Like many fellow Merlin fans, the ending left me unsatisfied and with so many questions. Did Merlin ever go back to Camelot? Or was he destined to be forever alone, a perpetual wanderer across the centuries? I would like to think not. This is my attempt to fill in those blanks, and maybe, just give him a bit of a hopeful ending, at least for one lifetime.

And as always, the disclaimer: I do not own Merlin (just my OC).

Slivers of the impending dawn touched the lake, shimmering over the surface. Merlin opened his eyes slowly, wishing he could escape back into sleep. The lake was eerily calm, smooth as glass. Two days earlier, he had sent Arthur in a boat to the land of Avalon-to his death.

I failed. Everything I've done and he's dead. Kilgharrah said that he would rise again. But when?

He stirred slightly, only vaguely aware of his hunger. He couldn't go back to Camelot, couldn't see the grief and pain in everyone's eyes.

I was the one who brought his downfall. How many times could he have killed Morgana, thus ending her reign of terror? And that terrible mistake when they had gone to the Disir. Not only had he betrayed his own kind by insuring Camelot would stay free of magic, he had set in motion the horrible chain of events that brought him here. His attempts to protect Arthur had done the exact opposite.

He was empty. Purposeless. What was his life now?

Well you can't sit here wallowing forever. He'd sent off too many of those he cared about here. Freya. Lancelot. Elyan. Arthur. The serenity of its idyllic surroundings mocked the turmoil of his soul. No more. He couldn't bear to be here a moment longer.

He stood up, a bit too quickly on an empty stomach. His vision spun and he stumbled, but righted himself. He had no idea where to head now. The only place he could think of was Ealdor. He hadn't seen his mother in almost a year now. But that was a good two days' journey on foot.

There's no where else. He set forth, putting distance between himself and the lake as fast as possible.

Della knelt on the forest floor, grasping the root of the wild angelica. The morning air was unseasonably cool. She suppressed a shiver and tied her shawl tighter, as if that would dispel the cold.

She arrived here earlier than normal, before her aunt Ealhwyn awakened. She warned her not to come out here today, as there were rumors of Saxons roaming the lands. Saxons. Another chill ran through her ran through her and she shivered, though this time this time was from a cold that went deep into her soul.

Just a few days prior, she foresaw a great battle in the mountain pass of Camlann. Blood pooling on the ground. Yells of men in the throes of death. A great and powerful sorcerer calling down lightning from the sky.

Emrys. She recognized him as the sorcerer Ealhwyn said would be the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth. She'd seen him in many other visions before over the years, when he was younger, when he was called Merlin.

Her mind drifted back to the events that had unfolded in her mind's eye-all the way up to seeing the king stabbed in the stomach by a younger man with anger and hate in his eyes.

She continued picking her herbs, trying not to dwell on the images that haunted her.

Trees shrouded in mist. A woman with long dark hair walks down a hill, a malicious smile on her face. She stands over the injured king, looking as if she is on the edge of sheer insanity.

Behind her, Merlin approaches, a sword drawn. Suddenly, the witch is stabbed through. She watches the light fade from her eyes as death claims her.

Tears run down her face, and she wipes them away as quickly as they come, remembering the final part of the vision.

A dragon appears, eyes golden. He speaks to Merlin, who holding Arthur by a lake. Arthur is still and pale in his arms. "There is nothing you can do."

"I've…failed?" His voice is broken.

"No, young warlock, for all that you have dreamt of building, has come to pass."

"I can't lose him—he's my friend!"

The king is laid in a boat, with his cloak arranged around him and his hands folded over his chest. Merlin places a hand on his forehead and sobs.

"Arthur. In sibbe gerest." He sets the boat off on the lake and continues weeping. The boat slips into the fog in the distance and disappears. Merlin collapses to his knees and lets out a wail so painful the sky seems to tremble.

Della tries to steady her stomach. In another life, years before, she had known Arthur and Morgana, had dined with them in the great hall of Camelot. But that had been so long ago, before her visions. It was hard to believe she watched both die as if she had been standing beside them.

It's only ever death and destruction. Only ever pain. Had these events occurred yet? The uneasy feeling in her stomach told her it had. Everything always came to pass.

Why was she plagued with this? What good had it done? She pulled out another angelica plant in frustration, sending clumps of dirt flying up into the air. Aunt Ealhwyn claimed had she been raised a Druid, she would've been trained as a seer and revered. Not many had such a gift, as she called it.

But it had been far from a gift. It has been nothing but a curse.

A twig snapped and she turned. Nothing behind her. Yet the hair on her arms stood on end. She sensed someone watching her but couldn't see where. Her heart beat faster in her chest as Ealhwyn's warning echoed in her mind. Time to go.

She picked up her basket and made her way quickly back towards the rutted path. Something was not right. Something—

"What do we have here? A little forest sprite?"

Coming from behind the big oak tree in front of her stood a large man with a mop of curly brown hair on his head. Behind him were three others—all dressed in Saxon garb. The man stopped in front of her.

"Please let me pass. I have nothing you want." She tried to be firm but her voice was shaky. The men laughed and circled her as if she were a deer and they were wolves, hungry for their prey.

The man laughed. He looked her over and she couldn't mistake the predatory look in his eyes. "I think you have just what we want."

She took that moment and broke through the circle, but only made it a step before she was grabbed by the leader. His arm pinned her in his grasp. "Not so fast, little one."

She would not find herself a victim to these brutes. She concentrated on the man's arm and the cloth of his sleeve. "Forbærnan."

Immediately, his sleeve was alight in flame. In shock, he threw her forward, yelling and yelping as he tried to put the fire out. Della dropped her basket and ran, taking the opportunity of the other men's shock.

Faster, faster. Run!

"Damned sorceress! You'll pay for that!" he roared. Just a few more steps until she was behind that tree—

Twhack. Della screamed as an arrow hit her in her thigh, sending her crashing into the greenery. The pain sent shockwaves through her body.

The men quickly caught up to her. Three stood with crossbows aimed right at her. The man whom she burned had ripped his shirt sleeve off and a red blistering burn trailed up his arm.

"Not so powerful now, demon witch, are you?" He towered over her and she scrambled to crawl away. He took another few steps and kicked her with all his might—right in her rib cage. Once. Twice. Three times. Crack, crack.

Instinct took over and she pushed back the pain for a brief moment as she concentrated on summoning the ancient power bursting forth within her. She screamed with every fiber of her being, the sharp twinge of her fractured rib digging ever deeper.

The world shook around them and the men with crossbows were thrown back as was her attacker. She tried to get to her knees, struggling against the pain in her lungs and leg.

Della closed her eyes, concentrating on trying to will her pain away. She tried to incant the healing spell. "Ic hæle—"

A knock to the head sent her world spinning again. "No more spells!" Through her spinning vision she saw him unsheathe his sword.

I'm sorry, Aunt. I should've listened to you.

He should've paid attention on the direction he was heading. No villages on this side of the lake. His stomach protested with each step. His numerous journeys across Camelot and he couldn't remember where the closest village was to buy a meager loaf of bread. He didn't have much coin on him and wondered if he could even barter for a slice.

As his mind wandered, thinking about where to go next, he heard a yell echo through the woods. A sonic scream. It was one born of desperation, fear—and magic. It wasn't far off either. It was coming from down in the small valley.

He ran towards the sound and over the ridge and stopped dead.

Just off the pathway, a young woman lay in the grass, struggling to get up. A few feet away were her attackers—four Saxon men, just getting up.

Anger coursed through him, remembering the battle and all that occurred. What are they still doing here? They had been defeated at Camlann three days prior—was this a rogue band? Bile rose in his throat at the thought of what they had likely planned to do to her. He felt the familiar spark of magic on the edge of his fingertips.

He had to act fast. The biggest of the men was up and heading towards the woman, unsheathing his sword. With a gesture of his head, he aimed the full force of his magic on him. The attacker had no time to react as the world shifted and the wind tunneled towards him. He was sent airborne and crashed into a tree, the crunch of bone echoing as his spine broke with the force. His body turned in on itself and hit the forest floor with a thud, his sword lying useless in the dirt beside him.

The other three men shifted their focus on their new foe. Two had crossbows aimed directly at him and another came charging up the hill at him with his sword drawn. He knew from experience to dispatch the archers first. Thunk, thunk.

He concentrated on the arrows and time around him, feeling the ebb and flow of the moments shift beneath his eyes. In a split second, he was able to redirect them to the trees behind him. They were in the middle of reloading again and he focused on the crossbows themselves. "Forbærnan." The wood was consumed in flame in a flash and the archers tossed them away quickly, yelling from the pain of their newly burned hands.

"Átýdre sylu." The men started sinking into the ground as the earth slowly began to consume them.

The swordsman was within a few feet now and Merlin darted backwards as the man swung at him. In a brief flash, he propelled the swordsman back at a great force, sending him tumbling backwards over himself twice. He remained still.

Merlin headed down the hill towards the archers mired in the fast-acting quicksand. They were now up to their waists.

"The harder you struggle, the faster this," he gestured with his head towards the quicksand, "will consume you. I can let you go if you leave this land and return to your brethren in the East."

"Yes, anything! Anything!" The taller man said. He was now up to his shoulders in the muck, his compatriot not much further behind him.

"If you try to attack me, or that young woman over there, you will not leave this place alive. Understood?"

"Yes!" Both chimed in unison.

"Áfierre." The two men were set on the path. Merlin stared them down, ready to make good on his promise in case they tried anything underhanded. He had no more patience for scum such as these. They scrambled to their feet and ran in the opposite direction as fast as their feet could carry them.

Convinced the other two were no more of a threat, Merlin made his way the young woman. His heart sank when he saw she hadn't been fortunate enough to be left unscathed by her attackers. An arrow shaft stuck out of her right thigh and she was gasping for breath, whether from injury or fear, he didn't know.

She regarded him with a sense of hesitation—and something else in her stare that almost seemed like either shock or recognition.

"I can help you," he said, kneeling next to her. Now that he was closer he was certain her strained breathing was from injury.

"I'm...fine," she said, the words almost as soft as a whisper.

"You can barely breathe. And you have an arrow sticking out of your leg!"

She ignored him and lifted her skirt to examine her wound, brow furrowed in pain. He looked away for a moment, feeling a bit uncomfortable at seeing her thigh but curiosity got the best of him as he watched her cup her hand over the spot where the arrow had entered her leg. She took a wavering breath as she incanted a spell.

"Álúcan." The arrow came out intact, but she cried out as it exited her leg, the blood pooling forth as its stopper was released.

Through gritted teeth she mumbled another spell. "Þurhhæle licsar." The blood flow slowed as the wound on her leg slowly closed up.

He was impressed at her level of magic. Healing spells took a substantial amount of focus and energy from the caster-evidenced by her strained breathing and the perspiration on her forehead.

She grimaced again and grabbed her side. She hadn't been able to heal herself entirely. He suspected she had a fractured rib—maybe more than one. She wavered a bit, her eyes fluttering. She was struggling to maintain consciousness.

He needed to act quickly.

"Please let me help you. I didn't chase those men off to watch you die here."

She hesitated at first but nodded. Suddenly aware of his presence and the fact her leg was still exposed, she pulled the hem of skirt back over the now healed wound, a quick shade of pink dusting her cheeks.

"Lie back; this will be uncomfortable. I need to check if you have a broken rib." She did as she was told and he carefully felt along her rib cage, drawing on his knowledge from years of being Gaius' assistant.

She squirmed as he felt along each bone. There. He couldn't be certain, but the break in the top rib was severe. He suspected it may have punctured a lung. She muffled a yell and saw her biting her lip hard, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

He concentrated on a spell of weaving the bone back together, at least partially. "Þurhhæle bræd." His own energy was waning, after having used what magic he did earlier. He wouldn't be able to fully heal her here.

"I've done what I can for now. I need to get you somewhere safe and comfortable. Do you live nearby?"

"Hav…" her eyes began to roll back and he knew she was moments away from unconsciousness as her injuries caught up with her.

"No, stay with me. Don't—" Her eyes closed, and he berated himself for not taking control of things sooner.

"Damn it," he muttered. "I don't even know your name."

My name is Della.

He recognized the familiar pull in his mind and focused on the connection. You are a Druid?

Not really…

She was struggling to maintain the connection, which was difficult enough when one wasn't bloodied and broken. He would ask her more about that later. Now, he needed to find out where her village was located.

Stay with me a little longer, Della. Where do you live?

Havenswood. First house in the clearing. The subconscious whisper was all but gone now. Thank you, Merlin. Her voice went silent.

Unease swept through him. Had she addressed him as Emrys, he wouldn't have been as surprised: many Druids knew who he was on sight.

But she called him Merlin.

I hope the first chapter left you wanting to read more! Thank you for reading :)