They gave Merlin a knight's burial, alighting the boat from the shore. Gwen thought that was what he would want.
Arthur thought the pain might stop after the first month.
When it didn't, he waited another.
It still didn't fade. If anything, the overwhelming agony that struck him every instant Merlin came to his mind, which was nearly every moment, grew stronger over time.
Minutes felt like hours. Hours felt like years. Each day was a lifetime, and every night Arthur wished it would end. It was as good as done, without him.
He wouldn't say it out loud. He couldn't. Only once, to Gaius, because he owed the old man that much. The physician did not cry when Arthur told him, almost like he knew. Like he knew the words 'Merlin is dead' would come soon enough, and would come from Arthur. Gaius held no resentment for the man. Only sadness.
The knights had come to the lake with Arthur; for support, and for Merlin.
It was Gwaine that had found them in the courtyard that day unmoving, Arthur clutching Merlin's lifeless body with such ferocity that it took four knights to pull him off. His eyes were so dark, so empty, so frightened - he had lost what he had valued more than anything else in this world. Arthur's face that day haunted Gwaine from then on, but nothing hurt the knight like the sight of Merlin, blood streaming down his chest, glazed blue eyes that would never see again, never light up with a smile or darken with concern. The prince, who had since then been crowned king after Uther's breakdown, didn't speak a word for weeks. He sat alone in his room; any servant or noble that dared enter left with the same pale face and frightened eyes.
Only when Guenivere pushed her way in and told him off did the king show any emotion. Hers weren't the arms he sought, but they would do - but only because she had loved Merlin, too. Only then did he allow himself to break down, sobbing and cursing the world deep into the night. And she held him, accepting her role as a substitute, because it was what Arthur needed right now. If people assumed things when she came to Arthur's room every night, the two let them - no one could really doubt what Arthur had felt for his manservant. What he still felt. The king fell asleep every night with Gwen's arms around him, the only thing holding him together.
Because sleeping was as bad as being awake. Every night Arthur re-lived that day, the worst of his life. Every night, he watched Merlin die. And every night, he woke up screaming.
Arthur saw his father only once after that day. The king had been a shadow of his former self, broken and ghostly, eyes unseeing and thoughts unmoving. Arthur imagined he looked vaguely similar, if not a little further from insanity's grasp. Since then he had been crowned king, the only time in Camelot's history in which the predecessor was still alive, and accepted all the accompanying duties. Arthur didn't really want the crown, not really. But he understood why it had to be so. He wasn't so far gone as to lose sight of the kingdom, it's needs, priorities.
That night at sunset Arthur watched the city from his window, as he often did. Gwen had left Camelot during the afternoon, part of a necessary peace-keeping trip with some of the knights to a neighbouring kingdom on his behalf. She had taken the role of his voice since their arrangement began, similar to the way a Queen might. But Gwen never overstepped her boundries, for which Arthur was grateful. Guenivere was one of the few and far between who actually cared for Arthur, and truly just wanted to help him make it through.
The king sighed as he watched the city bustle below, calm and peaceful, preparing for dark. The world, still turning. It wasn't fair. When Merlin died, why hadn't the world died with him? Arthur shook his head of thought, the only tactic he had been able to use to numb the pain; if not thinking of Merlin, he thought of nothing at all.
A tentative knock at the door disturbs him, and the king glances up as the servant enters. The king waves the boy away quickly, the servant obliging with unnerving speed, seemingly relieved. Arthur can't blame him - he's been a bloody awful king so far. The only reason he got out of bed in the morning was because he knew that's what Merlin would have wanted. The only reason he sat in on council meetings, listened to the villagers, trained the knights. He couldn't abandon Camelot, not when Merlin had died for it. For him.
Arthur sinks into the bed, clutching his head in his hands. Pulling his shirt off, he brings his fingers up to graze over the golden dragon imprinted on his side. The only reminder he had left. He feels the heat sting behind his eyes, and doesn't make to stop the tears slide down his cheeks. He hardly notices them anymore.
"You promised you wouldn't leave," the king whispered, "This isn't home, Merlin, I can't - I can't do this without you. I just can't." He takes a deep breath, and shakily breathes back out. Arthur shuts his eyes tight, his throat constricting as panic threatens to overtake him once more. But he needs to say it now, what he never could in person, what haunts him every night because Arthur never told him -
"I love you, you bloody idiot. So don't be dead, please, Merlin, for me."
Arthur waited, eyes screwed shut. But nothing happened, because this isn't a fairytale, and a few words won't fix everything. Nothing happened, because life isn't fair. Everybody knows that everybody dies. So nothing happened.
But then something did.
The dragon beneath his fingers began to glow, the skin heating and tingling so suddenly Arthur pulled his hand back in shock. Then it began to move. The creature danced on his side, curling round his back to his chest, wings swooping outwards and inwards, gliding smoothly, and the tail following carefully behind. Arthur looked on in wonder as it paused atop his upper chest, watched as it grew smaller and grew brighter, curling in on itself faster and faster until it covered his heart with a golden shine.
There was a flash of bright light. Arthur blinks back the white spots in his vision, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He jumps from the bed, moving more quickly than he has in a long time, in case of a threat. He closes his eyes, releving in the darkness, then opens them.
It was like he never left.
The same shirt, the jacket. The same neckerchief tucked lazily around his long, pale neck. The same dark hair sticking up in all directions. The same goofy smile, now calm and peaceful. The same eyes that had always been able to see right through him.
It was almost like Arthur could reach out and hold the other man in his arms, laugh with him again, cry. But he can't, he knows that, so he doesn't. Instead, he only stares, drinking in the image and relishing every last detail he's been able to recall. He watches the warlock shift from leg to leg, his smile fade slightly, his eyes darken. Still, Arthur doesn't move.
A loud bang sounds from behind them, and Arthur turns around sharply. Merlin doesn't move. A pause, then Gwen appears from around the door, panting slightly, talking quickly, "We only just got back, I didn't think you would want to be alone tonight. I hurried but the council needed to -"
She stopped.
Arthur watched her eyes leave his and look at a spot over his shoulder. He watched as tears spilled from her eyes, down her cheeks, and watched as she covered her mouth in surprise. "Arthur," she sobbed, her voice choked, "Arthur, what are you doing?"
He just watched her. Her eyes tore away from the spot behind him, delving into his. She continued, speaking louder, repeating, "Arthur, what are you doing? He's here, and you're just standing there?"
Arthur freezes, not daring to move. He blinks once, slowly, unwilling to gather any emotions at all. He speaks quietly, confused.
"But... You mean, you see him, too?"
"Arthur."
The king didn't think he would hear that voice ever again.
Arthur turned away from Gwen, back to face the other man in the room. He took a step forward. Then another. He reached out his hand.
And Merlin caught it with his own.
Arthur's legs collapsed beneath him, before he knows it he's falling - but Merlin catches him, holds him. Arthur's mind is unbelievably blank as he reaches up, touching his fingers to the warlock's chest, his neck, his face, anything to see; to make sure this is real, and even if it's not, does it matter? All that matters is Merlin, that he's here, he's alive.
Arthur wraps his arms around the other man's chest, pulling him down as they fall towards the floor. He can feel the tears stinging his face, feel them on Merlin's. He clutches the warlock's shirt, grasping him in an embrace so tight neither can really breath. But they can't bring themselves to care. The king pulls back and holds the warlock at arm's length, drinking in everything he's missed, what he had thought was lost.
Then Arthur kisses him, and Merlin's lips taste like salt and tears, but also undeniably like Merlin, and that's what he needs more than anything else in the world. The warlock responds, holding Arthur tight, arms wrapped around the king's neck protectively and hands clutching his blond hair. They pull apart, but barely, only centimetres of space between them.
"How?" Arthur whispers, but knows right now he doesn't really care how. He just cares that it is.
Merlin smiles, holding Arthur's face in his hands, lighting up like a star. He whispers back, "Magic."
I couldn't resist keeping our boy dead for a bit, if nothing else than for some angsty Arthur. I know, I know, cop-out ending. Dragon had to serve some purpose, other than just making Arthur prettier.
I don't know what a knight's burial really is. I just wanted Merlin on the lake, like Freya and Lancelot. Pardon my historical inaccuracies - but I mean, really. It's Merlin. Historical accuracy was never really at the top of their lists.
Speaking of which, I still don't own anything. Darn.
Epilogue should be up soon. Should (hopefully) answer the little annoying details that I didn't explain. Then that's it, people; the end is near.