The Redemption Arc (A BBC's Merlin Fanfiction)

Chapter 34 - End

Merlin had always wondered why he had been called Emrys, but had never had the opportunity to find out.

When his beard stopped graying and fraying, he began to have an inkling of an idea. When he had forgotten about hunger pangs and the pleasure of food, it became a little clearer. He forgot joy and jubilation and everything became mundane. He remembered pain, however, and happiness, too, when he thought about that singular, golden part of his past. He occasionally thought about Morgana and Arthur and Gwen consciously. He remembered friendship and laughter when he thought of Lancelot and Gwaine. He remembered regret when he thought of Mordred.

At one point he realized that memories were clearer to him than they had ever been before. And that he could willfully forget what he wanted to. Many years went erased in that way.

But that golden part of his life, for just those few years he could never erase. Subconsciously, they were all that was on his mind, always on his mind.

Merlin couldn't help but wonder when he was supposed to die. Everyone at Camelot had died a long time ago. It was so long ago, Camelot now adorned a new name. The rough paths Merlin had walked beside Arthur were now trimmed and bejeweled. The forests he had roamed with Morgana were cut down and domesticated. The castles that seemed to embody Gwen's grace were now haunted, desolate spaces.

The vast grounds that housed the knights, so many of his friends, the grounds upon which was Gaius' house, his house, where Gaius had taken him so graciously, so kindly. They were all gone.

All but the lake. The lake was still there. He could still see young, beautiful Guinevere decked in victorious purple asking the maid for something black to wear. She wore black till the day she died--she wasn't mourning, she said, she was waiting. Arthur loved to see her in that specific purple, much more than she herself ever did. And so it made sense to wait for him.

Merlin would go to the lake every day, even though it felt lonely. Even the Vilia barely talked or appeared to him anymore. He had tried calling for Freya but Freya only appeared to him in the darkest moments, that of most despair. Despite everything, he had dangerously, ridiculously strong hope these past 2000 years. Two centuries had passed and he was sure that Arthur would return, that Morgana would return. In the face of such stubborn hope, how could he ever really despair?

Sometimes when he looked into the lake he would see a glint of green in the water, and think Morgana had swum across to see him. He remembered her eyes of two different colors, her beautiful gowns of red and green and purple. Her fair cheek, her long lashes. Her beautiful smile, and her wise words. Her kind heart.

There were times he wished to stop. It felt as if except for that one glorious moment, it was really only a moment when he looked back at his life; except for that one glorious moment his life was just a series of waiting for something right. But life went on, and he went on, and the lake was there, and so were Arthur and Morgana, so what could he do but wait?

The End.