Long Live the King [Epilogue]

It is the beginning of winter when Uther Pendragon, king of Camelot, dies. He hasn't stepped outside his chambers for over two months, all since the battle which has left the city scarred. The physical ones have been mended, but the memories shall linger fresh in everyone's mind for years to come.

They bury him in a quiet ceremony with many eyes watching, but few words spoken. The courtyard is littered with people holding candles and torches and crying into the night, while snowflakes slowly make their way to the ground and melt by their feet.

Hours later, people yet wait, but their faces aren't streaked with sorrow but with hope.

Merlin is certain that Arthur is mature enough and ready for this responsibility, but the man doubts himself and when it's time for him to enter the great hall and receive the crown and officially take the position he's held unofficially for many weeks; his shoulders are tense and he hesitates by the door.

"You can do it," Merlin says and smiles. "Or do you want me to hold your hand?"

Arthur gives him an incredulous look, but it's soft around the edges and part of him would've probably liked to hold onto the warlock's hand for support, for confirmation, an I'm here and won't let you go. Those brief times still come when he fears that whatever that lies ahead will tear the warlock away from his side, leaving a painful wound that cannot be healed. However right now, Merlin is here, by his side, and it's all right.

It's strange: because Merlin is back to his old self and looks no worse for wear, he's still tall and thin and pale and the skin around his eyes wrinkle in mirth when he laughs, he looks so young while his eyes are old, wiser, more anguished than they should be. He looks eternal and, when you think about it, inhuman – Arthur on the other hand looks as he feels, older, more tired, wiser than he used to be, not so naïve. He's a man, while the warlock still partly looks like a boy, and he wonders sometimes if it's the magic, and if Merlin will remain that way for perpetuity or if it'll pass.

"I'm not three years old, Merlin."

"There, see, you still have your spirit. Go on. I know you can do this. Everyone does, the people have their faith and trust with you."

"I'm not sure I do," the almost-king murmurs. "But this is not the time for doubts."

"Gwen is waiting for you," the warlock adds after a moment, another smile tugging at his lips. It's leaked to the public about the prince's affair but only a few councilors are angered, the people is happy for their prince and now the maidservant has been turned into a lady, it is all right for them to marry and a queen will do Camelot good. "Go."

He puts a hand on Arthur's back and pushes him through the doors as they open, and without stumbling Arthur begins walking gracefully inside, Merlin a few steps behind. The secure constant behind his back and invisible support radiating from the warlock makes Arthur feel safer and his steps are firmer the closer to the throne he comes.

Maybe those prophecies Merlin's gone on about could be true after all, he thinks as the ceremony begins and falls by in a blur and later, what he remembers is the crowd cheering and Guinevere walking up to his side (her presence is heartwarming) and Merlin grinning at him like a fool (much like that time when Arthur defeated Valiant, only wider, brighter and even more silly), then the king makes up his mind and leaves the grand hall with its candle-lights and beautifully clad lords and ladies.

They follow his tow as he walks outside – the people greet him with wide open smiles and bowing and he smiles back, feeling both apprehension and true joy for the first time in weeks; he has a difficult task ahead and his heart still mourns the loss of his father, but he isn't alone. He's never been alone, and will not be.

The people part making a pathway for him and no one seems to realize what he's about to do, except maybe Merlin, who has this glint in his eyes and his face is illuminated by pride; Arthur steps up to the charred stone and takes hold of the hilt of the sword, holding his breath before pulling and it actually comes loose, metal rasping against stone without effort.

Excalibur, he thinks, the cleaver of death and life, of iron and of stone.

"Hail King Arthur!" cries Merlin, hands raised, the sky impossibly clear and the people of Camelot choirs with him; he drowns in the voices, the cheer, deafened by the force of it and the realization that it's not some kind of dream. "Long live king Arthur! Long live the king!"

Arthur looks up at his people and his city and beyond it toward the horizon, feeling somewhere deep in his heart, that this, this might be the start of a legend.

*M*E*R*L*I*N*

So this is the end. Phew. I might think again before starting writing sequels, it's a lot more work that one'd think and it's taken a while to get here. (Now I'll try to concentrate on finishing all my other stories...which can take awhile...). But thanks for the patience and the feedback, without it I'd have come this far. A special thanks to my reviewers: sesshoulover, NykSkyBlue (anonymous.), Annabell Leigh, ruby890, llLethrell, Jesse Watkins (an.), Sweet Ginger Snap, MarsMonster, mw (an.), Jane Mays, eliza-ewok, bookaddic27, Starzinmieyez (an.), ChoqueFrontal - and everyone else who have faved, alerted or does any of the above in the future.