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Death found him peaceful and waiting, laid back on the blue immensity of his bed. His wife to his side, and their four children around them, three sons and a daughter.
Their oldest, Ygraine, sits by her mother, red-eyes and trembling lips but still collected, one hand to Gwen's shoulder and another to his arm. Side by side as they are, it's undeniable how alike each other they are, same hair and same eyes, same skin, even if she has hints of him on her cheekbones and jawline and her height. She is kind and she is wise, and if her brother heeds her counsel as often as Arthur should have Morgana's or as often as he tries to with Gwen and his daughter, he will be a great king.
Thomas, his second child and heir, sat directly to his right, opposite by his beside to his mother, holding onto his right hand, shoulders stiff and his jaw set to keep at bay his tears. A crown of curly light brown hair lays over his head, blue eyes and thin lips, his mother's nose, his shoulders, her hands. He's the mix of the most endearing features of both of them, naturally charming and graceful, he's brave and he means well by every act he does, his tutors have never found fault on him and to every shortcoming he has found, he had his betters by his side to ask for opinions and his own will to improve.
Morgan has no such qualms, weeping silently, a hand to his mouth to keep the sobs inside, sat on the foot of his bed, leaning against his brother's hold. He's got his mother's eyes and her determination, but all else is Arthur's — blonde, tall, equally built with broad shoulders and strong muscles and the passion for swordsmanship and all things Knight-like. Even though Thomas is the heir and has to himself all the best qualities he and Guinevere had to offer, Morgan is the Knight that will most likely take Arthur's mantle upon his passing, leading armies and training the squires, and using that tough headed bravery of Gwen's to be heard.
Finally, behind Morgan squeezing his brother's shoulders comfortingly stands Kestrel. All the fine lines to be found on his parents fall gracefully upon his face, Arthur's nose and his blue eyes, framed by Gwen's brows and dark hair, his jawline and her lips, a thin lean build that favours his mother's pettiness and gives way to an agility Arthur has never found on himself. His court manners are impeccable, blue eyes glimmer with a sober cleverness that hide well calculated schemes, he smiles sweet and charming like a flower full of thorns, his silver tongue always makes him swims amongst courtiers of all kingdoms and people from all positions in a way that makes him emerge from the situation adored and with all he set to get and more to his victory smile and he only saw that ability to waltz about in the midst of a crowded room and still work from the shadows once before— and when he looks at him this side of proud and this side of sad, his son returns his smile with a sad twist and nods respectfully. He knows, Arthur's painfully aware, as everyone in Camelot knew when he announce his name.
From time to time they would walk through Lower Town, he and his Queen and their children, and he could always count on at least one bout of children to be singing the song of the wizard in Avalon, dancing about as the happily chanted words haunt him in children's voices.
There's a wizard down in Avalon,
He rises over the water at night,
Sits on his boat and talk to the skies,
He's lonely and that he cannot hide.
Many children had been named Merlin these last years. The tale had jumped from tongue to tongue, traveled around through kingdoms and cities and people until kids were lulled into sleep with tales of Merlin of the Lake. By the time Ygraine had been born it had been two years from his death, and no less than 23 children on the lower town had been named after him since Avalon. In a way it had became almost as popular as naming them in variations of his or Gwen's names. Merlin is all around, in little boys being yelled by their mothers, in girls chasing their brothers through town, in the shouts of the cooks to children that steal the sweets from under their noses, and he cannot escape him, nor does he particularly want to.
The warlock down in Avalon
Once put a sword in stone
For his King to wield alone,
Once he was sat on his throne.
It's a known story, in Camelot more than in other places. The soldiers had told all they had seen, the Knights had given their share of the tale over mournful beers. They know it well, including how it ends.
He didn't knew it then,
but in due time,
that was the sword
that would take his life
It's a known story, so he couldn't stand to call him Merlin. Not with the vast knowledge of all that he has done to guide such a bright soul's fate into a tragic end. He names him Kestrel, and he tells himself is close enough, that it would bring a playful smile to his lips and playful mischief to his eyes. He can't do more than that. So he names him Kestrel when he can't bare to name him Merlin, but his son knows.
Everyone knows.
His son is as sad as (if not sadder than) his siblings, Arthur knows that when he gives him the same smile he would present him in those small moments they shared, but he's so secretive, his emotions are always so close to his chest, he can't help but think of the boy who wouldn't tell him when he got bruised and training and that wouldn't cry to his mother when he scraped his knees, who wouldn't shy away from his tutor's harshest teachings, who took it all in silent. Kestrel nods his head gently, slowly, and his eyes show him what his mouth won't voice. ‘Go to him, father. I will look after them for you.’
He's proud of the children he has, and he squeezes both Gwen's hands and Thomas's, and his wife glows with pride and sympathy while his son sucks in a sharp breath and lowers his head to sniffle quietly.
Merlin would love them all if he had been here to meet them.
“Put me on the boat.” His old voice scratches his way out of his throat, lung rattling with the effort simple sentences take. “He will know where to take me.”
“Will you say hello to him for me?” Guinevere's soft voice has not lost it's warmth or charm to age, much like herself, holding his hand back just as tightly, and he knows she will have his final wish granted, no questions asked. “Tell him I missed him, and that I'm thankful for all he has done.”
He smiles at the understanding and wonderful woman that he has given crown and life to, and it still doesn't feel like enough.
“We can wait for you too.” Arthur offers. “You can join us in Avalon when your time comes."
Her head tilts forward and her shoulder shake — with a chuckle, not tears, to his relief — and when she looks up again at him, face wrinkling with age and greying hair, he wants to tell her he can wait for them to go together too if she wants, that Merlin will understand.
“I am not of prophecy nor am I magical.” She says, shaking her head. “Avalon wouldn't take me.”
“Avalon would take you if only to avoid his wrath.” He says, and they know it's true.
He thinks of all the purple butterflies that take over Camelot yearly, on Gwen's birthday, always leading her to a mysterious gift that no one has bought her nor do they have any idea how it got there. The birds that will sing without fail upon the birth of every single one of his children, the blooming flowers even in the height of winter, and the soft humming around nursery through the nights the children fuss. On his birthday, the day is always sunny and the weather is always perfect to go for a hunt or to host a tournament, and no matter what he does a falcon — a merlin, always a merlin — will find him, land on his shoulder and drop a neatly wrapped gift into his waiting hands and follow him by night until the lake of Avalon before meeting the warlock's outstretched hand — because on his birthday, Merlin is always by the lakeside, the boat is always ready and waiting, and he smiles brightly no matter how the years change him and kisses him as if that's the first time — and melting back into water as his magic returns to him.
“I will go to my brother and father, Arthur.” Gwen says, and the one name she won't say hangs above them but he does not feel the resentment or the jealously he once would have. He understands now that one person can love so many more, their hearts break in eternal little pieces to gift all those they have chosen to care for. “But I will miss you dearly, even when death does us part.”
“Will you say hello to him for me?” He asks and she perks up in surprise, only to soften in a sad fondness that brings her too close to tears for his comfort. Yet, he continues. “When you cross to the side I will not? Tell him he was always a valorous knight, and that I resent him for nothing."
“I will.”
He is thankful and he lets her know that with his eyes, but he is also tired. She instructs him to rest, and they all shift accordingly around him to make him comfortable and warm and to show him he's loved. This is the most lucid he has been all week and he settles to fall asleep once again, with childish voices echoing around his head, tauntingly.
There's a warlock down in Avalon,
deep in water, cold and alone.
He will dwell in the lake
Even when we all are gone
The cold of death reaches for him hours later, when he wakes momentarily to find his family sleeping as they watch over him. It stands there, on the foot of his bed, holds his gaze and offers a hand.
'What took you so long?' he means to ask 'There's someone outside the walls of Camelot that waited a lifetime for me to return to them.'
Arthur moves to take the hand he's offered, wonders why it looks so familiar, struggles to place where he knows that frame from, and the rising sun glows in the distance and shines into his smile and he knows this is not death but it's herald, loaning a beloved face to lure him into the transition. It couldn't have picked a better face. He tries harder by the second to reach the offered hand, to lean forwards but he falters, he fails and he falls back in the numb darkness before his hand is even near his.
Morning dawns over a dead king and the castle and his loved one wake around him to fall in mourning. It rains all day long as Morgan weeps and Thomas finally allows himself to sob like the 7 year old who had tried to nurse a bird back to health and been heartbroken to watch him fly away when he gathered his health he had been, it pours as Ygraine cries like a tiny thing, wrapped in her mother's arms, and Guinevere in all the grief of losing a husband collects herslef enough as to console her children and it storms as two lone tears run down Kestrel's cheeks before he takes a deep breath and walks out of the chambers to announce to servants and court that the King is dead.
All of Camelot grieves, and as the news spread throughout the kingdom their father had built, all of Albion grieves alongs it's capital and royal family.
Later that night, when his mother is asleep surrounded by the princes and princess as if they were still children, clinging to her like children who seek to avoid nightmares, Kestrel leaves his bed and walks through the damp woods, under the suspended rain until he's at the age of the lake and a bird's chant welcomes him. He kneels by the water, resting his palm against the lake, letting the cold seep into his skin and bones and lets his shoulders shake softly as he cries, sadly and heartbroken and vulnerable as all hell.
”Father is dead, uncle.” He whimpers, and the water rises as if to hold his hand if to stroke his arm, to calm him and comfort him. “He'll come to you tomorrow. You will take care of him for me, right?”
He doesn't get a response, but he doesn't really need one. Merlin had been proven to be take the best of care of Arthur Pendragon, everyone knows the story of Merlin of the lake, every child has sung of his loyalty every time they danced and played to Warlock of Avalon.
The day of the funeral is cold and gray, but the clouds don't rain upon them, only hold over them like impending doom and the heaviness of grief. Guinevere leads the charge of the black-clothed mourners who guide Arthur's body to Avalon alongside the soon-to-be King of Albion, Thomas, whose arms are locked with hers and their show of strength are like a front against death itself.
The boat is made of the same wood as Merlin's had been, but thrice as much gold details had been added. It is a pity to burn it, still Ganeida who has waited by the shore, and she goes about the funeral rites of the Old Religion with all the devotion and respect that only a High Priestess that knew well and liked her King could offer before motioning for Leon and Percival to set the boat on the waters of the lake of Avalon, with the help of Morgan, Thomas. Kestrel pushes it with a final goodbye and watches as it slides through the waters, wood flickering to turn into pure gold. Gwen's hands immediately flies to cover her mouth in tearful anticipation and those who knew Merlin seem to harbour a war within themselves between utter sadness and unbridled joy, all but for the King's youngest, who merely smiles proudly, eyes clouded by tears and head held high.
Pale hands break the lake's surface, holding up a polished golden crown balanced over a blade as finely etched and worked on as Excalibur, a dagger and a book, golden eyes and eternally youthful Merlin rises from the water right after with the same trained grace Freya had years ago. Gwen weeps like a child and Leon and Percival hover close to the edge, longing to hug him or to cry but afraid that touch might drive him away forever, so they all watch until Merlin stands in front of Thomas Pendragon, bowing his head respectfully.
“Avalon honours the new King.”
Thomas seems near tears, but ever his father's son he motions formalities aside.
“I can not accept that you bow to me, after all that you have done for my father and mother. Please, stand.”
Merlin raises his head, offering him a kind smile that hides too many years of hard earned wisdom before looking at Ganeida, who nods and approaches him.
“The Once and Future King now rests until he's needed again. In his absence and mine, we of Avalon bear gifts to guide your kingdom into a brighter future.” He declares and Ganeida skillfully takes the crown, golden and etched with dragon pattern and runes and blood-red stones. “The Sidhe grant you a crown blessed to aid it's King into prosperity and peace. Thomas Pendragon, do you accept our gift?”
Thomas can't seem to muster the strength to say anything, but he nods, tearful and honoured beyond comprehension. He lowers his head and Ganeida lays the crown over his head and Merlin bows once more before turning to Ygraine.
“To see to it that wisdom is never lost amongst the halls of Camelot, we grant you the wisdom old, to aid you into wise counsel and just decisions. Ygraine Pendragon, do you accept our gift?”
Ygraine takes in a breath before walking towards the lake, head bowed in respect and deference.
“I accept the gift, Emrys, and I am eternally grateful.”
Ganeida passes the leather bound book from his hands to hers and when Ygraine's eyes rise to the warlock's face, he regards her with unrestrained prids before turning to her blonde brother.
“I cannot grant you your father's sword, my Lord, but I may gift you a blade made for you by my magic, to pass onto your descendants and to defend Albion for as long as there's a Pendragon left to wield it. Morgan Pendragon, do you accept our gift?”
Morgan does not hesitate before kneeling to damp soil by the lake, head bowed in respect as he says.
“I am honoured to be considered worthy by you and those of Avalon. I accept the gift.”
Merlin's lip twitch with a fondness that's mirrored by Gwen, seeing such humility in someone so alike a young Arthur and allows Ganeida to pass the sword to his hands before turning to the youngest Pendragon.
“The last gift left to give is the dagger that belonged to me, who accompanied me by your father's side through adventures untold. Let this blade remind you that violence is the last resort, and that a sharp mind and a practiced tongue should not be underestimated. Kestrel Pendragon, do you accept our gift?”
“I do, Uncle.”
And with that, Ganeida passes along his last gift, so he stands bare handed and not exactly alive in the face of Arthur's greatest legacies, bowing respectfully one last time, setting Percival and Leon a fond and forgiving look that speaks only of friendship and no grudges before turning to Guinevere.
“The trails of you life, here and in the other side, lead only to the utmost joy, my Queen. You deserve it, and I could not hope for any better destiny to a friend so dear.”
Guinevere sobs, smiling brightly before saying a tearful:
“I took good care of him. You must do the same.”
The warlock chuckles and, finally, she can see the edge of tears in his eyes.
“I will take care of him with all that I have.” He promises and she nods.
“I know you will.” It's a gentle, knowing thing and she wipes her cheeks gently with the back of her hand before waving him away. “Go on. Don't make him wait.”
Dismissed as clearly as he is, Merlin smiles at her and turns to Ganeida, right hand resting over his left breast, a gesture of respect she reciprocates before he turns towards the lake and the golden boat that holds his King, in waiting. Barefoot feet pad over the water gently, and he feel the eyes follow him along until he stands by the boy he had loved until his death and past it too. He smiles, kneeling by him, fingers bruhsing the white hairs from his year weathered face, cupping his cheek lovingly as he draws in an expectant breath. He was his, he was back. Merlin leans forward, resting his forehead to hers before blowing a gentle wind against the crown of his hair as his eyes glimmer with magic, and the years melt off, the golden glory returns to grey hair and he looks as young as Merlin himself.
He does not let go of him even when the magic he spends in restoring Arthur demands from the energy keeping the boat afloat. When they sink into the water and they slowly disappear from the sight of those in the ground, the boat sinks faster, until it meets the bottom, but Arthur sinks slower, and Merlin's hand are ready to meet him, cradling his head with one palm and the other curled under his knees, holding him both close to him and just slightly higher, to present him to the lake and to the everlasting magic of it, hovering over him as he had done a thousand times before.
When Arthur opens his eyes again, bright blue and unclouded, he sees Merlin's face. He almost feels worthy enough, after having dedicated his life to his warlock's dream, piecing Albion together in his name, but it's not quite yet. It's when Merlin smiles, however, there's no room for doubts or apologies of repentance. All there is, in the middle of the lake he had came to thousand and one times to see him but never to stay, is the joy and the fondness and the love pouring from Merlin, unchanged and unwavering, and the fool who was never a fool smiles that blinding, relieved smile.
Maybe Arthur is worthy of something, at least, if he can cause him to smile like this, after all these years. And Avalon is not a land to be ruled, and he is not King of it and he cannot crown Merlin or drape him in deep sanguine-red capes and purple outfits that show he's nothing less than Arthur's, a noble in all ways but blood, but he is still him. Even though he's still that boy who loved him ardently till the day he killed him and even beyond, he cannot offer him the one thing Merlin always had.
“You're thinking too much. you'll hurt yourself." Merlin murmurs, thumb brushing the lines that had been etching themselves in-between his brows.
"I'm thinking of you.” Arthur says, joyful and loving, hands — young and firm once again — raise until his thumb traces gently the line of Merlin's lips, move along as they pool into a soft guarded smile.
"What a coincidence.” He says, leaning closer and closer until their faces are barely apart, until they're orbiting each other like they should have been since the beginning, in all the years in-between. “I was thinking of you too."
So he smiles in return, and locks his left hands' fingers with his, his right hand slides from his lips to his cheeks to hold onto Merlin's dark mop of a hair and Merlin, loyal and stupid and eager Merlin, waits for him to decide, for him to be ready. It's only when he pulls him into a kiss that Arthur really feels like he has truly come back to life.
Once and Future King and all be dammed. Until the future catches up with him, he'll settle for the as long of an eternity as he's granted to kiss Merlin senseless.