Archive of Our Own

It had been centuries since Arthur’s death and Merlin returned to the citadel to find that Camelot had been all but destroyed; the Saxon’s had invaded and the land around Camelot had fallen into ruins.

The citadel had crumbled into a pathetic mess, broken brick and slate discarded around the place, and the walls had fallen. Gwen and Leon’s unmarked grave, which he had made himself, when their son, Artor, had called upon him in a time of war, still stood and the personal memorial he had left for Arthur had dwindled into virtually nothing over time. All that was left was the wooden pole he had slotted into the ground to mark it.

Gaius’ grave, just outside the citadel, was just a plain slate in the ground now, but Merlin had placed flowers there, regardless. He walked up through the lower town, which had fallen into various states of disrepair and he imagined the market that would come into town, and the sounds that he would hear on Gaius’ errands.

The smell - oh the smell! - of the bakers and the stench of the poor, running into one.
He could feel people jostling past him, busy with their days, having to be somewhere while he languidly strolled because what was the rush? Merlin made his way through, making sure to stop where he usually would if he was buying supplies, the wave of nostalgia and pain sickening. He had to force himself to continue walking.

He came up in front of the citadel and just stopped.
Stopped and looked.
The stairs were still there, and the foundations had stayed, but it was slowly falling. Merlin sat on the steps, remembering times with Arthur. Arthur nudging him, Arthur laughing, seeing Arthur return, safe and sound, from a hunt, or a meeting to discuss lands, or a patrol. He stood, remembering Gaius, and Gwen, Leon, Gwaine, Percivale, Lancelot. He thought of Morgana, and Mordred.

He even thought of Uther and he wondered how his mother would have liked to live in Camelot.
She never did like large towns.

He stood and ambled up the stairs, imagining he was following Arthur, who had returned from Essetir where they had been discussing a peace treaty, and he allowed himself to wander through the ruins of the citadel, with his eyes closed, and his arms outstretched, pretending it was just like all those years ago.

He followed Arthur up the stairs, passing the throne room - which was little more than a few broken walls - passing the kitchens, passing Gaius’ chambers. He would check on Gaius later, when Arthur had dismissed him. Turning the corridor and getting to Arthur’s hall, he found himself completely unable to get to Arthur’s chambers without a little bit of help from his magic.
There was almost nothing left of it now.

There was no floor, and the walls were almost gone, but he saw a few parts where he could get to. When he jumped onto a ledge, he hung onto what was left for dear life while he arranged himself, then sat on it, pulling out a sandwich from his pocket, and he just... waited.
Today could be the day when Arthur rose. When Arthur rose, Gwen would return, too.

As would Gwaine, and everybody that Merlin loved.
He would see Gaius. He would hear Leon’s laugh. There was the potential of being crushed by Percivale’s muscles (he hoped not). He would be complete again.

He swung his legs and sang to himself as he ate, a deep, longing song that he’d heard once in 1044, about a woman waiting for her beloved to return home to her from a war.
“Let’s have you, lazy daisy,” Merlin announced to nobody, leaning back against the wall.
He waited.
And waited.
And waited.
He waited all day and when the sun set, he knew then that he would not see his friends that day.

He climbed down somberly, and made his way home, wondering if Arthur would ever return, and if this was an Earth-like purgatory, punishment for allowing Mordred to kill Arthur.
He sighed.
Until Arthur returned, he would never know.