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There were no words left. There was nothing. Perhaps, if Merlin was lucky, a dark abyss of a hundred years, maybe a thousand. He stood vigil, watching the slain king float away across the lake shore. Merlin knew that if he could see inside the vessel, Arthur would appear to be asleep, each sweat-soaked lock of hair sticking to his un-creased forehead. The moment Merlin watched death covet Arthur's last struggling breath was the most at peace he'd seen the man in over a year. This thought brought him no comfort, only the empty ringing of shame in his gut.
How many times had he been there on the shore, peering onto the gateway of Avalon? Each death he hoped would be the last and knew it never could be. Elyan, Lancelot, Freya. Arthur. How soon would he be bidding his last farewell to Guinevere, or Gwaine? The blink of a decade, two? Gaius would be lucky to make it a year. They'd already started rotting.
Even after the dragon made him concede his king was dead, he couldn't torch the body as the ceremony called for. He couldn't even give Arthur a proper burial in the end. The spell lingered on his lips though; he forced himself to believe he could do it if he truly needed to. He was getting better at lying to himself - after all the time he’d wasted lying to Arthur, it didn't come as a surprise. Still, he shuddered at the way he'd clung to the corpse for an hour before acknowledging his failure. He had groped at it, pleaded with it, been so sure-
“Forbairn”
The spell crashed down from his lips, alighting the grass by his feet. It felt good, the release of magic, of pain, of what got them this far and betrayed them both in the end.
“Abreotan”
The fire flared up, encircling him and spreading to the surrounding shrubbery. He unleashed a string of curses, nothing quite intelligible, but he no longer needed words to lash out with his fury. No words in the modern or ancient tongue could rip the ache from his chest. There came the crack of trees, the sky shuddering under his force, and the distant mountains began to wail, buckling under their own weight. A gale rose in the east, winds with the breath of dragons. In the west, clouds bristled with electricity, preparing their first strike. He would spare no one, as no one had spared him.
His eyes were alight with the jealous gleam of magic. He sought no purchase of the flames surrounding him, allowed them to envelope him. Still he could not be burned, could not die. Humanity had been stolen away with the flutter of Arthur's eyelids, forever sealing away that light which had guided him. Uther should have tied him to the stake when he had the chance, smelling the slow cooking of his flesh was nothing to him. Albion was nothing – meant nothing – without Arthur. He would gladly sacrifice it all to see the taunt in Arthur's eyes one last time, to exchange one last blow, to steal one kiss. Tears streaked his face like the futile furrows of an apology even as they evaporated in the inferno.
A leather-bound grasp found his wrist, wrenching the tightly coiled muscles of his forearm and twisting it until it pulled up so far he could feel the ligaments stretch at his shoulder. The joint rotated in its socket. An arm snaked around his waist where it bit mercilessly into his sides, pulling him flush against a body burning with the frigid water of the lake. He stilled, stunned by the ice soaking through to his spine.
“You idiot! You insufferable idiot! 'The greatest sorcerer who ever lived,' Gaius said, well I can bloody well tell you there are a thousand other magicians who wouldn't be so stupid as to muck up my passing! Ibelievethey'd be glad to help it along actually.”
Merlin clenched his eyes shut, unable to assent to the harsh power maneuvering him to the ground. This wasn't- couldn't- There was a harsh gust of breath, warm against his ear.
“But that was a bit of a close call wasn't it? What the hell did you think you were doing? And why haven't you learned any bloody healing spells? You're absolutely useless. As soon as we get back to Camelot... Camelot.” There was a breathy pause, a note of excitement expected more from a small boy shirking his chores than a king. "Merlin? Merlin! Stop being such a girl and open your eyes-”
Merlin struggled fruitlessly, ignoring the droplets pooling on his chin.
“Open your eyes by order of the- I'm not afraid to rub your face in the dirt. In fact it would be a pleasure.”
Arthur hauled him towards the water, muttering darkly and not loosening his bruising grasp until Merlin could feel the lake lapping at his feet. There was a rough shove at his back and he stumbled forward, whimpering, eyes flying open just soon enough to see the impending grey water hurtling towards him. He sputtered as his feet tried to gain purchase on the muddy ground, inadvertently drawing his gaze to the shining mail and drenched leather boots of the once and future king. There was a ruddy color in his cheeks from his exertions and a rose flush at his lips.
“But you're dead, Arthur,” he stated simply, barely above a whisper, and so he was surprised at the King's immediate response.
“Not anymore.”
“But you're only supposed to come back when Albion needs you most because I swear if that bloody dragon lies to me again-”
“Some cabbage-head was just about to destroy all of Albion. Though destiny's a bit dense, I'll grant you that.”
A blush crept up Merlin's throat as he realized exactly what he had done. “Oh.”
“Yes, ‘Oh.' Now come over here and help me out of this armor or I'll freeze to death and we'll be back to the beginning.”
Merlin stumbled forward, reaching with hungry fingers only sated by the warm greeting of Arthur's cheek.
“I missed you,” he murmured quietly.
I was only gone for-” Arthur silenced his hoarse words as he felt the snuffs of breath puffing against his neck, fogging the metal of his hauberk. “I'm sorry.”
Ripples creased the lake, splashing at the sides of the burial boat like the morose chatter of coffin-bearers, their charge gone. The boat caught fire.