The sun set. The moon rose. The dorocha were conspicuous only by their absence.
Lancelot, supposedly, took first watch, but it was rather a moot point, since no one could fall asleep anyway.
He didn't bother keeping his voice down. "It appears, sire, that the Cailleach has kept her word after all, at least with regard to the dorocha."
"So it seems," said Arthur, sounding brusque and bored. Merlin, he thought, had known him well enough that he would have heard the emotion under the disinterest. He wasn't sure if anyone else ever had, or would have cared to know if they did.
"Maybe that's why she kept us here overnight," Percival said hopefully. "To prove that the bargain was kept."
"Gods, I hope you're right," Elyan murmured.
Leon cleared his throat. "If the boat hasn't returned by morning, perhaps we should consider conducting the funeral here."
"No. We're taking him home," Gwaine said, his voice harsh.
"I understand your feelings. But that might be what she objected to. He… technically, he's hers, now. Leaving him here might be the only way she'll allow us to go home."
Arthur added that to his list of horrible thoughts that he really hadn't needed Leon to share. "We're just upsetting ourselves with what-ifs now. In the morning we'll see what she wants, and I'll deal with it then. For now, get some damned sleep."
Lancelot tossed another log on the fire and set his jaw. Percival leaned over and put a hand on his shoulder. "I'll take second watch," he said quietly. "You get some rest."
Lancelot nodded. Percival, he knew, understood loss, and, more than that, understood when not to talk about it. He stretched himself out under his red cloak and tried not to think about morning. Eventually, somewhat to his own surprise, he drifted off.
*.*.*.*
Merlin ran his fingers through his hair nervously as the Cailleach continued to say nothing. When, at long last, she smiled, he gulped in queasy anticipation of her judgment.
"Well, Emrys," she said softly. "It appears that we are at something of an impasse."
He shook his head. "I'm not fighting with you. I'm at your mercy," he said.
"I've been told that I have no mercy, Emrys," she reminded him.
"Then I'm at your disposal, I suppose."
And he really believed it, she thought. "What do you think I ought to do?"
He bit his lip. "I couldn't say. It's not my place to tell you your business."
"What do you want me to do, then? Surely you can tell me that."
Hopeful and imploring, he said, "You… you said you could send me back?"
"And if I could? What would you do then?"
"What I'd prefer to do is go back to serving the Once and Future King. If I'm allowed."
"And if I refuse? If I order you to have nothing to do with him, to cease meddling in his destiny?"
"Meddling?" Merlin wasn't taking that one lying down. "It's my destiny, too."
"It was," the Cailleach said, heavy emphasis on the past tense. "The dead have no destiny."
"If you send me back, I won't be dead any longer."
"Perhaps not. But if I were to demand a price of you in exchange for that boon? The world is wide, Emrys. There are places other than Camelot you could go; kings other than Arthur you could serve if you choose. If I were to demand that you sever the cord between the two of you? If I let you return to your life at the cost of what was your fate, what then? What is your answer?"
"That you might as well keep me here," Merlin said. "I won't leave him, no matter what you say."
"Good. Remember that the next time you decide to throw yourself at death. Even you may someday run out of miracles," she said, a hint of iron in her voice. She gestured, and the veil appeared before them. "Go now, Emrys. I will not detain you here."
He blinked at her. "…Really?" he asked, like a child, unable to believe it could be that easy. "Thank you, my Lady. Thank you!"
"Do not thank me, Emrys," she said. "I do you no favors. Here is peace, and rest. You have suffered; I have seen it. You have lived your life in fear— there is nothing to fear in my realm. Back there you will face dangers you cannot yet imagine. And there will be pain, fear, unendurable loss. Friends will become enemies; enemies will appear in the guise of friends. The worst burdens of your past will seem lighter than the brightest day of your future. The day may come when you curse me for giving you back your life."
"I know," he said. Life was like that. "But that day is not today. Why are you trying to talk me out of it?"
"I told you; I have no mercy. Perhaps I simply want you to see that destiny is not simply something that happens to you. It is something you must choose, over and over again, and then accept the price of that choice. Because the alternative is worse. Do you understand?"
"I think so," he said. He walked to the veil, took a deep breath. "And I'm grateful for another chance."
"As well you should be. It's an opportunity given to few. Remember—dying for a cause is often easier and pleasanter than living for one, and you are not intended for the easy path." She smiled. "Farewell, Emrys."
"Farewell," he said awkwardly. "I… I suppose I'll see you again, someday."
She said nothing as he stepped towards the veil. It wasn't until it had sealed behind him that she murmured, "No. You won't."
And if a tear rolled slowly down her death-pale face, it surely had nothing to do with him. Surely not. Compassion was not in her nature; she said so herself.
*.*.*.*.*
At dawn, Arthur stopped pretending to sleep and stood up. There was just enough grayish, early-morning light to make it abundantly clear that the boat had not magically returned. Truth be told, he hadn't expected it to. Without a word, he stalked into the temple complex, determinedly not looking at the red-draped bundle on the way.
The other knights, who hadn't slept much, either, traded awkward looks.
"Should we… go with him?" Percival finally asked.
"I wouldn't," Lancelot said. "Let him face her without an audience."
"But what if she… I don't know, attacks him?"
Gwaine snorted. "She's the Keeper of the Gates of Death. You're a man with an oversized butter knife. What do you think you could actually do if she does attack?"
Percival grimaced, but either agreed or at least chose not to pursue the matter any further.
*.*.*.*.*
Arthur stormed into the central chamber and looked around. It was empty, with only the stained altar for company. "Hey!" he shouted. "Cailleach! Come back!"
Nothing happened.
"Tell me what you want from me!"
Nothing happened.
"For the love of the gods, be fair! You told me that I should have asked you what to do—well, I'm asking! Why are you keeping me here?"
Nothing happened.
"I'm not leaving until I get an answer," said Arthur. "If it's me you want, then say so. If it's something I've done that offended you, then tell me that and I'll atone. But I don't know what you want!"
Nothing happened.
"I killed my only friend to save my people," Arthur said, his voice broken. "And to please you. After that, there's nothing worse you could ask of me, so just ask it and let's be done with one another."
Nothing happened.
"I won't leave until you either answer me or let my men go."
Nothing happened.
He began to feel silly.
It got harder and harder to look away from the rusty stains on the altar and the ground surrounding it.
"Please. Please. Just tell me what I've failed to do so I can do it. Let this end."
"Is that really what you want, Camelot's king?"
Arthur spun on his heel. The Cailleach was standing there, her dead eyes meeting his. "Yes," he said simply. "If the reason you've kept us here on this island is some failing of mine, then I beg you to tell me how to make things right."
"Why do you assume that I'm keeping you here?"
Arthur opened his mouth, closed it. Thought about it for a moment, and tried again. Making assumptions had been fatal, in every sense of the word, the first time around; the last thing he needed was to compound the error. "We were unable to leave the island," he said carefully. "The boat was gone, and we could not swim to shore. Unless that was a coincidence?"
"No," she said.
"No. So I thought that if we were unable to leave, it was because there was something more that needed to be done. We… guessed, but I thought it would be simpler to ask you what it might be."
"Very good," she said. "A king should know when to ask for help."
He bowed his head. "And I'm asking."
She gave him a thin smile. "And if my answer is that I kept you here for reasons of my own, and that no actions of yours, either taken or omitted, had anything to do with it?"
He swallowed. "Then I suppose I can only request your permission to leave."
"Very well," she said. "Go."
He blinked at her. That had been too easy. "My men as well?"
She shrugged. "What would I want with them?"
He let out a relieved breath. "I thank you, my lady." He hesitated, not quite ready to leave.
She gave him a long look. "Was there anything else?"
"Just a foolish question," Arthur said. "It's just… my… is Merlin at peace?"
She shook her head gravely. "No, young king," she said. "Nor will he be. One such as he is not meant for peace."
"…I see," Arthur mumbled, sick at heart and sorry he'd asked. "I want to take him back to Camelot," he said defiantly.
She shrugged again. "As well you should."
"Is the boat back?"
"It will be by the time you return to the shore," she promised.
"Thank you," said Arthur. To the empty air.
*.*.*.*.*
Arthur walked back to the campsite. It was deserted, except for Merlin, who for obvious reasons wasn't going anywhere. He peered into the distance; on the far shore, the horses were once again picketed. Magically reappeared, and he didn't doubt for a moment that the boat would do likewise. With any luck, his knights would, too, preferably before it was time to row back to Camelot.
"I'm angry with you," Arthur said conversationally. "Just so you know. You really are the worst servant I've ever seen or heard of. You're supposed to be here, making your usual slapdash attempt at packing up camp and getting us ready to go home. And complaining about it. Incessantly. Gods, what I wouldn't give to have to tell you to shut up, just once more."
He picked up a stick and stirred the ashes of their campfire; it was well and truly out, so that was one less thing to do before they left, he supposed. There was nothing else to pack up.
"But I'll tell you one thing, and I hope to hell you can hear me. I'm going to try to be the king you always told me I could be. You'll see. I'm going to…" he trailed off. He couldn't bring himself to promise to make Merlin proud; he'd promised his father the same thing a thousand times and had never once managed it. Saying any of this soppy stuff out loud was bad enough without bringing the specter of Uther's eternal disappointment into the matter. "…Anyway. I'm so sorry. Sleep well, old friend. And I swear to you, when I see you in Avalon…" No. No, it was no use; this wasn't who they were. "When I see you in the next life, I'll kick your scrawny backside for leaving me alone to do the job. You had no business being a hero. You hear me? None."
Merlin had made it so easy for him to be just plain Arthur. Not the crown prince, not the future king, not even the first knight. Merlin joked with him, just as if he was a real person instead of a marble statue in a crown. He didn't angle for favors aside from the occasional stolen sausage or a day off; he had no agenda, no axe to grind. There wasn't that chasm Arthur's rank usually imposed between himself and the rest of the world, because the idiot had refused to acknowledge that it was there.
Arthur had never had that before. He was grimly aware that he was never going to have it again. He told himself that it didn't matter. He couldn't let it matter.
The other knights eventually straggled back to the campsite, each with an armload of firewood and a shamefaced expression when they got a look at Arthur's frozen fury.
"I thought… just in case, sire," Leon tried to explain.
"I know what you thought," Arthur said wearily, and nodded at the shore, where the boat was waiting. "It's not necessary. She's sending us home. All of us."
"Oh. Then… you were successful?"
"Something like that," said Arthur, because saying 'I shouted at her until she lost interest' didn't seem likely to inspire much confidence. "Shall we go?"
Percival took one slow step towards Merlin, waited for Arthur's nod, and gently picked him up. Then he swore, and dropped him, suddenly pale.
"What the hell are you—!" Gwaine started, then froze midword.
"Ow…" came a voice none of them had ever expected to hear again.