Chapter Text
The king was dead.
Merlin whispered one last time, “Arthur,” before sending the vessel into the lake of Avalon. Left standing on the shoreline, he was sure the grief trembling his body would break him apart. Arthur was dead. One side of a coin, half of himself was dead, too. His destiny had come to an end. He always knew that it would but knowing didn’t make his grief and loneliness easier to bear.
So many had died at Morgana’s hands. He remembered some of Arthur’s last words, “…peace at last… Thank you.”
After hours of standing, staring and remembering, Merlin felt as though something tugged at him to finally come away. He turned with one direction in mind. The Caverns of Caerleon. Blodeuwedd had said, “Emrys, welcome home.” He would go home, now.
Nearly a year, Merlin waited alone and in silence for Spring to come. Without Arthur to chase her wanton ways, he now would stare her in the face and let her passions claim him. If truly his kindred spirit, she would ensure that he rose again when Arthur rose, again. Perhaps in a century or two or maybe three…
He could not fathom the thought of walking aimlessly the earth until then. So, he stood in a chiseled opening and watched her storm roll in. Tears falling from his face, he remembered when he no longer feared her. He remembered Arthur’s exhilaration as they mingled with her ultimate intercourse. He remembered her new life bursting from the earth. He remembered feeling a part of Arthur and of all creation.
Now, he wanted to remember nothing.
As her first lightning crackled across the sky and her thunder boomed to wake the earth, Merlin absorbed her pain in his death. He arched his spine, held out his chest and raised his face toward her. “I’m here,” he shouted at Spring.
“Then, perhaps you should move away.”
Merlin whirled around. Unwilling to believe his eyes, he stared in shock. How could Spring be so cruel to give him illusions of Arthur, he damned her. Would she keep him alive through the centuries by dangling so small a hope? Like the ghost of Blodeuwedd, must he live a hundred lifetimes with only a ghost of Arthur, as well? Would she condemn him to the insanity and evil of Morgana, after all, because he was sure to go mad…
Arthur spoke through a sad and sympathetic mile for his pain, his tears and his doubt. “Do you remember my mother’s words,” he asked as he reached out and stroked his face with efforts to reassure him. "She said that I was born of magic."
The hand was real, Merlin realized, and he started to cry out loud. Arthur was real. He rubbed his face deeper into his touch, desperate for the love that it implied. Crushing his lips to splay hard kisses against his palm, he relished each tender stroke of Arthur's thumb as it wiped away his tears.
Arthur cupped his face, pulled him closer and spoke with his lips pressed against his ear. “I was born of magic, like you," he said. Gazing out at the storm while giving homage to Spring, he explained, "but it was your love during her ultimate powers that made me her kindred spirit, too.”
Epilogue:
Lancelot kept his promise to her. He gave his life to make her happy. Guinevere loved him for that but now Lancelot was gone and she knew that she made her own final journey in life. In her youth, she had relinquished so much -- a king, a kingdom, her husband, her home. She needed to know if she had made the right decision to leave with Lancelot, so many years ago.
Traveling in her small buckboard wagon, she left it near the road and started walking through the trees. A long five-mile hike, she was exhausted when she came upon a crumbling village. Wickedcrest, she remembered. It was long empty, now. The old wooden doors had fallen off their hinges and cobwebs covered the counters as well as the tables where they once sat and ate.
Guinevere remembered the old innkeeper. Gatney, she vaguely recalled his name, but she never would forget his words. According to Gatney, Blodeuwedd called Arthur the fornicating king. It was then that Guinevere knew. Arthur was not bewitched. No spirit would have bewitched him to fornicate, then, accuse him of fornication. Nor had Merlin bewitched him, either. Not after seven long years together. She also knew then that Merlin had not committed a crime and yet, he had suffered. He took blame for his weakness, but to deny fate was an impossible challenge, in itself.
As her eyes wandered the cobwebs, her mind wondered what had become of the old moss-clad people. Youth or death, she didn’t know which but in either case, they had been released. Continuing on her journey, she knew that she was approaching the cliff top. She also knew that once again, Blodeuwedd had let her in. All others, she sent in circles.
When Guinevere came upon the treeline and leaves that gave way to endless blue sky, she saw them. The moment she did, she remembered Hunith’s words. To herself, she uttered, “With thunder and lightning, earth creates her new life… in the ultimate intercourse.” Guinevere nodded that finally she understood. Blodeuwedd had given them both new life. Merlin, when just a baby and Arthur, when a grown man. It had been their destiny, all along.
In her age and wisdom, she understood her own destiny, now. It never had been to marry Arthur. Against all odds, fate had kept them apart. She and Arthur had done the fornicating -- had fornicated against fate. For, Blodeuwedd already had wed Arthur to her “pure Emrys” since the first season of time. As Guinevere marveled upon them, now, she felt proud and grateful that she had made the right decision to leave with Lancelot, so many years ago.
Still glowing young and golden, much like the day they first met, Arthur and Merlin stood high upon the clifftop while gazing together into forever.