The End?
After one particular battle, where his slow reflexes would have seen him killed if not for his son Amharr's swift intervention, King Arthur Pendragon was forced to admit he was growing old.
He was still strong, of course, an excellent fighter - but he could feel his body's growing protests, spot the signs that he needed to slow down. He tired easier and ached in places he never used to. Wrinkles, too, had started to appear. He didn't mind them as some might. As a man with many battle scars, each little crease seemed to him proof of a life well-lived, a fight well-fought.
Still it became a running gag among the Round Table how much it irked Arthur that while his own hair greyed, Merlin's stayed jet black.
"It's just not fair," the king would bemoan once he'd spotted another silver strand sprouting at his temple. Merlin would always laugh and offer him a potion to fix it. Really Arthur wasn't all that fussed about looking younger; mostly he just enjoyed having something to complain to his friend about.
With age came joy. Camelot flourished under Arthur's rule and, soon enough, he was passing his throne onto his son. Amharr was already known for his kind nature and innate talent for diplomacy; Arthur had no doubt he would make a fine ruler, far finer than he himself had been.
His daughter, too, had grown up. Her Uncle Merlin had influenced her childhood to such an extent that she left Camelot to pursue the study of magical healing among the Druids. She wrote and visited often, but pointedly ignored all of her father's ill-advised attempts at matchmaking until finally he gave up altogether (the best outcome for all involved).
Age also came with grief. As time passed, so too did more and more of Arthur's peers. The knights of the Round Table disappeared one by one, first to battle, then to sickness and, finally, to old age. It was at Sir Gwaine's funeral, long after Arthur had abdicated the throne, that the former king looked across the courtyard and at last saw what had been staring him in the face for years - Merlin was not ageing.
Arthur approached him when the funeral was over.
"You've been keeping something from me."
"Excuse me?"
"Emrys... it means 'immortal', doesn't it?"
Merlin pursed his lips, saying nothing, and Arthur knew he was right.
They stayed up that night talking, just as they used to when they were young men dreaming together of Camelot's future. Now they talked of what life would be like for Merlin when all those he knew and loved were gone.
"I think I'd like to travel." The warlock's gaze was distant, as if he were already traversing great desert plains and arctic tundras. "Assuming Amharr and Ygraine are safe and provided for, of course."
"Of course," Arthur echoed, touched by Merlin's loyalty. They were in the Court Sorcerer's workshop, a fire blazing merrily in the grate behind them as they spoke. "Where would you like to go?"
"Everywhere. All the places I saw when I looked into the Crystal of Neathid. Some of those places don't even exist yet... isn't that odd to think about?"
"And you'll tell me everything about them? When I come back?"
"Come back?"
"You won't be alone forever, Merlin. I swear it."
The warlock's shoulders slumped. "I wish I could believe you."
Arthur did not leave this world, as he had often imagined, in a blaze of glory upon the battlefield. Struck by illness, he was granted the comfort of his own bed with plenty of time to bid farewell to his wife and children. He did not make any grand speeches to his family, but simply told them he loved them and always would.
Merlin was the last to come and visit.
"My old friend," Arthur rasped, his throat sore from endless nights of coughing. Merlin's expression tightened at the painful sound, and his eyes flashed. A surge of magic pulsed through Arthur, helping ease the pain. "I have to tell you..."
"It's alright, Arthur. You should rest."
"No." He snagged Merlin's sleeve, tugged him to the chair at his bedside with what little strength he had left. "Camelot wouldn't be what it is without you."
Merlin's eyes welled. "It will never be the same without you, Arthur. Nothing will be."
How many more times, Arthur wondered, would Merlin sit at a friend's deathbed?
"This isn't the end. Remember what I said."
"You don't know-"
"I do!" Arthur insisted, but the vehemence of his declaration sent him into a round of hacking coughs that lasted several minutes. Merlin helped him through the fit, patient as ever, and once it was over he settled the former king back into bed.
"Don't upset yourself on my account. Please."
"I will come back." It was getting harder to speak. "I swear it."
"Then I will wait for you." The last thing he heard was Merlin's voice, watery with tears. "However long it takes."
