A/N: Well, here we are! I hope you guys have enjoyed the ride. And once more with feeling-if you want to see whimsycatcher's gorgeous art for this series, please check out my AO3 account, jinkandtherebels. That said, hope you all enjoy the last chapter!

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Chapter Twelve

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It's two weeks before his mum lets him out of the house. Which Mordred gets, really he does, and he knows he's lucky he's not on lockdown for the rest of his natural life, but it's a little maddening knowing he just upended two people's lives and can't even call them to check in.

The way things are now, it could almost have been a dream. He's taken to floating small objects across his bedroom just to remind himself it'd been real, it had happened.

So when his mum finally does let him off the leash, albeit with repeated and highly descriptive warnings about what will happen if he turns his phone GPS off again, Mordred makes a beeline for the bookshop.

It feels nice to walk outside now that the heat wave has finally broken, but Mordred is too distracted to appreciate it. He half expects to find the shop closed down, or maybe disappeared entirely—Merlin could do it, he knows he could.

But it's still there when he turns the corner, Ealdor Books and its dragon mascot proudly emblazoned over the doorway.

The sight calms his pulse a bit.

He pushes his way inside, the little tinkling bell over the door announcing his presence like it had the first time. "Hello?"

There's a thumping noise from somewhere in the vicinity of the back room. Mordred frowns. "Arthur? Merlin?"

Arthur half-stumbles out of the room like he's been shoved, looking slightly disheveled. He doesn't seem displeased that Mordred's there, though, which is nice.

"Mordred! We were starting to wonder if you'd vanished."

"Yeah, sorry about that," Mordred says sheepishly. "My mum…"

"That was what we figured," Merlin says, appearing out of nowhere. His hair is a mess and there are definitely misaligned buttons happening there. Mordred sort of wants to soak his brain in the nearest bottle of bleach—honestly, how is he the teenager in this equation?

"How is she holding up?" Merlin continues, hopping up to sit on the desk, oblivious to the twitch Mordred's no doubt developing.

He snaps out of it. "She's, erm, good. I think." There'd been a lot of crying that night in the hospital, although Mordred knows that couldn't all be blamed on his mother. She'd practically squeezed his lungs up through his throat and then shouted for about an hour. He has the feeling she would've done his head in if he hadn't gone and cracked it open already, but then she probably would've concussed him anyway so maybe he'd just saved her the trouble. "She doesn't understand why I did it, though. Not really. Thinks someone at school was giving me a hard time. She seemed impressed I kept getting my assignments done, though." Which is probably the only reason she's letting him finish out the school year in the first place.

"Well, maybe someday you'll be able to tell her the truth."

Mordred snorts. "Yeah. Right."

Merlin raises an eyebrow. He does that a lot, Mordred's discovered, and it's weirdly disconcerting, so this time he tries to mimic it right back.

Arthur makes a noise like he's choking.

"Did he just Gaius you?" he asks with a note of barely-hidden delight.

Merlin glares. "I've decided I'm going to go back to loathing the both of you," he announces. "Feel free to leave my shop at any time."

"Speaking of," Mordred says, noticing something, "why isn't anyone here? Isn't today Mrs. So-And-So's day to drop off another load of Agatha Christie novels?"

Arthur and Merlin exchange a look. Mordred frowns.

"What is it?"

"We've decided to close the shop," Merlin says.

The words take a second to hit. "What? But—why?"

Merlin smiles a bit sadly. "Because we've been sitting still for centuries," he says. "And now, with everything that's happened…" He trails off.

"It's time to move on," Arthur says.

The words feel like they're stuck in his throat, but Mordred forces them out anyway. "Is that the only reason? There's not—I mean—"

Arthur's looking at him like he knows exactly what Mordred's thinking. "It's got nothing to do with you, if that's what—"

"Actually," Merlin interrupts, "it's got everything to do with him."

In another situation, Mordred would probably think it's funny how his and Arthur's heads swivel toward Merlin at the exact same time. Some other situation where it doesn't feel like his insides are being stomped on by someone in stilettos.

Merlin meets both their gazes defiantly. "Well, it does. Of course it does." He stands up and focuses on Mordred, who suddenly feels like he should be holding his breath.

"You're the reason we're like this, now. You're the reason we can be around each other as people again, how can this not have everything to do with you?" Merlin bites his lip. "The world's massive, you know, and we haven't gotten a good look at it for ages. And we—we can now, thanks to you. That's why we're leaving."

He sounds uncertain, like some long-held instinct is berating him for giving Mordred credit for anything. But he doesn't look away and he doesn't take it back, and all Mordred can do is blink repeatedly and hope his face doesn't give him away.

"And also because if I never see another browned page or leather cover again in my lifetime, it'll be too soon," Arthur adds, breaking the tension.

Mordred huffs a laugh and Merlin smirks.

"You just want to avoid doing any more carpentry," he says.

"Of course," Arthur replies archly. "It's not natural for kings to be doing manual labor all the time. That's what I have you for."

Merlin lets out an indulgent sigh. "Somehow it always comes back to this."

"And," is the pointed response, "there's the fact that someone here decided to use magic in full view of the general public. Someone who, I believe, likes to lecture others about the importance of subtlety."

"Won't they think it's street magic though?" Mordred cuts in with a prickle of worry. "A hoax, or a publicity stunt or something?"

Merlin waves them off. "I'm not really concerned about it, to be honest. Like I told you before, people are much more cynical these days. Even if someone did manage to catch me on video or something, the chances that people will believe it's legitimate are basically nothing."

"But you're still leaving."

"Soon as we can get things squared away here," Merlin confirms. "Finish some orders, apologize to some regulars, things like that. I don't think we'll be shut down forever, but, well…"

Mordred finishes for him. "You don't know when you'll be back."

If you'll be back.

He swallows hard, blinking back the sudden bizarre urge to cry. This is stupid. He hasn't known them long, after all—except he sort of has, and these are the kinds of things he wishes he had more time to clarify before the two of them go skipping off into the sunset.

"Well, erm. Thanks, I guess," he mumbles, not sure what else to say.

Arthur snaps his fingers. "Hold on, before we start with all that—I'd almost forgotten something."

He disappears up the stairs to the flat, leaving Mordred alone with Merlin and the still-awkward silence that sits like a massive third person alongside them.

"We'll come back someday," Merlin says hesitantly. "Maybe not for a long time, but…when all's said and done, this place is still our home. Always has been."

Mordred knows he's not talking about the bookshop.

"You'd better," he says. "I still say you've done a shit job of teaching me about magic, so you owe me a few proper lessons."

Merlin gives him a sharp look, but it's not as discomfiting as it used to be. "I don't think you'll need much more coaching, to be honest. You managed to get the Sidhe to come around somehow, and no offense, but I don't think it had much to do with your amazing diplomatic skills."

"Does that make you nervous?" Mordred asks, not sure he wants to know the answer.

Another long, careful look.

"No," Merlin says. He sounds surprised about it. "That's a little off-putting."

"Welcome to my year," Mordred retorts, the sarcasm doing a nice job of hiding his relief. Fortunately, Arthur chooses that moment to make his return.

"Right," Arthur says, lifting up a long, thin box and setting it carefully on the desk. "Mordred, this is for you."

Mordred looks to Merlin, whose expression reveals nothing, and then to Arthur, who seems perfectly calm, before stepping forward to get a good look at the box. It's plain wood, nothing fancy. It doesn't even look that old.

He looks at both of them suspiciously. "Is this a joke? If you've stuck a broomstick in here or something, I'm not getting on it."

"No broomsticks," Arthur says over Merlin's outraged sputtering. (Somewhere, somehow, Mordred has the feeling J.K. Rowling is about to come down with a sudden and not quite natural cold.) "Open it."

Unaccountably nervous all of a sudden, Mordred reaches for the box. He runs his fingers down the lid. There's no dust on it, so either Arthur is really good about dusting (really, really doubtful) or…

He pulls back, palms sweating. Arthur is watching him with more intensity than the situation should really warrant.

"It, erm." Mordred clears his throat. "It feels like Avalon did. Like it's got some sort of…aura, or something. I don't know."

Arthur nods like he's making complete sense instead of sounding like a blithering idiot, but Mordred doesn't know how else to describe the feeling he's got, like there's some kind of quiet power humming just under the surface of the wood. Like the dust doesn't dare settle, doesn't dare disrespect a magic as old as Avalon itself.

"Mordred." There's a quiet power in that too, but a power nonetheless, so Mordred looks up. Arthur is looking at him seriously. "It's not going to hurt you."

Mordred believes him.

Before he can stop to think about it, he reaches over and lifts the lid from the box.

He sees a sword. But it's more than that, so much more that it actually takes Mordred's breath away. He knows nothing about swords, and this one is beautiful—gold on the hilt and the pommel, runes carved all down the blade, glinting too brightly for the dull light of a rainy afternoon—but he doesn't think the craftsmanship is what's making him go all starstruck. No, it's that same sense of power, that thrum under his skin and in his bones.

Arthur lifts the sword from its case and turns to Mordred.

The sight of him standing there with that sword in his hand, even when he's wearing a T-shirt and jeans, makes something in Mordred crumble. Scarlet fabric flickers at the corner of his vision, but he looks and there's nothing there. Somehow it doesn't matter. Some mad thing inside him still wants to go down on his knees and swear fealty.

He knows, suddenly, what the weight of that sword on his shoulder would feel like.

"This is a loan, you understand," Arthur is saying. Mordred forces himself to listen. "For some reason, they're less forgiving about carrying sharp objects across international borders these days. I want you to look after this until we return."

He offers the sword, its blade flat across his palms. A shudder runs down Mordred's spine and then back up again.

"Will you do that?" Arthur asks.

All Mordred can do is nod.

Arthur smiles, and the spell is broken. "Good, because the other option was having Merlin try to make it invisible during transit, and I'm not at all certain that would have ended well."

Behind them, Merlin sighs. "One time. I mess up the extremely complicated invisibility spell one time and I'll be on my deathbed before he lets me forget it."

Mordred reaches for the sword and takes it reverently. Or maybe 'gingerly' is a better word for it; now that the initial shock of the thing has worn off a bit, he's starting to become properly concerned about caring for an extremely ancient object.

"I'm not a museum curator, you know?" he says, dubious.

"Really? And here I thought you'd spent weeks surrounded by old relics." Merlin smirks. "Present company included."

He looks so pleased with himself, too. Mordred groans. "See, that right there is the reason I remember that you're an old man—you make jokes like that. It's sad, is what it is."

Merlin hums thoughtfully, leaning back against the desk. "That reminds me, actually. You remember you were asking me about the old man who owned this shop, before? The odd one?"

"Er, yeah. Why?"

"Not much, just…" He fiddles with his sleeves. "I managed to get in touch with him, and he's doing well. Really well."

"That's good," Mordred says uncertainly. "He's still around, then?"

"Yeah, still around." Merlin's gaze flicks briefly to Arthur. "He doesn't know for how much longer, though."

Mordred thinks about it. "It's not all bad though, is it? I mean, he's got to be ancient by now. Probably lived a brilliant life and all."

"Probably. I think he'll end up being glad of the rest, to be honest."

"When it's time," Arthur says quietly. "And not before."

Merlin looks over at him properly. He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling up, and all of a sudden he looks much younger than Mordred's ever seen him.

"Well, who knows? He's probably still in for some surprises, even if he is ancient."

"Too right," Mordred blurts. "I mean, I just found out fairies exist and I'm only fourteen, so."

Arthur and Merlin both sort of blink at him for a second.

He's not sure who starts snickering first, but it gets all of them eventually, laughter making Mordred's stomach hurt as he gasps for breath.

He doesn't want it to stop.

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He takes the sword home (and it's still "the sword" in his mind, Mordred doesn't think he's ready yet to call it by the name he knows it carries) and slides the box underneath his bed. He feels its power humming through him as he falls asleep, but the feeling gets less disconcerting and more comforting as time goes on.

He also stops having the dreams. He doesn't know if these things are connected and he doesn't really care, because it's fantastic, not being afraid to go to sleep. Mordred isn't going to question anything that makes that possible.

The next time he goes to visit the shop, it's closed like he imagined it would be, the door locked and the painted sign looking somewhat forlorn without any customers passing underneath it.

But Mordred was expecting it, so it doesn't hurt like it might have otherwise.

He wonders who's going to take over the dusty book trade (because it's a damn good shop, and if anyone thinks they're going to just mow it down Mordred is going to give them something else to think about). He wonders if maybe they'll have a use for a teenage boy with some Dewey experience.

Well, who knows what's going to happen? After dealing with all this destiny stuff that, frankly, still seems like a load of bullshit, Mordred's more than ready for some unpredictability. He's even stopped praying to luck lately. After all, he's got his own magic under control now; it doesn't seem fair to borrow the supernatural from some other source.

And on the subject of magic…

Mordred's not an idiot; he checks first to make sure no one's around. He doesn't have a spell for this one, but he thinks it's worth a go anyway. Just to see.

He closes his eyes, tries to get the shape of what he wants to do clear in his mind. His magic almost feels like it's humming, interested but not overeager. Which is why, when Mordred opens his eyes and flicks his fingers toward Ealdor's sign, he feels like it's actually going to work.

The painted dragon on the sign moves.

It's not much in the grand scheme of things—an uncurling of the back, a stretch of the tail—and it's gone in the blink of an eye, but damn if that isn't an image Mordred's going to hang onto.

It's not every day you get to bring a dragon to life.

Giving the shop one last look, Mordred sticks his hands in his pockets and smiles. He turns his back and starts walking in the other direction.

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"Merlin! What's there to say about Rome that hasn't been said a thousand times already?"

Their hotel room is slightly smaller than a shoebox, so even from the other end of it Arthur can hear Merlin groan.

"Could this conversation possibly have waited until I was out of the shower?"

"Unable to multitask in your old age?" Arthur retorts, and grins as Merlin swears at him. He returns his attention to the card in his hand. Honestly, they traded in Post-Its for postcards ages ago; you'd think he'd have gotten the hang of this by now.

"Sod it," he announces. "'Dear Mordred: Rome is filled with rocks. Very old rocks. Fascinating stuff. Regards—'"

"I will hex you if you write that, and I won't feel bad about it in the slightest," Merlin warns. The shower turns off. "And don't think I didn't notice you practically drooling over the Coliseum. There's something to be said for very old rocks."

Actually, Arthur finds more of this stuff interesting than he lets on. But Merlin absolutely lives and breathes it, so naturally Arthur has to play the ignorant sybarite on occasion just to get him riled up. Riling Merlin up is one of his great pleasures in life.

What can he say? He's a man of simple tastes.

"The way I see it," Merlin continues, but the sentence is cut off by a crash of the hotel-property-hitting-the-floor variety.

Arthur sighs. "Really, Merlin, I understand that walking and talking at the same time is a challenge for you, but I was hoping not to pay this hotel for damages."

He doesn't get a single barbed word of reply, which is concerning. Arthur frowns, sets down the still-blank postcard and heads to the bathroom.

"Are you all—Merlin, what on earth are you doing?"

Merlin, standing there with a towel wrapped around his waist, doesn't answer him. He doesn't even seem to have noticed that Arthur's in the room. He's rubbed a clear circle in the sheet of fog covering the mirror and is all but pushing his face into it, long fingers holding up a haphazard section of fringe.

"And you call me a narcissist," Arthur remarks. And then, when not even that gets a response, "What's so fascinating? Is the mirror cursed? Are we going to be forced to defend the hapless townsfolk from some ancient evil?"

Merlin blinks several times in quick succession before turning around, eyes wide.

"Arthur," he says shakily. "Look at this."

"At…your hair?" Arthur asks, nonplussed.

"Just look."

"All right, all right." He moves closer, replaces Merlin's fingers with his own and squints at the offending fringe. There doesn't seem to be anything peculiar about it, and Arthur's about to say so, but then Merlin shifts and the light hits it just right and oh.

His expression must change because Merlin's eyes get even wider.

"I'm not imagining it, am I?" he whispers. "It's—it's grey, isn't it?"

"Silver," Arthur confirms, numbly trying to wrap his mind around the idea of a Merlin whose hair isn't stubbornly dark. It's been dark for as long as they've known each other. "Does that mean…"

Merlin's beaming like someone just handed him the sun, moon and stars all at once. It's answer enough.

Slowly, Arthur lowers his hand. "Figures you'd go grey early, with all the worrying you do," he manages.

"Oh shut up, you absolute prat," Merlin replies, and pulls him in for a thorough kiss.

It's all going rather nicely until the idiot breaks the kiss by laughing.

Arthur pulls back, starting to smile despite himself. "Should I be offended?"

"No, it's just—" Merlin shakes his head. "I just realized we're going to be grumpy old men."

"I think we've technically been old men for a long time, although I wouldn't call myself grumpy." Arthur considers. "You, on the other hand…"

Merlin smacks him in the arm, although the effect is ruined somewhat by the massive grin he can't seem to wipe off his face. "I mean, we're even going to look like old men. No magic required."

Arthur tries to picture it, the pair of them wrinkled and grey, but the image won't stick. He can't imagine either of them old, truly old, the way Dragoon the Great never quite managed to look.

"So, does that mean we'll have to start complaining about the daily news?" he asks at last.

Merlin nods thoughtfully. "Also about anything different. And anyone younger than us, of course, can't forget that."

"Of course." Arthur starts laughing; he can't help himself. "We'd make terrible old men. This is going to be ridiculous."

Merlin's eyes are sparkling with mirth, and Arthur thinks that no matter how old they get or how long they're together, that sight is always going to make something in his chest go tight.

"Close, but wrong adjective," Merlin says.

Arthur rolls his eyes. "I await my enlightenment."

"I think you meant, 'we're going to be brilliant'."

And while he will insist to the end of his days that Merlin's not often right, in this case Arthur is more than willing to concede the point.

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End

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