Author's Note: Well, this is it - the concluding chapter. If you have read this far, I appreciate it!

Obviously this AU sets the characters up to continue in a different direction (and leaves some unanswered questions about the identity of the sorceress and what all happened in unexplored POVs). For now, I hope this is a satisfactory ending.

Truly, this chapter is the reason I wrote the story.

XVII

More than anything, Arthur longs to escape the feast, to go and close a hand around Merlin's arm and haul him out of here and back to his chambers. To be forced to sit here and endure such banality while hanging over their heads is a reality from which neither of them will ever again be able to escape is torment.

But Camelot's heir knows better to indulge selfish whims when there are eyes upon him. So he laughs and drinks and acts as if all is fine, all the while avoiding Merlin's gaze, because if he looks at his manservant, he knows - he knows - it will all go out the window.

Finally, when the evening grows late and the party begins to break up - finally, then, Uther leans towards him. "You look pensive, Arthur," He says. It is not a rebuke yet, in part because his father's eyes are sparkling with the effects of too much wine. Arthur looks into them and tries not to think of how they looked last time he held them, how they glistened with rage and anger and hatred and fear. "Is anything the matter?"

"No, Father," Arthur says. "I'm just a little tired."

Uther smiles magnanimously and claps him on the shoulder. "Go and get some rest, then, son."

If there is irony in this being his dismissal, given the way he supposedly left the table last time (and yet, apparently, no time - but there is too complex a thought to have now), Arthur does not acknowledge it. He mutters a polite, "Thank you, sire," and stands, collecting his servant with a sweeping glance. Merlin puts the serving pitcher he has apparently reclaimed from Guinevere down on the table, sidesteps a swaying intoxicated guest, and follows.

The silence is deafening. Usually when they leave the banquet hall, Merlin has something to say: an observation, a joke, a relieved sigh. Today, Merlin follows almost submissively, a half-step behind Arthur, proper and polite in a way that he never is; and, as much as Arthur longs to break the tension himself, he finds he cannot. There is a heavy lump in his throat and pressure behind his eyes. What was pressing before is quiet now, hanging between them rather than exploding around them; and he knows what he must do, no matter how much it hurts.

He cannot let the future they apparently never lived happen again.

In his chambers, Merlin undresses him in the same weighted silence, removing his circlet, his cloak, his armor, his shirt, his trousers. He takes exquisite care, takes his time, knowing too the conversation they must have, this knowledge that they must give voice to. It comforts Arthur, in some ways, to know that Merlin is as reluctant as he is.

But it is unavoidable.

Merlin helps him into his nightshirt, smooths down the fabric against Arthur's shoulders. Arthur is beginning to suspect that he is the braver of the two of them, because: "Sire, I - "

Arthur holds up a hand to stop him. It feels to him as if the air has gone out of his room; he cannot do it. He cannot hear Merlin's apologies, cracking soft in the space between them, cannot look into his desperate eyes and hear again I only ever use it for you, Arthur, I swear it.

He can't.

He won't.

He turns and strides onto his balcony.

The night air is biting, especially given his light attire. A breeze nips at his bare knees, teases at his hair. He leans against the railing, the cool stone. Treason; he'd committed treason. Not even an hour ago, and yet, now, he supposes, not at all. And, while he'd barely had the time to think about the consequences of his actions, he'd nevertheless been sure he would never be here again, to see this, to look out over his country and know it was still his. Arthur wishes he could reach for that rage, the anger he had felt in the forest when he had first confronted Merlin, but how can he now? It is drained from him, leaving behind only a terrible weight. He had made his choice. They both had. Even if the choice is undone now, it still sits there, heavy pressure against his chest, no less real for all that it seems it never happened now.

Magic, again wreaking havoc on his life.

Merlin steps out after him: again, standing a pace away, demure; but Arthur can feel the emotion, raging just below the surface.

Everything with Merlin has been below the surface, for so long. He realizes that now.

"You should go," He says finally. Means to say it harshly, to leave no doubt for either of them that this is the best, the only, route available to them. But he can't. If these are to be his last words to Merlin, he can't. "You shouldn't stay."

Silence, so long he nearly cracks. And then, Merlin says, in a trembling voice, "Is that what you want, Arthur?"

Arthur has to swallow hard against the lump in his throat. He looks at the courtyard, at the spot where the pyre had been constructed. The pyre on which Merlin would have burned. "It doesn't matter what I want."

"It does to me," Merlin says.

The words buzz through him, making his resolve tremble.

"It will not be safe," Arthur says, after a while, closing his hands around the railing. He hates the words, hates them, but, "If you stay. You will not be safe. Surely if we've learned anything..." He lifts a hand, lets it fall.

"No, I suppose not," Merlin agrees, after a moment's pause. "But then, how will that be any change, really?"

There is, even now, a faint undercurrent of humor to the words. Arthur longs to give in to it, to let it be. Merlin, still here. Still his.

Instead he says, very cautiously, "It will be a change." He widens his gaze again, away from the courtyard; Camelot sprawls before them, and he looks without seeing, knowing he should be hungry to look at her, to revel in what he still has. But his mind is on the loss. "Because I'll know."

He doesn't need to elaborate further. He knows Merlin knows what he means. If he knows, if he holds this terrible knowledge in his hand, then everything will change between them. It will have to. Nothing will be the same ever again, not really.

For a while, neither of them speak. Each heartbeat draws Arthur closer to the horrible truth: Merlin is going to leave. Merlin did not trust him with this secret before, and there is no reason why he should trust him now. He is struck by the realization that this is the greater fear to him, the greater danger. The threat of magic at his side pales in comparison to the threat of ever again being without.

Merlin steps up beside him. He puts a hand on the rail, curls long, slender fingers about it. He breathes deeply. "Arthur?"

Arthur braces himself, nods.

"I hope you will believe me when I say this," Merlin says, his voice soft and sincere. "There is nowhere on this earth that I would rather be than by your side."

Finally, finally, Arthur dares to look at him again. Merlin is looking away, out over Camelot; his face is drawn and wary, but he can see the spark of hope in his manservant's eyes, the slight upward tilt to his lips. He looks, and thinks that at last he understands.

Why chase after the illusion of affection when the real thing is right here?

"Really?" He says, and pushes away from the railing. "Even though I'm a," He draws the word out, injects as much sarcasm as he can hope to muster in a moment like this. "Prat?"

Merlin's eyes lift to his, bright and sparkling with amusement. "Well, sire," He says, making even this sound like an insult and a term of endearment in one fell swoop. "Believe it or not, I suspect there's still hope for you. As long as I'm around to help you, of course."

"Then you really are an idiot," Arthur pronounces loftily.

Merlin chuckles. "Whatever you say, my lord," He says.

The End.