous to Lance. A mild panic surged through him, indicating that it is unacceptable for Lance to leave the flat. Until Lance realized that it was not an invitation. Friends do not need invitation to get together, they just do. They could have as easily invited themselves to Lance's flat, but Arthur invited him to Gwaine's place to see if Lance would accept, giving Lance a chance to show his friends how he well he was coping thus far.

"I'll bring the wine," Lance said, accepting.

"Good." Arthur's voice was quiet, but there was a world of relief behind it. "Come down any time after seven. We'll all be at Gwaine's place."

"Will do," Lance promised. He could not help feeling as if this was the first time he was meeting his friends. It has been ten days since he last saw them, or had any sort of contact save for phone calls and texts with them. He knew nothing has changed between them, but he also knew that much has shifted in their friendship.

He rang off citing domestic chores. If Arthur was reluctant to end the conversation, he did not show it. He told Lance that they would all be waiting for him, a little subtle arm-twisting so that Lance would not back off at the last minute. Lance was glad that at least Arthur felt compelled to try. Waking up feeling good was one thing, but Lance knew the world was waiting for him to make an entrance again. He needed some external motivation.

A tortoise's christening was the best kind of motivation he could ask for.

=X=X=X=