12Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Merlin or any of the characters therein. If I did, the finale would have included a nicer last line for Morgana and Gwaine wouldn't have died and it probably would have been a three part finale instead of just a two parter...but I digress.
A/N: Yeah. So basically, the finale was beautiful and heart-wrenching and it gave me lots of feels. Which, of course, had to be put into some kind of writing or else torment me forever. Arthur's passing has always held powerful and painful moments for me. It's almost as though Good itself is dying, and nothing will ever be the same again. But mostly I feel sorry for Merlin, who has a long time to wait. Poor Merlin.
While He Waits
Everything reminds him of Arthur, these days. The sky is blue, blue like his eyes, gleaming with unshed tears before they glazed over after the words "Thank you" echoed in his empty ears. Gold on the autumn trees, like his golden hair—the golden king, a golden age that was already beginning to crumble at the edges.
He's been sitting by the lake for days, staring across the smooth water and wondering how the sun can still shine and the wind can still blow as if the whole world hadn't been turned upside down and inside out. His whole life ever since he first stepped foot into Camelot has been about serving Arthur, about saving Arthur. So what do you do when the other half of your coin melts away into nothingness? When the person you've been told your whole life (at least, the whole of your life that matters) that it's your destiny to save Arthur, to protect him, keep him from harm, and now he's dead.
He goes over every step of the last days. Wonders if he'd been faster, would they have made it in time? If he'd given Arthur more rests, would he have had the strength to continue a little further—just across the lake. Mostly he just pulls his knees up against his chest and buries his face in his sleeves and tries to ignore the fact that he is a failure—that his whole life, bent to a single purpose for so long, has suddenly come shattering to the ground.
He cried a lot, the first day. And the second. By the third, he's run out of tears and he can only sit and stare at the island with an emptiness inside him the size of the ocean and an ache in his throat where the lump resides that keeps him from being able to breathe. The grief is so huge—he's never felt like this before. Not after his father died. Not after Freya died. And he's pretty sure he'll never get over this, this throbbing mass of emotion and despair and agony.
When he can breathe again, he starts getting angry. Angry at Morgana and Mordred, for betraying Arthur, for going evil in the first place. For killing his king. Angry at the dragon for not getting there sooner. Angry at Arthur, for having the audacity to up and die and leave him alone.
Angry at himself, for failing.
And yet, one night as he's sitting by the lakeshore (he's not hungry—somehow, something's been different since the Crystal Cave and he feels as though he could live forever without needing sleep or nourishment), the wind stops blowing and a quiet rain begins to fall. Merlin catches it in his hand and takes a taste—just a taste. The sweet coolness makes it past the lump in his throat and suddenly he lets out a laugh.
Arthur would laugh, if he could see him now. Soaking wet, half sobbing ("No man is worth your tears," he'd said—the prat!), just sitting around and waiting for goodness-knows-what. He half imagines that Arthur is there, sitting beside him and laughing at everything—just like they used to, before he became king. But after he stopped being quite so much of a dollop-head.
And then after they stop laughing (gods, he's gone mad—talking to someone who's dead) Merlin remembers and turns away and Arthur says, "What's wrong?"
"I failed you," he replies. "I was supposed to protect you, and I wasn't there when you needed me most."
"You were a little busy," Arthur snorts, elbowing him in the side (this hallucination may be the result of lack of sleep and food, even if he is immortal, but right now Merlin is just happy not to be alone). "Besides, what's done is done."
"But it feels like a waste."
"What does?"
Merlin throws his hands in the air. "Oi, everything! Arthur, my whole life was about protecting you. About hiding my magic and still managing to save the day. And all for…for this."
A solid hand grasps his shoulder (can he really be imagining this?) and the king's voice is quiet and as somber as the rain that falls on Avalon. "Do you really believe that? That all your time and work was wasted?"
He's about to offer a sharp retort in reply when suddenly he catches his breath and really thinks for the first time in weeks. Wasted? Wasted? His mind flashes to the grueling combat practice of the early days, when Arthur was testing him, teasing him. To the first and second and third times he saved his life and got no thanks for his pains except for that warm feeling of secret accomplishment. He thinks about Gwen and wonders if she might still be a servant if it wasn't for him blundering about and accidentally getting them together after all. And about Morgana, and Gaius, and Gwaine and Lancelot and the people he'd met with Arthur—the quests, the adventures, the trails and joys. And suddenly he finds himself shaking his head.
"Would you have taken a different road, if you'd known how it would end?" Arthur asks quietly.
"No." His reply is instantaneous. He meets the light blue eyes with a steady gaze and takes a breath that sends all thought of failure and self gusting away. "No, I wouldn't change a thing."
Because he knows now, now that he stops focusing on what he did wrong, what he could've done better (because, let's face it, none of that matters anymore) and remembers what he did right, the grief is a little easier to bear.
"Merlin," says Arthur (it sounds so good to hear him say his name again!), blue eyes honest and sincere. "Thank you."
Because Merlin can see reflected in those eyes that Arthur knows—knows that even though it hurts now and he hates waiting (he's never been terribly patient), he is going to spend every day in thoughtful anticipation. Right now he can't imagine leaving the side of the lake, of losing sight of Avalon for a second (this idea will change before the year is out—when the knights find him and he realizes just how lonely he is) but he knows, wherever he is, he would be happy to spend eternity waiting if it means Arthur will be back.
And while he waits, he'll be reliving everything—remembering the times before Uther died, before Morgana was evil, even. Days of laughter and joy and teasing and pranks. Days of hard work, yes. But the days when he and Arthur were friends (not that Arthur would ever have admitted it in a million years—not that Arthur) and nothing could break them in twain.
And even as the vision of Arthur flickers and fades from his side, Merlin's lips curve into a bittersweet smile and he turns to stare again at the smooth-surfaced lake, broken only by the splashes of the weeping rain.
They are still two sides of the same coin. It is only that he must wait a little while to take the next step toward fulfilling his destiny.
And even if it takes two thousand years, even if it means (and it does—not that he knows it yet) that he will live on and on after Gwen and Gaius and the knights and everybody he's ever known or will ever know has followed Arthur into eternity, Merlin will be waiting for the day when England is in need of a hero.
Because when Arthur returns to fight evil once more, he's going to need somebody to stand with him. And maybe, Merlin thinks, as he stares out into the rain and contemplates eternity while he waits, just maybe, this was the way it was supposed to happen after all.
Finis.
