Epilogue: Times and Seasons

I love spring. The smells, the sounds, the feel of the air - there was so much life all around. A miracle, every year, when the death of winter gives way to the stronger subtler power of spring.

I love walks, too. In the wild of the forest, hearing the sounds of nature and not people, the damp moss underfoot and the lively, tuneful creatures that make their homes in and around the trees.

And stories. Uncle's stories, especially, so many and so fascinating.

Because my life so far, as a girl with blood ties to royalty, has been uneventfully sedate. Interesting, almost always, especially my studies in magic. But never adventurous.

Until today.

It made me not a little sad to realize, the telling of this story would be up to me. And one that Uncle Merlin would never hear.

I stepped closer to him as I lifted my skirt to clear a fallen branch – there was no path here, and I could no longer see the red cloaks of my patient escort when I looked over my shoulder, but it wasn't apprehension that made me reach for his hand at the end of the full sleeve of his robe.

His fingers closed around mine, wrinkled and bony but still long and fine and strong. The lines around his deep blue eyes deepened when he smiled at me.

But the shadow remained in the depths. A shadow that had been there for almost two years now, when his hair and beard, now snowy, first began to fade from black.

"Tell me a story," I said impulsively, smiling to think it reminded him, as me, of my early childhood. Finding him in his study, the inner room of the library in Camelot, the white citadel where I'd grown up.

And he'd set aside his books and scrolls and quill – and never ask me if I was meant to be busy at other tasks – and together we would plunge into one of his stories. Of one of the knights, most of whom I knew as middle-aged gray-beards, some of whom had been my parents' generation – Sir Gareth and my mother's brother Sir Galahad, most notably. I vaguely recalled glimpses of them in tournaments, or returning from patrol, or riding out to one of the two battles I could recall personally.

Or of King Arthur. My father's father. Those were my favorite, because Uncle was in almost all of them, too, though his version of his participation left much to my youthful imagination.

"Tell me a story, Uncle Merlin," I said again. To prolong and sweeten our time together. Our last day. And I knew he would understand – and appreciate my effort and desire to fill the silence.

"You know all my stories, little one," he said, though I was almost as tall as he. Because his shoulders had begun to bow, gradually, two years ago also. "Better than I do, almost – I heard you telling of Dinas Emrys to your own students last week."

I turned, as we walked, to see the high brow of the hill that had given Uncle his second name, on our right, through the trees. A glimpse of old, broken wall like a royal circlet at the top, a slice of open cave nearer the bottom.

A cave, I knew, few could actually see. Decades ago, it had been sealed from common view by magic, the resting place for the bones of the great dragon, Kilgarrah.

"It is one of the children's favorites," I told my uncle cheerfully.

Uncle, I say, though really he isn't. He is my Uncle Lucan's father-in-law. King Lucan's father-in-law. But my father, Prince Brian, was one of his first students, and always called him uncle, so I have done.

He stopped walking, his gaze distant, and sighed in a privately melancholy sort of way. "The children," he repeated. "Soon all they will have are stories, and none will remember. The Isle of the Blessed is vacant, and the druids live in villages that will become towns, as more of the foreign people arrive with their languages and customs and stories… do you suppose he will be forgotten entirely?"

"Uncle Merlin," I said, maybe even daring to scold him a bit, gently. And maybe that was to prevent the sting of the lump that rose in my throat from sparking tears to my eyes to embarrass us both and maybe even ruin this last day, this glorious day of new spring. "Uncle Merlin, no one will ever forget King Arthur. Even if it is only stories to the children, they will remember."

He pulled his gaze back from unshared visions in the air, and brushed the backs of his fingers down my cheek, giving me a rueful smile. "Forgive me, I'm old," he sighed, but his eyes twinkled again. "A story, then? Which one?"

"Well…" I thought.

Dinas Emrys was my favorite, the first journey of my favorite uncle and his best friend, the greatest king of Camelot – even Uncle Lucan said so – and the most powerful sorcerer in the world. Even Grandmama Morgana said so. I wanted a story of glory and hope and triumph – but today was our last day. Which made me think of their last day, and wonder if there was any more glory and hope and triumph to be had. Surely… surely it wasn't over.

"Will you tell me of Camlann?" I said.

"Which time?" Under the wisps of his white beard, his lips quirked humorously. "There were three battles there, you know."

I took an inaudible breath of relief. I didn't want to hurt him, after all, though it occurred to me that perhaps he was – and maybe had been for some time - looking forward to this day as a relief. Maybe even before he asked me to take part. And keep the secret.

"How old are you, now?" he continued, as we continued our stroll northward through the spring woods.

"Twenty years this summer." I knew I sounded proud, and didn't try to hide my smile when he glanced at me.

"So you remember the second time we were at Camlann, ten years ago."

"I remember… everyone coming home. It was like a holiday, feasting and laughing, jokes and stories."

"I don't, really," he mused. "I think I was drunk for a week."

"Grandmama said that was Sir Gwaine's fault," I commented. He smiled, but it was a bit sad; Sir Gwaine had not lived through the past winter. I hadn't known him well – I knew his son, Sir Gareth, a bit better.

"Three times we fought at Camlann," he said. "Here – let's stop here and sit. I can sense the grove – can you? – and I'd not take a tale of battle and death into the circle." I sat on the low, thick trunk of a fallen tree, while he adjusted his robe to straddle it next to me. "Arthur was fond of claiming invincibility, everywhere but Camlann. And we did our best to keep that prophecy secret… I still don't know for sure how that rumor got out."

"Mama said Uncle Mordred –" I began, but swallowed my words at a warning flash from his eyes.

"That was never proved," he chided me gently, before switching his gaze back to the far away and long ago. "After the battle of Badon Hill, it was twenty years til the Saxons threatened Camelot again. A full generation, it may be. Your grandmamma and King Arthur never did agree on how to handle the continuing encroachment. Morgana was of the opinion – and possibly supported by her visions, you may know that better than I – that it was inevitable, the foreign people assimilating and changing Camelot. Arthur was determined to prevent it by any means possible."

He sighed. "The first time we found ourselves at Camlann, Viv, you weren't yet a year old. Your father quarreled with his brother – Lucan thought your father should stay home, and safe, the next heir to Arthur's throne since your cousin the crown prince hadn't been born yet. And Brian was determined to make sure that Lucan returned safely to his inheritance, using his knowledge of magic and medicine to that end. Ah, well."

I thought, not for the first time, that my father and his brother the king were very like my grandfather and his Merlin. "So King Arthur was already a grandfather, when you went to Camlann the first time," I said. "But you weren't, yet."

He nodded pensively, and gave his head shake. "We were both prepared, then, for the prophecy finally coming true."

I knew that story, a bit. "But there was no high priestess, then."

"No… And when the victory was won, and we departed, I was convinced I was dreaming, and would wake to find we had the battle yet to fight." Another smile flitted across his face.

"Tell me of the third battle?" I said, quietly.

"There were Saxons there. By then they'd made treaties with Mercia for trade, and coastal towns to settle in. Of Arthur's senior knights, Leon and Tristan had both passed already – your great-uncle Elyan as well. Leon's twin sons took separate sides; they never did agree on much, but… it was a terrible tragedy that neither recognized the other, in the battle."

Which explained that one line of the prophecy I'd memorized, by now, brother will slaughter brother, friend will murder friend…

"Your uncle Mordred was there. He swore to me, after, it was his intent to sue for peace, try to mediate between Camelot and Saxon Mercia… Both your grandparents, also, your uncle Galahad, of course. Your grandmama Morgana had been High Priestess not yet a year – we didn't know at the time that the structure of the isle would crumble at her death, and she would be the last priestess mentioned in the prophecy. Your grandfather went, determined to protect her, and Arthur broke the scabbard I had made for him at the battle of Badon, giving Lancelot all but the mount, for his protection.

"Bors died there, and Kay. Percival afterward, never really recovered from a deep chest wound. I think he… rather decided that his job was finished, after Arthur…

"It was my idea." He smiled at me, even as a single tear dripped from shining eyes. "By then it seemed everyone knew the rumor, that King Arthur was to die at Camlann. It was my idea to disguise him. And in the thick of it, I lost sight of him. In the thick of it, your uncle Mordred didn't realize who he was until too late.

"We were all too late. Relinor was flying with Aithusa, and your grandmamma – you've never seen her so fierce. I've never seen her control lightning, before that or since. To see the battle won, one more time.

"He wasn't in pain, my Arthur, but the wound… simply wouldn't heal. He told me, it was his time, and he was ready. The mount of the scabbard… kept him alive, two days. So we were able to bring him home, and everyone said goodbye."

That, I remembered. King Arthur my grandfather, so still and colorless – skin, hair, and eyes all pale. But still he had a smile for me.

I said, "He told me not to cry."

"I think he told everyone that," Uncle said. "I think we all disobeyed him, too." The fine lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled with his smile. "Your grandmother today remembers him as he was, doesn't she?"

"Grandmama Gwen tells me stories of Lionys," I said. "It makes her happy."

The wrinkles deepened. "Ah. Yes, the romance as well as the adventure."

"Both are important," I argued gently.

"Perhaps more so when you are young than when you are old."

"Tell me of Avalon, then," I said.

"Arthur and I had talked of his ancestors, the Pendragons and the du Bois, and where Arthur would rest. Of Kilgarrah, whose bones are buried here. When my own wife died…" He glanced at me, and I could see the question he didn't dare ask.

"I remember," I said softly, to reassure him. Lady Freya, always so obviously in love with her husband, sweet and smart and strong and tiny; she always seemed as though as stiff wind would blow her away. And then one year, several ago now, one had. The wife of Camelot's court physician was gone before many even knew she was ill.

"When my Freya died, I brought her to the lake of Avalon. Floated her funeral pyre out into the mist. Arthur was with me – he was the only other one to see the lake, then, not even your aunt Queen Marya, or our son Relinor, was there. And just the same, after Camlann, I took Arthur to the lake, alone but for Sir Bodiver – who threw your grandfather's sword into the water, that none other might wield it again."

I imagined it. My grandfather's body, dressed in his armor and crimson cloak and his crown, as it had been when the procession left the citadel – perhaps on a bed of ferns in an old wooden boat, floating into the mist.

"It is almost noon, Vivi," Uncle Merlin hinted. His knees creaked as he pushed himself up, and courteously took my hand.

"Are you sure about this?" I asked him for maybe the dozenth time, as we resumed our slow journey. "There will be so many to miss you. Can you not wait to join my grandfather in a natural death?"

"It was here where I met him," Uncle answered, without really answering. "And he who gave me my name, did you know that? Do you know what Emrys means?"

I did. Merlin the Immortal – and a suspicion struck. "Uncle, before we left Camelot, did you – you looked into the crystal, didn't you?"

"I wouldn't recommend it," he told me, half-serious.

"What did you see?" The question was out before I could bite my tongue.

He stopped for a moment and took a deep breath of fresh spring air. "The future," he said, lightly. "Here we are."

I felt it, the grove. It was as if the whole world had taken a deep eager breath to hold in anticipation. I felt the glory and hope and triumph, here. And there, the mouth of the bell-cave of the story, unobtrusively hidden to those without the eyes to see. To my knowledge, none had ventured there after the quest of the becoming prince and the dragonlords' key.

"The thing about prophecy," he said, stepping to what my sense of magic instinctively defined as the middle of the grove. "There is often more than one application of fulfillment. Do you understand?"

"I'm not sure I do," I admitted, following him.

He pushed up the sleeves of his blue robe, which had the effect of baring his remarkable druid-tattoos, though he took no notice, holding out his arms as if to embrace the serenity of the grove. "Be wary of Dinas Emrys hill, the ancient magic sleeping still," he murmured. "The mountain high, the giant deep, guard on golden treasure keep… Old and young, beyond the wall, unlock the future with one call. Light of fire, and light of sun, both become the chosen one."

I shivered, involuntarily. Ancient magic sleeping still… And when he said golden treasure, I could not help thinking of the color of performed magic, gleaming in his eyes. Old and young… and I wondered how many years would pass for him, under this enchantment. Exactly how old he would be, when the future was unlocked again. And who would be calling him, then?

"Keep the hope, await the king… Once and future, peace will bring."

"What will happen with Relinor, and Aithusa?" I blurted. I could feel noon approaching, the appointed time for our spell-work, and clutched a bit desperately at these moments.

"In the waking dream, I was connected," he murmured whimsically. "Though without the sensation of the passing of time."

"So you'll be able to see them, talk to them?" I said. "Will Relinor become a full dragonlord, then?"

"Not exactly. I've spoken to them both, never fear. Their bond is strong, without the control that will never pass to another, as is both their preference. But there will still be a link, for me." His smile spread, wide and excited as a boy's, the way I hadn't seen it for years. Since before Camlann. "I'm not really sure – I've never done this before. But come now, Vivian, it's time."

I took a breath to steady and calm myself, and began to speak the words of the enchantment, holding out my own hands as if to lift the magic of life from the ground, from the grove, from the sky and sun overhead. I heard his voice whisper them along with me, the power increasing exponentially, overwhelmingly.

"Go, now. And do not grieve for those whose season is past, whose sun is set. My life was full, and I am satisfied."

I turned, blindly, to pace toward the edge of the grove, the words of the enchantment rolling slowly, inexorably, to a finish. I didn't turn again, knowing I wouldn't see him again. Though I did wonder, if he would choose to rest in the bell-cave, or if there would be one more old oak in the center of the grove, reaching for the light of the sun.

Keep the hope, await the king – once and future peace will bring…

Once – and future. What had he seen of that future, to prompt him to this choice? Uncle Merlin would remain caught in a single moment of high noon - awaiting his king? As all time and no time would pass, for him…

Glory and hope and triumph – I could still feel them.

I reached the edge of the grove, and passed beyond. I felt tears on my face, and a smile.

"What," I said aloud, "will I tell them?" Everyone who had loved Merlin, who would wonder at his passing – if he had left Camelot, if he had died…

I heard a voice in my mind, and it sounded very like him. "Tell them a story…"

…..*…..

A/N: And, that's a wrap! You can't even imagine the size of the smile on my face right now. Wow, what a journey this has been.

Hope you liked the conclusion. How Camlann happened, how it didn't happen. Morgana's fate, and Mordred Arthur's nephew. Other bits and pieces of the legend, here, if you can recognize them, and even the story of Merlin and Vivian revisited.

Thank you again to everyone who showed support for my creativity!

PS, Sorry some have mentioned a bit of confusion about the future generations. So this is how it went: Lucan m. Marya, Brian m. Nenna and had Vivian. Merlin&Freya's son was Relinor, Lancelot&Morgana had two sons after Nenna, Galahad and Mordred (the one to kill Arthur, but unknowingly). That sort of thing is hard to make clear sometimes in the flow of fiction without stopping for a family tutorial…