Author Note: This story is extreamly AU, and Arthur will be way out of character, but I hope that the circumstances that I'm going to put him through will give reason enough for his drastic change in character. Merlin, too, will be somewhat out of character, though I am going to try and keep him in character as much as I possibly can. I hope you enjoy the story. Updates might come somewhat slow, but I will try to have the story finished within two weeks. Here's hoping I can actually do that. :)

Spoiler Alerts: This is set a few years after season four, about two to be exact. So if you haven't seen season 3 or 4, you might want to before reading this.

Pairings: Arthur/Gwen, but not much.

Major Characters: Arthur, Merlin, Mordred, and Morgana.

Warnings: Major character deaths, Dark Arthur, Dark Merlin, battles, and gore.

Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin or the quotes/lyrics that come before each chapter.

*Story was previously called Brother, My Brother"

Brother, My Brother

"All things human hang by a slender thread; and that which seemed strong suddenly falls and sinks in ruins."

-Ovid (Author of Metamorphoses)

Chapter 1: The Ruins

The ruins of the once magnificent castle lay abandoned and forgotten. Ivy ran up the crumbling walls; it creeped over the old stairways, breaking the stones apart. Areas of the wall had fallen in on themselves, and in some areas it was clear that the devestation had been man-made and had not just fallen over time. Of the many towers that had once stood, only one remained, reaching to the sky and looking out of place among the fallen down ruins.

The old homes that once housed the villagers of the Lower Town lay in despair. A few walls remained standing, but most had collapsed-whether from man-made disasters or time it was not certain. The weeds had grown tall, flattened only by the occasional passing animal.

Every living human had long since died off or left. Now the only living beings were the rats that ran about, their scurrying echoeing in the silence of the abandoned castle. Every once in awhile, the screech of a bird sounded, sending the rats and the occasional rabbit fleeing for cover.

It had been years and years since the last resident of once might kingdom of Camelot had left. Ever since the Final War for Camelot, the people in the kingdom had left, fearing that the souls that had been torn apart during the war would remain behind to haunt the place.

In a way, they were right. A solitary figure appeared over the hill. His white beard reached to the middle of his chest, with his long white hair reaching a few inches farther. Beneath the beard, wrinkles creased the man's face, causing him to look older then he actually was. Despite his aged appearance, the bright blue eyes were as young as ever.

One look into the old man's eyes as he neared the ruins of Camelot revealed a flurry of emotions. Sorrow was the main one. Sorrow for what had happened. Sorrow for all the lives that had been lost. Sorrow for what had at one time been his home. Regret came next. Regret for all that had happened, for his part in the downfall of the once mighty kingdom. A brief flash of anger appeared, but the anger was directed at himself and not at the ruins. Lastly came a look of longing. Longing for what could have been. Longing for what once had been. Longing for a time long forgotten, pushed away by war and suffering.

The old man moved slowly into the ruins, passing each house with a slow look, as if he was setting each place aside in his memory for later. His eyes rose to take in the old courtyard, now overrun and overgrown. Memories flashed through his mind as he walked, slowly, purposfully. In his mind's eye, he could see it the way it once was.

His feet walked the old familiar path, up the cracked and collapsing steps and into an old corridor. Pieces of the wall had crumbled in, blocking his path. The old man's eyes closed, and when they opened they were glowing gold. With a soft flash of light, the old man dissapeared, reappearing on the other side of the obstacle.

With a small, sad smile the old man continued on his way. He walked slowly, running his hand over the cracked and crumbling stone walls, remembering them as they had once been. Almost without realizing it, he slowly began to climb the stairs leading to the only remained tower.

As he began climbing, the differances between this tower and the rest of the castle became evident. The stones were still cracked, and ivy continued to twist and turn it's way along the stairways, but no stones had caved in. The tower remained as strong as it had all those years ago when the castle had been full of living people.

The old man finally reached the top of the tower, reaching an old wooden door. The door, like the rest of the tower, held the look of old, but it remained strong and fast, barring the way into the room behind. The sorcerer's eyes flashed gold and the door creaked open slowly, revealing a room fit for a king.

The large bed was in the center, the bright red covers, pillows, and cannopy still shining bright and free of dust. Two chairs and a table with a brightly polished silver plate, two well used goblets, and a picher on top stood off to the side of the bed. A wardrobe with clothes still inside, all free of moths and holes, leaned against the wall. A changing screen, with clothes thrown overtop, was in the other corner.

The old man took a deep breath before taking a step into the room. His eyes fell upon each piece of furniture, pleased to see that his spell still held even after all these years. The door closed behind him, locking softly. The old man's hand ran over the covers of the bed, smoothing out the few wrinkles that remained.

He smiled down sadly at the bed, before turning to face the corner closest to the window. He walked slowly and, with a flash of golden eyes, a suit of armor appeared on a dummy. The chainmail was dull with the dirt and blood of it's last battle. The red cape was ripped and singed from the fire that had hit it so long ago. The helmet, dented and scraped, stood atop the dummy's head. On the right side of the chainmail, the dull red of old blood stained the broken chains.

The old man breathed deeply, trying to stop the tears that threatened to fall from his eyes as he stared at the armor. His eyes drifted down to the waist where a sword still hung. Reaching out, the man pulled the sword from its sheath. Despite not having been sharpened or shine in decades, the sword still shone as brightly as it always had and was as sharp as it had been when last used. The words written on the blade were still readable, even after all those years. The tip of the sword, however, attracted the eye more then the words. Blood stained the sword from just below the words down.

The old man looked at the sword for a moment, before walking over to the window. He looked out over the ruins, and a tear slipped from his eye as he saw the destruction that war and time had brought on his adopted home. In his mind, he could see it as it once was: alive, cheerful, welcoming. Now, none of that remained.

The old man took another deep breath and looked back down at the sword in his hands. His eyes were drawn to the blood stains and another tear slipped from his eyes and ran down his face as the memory of the last time the sword was used began to play before his eyes.