Wow. I don't even know what to say. Thirty reviews, and I'm rude enough to be this late on my update. I've had it done for three days now, but I've been editing. And go figure, this was supposed to be the shortest chapter of all but ended up being almost as long as the longest one. Heh.
I'm sure you all would love to see Merlin rise from the dead now, but there is one thing I think I might need to explain about this story. I think that, if things keep going the way they are now in the show, Arthur emotionally will be equally dependent on Gwen and Merlin by the end; so if Merlin died now, he could probably refrain from being totally broken by it with Gwen's help. But while I like the idea of their being married, I have to say that I have no idea where their relationship will end up, especially since I hear say that next season will feature an Arthur-Gwen-Lancelot love triangle. Long story short, in my foresight, Arthur and Gwen might stay married and love each other still, but something to do with Lancelot will likely come between them and mess up their relationship permanently. Merlin is the only person in the whole world who has never once let him down, and so that's why he's so torn up by his death. I hope that's believeable. And do forgive the boringness of this Author's note. I'm feeling a bit lazy since I've spent all day observing restless tigers and counting stick-bugs (which is really hard to do when they're all in one, tiny tank; whose idea was that anyway?). I think my fingers still smell like snake scales...

Chapter III ([Very] Alternate Ending)

It was angry.

From the beginning of everything, it had chosen him. Only him. For his purity and virtue, for the warmth and light of his precious soul which gleamed across the ocean of time, it had chosen him. His soul was like a voice enticing it and drawing it unto him with a call so sweet and rich and good, calling out and glowing so much clearer and brighter than any other soul of mankind throughout all the eons to come.

It loved him, even before he lived.

His life would be short, so very short, compared to the time it waited for him. It was immortal, the Emrys, but he was only a man. His time would come and go, and then his soul would journey to the next life. It was not meant to go with him, but it would, for it loved him. It loved him, and it loved their King, and with them, it would go anywhere.

Now, it was not with him. It was in a place so dark and cold and lonely, trapped within a soul like ice and stone. Where had once been Merlin's light, it could see nothing; where it once heard Arthur's voice, there was only silence.

It had been stolen. Stolen away from them both by this filthy creature, unraveled so suddenly from Merlin's soul and dragged so violently from Arthur's passion. It was being used, like tinder for a flame, drained and exhausted for no worthy purpose, serving no cause but to bestow more energy upon the hell-demon.

This was not how it was meant to be. This was not their destiny.

It waged war upon the beast, struggling and thrashing within her, but she was a creature of the oldest magic herself, and so not even its most brutal and powerful efforts would weaken her.

It despised her, more and more with each passing hour.

It wanted Merlin. It needed Merlin, and it needed Arthur; it needed for them to be together, and without Merlin's goodness to embrace it and Arthur's strength to surround it, it became magic no more. It was but pure poison, dark as blood and cruel as a two-edged sword, transformed by its anger at the loss of them.

It rejoiced the day it finally infected the monster's heart, and she collapsed upon the damp forest floor, setting it free.

It seeped from her nostrils like a ghostly current, changing from terrible, shifting red to the loveliest, deepest purple as it left her, glimmering shards of gold as it traveled through the magic woven into the air. The closer it came to where he was, the more the red dissipated from it and was replaced by the beautiful purple and gold which it was always meant to be.

When it reached him, it found him held within the ground, beneath a field of purple wildflowers which bristled in the summer air. He was dead. Merlin was dead without it, and it mourned in the vision of its precious keeper's writhing in the agony he was sure to have felt before he died, and in the suffering it could feel their King enduring even in that very moment, somewhere.

It hovered silently in time, as nothing but a barely-visible glimmer in the mid-day sunbeams, seeking out Arthur's spirit over the vast expanse of space between them. Even from so very far away (too far, much too far…), it could feel the noble King suffer, his good spirit yearning for its other half, pure heart yearning for his friend.

It felt the earthly magic in the air whispering with sadness, for the entirety of the world had felt it when Arthur and Merlin were separated, and it cried out in its own form of grief, shimmering with near-transparency in the air, resolving with the fierceness of an enraged lion within its own will that it would heal them. It would use every ounce of its strength to heal them.

So as the warm summer breeze tickled the purple petals all around, it sunk into the damp earth and suffused the lifeless body, drawing the lost spirit unto itself, to give him peace and comfort again so that he might give the same to their King.

When the sun was filling the sky with its vibrant dreams and stars were just beginning to awaken in the west, an aged man with a paling beard and eyes like the sea found himself sitting upon soft grass and surrounded by multitudes of purple flowers.

His long, gentle hand touched one close to him, almost curiously, as though he was not sure if he was dreaming or awake himself. His chin rested in his palm as he waited, patiently, for something, and for a long moment, there was not a sound but for the soft, early summer's breeze…

Then, from somewhere far and secret, a broken call echoed within his very soul, entrancingly familiar in its soundless voice but frighteningly, unfairly lonely. He raised his storm-blue eyes to the hill before him, to the tops of the lush, green trees which blocked his view to the way home.

He rose steadily to his feet and began to make his way toward the hill, toward the core of that desperate cry, and never once did he notice the patch of flowerless earth upon which he had been sitting, or see the single stone placed there by sorrowed knights of Camelot to mark the place as sacred. His eyes were hard and determined, looking only ahead, and his step quick and sure, for nothing else mattered but that he reach the one calling for him.

Arthur was calling for him, and so he ran.

It was nearly the harvest season by the time Arthur felt strong enough again to return entirely to his duties. There was spirit missing from him which he could never get back no matter how long he rested, but his exhaustion and fragility was minimized, at least, so that he might forget almost completely about the empty part of him and go on with the remainder of his life with the same resolve with which he had always lived...be it ever weaker and his eyes more weary.

He sat quietly upon his throne, listening to the latest news of the council from the report of its elderly delegate as the man read from his cracking scroll, his voice clear and concise in the respectful silence of the room.

Arthur hoped deeply that Guinevere was listening enough his monotone and incredibly boring list of complaints, for his mind was constantly wandering, as Merlin had long taken the responsibility of always keeping note of these long meetings so that the restless king wouldn't have to.

He cut off that thought like with a sharp blade; it seemed as though, no matter how he tried, he could not cease from being reminded of his friend in everything. There was not even a hall of the castle through which he could walk without missing that steady presence beside him.

The other members of the court were watching him; he could feel their eyes upon him, still so sympathetic even after the many months. He would have been irritated by it, were it not that he could see the pain on his own face when he looked into the mirror and knew it must certainly be obvious to others as well. He knew also that he should loathe it, this feeling of weakness which pulled at his every piece, body and soul, and he would have in earlier years, but he was timeworn, and seasoned, and he saw little point anymore in detesting something he could neither control nor deny.

It was on the very last toll of the noon hour that a faint sound, carried on the wind from the moving square below, drifted through the open windows of the room on the early autumn air.

The delegate halted mid-sentence, his over-large head tilting to one side as more noise joined the first—shouting, men's voices, indistinct but unmistakable, and then a clatter as of full armor striking the stone ground all at once.

There was something close by, Arthur realized with a jolt through his whole body, his back straightening and his face alighting for the first time in months with that old, familiar fire which always had fueled his courage and will.

There was someone approaching them…someone with magic. He could feel the intensity of it deep in his chest, the distant echoes drifting to the tiny bit of ancient magic which was held there, like an ocean's waves barely licking at shore. This magic was powerful, so very powerful, but while there was intent to the most narrow and relentless degree, no darkness could he feel in it, only a strange sort of tenacity….

Guinevere's delicate hand tensed where it was encircled by his own, and he rested his other hand upon the hilt of Excalibur where it sat in wait for use against the side of his throne.

Muffled exclamations in the hall just outside, and a dull roar of murmurings erupted amongst the court which he scarcely noticed for the many prospects arising in his own mind of what it may be that came for him; of course, it was coming for him. They always did. Perhaps, he thought with some despondence, this was the one who would finish him, now that he was alone….

The oak doors were thrown open with more force than a man's strength alone could compel.

A cloaked figure entered, and his very presence shook Arthur's every instinct twice as powerfully as any wicked monster ever had. Magic, cool and sharp with its bittersweet scent, filled his nostrils, and he could almost see it in the air, swirling around the stranger in shards of shimmering blues and purples and gold. His fist tightened around his treasured sword, all thoughts driven away of himself as he prepared his sharpened mind and tensed body to meet the challenge of this sorcerer, whether he or she be dangerous or peaceable in his presence.

It took his overwrought mind all of three seconds to recognize the curve of narrow shoulders beneath the slightly faded, indigo cloak.

Excalibur fell, its perfect blade clattering to the stone floor, and not a living thing in the room moved at the commotion it created, some eyes watching the hooded figure and some watching the king, all waiting expectantly with labored breaths.

The newcomer removed his hood from where it cast a dark shadow over his face, and the penetrating blue of old eyes served to steal the very oxygen from every lung; the shining eyes darted about the room only once, as though to ensure that all was well, before fastening upon Arthur's face, bright and unblinking, the way a child who has awoken with a nightmare gazes at a loved one, afraid to look away for even the barest of moments for fear that he may disappear if he does.

Guinevere suppressed a tiny cry, instinctively pulling her hand from Arthur's to press it against her lips, caramel eyes wide with a mixture of wonderment and sparse fear at the impossibility of what was present before them.

Arthur's mind was nearly numb for an instant, but then, he forced slow, deliberate breaths into his lungs so that he might remain steady and unaffected.

There were a great many wicked sorcerers, witches, and all manner of creature within the five kingdoms now, and any one of them could know of his heartrending loss, for word had spread like a fire in dry brush of the death of Albion's beloved high sorcerer. Any of the most adept magic-practitioners could have changed their form to the eye of the beholder, could have made themselves appear like the Emrys to trick him and infiltrate the castle, as so many had tried to do before. It could be anyone standing before him, he told himself as firmly as if he was barking an order to his knights, anyone's eyes locked upon his own so intently, anyone's magic bleeding into the air for him to inhale like sunshine after so many weeks of darkness….It could be anyone…but not Merlin…not Merlin…

"Arthur."

Though so quiet, the single word pulled him harshly from his reverie and only diminished his hopes further, for it was so much, so much like Merlin's voice, and surely it couldn't be, for he had felt Merlin die beside him, felt it when the magic had left them both cold and empty, and watched as his knights piled the filthy dirt atop the clean purple of that ever-familiar cloak.

He stood, unwaveringly, and swiped up his ageless sword from where it had fallen beside him, never breaking the stunning, silvery gaze of the sorcerer, though whether it was by choice that he did not pull his eyes from the other's or whether it was because he simply could not force himself to look away, not even he was certain.

The sorcerer started to step towards him, one hand reaching out toward the eminent king as though he was to speak to him, but then halted when Arthur closed the little distance between them.

From such scant inches apart, the distrust and uncertainty in Arthur's eyes was clear as daybreak, and yet, this sorcerer showed no true fear, only watched the other man for a long moment with piercing eyes, his face soft and filled with an emotion almost indefinable as he beheld the paleness of ill health and lines of pain marring the handsomeness of the king's own face.

Arthur felt his expression waver in the strikingly familiar appraisement, and for one, brief moment, he was almost taken in by the feelings which had been but memories for so long—feelings of security, of affection, the same which he always felt upon one of those times when Merlin could see past whichever mask he wore, whether it be anger or indifference or pride, could see the drained and fragile man beneath, and did not judge him for it, but only became all the more loyal and caring for him to bring about his triumph. A wish flitted across the near-unconscious of his mind—a faint, distant notion that perhaps, even if this Merlin was not his own, he could keep him nonetheless, just to feel less lost every day, until he could be with the true Merlin again, if nothing else….

Then, the strange and irrational thoughts dissipated as he realized the sorcerer was reaching again for him with one, pale hand, and he clutched his sword in readiness for whatever may come, his eyes hardening like stone as quickly as they had begun to relent.

A small, inspiriting smile, so perfect that it twisted his stomach, formed silently on the fair face of the stranger; somehow, it eased his mind, though he knew it was only for the comforting memories the sight inspired. Then, before he could decide how he should react, the sorcerer tentatively touched the base of his throat.

He never let his eyes move from watching the mystical face, his breathing quick and deep as the logic of his mind battled the longing of his heart, and despite his inner turmoil, he was as still as an ancient oak as the sorcerer tugged at the chain around his neck. The silver ring came forth from beneath his red tunic, its coating still reflecting the sun's rays from the windows, despite the scratches marring it.

Tender eyes like frozen seawater flitted up.

"Didn't anyone ever teach you," came the light and whimsical murmur, "that it's rude to take things that don't belong to you?"

He clenched his jaw at the apparent effortlessness of the drollery—the same of which had captivated his attention from that very first meeting so many, many years ago—and he reminded himself that this could not be his Merlin, that the glow of fondness alighting the porcelain face was no more than trickery of the cruelest degree, that his Merlin was gone, buried dead in a field far away, void of magic and life because he had given it all for Arthur, given it all to Arthur, and he could never return, no matter how the king wished it in his heart.

As though it were epidemic, the dark shadow which fell over Arthur's haggard face spread to the sorcerer's as well, visibly chasing away the humor from him and transforming his aura to understanding compassion and insightful empathy.

"Merlin is dead."

The abrupt words, so hard and unfeeling, caused the sorcerer to raise his head in startlement and incomprehension.

Arthur's gaze was as cold as his voice, but there was fragility dwelling in the sapphire depths, and sorrow which made the beautiful blue of them ever deeper; though he was valiantly trying to masquerade it, it was all as visible to Merlin as if he was whispering it to him with his own voice.

"I was there."

His timbre was not as audacious now; the shaking of his voice was scarcely audible, but it was there, and so Merlin could hear it plainly.

"I was there when my friend died," the king continued, gazing unflinchingly, the sorrow more evident with every word. "You cannot be him. You cannot fool me. My Merlin is gone."

One side of the old sorcerer's mouth twitched with either pain or joy, and his eyes fixated upon Arthur's, warm and perceptive, as though he knew something that the other man did not, something wonderful, something that could make everything better, could make his life right again…

"Not without you, sire," he murmured, the words certain and unexpected, so low that no person could hear but Arthur.

The other said nothing in response, only did the lines on his brow deepen as his eyes grew all the more troubled.

Merlin's demeanor darkened the same, and then, without warning, he clutched Arthur's left hand in his own with fervor, curving his warm fingers over the cold ones which held fast to the hilt of Excalibur.

Arthur felt it, the instant the sharp and sweet magic touched him through the contact, and his breath stuttered, once, his gaze falling to their hands before rising again, filled with an almost frightened sort of hope.

There was the faintest shrug of Merlin's narrow shoulders, and his expression did not plead for Arthur to believe him, but was instead bright and tender with the inward assurance that he would.

"When have I ever gone anywhere without you, Arthur?" he murmured simply. "Do you really believe"—His gentle hand tightened around Arthur's calloused one, and the king held his breath at the flash of magic which seeped into his very veins.—"that I have followed you everywhere for these many years, only to venture into the next life before you? Did you really think that my magic could bear to be cut off from you now?"

Arthur inhaled the barest of breaths through his nostrils.

"You said yourself," he murmured, perhaps without even realizing that he was speaking to this man as though he knew already it was his Merlin, "that you had done all you must. Your time to be needed by this world was through."

Merlin looked aside for a brief moment, his brow furrowing ever-so-slightly in thought.

"It was not," he said at last, lifting his head again with conviction, "for this world that I was here. It was for you, Arthur, and only you. I always knew that."

It was Arthur's turn to look away, his fingers tensing beneath Merlin's as he weighed this answer in his mind.

"No man," said he, barely more than a hoarse mutter, painfully accepting and logical and yet not without the slightest glimmer of desire for the impossible, "can deny Death's bidding, Merlin."

Merlin moved slightly closer, a smile dancing on his lips, his other hand coming to help the first pull at Arthur's until it relaxed around the handle of his blade, no longer ready to strike, no longer wanting to.

"Nothing can make me leave you, Arthur," the sorcerer whispered, his forehead barely brushing against his king's, deliberately but without imposition, as he spoke like a lullaby. "Nothing is powerful enough to break my soul away from yours. I am sure of this now."

The other man bowed his head, touching his temple more solidly to this sorcerer's and feeling it when the faintest hint of magic stirred wisps of his blonde hair, longing with hidden desperation to believe the words this man said, to know that it might be true, that this Merlin might really be his own, whom he had lost he thought forever, that he was here with him again…but knowing in his mind that it surely couldn't be real…surely Merlin's love for him couldn't be so very strong…

"Besides," came the quiet jest, as though in answer to his doubts, "you know more than anyone. I never do what I'm told."

And when he looked hastily up, something seemed to connect between them, between his heart and the beautiful, playful smile spreading across the other man's fair face, and as quickly as that, the king's once-broken countenance was set free of all uncertainty and sorrow.

The sword fell again, this time of his own will, and with a passion which had long-since been drained from him, he circled his arms around the too-thin shoulders, clutching his lost friend to him as though they were the only ones there, like his knights and his court members were nothing but figments, for he knew, he could feel it, that this was his Merlin, his precious Merlin, and he cared not how or why or from where the miracle came, but only that it had, and that he would never neglect to know that it was, indeed, a miracle…that Merlin was his miracle, always, even when he felt that everything was over, even after they'd said goodbye for what felt like the last time, Merlin was still with him, still unwilling to abandon him, no matter how he did not deserve him.

Merlin let a small laugh escape him as his ribs ached suddenly in the crushing embrace, and he felt the tiny, iron circle of his ring bear against his collar as Arthur's face was pressed into his throat; a warm tear fell upon his skin from wet, sapphire eyes, and he pressed his palm against the back of his friend's head, fingers circling in the golden strands, even as he noted, somewhere in his subconscious, that the blonde was considerably lighter now, and that at last, he was here to lift the aging strain from Arthur, and finally, finally, he was home at his side, and he would never have to fear being forced away again.

For what could have been hours, not a person in the room dared to move at the sight before them, of their beloved king and their noble sorcerer reunited again. All the while, Merlin merely held his king and friend, let Arthur press bruises into his back with his embrace, and Arthur held onto him as though Merlin was the only thing upon which he could depend, as though he was his very source of life….He was.

At long last, it was not until Arthur pulled away that there was another sound at all.

"You've got some serious explaining to do, Merlin."

The full grin which brightened the whole place drove away any more tears, and Merlin rejoiced in the sound of that familiar tone, and in the wonderfully familiar look he was getting now—dark, angered, though not really. The old Arthur was returned, the world-weary and listless Arthur chased away, and that was really all he ever wanted to assure for the rest of his life, and so he nodded with willingness, and squeezed Arthur's shoulder once more as the world began to move around them, worth braving now that they had found one another's strength in it again.

Arthur wore the ring about his neck for the remainder of his days, but he never really needed it, for never again did Merlin leave him. When his years were finished, and it came his time to die, he knew in his final moment of life that Merlin's soul was bound to his forever, and so he went with as much peace and courage as Merlin had always given him.

And Merlin followed him into the dark.

The End

Is this writer really lame enough to use a Death Cab for Cutie reference as the last line of her story?
Yes; yes, she is.
Well, that's all, folks! (Oh, look. Another lame reference.) I just want to thank every single one of you again for reviewing, and I'll be trying to answer all the ones I can from now on, since I now have a laptop to work from and I don't have to desperately hunt people to let me borrow theirs. So please do review, if for no other reason than to give me someone to write to. :)
Good night, all, and thank you again for reading! *curtain drops*