The Virtue of a Shade

Welcome, Merlinians. Should you choose to read this story, I fully suggest that you read my notes predeceding your journey.

So, before you read anything, anything AT ALL, let me explain something: Gwaine and Elyan are ALIVE. I like to deny the fact that either of them died at all. Unfortunately for all you Lancelot lovers, he's still dead :P Blame Morgana the Bit- Witch. Witch.

So here's to my first Merlin fanfiction! Yay! I suppose there's nothing worse than ignoring all your other In-Progress fanfictions and pushing aside your major grade English research paper to write a completely new story!

That's actually all true up there, I really do have a yet-to-be-started report due in a week, and I've been procrastinating on both my Harry Potter and my Power Rangers fictions. Not to mention the fact that my last In-Progress report is on quite a few months of hiatus. *facepalm* I am a despicable person.

So here I am. Please read, review, and enjoy.

Disclaimer: BBC owns Merlin.

Arthur opens his eyes on the sandy edge of Avalon's lake, and knows something is wrong.

He sees trees.

This, of course, is what makes things terribly wrong.

However, he not only sees trees, but feels the grainy sand under his palms, tastes the cold breeze upon his tongue, and smells the scent of freshly bloomed wildflowers swaying in the wind. He hears the shifting of spring grass, detects the cheeping of newly-hatched bluebirds, and senses the serenity and peace in the air. Everything feels frozen in a reposal of stillness, for lack of a better word, and the world feels harmonious in its ways. The sky is free from turmoil, and the earth free of pain, and the air free from anguish.

It's practically the way he left it.

In fact, it looks exactly the way he left it.

And this is when he realizes things are terribly, awfully wrong.

By now, any sane, probably-less-knowledgeable-than-was-necessary-at-the-given-time person may have assumed that Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, uniter of Albion, son of Uther the Tyrant and half-brother of Morgana the Witch, master of the greatest warlock to ever walk the earth, the Once and Future King, had gone completely, stark raving mad. Wrong? They would say incredulously. What could possibly be wrong, boy? Are things not well here? Is the world not at peace as you departed it? Had you not left us with grace?

Arthur Pendragon would then explain how that was the complete point, you featherbrained twit, don't you see what's going on here? I left you with this peace. I left you with this peace. This peace. The same peace!

And so it was.

Fifteen-hundred years after his death.

And the world was the same.

For Arthur does not only see the trees, but he sees the same trees. He does not only smell the wildflowers, but he smells the same wildflowers. He does not only lie on the shifting, gritty sand, but the same shifting, gritty sand.

Fifteen-hundred long, sluggish, tedious years have passed since Arthur Pendragon was set away from this world, lain to wait for Albion's darkest of times. He has waited centuries to return and retake his rightful place as King of Camelot, bound to serve and protect his people and his kingdom. He has patiently and generously awaited this very moment, the moment where he would awaken with strength and purpose to save a broken and tattered world, foretold so very, very long ago, farther than the mind's eye could ever hope to comprehend, and rise victorious to once again be the greatest King the United Kingdoms had ever known.

And now Arthur is back, and everything is exactly the same.

And so everything is wrong.

Arthur nearly drowns back into Avalon the day he returns.

It's an ironic and stupid way to finally, legitimately die, he thinks, as he opens his eyes and feels the soaked, heavy weight of his chainmail and firey-red cape doing their best to hold him down in the water. His cape tangles between his legs as he desperately attempts to swim to the surface, his muscles pulling and climbing with a millennium's worth of waiting. His lungs scream for air, and after a few moments they recieve their reward as he finally claws his ways to the surface. Sighting the shore, just a few yards away, he quickly moves toward the sandy bank and scrambles up onto it, falling onto his back and just letting himself breathe for a moment.

He supposes the eighteen-and-a-half foot distance between the shore and the water where Freya booted him back into the world is finally her "playful" payback for him killing her all those centuries ago. Arthur can almost hear her teasing laughter in his head. The motion is not appreciated by the afflicted party.

After few, long moment's rest, Arthur sits up with a muffled groan, stretching out his limbs as best he can under his dripping chainmail and cape. He can feel wet sand stuck to his hair and neck, and grimaces as grit slides under his chainmail and coat, straight into his tunic. Even in the warm, mid-day sun, he shivers slightly under the cold metal of his mail. To his left, the lake's cool, glassy water laps almost timidly at the shore, rippling a Welcome Back from across the way. Arthur wonders for a moment if Freya is watching him now. He doesn't quite doubt it.

It's during his pondering he looks around and sees Camelot as he's always known it.

Wrong. So, so very wrong.

His leather boots squeak and squelch as Arthur clambers hurriedly to his feet, ignoring his stiff muscles and unpleasantly wet socks, observing the area around him with a hawk's eye. Warning signals- this isn't right, was Freya on time?, did something go wrong?- flit through his head, and he tries to push them away so he can think clearly for a moment. Everything seems tranquil and easeful around him, and his instincts immediately flare with suspicion. Where was the war? Where was the great looming threat? Where was Albion's mortal peril?

Trouble doesn't take vacations. And in Arthur's case, trouble barely even stops in a tavern for a mug of ale and a bar fight with Gwaine.

Thinking of Gwaine (drunk, intolerable Gwaine, but still Gwaine nontheless) seems to steer Arthur's mind toward Camelot and it's residents. He takes a moment, remembers the busy and colorful marketplaces of Camelot's main square, remembers the cobblestone courtyard and the towering spires of the castle. He remembers the Darkling Woods of Camelot's borders, the sloping, emerald green earth of Camelot's outer lands, littered with the gold of newly grown wheat and the red of freshly ripened apples hanging like dewdrops from the emerald trees. He remembers the grey slabs of stone that were the castle walls, adorned with crimson and gold drapes and burning torches. He remembers his room: the warm, crackling fire in the grate (he shivers again just thinking about it), his carved wooden table and chairs, his ruby bedcurtains and drapes, his stained glass window that shone with magnificent, colorful light when they were revealed from under their curtained coverings, awakening him from slumber as he rolled over in his silken sheets to embrace his other half-

Gwen.

And just like that, a crowd of people are flicking through his mind like a flock of frighten birds: Gwen, Uther, Morgana, Leon, Percival, Gwen, Gwaine, Morgana, Morgause, Uther, Gaius, Gwen, Gwaine, Elyan, Mithian, Uther, Gwen, Mordred, Mordred, Gwaine, Mithian, Leon, Percival, Morgause, Gaius, Gwen, Gwen, Uther, Gwen, Morgana, Leon, Mithian, Mordred, Percival, Gwen, Elyan, Gwaine, Elyan, Gaius, Gwen-

Merlin.

If a tree falls in the forest and everyone's around to hear it, does it still fall softly?

No. No. It crashes.

The thought of Merlin seems to make everything else in Arthur's head fade into sudden shadow, pushed against the walls of Arthur's mind as the single, solitary idea of Merlin himself shines like a beacon in the middle of all of them. Merlin. Merlin. Merlin the manservant. Merlin the physician. Merlin the apprentice. Merlin the ward. Merlin the idiot. Clotpole. Lazy. Clumsy. Foolish. Wise. Intolerable. Loyal. Intelligent. Innocent. Gutless. Fainthearted. Determined. Persistant. Optimistic. Enduring. Persevering. Brave. Hopeful. Friend. Brother. Hero. Magic.

Merlin the sorcerer.

Arthur finally sits again, falling onto his knees in the sand as he lets himself think. His final moments with Merlin are seared in his memory with a branding iron fashioned of mourning. His last words as the world went blurry and black, Merlin struggling with everything he had to save his king, his friend, his brother, Arthur's anger, then guilt, then thankfulness, his last view of the world two broken, darkened blue eyes trying desperately to keep him awake-

And then his mind is rewinding, and suddenly Arthur's fifteen-hundred years younger again and he's on that grass and his side, oh it hurts so much, and he's dyingdyingdying, and all he wants is to be with Gwen and his knights and his mother and his Merlin, his Merlin, but God it's too late, dear God it's much too late and everything is much too dark and foggy, and Mordred is dead and Morgana is dead and his father is dead, and now he, he will be dead, and there's so much blood and death and anger and hurt and love, and his Merlin, Merlin, he's so tired and it's too late, too late, too late-

Panting. Frantic words. "Come on. We have to make it to the lake."

Protesting. "Merlin... Not without the horses... It's too late... it's too late..."

Memories.

Arthur feels his heart clench.

"All your magic, Merlin, you can't save my life..."

A quick denial."I can. I'm not going to lose you-"

"Just, just... just hold me. Please."

His heart is beating too fast. Faster, faster, faster.

He knows what will happen. He knows what will happen.

Hard to breath. So little air."There's... there's something I want to say..."

Arguing. Determination."You're not going to say goodbye."

"No... Merlin."

Shaking. Shaking and trembling and it's colder than before now.

Arthur is cold.

Fighting for air. "Everything you've done... I know now. For me... for Camelot... for the kingdom you helped me build."

"You'd have done it without me."

A chuckle. "Maybe."

No. Stop it. This was too much.

Something is in Arthur's eyes. He rubs at them with a shaky nervousness. His hands vibrate like little earthquakes.

Last chance. His last chance."I want to say... something I've never.. said to you before..."

Arthur's whole body is trembling, rattling, quivering. Something wet is on his cheek, but the lake is over there, and his breathing- he can hardly breathe. The air is too thick and his throat is clogged with something, but he swallows and it still doesn't go away. The pounding of his heart echoes in his ears, and he barely hears an animal nearby make a rasping, choking, heartbreaking, tear-jerking, painful cry. It takes a moment to realize it's his own mouth making these almost silent, awful noises. He wraps his arms around his chest, bending over and trying to breathe because there's a hole in a chest, deeper and more painful than Mordred's and it's inside and it's killing him.

He doesn't understand why. He doesn't understand why.

StopstopstopstopstopstopSTOP pleasepleasepleasestop.

It cannot stop. Just as it could not stop fifteen-hundred years ago.

"Thank you."

And memory-Arthur reaches up, patting his servantwarlockfriendbrother's head, stroking his short raven hair, and he smiles, but it's gone almost immediately because his strength is gone, and Merlin is looking at him with his big, open, beautiful blue eyes and the world is fuzzy and black and going-

Soft like a whisper. "Arthur. Hey."

A warm hand on his face. No light, no light, no light. His eyes are closed.

SomethingsomeoneMerlin is shaking him, part gently, part roughly with love and hurt and cracking determination and ohgodnononono.

"ARTHUR!"

His eyes startle open and there's Merlin, his Merlin, and those beautiful open eyes are filled with so much love and pain and loss, pleading and begging and tearing and breaking, and oh Lord there's so much heartbreak, and Arthur's trying, pleaseiwanttostayohgodplease MerlinMerlinMerlin, but the light is so far away and Merlin is all that's left, and oh god Merlin needs him and he has to get up, but it's too late, too late, and Merlin's eyes are screamingshriekingdying with their own kind of pain and tears and anguish and Arthur is guilty, so guilty, and there's only blue eyes and raven hair and red neckerchiefs and magic and broken hearts.

Three words.

"Stay with me."

Three words.

Arthur's heart breaks and there's blue and black and red and his heart beats for the final time and then there's nothing.

His little bird has clipped his wings. The sun is gone.

This is the pain that Arthur missed when he died. Now here it was, making up for lost time.

Arthur wonders for a moment if Avalon's lake wasn't just all in his head, because the water pouring from his eyes, more, he thinks, than he's ever cried in his life, seems to be enough water to have filled the entire lake to the brim. He shakes and trembles and shudders so, so awfully. If he tried to stand he would fall flat on his face. He leans over because he's convinced he might retch from the sheer bout of mixed emotions running through his insides, twisting his stomach and squeezing his heart and tearing at his chest, clawing it's way to the surface. He rocks weakly, clutching at his torso, trying sorrowfully to hold himself together, because this ache, this pain, could only come from being forcibly, terribly torn over from the inside. Somehow, he thinks, he would rather be physically torn apart than this empathetical, excruciating, internal pain.

He abandoned them. God, he abandoned them.

How many times had he sat in Avalon and wondered about Merlin and Gwen and his knights and his kingdom? How many times had he stared at the stars at night and missed his better half, cursed to rule alone because he had not been strong or quick or smart enough? How long had he lay in bed at night and stared at the fire, hating it because when he woke up every morning of his centuries in the other land, it wouldn't be Merlin who was tending the fire or bringing him breakfast or throwing open his curtains with a flourish and a "Rise and Shine!"

Lancelot and Freya had done the best they could to keep him occupied in Avalon. Freya was a wonderful, beautiful girl who adored Merlin so much. She held so much love and kindness and merriment and beauty; Arthur could never have seen anything done to this girl, much less let her live under the curse she had been burdened with as a mortal. The guilt for her murder, for his murder of her, was overwhelming, but she had just smiled at him softly and done the best she could for him anyway. She had talked to him, listened to him. She had showed him Avalon's farthest reaches, and introduced him to the people of the land. She had taught him how to cook, taken him on walks and swum with him in Avalon's crystal waters, given him books to read and maps to examine. She had taken Excalibur many times and hidden away with it, waiting for him to find her, as he always did, in their impromptu game to try and keep him busy. She had sewn him tunics out of a divine fabric; they had felt weightless upon wearing them, but still kept him warm in Avalon's cooler days. She had once made him a crimson neckerchief and left it lying gently on his pillow; he had kept it in his pocket every day since.

Under the position of the Lady of the Lake, Freya was the only one of them who could see beyond Avalon into the world across the water, but she could not speak of the world, nor Camelot or Merlin or Gwen to any of them. She was kept back by the rules of the Old Religion, she had explained, regret burning furiously in her kind, soulful eyes when Arthur had begged, begged, for some news, any news at all about his Kingdom and his people. There was always a hidden truth inside of her, and sometimes Arthur found himself resenting her, and then resenting himself when he found that, once again, his temper had gotten the best of him. She had lived an entire life of things not of her choice or fault, had she not?

Lancelot had explained everything that had happened with Guinevere all those years ago the first day Arthur had set his royal feet into Avalon. Lancelot: the noblest, and most brave-hearted of knights. Once, a time ago, Arthur would have thought differently; now, with the truth finally, finally fully in his grasp, Arthur could not have agreed more. Lancelot was humble and courageous and respectful and noble and good, just as he had been when Arthur had known him. The knight was dauntless and fearless, but he was also kind and loyal; Arthur had gladfully reknighted him upon Lancelot's request, Freya watching with a gentle smile and applauding at all the right moments. Arthur and Lancelot had sparred every day to come after his knighthood had been restored. He had been a good drinking partner (however, intoxication had been strictly prohibited in Avalon, to Arthur's irritation), a beneficial opponent, an adept listener and an intellectual speaker when the need came. He had done the best he could; Arthur could not help regreting that it still had not been enough.

Merlin's father. Balinor. The almost-last Dragonlord. He had been there too. Seeing him every day, hearing him regale children of Avalon, human and magic alike, with stories and tales and myths of his times in Albion, watching him associate playfully and happily with the dragons of the land, had been oh so very hard. Raven hair and beard. Blue eyes. A strong heart and wise advice. Magic. He had been too like Merlin to bear.

Avalon had not allowed him to feel the physical pain of his towering emotions, the pain he was crawling through at this very moment, struggling to breathe, fighting for release. Avalon had not been enough; the guilt had been too much. There had been no medium, no middle ground, no no-man's-land.

Was it possible, he had wondered, to be the only one not to have forgiven himself for the wrongs he had done to those he cared about?

Yes, he knew. Because he still wanted to be strong enough.

Arthur didn't know how long he sat there, trembling and rocking and sobbing under the weight of fifteen centuries worth of locked away guilt and pain, holding himself together as best as he could manage, but when he had no more tears to cry and his sore, aching body was ready to collapse onto the bank, he finally opened his eyes. Looking up into the sky, he saw that the sun had moved farther westward toward it's setting point. Through red rimmed eyes, he estimated the time: it could not have been longer than a few hours until sunset. But he did not move.

He wasn't sure he knew how to yet.

The raging inferno in his chest had dulled to a flickering flame, aching and throbbing gently in his heart. Almost of it's own accord, his hand raised and fell to cover his heart, feeling through his chainmail for the thrumming of his heart. Ever, ever so gently he felt it, pulsing through his tunic and his coat and his mail to move beneath his fingers. His breathing had calmed, falling from irregular, painful sobs back into a soft, regular state. Softly, he used his other hand to wipe away the remaining tears from his face.

He didn't know how he could ever look at himself again. What kind of king was he now, nearly crumpled on Avalon's bank, broken and sobbing and weak? What king died by the hands of his own knight, stupidly oblivious to the Druid in disguise, the deciding factor in Mordred's final pledge to Morgana? What king let a sword's wound take him to the grave? Why had he not fought? Fighting was something he had been good at.

Why. Had he not. Fought?

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, the lake's water pushed forward, lapping up the shore so high that it washed against his side. There was the swish of the moving water, so quick he didn't have time to see it hit his side, and then it retracted, falling back into it's normal rhythmic pattern, as if it's unnaturally high rising had been completely normal.

And as Arthur looked over, he froze, staring.

At the water's edge, blade shoved into the sand and gold-incrusted hilt pointed toward the sun, reflected the metal of the sword of Excalibur, the greatest sword ever made, forged in the dragon's breath, for the Once and Future King, and that king alone.

And as Arthur stared, he saw, for the slightest moment, something that would have been missed had he not been looking slack-jawed at his long-lost sword, a flash of two warm, encouraging, bold chocolate eyes upon the metal of the sword. They gave a wink, and then Freya's eyes were gone, returned to her rightful place among Avalon, protector of it's gates.

But the message. The message had come through.

And a few minutes later, as Arthur strode with head high into the forest, Excalibur fitted perfectly in his right hand, blonde hair and chailmail shining in the late-day sun and his cape billowing majestically behind him, he realized that she wasn't the only one returning to her rightful place.

The King has returned.

I hope you guys liked this first chapter :) Stay tuned! More to come!

Remember to review!