It is dark and cold and damp. He doesn't know how many years have passed, just that they have. He can feel it, on the round, in the sky. He grieves for his wife, for his friends - all of them. Even for the treacherous sorcerer Merlin who perhaps wasn't so treacherous after all. Right now he wouldn't really care.
He is alone.
He will always be alone, until he goes back under the surface and he thinks he can hear them whisper in his ears, like shadows.
Then, "Come on, prat."
Arthur Pendragon opens his eyes. Maybe he isn't so alone after all.
