Of course, it wasn't that simple, and there was much to do before they could go home.

Kurs and Arthur had met several times since their initial talk, and both proclaimed themselves happy with the remaining terms hammered out over the hours that followed. Bishop David was used as a witness to events, and scribe to the accords agreed by both parties.

Once the relief column from the south had been fed and rested following their forced march from the south coast, they were redeployed. Leodegrance, Bedivere and Bors took a large portion of the new men to accompany the battered and demoralised Saxon forces back to their enclave to the south-east. The rest of the relief column was immediately put to work with the other uninjured men digging a mass grave for the Saxon dead, and a separate grave for the men who had died defending the now peaceful-looking Silbury Hill. Those men previously buried in shallow graves on the side of the hill were reburied properly with their companions, and votive offerings were made to send them on their way.

Grayle stood in silence, the grey clouds of the day mirroring the darkness of his mood. Iseult stood with him, her hand clasped firmly in his, her other arm supportively linked with Gawain's. The three of them looked down at the fresh patch of earth, a crudely carved wooden cross marking the spot where Daniel now lay. Bishop David had carried out the service earlier that day after conducting a brief service commemorating the fallen, sprinkling Holy Water over the site of the mass graves to the south and east of the hill.

A brisk wind blew Iseult's hair in dancing ribbons around her face as she held tightly to Grayle. So few of them had escaped injury, and all of them would bear the wounds from this battle for life, both internally and externally. Even she had been lucky, only Elyan's brave actions saving her from serious injury at the hands of Morgause.

Mark had given a grim account of the casualties that morning before Leodegrance, Bedevere and Bors had left for the trip to the south with the Saxons. Almost two hundred souls had formed the original compliment of men at Silbury Hill: one hundred and fifty fighting men; twenty ancillaries including camp cooks, fletchers, a smith, pot boys, stable hands, and several trackers; various members of the aristocracy, and of course Cadan and his twenty strong band of diggers. These had been followed by two hundred more fighting men who'd arrived with Arthur, Guinevere, and Iseult. Of those four hundred souls, only one hundred and fifty now remained.

They had lost almost half of the Cornish miners, a few through accident, most through their heroically unskilled defence of the west quarter of the upper fort. Of the ancillaries, only Elyan, the smith, and a fletcher remained. But of course, the soldiers had borne the brunt of the deaths. A mere twenty of the Exeter men had survived, some thirty of the Tintagel men, with the remaining Camelot men also heavily reduced. Very few had managed to escape unwounded, and most sported a variety of cuts, amputations, or broken bones.

Ecrivain, although late to arrive, had also taken heavy losses due to Hengist's quick decision to form the fighting wedge. But the sorest of these losses for Grayle and Gawain was Daniel.

And then there was Merlin.

Cadan had inspected the Pit following the dramatic eruption of dust during the battle. The northern chamber roof had mostly collapsed, blocking the entry to the room, but the massive stone beams in the shaft had held, the narrow entry to the chamber acting like giant bellows, forcing the air and dust out under pressure to rise so dramatically into the sky.

Arthur had discussed the burial with Cadan, insisting that once he had said a final goodbye to Merlin, the foreman and his fellow miners, along with a small guard, would remain behind to reinstate the hill to its former state. The Pit would be filled in, and the defences and other manmade alterations to the mound removed, leaving it as a hill once more. Cadan had instantly agreed, happy to be able to pay a final homage to the man he had learned so much from during his time at the site.

They had laid Merlin in a wrap of canvas to facilitate his descent into the Pit, but not before virtually everyone in the camp had said goodbye. There were few who had not seen the old man, whether for some minor injury, a good luck charm, or merely for conversation. Despite his gruff exterior, the old man had touched many hearts and minds. Cadan had personally taken charge of the body, taking the old magician into the eastern chamber where he had carefully constructed a funeral bier of stones, lifting the body to waist height. In true Cornish tradition, he had also laid out food and drink for the journey to the afterworld. Having developed a close working relationship with the old man, he had also left an additional gift. A copper nugget was left for good luck, and to pay the Knockers for passage to the underworld that the miners considered themselves so close to.

Once happy with his work, the miner had said a brief prayer in the darkness of the tomb and ascended from the shaft. Then only one man was left to say goodbye. The High King was lowered into the depths with one small lamp for company.

Only when he was finally alone with Merlin did Arthur break down, tears streaming down his bearded cheeks as he sobbed wretchedly into the dark. All the pent-up pain, anger, and fear of the last few days released itself in a wave of self-pity and grief that overwhelmed him for many minutes.

He reached forward tenderly, touching the grey-bearded, and haggard face, fresh tears flowing as he thought back to the days of his own difficult childhood. Through it all, Merlin had been the only constant in the bastard prince's life. Shunned by most until he was fostered with Sir Ector, he had had a lonely and tempestuous childhood. One old man had been his rock, and now he lay on a pile of stone, as cold and unmoving as the bier on which he lay.

"What am I going to do without you old man? You did everything I could've wished for, and more, and yet you leave me now, just when we've won. We won, and yet I lost you.

"Wherever you now roam Merlin, know that we who love you, remember you, and wish you well. I love you old man, I will see you again, one day soon."

Arthur bent down and kissed the old man's forehead, gave his hand a quick squeeze goodbye, and made his way out of the chamber. Working carefully in the flickering and fragile shadows, he sealed up the narrow entrance between the two massive pillars protecting the eastern chamber, and then the brief, hesitant light of the lamp rose back to the sunlight above, taking Arthur back to the world of the living.

For a moment, in the darkness of the eastern chamber there was a faint light, pale blue and only visible in the utter blackness of the tomb. An eldritch iridescence flickered across Merlin's face, the indigo-edged and short-lived shadows seeming to dance around the body lying on the bier. A twisted smile hovered on Merlin's lips as the light dissipated, and the tide of the dark washed swiftly back across the tomb.

The smile remained, unseen.

~

"Mount up!" called Mark, taking command of the column heading back to Camelot, turning in his saddle to watch as everyone got themselves in order. He sat at the head of the column, Percival on one side, Iseult and Grayle on the other. Arthur, Guinevere, and David rode immediately behind them, and he caught Morholt's eye further back, the man grinning crookedly at him, rolling his eyes as he barked an order at Elyan, who had managed to fall off the back of a cart.

"Ready son?" he said looking at Percival who still had his arm tightly bound in a sling.

"I can quite happily say yes to that question father. I think we need to see exactly how much wine Arthur has in his cellars."

"I see," said Arthur with a faint smile. "You think just because we've managed to find a little treasure I owe you a meal or two?"

"I think that sounds fair," noted Mark, grinning broadly.

"Would it surprise anyone if I said I was hungry?" said David patting his ample stomach.

"Come on, let's get this gold home," said Arthur.

"Merlin's Gold," said Guinevere, her tone quiet. Arthur looked at her and smiled, nodding.

"Merlin's Gold, aye. Come on, let's go home. Mark! All yours old man."

Mark lifted his hand to command silence from the men behind him, then dropped his arm to point along the road to Camelot.

"Forward, march!" he called, prompting a relieved and weary cheer from the men behind him.

Morholt walked his horse back through the ranks to take position at the rear of the column. He stopped for a moment, reining in his horse, and rubbed at his wounded thigh. Chewing absently at a piece of grass he had plucked from a nearby hedge he listened as various small sounds meandered through the morning air. Cadan's Cornish brogue drifted down from the top of the mound as he gave out orders to the miners and the men who remained behind. Soon there would be little trace left of the death and pain that had visited Silbury. Another spring would see a fresh coat of green paint over the scars of burning, death, and destruction, and soon they would be a mere memory. Eventually, only the presence of a few new grave mounds would be left as a legacy of the battle.

He rubbed his leg again: another day, another scar. Tipping his helmet at Merlin and the fallen behind him, he heeled his mount into motion, and rode up behind the slow-moving column, smiling as Elyan waved at him from the back of a cart.

The day was grey, but his heart lifted as he thought of home. He could smell the sea, and hear the waves roar across the shingle, the mournful cry of the gulls a reminder of what had been lost and the souls who had departed. Soon he would be back at the remote and crumbling rock he called home, but the memory of Merlin's Gold would never fade.