Once and Future. It sounded so definitive. So singular. As did the part about how Arthur would return at the time of Albion's 'greatest need.' Straightforward enough, no? When things were at their worst, when the world had plunged itself into the depths, he would come back, his sword in his hand and his sorcerer at his side, and together they'd set things to rights.

The prophecies had been vague about exactly how that would happen, and Merlin had never been quite sure what to expect. Would the rest of the Round Table come back, too? What did 'come back' mean, anyway? Reincarnation? Would they be reborn to new parents, new names, new lives, and if so, how was he supposed to find them? Would they remember who they'd been? Remember him? And if they didn't, how in hell was he supposed to explain any of this? Pounding some sense into those stubborn skulls had been difficult enough when they'd just thought he was an amiable idiot. Doing it while sounding like a dangerous lunatic would be a thousand times harder.

Or might they simply appear on the lakeshore one day, healed of their various deathblows? That would solve the recognition problem, at least, but there were still questions to be answered. Would he, or they, or whoever, realize how much time had passed, or would the years have passed them by like a single night's sleep, leaving them, like insects in amber, firmly belonging to another time and place? Was that why he'd been condemned to live out the endless centuries, watching the world change, and change again, and, perforce, adapting along with it? So that he could play the wise teacher, the all-knowing guide most of the (laughably incorrect) retellings of their story insisted he was?

(For that matter, why did the poets keep casting him as the revered mentor? No one had listened to a damn word he'd said for more than a decade, unless it was to tell him that he was a girl's petticoat and to shut up. Amiable idiot, remember?

Oh, gods, if they'd only listened to him more…!

Oh, gods, if he'd only told them more…!

If he hadn't been so wretchedly scared—scared of shackle and axe and flame, scared of their disgust, their distrust, scared of his own fear—if he'd told them from the start what he was, what they were, what they were meant to do, everything might have been so much different. So much better.

It wasn't as though burning was anywhere near the top of the list of his favorite ways to die—and he'd become quite an expert in that unenviable area of knowledge over the centuries—but there were worse, and maybe after a round or three on the pyre Arthur would have been a little more willing to believe that Merlin was more than he appeared. It might not have even taken that much. Maybe if Merlin had been a little less reluctant to show him that he was more than he appeared, Arthur might have believed. Maybe and if only and perhaps and maybe again, and that way madness lies. He was something of an expert on that, too.)

Anyhow. Leaving aside the mechanics of how Arthur would return, the soothsayers had been infuriatingly silent regarding what would happen after said return. After, presumably, they'd set things right and saved Albion in its hour of greatest need, etc, etc. Nobody had ever said a word about what was supposed to happen next—or, if they had, they hadn't bothered to tell him. (Hell, why would they? After all, he was the fabled Emrys; why ever would he mind having to figure out the universe's preferred course of action based on no bloody information? Especially considering how well he'd done the first time…) Left to reason out the most likely outcomes for himself, and perfectly well aware that his conclusions were less a matter of logic than of pure wishful thinking, Merlin had done his best to convince himself that, the second time around, either Arthur would share his immortality or he would lose it—that he'd live out his days and die, his long task finally done.

He stopped caring which it would be the day Gwen died.

He started praying for the latter the day Camelot fell.

He gave up hoping for either one the first time Arthur returned.

…Or rather, the second time Arthur died.

See, the problem with the idea of a 'once and future' anything is that there's always more future ahead. And the problem with the idea of the 'greatest need' is that need always surpasses itself later on; no matter how bad the present is, the future can, (and usually does,) get worse. And the problem with immortality is that you get to learn and relearn that particular lesson through repeated bitter experience. Forever.

One hundred and seventeen years, three months, one week, and four days after Merlin had given Arthur to the lake, Arthur stepped out of the boat and onto the shore. Hale and whole and in his prime, his golden hair shining like a crown in the early morning sun.

Merlin was there, waiting for him.

Every life has, or ought to have, moments of pure, perfect happiness. At least once, just once in a lifetime, everyone deserves that shining moment where there is no room and no reason for anything but joy; a warm, bright light in their memory to carry them through the dark places. The world owes them that much. At least that much.

That was Merlin's.

Which made it all the harder when, eleven years, eight months, two weeks, and one day later, he found himself sitting again on the lakeshore with Arthur's lifeless body cradled in his arms.

Just sitting. Not weeping or raging. Not even really thinking. He just sat there, holding on to his friend and his world and the last threads of his sanity, because what else was there for him to do?

Something inside of him had finally broken, and he couldn't even bring himself to care. He had nothing left. There was nothing left in him, nothing left of him. Nothing left to hope for. He had worked and waited for more than a century—watching his friends age and die, watching their children and their children's children do the same, watching everything he loved turn to ash and rubble despite his best efforts—and all that time, he had sustained himself on the promise of Arthur's return and not much else. Well, Arthur had returned. And now Arthur was dead, gone where Merlin could not follow. Again.

They had had their second chance. And they had lost it.

Merlin knew he had to send Arthur back to Avalon, back to his rest. It was only right; only fair. And he knew, now, that he was eternally barred from any such thing. Avalon— peace— was not for him. Whatever task he'd been given was not yet complete; whatever sin he was expiating was not yet forgiven. And never would be. And maybe it shouldn't be. Maybe that was right and fair, too. He didn't know anymore. He didn't know anything anymore.

He was never sure, afterwards, how long he sat there. It might have been an hour. It might have been a week. Either way, it was long enough that the denizens of Avalon realized that he was not going to move again of his own accord, and that something would have to be done.

They sent Freya to speak with him. As she approached, he flinched away, clung more tightly to Arthur as if he thought she would drag him away by main force.

She sat down beside him, put a gentle hand to his still-unlined face. "Hello, Merlin," she said softly.

He didn't even look at her. "We did everything right," he said, his voice rusty and cracked. "We did everything right this time. We learned from our mistakes. No secrets, no lies, no going off on our own, no recklessness. We worked together. We planned things out. We were careful." His voice rose, shrill and desperate. "We did everything right!"

She nodded. "Yes. You did. You both did."

"Then why are we here?!" Merlin's voice broke entirely on the last word. "Why did we fail? How did it all come to this again? What did I do wrong this time?" He made a sound halfway between a sob and a death rattle. "Freya—what did I do wrong?"

She hesitated. "Merlin," she finally began. "Do you know what all 'golden ages' have in common?"

He blinked at the abrupt subject change, but he took a ragged breath and tried to gather his thoughts enough to answer. "They're… they're good. Peaceful and prosperous and happy—"

"And over."

"…What?"

"No age is golden while it's actually happening. A 'golden age' is one that people look back on and remember as a time when things were better than they are now. They remember wonders that didn't actually exist; exaggerated tales of a world that, in hindsight, seems far better than it actually was. It's a dream, Merlin. It's a story. And if it does its job, it's a story they can use to build a better future." She put a hand on his shoulder. "You didn't fail, Merlin. Neither of you did. Ever. You both did exactly what you were supposed to."

"Destiny," he said, mouth twisting as though the word tasted bitter. "You're telling me that this was always where our destiny was meant to lead. It was all for this. We were meant to struggle, and suffer, and ultimately fail… so that people could tell themselves stories about tragic deaths and unfulfilled promises?"

"No," she said. "You were meant to show people that Camelot can be more than just a fantasy. That power can be used for good—and that some battles are worth fighting even when you know you'll lose." She moved her hand to his chin, forced him to look at her. "Merlin. Defeat isn't failure."

He cringed away from her touch; she let go immediately. They sat in silence, side by side, for a while longer as a dark speck on the lake's horizon became a boat, drifting slowly, inexorably, to shore. "It's time," she said, as it beached itself.

Merlin shook his head no, but even as he did, he was dragging himself obediently, brokenly, to his feet. Freya watched in silence as he arranged Arthur's body neatly, honorably, in the small boat, which pulled itself impatiently away from the shoreline before he was quite finished.

Merlin dropped bonelessly to his knees as he watched the boat glide across the lake, then under it. Freya came to stand beside him again, her hand on his bowed shoulders. "Freya…?"

"What is it, Merlin?"

"He didn't have his sword when he came back. The dragon-forged one I…" he choked, then started again. "I returned it to you after… after Camlann, remember? But he didn't have it when he came back this time. What happened to it?"

"It's safe," she said. "I'm holding it until its needed again."

He nodded, gulped. "Oh. Good. That's good. I was afraid it was lost." His voice, barely more than a whisper, was reedy and desperate, afraid to hope, afraid not to. "Freya?"

"Yes, Merlin?"

For a moment, she thought he wasn't going to say it. But he did. Or half of it, anyway. "Freya. Could… could that sword kill me?"

"No, Merlin," she said softly. It was anyone's guess as to which of the two questions she was answering—the spoken or the implied. No, not even that blade could kill him? Or just no, she wouldn't let him use it?

Not that it mattered either way, really. He squeezed his eyes shut and nodded; it was the answer he'd expected. He wrapped his arms tightly around his torso, as if physically holding himself together, mute misery in every line. Freya, unsure as to whether saying any more would make things better or worse, bit her lip, then made up her mind in a rush. "Merlin? Merlin, listen to me. He'll be back."

Merlin, slowly, opened his eyes and looked up at her. "…What?"

"He'll be back," she repeated. "The story isn't over. I promise you; the Once and Future King will rise again. When Albion's need is greatest, he will return. You just need to be patient a little while longer. He'll always come back, and when he does, he'll always need you. Do you understand what I'm saying, Merlin?"

There was a very long pause before he answered. His arms dropped to his sides and his back straightened. He no longer looked like a man facing his executioner, which should have been a relief. It wasn't. Now he looked like a man facing his torturer.

"He'll come back," Merlin said slowly. "And we'll do… this all over again. We'll fight. We'll lose. He'll die. I'll bring him back here, to Avalon, and stay behind, waiting for the cycle to start again. And again. And again. Forever. Is that it?"

"Yes," she said.

"…Do the gods really hate me that much?" There was no expression in his face, in his voice. "That much?"

"I'm sorry, Merlin. I really am. I would have wished you a kinder fate," she said.

He laughed at that, one bitter peal. "I said the same about nearly everyone I ever cared about. Including you. For all the good that ever did anyone." He stood up, in one fluid motion. "But then, if wishes were horses, I'd probably have to muck out the stables. Maybe we get what we deserve. Or deserve what we get. Or both. I suppose I'll be seeing you both again in another century or so?"

"You'll know when the time comes."

"Wonderful. More cryptic hints that boil down to 'take your best guess, Merlin, so we can hang you when you choose wrong.' I should have known better than to ask," he said. "Thanks ever so."

Her voice sharpened, just a bit. "I'm not your enemy, Merlin," she said. "This isn't my fault."

"No," he agreed. "It's mine. Start to finish. I've never denied it." He took a breath. "Freya…? I've no right to ask it of you, but please. Take care of him, for me?"

"Of course. And when he asks me to take care of you, what would you have me tell him?"

"Take care of me? What could possibly happen to me?" he said, laughing again, even more bitterly than before. He spat the last words like the poison they were. "I'm immortal!"

And what could possibly happen to him? He's dead, she didn't say aloud. "You can still be hurt," she said. "He wouldn't want that."

"I've just put his mangled body in this godsforsaken lake. Again," said Merlin. "After he died in my arms. Again. Because I couldn't save him. Again. And, apparently, that's all I've got to look forward to for the rest of eternity. I think we're past the point where me not being hurt is a viable option for any of us. Tell him I'll be fine. It's the truth."

"Is it?"

"It's going to have to be, wouldn't you say?" It obviously cost him something to do it, but his entire demeanor shifted yet again, either discarding or, (more likely,) disguising the anger, the grief, the bitter despair, and doing it so seamlessly that anyone who did not know him very, very well would be hard-pressed to notice. His voice steadied, brightened, becoming almost cheeky. All the while, somewhere behind his eyes, she watched the rack tighten a notch, neatly masked with a fair replica of the cheerful smile he'd brought with him to Camelot all those years ago. "Even if it's not, I lied to the man for a decade. What's one more lie after all the others?"

"Merlin—"

"No. I don't want him to worry about me. Or you, either. Or anyone else. I'm fine. Everything's fine. Better than fine. I'm finally getting those days off I was always asking for. Tell him I'm fine, and that I don't miss washing his disgusting socks."

"Another lie."

"All right, all right. Two more," he said, and grinned again. As before, only someone who knew him well would have been able to see the rack twist another notch tighter, and that was the problem, wasn't it? There was no one left alive who knew him that well. Freya, out of time, stepped into the water, stood ankle deep in the lake, and desperately, hopelessly, wished that she could stay on land, stay with him. Somewhere out in the wide world was a little cottage where a gentle-hearted serving boy and a shy druid girl could have (should have,) been allowed the chance to learn how not to be lonely; perhaps it was there still.

But there was no such refuge for a tortured, broken sorcerer and a mortal-turned-goddess, and destiny wasn't even close to finished with either of them. "I must go. We'll call you when it's time," she said, the lake pulling her forward another unwilling step, and then another. Water lapped at her calves, then her thighs. She wanted to call out to him, one more time, but she wasn't sure what she even wanted to say. 'I'm sorry' was meaningless, 'be well' was an insult, 'I love you' was twisting the knife.

So she was silent as the water swallowed her, leaving Merlin alone on the lakeshore. Again.

*.*.*.*.*

Title is from 'Crossing the Bar' by Tennyson:

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crost the bar.