Chapter Text
At that moment, as the knife Mondred plunged toward his heart pierced his chest, Arthur knew. He had always known. Deep down in his subconscious, no matter how hard he tried to suppress it, Uther’s voice continued to haunt him about his heart being too soft for the throne. It’s going to kill you, son. Thus, he wouldn’t say it was a surprise that Mondred struck him down, despite the faith he had placed in his men.
As the darkness engulfed his mind and the pain became too much, many things occupied his thoughts, until only one remained—as it always did: Where is Merlin? Arthur hoped that idiot would make it out of this cruel battle and start a new life somewhere else. Yet, deep down in his heart (Arthur was never good at acknowledging his heart's true desires), he hoped that if he opened his eyes, he would see Merlin’s face. He longed for those blue eyes, the high cheekbones, and that stupid smile he so rarely wore nowadays—what a shame, Arthur thought. But whenever the king saw that smile, it did something strange to his stomach—something about Merlin that he couldn't quite put his finger on.
"Arthur."
The familiar voice whispered near his ear. Arthur thought it sounded painfully close, yet somehow miles away.
"Arthur. I’m so sorry." The voice sounded even more strained as he listened carefully. "Oh, God. What should I do? What am I going to do now? I’m so sorry."
It was definitely Merlin. The voice was sobbing and mumbling, making it hard for Arthur to grasp what he was saying. He was always blaming himself; somehow, everything that went wrong for Arthur had to do with Merlin. It was such a nonsensical thought, yet it was very much his manservant’s way of thinking. As his heart broke at Merlin’s trembling voice, his body relaxed, feeling as if he were finally at home.
Arthur felt the calloused hand of a laborer against his skin. He leaned into the warmth, hoping it might ease his agony. A creeping numbness began to seep through his limbs; Arthur knew all too well that this wound was going to be the end of him. He didn’t know what made the darkness surrounding the injury feel so unnatural, but he could feel it encroaching upon his very life force. Arthur’s breath hitched, and his eyelids fluttered open. His vision blurred before finally sharpening, settling on the only thing that mattered before him.
“Merlin…” The man he called out to startled, pressing himself even closer—though he was already so near. Arthur thought he could feel the weight of his own body resting against Merlin.
“Arthur!” Merlin’s eyes were glassy with tears, catching the glow of the campfire. “You're awake... Don't move just yet. Your wound is severe. I've tried to stop the bleeding.”
So many nonsensical thoughts swirled in Arthur’s consciousness. He moved, and pain flared everywhere. Merlin flinched at every pained sound Arthur made, as if it actually hurt him, too. His manservant tried to give instructions to keep him still while answering Arthur’s questions about the battle, but the more Merlin explained, the more confused Arthur became about the whole ordeal. How had they won? He had been so sure they were going to lose. Some sorcerer must have stepped in—yes, it had to be magic, doing the impossible. The man kneeling before him looked more wrecked with every sentence he spoke, until those blurred eyes looked straight into his—not into his eyes, but into his very soul.
“I'm a... I'm a sorcerer. I have magic. And I use it for you, Arthur. Only for you.”
The darkness of the forest fell quiet around Arthur—too quiet, to his horror. He looked at Merlin, whose dam of tears had finally broken, leaving him unable to control his shaking sobs. Arthur’s logic fractured. His mind scrambled for a defense, desperate to shield him from a truth that threatened to shatter his very soul.
“Merlin, you are not a sorcerer. I would know!” I would know. I would know. I would know. I would know. I would know.
A frantic echo resonated in Arthur’s mind, a desperate attempt to keep him sane, even as his subconscious whispered the truth he had fought so hard to bury: You always knew, Arthur. You always knew he had magic.
No. He did not know that! Arthur’s eyes dilated, and his heart hammered so hard he thought he was going to pass out. Because if he had always known—if Merlin had always possessed magic—it meant only one thing: Merlin had been lying to him all these years. Almost ten fucking years. For the sake of his own sanity, Arthur couldn't bring himself to acknowledge it.
“Look. Here…”
Merlin, however, would not let Arthur persist in his denial. His manservant’s eyes held a sorrowful reflection of Arthur’s deflection—as if he were finally about to provide the absolute, undeniable proof of his deception. Merlin turned his head toward the campfire and extended his right hand over the flames. His eyes flashed a brilliant, glowing gold. Arthur’s breath hitched and stopped in his throat; his mind reeled, trying to make sense of the impossibility unfolding before his eyes.
“Upastige draca!”
An animated, miniature dragon made entirely of golden flames bursts forth from the fire, swirling in the air. Arthur raises his head slightly, staring at the magic in absolute disbelief, shock, and horror. The dragon dissipates. Merlin turns back to face his king, his face completely wet with tears. Arthur stares at him like he is a complete stranger, deeply betrayed.
Arthur had thought he had endured every betrayal a king was destined to face. His queen had given her heart to his knight; his council doubted him and sought only to backstab him. His knights were loyal, yet they lacked faith in him whenever he stumbled. His half-sister had craved his throne. But none of it cut as deeply as this. This deception—this lie—came from Merlin, the manservant to whom he was closer than anyone else, a bond that had transcended the roles of master and servant. This was the man he had never doubted for a single minute in his life. And, God help him, it was the man he has to realize now that he loves.
"Please, Arthur. Say something. You’re killing me." Merlin’s voice pulled Arthur from his thoughts. He realized that tears were streaming down his face—falling continuously, seemingly unstoppable. His heart squeezed so painfully that he feared it might stop beating; perhaps it was simply too tired to go on. Merlin’s hand hovered barely an inch from Arthur's cheek, trembling, as if he longed to wipe the tears away but doubted he still had the right to touch his King.
"And you’re killing me, too," Arthur replied, his voice broken.
Merlin sobbed even harder at the words. The blue eyes of his manservant were raw and red, stripped of the vibrant joy that had once made them shine. Arthur watched him, his own heart aching. He did not understand why Merlin had lied for so long, but the burden of it was clearly destroying the man in front of him just as much as it had destroyed himself.
“How long?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Arthur snorted. Of course, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter, did it? Did it matter whether Arthur knew the partial truth or the whole truth? Perhaps it was better for Arthur to die without knowing the truth about the man he loved than for Merlin to let himself be fully known. Why was it so damn hard for anyone to just be honest with him?
“How long have you practiced magic?”
Arthur pressed again, desperate for it to work this time.
“I don't practice it. I was born with it.”
That was where their conversation ended. Arthur wished he could say more about the truth Merlin had just revealed, but he was afraid of what he might say—afraid it would only echo Uther’s ghost. You’re a monster (no, he wasn’t; he was Merlin). I would have chopped your head off if I had known earlier (no, he wouldn’t have, for Arthur would surely have gone insane if he had lost Merlin). Partially, the exhaustion overwhelmed him, and the king simply stared at Merlin, lost in thought. Even though he wanted to pull away from his betrayer, Arthur was so desperate for Merlin’s warmth; it was the only thing in that moment making him feel alive. So, he did not move an inch.
Neither did Merlin.
“You can go to Camelot after you bury me,” Arthur began, out of nowhere. “Ask for Guinevere; she’ll know what to give you after I’m gone. I’ve already instructed her.”
“You what?” Merlin asked, his voice thick with disbelief.
“I’ve left some gold for you. Plenty of it, enough to start a new life in luxury, if you want. And if that doesn't appeal to you, I told Gwen you could choose a plot of land and start a farm, I suppose. It’s up to you to decide. You can do both, or you can ask for anything else.”
“A farm?” Merlin chuckled bitterly. “That’s plenty of hard work, you royal prat. When did I ever say I wanted a farm?”
“What a shame,” Arthur replied softly. “I used to think, back when I was a prince, that I wanted to run away from Camelot and own a farm. And, of course, I would have brought you with me—to do all the hard work.”
Arthur wondered if that was the moment Gwen realized where his heart truly belonged. Looking back on it, he had been such an oblivious idiot, already hopelessly in love with Merlin. Those blue eyes, wet with tears, widened in surprise; it was as if Merlin had never once imagined that Arthur would dream of leaving Camelot—let alone dream of bringing Merlin with him.
Merlin sobbed again, his hand swiping frantically at his face to clear the tears.
“Then we’re going to have a farm,” Merlin said, his voice trembling. “You’re going to make it. And I’ll do all the hard work on the farm. Really, Arthur. Just… just hang in there a little longer.”
Merlin was really going to go along with anything Arthur said, the King thought, amusement coloring his exhaustion. This idiot of mine. He wondered if Merlin was lying again—perhaps he hadn't been born with magic, but had practiced it all those years just to protect Arthur, or to finish the stupid chores Arthur constantly dumped on him.
Because, even though Uther had taught him that magic was evil—that it corrupted minds—Arthur couldn't find a single trace of malice in Merlin. If magic truly were evil, Merlin would be evil. But Merlin was good. Therefore, by Arthur’s own logic, magic couldn't be evil. It was as simple as that.
The king closed his eyes again, no longer able to contain his consciousness, his anger, his sorrow, or anything else. His mind slipped away. He was thinking back to the time when he had a picnic in the forest with Gwen. Except this time, it was not Gwen. Not really. The man beside him had a mob of curly black hair, ridiculously big ears—partly ridiculous because Arthur secretly adored them so much that he constantly teased him for them—and bright blue eyes with a joyous smile. Arthur thought he must be dreaming, and it was a good dream indeed.
'What do you have in mind, sire?'
'What?'
'About the farm. What do you want on that farm?'
Arthur blinked, his eyes adjusting to the scene before him, only to find himself resting his head on Merlin’s lap. Those calloused hands were stroking his golden hair smoothly. It felt so nice; Arthur wanted to stay there forever.
'I dunno,' Arthur mumbled, feeling an urge to yawn because the wind felt so warm. 'Whatever they have on a farm to run. And… maybe ducks?'
'Ducks?'
'Yeah. Ten of them at least. I want them walking around the farm and enjoying the pond in front of the porch.' As Arthur spoke, his dream became more realistic. 'They look stupid, just like you, Merlin.'
'Prat.'
'Insulting the King is treason, Merlin'
They chuckled softly. Arthur knew now that this wasn’t real. How could they be chattering so fondly when, in the real world, there were only lies between them, wars, and deaths. So much death. Even his own end was approaching soon.
'Merlin?'
'Hmm?'
'Is this your true desire, or is it just my imagination?'
'What are you talking about, Arthur?'
Yes, what nonsense he was talking about.
Arthur is resting on the ground, propped up against some blankets. Merlin is nearby. The sound of an approaching horse makes Merlin draw his dagger defensively, but it is Gaius who rides into the clearing. Merlin runs to help him down.
“Gaius!”
“I came as fast as I could”
Gaius walks over to Arthur, kneeling beside him to inspect his wound. Arthur looks up at his old physician, his expression heavy with a new understanding. Resting on Merlin’s lap during that picnic—that had been a dream. Now, he was back in the cold, harsh reality.
“Gaius…”
“Sire.”
“You knew.”
Gaius paused, his gaze flickering from Arthur to Merlin, the weight of the secret now laid bare. He looked back at the King with a solemn, resigned humility. Arthur didn’t need to hear the words; the answer was clear. It hurt, though—God, it hurt. Of course, Gaius had known. Everyone in Merlin’s life had been more likely to share in this truth than Arthur.
If Arthur had the energy, he could have listed all the people who were closer to Merlin than he had been. But the true sting came from the realization that if Merlin had gone to every person in Arthur’s life, asking about the King’s secrets, he would have found that his humble manservant was the only one Arthur had ever truly trusted.
How pathetic, Arthur thought.
He did however need to ask Gaius. “Why didn't you tell me?”
“It was not my secret to tell, Sire. Merlin’s destiny is woven with yours. Everything he has done, he has done for you. He is the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth, Arthur. And yet, he chose to serve you.”
He chose to serve me."
The greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth had chosen to serve him—and in doing so, had served him a heartbreak that he would feel only once in a lifetime. Arthur flicked his gaze toward Merlin, who looked as though the word ‘Greatest’ had struck him in the stomach. He had gone pale, seemingly desperate to speak of anything other than their so-called ‘Destiny.’ More secrets between them? Even now?
Arthur watched, listening as Merlin and Gaius discussed his condition. Gaius pulled back the tunic to examine the wound, his face falling into a grim expression.
“The blade... a fragment of the sword remains inside. It is forged from a dragon's breath. It is traveling to your heart.”
“Surely there is something you can do, Gaius? A poultice? A spell?” Merlin pleaded, his voice frantic, as it always was whenever Arthur’s life hung in the balance.
“My medicine is useless against such dark magic, Merlin. There is only one place where he can be healed: the Lake of Avalon. You must take him to the ancient island. Only the magic of the Sidhe can draw the blade out. But you must hurry. He has very little time.”
Arthur wanted to protest, to tell them that there was no time left. There was no point in trying—nothing would help, he could tell. But the look in Merlin’s eyes stopped him cold. There was something dark and consuming in that gaze—something that had been gnawing at Arthur for months, ever since his manservant had started acting so differently.
‘You don't even smile anymore, Merlin!’ And yes, he had indeed been counting the days since he last saw Merlin smile.
Merlin talked with Gaius for hours as the sun shifted across the sky. Arthur’s consciousness drifted in and out, his grip on reality deteriorating. In his delirium, he dreamed of conversations about the farm, interspersed with the jarring reality of Merlin arguing with Gaius about how to save his life.
Eventually, the younger man walked toward him with a potion in his hands. Arthur could see that Merlin’s hands were trembling. He spoke softly, tilting Arthur’s head upward to force the drink past his lips.
“This potion will help ease the pain and put you to sleep, Arthur,” Merlin said, his voice cracking and hoarse. “You’re going to be alright. You have to be.”
Arthur was no longer sure if Merlin was comforting him, or if he was simply trying to convince himself.
When Arthur regained consciousness, he felt Merlin desperately carrying him toward the lake. But Arthur’s strength was entirely gone; he collapsed onto the grass, unable to move any further. Merlin tried to pull him up, his voice cracking with sheer desperation.
“Come on, Arthur. We're nearly there. We can see the lake. Just a little further. Come on.”
The manservant looked shattered, as if he had been through hell and back. He was not the same man Arthur remembered; he was losing his hold on reality, and the King could tell. Arthur’s hands and feet were growing deathly cold. Whatever Merlin tried, it did not work. Arthur was dying—it would be a matter of minutes—and he knew it. He knew Merlin had to know it, too, but the man was denying the truth, clinging to the only hope he had left.
Arthur, breathing very faintly, caught Merlin’s arm. That stopped him.
“No... Merlin. Stop. It’s too late.”
His blue eyes widened at his king. Merlin was crying, shaking his head like a possessed madman. It broke Arthur’s heart to see.
“No, it's not. I can save you. I'm going to save you. I can't lose you, Arthur.”
Merlin’s hands moved frantically across Arthur's chainmail, as if desperately trying to grasp onto something. Arthur had never seen him like this, but he supposed having to witness a king die wasn't an everyday occurrence. Softly, Arthur pulled Merlin closer.
“Hold me.”
Touch me. Feel me. Let me anchor you.
Merlin stopped fighting. He slumped onto the grass and gently cradled Arthur’s head and shoulders in his arms, rocking him slightly like a child who had lost his favorite toy. Tears streamed freely down Merlin’s face. His expression was one of pure denial, refusing to accept what was happening. Looking up at him, Arthur spoke, his voice trembling.
“There's something... something I have to say.”
Anything to break them free from this hell.
“Don't talk. Save your strength.”
Arthur wanted to chuckle at the familiar stubbornness, but he was too weak for that now. Instead, he forced the words out. “No... I need to say it. I want to say... something I should have said a long time ago.”
And for the first time in the king’s life, he listened to his heart, which was screaming for this. Weakly, Arthur raised his right hand, placing it firmly against the back of Merlin's neck. He pulled him down slightly so their eyes could meet.
Those deep, unwavering blue eyes that had never bored him.
‘Thank you.’
He could have just said that. He could have offered a simple, ‘Thank you... for everything you've done. For Camelot. For the kingdom you helped me build... For me.’
But it felt so entirely wrong. Not that it wasn't true—he was profoundly grateful for everything Merlin had done, and for the countless things he still didn't know about. It was the logical thing to say; a king of Camelot expressing gratitude for what people did for his kingdom. It might even have been exactly what Merlin wanted to hear, to know his service was recognized by his king. But Arthur… Arthur didn't feel it in his heart to say.
As if Merlin mistook his silence for a final farewell, the manservant choked on a sob, scrambling to say something more.
"You're not going to die, Arthur. You're going to live. We have so much left to do.”
“Can you just—” Arthur inhaled deeply, deciding to say to hell with everything right now and spill it all out “—shut up and listen to me for once, Merlin?”
It seemed to work. Merlin snapped his mouth shut, though a ragged sob still escaped his lips. Arthur sighed with a strange sense of contentment and went on.
“I’m so mad at you for lying to me for a decade.” He paused, feeling his breath hitch. “I’m so hurt, and nobody… nobody has ever done anything so painful to me but you, Merlin. Only you.”
Merlin sobbed harder as he listened. His hand grabbed at his shirt over his heart, as if physically trying to ease the ache.
“I trusted you with my life.”
“And so did I,” Merlin quickly replied, earning a lingering glance from the dying king.
“I was so mad. I was so hurt. I… I was so furious about all of this.” Arthur felt his cheeks grow wet with fresh tears. Damn it. He felt like such a fool, crying while confessing. “But I forgive you, Merlin. Because I am so fucking in love with you that it hurts to stay mad at you for a second longer, or to even try to hate you.”
“What?”
“I said I forgave you.”
“No.” Merlin’s voice broke even more. “You said you love me.”
Arthur's eyes softened. A faint, peaceful smile touched his lips as his grip on the back of Merlin's neck loosened. “I love you, Merlin. Since the first time you drank poison for me. I love you.”
And you might never feel the same about me. Because, for God's sake, Arthur wasn't even sure how to read Merlin's mind anymore. He only hoped this confession wouldn’t burden him, and that, at the very least, his forgiveness would grant Merlin the peace to build a new life and move on from Camelot.
After a decade of lies, Arthur only wished Merlin all the goodness that he himself would no longer be around to give him.
Arthur’s hand fell away from Merlin’s neck. His head rolled back slightly, his chest fell still, and his eyes clouded over. The Great King of Camelot was gone.
Merlin just stared in pure denial. The silence stretched out as if his mind had simply snapped. Trembling, Merlin pressed two fingers against Arthur's neck, then moved his hand flat over Arthur's heart. There was no beat. Gripping Arthur's shoulders, he shook him gently.
“Arthur...”
His voice was so small the wind could have blown it away. Then, the realization finally set in. Merlin pulled Arthur’s lifeless body tightly against his chest, burying his face in Arthur's hair. A primal, agonizing cry tore from his throat, echoing across the empty shores of Avalon.
Whatever else he said at that moment, the king could no longer hear him.
When Arthur caught a glimpse of Avalon, his breath caught in his throat. It was a vast, incredibly still, mirror-like lake surrounded by rolling green hills.
This was the land of eternal youth.
It was a place of profound quiet, shrouded in a thin layer of mystical mist. It felt entirely isolated from the political wars and chaos of Camelot, existing as a sanctuary of absolute peace.
And most astonishing of all, Arthur saw a lady standing on the shore. Her beautiful, long hair was slightly curly and braided down to her hips. She looked at him with the very same eyes Arthur saw in the mirror every single day. A fragrant flower crown rested on her head, perfectly suiting her gentle smile. She was everything he had imagined her to be, and somehow managed to be even more beautiful than that. Ygraine Pendragon. His mother.
“I could feel that you were coming, my child.” Her voice reached him so melodically that Arthur felt a deep warmth, despite never having heard it in the mortal realm.
“You,” Arthur started as he approached her, “are my mother, aren’t you?”
It felt like a stupid question to ask, but someone who actually had memories of their mother wouldn’t understand him. Arthur had never had that privilege—to be loved and raised by the woman who gave him life. So, the question slipped from his mouth sounding like a lost child searching for a parent.
“Yes, Arthur.” Her voice calling his name was so foreign. “You are my son. My beautiful boy. I have waited for you for so long. Yet, your time in the mortal realm was so painfully short that it grieves me.”
Arthur felt hot tears welling up in his eyes as he was enveloped in his mother's hug. He felt so small in the tiny woman's embrace. Ygraine's eyes were just as tearful as she inspected his face, her hands gently touching every contour and feature, as if trying to memorize him with her heart.
“Is Father with you?” he couldn’t help but ask about his other parent—the man who was both his father and the ghost haunting his mind.
“Sadly, no,” she answered. “Those whose hearts are rotted with hatred and blood cannot cross the veil to come to Avalon, sweetheart.”
“Your father killed too many innocents.”
“Then I shouldn’t be here either,” Arthur confessed, his face twisting into a solemn grimace.
Come to think of it now, the ghost he had seen in Camelot must truly have been his mother, which meant the story he had learned was the truth. Merlin had only lied to keep him from becoming a tyrant who killed out of vengeance. The story of how he was born felt monstrous to him.
“That is absolute nonsense.” Her voice was sharp enough to make Arthur flinch, overwhelmed by his own guilt.
“I killed you,” he said bitterly. “I was trained to kill since birth.”
His mother’s eyes softened, as if watching a child confess to the silly crime of stealing cookies. Ygraine cupped her son's cheek, caressing it with boundless fondness.
“How could you, Arthur?” She smiled through her tears. “I chose this, my love. I chose to bring you into the world and bless Camelot with its prince. Moreover, you blessed my soul simply by being born. So tell me, my silly boy, why do you harbor so much self-hatred?”
“I don’t know,” Arthur replied honestly. It surprised him that he didn't even try to argue about self-hatred. “You’re so beautiful, Mother. And I… I ruined your life.”
Oh God, he was sobbing.
Speaking his thoughts aloud like this pained him deeply, yet it relieved him all the same. He was so incredibly tired of his own mind. He felt like a failure—as a son, an heir, a prince, and a king. What did he have to do to earn everyone's approval?
Ygraine stared at her child in sorrow.
“You have nothing to prove to earn the love you seek, Arthur. I love you. And I did not hesitate for a single moment to be your mother, even at the cost of my life.”
As her fingers tenderly combed through his hair, Arthur felt himself sobbing harder. His heart raced in his chest before finally beginning to slow down. He felt his mother's arms tighten around him, wrapping him in a shower of warmth and love. It was hard to fully absorb it all right now, but Arthur was just so profoundly glad that his mother didn't despise him, exactly as he had always feared she would.
And then, the distant rumble of a thunderstorm reached his ears, making Arthur jerk back in startle.
He looked at the distant, dark grey clouds rolling in over the shores of Avalon, curiosity seeping into his mind. What is that? Gaius had said that Avalon was a peaceful place, free from the interruptions of seasons, years, or weather. So how was a thunderstorm approaching this heavenly sanctuary?
“It is the god of magic's grief, Emrys,” Ygraine answered, as if reading the question straight from his mind.
“What is he grieving for?” Arthur asked, wondering what could possibly alter the state of a god.
But his mother only smiled softly at him. There was a deep sorrow in her eyes.
“He lost his king,” she explained slowly. “He is currently bargaining with the earth itself to get his king back from the dead. Because he is immortal, he cannot follow his king to Avalon.”
Arthur’s eyes widened, his gaze darting back to his mother. The god of magic couldn’t be Merlin, could it? This monumental grief he was sensing all the way in Avalon—was it Merlin, mourning his death? Arthur felt his heart clench at the thought of leaving the man who held his heart alone in the mortal realm with a cold corpse.
“Is his other name Merlin, by any chance?” Arthur asked, attempting a weak joke.
Ygraine only smiled and nodded.
The king felt as though the depth of his manservant’s lies was beyond anything he could have ever guessed. The greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth? You failed to mention he was also a god, Gaius.
“He is refusing to let your body go to Avalon.” Sounded stubborn, just like Merlin. “He is offering the earth all of his own life force in exchange for yours.”
“He can’t do that, can he?” Arthur asked quickly.
A spike of panic hit him at the thought of Merlin sacrificing his life for Arthur again, even when Arthur was no longer his king. Just how devoted could that idiot be? At what price would Merlin finally stop giving everything up for Arthur, when he so obviously didn't care about his own life at all?
“Unfortunately, he cannot. No soul in this world can be traded for another to bring them back from death.”
“But he isn't going to stop just like that.”
Ygraine smiled at him knowingly. Arthur was so incredibly worried about Merlin. A second ago, his head had been filled with his own overwhelming feelings, but Merlin had managed to delete them all. With his stupid, dark grey clouds floating distantly off the shores of Avalon.
“He is going to trade the rest of his immortal life to go back in time, messing with the very current of time for you, Arthur. That is partially why I am here to see you.”
His mother waved a hand, and a vision of Merlin holding his corpse and fiercely arguing with the Great Dragon appeared on the water’s surface. Arthur’s heart ached looking at the world he had left behind.
“I can send you back in time instead, my child,” Ygraine stated, “without making Emrys pay the price.”
“But what price will it cost then?” Arthur asked.
“When you die, your body will simply return to the earth as a void. Not to the land of eternal youth. Not to Avalon. You will not be able to rest your soul in this heaven once you choose this path.”
“And I will never see you again.” He felt a hollow emptiness in his heart, knowing this might be the last time he ever saw her. He could stay here, resting in eternal peace with his mother and all the honorable men of Albion.
But...
But this place had no Merlin.
“I knew what you would choose, my love,” Ygraine said as she stepped closer, hugging him tightly one last time before looking straight into his eyes.
Arthur couldn’t find it in his heart to give her any other answer.
Mothers always know best where their children's hearts lie.
“Farewell, Arthur.”
She gently kissed his forehead before Arthur could say another word, and his entire surroundings vanished into thin air. Only the sound of thunder and storms echoed in his ears.
‘Please, bring him back to me. At any cost. At any price.’
The sound of the god of magic, begging the earth.