Merlin's Echo — Merlin fanfiction

Between Merlin and Morgana and Guinevere and Lancelot as romantic.

Chapter One: Whispers of Avalon

The sun's golden tendrils fell upon the glassy surface of the lake, the light weaving through the mist in a dance as timeless as the magic it hid. Within the veiled borders of Avalon, Merlin walked alone, each step resounding with the echoes of a lost Camelot. A heavy sigh, more than just the breath of a man but the exhalation of centuries-old burdens, escaped him as he reached the water's edge. His once youthful features, though untouched by time's relentless march, were etched with the wisdom and sorrow of a thousand lifetimes.

The air was thick with enchantment, every breath imbued with the raw essence of the Old Religion. It was a realm unmarked by the passage of the seasons, where time itself seemed to bow reverently before the arcane sovereignty that governed it. Yet, even this sanctum was not shielded from the tremors of change.

Merlin stared into the waters, the usually placid surface now trembling with unseen forces. A shiver, perceptible only to those attuned to the otherworldly currents, cascaded down his spine. Something, or someone, was altering the delicate balance that held Avalon apart from the temporal world.

His fingers traced symbols in the air, an ancient language of power whispering incantations that had not graced his lips for decades. The water before him rippled, responding to his command, and a vision began to coalesce. Within the shimmering veil, the haunting visage of Morgana emerged—her eyes as piercing as they were the last time they stood as adversaries.

Merlin reeled back, the apparition gone as swiftly as it appeared. Could the mists of Avalon be so easily breached? Did the binds he had placed upon Morgana's power after their last encounter weaken? Questions clouded his mind like the fog that enveloped the isle.

He recalled their final farewell; a clash of immense sorcery beneath the catacombs of a dying Camelot, where she had vowed vengeance upon him and the world they both had shaped. Yet, not all in the tapestry they had woven was dark and vengeful. There were moments, delicate and fleeting—where destiny seemed to hint at a different path for them, a connection that was not solely born of enmity. They were, after all, the last of their kind. The thought haunted him, but he could not dwell on might-have-beens. He had to act.

Merlin turned from the lake to face the heart of the island. Here, within the Sacred Grove, the source of Avalon's power pulsed. If there was an anomaly, an intruder, or enlightenment to be found, it would be here amongst the whispering trees. He set forth, his staff igniting with a blue flame at his command—both a beacon and a warning. The forest seemed to part before him, a testament to his mastery, and yet, unease tangled in his gut as if the very land knew of the challenges to come.

In the shadows that played between the ancient oaks, visions teased him. Figures robed in white, faces long since passed into memory, spoke words drowned out by the rustling leaves. Among them, he glimpsed her again—Morgana. Her presence, like a melody persisting through the cacophony of time, filled him with a dread he had not felt since the days when dragons flew openly under the sun.

Avalon's whispers grew louder, more urgent, and Merlin hastened his pace. He had dedicated his life to protecting the world from the very magic that now stirred restively beneath his feet. To falter now, when so much had been sacrificed, was to betray everything he had ever fought for. And yet, as he moved deeper into the heart of the isle, he could not shake the feeling that what awaited him in Avalon’s depths was not simply an enemy to be vanquished but a truth that had waited centuries to be acknowledged—a truth about power, about fate, and, most of all, about the arcane bond he shared with Morgana.

The chapter of Merlin's legacy that had seemed closed was, perhaps, merely awaiting its next verse.

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