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Chapter Text

The firelight fades in the silver moon, the sound of sleeping soldiers soft in the midst of the forest. It is truly a beautiful night, the sky is clear and the weather is warm. 

Merlin sits on a log and watches the flames wither away, dwindling as he lets it fizzle out. Arthur sits heavily next to him and sighs pointedly. Merlin glances at him, but pays him little mind. 

“Are you angry with me?” Arthur asks at last, breaking the quiet. 

“No,” Merlin says after a moment. “Only worried. I don’t like where we stand as we declare war on Morgana.” Arthur nods pensively at this. 

“You mean you don’t like that Morded is on our side,” Arthur surmises, nudging him gently. “We saved him once before. What changed from your stance then?”

“Years have passed,” Merlin snaps, slightly defensive. “All the people we’ve fought, all the people that have betrayed you. You cannot blame me for being a little wary,” he says. It is a low blow, Merlin knows. Arthur’s expression shutters and he looks a little wounded. Agravaine’s betrayal still reaps sorrow for Camelot, and for Arthur. 

“I don’t think we could leave him,” Arthur says. “I do not think that would be right.”

“You hate magic, remember?” Merlin retorts, not with a small amount of venom. “He’s a druid. Do you see the hypocrisy in your laws if you save him?” HIs whole life has been lived with the looming secret of his own magic, and it stings with the fact that Arthur might have changed his mind, might actually repeal the laws, might be accepting if people have magic, but he wouldn’t be okay with Merlin having it.

“Magic has… it’s helped us, at times,” Arthur relents. “You are right. It is hypocritical of me to condemn it completely. There have been good things that have come from it.” Arthur sighs again, this time with a tiredness that comes with his crown. “But, that old sorcerer killed my father. It corrupted Morgana. It attacked Camelot, again and again.” Merlin is silent at this, torn apart. “But, it did save you. The Mortaeus flower, all those years ago. You wouldn’t be here without it,” Arthur murmurs, uncharacteristically soft, “so it cannot be all bad.” He looks at Merlin, vulnerable. 

“You’re right,” Merlin chokes out, his heart breaking. “And it’s saved you. So much.” I’ve saved you so much. They sit in the quiet once again and let their words settle. 

As always, Arthur is the one who breaks it. “Mordred is just a boy,” he says at last. “Odd, a druid, and exceptionally too eager to please coupled with a history of helping Morgana in the past, but just a child. Perhaps your intuition is just paranoia, at this rate. Not everyone is an enemy of ours.” 

“Paranoia or not, you’d be lost without me,” Merlin attempts at levity with a weak smile. Arthur smiles back, and even in the night, he glows like the sun. It makes Merlin ache.

Arthur chuckles, “Maybe.” He nudges Merlin again, smiling brighter now. “Anyways, I believe he’ll surpass your skepticism and grow into a kind, young man. Besides, what has Mordred ever done to me?”

The battle will be baked in blood, he’s sure of it, as Merlin watches the knights depart with a stone in his stomach. It weighs on him, the thought of Arthur and the knights all going to fight Morgana’s men, with him helpless as he is until his magic returns to him. 

He wonders if Arthur will ever forgive him for staying behind. 

You know, Merlin. All those jokes about you being a coward...I never really meant any of them. I always thought you were the bravest man I ever met. Guess I was wrong.

Merlin slips into the chainmail, remembers how Arthur once helped him put on his gloves in Ealdor when they were trying to protect his village from being sieged. He wonders if wearing this armor, the king’s spare armor, if he could be disguised when using magic to stop the fighting before there are more casualties. When it comes back to him, he will be more useful. Maybe he could even convince Morgana and Mordred that he’s Arthur, and distract them while Arthur leads Camelot to victory elsewhere on the battlefield. 

Camelot red is a striking color, bold in the reflection of the mirror as he stares at his reflection with a tight jaw. He feels older wearing this cape. It’s heavy, the fabric weighted and rich, likely expensive. Only the best for the knights, he surmises sardonically. He tucks the helmet under his arm, and leaves the castle. Some things are left here and there for him to clean up. There will be other days for him to tidy the room, when they return. Merlin doesn’t look back at Camelot. She’ll be here when he returns. 

Gwaine accompanies him for part of the journey to the Crystal Caves. It’s brief but it’s comforting for him to be there, despite the obvious threat of battle just over the horizon. The two of them dismount their horses, and approach the mouth of the cave. 

“What’re you looking for, Merlin?” 

Merlin stares at the opening, and feels hope and dread at the same time. “I can’t tell you that, Gwaine,” he says without looking at him. “You’ll just have to trust me.” 

Gwaine’s face is pained and worried, but he doesn’t say anything. The knight isn’t one for prying. 

“You should get going,” Merlin says, turning to him, managing a smile. “Arthur will need you by his side. I’ll be there soon, I swear it.”

Expression shuttering, Gwaine looks like he wants to say something heavy but bites his tongue. Instead, he says, “Look after yourself, Merlin.” He unsheathes his sword and hands it to him. “You know how to use the sharp end, right?” he jokes. The two of them chuckle before nodding at one another goodbye. Merlin takes the sword, and watches as Gwaine walks away. 

His magic tingles under his skin, recently recovered after the Crystal Caves. Butterflies, blue and beautiful like the crystals, fly about. For a moment, he believes that there will be light at the end of this damned tunnel as he rides to Camlann. In the distance, anyone would mistake him for a knight. 

In a last minute effort, he casts a glamor on himself and disguises himself as Arthur, a light mirage for his face, for his hair. It makes him blond to someone who's not really focused on getting the details right of who their enemy is. Merlin rides into Camlann, and the stone in his stomach expands into a mountain at the sight.

The war is waging. There are men on the field, bleeding and dying. He doesn’t recognize many of them, sees the carnage and the muddy faces of the dead. His armor is clean. He hopes that will give the illusion that he is someone he is not, and hide his magic as he casts it. 

And it does. Morgana’s eyes are golden as Aithusa flies overhead, but Merlin yells up at her and calls for her attack to stop, his voice booming across the battlements to the sky. With a screech, Aithusa pauses in the air, and looks down at him for a moment, knowing it’s him when everyone else does not. 

She flies away, leaving the knights alone unharmed. The crowd turns to look for the source of the voice. Merlin spots Arthur, a glimpse of blond. He would recognize him anywhere, as Arthur looks up at the sky as Aithusa retreats to the clouds. 

In the distance, he hears it, unmistakable:

“For the love of Camelot!” Arthur shouts, and the soldiers charge on. Merlin spots Modred, spots Morgana. He removes his helmet, and their attention turns toward him. 

The glamor is working, Mordred assumes he’s Arthur as he makes a beeline towards him, laying waste to men in his way, eyes fixed on Merlin as he fights. It would be impressive if it weren’t people they cared about being sliced clean through. 

Steeling himself, Merlin raises his own sword. Gwaine’s sword, wearing Arthur’s spare armor and Camelot’s colors– The kingdom he’d bled and killed for, the one he’d die for if it comes to it. 

“Pendragon!” Mordred shouts as they near one another. Merlin glances in Arthur's direction, sees him look over with confusion. But Mordred is dead set on him, eyes locked and paying no mind to his surroundings other than the enemies that are in his way.

The path to dueling Mordred is riddled with Morgana’s men. Merlin holds them off well enough– shockingly well, honestly, striking their enemies down. 

But when he gets to Mordred, or more so when Mordred gets to him, his skills aren’t as sophisticated. Mordred is fast and hungry with revenge, having trained with Arthur for years in swordsmanship at this point. His blows are heavy, eyes gleaming with anger. 

“You took everything from me, Arthur,” Mordred snarls at him. Merlin deflects the strike and stands there, feeling regret for everything that’s happened in all these years. And in that moment of hesitance, of sorrow, Mordred thrusts his sword at him and he doesn't react fast enough to defend it. 

The sword plunges into his stomach, spools of red spilling out onto the ground. Merlin collapses to one knee, looks up at Mordred in pain and defeat. He sees the moment Mordred realizes that he’s not the king of Camelot, the way his eyes widen in surprise and confusion when their gazes meet and the glamor flickers, and falls. 

“You gave me no choice,” Mordred chokes out. “No choice at all, Emrys.”

For a second, he catches a glimpse of the druid boy they’d saved all those years ago as he slumps over. 

Mordred yanks the blade out from his body. Merlin curls over the wound, hands slipping over the bloodied armor. It is agony, white-hot and searing. The blood pours out of him, and all he can hear is roaring in his ears. Mordred stands above him, nothing but contempt on his face. 

The world fades to black, and the last thing he can think is: Arthur. 

Chapter Text

Arthur stands in the valley of the battleground and squints up at the horizon where there is a cluster of people in uproar. He can’t distinguish any of the faces, honestly can barely tell who is alive from this distance. But he can see the metal glinting as the people move, twisting around a center point like a serpent. 

“What is happening over there?” he asks one of the knights in his vicinity. The knight, Sir Kay looks equally confused at how the fighting has seemed to come to a pause entirely. Morgana’s men race towards the hill, tearing past Camelot’s men.

“Who was that man who commanded the dragon away?” Arthur asks further. The tidal wave of people seems to have disbanded. 

“I’m not certain, sire, but I thank the gods for him,” he says, squinting. Arthur hears Morgana’s outcry, and he’s further perplexed by the outrage on the other side of the battlefield. It is from the same direction the familiar, booming voice called off the dragon. He wonders if it’s him who has fallen. 

Morgana shrieks and it’s a cry of sorrow. It carries across the battleground. All her men retreat, and Arthur and his men do the same. Her sorrow seems to spell victory for When the people clear from the cluster on the other side, then perhaps he’ll see what had happened, or who could have fallen to have constituted an immediate retreat. 

Arthur trudges back from the western part of the field with heavy boots and a bloody sword. He can see the surviving men return to their camp, but they’re somber. Quieter than he expected, for a hard-won, albeit a temporary victory. 

Soon, they will all be able to return to Camelot. Thinking of the kingdom makes him think of Merlin in turn, who is still there. When they are home, he is not sure how the conversation will go due to how they had left things. His last words were unkind, calling Merlin a coward. Perhaps he was too harsh. Merlin, at the end of the day, is not a knight. He is not a soldier, after all. Arthur, selfishly, just wanted him near and had grown used to the clumsy man being by his side. In hindsight, it should have brought him some peace of mind knowing that Merlin is far away from Mordred and Morgana and this entire war. He hopes he will be able to make amends when they pass through the gates. He sits heavily on a log and starts to remove his armor, discarding it next to him. 

There are voices approaching and footsteps shuffling and Arthur lifts his head. The two groups of survivors converge at the tents, breaking off for medicine and food, to drop off the dirty armor and weapons. Leon is limping as he leads the eastern front, Percival walking behind him. In his arms, he carries something as gently as he can. 

Arthur sighs with relief at the sight of them, two of his closest men having survived the battle. The relief is short-lived, however, because he sees the tears in their eyes as they approach. The entire eastern front is solemn, he realizes. Gwaine is nowhere in sight, and Arthur’s stomach begins to sink and wonders if the shroud is covering him. 

“Arthur,” Percival manages once they are close enough. He sets the body down with care. The fabric rustles at the movement. Leon kneels, squeezes his eyes shut as he lifts it slowly. 

He sees the thing in pieces. The muddy, worn-leather boots he’s seen for years on the feet of a servant boy who worked too hard and cared too much, the boy he’d left behind in Camelot and called him a coward for staying away. The torn fabric of a cape, one of his spares, the one he’d given to Merlin to wear when he’d dressed up as a knight all those years ago for a bandit trap. Unruly black hair, slightly curled where it had started growing long from waiting a touch too long before getting cut, now plastered with blood to the side of pale, pale skin. 

“I am so sorry,” Leon breathes out in the quiet. With trembling fingers, Arthur lifts the fabric completely and the sky shatters above him as the earth crumbles beneath his feet. 

Eyes, lifeless and icy where they were once blue like a lake in the summer sun, stare up at nothing. Crimson stains his lips, his stomach. It is everywhere. 

It is Camelot red and he has never hated his kingdom more.

Arthur collapses to his knees, the breath stolen from his lungs. The realization swells within him and a sob rips at his throat and claws its way out, hands trembling as he cradles Merlin’s cold face with his dirt-stained hands. Merlin’s still in his chainmail, battered and worn. Damaged after years of use, likely one he’s discarded for a better one. 

“We didn’t realize until it was too late,” Leon explains. “He… there was an illusion placed upon him. The men believed they were you.” Arthur stares at the body, Merlin’s body, and roars. He cradles him, holds his face in his hands. Merlin’s eyes stare unblinkingly at the clouds, nothing remaining. The shock has Arthur’s blood running cold in his veins, but the sorrow might be the thing that does him in. Leon places a tentative hand on his shoulder, but he flinches away from the touch. 

He is screaming with grief and anger both, disbelieving how this could even happen, how Merlin could have even made it all the way here when he said he’d be staying behind, angry that his last words were calling him a coward when Merlin had dressed as him somehow and took a blow surely aimed for Arthur—

He shouts until his throat is raw and hoarse and he has no more words but Merlin’s name. “Merlin,” he chokes out. He rests his head on Merlin’s chest where no heartbeat echoes in the hollow of it. “Merlin, Merlin, Merlin.” He murmurs it like a prayer, like if he says it enough, it will bring him back. 

Leon’s hand is on his shoulder as he cries. “Sire. You must rest. Morgana will return for you tomorrow.” 

Arthur looks up at him, cheeks stained with tears. Adjusting, he holds Merlin in his arms. “Who did this?” His voice is just above a croak. It is entirely broken as he chokes the question out. 

Bowing his head, Leon breathes the name out, “Mordred.” Arthur stands abruptly, not even wearing any armor. Nothing but the loose fit of chainmail hanging from his body. He grabs Excalibur without hesitation, and begins to storm off in the general direction of where Morgana’s men had treated with no plan, no strategy. Percival catches him by the arm, and Leon is immediately hovering by his side. 

“Tomorrow, if you wish, we can go after him. Morgana and Mordred have fled the battlefield to regroup. We should do the same, while we have the time. We are winning, Arthur, they do not have many people left and we still have men to fight. We still have you. Tomorrow, we can go after them.” 

Arthur looks up, a terrible, wrecked expression on his face. Rage surges up within him and boils his heart with misery. His jaw tightens, and he is resolute.

“Tomorrow, he is dead.” 

Gaius wrings out the water and blood from a scrap of cloth, cleaning the last of the dirt and grime and crimson from Merlin’s skin. The chainmail and Merlin’s tunic lay discarded under the rickety cot, quickly removed from Merlin’s body. Gaius prepares him for burial with careful ministrations. His eyes are shiny with tears that are perpetually on the cusp of falling. 

He looks at Merlin’s corpse; squeezing his eyes shut. If he thinks of the reality too much, it will destroy him. With a gust of pain, he thinks of Hunith in Ealdor, burying her child. 

He wrings out the rag one last time, lifts Merlin’s torso and wraps a cloth around Merlin’s stomach, effectively bandaging it to hold the body together enough for burial. He slips on a white tunic to cover the garishness of the wound. 

The tent flutters open, and it is Arthur, eyes landing on Merlin immediately. What little composure the king has crumbles at the sight of him. Heavily, he seats himself at Merlin’s bedside, and tentatively places a hand on Merlin’s wrist. For a moment, the man could be mistaken for sleeping. His fingertips rest on the pulsepoint, hoping for a miracle. 

“I’m sorry, Gaius,” Arthur chokes out again. It’s his upteenth apology to the old physician, a slew of them having poured out when he initially brought Merlin’s body into the tent. He’d carried Merlin in himself, cradled him to his chest. They sit in the quiet for a moment with Merlin in between them, wearing white. 

“Was it a sword?” Arthur manages. He has only left the tent briefly for strategy, even though it is filled with death. Leon is handling the plans and he will come to relay them to him later. He can’t bear to be away from Merlin’s side. His hand remains on Merlin’s cold arm, fingertips lingering. The grief swells in him already, even as he thinks of revenge. 

“Yes, it was a sword. Forged in the fire of a dragon’s breath, from the marks it left behind.” 

Arthur remembers it, how the torn pieces of Merlin’s tunic unveiled black, web-like poison from the horrid stab wound. The image curls in his stomach and threatens to make him retch again. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to think of better things.

I love you, I love you and I’m so sorry, I love you and I will never be over this loss. 

A thought tugs at Arthur, and he forces himself to voice it. “The man on the hill, who commanded the dragon,” Arthur begins, “Was that Merlin?”

Gaius purses his lips, and nods. “It was, Arthur. Yes.”

“And the glamor… Leon said they thought he was me. That mordred was targeting me, but Merlin…” Arthur’s voice breaks. He clears it and continues. “It was magic. Was he… did Merlin have magic?”

The silence is answer enough. It settles in the tent, around them both. Arthur’s fingers tighten around Merlin’s wrist. “I should have known. I was with him all the time. He was my closest friend. I should have known.” A sob shudders out of him. “I am so, so sorry for causing you this loss. It is all my fault.”

Reaching out, Gaius rests his old, weathered hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Merlin was his own man. A man born of magic, yes, but he was human and he cared deeply for you. I think… I think, perhaps, that his wish would be freedom and peace for Camelot, for people like him. Maybe this was his sacrifice towards that goal. You two are two sides of the same coin, destined for a golden age, and as long as you stand, he is with you. He remains with us.” 

Arthur moves Merlin to his tent so Gaius can tend to the wounded knights. Gwaine comes, pale like the life has been pulled from him and aggressively returned. His eyes are bloodshot and shadowed when he looks at Merlin. 

“What happened?” the knight barely manages to voice. 

“Mordred,” Arthur says, bitter. Guinevere is assisting Gaius in healing the soldiers. Her tent is beside his. 

“And we are fighting tomorrow?” Gwaine continues. 

“Yes,” Arthur says, but his voice trembles. He has barely left Merlin’s side, if not touching, close enough to reach out. Gwaine nods once, sharply. 

“He took me to the caves in search of something.” 

“Magic,” Arthur says. “He had lost his magic. That is why he stayed behind.” Arthur looks at Merlin's body again. He lays on a cot next to Arthur’s own bed. Soon, he will be buried, but not here. Not in this wretched place where there is so much bloodshed. 

You know, Merlin. All those jokes about you being a coward...I never really meant any of them. I always thought you were the bravest man I ever met. Guess I was wrong.

His own words are haunting him. That entire conversation haunts him. Why had he said that? Why would those be the last words he’d ever say to him? 

“Arthur.” Gwaine tears him out of his thoughts. Just his name. 

Arthur’s eyes raise to meet Gwaine’s, flitting away from Merlin. “I wish he had just let me die.” 

News travels fast among the survivors, and the sight of Arthur collapsing to his knees over a fallen soldier– no, not a soldier, a commoner, a servant, well known as he was– was something the knights won’t soon forget. 

The survivors are mourning for Merlin, too. The man had a way with people and a smile one wouldn’t soon forget. 

Arthur lies in bed and stares at the fabric of the tent. He rolls over, looks at Merlin, whose eyes they gently closed earlier that day before he’d been cleansed and re-clothed. Like this, they could be lying together. The longing spikes at his chest. In another world, he would have said the words he was afraid to say, the emotions he couldn’t even place a name to until it was too late. 

In death, he is treating him with more kindness than he ever had in life and it tears him apart. 

“Merlin,” Arthur whispers into the night. “Merlin, I am so sorry. I thank you for this kingdom that you helped me build, and I… I am sorry.” 

Merlin doesn’t answer. Arthur weeps the whole night. 

Chapter Text

The meadow is bright in the summer sun. It is just days after the solstice, and Merlin and Arthur are bathing in the warmth of it, away from the city center. They’d gotten a little lost on their journey out from Camelot to Ealdor to visit Hunith, where Arthur had insisted he joined “for protection”. Merlin knows the king secretly just likes not being royalty, when he is with Hunith and him in their little home. 

They’d taken a break by a stream, sun-drunk on the day’s journey. It smells of flowers, long grass, and petals in the light. 

Merlin’s eyes are closed, but he hears Arthur shuffle next to him. 

“What’re you doing, you cabbagehead?” Merlin says, all snark. Arthur adores him for it, his spirit. Merlin had always been so plucky. Being from the country, the humor and dryness came naturally to him. In moments like these, they are friends and nothing else, not king and servant, not sorcerer and man. They simply exist by each other’s side, basking in the glow of comfortable familiarity. Times like these, Merlin wants to reach out and kiss the lips of his king. 

As if hearing his thoughts, Arthur brings up royalty. 

“Name one king who was happy,” he says, out of the blue. Merlin looks over to him, eyes squinted. He chuckles to himself, but Arthur is looking at him expectantly. He thinks for a moment, thinks of Uther, how he’d lived most of his life in grief after Igraine’s death, thinks of Arthur’s ancestors and how so many died of suicide due to defeat and betrayal, leaving their descendants to carry on the tradition of tragic endings. He thinks of Cenred, and how Ealdor had suffered because of the bitterness and anger in Cenred’s heart for something he can’t even name. 

With a pang, Merlin looks to Arthur fully and prays that Arthur won’t lead such a tragic life or meet a tragic end. 

“I can’t,” Merlin admits at last. Arthur twists himself in the grass, propping himself up on an elbow. He looks down at Merlin, not particularly in a rush to continue. He watches Merlin’s eyelashes flutter on his skin. 

“You can’t,” he echoes. “But let me tell you something, Merlin. Something I’ve never told anyone else before.” He is in one of his softer moods, his breaths coming in evenly and contentedly. Merlin always loved when he was like this. Always loved him, but especially now.                         

Humming, his eyes meet Arthur’s, whose hover above his. There is a glint in his gaze. “Yes?”

“I’m going to be the first,” he says. “I’ll be the first king to live and die happily.” 

The conviction is what makes Merlin’s heart swell. He can’t help but smile. “Alright, you prat,” he says, grinning. Arthur’s face breaks out with joy, toothy and relentless. “Do you promise?”

“I do,” Arthur says. Merlin nods, and lets his eyes slip closed once more.

He feels like he could live in this moment forever.

Sleep eludes Arthur because his memories are plaguing him by coming to him in dreams. The magic is something he has been pondering as he looks at Merlin, who lies on a cot next to his bed. He wants to be angry, truly. And it be honest, he has the right to be. Not necessarily about the magic, but about the lies, about how Merlin has had magic all this time. He can’t even yell at him about it, about keeping this great secret from him all these years. There is unlearning to do, because magic is what has saved him, but it is what has hurt him so badly as well. Nothing, however, could hurt him more than losing Merlin. 

The night is cold— war is always cold and ridden with violence and even more than that, loss. The victors and losers all walk away missing something. Someone. 

Guinevere rests in the tent next to his. Calling off their marriage was a blessing and a curse; he loves her dearly, loves her in a way he can’t imagine loving someone else. He is beyond grateful that she is alive and here. Their mutual fondness is cherished to him and she is a blessing. 

The curse, however, is his oblivion as to why marrying her felt wrong. Guinevere had known why on her end, knew that Lancelot will and has always been her one great love. Guinevere is steadfast in that way. Certain of herself in a way that Arthur wishes he could fathom out, because deep down, he’s afraid that if he had figured it out soon, Merlin would still be alive. 

In the night, he imagines it. Coming home to Merlin, who is breathing and whole. He can see rings here, can see Merlin in his room, can almost feel his warmth, if Merlin were to return his favor. A glorious, golden kingdom as beautiful as Merlin’s eyes. Arthur would kiss him like he was the summer sun. 

He would never, ever wish for anything else, if that is what his life could be. 

Morning comes, and Arthur is cold. He’d cried himself dry the previous night, tossing and turning. His dreams still whisper to him, clinging to his shoulders as he tries to shake the fitful, restless sleep from his bones. There is the murmur of voices outside as the men ready themselves for the final push to victory. They’ve rested well and there are far more of them than there are of Morgana’s men. 

“When this is done, I will bury you, and let you rest,” Arthur says, turning to Merlin. He goes to the armor that had been scrubbed hastily the previous night by George and puts only part of it on. Excalibur glints in the low firelight of the early morning. He exits the tent, and sees the men begin to gather. 

As he crosses the camp, Guinevere approaches him, and she looks exhausted. She grabs Arthur’s hands. “Please stay safe.” 

“He killed Merlin,” Arthur says. “He has to pay.” 

“I understand,” Guinevere says. “But Arthur, win this war and then come back home. You have a kingdom to rule and people to lead.” Arthur’s jaw tenses, not agreeing, not promising anything. “He loved you, you know,” she murmurs. 

Arthur feels his heart jump at this. “Too much, then,” Arthur says. “I did not deserve what he felt for me. Whether that be just loyalty, or anything more.” 

“Your grief is the same as what I had felt for Lancelot,” Guinevere says. The realization must have come much before this. That Arthur has loved Merlin all along, that them being on the cusp of marriage only to quickly decide not to carry through with it had been for their feelings outside of one another. 

Guinevere’s love for Lancelot could never have been surpassed or filled by her feelings for Arthur, and Arthur could never get over the man with unruly dark hair and eyes that crinkled when he laughed. They could never love each other that much, but Arthur still feels eternally grateful that Guinevere is here. 

He hugs her, exhales slowly as they let each other go. Guinevere looks at his face and sees the anguish written across his expression. “Just come back home, Arthur.”

Arthur dons the armor that was scrubbed clean from the previous night. The men stand on the precipice of battle, and he knows in his bones that this will be the last push to victory. He swallows his grief to speak to his men on the cusp of reset. 

“Tonight, we battle. Tonight, we end this war. We end the war as old as the land itself. War against tyranny, greed, spite. Not all will greet the dawn. Some will live, some will die. We have lost brothers out on that field, and we will not let it be in vain.” Arthur’s voice falters just a bit at this as he thinks of Merlin, bloody and alone, stabbed by Mordred. He clears his throat and steels himself. “But each and everyone of you fights with honor, and with pride. But not only do we fight for our lives, we fight for the future. A future of Camelot, a future of Albion. A future of the United Kingdoms. For the love of Camelot!”

The men cheer and roar in determination. Arthur’s heart swells and sinks concurrently. So many of them have died from this, and so many could be lost if they get too cocky with the knowledge that there are scarce enemies to fight. He raises his sword, raises Excalibur, and they charge forward. 

Finding Mordred is not a difficult feat. He stands on the horizon, jaw tight. A grown man now, and Arthur feels the rage and grief swell within his chest at the sight of him. His eyes lock on the man as his men move. 

The battle itself is swift. Arthur charges through, but most of them surrender as Arthur charges through. He orders his knights to take them as prisoners and have mercy on them. Some of them are so young, and he will not have surrendering blood be shed on these lands. They are not innocent, surely, but callous killing for people who are handing over their weapons makes for an immoral victory.

When Mordred and him clash, however, it is not with any hint of surrender. Mordred dares to wear a combination of Camelot’s armor and the one they’d welcomed him from home after the winter and encounter at Iseldir. Arthur’s blood boils. 

Mordred is already readying to swing when the king approaches him, boots muddy and heavy. But Arthur is no heavier on his feet, shockingly still swift. The best of men. 

“You killed him,” Arthur says when their swords clang against one another, the iron reverberating through his bones. 

“And you killed her,” Mordred snarls back, referring to Kara, the druid girl who vowed to remain an enemy of Camelot till her dying breath. “The both of you. You ordered her to die. At least he tried to convince you to keep her alive.”

Arthur remembers Merlin’s hesitation, his words against killing the girl even after her adamancy against the crown. His eyes water as he thinks about all the things he could have done to prevent this outcome. 

Mordred swings again, and Arthur jumps back, nicked on the arm. He winces, but continues. It is animalistic, the way they are fighting one another. It goes on and on like this, until Mordred says, “His blood is on your hands, too.” 

Arthur’s swing is full of grief, because he knows what Mordred is saying is the truth. Has felt it in his soul since Leon and Percival brought the body back, felt the coldness when he saw the way the men were mourning his servant and ultimately his friend. 

The guilt fuels him because he remembers Merlin’s boldness, his wit. They’re fighting quickly, catching cuts on each other’s bodies, but Arthur is swift-footed and strong-armed. The best of men, Camelot’s glorious fighter. He hasn’t lost since he was a boy, not in sword fighting.

Mordred seems to remember that at one point, this was his king, because his eyes flash with fear. He knows, deep down, that he is no match for Arthur. His magic is nothing for him now, and Arthur’s onslaught is relentless, because when he stabs Mordred clean through, there is no remorse. Not for him. 

“And now, your blood is on my hands as well, and I will not grieve you.” 

Mordred collapses to his knees as Arthur retracts Excalibur. Arthur stares at him as he falls, teeth gritted and chest heaving from exertion. His hands are slippery from sweat and blood from the cuts on his body, face dirt-streaked. The cuts sting all across him, chainmail damaged but not enough for it to register.

Arthur looks down at the druid boy, a perpetual king. His head is heavy with an invisible crown as he watches life fade before him. In Mordred’s last moments, he smiles as his face hits the earth.