IV. Epilogue

Gaius had wept when Arthur carried Merlin into the physician's chambers. He had wept as Arthur related the tale of his adventures. He had wept as he examined his unconscious ward, tracing trembling hands over the half-healed cuts and bruises, his sobs punctuated with occasional, quiet cries of, "My boy. Oh, my boy." Arthur had never seen the old man cry before, let alone weep so freely. Arthur didn't know if the physician would ever forgive him for sending Merlin away. Or if Merlin would ever forgive him, for that matter.

Guinevere had wept too, sitting at Merlin's bedside and gently combing her fingers through his mop of black hair. Arthur would watch her from the corner of Gaius' chambers as she would dote, changing his nightshirts, adjusting his blankets, and fluffing his pillows. The Queen. The serving girl. He sometimes forgot how close she and Merlin were. They had been servants together, and they had been friends long before Guinevere had been queen, long before Arthur had even noticed her.

For her part, Gwen had treated Arthur only with gentleness. She seemed to know that his own guilt and fear were punishment enough for him to bear. She held him when he needed to be held, and kissed his neck tenderly. He had not realized how much he had missed his love, until he held her warm, soft body tightly to his own. He never wanted to let her go.

The knights seemed wearied by their adventure, and they spoke little to Arthur, though Arthur knew they were no longer angry with him. Even Gwaine had squeezed his shoulder with brotherly affection and looked into his eyes with gratitude when they'd returned to Camelot. The men were just exhausted.

Arthur hardly left Merlin's side.

Now he sat in a hard wooden chair at the head of the cot where Merlin lay sleeping, the king drowsing occasionally himself. The sunlight of late afternoon poured through the windows, as if it was trying to stretch itself as far as possible and touch every bit of the earth it could reach before it set for the night.

Merlin had not woken in the three days since they had returned to Camelot, but he slept peacefully, untroubled by dreams or fever. Several times daily, Arthur would watch as Gaius studied the progress of Merlin's recovery, washed him gently, and dipped a cloth into a jar of cool, fresh water, wringing the droplets out onto Merlin's lips to keep him hydrated.

The bruises had continued to fade, but lingered in pale shades of lavender and tan on Merlin's skin. The cuts and lashes over his body were in the process of becoming scars. Many of his bones had been broken, and while the magic of the Lady of the Lake had started them healing, his ribs were wrapped tightly under his cream colored muslin shirt, and his crushed left hand was splinted and bound securely in a sling to prevent him moving it in his sleep.

The enchanted manacles had burned into his flesh, leaving a mirror imprint of the ancient runes and symbols that had adorned them in the form delicate white scars that ringed Merlin's neck and wrists. Arthur thought they would almost be beautiful, if it weren't for the pain behind them.

And so Merlin slept, and healed. And Arthur waited, his nights spent sleeping upright at Merlin's side, still haunted by his recurring nightmare: "You betrayed me Arthur. How could you?"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry," he would cry meekly, and sometimes Gwen or Gaius would shake him awake, as his words left his dreams and entered the real world.

"I'm sorry," Merlin heard someone mumble quietly. He opened his eyes and stared straight up at the ceiling, shafts of golden sunlight streaking across it. He could smell the familiar mingling scents of candles burning, herbs drying, potions brewing, and the fragrant air of summer mixed with the smoky musk of the city below. He knew exactly where he was, but he didn't dare believe it.

He stared at the ceiling in silence for a long while, reconstructing his memories of his last days in Cenred's citadel. He had given up. He had hated himself for performing magic at Cenred's command, even if it was to save a child. How much longer would it be, he had thought, before he was broken, razing entire cities at the will the power-hungry king? If his tower cell had had a window, he would have thrown himself from it. Everything hurt, and he could see no releif.

Then Arthur had appeared.

Now he felt weak, but surprisingly pain-free. The pillows upon which he lay were soft and comforting, and the room was silent but for the gentle and steady breathing of someone sleeping at his side, and the occasional distant clamor from the lower town.

"I'm sorry," mumbled the voice again, and Merlin finally looked over to see the king slouched in a wooden chair at his bedside, his head leaning against the wall, his face turned slightly towards Merlin as he slept. His chest rose and fell evenly beneath his plain white shirt, but his face was troubled.

"Arthur…" Merlin breathed, and the king opened his eyes.

They stared at one another in silence for several moments, and then Merlin tried weakly to prop himself up on his elbows. Arthur immediately reached forward to help, but flinched when Merlin instinctively jerked away. Arthur could see fear in his friend's eyes and he felt gutted.

"Are you going to kill me?" the words tumbled from Merlin's mouth before he could think. Arthur blanched and Merlin could see agony in his eyes. Why did I say that? He kicked himself. He really was stupid sometimes, he thought. Arthur had saved him from Cenred. He had taken him to Freya. He had brought him back to Camelot. Arthur had brought him home. He tried to apologize, to tell Arthur he didn't mean to say that, but his words seemed to stick in his throat.

"I…I…" Arthur began.

And then it was Merlin's turn to blanch as the king pushed the chair out from under him, knelt upon the floor, and bowed his head.

Merlin looked at him in horror. "No," he said, "No, Arthur, please. Don't bow to me. This isn't what I want," he gasped, his voice dry with thirst and shock, "This isn't what I want!"

Arthur didn't move. With his eyes downcast, he spoke.

"I do not bow to Emrys," said Arthur, "to the warlock, or to the last Dragonlord." His voice quavered slightly, "I bow to Merlin, my friend, whom I wronged."

Merlin couldn't speak, he could only stare at the golden hair on the back of his friend's head. Finally, Arthur looked up at him. "I'm sorry," he said, "I am so sorry. I let my anger and hatred overpower me." His eyes were glistening with tears, "And because of that, I lost my dearest friend." The tears streamed down his cheeks. He shook his head, "I told you once that no man was worth your tears…how wrong I was." His gaze returned to the floor.

Merlin couldn't describe the feelings that were washing over him. He just stared for a moment, unable to move, to think, or to speak.

Arthur was completely still, waiting patiently until Merlin finally found his senses and his voice.

When Merlin snapped out of his shock, he blurted out clumsily, "I forgive you!" Could words be clumsy? If anyone's words could be clumsy, it would be mine, he thought. Arthur looked up.

"Clotpole," said Merlin.

The two young men sat together that evening, speaking quietly to each other, with the fading light of a warm summer's day resting gently upon their faces. Not so long ago, they had been but boys: naïve, innocent, eager to please; foolish, reckless, quick to err and to forgive; separated by caste, by tradition, and by fear; at once as close to one another and as far apart as two souls could be. Like two sides of the same coin.

Now The Once and Future King and the most powerful Magician who would ever live rested in the comfort of each other's company. And while the weight of the world was upon their combined shoulders, each felt lighter than he ever had before.

For each knew that his friend would always be there to help him carry the burden.

The end.