The Lady of the Lake gave the Once and Future King and his Round Table a brief but painfully accurate explanation of both their situation and Merlin's. She had the tact to withdraw gracefully after that, leaving them to digest the information without the distraction of her presence.

It had been so easy to simply accept everything that had happened to them as natural and inevitable. The magic of Avalon didn't really lend itself to critical thought; it hadn't occurred to any of them to wonder why they were there, or whether there was going to be any more to the story. They had lived, and they had died, and now they were together, happy, in something that fit the description of the sort of paradise every god and goddess promised was waiting on the far side of death, and what more was there to say?

"So… we're going back, someday," Elyan said, aloud, because it didn't make any sense in his head. "Avalon is just sort of… a travelers' hostel until it's time to return."

"Apparently so," said Leon. "More than once, if I understood correctly. Or at any rate, sire, you will. The Once and Future King."

"Merlin called me that a few times," said Arthur. He let out a short huff of dry, unamused laughter. "I didn't have the slightest idea what he was talking about, and I assumed that he didn't, either. I always assumed that he didn't know what he was talking about, and it seems like I was always wrong."

"What did he tell you after you took the throne?" Lancelot asked Gwen. "You were the queen, and it wasn't as though he needed to keep his magic secret anymore. Didn't he explain any of it?"

Gwen shook her head, looking miserable. "Honestly… for a long time, we didn't really talk much about anything. I couldn't bear it. The day to day business of governing the kingdom, or handling the problems that came up, of course, but that wasn't talking; that was him delivering reports or suggesting strategies and me giving him his orders. And it was more than a year before I could even get through that much without needing to go off somewhere to compose myself afterwards."

Arthur looked stunned. "Why? I thought the two of you were friends."

She shook her head again. "Not after Camlann," she admitted. "Not for a long time after that. At first, I could barely look at him without thinking 'how could you have let this happen.' On the really bad days, I even caught myself thinking 'why couldn't it have been you, instead,' and he knew it. And he was thinking the same things, and he knew that I knew it. I also… resented his magic, in a way. I know it wasn't fair of me, but it seemed like, well, like he could do anything, except for the one thing that mattered, and that was hard to forgive."

"Forgive…? It wasn't his fault I died, Gwen," Arthur said.

"Not to hear him tell it," she replied. "He came to my chambers the day after the funeral and told me everything. By the time he'd finished confessing ten years of lies, and mistakes, and all the ways he'd failed us... well. We both needed someone to blame, and who else was left? And by the time I'd healed enough to suspect that his version of the story was more than a little skewed, it was too late. For the rest of my life, he was the rock I leaned on, when everyone else was leaning on me, and there's no question that his magic saved us all any number of times, but... Merlin died at Camlann, Arthur. What came home was Emrys. Camelot's guardian and the crown's not-so-secret weapon. Not Gwen's friend."

"The ways he'd failed us," Arthur murmured, his face unreadable. Then, louder, he said it again. "All the ways he'd failed us. Well, good to know that he got all that off his chest. Tell me, Gwen, did that turnip-brained imbecile even think to mention all the ways we failed him? Or could he not count that high?"

"What do you think, Arthur?" she snapped. "Of course he didn't. I had to figure that part out for myself. It took me a while, and I'm not proud of that. So if you're attempting to make me realize that I'm a terrible person and a worse friend, don't bother. I'm already quite aware."

He flinched, and put his arm around her, anger quenched as abruptly as it had bubbled up. "You're nothing of the sort, Guinevere. It's not you I'm angry with, and you're not the one to blame. Besides. If you're a bad friend, what does that make me? I'm the one he was afraid to talk to. Not to mention the one who didn't listen even when he tried."

She rested her head against his shoulder, her guilt not even slightly assuaged, and didn't tell them about that one horrible fight, a month after Camlann, when she'd been given final proof that she would never bear Arthur's child, and that the Pendragon line was therefore extinct. She'd been devastated, and furious, and grieving, and she'd flung bitter, hateful words at him, partially because she wanted someone to hurt as badly as she did, and partially because she knew that he was already hurting more than she, and in some odd way, that made it all worse. She was fairly sure she'd flung more than just words, not that anyone had ever mentioned it again, but even if she had, that was the least of her sins that night. She didn't remember much of what she'd said—she'd had more wine than usual in a completely unsuccessful attempt to dull the pain both of heart and body—but she knew that she'd been vicious, and had taken a twisted sort of pleasure in her cruelty, and she did remember saying that perhaps Uther had been right after all, and asking him what good his magic was, what good he was, if, with all his power, he hadn't even been able to keep his king alive. And she remembered the look on his face as she said it.

She'd apologized, of course. Just hearing herself say it sobered her up like a bucket of ice water. She had been horrified at what she was letting grief make of her, and she'd apologized immediately, backtracking and correcting herself as she had as a much younger girl. He'd just shaken his head, almost smiling, and said that he'd missed hearing Pendragons tell him how worthless he was, and that if there was one thing he'd learned, it was that you might as well tell the truth, because, in the end, lies would only make everything worse. If anything, he said, he should apologize to her for being useless. And he did.

Then he'd bowed, told her that, if she planned to execute him for regicide and treason, or simply general incompetence, the guards would find him in his chambers and that he'd go quietly, and walked out of the room.

She considered taking him up on his offer, too, mostly because it was painfully obvious that he wished she would.

Paradoxically, their relationship improved after that. Maybe it was just that it couldn't possibly get any worse, or that they had almost no one left besides one another, or the fact that ten years of friendship couldn't entirely vanish overnight. Maybe it was that they each understood what the other was going through—the agonizing loss, the crushing responsibility, the useless guilt—and needed to share the burden or else be destroyed by it. Maybe it was as cold-blooded as the flat truth that she, and Camelot, needed Merlin's magic, almost as much as he needed her to allow him to use it on her behalf.

Maybe it was just as simple as the fact that they still loved one another almost as much, if in different ways, as they both still loved Arthur. And Camelot.

Time passed. And Gwen healed. It didn't mean she loved Arthur any less, or that she didn't miss him every day, or even that she didn't have times when her grief was as immediate and raw and all-encompassing as it had ever been, because all of those things were true. But there did eventually come a point where life went on, and her memories became a comfort, rather than a reminder of what she had lost. She healed.

Merlin didn't.

Ever.

Oh, he functioned well enough; he did what needed to be done, he spoke and ate and behaved normally, shouldered his responsibilities without complaint, and he even smiled or joked the way he once had. His devotion to Camelot was, if anything, stronger than ever. He produced miracles as offhandedly as he'd once polished armor, and about as often. But much of the man he had been was simply gone, and his few remaining friends couldn't help but see that.

Percival had caught Merlin by the sleeve, once, a few years after Camlann, when it was no longer possible to ignore the fact that he was not getting better. As usual, he was rushing from one crisis to the next, trying to be in three places at once and damned near succeeding. Leon once said that it made him tired just watching Merlin whirl through his day. He said 'tired.' He meant 'heartbroken.'

"Merlin," said Percival, gently. "You have to stop. You can't keep doing this to yourself."

Merlin quirked an eyebrow in a maneuver stolen shamelessly from Gaius. "What are you talking about? I'm just doing my job."

"You know what I'm talking about," Percival said. "Arthur wouldn't have wanted to see you like this."

Merlin smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Then I guess it's lucky for him that he doesn't have to. Besides. When did I ever do what he wanted? No point in starting now."

Percival winced. "Merlin, working yourself to death isn't going to change anything."

The smile got wider. It still didn't reach his eyes. Tugging his arm out of Percival's grasp, he said, "Not a problem, then. I promise you, I'm not dying." And that had been that.

For Gwen, in a twisted sort of way, it actually made things easier. They started over, essentially. It took a while to find their footing, but that wasn't unfamiliar to either of them; it was a dance they'd done before. In the beginning, they had been the wide-eyed newcomer and the more experienced guide, then the prince's man and the quasi-princess's maid. Then it had been prince's companion and prince's lover, and that was an adjustment. Then she had become Arthur's queen, and things had… changed. Then he had revealed himself as a near-omnipotent sorcerer, and things had shifted again. And if the power dynamics weren't enough to throw things off kilter, the complicated mix of emotions—love and grief and guilt and anger and regret—would have forced a readjustment, anyway.

They did eventually figure it out. Emrys and the Queen worked well together, and if their intense partnership lacked some of the warmth and happiness they had shared in their youth, perhaps that was only to be expected, and it didn't seem to matter much, not in the greater scheme of things. What did matter was that Camelot prospered, and Albion thrived. There was work to be done, a great deal of it, and if there was anything two former servants understood, it was the need to buckle down and do the impossible if the situation required it. And, it had to be admitted, having a near-omnipotent sorcerer on hand made doing the impossible a great deal easier.

During her last illness, when everyone knew that her reign would be measured in weeks if not days, they finally, completely, reconciled. They had worked together for decades; there had been mutual respect and trust and even affection. But in those last few days, as their long partnership drew gently to a close, there was something truer, richer than that. From the moment she took to her bed for what was obviously going to be the last time, he stubbornly refused to leave her chamber for so much as a moment, though it was difficult to say if he claimed the right as physician, sorcerer, advisor, or just old friend. No one challenged him, in any case, and he stayed by her side to the end. And she was happy to have him there. For a few golden days, they were Gwen and Merlin once more.

"I never really thanked you for everything you did," she said, one evening.

"You never had to," said Merlin immediately. "I don't want you to."

"I couldn't have done it without you. Any of it."

"That's complete rubbish. Everything you accomplished was your own achievement, not mine. You're the smith who forged this country; I'm just the hammer you used once in a while."

"Are you really going to use that metaphor to a blacksmith's daughter?"

"What, didn't I use it right?" He grinned. "Either way, the point stands. You would have been a great queen whether I was there or not, and everyone knows it."

"Everyone knows nothing of the sort," she said. She chuckled. "The Council certainly didn't. They were absolutely terrified that you'd leave Camelot. Conquer a kingdom of your own, or something."

"That's the stupidest thing I ever heard," Merlin said. "Where would I go? And what would I do with a kingdom? My magic belonged to you from the day you took the throne."

"Well, they didn't believe that. For a long time, they kept insisting that I needed to marry you, to make sure you'd stay."

"They what?" His voice scaled up. "That's… that's disgusting!"

"The idea of marrying me is disgusting?" Gwen's voice was heavy with fond amusement.

"The idea of you being forced to marry me is disgusting! As if I could ever take the place of…" Merlin, obviously too upset for teasing, cut himself off midword, and forced his voice back to levity. "Anyhow, sorry you had to put up with that. And I'm glad you never told me about it. I'd probably have turned them all into toads. Not that anyone would have been able to tell the difference."

"It might not have been as bad as all that. Did you know? I was a little in love with you, when you first came to Camelot," she said, looking him over. Remembering.

Unbeknownst to anyone, for years he'd been using a few judicious spells to silver his hair and otherwise attempt to look his age, (although he drew the line at full-out aging spells and aching knees. There were limits,) but for the most part, his face was still that of the irrepressible boy she'd met in the stocks, at least if you didn't look too closely into his eyes, and most people tried not to. She wondered what might have happened to a blacksmith's daughter and a physician's apprentice if destiny, and Pendragons, hadn't interfered. It might have been quite nice.

He started. "What? No, you weren't. Were you?"

She laughed. "I didn't think you'd noticed. Which, at the time, didn't do much for my pride, I'd like to add."

He still looked poleaxed. "I… er, sorry about that; didn't mean to be insulting. It's just that… me?! Why ever would you have been interested in me?"

Her smile was bittersweet. "I have a type, I guess."

"Idiots?"

"Ridiculously brave, infuriatingly noble, frustratingly selfless men who put everyone and everything before their own well-being," she corrected. "Arthur. Lancelot. And you."

"So… idiots?"

She laughed again. "Yes, Merlin. Idiots." She took a breath. "And speaking of which. What are you going to do when I'm gone?"

He shrugged. "The same thing I've been doing all along, I'd've thought. I know Baron Loholt doesn't like me all that much, but I don't think he'll sack me after he takes the throne. He's not stupid, and he knows I'm useful."

"He doesn't dislike you. He's a little afraid of you, is all."

He shrugged again. "Most people are. I'm used to it. Anyway, even if he does, it won't make any difference. I don't need a royal charter to protect Camelot. I'll do that to my last breath."

"I know you will. I was asking about you, not your job."

"I am my job. I'll be fine. You don't need to worry about me."

"Merlin, when I first met you, you were in the stocks. And you only found more trouble for yourself after that. I do need to worry about you, because you refuse to worry about yourself, and someone has to."

He smiled at her. "Maybe so. But not you, not anymore. You've carried that burden long enough, Gwen. It's time to lay it down."

She sighed minutely, let it go. She was too tired to argue. "Merlin. I want you to promise me something."

"Anything, Gwen. You know that."

"Yes," she said. She did know that. "When it's time… I want you to take me where you took Arthur. I don't want to be mewed up in that horrid crypt, next to Uther. Bring me to Arthur."

He swallowed hard, nodded. "I promise," he said softly. "I would have, anyway. It's a beautiful place, Gwen. It really is. The most beautiful place I've ever seen. The lake of Avalon. It's where I took Lancelot, you know. Gwaine, too. And the woman I… well, she's there, too. You'd have liked each other, I think. You… you won't be alone, is what I'm saying. All the people I loved most will be right there with you."

"And Arthur…" she mumbled, her eyes drifting closed.

He held her gnarled hand in his smooth one, kissed it gently. "Yes, Gwen. Arthur. He's there, waiting for you. Shhh. Sleep now."

She lived another week. The council was thrown into some minor hysteria when her body mysteriously vanished before the state funeral could be held, but the common folks just nodded sagely, and told each other that it was only to be expected, and no doubt she'd come back when she was good and ready. With King Arthur at her side, in all likelihood.