A/N: So, I was rereading this the other day and realized that I left it a very unsatisfactory spot. I don't know why I thought that was good place to end it. So I added another section. Also, the previous chapter of this was written before the end of Season 5, so it officially an AU. There's not much that is different, but enough that I thought I should warn you. I hope you enjoy the final part!
One Thousand, Four Hundred and Fifty Years
There was a small pop that disrupted the still air before Merlin came stumbling out of the forest shade. He had felt the magic shifting from halfway around the world. He had practically sprinted to the nearest alleyway of the busy Hong Kong street, apologizing in quick Mandarin when he ran into several people in his urgency, before steeping into the shadows and disappearing.
Merlin was rushing, hoping that the sooner he got to the dark, still water, the sooner its surface would be broken with a familiar, glittering sword. His haste made him clumsier than he has been in centuries, making him trip and stumble over roots and uneven patches of grass. Tears were already starting to slide down his cheeks in his excitement.
Even after Merlin's millennium and a half on the earth, there was nothing that was comparable to the joy that was rushing through his veins so forcefully it left him breathless. After picking himself off the ground several times, he reached the bank of the lake that had been the only constant—apart from the loneliness that he didn't like to think about—in his long life. He fell to his knees, too light-headed to stay upright.
"Arthur," he whispered, holding his breath in anticipation. He stretched forth one trembling hand, unsure of himself for the first time in ages. He didn't know how to call his king from his rest in Avalon. But slowly, he let his hand fall into the water and watched in terrified glee as tendrils of gold started to bleed from his fingertips, turning the water the color of a sunrise.
Merlin's magic spread throughout the lake, filling the air with the sweet scent of summer and the faint sound of reed pipes. And finally—finally—the water began to ripple. Merlin's golden eyes were fixed on the center of the lake, his heart beating a frantic rhythm while his breath had all but stopped. And then, glimmering like it had been newly forged, crested in gold, a sword began to rise.
He had waited. For one thousand and five hundred years, Merlin had waited. In Arthur's life, Merlin's only purpose was to protect and serve him. After Arthur's death, Merlin's immortal heart had remained beating for this single moment. And, he thought, as the man holding the sword finally broke the surface and Merlin let out laughing sob, it was worth it.
Arthur looked up, and, even though they were too far apart to be able to really see each other, made eye contact with the weeping sorcerer on the bank. He smiled, glowing like the slowly rising sun behind him, and the single word he uttered echoed across the now still water.
"Merlin."
