by Peter David
“I’ve got him!” he shouted somewhat unnecessarily, and the boat was coming right toward them. For an instant Arthur was concerned it was going to run them over, sending both of them to the bottom of the ocean, but then Percival was stretching toward them from the deck. Ron reached up and Percival snagged him, hauling them up, and moments later they were both safe upon the deck of the ship.
Arthur sank to the deck, gasping for air, Ron next to him. Excalibur lay on the deck between them. “You had to go and leave your Secret Service men behind. Just had to, didn’t you?” muttered Ron. Arthur clapped him on the back, shaking his head at the insanity of it all.
“Nice boat,” he commented to Ziusura.
Ziusura shrugged. “When you’ve survived one flood, you tend to be prepared for any eventuality.”
And then Arthur saw Gwen lying on the deck. Merlin was next to her, her head cradled in his lap, staring at her forelornly.
Arthur scrambled toward him and looked down at Gwen in misery. “I . . . I thought I could do both . . .” he said. “Save them both . . .”
“It’s all right, Arthur,” Merlin said softly.
But Arthur shook his head. “No. It’s not all right. I should have let him die. After what he did . . . all he did . . . all he was . . .”
“You didn’t try to save him because of what he was,” Merlin said. “You tried to save him for what he could have been. Your instincts were right . . . even if the outcome wasn’t.”
Arthur tried to suppress a sob, and failed, and it felt unmanly, but he didn’t care anymore. He clutched Gwen’s hand, and it was growing cold, so cold.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, but it sounded pathetic and hollow.
That was when he heard Nellie scream, “Look!” and Ron was saying, “Oh, my God,” and Ziusura muttered an oath in a tongue unspoken for centuries.
Arthur clambered to his feet and ran toward the edge of the boat. He looked where they were pointing, and he couldn’t believe it.
A hand was emerging from the water, a bronzed, male hand. It was holding the Grail sword, glittering against the darkened sky.
“Hard about!” shouted Arthur, and Ziusura was already steering in that direction. They came toward the sword, and the hand flung it. It sailed through the air and Arthur reached up and caught it. He gasped at the weight. Gilgamesh had hardly seemed slowed by it, but Arthur could barely hold it. “Pull him up!” Arthur called. “Get Gilgamesh! Get—”
But Ziusura was shaking his head very slowly and sadly. “I don’t believe that’s how the High King wants his story to end.”
For a heartbeat, Arthur saw Gilgamesh’s face, looking up from beneath the surface. And he saw exhaustion and sadness . . . but also satisfaction. And then a trail of air bubbles expelled from between his lips, and he sank. It seemed forever that Arthur stared at the spot, waiting for Gilgamesh to resurface, but there was nothing except the stillness of the now-calming waters.
“Highness,” came Percival’s voice softly from next to him. Arthur turned then and handed the sword to Percival. The Moor grunted slightly at the heft and even laughed softly. He held the blade flat across his hands, and whispered, “I hated you for so long. But, God . . . it’s good to see you again.”
And then it was the Cup.
There was no flash of light, no sudden release of power. It was just right there, in his hands. Arthur stared at it in wonderment. The last time he’d seen it was a thousand years ago, when it had saved him from the wounds inflicted by his bastard son. But it looked just as he remembered it, graceful and pure.
Ziusura had a flask at his hip, and quickly he poured some water from it into the Cup. Arthur held it reverently, barely daring to hope, and then he crossed quickly to Gwen.
She looked ghastly. He wasn’t even sure if she was alive. The ugly wound from the assassin’s bullet had returned in her head. He knelt and Merlin angled her head up as Arthur pried her lips open. He poured the water into her mouth and then, for good measure, on the wound itself.
There was a hissing from where the water came in contact with the wound, and then Gwen let out a shriek, her eyes snapping open, and she sat up and looked around in bewilderment.
Arthur sobbed out her name and, handing the Grail to Merlin, threw his arms around Gwen and cried into her shoulder. All thoughts of unmanliness in the shedding of tears were long gone as endless gratitude swept through him.
Gwen said something, her voice muffled against his body. He pulled back, looked at her with eyes glistening. She was about to repeat her question, but then she saw the Grail and awe filled her face. “Is . . . that it?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Can I . . . ?”
He handed it to her and she held it. “It’s . . .”
“What?”
“It’s . . .” Her voice trembled. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. That anyone’s ever seen. Isn’t it?”
And he touched her cheek and whispered, “The second most.”
HE EXISTS IN twilight. He does not know if he is alive or dead. But Enkidu is with him, and for the first time in all his life, he is no longer afraid.
The High King is happy . . .