(A/N: I don't have any more of these letters written, so I don't know exactly when the next update will be! But I want your guys's opinions: how many more letters do you think there should be? Like just a guess? Because I've already written out the ending of the story, it's just the middle letters that I need to fill in before I can post my ending.)

Dear Arthur,

Some days it's crippling how much I miss Camelot, how much I miss everyone from Camelot. I miss being able to talk to Gaius about my magic. I miss teasing Gwen. I miss all those nights around the campfire during quests and those nights holed up in the tavern, joking and carefree with all the knights. Do you remember all those times Gwaine got so drunk? And those times he dragged me into it as well, how we would sing at the top of our lungs as we spilled out of the tavern and into the streets, wobbling our way to our chambers with our arms flung around each other? I miss talking to Percival about life outside of Camelot, all the advantages and disadvantages of living in a small town where magic was permitted rather than outlawed. I miss when Leon pretended he didn't know what you and I were getting up to in the corridors of the castle and how he would always swallow our bullshit excuses, like that one time I told him I was teaching you poetry. I was always so grateful he never said anything, though I always saw the way he rolled his eyes at each new lame excuse we concocted. I was always a terrible liar. Still am.

Growing up in Ealdor I didn't have friends. It was just me, my mum, and Will. Will was a troublemaker and I was suspicious by association, cast away into a social hell because I was always so afraid of someone discovering my magic. Even though in Cenred's kingdom it was legal, it didn't mean people were any more accepting about it. And then I came to Camelot to find myself, to find a place where I belonged. You asked me once if I had find it, and I hadn't been sure that I had then. But then all the knights showed up and treated me like one of them though I was just your clumsy manservant, and I felt good, felt at home. And I liked feeling at home.

I never wanted to lose that feeling. And it hurt more than words could say to see everyone one by one leave me, to die and never come back. One by one it felt like holes were ripping my heart, the place that once felt like home was now becoming a bitter prison sentence. First I lose Will, but you were there for that. Saved your life 'cause he knew what you meant to me even then, saved you so I wouldn't have to tell you about my magic, though I eventually told you later on anyway. And then there was Freya, although you didn't know her. She was a Druid girl I'd seen locked in a cage. I had hidden her in Camelot, fell in love with her, was going to run away with her and leave everything behind. And then I found out she was cursed, that she turned into an animal at night and killed people. I was still willing to run away with her, but it turns out she was wounded while in her animal form and died in my arms. Freya became the guardian of Avalon; the legends refer to her as the Lady of the Lake. She watches over you, Arthur, makes sure you're okay and ready for when Albion needs you.

And then it was all the knights: first Lancelot, then Elyan. And then that battle of Camlann where I'd lost four of my good friends from that wretched war. I lost Gwaine, my best friend, my confidant, the one person I thought could truly be at peace with me. I lost Mordred, so young and full of promise, who made all the wrong decisions, who was blinded by that love he claimed was so much more important than power. Then there was Morgana, lost long ago, the moment I had chosen to poison her. But this was the final blow. I had created a monster out of her and I had to finally put her down, finally ease her suffering. It felt like losing her all over when the memories of a thoughtful, kind Morgana were always there to remind me of the person she had once been. And you. I lost you that day. I failed to keep you alive, and that hurt more than anything else combined. You were my love, my life, my everything. I sacrificed so many things for you, for your namesake, because of what you mean to me. I loved you with a pierce passion, a fire burning at the core of me, flames building higher and bigger, licking my heart and burning my throat with every breath. I physically needed you, wanted you, couldn't breathe without you. And then I had to let you go, had to watch as you died right there in my arms, helpless and screaming and crying because I didn't want to let you go, because I couldn't stop thinking about how it should've been me who died in your place.

And then as the years progressed and I accepted my destiny as Emrys, the immortal, I watched Gaius grow too old and weary and pass away in his sleep. I remember when the news got back to Camelot that Percival set out on a journey with Galahad, never coming back from their mission, never heard from again, leaving Percival's wife Blanchefleur to take care of their young son Lohengrin on her own. I watched as Gwen played a broken queen, how Leon mended her wounds with his friendship that soon turned into love, and how a sickness I couldn't cure had attached itself to her bones, and she died weak in her husband's arms. My mother died not long after Gwen, too far away for me to use my magic to save her. Leon was the one of our former knights who served until he couldn't any longer, lived well beyond his years, and then collapsed in the streets of Camelot when he could go on no longer. There were others after that—Bors, Lamorak, Kay, Bedivere, Pellinore, Gaheris, Gareth, Geraint—but they were all after your reign. And one by one they all died and Camelot was a hollow empty place for me and I was so bone weary and there was nowhere to call my own anymore.

I keep thinking maybe they'll come back to life too, when you do. We could all be a family again, the best of friends. We could get flats near each other, have certain times where we all get together and catch up, just be close again. I miss the camaraderie of my old friend. I miss you all so much, and nothing can fill those spaces, those scars, of living an abnormally long life, not even making new memories with new people in my life. Nothing is as good as the original. Is it selfish to want it all back, that safe and peaceful feeling, where I felt okay in my skin? Sometimes I forgot all about my secret, the magic I possessed, while in the company of my mates. I felt free, not like the weight of Camelot's future was resting on me, though of course it was, and the feeling of being okay faded whenever I was alone.

I just want a chance to go back, a do over. To cherish more memories, to handle situation differently, to be bolder and brighter and not so afraid of everything. To find myself again. To find you and relive the magic (no pun intended) of discovering each other. I want it all back.

But I suppose since there's no magic button to go back in time, I'll just have to wait to create more memories with you, even if I know I will have to let you go a second time, and how it will hurt so much more than the first. Because what will happen if you come back, Arthur? You're only human. You cannot live forever. I wouldn't wish that upon anyone. You will come into the world as you are now, you will give, grow old, and die. And my only wish is that I could die with you, but I know such dreams cannot be. I'm sorry about that, Arthur. Sorry I can never truly sacrifice myself for you. Sorry I am the way I am. I'm just sorry I'll have to see you go again.

We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, though. I don't want to think about that now. I just want to immerse myself in my nostalgia, to nurse a beer and think about all the good times I've had, not the bad ones I will inevitably face again. I can fall asleep dreaming about life in Camelot and maybe it will feel as if I am still there, as if time has stood still instead of moving forward. I can almost dream you're here with me, the ghost of your fingers on my skin, your breath hot on my neck, the press of your erection against my bare arse. I can almost dream we are in love and happy, ready to face the things that come are way, so long as we have each other. I can almost pretend.

Love, Merlin