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He took all of the swords Arthur had used from the armoury, carried them miles to the lake, and threw sword after sword into the water. No hand moved to grasp the first one. Or the second, or the third. Each one sank, disappeared, until they were gone.He swam out, swallowed cold that spread through his veins like the Dorocha. With water fluttering through his fingers, he could almost pretend that he lay against the veil. He leant into the darkness, held his breath until the rushing in his ears formed into whispers of the dead.He did not hear Arthur’s voice among them.He pulled against the lake until all he knew was the water, until it closed over him, and still would not embrace him. He sank, wandered the icy darkness until his limbs grew warm and the silence sang of staying. Still, he did not find Arthur.He returned to the shore, wept the water he had breathed. What if Arthur returned and was alone? His tears joined the lake, kept it full even as the rivers around it seeped away. He cried, begged, pleaded until his lungs were empty. Arthur did not respond.At night, he dreamt of silver liquid, golden light. Dreamt that a man stood suddenly, rose into the air. Water rained off him but his hair was like the morning sun, eyes bluer than the sky. Even asleep, Merlin knew that the king he imagined was a wraith, an echo, a memory, but he woke with hope.The lake lay still in the darkness, dull and empty.Gwen came to visit him once. She looked across the water and called Arthur so softly that the wind danced away with the word.When Arthur did not stir, she turned to Merlin, I thought, maybe, for me. Merlin didn’t answer, he wasn’t sure he could.At least you’ll see him again, she said. When she left, flowers grew where she had stood.That was the last time he saw her.He peered into the lake, watched his reflection change until it was Emrys who looked back at him, until he wasn’t Merlin any more. He wondered if Arthur would recognise him. With closed eyes, he tried to see Arthur’s face, but it had long-since slipped from his memory.He waited for the darkness, for each first star. Wished that everything they had built would crumble. Wished away the hours, the decades, the centuries. Wished for the day that Albion would fall.Buildings rose in the forest around, the trees felled one by one. The vast expanse of water where Arthur slept shrank to a pool among the structures. Paths of concrete widened as the waves diminished. His lake, Arthur’s lake. Their great kingdom.Time passed, and with it, grief. He watched the years dismantle the land, watched magic drain out of the world, watched Albion fade.When the last druid died and the seeing crystals dulled, when the Sidhe slept beneath the water and unicorns were indistinguishable from mares, when the tor collapsed and lay its ruin on the hill, he called upwards into sky. Called in that voice of kinship, of betrayal.O drakon, he called.He waited.The answering silence stretched on and on and on, echoed until his ears rang and his eyes burned. Left only quiet, the emptiness of a language no one was left to understand.He wanted to ask, Was there a mistake? Did Arthur miss his cue?He wanted to ask if he should have set the pyre alight after all. If he should have let Arthur’s spirit free.That evening, Emrys raised his hands, and the lake burned. He watched until the gold died to blue, until ashes floated on the surface of the water. Night after day after night, he summoned the flames. Bargained with the darkness. Tore apart the air. Turned the water red as blood.Rumours started then, whispered from the treeline, muttered that the lake was cursed. At the shore, they saw a man shudder towards the water, stretch out his hand. They saw him fall to his knees, but no one reached back to grasp it. When morning came, he bowed his head, lowered his hand, and the lake did not burn again.Rumours fled from the land, died with his magic. Arthur slept on.Lights pierced the dark, and the stars no longer rose. Footsteps gave way to the hum of wheels and engines. The man wondered if he had imagined wings and castles and galloping horses made of smoke. He whispered questions to the air, to the lake, to the sky.Please, he whispered. No one replied.He wondered how long he would wait.Millennia passed, until the world had changed and he had forgotten how it was meant to feel, until the sky was grey and the once-lake was just a hollow of dirt. Yet, he stayed. Waited. Once, long ago, Arthur had reigned. That was enough.That had to be enough.He filled the missing half with hope, missed with the half that remained. He wandered the shoreline, swallowed the bitter air, watched the place where the water used to be. Breathed in, breathed out.Lived and lived and lived and lived and lived.Each day he thought, Just until the future.Each day he thinks, Just until tomorrow.
Just until tomorrow comes.
Just one more day.