FLOWERS CUT TOO SHORT
Arthur staggers. A relieved chortle brushes his exhausted features, he lifts his sword to protect his face from the dazzling rising sun.
He is still standing.
He is still alive.
It is dawn and he is here, in the ruins of his castle, surrounded by corpses, under the crimson torn banners floating on the morning breeze over the smoking towers.
It's over.
He turns slowly, gazing at the valorous men who fought by his side – soldiers, knights and commoners – straightening up in a daze, their tired hands still clasping their soiled weapons.
Bugles sound and the allied kings ride in proudly, the hoofs of their horses clattering on the cobblestones splotched in blood and tears.
Bayard, a simple crown circling his white hair and giving an even more stern look to his old face, a spear in his gauntlet, is prodding ahead of him Odin who is stumbling, hands bound. The man with a salt-and-pepper beard glares at his enemy without remorse. The black wolf howling on his yellow surcoat looks like a slobbering hound.
Lot's thin lips curl up cruelly, the king of Nemeth observes his elders with great heed.
Arthur's neck is stiff, and there is not a single part of his body that is not sore. He comes with heavy steps to face his enemy who has been thrown to his knees.
There he is, the King of Cornwall who sent an assassin to murder him, who kidnapped and tortured Merlin, who sent thousands of men to attack Camelot and caused more losses in a four-day siege than a three-months war would have cost.
There he is, the man whose son Arthur killed in a duel, years ago, when he was just a brash young knight.
The King of Camelot shakes his head wearily.
- "This should have ended long ago", he mutters.
Odin's eyes shot daggers at him and he spits on the ground.
- "Don't you dare doing me the affront of forgiving me, Pendragon. Please, don't offend me with this disgusting altruism you made a reputation of!
Arthur's strained face shuts painfully.
- "Please?" he repeats, sucking in a shallow breath. "Merlin begged them, yet your executioners did not spare him. You've done so much harm to avenge a son who died as a man of honor ..."
He runs a hand over his face, unaware that it leaves a brownish streak on his brow.
- "I won't offer you the hand you despise", he says softly. "But I will offer it to your people. It's not about kindness, Odin. It's about justice, fairness ... and learning to understand what drives the heart of others."
He bows his head to the three kings who are listening silently, looking imperturbable.
- "Take him away and don't let his blood fall on Camelot's soil."
Outraged, Odin struggles up, but Bayard pins him down and nods gravely. Lot snorts as he urges off his horse and Rodor's nephew bows his chin admiringly.
Moments later, they have left the courtyard.
It's over.
It's really over.
Later, there will be meetings, councils, banquets for the allies who came to save them and new treaties to write, but now, it is time to count the dead, heal the wounds, reunite with loved ones.
The sun is rising slowly above the battered slates roofs, in the blue sky where white clouds are lazily fraying.
Arthur cleans and slides his sword in his sheath. Tremors of fatigue course through his shoulders. He looks up to the main door of the castle and his face suddenly lights up.
- "Guinevere!"
He runs to her and she hobbles down the wide stairs, hurrying to him despite her injury. He grabs her neck and kisses her mouth fiercely, then lifts her in his arms.
- "You're alive!"
She brushes back the blond hair falling over his face, laughing and crying at the same time. She is so beautiful, despite her curly bushy hair, the dark crusted gash in her cheek, the smoke smudge under her eyes.
- "Arthur ... oh Arthur, I love you so much" she chuckles, returning his kiss passionately.
In the courtyard, the warrior with a ponytail crouches to welcome in his open arms his three children. The newlyweds whirl in the rays of dawn. Two soldiers are slapping each other's back, giggling with exhaustion and relief. The potter rekindles his pipe, shaking his chin, tears drawing clear paths in the grime of battle.
Stretchers pass, some covered with a sheet, others accompanied by someone holding the hand of the casualty.
Some people are putting out the fires. Others are just standing, heads thrown back to contemplate the miraculous dawn. The wind stirs the tattered curtains on the royal floor.
A few children are playing with pebbles in a gleaming puddle.
Under the arcades, Percival is sitting with his head in his hands, grief-stricken. Sir Leon approaches him and settled on the stone ledge next to him. Without saying a word, he puts his arm around the shoulders of his friend and they remain so, quietly.
Three grooms are rounding up the scattered horses, a kitchen girl gathers the geese and hens. An old woman milks her goat and offers a bowl of foaming cream to a weary knight. A mutt is barking somewhere.
The blue-and-silver of Mercia, the green-and-gold of Nemeth and the black-and-red of Essetir blossom like tulips in the courtyard.
On the terrace, ladybugs scurry up the ivy. The stone bench is broken and a boulder crushed in the lush lawn. Blackbirds are pecking in the plowed brown earth, but the grapes of roses are intact and the breeze rustles softly in the green shrubs.
Georges is sweeping the tiles at the top of the Griffin Stairs. He pauses for a moment, straightens up a chair, dusts it. He pauses, lets go of a pensive sigh of relief then he keeps cleaning up the hallway flooded with parchment light.
The Dolma and Albion lift together the slab next to the queen's wardrobe and the little girl, her eyes shining, takes out of their hiding place the two small wooden dragons. Her nurse pats her head and Sir Pellinore, the potbellied white cat, rubs against her legs, purring.
On top of the bell tower, Gaius pays his respects to Morgana's body, his hands clasped over his woolen robes. Tears welling up in his eyes, Merlin comes to Mordred and puts his arm around his shoulders. The child, who was staring at his dead mother with empty orbs, flinches. Then he buries his face in the servant's tunic and weeps, poor little thing rocked by desperate gasps.
The sun basks the dragon-shaped stone horn, dawn giving a pearlescent glint to the rough scales.
In the surrounding fields, Odin's army gave way to the allies' tents and columns of prisoners are being formed, like gray rings on the desolate plain.
A raven perches on a broken spear and crows hoarsely.
Odin's boots are dangling under the old oak.
It is over.
oOoOoOo
Arthur puts his hands flat on the battlements and contemplates his land, happy to know the smokes rising into the scarlet sky of setting sun are only those of his people's homes. He feels empty but strangely at peace. He chaired councils and funerals relentlessly for two days and it is finally time to take some rest.
Camelot will recover from its injuries, as it has always done, slowly, courageously, patiently. The people are more united than ever after suffering through this together.
They are going to be all right.
Gravels roll under the soles of his manservant who limps up the city walls stairs and comes to stand next to his master.
- "A storm's coming."
Arthur nods.
- "Yes. Rain will do us good. It'll be less hot."
Merlin rubs his eyes with his fists, like a sleepy child. The king watches him with tender amusement.
- "You tired? Me too. I think we all deserve to get a good night rest."
- "Yes", mumbles the young man. "I'm tired, Arthur ..."
Something in his voice tugs at his friend's eyebrow.
- "You all right? It's not again about a cow that stopped giving milk, I hope ..." he scoffs. "I told you it wasn't the court physician's job to take care of th..."
He pales suddenly.
Blood is trickling down from the nose of his servant who touches it and looks at the tips of his fingers, a bit surprised.
- "Oh."
Then he collapses.
The king catches him up just before his head hit the wall.
- "Merlin!"
He throws the rangy legs over his arm, topples the lolling head against his shoulder and rushes down the stairs, terrified.
Something terribly resigned and guilty passes over Gaius' strained face when he opens the door. He steps back, points at the bed on which to put Merlin then approaches slowly, as if he was in no hurry.
- "What's happening?" Arthur pants. "He passed out, just like that - without warning! He was fine!"
The old man shakes his head sadly.
- "No, he wasn't, Sire", he replies in a barely audible voice. "He was mortally wounded during the battle."
His hand brushes his grandson's forehead, a loving touch more than a physician's gesture to feel the fever.
- "You probably don't remember, but there was a blast and he hurt his head on his way back to the caves, the first night. He was complaining of migraines, threw up once, and his ears often bled. I ... I did not pay attention, there always was another possible reason for these symptoms... but yesterday, he was sitting there on the flagstones. He lifted his blue eyes, asked me if I knew where his mother was."
His throat constricts at the memory and he avoids Arthur's horrified gaze.
- "It only lasted a short moment. Then he got up and he was acting perfectly fine again. There's a flow of blood in his head, Your Majesty. A few more hours and instead of being briefly confused or sluggish, he will faint – and he won't wake up this time."
The king sways, white as a sheet.
Gaius grabs his arm, pulls a stool and makes him sit.
- "Merlin is dying?" Arthur utters tonelessly.
The old man swallows hard and all his wrinkles crease painfully.
- "Yes, sire."
Distant thunder rumbles and a first warm drop crashes on the towers soaring in the crimson sunset.
Everything is silent.
Everything is so normal.
The vials on the dusty shelves, the cast-iron pot in the fireplace, the old books piled on the wooden stairs, the clumps of dry yarrow and hawthorn hanging from the joists, the rough striped blanket on the cot, the inkwells and scrolls on the table next to jars of ointments, a stack of fresh laundry in a wicker basket, the worn-out ironwork on an old chest near the window.
The rain begins to patter against the window and stormy light, white and purple, fills the familiar place.
A jolt courses through the king at the first lightning bolt.
- "No", he whispers.
He turns to the bed and meets the wide open blue eyes of Merlin.
- "Arthur ..."
The lopsided grin gives way to a puzzled grimace.
- "Oh. Did I fall?"
- "Yes, my boy", Gaius answers, handing him a damp cloth to clean the red smudges on his face. "No, don't get up. Lie still for a moment."
- "Okay", singsongs Merlin obediently.
His chest gently lifts his thin tunic. He swallows and his Adam's apple ripples under his creamy skin. A twitch at the corner of his left eye, he pulls up a knee and massages his crippled leg. One of his fingernails is purple from a blow he received during the battle or while fixing a door in the castle. His entangled dark curls needs to be trimmed.
Arthur suddenly suffocates at the thought of all the little details that make him so alive and black dots dance before his eyes.
- "Sire, sire! Your Majesty! ARTHUR!"
He comes back to his senses with his head in between his knees and blood throbbing furiously in his temples.
- "You okay?" Merlin asks anxiously, leaning on the edge of the bed.
Gaius' bushy eyebrow is both admonishing and full of pity.
- "I'm fine", groans the king.
He sits up slowly, breathing deeply until the room has stabilized and accepts with gratitude the water cup the old physician hands him.
- "Where did you get hurt?" rants his servant. "You shouldn't hide it. Oh. I bet you spent the night on paperwork instead of resting, you dollophead. That's why you almost fainted like a girl ! I'll tell Geoffrey of Montmouth and he'll write about it in his chronicles: Ay, fat lot of brilliance, the King of Camelot was."
Arthur stifles a laugh that sounds like a sob.
- "Shut up, Merlin."
For a moment there is only the sound of rain drops in the room, then the cobalt orbs lock with the sapphires, sincere and full of friendship.
- "You're going to be all right, Arthur."
Gaius leaps and the king freezes.
- "Everyone must die someday, y'know", Merlin adds, cocking his head to the side, very serious. "Some men are born to plow fields, some live to be great physicians, others to be great kings. Then one day they die, it's like that. Me, I was born to serve you. And I'm proud of that. And I wouldn't change a thing. But now I must go and you don't get to order me not, because it's normal."
- "There never was anything normal with you", Arthur coughs weakly. "Clotpole."
- "Hey, that's my word", quips Merlin.
After that, there is nothing more to say except farewell and this is what everyone comes to do. It is the strangest thing in the world to see these so different people popping at the door one after the other to say goodbye, and Merlin greeting them with his usual cheerfulness, as if he was only leaving for a few days.
Sir Leon clasps arms with him like a knight then tousles his hair affectionately.
- "I'll miss you, my friend", he says gravely.
Percival lets the lanky servant take his brawny frame in his arms, knowing that Merlin understands his pain and his grief.
- "T'was an honor to meet you, little one", he murmurs.
Geoffrey of Monmouth gazes at the young man for a long time then leaves the room after briefly squeezing Gaius' shoulder. The Dolma croons and fusses over him until she's kicked out. Georges waddles from one foot to the other, twisting the hem of his tunic, puckers his brow, and with red cheeks gabbles something that sounds like youwerebetterafriendthanaservantandIlikedyou.
Mordred purses his lips, looking grim.
- "I wish Sir Gwaine would be there", he mutters stubbornly after a long and heavy silence.
- "I'm sorry", Merlin whispers.
- "Will died", states the boy. "My mother too."
- "I know", just replies the servant.
Mordred looks up and his eerie blue eyes are bright with tears.
- "I'm alone!" he blusters.
- "No", protests the young man sadly. "No, that's not true."
- "Then stay to show me!" the child demands angrily.
- "I can't", Merlin repeats in a small voice. "I'm sorry, I can't."
Mordred storms off, slamming the door and Gaius comforts his heartbroken grandson.
Albion and Guinevere show up shortly after. The little girl climbs on the cot and snuggles on her friend's lap, the queen sits on the bed and puts her arm around the manservant's shoulders.
- "Thank you for everything you've done, Merlin", she says, trying to smile. "Thank you for what you are."
Albion lets go of a big sigh.
- "Your dragon, I'll keep it for me and I'll give Father's one to my little brother when I get one", she announces. "My falcon, I'll name it after you. When will you come back? It's far away, Avalon. Don't go there, please."
Merlin chuckles.
- "I will tell Mithian how pretty you became and how well you read, now. But don't swap the dragons, Albion. Arthur will need you to love him a lot. Doing so would hurt him, you know."
- "He scolds", mumbles the little girl almost in spite of herself.
Guinevere does not comment but her smile is sad.
Merlin taps the bud nose of the child.
- "He scolds, yes, but that's to hide how poorly he feels", he explains. "He acts tough when he's scared and prattish when he's lost. That's why Arthur should never be left alone. You have to take good care of him, remind him that he must laugh often and run after the cats or otherwise he'll put on too much weight."
The queen giggles, but tears are clinging to her eyelashes.
- "We will take care of him for you, Merlin. I promise."
- "I promise", chimes Albion gravely.
Then she plants a kiss on the servant's cheek and jumps off the bed.
- "See you soon, Merlin", she chirps, waving her graceful little hand at the door. "Good night."
- "Good night, princess", answers the young man fondly.
- "Farewell, Merlin", Guinevere says softly, bending to kiss her friend's forehead. "I will never forget you."
Night has fallen by the time they have all passed in the room and it is dark, despite the candles lit everywhere by Gaius.
He sits on the stool next to the bed and checks on his grand-son.
- "You're not too tired?"
- "No", Merlin yawns. "Maybe I won't die today, actually."
The old physician smiles affectionately.
- "There's no one like you in the whole world, do you know? That you'd fallen from the moon, it wouldn't surprise me."
The young man winks.
- "But the moon's not called Hunith! I'm glad I'll see her there ... and Balinor - my father, that is. I will be allowed to call him Father, there, no king will stop me. And then I'll see Lancelot, and Freya, too. I wonder if they missed me!"
- "I'm sure they did", Gaius croaks.
- "I wish Derian would come back before I leave."
- "What about Gwaine?"
Merlin smiles mysteriously.
- "I reckon he went ahead, not waiting for me. Are there are tankards of mead in Avalon, Gaius?"
- "I would think there are", squawks the physician who finds it increasingly difficult to hide his emotion.
- "No tears", warns his grandson. "Or Arthur will hurt too much ..."
- "You're right", the old man stutters.
His gnarled hands prop up the pillows under the young man's head. There are crimson stars on the white linen and the black curls around his ears are sticky. Merlin has not realized that he was more lying than sitting, now.
- "My head hurts", he winces involuntarily.
Gaius gets up heavily to prepare a potion which he knows will not be a relief.
The door creaks and Arthur slips inside.
- "Are they all gone?" he asks irritably.
- "Yes, including that darn woman", answers the court physician. "Thank you for allowing them to come, sire. It was very important to him."
The King clears his throat.
- "Well", he grumbles. "Good."
He steps into the room, sits on the stool next to the bed, where he spent so many hours after the dreadful events of Daobeth.
- "Hey", he says.
- "Are you going to tell me stuff, too?" twitters his servant.
The king snorts, a bit amused.
- "Stuff? No, Merlin."
He becomes serious.
- "But I'll stay here. With you. Until ... until it's time."
- "Can I say something, then? asks the young man, playing with the laces of the king's sleeve.
Arthur grins.
- "What, that I'm a lousy singer?" he joshes clumsily. "You already told me the last time you asked permission to speak."
Merlin chuckles.
- "Nah. But it's true, though, so if someone tells you otherwise, be wary. They're no friends!"
- "But you are", blurts Arthur whose poker face is cracking.
He wraps in his hands his servant's slender fingers.
- "What am I going to do without you, Merlin?" he rasps.
- "You will be King of Camelot, just like you are already. The greatest king this land has borne. The Once and Future King. You'll keep building Albion until other countries beyond the seas and from the ends of the world want to have the same dream as you. You'll keep telling people there is room for everyone, as long as we huddle a bit. You will show them how big your heart is, so big we could all fit in: me, Number Four, bastards and idiots, drunks and tramps and all the people of Camelot."
Merlin's blue eyes are shining with love and faith.
- "That's what you are, Arthur. This is why you were born."
He props himself on his elbows, sits up with effort and his arms gently pull the king in an embrace.
- "I wish I could have tell you that when you were Albion's age", he breathes, cradling the blonde man's nape. "I love you. I'm sorry you've been hurt so much. You're not alone, Sire. You don't need be better or different. I'm proud of you."
Arthur shuts his eyes. His whole body is shuddering while the words wash over him, taking away years of painful bitterness, years of trying to play a role, of never finding favor in his father's eyes. His arms close around his friend and he just grips him back, because the lump in his throat is too big to let a single word out.
- "Don't you give up", Merlin whispers. "Don't you stop fighting for what you believe in, Arthur Pendragon."
He is speaking through his nose, not realizing that blood is again trickling down on his upper lip, staining his master's white shirt.
- "Thank you... Merlin ... thank you… for everything ..."
- "Don't cry", warns the servant in a faltering voice. "Otherwise, I'll cry too."
The king only tightens the hug.
- "I don't care", he grunts. "It's all right to cry ... it's you who said so ..."
Because some things are harder than battle – like being at the bedside of a dying brother, like having to say goodbye to the companion who shared the road with you, like knowing you are leaving behind your best friend – Merlin snuggles against Arthur's wide shoulder and he sobs, while the king lets go of his tears with no shame.
Gaius retreated to the back of the room to hide his own snuffles.
The rain crackles on the window sill. The city sleeps and the gutters melancholic melody lull the people.
Arthur gently laid Merlin back on his pillows and he is leaning over him, listening fondly to the familiar babble.
- "It's pouring. Lord Geoffrey's rheumatism will act up."
- "Georges has probably already provided him with blankets and a good fire, don't worry."
- "Sir Pellinore is getting fat."
- "That's because he steals my bread and butter. Merlin, in what kind of realm are we living where cats eat in the king's plate? I knew I should have kept these mastiffs…"
- "It's Guinevere's birthday next week. She said she'd love to have a red velvet dress with embroideries."
- "I'll get the best seamstresses to work on it."
- "Albion trained with her crossbow to make a surprise for you. You should go hunt with her when autumn comes."
- "It's not a surprise if you tell me, Merlin. You really are rubbish at keeping secrets!"
- "… head hurts ..."
- "I know. I'm sorry ..."
- "Does that mean you'll give me a day off?"
- "No. Two."
Arthur does not feel the soreness in his hunched back as the hours pass by. He is still holding the hand of his friend, as if that was all that mattered.
And it is.
Outside, the rain keeps falling with a delicate and discreet sound. The night gives way to dawn again, and the sky fills with blending colors, like a painting fading underwater.
- "We had a good time, isn't it?"
- "Yes. We had the best of times."
The young man smiles. Then his eyelids close and his head sinks into the pillow, as if he was drifting off to sleep.
- "Merlin?"
The king's strangled call startles from his slumber Gaius who came back earlier to be at his grandson's bedside.
- "Is he ... is he ..."
The old man checks his patient's pulse, lifts an eyelid, and listens to the scrawny chest. Then he sits back heavily into the chair on the other side of the cot and runs a very weary hand over his face. His jowls are quivering.
- "Gaius", Arthur wheezes. "Gaius, is he ... I beg you ..."
The court physician slowly nods.
- "Yes", he heaves. "He's dead. Our Merlin is gone."
The King turns into a statue for a moment.
Then he leans over his servant, takes again the hand he held all night and squeezes it gently. His sapphire eyes mist up and his jaws quaver as if they were going to break, but he smiles.
- "Sweet dreams, Merlin. You well deserved your day off."
Outside, the golden sky is shedding tears of blood.
oOoOoOo
The willow branches bow over the lake. The breeze stirs them gently. A glitter ripples on the water. From time to time, a fish laps at the mirror surface in which reflects the wide blue sky. A golden haze of insects swirls in the sunshine. It is agreeably cool in the shade.
Arthur loiters in the woods, clad in armor, his long red cloak billowing over the thick green carpet of grass and clovers. From time to time, he stops, crouches and picks up a bluebell that he adds to his bouquet.
- "Father, I found a fairy flower!"
Albion trots up to him, pleating up her black silk dress, her sandy curls dancing around her chubby face.
She proudly presents him the dandelion and pouts, seeing that it is stripped. Arthur chuckles at her discomfiture and hands her another one. The little girl smiles at him. She puffs her cheeks, blows with him to scatter the light downy feathers.
- "Bye-bye!" she waves.
- "Is your bouquet ready?" asks the king.
- "Yes, sire", Albion answers promptly. Squeezed flowers pop from behind her back and Arthur nods approvingly before showing his.
- "Oh, it's so pretty!" pips the child.
The blond man gets up, takes her hand. They walk together towards the creek, slowly.
- "Merlin won't come back, will he?" says the little girl after a moment, looking up at her father.
- "No, indeed", answers Arthur. "But what he taught us will always remain with us. That's how we will remember him and how we will cope with his absence."
- "What did he teach you, Father?"
The king pauses, gazing through the trees at the crowd gathered on the banks of the lake, then he cocks his head to smile at her daughter.
- "To love you, Albion."
She grins at him with all her white pearls – except for a hole in the top row, where she is missing her last baby tooth.
They go up to the boat and people step aside to let them pass. Almost all Camelot is here today: servants who are weeping, sorrowful knights with their arms in a sling or walking with crutches, farmers in their Sunday best and villagers with their families.
- "Here we are, Gaius", says the king. "Thanks for waiting for us."
Albion arranges the two bouquets among the reeds, ivy and roses lining the bottom of the boat.
Nobody says aloud that the flowers have been cut too short, as if children who were never taught how to do it had collected them.
Then Arthur draws Excalibur from the scabbard tied to his belt and lays the sword under Merlin's joined hands.
- "Keep this for me, will you ..." he whispers. "Until we fight together again."
He contemplates his friend one last time with a lump in his throat. His hand ruffles the black locks, his fingers softly brush against the pale carved cheekbones. He gives a gentle flick to the angular chin roughen by a dark stubble.
- "One must shave to appear before his king, Merlin", he rasps with a trembling smile.
His manservant does not banter back, for once.
He seems so alive, just deeply asleep behind his thick eyelashes, dressed in his best cobalt linen shirt, with his boots carefully polished - Georges has seen to that. Gaius and Guinevere washed him, laced his brown breeches, brushed his leather jacket till it was perfect, fluffed his hair and tucked small bags of hawthorn and rosemary in his pockets.
He has never been so handsome – nor so quiet.
- "It's time, Sire", Leon calls softly, putting his hand on the king's shoulder.
Arthur slowly straightens up. His red cloak drags in the pleasantly cold water on this hot day of late summer. He helps Percival to push the boat to the center of the lake then climbs up on the bank to his place next to Guinevere who intertwines her fingers with his.
Gaius is looking very old, standing in his long burgundy ceremonial robes, his white hair neatly combed and his skin blotched by his sleepless nights. His bushy brows are knitted and tears roll down his wrinkled cheeks. A few steps behind him, the Dolma and Geoffrey of Monmouth are silent. Georges is also there, as well as Mordred whose face is chalk white but dry.
Number Four hides in the shadow of a tree, in dusty clothes and worn-out boots, looking exhausted. He came back just a moment ago and brought the news of Gwaine's death at the ridge of Kemeray to Sir Leon who was getting dressed for Merlin's funeral.
The king beckons to him and he approaches hesitantly, accepts the bow, the arrow Percival gives him.
The small boat drifts away and the breeze caresses their faces.
- "We are here for Merlin of Ealdor, son of Hunith and Balinor", says the king in a loud voice that does not waver. "He lived among us putting his whole heart in every task entrusted to him. He set an example and gave us hope in dark times, never claiming anything for himself. He was more than a servant. He was a friend and a brother to all men."
Number Four bends the bow and lifts it. The flaming arrow flies through the sky in a graceful curve, like a bird, and crashes into the boat.
A lanky boy with large ears spins on his heels and a lopsided grin lights up his bony face. There is something magical in his blue eyes.
A precious and irreplaceable gift.
A friendship that does not judge, does not betray, that is offered freely.
A reaching hand, three words that have the power to change a life.
Tears stream down his cheeks continuously, but Arthur smiles at peace, as he contemplates the blaze reflecting in the lake.
- "Farewell, Merlin", he breathes. "Thank you."
Guinevere snuggles against him and he wraps his arm around his wife's shoulders.
- "We're going to be all right", she whispers.
Albion nestles her head against her father's hip, her little hand curled around the big hand of the king.
- "We're going to be all right", she chirps softly.
Arthur nods.
- "Yes. We will."
TBC
Arc based on episodes 5x13, 1x10, 4x12, 4x13, 5x04, 5x07
I know you hate me, but please wait till you read the last chapter (that should be posted this coming saturday) before you decide what you're going to do with me...