Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Merlin would never be able to close his eyes again.

Every single time Merlin had tried to take a break for himself, Arthur ended up bumbling into another category of disaster with his sword swinging and dumb, stupid face lighting up with challenge.

The danger just happened to stumble upon them, for once, while the knights and Merlin were making the journey back to Camelot after a sickness outburst in a border town. Arthur and a couple of his most select knights—Leon, Gwaine, Elyan, and Percival—had volunteered to travel with Merlin to reassure the townspeople and provide comfort. Merlin was the only one actually doing the difficult bit, like always. Gaius suggested, and Merlin agreed, that Merlin was needed in case the plague—which had unusual symptoms if the woman who had petitioned Arthur was to be believed—turned out to be more than a standard illness.

Indeed, Merlin had found a poultice bag radiating a dark energy in the town’s well and had quickly disposed of it.

He and the knights left the town lauded as heroes, but Merlin grumpily wondered why the knights were so praised when all they had done was lug blankets to and fro and talk with the townspeople.

That last bit was a little uncharitable, but Merlin was on edge. An abandoned poultice bag with no sorcerer or sorceress guarding it? It didn’t seem likely, and Merlin, for the first time in his life, was concerned that he hadn’t had to fight anyone.

That was why, when Merlin had tried to lay his head on his horse’s neck for two seconds, trying to gather his thoughts, and he heard many someones thrashing through the forest, a small part of Merlin was relieved.

At last the world made sense again.

But that was also why Merlin would never be able to take a break.

Because currently, a sorceress and ten of her cohorts were shooting spells and swinging swords at Merlin’s friends.

The cacophony of battle rang through the forest as the setting sun dappled the forest with orange light. Arthur was shouting orders at the knights, encouraging them and sending them in the appropriate directions. Merlin’s chest felt tight as he watched Arthur work, dodging and sweeping and leading.

Merlin tried to shake the thoughts from his head as he scanned the scene, looking for the sorceress—the biggest threat to Arthur and his friends.

There.

Movement behind a tree caught Merlin’s eye as the woman—young, only a little older than Merlin, perhaps—backed away from the scene. Her gaze caught Merlin’s, and she smiled a slow, lethal smile.

Merlin didn’t even hesitate.

He ran after her, legs pumping, heart thumping, eyes trained solely on her as she cackled and ran.

“Merlin!” Arthur’s voice shouted somewhere behind him, but Merlin knew that he couldn’t slow down and he couldn’t take his eyes off of the sorceress. So, he kept running.

Merlin dodged branches, leapt over logs, and tried to avoid the brambles tugging at his feet. The sound of fighting grew fainter and fainter before the sorceress stopped in her tracks and swung to face Merlin.

Merlin’s magic hummed underneath his skin, ready to defend as Merlin slowed his pace and stopped altogether.

They stood, barely ten meters apart as their chests heaved and they waited for the other to make the next move.

“You will never mean as much to him as he means to you.” The woman said simply, and Merlin was taken aback. Of all the threats and warnings he expected to come from the woman’s mouth, this wasn’t one of them. The sentiment stung sharply before Merlin tried to shrug it off.

It’s a distraction, a voice in Merlin’s head warned, and it sounded a lot like Arthur. Merlin lowered into a fighting stance, his magic singing as he prepared for an attack.

“You know nothing,” Merlin said, mouth twitching into a smile as the woman scowled deeply.

A great crashing came from Merlin’s left and halted the spell the woman had begun chanting. Arthur, sword in hand, emerged from the dense foliage.

“Are you going to make a habit of chasing dangerous witches with no weapons?” Arthur grated between clenched teeth as he shot Merlin a glare.

Merlin was about to make a sharp retort when movement behind Arthur caught Merlin’s attention.

One of the woman’s companions was hidden behind a tree, and he reached into his cloak. Time slowed down and, Merlin had the presence of mind to realize, he wasn’t sure whether his magic was doing it or if panic had made time clot together.

A flash of metal caught the dappled light of the forest and Merlin didn’t have time to think. A thin, sharp dagger as big around as a broom handle was poised at the tip of his fingers. His eyes, burning with anger and hatred and vindication, settled on Arthur’s back.

“Arthur!” Merlin called, but he knew, deeply and instinctually, it would be too late. Merlin had spent years watching Arthur train and knew exactly, down to the half-second, how fast Arthur’s reflexes were. He had seen Arthur run drill after drill and fight countless of men, to the death and for sport.

Merlin knew that Arthur wouldn’t be able to move. His back was turned, he wouldn’t have enough time he wouldn’t have enough time, he wouldn’t have enough time—

Merlin broke out into a sprint, lunging forward, catching Arthur’s shoulders as he turned around, placing himself between the assassin and Arthur and—

Nothing happened.

Merlin watched as Arthur’s face morphed from concentration to confusion to annoyance in the span of seconds.

“What’s the matter with you?” Arthur asked, quirking his brow as Merlin held tightly to Arthur’s shoulders. Merlin frowned, and tried to inhale, but choked on a cough. He opened his mouth, trying to speak but his mouth was sticky and full and he felt warm, warm, warm, warm spilling down down down down…

The world tilted on its axis a little bit, and Merlin leant into Arthur’s body. Why was the world tilting?

Arthur’s face shifted from annoyance to horror. Merlin hadn’t seen that look on Arthur’s face in a long, long time and decided at once that he didn’t like it very much. He needed to protect Arthur from falling down; with urgency, Merlin thought that’s the only thing he needed to do and he needed to do it right now. Merlin leant into Arthur harder, hoping that his presence would comfort Arthur while the world shook. His legs felt weak. Probably from all the forest-shifting.

Behind Arthur, the sorceress was gone and Merlin knew that the man behind the tree probably was, too, or else Arthur would not still be at his side when danger was so close. Arthur would be charging around, trampling through the forest, swinging his sword wildly, Merlin thought with derision. Arthur doesn’t have time to stand here with me.

Then, suddenly, blindingly, unimaginable pain exploded along his back, racing across his shoulder and settling on the right side of his chest. Merlin tried to cry out but he choked again on the warmth in his mouth and coughed raggedly, red speckling Arthur’s armor.

Oh, Merlin thought fuzzily, I’m bleeding.

He looked down, trying to find out why he hurt so bad, and found the point of a dagger protruding from his chest. Its scarlet metal glinted sinisterly in the light of the forest. Wet, red metal? Merlin tried to think of a blade that was red and wet, but his brain slowed to a stop and most of his thoughts with it.

Hm, Merlin mused, before his legs stopped working.

Time got a little fuzzy.

Merlin found himself on the ground, but didn’t remember how he got there. His arms didn’t hurt with impact, so he hadn’t fallen, but his back and front still blazed in agony. The pain paralyzed Merlin so entirely that he couldn’t even open his mouth to scream.

Arthur’s bright eyes were right above him, so close, so close, so close, and Merlin tried to hold his next cough inside of him because he wasn’t able to breathe but Arthur would give him triple chores next week if Merlin coughed crimson in his face.

Arthur’s lips were moving.

“…lin! Talk to me, Merlin!” Arthur turned his head away, looking up, past Merlin’s head. “Gwaine! Leon! Someone!”

Merlin felt peeved. Couldn’t Arthur see that Merlin was in pain at the moment? If Merlin felt like talking, he would very much be talking at the moment, thank you. However, Arthur looked very scared, and Merlin felt panic in his own chest well up at Arthur being afraid. Merlin needed to say something, to comfort him. Merlin opened his mouth, and tried to force sound out, but all that came out was more blood.

Merlin barely had time to turn his head to the side before he was spilling the contents of his throat—blood so dark it was almost black—onto the leafy floor underneath him with wheezing, hacking coughs that rattled Merlin’s skull.

Oh, Merlin thought.

Hm.

That doesn’t seem very healthy.

Merlin’s mind was swimming.

Focus, Merlin, focus, his mind cried. We’ve been injured! Stay alive! What do we do to stay alive?

Hm, Merlin pondered, head fuzzy, ears still ringing. He tried to flick through his memories of Gaius telling him how to care for the wounded. Merlin knew that there was something he needed to do if he was bleeding, but every time he grasped onto the thought, it was gone again, like a wisp of vapor.

A gust of wind rattled the blurry leaves far above Arthur’s head, and Merlin shivered. He tried to shiver, anyway, but his limbs had lost the coordination to do something so graceful and specialized. Instead, he twitched violently in Arthur’s arms, shuddering and jerking wildly. Arthur tightened his hold on his shoulders, saying something.

“…most here, Merlin. Don’t you…” Arthur’s voice was so shaky that Merlin’s brain decided it didn’t want to try to hear the rest. Merlin’s chest ached from where Arthur was pressing down heavily on it.

Realization dawned on Merlin.

Yes! Of course! Gaius said that he needed to apply pressure to where he was bleeding to staunch the flow of blood.

Merlin raised a shaky hand to his mouth, and pressed down.

Yes, he was bleeding a lot from there.

Now that that was taken care of, Merlin tried to focus on his surroundings.

Arthur was shivering above him—wait, no, he was quaking. Arthur was shuddering so hard that Merlin was afraid his bones were going to snap or shift out of place. One hand was pressing sharply onto the right side of Merlin’s chest and Arthur had an arm underneath him. Arthur’s other hand was pressing into Merlin’s back, over his right shoulder blade. Merlin’s left side was pressed into the metal of Arthur’s armor and his right side wasn’t touching the ground at all, Merlin now realized.

That was very kind of Arthur, but Merlin’s right side wasn’t hurting at all now, so he was really fine. In fact, it was the only warm place on Merlin’s body right now, since it had gotten so cold in the forest.

Merlin was taking care of his wound, just like he was taught. He shifted his hand over his mouth to prove the point, hoping to remove the look of pure terror on Arthur’s face. Merlin was saving the day, all by himself—again.

But Arthur wasn’t paying attention to Merlin, like always. He was scanning the forest, looking for something, but Merlin didn’t know what he could possibly be looking for. Merlin moved his hand not pressing down on his mouth to tug at Arthur’s hand on Merlin’s chest.

“I’m fine, Arthur,” is what Merlin wanted to say, but he forgot that his mouth was blocked. When Merlin tried to move his hand, his throat spasmed, and black blood bubbled through Merlin’s fingers. Arthur’s eyes widened even further, and his face contorted in an expression Merlin’s brain was too fuzzy to figure out.

Arthur shifted Merlin in his arms, and Merlin’s head spun unpleasantly.

“HELP!” Arthur suddenly screamed, so loud, so deep, so piercing that Merlin winced sharply, and his head took another spin. Merlin tried to shoot Arthur an unimpressed look, but was distracted by the fact that Arthur was very filmy and fuzzy around the edges.

Merlin tried to reach up and check to see if Arthur really was floating away, piece by piece, but the side of his head was solid. Light blond hair caught the light, and Merlin pressed it down against Arthur’s scalp—just to keep it there. Just in case.

Arthur was so warm.

“Merlin, you are the most foolish man I’ve ever met. Why on earth would you do that? You are not going to die for me. Not here, not ever, not now.” Arthur said, voice cracking on the last word, and his voice was very breathy, like he had just come back from a week’s worth of drills. Warm drops of rain landed on Merlin’s face.

Merlin sluggishly tried to catch a look of the rain but it was still sunny. That didn’t make sense. Merlin looked at Arthur, wondering if he was seeing this, too, but Arthur’s face was drawn up in a sob, lips pressed together tightly, so tightly that his mouth was only a slash on his face. Merlin caught a glimpse of falling gold, lit up by the golden light coming from the tops of the trees. Drip, drip, drip drip drip drip drip—

They were coming from Arthur, and Merlin knew that they could be nothing but tears.

Why was Arthur crying?

Arthur never cried.

The last time Merlin had seen Arthur cry was when Uther had died. When Merlin had unintentionally sped the man’s death and watched the life leave his body—a great exhale and then slackness.

Nobody was dying now, so why was Arthur crying golden tears?

“—‘ve got so much to do, don’t think you’ll be getting out of it this easily. I need you to clean my chambers and I need you to whet my sword and…and I need you to collect wood for the fire and—“ Arthur choked, and Merlin watched with bleary eyes as Arthur’s throat spasmed underneath the skin of his neck. “I need you…I need you.” He said, over and over again, but Merlin wasn’t paying attention anymore.

The jerk of the lump in Arthur’s throat was concerning. Just in case Arthur could be bleeding, too, Merlin removed his hand from his own mouth.

Merlin would not let anything happen to Arthur, even at his own expense. Plus, he had been staunching the flow of blood pretty well, so a few seconds for Arthur wouldn’t hurt.

Merlin’s hand was streaked red and orange with the smears of his own blood as he struggled to lift his hand to press to Arthur’s shaking lips. Merlin’s other hand, the one on Arthur’s head, he let go limp. This one was the one that really mattered, he thought, as he held his gory fingers to Arthur’s mouth, leaving trails of red on Arthur’s face.

Arthur’s eyes were unnaturally bright as the sun caught the wetness there and made the tracks on his cheeks glow with an unnatural light. Arthur’s hair caught the sun, his eyes caught the sun, his cloak caught the sun, Arthur was the sun.

Bright, bright, so bright.

Merlin smiled, a big, toothy, grin as he looked up at Arthur the Sun, his King, glow and glow and glow. Merlin was keeping him safe, Merlin would always keep him safe.

“Arthur.” He said, still smiling, blood clogging the word and making it sound like a croak and not the promise—the oath, the vow, the covenant—Merlin wanted it to be.

But the blood kept coming, spilling over his chin and down his shirt and Merlin felt himself falling asleep as Arthur opened his mouth and made an unintelligible noise. Merlin couldn't help but surrender to sleep, feeling his eyes close and his mind drift away.

Weightlessness.

Then black.

Chapter Text

Arthur would never be able to close his eyes again.

Sleep? Arthur would have to do without. Blinking? Impossible.

Because every single time Arthur closed his eyes, the image of Merlin, smiling brilliantly as blood bubbled from behind his teeth and covered his mouth in a slick, dark mess was burned permanently into the black just behind Arthur’s eyelids.

Arthur knew what Merlin’s blood tasted like.

Merlin had made sure of that, no matter how unintentional. He had raised his fingers, crimson and shaking, and pressed them to Arthur’s lips. His hands were shaking so badly that Merlin smeared his blood over Arthur’s lips and jaw and down his neck as his hand went limp and his head lolled to the side.

Arthur knew what Merlin’s blood…

Arthur knew—

Arthur knew.

He couldn’t even linger on the thought too long before bile rose up in Arthur’s throat and Arthur had to hurriedly think about something—anything!—else before he emptied the contents of his already empty stomach.

It was already empty because as soon as Merlin’s hand had fallen away and he had wilted, Arthur opened his mouth to speak. But Arthur could only taste metal and brimstone and Merlin and he could feel the texture of it against his tongue because instinct had forced his tongue forward. He tilted Merlin away as he turned as much as he could and heave until his stomach stopped rioting and his mouth stopped burning with the taste of Merlin’s life.

When Merlin had closed his eyes, Arthur, for just a split second, was sure that he had died.

That his last action in this world was to force Arthur to taste the blood that Arthur himself might as well have spilt with his own hands. Arthur’s breath stopped for the four seconds it took to realize that Merlin’s eyes had closed and his chest still rose. If Merlin had died, his eyes would be open or Arthur would know. Something in him would have felt his Merlin leave him.

Arthur’s entire life had been lived on two basic rules.

One, everything is made as an exchange. Two, every exchange has a price.

Arthur’s life was an exchange for his mother’s. The price was the look in Uther’s eyes every time he looked too long at Arthur and the curl of his lip as he turned away again, sharply, his disappointment a physical thing that he did not hesitate to use against Arthur.

Merlin’s act of bravery had been traded for a position in the royal household. The price, at least at the time, was Arthur’s sanity.

Arthur’s heart was given to Gwen in exchange for her own. The price had been her eventual betrayal, falling back in love with Lancelot and leaving Arthur bereft of warmth.

Talking with Merlin about the panic building underneath Arthur’s breastbone more and more every day was a trade for the loneliness that Arthur had been told he must cherish and prize. The price was Arthur’s pride, and the addition of the crushing fear that Arthur would always say too much.

Merlin was trying to trade his life for Arthur’s, and the price was that Arthur would be forever cursed by the knowledge of the exact taste of Merlin’s blood. He knew the texture and the bite of metal and what it looked like when it stained Merlin’s teeth. When it stained Arthur’s hands. When it gushed, unendingly, through his unworthy fingers.

The assassin—no, not assassin, Arthur thought sharply. An assassin would mean that Merlin was dead and Merlin was not dead, nor was he going to die. Arthur would make sure of that.

He was only sorry that he was not able to feel the attacker’s breath leave him, see the light fade from his eyes as Arthur buried his sword to the hilt in the recreant’s insides. But, he had run into the forest like a coward. The dagger was meant for Arthur, and the bastard couldn’t even stay long enough to see the job completed.

The dagger was of course meant for Arthur.

Being royalty meant having a target painted forever on your back, especially under such a harsh ruler as Uther. Arthur hoped that his own actions would speak for themselves and Uther’s enemies wouldn’t become his own, but he knew now that that was a foolish hope. He knew now that everyone he loved would always be victim to his crown.

Why had Merlin done that? Why had Merlin run after that witch at all?

Merlin was the bravest man Arthur knew, undoubtedly, but his bravery and loyalty often ran aground into idiocy. Arthur had always feared the day that Merlin would take his devotion to Arthur a step too far and end up hurt. End up taking the hate that was meant for Arthur onto his own shoulders.

Merlin had done that all too literally, and Arthur hated him for it.

When Merlin had finally fallen unconscious, Arthur had screamed. Loudly, as loudly as he had ever done anything, praying to whatever gods were listening that it would be loud enough for the knights to hear. Arthur didn’t know how far they were from the knights—the chase had been too fast and too panic-filled on Arthur’s part to pay much attention to the specific turns that the witch had made. But Arthur knew enough about battle wounds to know that carrying Merlin through the woods blindly would seal his death.

So he yelled. And bellowed. And screamed and hollered and wept for help until his lungs ached and his throat was raw. It realistically was probably no more than a quarter hour but it felt interminable, like the only two people left in the world were Arthur and and a bleeding, unconscious Merlin.

When the knights finally came, Arthur was so grateful that he actually began to cry anew.

The knights were battle-weary and out-of-breath from their search. Their faces were pale and wretched, and Arthur knew that he himself was a disaster. No one would look Arthur in the eyes, although Arthur desperately tried to make eye contact. He needed to know that he wasn’t gone, too. That he was still breathing despite his burning lungs and aching throat and numb limbs. Despite the fact that all of the fight had left him at once and his mind had gone light and fuzzy.

No one had said anything for a minute. Gwaine stumbled disjointedly forward until he had fallen to his knees, grabbing wildly for Merlin’s hand. And then Percival had to hold Gwaine down as he made a lunge at Arthur, eyes blazing and mouth spitting.

“How could you let this happen?” He demanded, growling, feet scrabbling uselessly at the leafed, wet, wet, wet forest floor. Arthur couldn’t feel his hand where it was pressed against Merlin’s shoulder. Arthur knew that Gwaine had said some things, then. Things meant to cut and slice Arthur deep, but if he thought about it now, Arthur couldn’t remember a single one of them.

“I-I…” Arthur hadn’t had the energy to be indignant or self-righteous. He had done this to Merlin. “We have to get him back to Camelot. He needs help, Gwaine.”

The fight left Gwaine at once as he collapsed once more to the ground, this time only having attention for Merlin, brow pinched in stony concern.

He was pale and shaking when he checked Merlin’s pulse and Arthur had to fight the instinct to slap Gwaine’s hand away from Merlin. Merlin was alive, of course he was alive, Arthur would fight Death Itself if it tried to dig its claws into Merlin’s back.

When Percival reached to grab Merlin’s limp form away from Arthur, all of the emotion numbed by Gwaine came back with a crushing force. Arthur was a wheezing, spitting mess, crying and grabbing at Merlin’s clothes in an attempt to keep him close. He knew it was ridiculous, and silly, and weak, but Arthur didn’t want to know what he would do if Merlin wasn’t by his side for longer than a couple of seconds.

No one tried to grab Merlin again.

However, when Leon approached with his untied cloak in his hands and calming words on his lips, Arthur let him. Arthur watched carefully as Leon bound Merlin’s shoulder and arm tightly, and the small noise that Merlin made caused every nerve in Arthur’s body to come alight. Merlin was alive, of course he was, he was going to stay alive.

Arthur could feel every pair of eyes on him as he gathered enough strength to stand on shaky legs, carrying his life in his arms.

The ride back to Camelot was frenzied and unstoppable. The blur of the forest was only punctuated in Arthur’s memory by his regular checks of Merlin in his arms. The knights were silent and grave, and Arthur was grateful for their somber swiftness.

The ride through the village as they approached the citadel was chaotic. Arthur refused to slow his break-neck pace, instead yelling at the townspeople to get off of the road quickly. The offense on their faces was quickly changed into shock and horror at the blood-covered king and his ever-present companion. Arthur knew there would be talk, and a king should never show such panic, but his thoughts were only of Merlin, Merlin, Merlin.

Arthur was off of his horse before she had even stopped, and began to run up the steps of the castle, uncaring whether the knights were behind him as he yelled for Gaius.

Gaius had met them in the hallway in front of his chambers, eyes wide and horror-stricken as Arthur pushed past him and placed him on the bed. It took as much willpower as Arthur had to let go of Merlin as Gaius rushed forth. The knights tumbled in after Arthur as Gaius knelt to examine Merlin’s prone form.

“How is he?” Gwaine asked, panting heavily at the run. He was pointedly not looking at Arthur. Arthur realized that he himself was also out of breath, but he hadn’t even noticed. He had not been able to breathe properly since—

Gaius didn’t ask what happened, as he gently unwrapped the wound and then winced sharply. Arthur sympathized with the old man. Merlin was like a son to him and to Arthur…Merlin was all he had left.

“I’m going to take the dagger out. Gwaine, get me some yarrow and pyrola extract. Percival get me some water. Elyan, I need clean linens. Leon, I’m going to need you to hold him down.” Gaius said, every single emotion on his face gone. Arthur noticed that Gaius hadn’t given him a task to do and barely had time to wonder what that meant before his words registered.

“Wait, hold him—“ Arthur began, before Leon was in front of him and Gaius’s arm moved sharply.

Arthur would be grateful later that he could not see it.

Merlin’s body jerked suddenly, spasming out of control as the wood posts of the bed rattled against the stone floor.

“What are you doing?” Arthur bellowed, panic and terror seizing his heart in a vise. He tried to push forward, but Gwaine, who had passed the ingredients to Gaius, had held Arthur back. Arthur thrashed against his hold until Merlin had stopped, and Arthur went limp.

Time passed in a blur as the returned knights bustled to and fro in front of him, passing back and forth wet rags and tinctures. Gwaine still held Arthur in a grip, and Arthur didn’t know if it was to keep him or Gwaine from pushing forward toward Merlin. Whatever tension that had been between them was gone—they both had too much to lose.

At last, Gaius had pulled away, sweat beading on his brow and blood smeared on his hands when he looked up at Arthur. The look on his face stopped the world.

Arthur’s stomach fell through the bottom of his shoes and the world went fuzzy around the edges.

“He’s…” Arthur began, panic making his words halt abruptly as he choked back a noise of pure emotion.

“No,” Gaius said, and Arthur had tried to breathe again. “But,” Gaius began again, eyes sorrowful and anguished.

“The dagger pierced his lung. He’s bleeding internally. The dagger…punctured a hole in his bone and displaced a lot of tissue. I’ve done what I can to slow the blood flow, but only time will tell.”

Arthur tried to process this.

“So, there’s a chance?” He asked eventually. Gaius’s face twisted up in an unidentifiable emotion.

“I don’t want to give you false hope, Sire.” Gaius paused, choosing his next words carefully. “The best I can give him is time, and,” Gaius’s eyes flicked down to the floor, “a smooth passing.”

Arthur’s ears were ringing.

“No.” He said simply.

“No?” Gaius asked, eyes flicking back up to meet Arthur’s.

“No,” Arthur repeated. “He’s not going to die on me. I won’t let him.”

Gaius sighed heavily, heaving himself up from his stool above Merlin’s bed. The old man said nothing has he shuffled over to one of his worktables and began sorting through vials.

The knights had encouraged Arthur to go clean the blood from his hands and arms. When Arthur expressed his absolute refusal to leave Merlin’s side, Leon brought a bucket of water for Arthur and a change of clothes. Arthur couldn’t even find the words to express his gratitude as he wordlessly changed. Arthur looked at his arms. As gruesome of a picture he painted, Arthur was afraid to wash the blood off. What if this was the last bit of Merlin Arthur ever got? What if—

No, no, no.

Arthur had plunged his arms into the water and scrubbed and scrubbed until his skin was raw and tender and the water was rusty and brown. Arthur would not let this be Merlin’s legacy on him. Merlin had so much more to give him, and Arthur was going to give him that chance. Leon had cleared his throat and pointed at Arthur’s face.

Oh.

Oh god.

Arthur had ridden through the town, had run through the castle, with blood smeared across his face, around his mouth, and down his chin. Arthur looked like he had eaten a creature alive. Arthur scrubbed at his face then, too, taking extra care to clean his mouth. His lips were raw and bleeding with his own blood by the time that he had stopped but Leon had only given him a rag to stem the bleeding and the knights said nothing. Elyan winced, and pointed to the side of Arthur’s head.

Arthur, confused, placed a hand where Elyan was gesturing, and his stomach turned. Right. Merlin had held Arthur’s head in his hand. His hair was clumped and tacky underneath his fingers. He reached for the bucket when Percival grabbed it away from him.

“Let me get you some clean water,” he said, sounding sick to his stomach. Arthur echoed the sentiment deeply. Arthur was so soaked in Merlin’s blood that its imprint would never leave Arthur’s skin. Arthur would never again be able to look at his hands, his face, his hair, without seeing the impression that Merlin’s blood had irreparably dealt.

That was where Arthur was now, hair freshly scrubbed, arms pink and raw, rag to his lips as he stared at Merlin’s prone form. He counted Merlin’s ragged exhales until he got to one hundred and thirty seven before he lost count. Arthur waited.

And he waited.

And he waited.

Arthur wondered how he had ever let anyone as delicate and fragile and human as Merlin get so close to him. Then, he realized, he didn’t. Merlin had wormed his way into Arthur’s affections all by himself.

Merlin was always pushing Arthur’s boundaries, always wanting Arthur to do more, to be more, than Arthur was capable of being. He always wanted Arthur to be kinder and more understanding; he was always pushing him to be more accepting, more patient, and more willing to let actions speak before reputations did.

But Arthur didn’t know how he was supposed to do that when magic was about to take Merlin away from him. No.

No.

Magic was not going to be taking Merlin away. Not today. Not on Arthur’s watch. There was no doubt that magic was evil, now. The sorceress had done this to Merlin—Arthur’s Merlin. Uther had been right ever since Arthur was a boy. What Arthur had seen as grief and fear was actually truth. Magic would not stop taking from Arthur. It took his mother, it took his father, it took Morgana, and now it was trying to take Merlin.

But Merlin was fighting, still. His chest still rose, which meant that Merlin was fighting—fighting to stay with Arthur and be at Arthur’s side.

But the question still begged: Why did Merlin have such faith in Arthur?

Arthur was nothing if not his father’s son—stubborn, prone to grudges, angry, rash, fearful. But Merlin had stood by him anyway, pushing back against Arthur’s moods, meeting Arthur blow for blow. He was just a servant, why did he care about Arthur so much? Arthur had given him no reason to care for him so much.

Arthur didn’t deserve it.

He didn’t.

Arthur wasn’t worth the pain Merlin was going through, getting paler and paler every day, sweat beading on his brow and smeared across his face. Merlin had heavy, dark bags under his eyes, which were the only color on his pallid face. His eyelids themselves were a dark, ugly purple, and Merlin’s eyes looked sunken in like a skull.

Three days after…it…happened, Arthur was still sitting at Merlin’s side, inconsolable and unwilling to return to his duties. It didn’t matter. What good was Arthur to his people if he couldn’t even help the people he loved the most?

No, no, no.

Don’t think about that.

It doesn’t matter now, only Merlin matters now, Merlin’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

Stop.

Stop.

Arthur took a breath to measure himself.

It wasn’t good to think about such things, now. Arthur didn’t know if he could finally allow himself to acknowledge what had been blossoming behind his breastbone if he was about to lose it—

NO.

Arthur would be resolutely not thinking about Merlin or his eyes or his laugh or the smile he tried to hide as he ducked away from Arthur. (Didn’t Merlin know that Arthur loved anything Merlin would give him, including his smile?)

Arthur wouldn’t be thinking about the space that had grown smaller and smaller between the two of them since Gwen left, and, if Arthur was going to be honest with himself, before Gwen left, too.

Was everything because of Arthur?

Arthur was too afraid to love Merlin and too late to love Gwen. And now Arthur was about to be too late again. The Pendragons’ hearts were a curse. Uther loved Arthur’s mother so much it killed her and the kingdom felt its aftershocks for decades. Arthur loved Gwen, so she had no choice but to choose another. And now, Arthur had killed Merlin.

Stop!

No, no, no--

Merlin was not going to—

Stop, please!

Shut up!

A hand on Arthur’s shoulder shocked him back into the present.

“Sire, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Gaius’s comforting voice soothed. “Are you alright? You’ve been…”

Gaius placed his hand over Arthur’s, which Arthur now realized had been picking the skin around his nails into a spiked, ripped mess. Arthur straightened in his chair.

“I’m fine, Gaius.” He said, avoiding eye contact.

A knock at the door stopped whatever reply Gaius attempted to make.

“Come in,” Gaius said, moving towards the door. Gwaine stood silhouetted against the light of the torches outside, and Arthur realized with a start that it must be night. Arthur had spent an entire day uninterrupted with no recollection of the day passing.

Gwaine came in, side-stepping Gaius and moving straight to Arthur. Arthur braced himself and he realized that he was bracing for a hit. Gwaine stopped in front of Arthur. His fists were clenched.

“Sire,” Gwaine said, and his voice was overly formal, “I apologize for the way I acted earlier when Merlin…” Gwaine cleared his throat. “When Merlin.” He concluded, the smallest of bitter, fake smiles tugging at the corner of his lips. The glint of warmth in his eye when he looked at him caused Arthur to loosen his spine’s rigidity. Gwaine wasn’t here to fight. Gwaine sobered once more.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did.” Gwaine continued. He paused, just for a second, but it made Arthur’s skin crawl in anticipation of what he would say next. “I knew it would hurt you, and that’s why I said it.”

Arthur relaxed. At least Gwaine wasn’t going to repeat what he had said. Arthur didn’t remember any of it, and he didn’t want to have to rip open the crevices of his mind and seek it out. Whatever he had said was best laid hidden.

“Whatever you said, I’m sure was correct,” Arthur said. Gwaine’s eyes opened in shock. Arthur noticed Gaius sneaking out the door behind Gwaine’s shoulder.

“Arthur, believe me when I say that I had no right to doubt your devotion to Merlin.” Gwaine swore. He reeled in a stray stool and sat down on it with a heavy thud. Arthur noticed then that he was wearing plainclothes instead of his knight’s garb. Arthur had a hard time imagining Camelot functioning without Merlin there to fuel it, so he supposed it made sense. That was perhaps giving Merlin too much credit—the idiot couldn’t even keep his blood inside of his body—but his vivacity gave Camelot verve and brightness in a way it was sorely lacking.

Arthur realized that silence had fallen between them. Was Gwaine expecting a response? Arthur looked at Gwaine to find that the man was fiddling with the strings on his shirt-tie—he was clearly weighing his next words carefully. The man could never keep the damn laces closed; he was always looking for attention. But they gave away when Gwaine was nervous—he couldn’t keep his hands off of them.

“We could hear you,” Gwaine said slowly. “Screaming, I mean.”

Arthur’s entire body seized. Once. Twice. He desperately sought to keep a control on his body—something that he had never had to do before.

“We couldn’t find you. Leon kept hearing you on the west, Elyan kept hearing you east. I swore you screams were at the south.” Gwaine swallowed thickly. “I think the enchantress laid a spell. I’m sorry we were too late.”

Arthur rubbed his face with a hand, trying to mask the emotion that he knew would lie there. The knights couldn’t find them. The witch had discombobulated Merlin’s rescue. The witch was playing with them all, the whole time. She wanted Merlin to be too past help by the time help had arrived. Had she attacked the town specifically for Merlin’s sake? Why?

“I could describe what it felt like to see you two…the way we found you,” Gwaine continued, “but I don’t think there’s a human being alive who knows what I’m feeling more than you do.”

Arthur inhaled deeply, trying to ignore the way his hands were shaking.

“Why are you here, Gwaine?” Arthur asked, finally. Arthur didn’t have the emotional depth at the moment to parse out what Gwaine wanted from him. He felt like a polishing rag—run over and over and over in one spot so long that the strings themselves were worn and frayed. Arthur felt ready to tear.

Gwaine shrugged helplessly.

“I wanted to apologize. I don’t expect your forgiveness, and I understand if you want to excuse me from knighthood.” Arthur went to interject but Gwaine’s next words turned Arthur’s tongue to lead.

“And I came to say goodbye.”

Gwaine was leaving? Arthur felt another pang of grief that he didn’t even know he could still feel worm its way into his stomach. But when Gwaine reached out towards Merlin’s bed and laid a hand on Merlin’s pale one, Arthur realized what he had meant.

Gwaine wasn’t the one leaving. Merlin was.

Arthur’s breath got stuck in his throat. His eyes stung. Arthur hadn’t realized that he had shot up until his legs were already moving towards the door. Gwaine didn’t call after him.

Arthur’s breath was coming faster, faster, faster, his vision was blurring, his legs were pumping, the door was slamming, Arthur was running.

It didn’t matter where, it didn’t matter how, Arthur had to get out of that room that smelled like death and looked like Arthur’s nightmares and felt like misery. Arthur was stumbling blindly through the castle corridors, slamming against the walls that he didn’t have enough grace to clear as he sprinted around corners.

Braziers that held the dim lights of the hallways clattered noisily to the ground as Arthur hurled them to the floor. The fire that they held skittered across the stones before dying out in the cold air.

Arthur couldn’t see what doors he slammed through until he was ripping the curtain in front of him to the floor. It was a guest room that was vacant for the season. The curtains had been closed, the linens of the bed had been stripped. The room felt hollow and empty. Someone used to reside here, and now it was empty. Just like that. Gone.

Arthur caught his balance on the table to his right.

Arthur’s grief and panic boiling into rage so tangible, so palpable that Arthur could feel it buzzing in his fingers.

Arthur knew that people loved Merlin. Everyone loved Merlin. Arthur…loved him. If Merlin were gone, nothing would be the same. Arthur wouldn’t be the same. The knights, Camelot, the world wouldn’t be the same.

But seeing the grief so plainly on Gwaine’s face made it real. Everything that Arthur had been feeling had been for himself.

Selfish, greedy Arthur Pendragon.

Merlin didn’t belong to him, Merlin was going to lose his life because Arthur couldn’t do anything. Merlin was going to die.

Arthur loved Merlin and that had doomed him.

It wasn’t fair to Merlin, it wasn’t fair to Gaius, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t—

Arthur picked an empty vase off of the table and hurled it with all of his might against the wall. The shattering of glass made Arthur’s skin tingle.

Arthur didn’t think, then. He just acted.

Arthur picked up a chair and slammed it against the wall, watching the splinters rain down in chunks. Arthur turned into a one-man blur of destruction. He tore the tapestries from the wall, ripping them until only fine threads stood, frayed against the light of the room, looking like veins. He ripped the curtains from the windows and felt the curtain rod give under his strength. The blinding light of the moon flooded the room but it wasn’t enough it wasn’t enough, nothing would ever be enough—

When Arthur came to, the room was destroyed. Arthur’s chest was heaving as he examined the carnage. The table was in half, the chairs were nothing more than slats and wood pulp, the braziers were bent and broken. The dresser was beaten and bent and scratched—its doors hung open like hollow eyes, bent on their hinges like broken bones. The mattress was off of the bed and was spilling its feathered guts all over the floor. Broken glass and torn fabric covered the ground.

And Arthur didn’t feel

one

ounce

better.

Arthur still felt wretched and broken and wrong.

Merlin was right all along: the only thing Arthur could do was wield a sword and his only solution was to destroy.

Arthur couldn’t put any of this back together. He couldn’t go back in time to fix any of this. The room was broken. Arthur was broken. Merlin was broken.

And Arthur couldn’t fix anything.

Arthur fell to his knees and relished the bite of glass against his skin. It hurt, but it was feeling.

Arthur wished he could go back in time and keep Merlin away. Arthur wished that he had been the one to take the knife, feel it punch through bone and sinew and find its place buried in his lung. It would be easier than this. Arthur wished he could go back in time and tell Merlin that he loved him, that he would pick him every time, that he was sorry it took so long. Arthur wished that he could see Merlin’s eyes light up once more and watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he laughed with reckless abandon. Arthur wished Merlin could tell him what to do.

Every part of Arthur’s body ached with the sheer intensity of the desire to hear Merlin’s voice again, feel his skin again, see his eyes again.

But Merlin was slowly dying, very much too far away from Arthur at the moment.

Arthur stood on shaky legs, feeling the glass stuck in his knees rise with him. The glass and wood crunched underneath his boots as he made for the door.

Arthur left, destruction in his wake.

Chapter Text

Leon had to keep his eyes on Arthur.

Elyan had come to him the other night, eyes wide and sad and hopeless as he told him that one of the guest rooms had been beaten to a pulp. Leon, still in his nightclothes and blinking away sleep, had sighed and gotten dressed in a hurry.

Elyan knew a lot of the maids, because Guinevere had known a lot of the maids. So when unruly guests arose, the maids always approached Elyan or Merlin. That night, the maid in charge of that wing of the castle had come to Elyan. Everyone knew where the king was, but no one dared approach him with a trivial matter such as this. Elyan had confided, though, that he feared the king had done this himself.

It was unsurprising.

The knights had been on an extended leave of absence, as they each grappled with what they had seen in their own ways. Percival had gotten quieter than ever, retreating into his own mind and own self, seeming smaller than should have been possible for a man of his stature. Elyan had thrown himself into training, anger and righteousness making his blood boil. Gwaine, oh gods, Gwaine. He had almost dropped off of the face of the earth completely, only seen when Percival retrieved him regularly, piss drunk, from the tavern.

Leon applied himself to his work with more fervor than he felt he could handle.

The king, while here, was absent, and Leon would be damned if he let anything happen to Camelot while he was grieving.

That’s not to say Leon wasn’t grieving—he woke up sometimes with a pain in his chest so intense that it felt like the world was spiraling out of control—but as the knight with the most seniority, he had an obligation to head the training and the council meetings and the regular goings on of the palace.

Leon had always taken care of Arthur, cleaned up his more childish messes and smoothed over his abrasions with a calmly placed word.

On Arthur’s worst nights—when he was just a boy, barely a teenager, and Uther expressed his distaste more…aptly—Leon had held him and comforted him with platitudes while the boy shook so hard Leon was afraid his bones would rattle apart.

After Arthur’s first raid—the one in the woods that slaughtered men, women, and children indiscriminately—Arthur wouldn’t speak to anyone for weeks. He carried a haunted, terrified look in his eyes that Leon tried to warm with comforting words and strong hands on his shoulder.

Arthur had turned to Leon for years for help, counsel, comfort.

Now that he had Merlin, his requests for Leon’s assistance were fewer and farther between, but Leon held no grudge for it. He himself loved Merlin too much for any grudge against the man to last longer than a couple of days. Leon was incredibly grateful that Arthur’s small circle of confidants had widened, even at his own expense.

Arthur was also coming into himself, becoming stronger, more self-reliant, more assured. Leon was proud to see the transition. If he were any more braggadocious, he would like to think that he had something to do with that, perhaps planted the seeds that made Arthur into the man he was today. Like an older brother, perhaps, if he were feeling particularly sentimental and indecorous.

But Leon had always cleaned Arthur’s messes and protected him when he could, and he wouldn’t stop now.

Walking into that room had broken a part of Leon’s heart off, chipped away little by little like a sculptor with a chisel. If this chaos was what Arthur was feeling on the inside, he was more lost than Leon had thought.

As he busied himself with cleaning—aided of course by the maid and Elyan—, Leon couldn’t take his mind off of the man that inspired all of this rage.

Merlin, the unofficial linchpin of the Camelot knights, had been unfailingly loyal and intensely protective of Arthur almost as long as Leon had known him. As far as Leon was concerned, Merlin earned all of the loyalty that the knights had sworn to him. Leon had met some of his closest friends because of Merlin, and he owed him a great debt for being so continuously protective of Arthur, especially when Leon himself couldn’t be there.

Once most of the debris was cleared away, Leon and the maid busied themselves setting right what they could. They worked in efficient silence.

“Most knights wouldn’t help with this, sirs.” The maid piped up, using a broom to hang the untarnished curtain in the room back on its pole. Leon and Elyan shared a look. Leon noted the resilience in his gaze and fortified himself with it.

“We are doing our part for the kingdom, …” Leon raised his eyebrows, questioning, and the woman flushed a deep pink.

“Leia.” She muttered, wiping her dirtied hands on her skirt and looking away. She looked so much like the girl that Morgana had been a decade ago when she had first come to the castle—dirty, sad, determined—that Leon had to look away.

The rest of the work was done in amiable silence as they finally had to remove the parts of furniture that were too broken to fix. Leon hefted what was left of one door of the dresser out into the hallway and wiped his sore hands on his trousers. Elyan, properly winded himself, came to stand beside him.

“Leon, I don’t know how much longer the king can be out of court.” Elyan confided, out of breath, in a low voice. “You know as well as I that the council members expect an audience with the king, soon.”

Leon shook his head, pushing the curls out of his face and inhaling a deep breath. His response was cut off by Leia coming out of the room, a bundle of ruined linens in her hands.

“I’ve got the rest, sirs.” She said, curtsying. “Thank you for the help.”

“No, thank you for keeping this discreet.” Elyan said, nodding at her once, eye contact intense. Leia took the hint. Her eyes sparked with a glint of determination.

“Anything for Merlin.” She said, power in her voice. Then, she was gone.

~~~~~

Arthur loved Merlin. He loved him, he loved him, he loved him, he loved him.

He didn’t know what he was going to do. Arthur held Merlin’s hand in his, pressed against his mouth. Arthur stared at Merlin, trying desperately not to blink. He didn’t want to see Merlin bloodied and broken again. And he didn’t know how much longer he could stand to see Merlin like this, either. His skin was a sickly shade—a ghostly, ghastly pale that made Arthur’s stomach twist unpleasantly. His eye sockets were more prominent than ever, and his cheekbones were sticking out so far Arthur could see the press of Merlin’s teeth against the sallow skin of his cheeks. He looked like a dead man, a skull where Arthur once only saw warmth and light.

Arthur closed his eyes.

Arthur moved his small finger, only slightly, to press into Merlin’s pulse point. It thudded weakly under Arthur’s touch, each small twitch seeming to tell Arthur, I’m here, I’m here, I’m fine, but not for much longer.

This was a nightmare that would never end.

With Uther, death had been quick enough. He had declined, then just like that, he was gone. Every man that Arthur had lost on the battlefield he could list by name, but their deaths had been instantaneous, quick, merciful. Even when people were burned or beheaded in the castle courtyard when Arthur was a boy, their deaths were quick. They felt pain only for a second, before they could feel nothing at all.

Arthur hadn’t prayed since he was a child, but every breath he exhaled was a wish that Merlin wasn’t feeling any pain.

Merlin’s death was far from instantaneous—it had been six days since Merlin had been stabbed.

Gaius called it a miracle that Merlin was still alive. Arthur saw it as nothing short of hell.

Every second that ticked by was agony, every breath Merlin took rattled like a coin in an empty jar, every time Merlin twitched Arthur’s heart jackknifed painfully. Merlin was there, Merlin was there and alive, but he couldn’t be farther away from Arthur’s reach.

And Arthur was entirely powerless.

Arthur didn’t have the power to retrieve Merlin from the depths of his own mind, he didn’t have a flower to retrieve or a monster to fight or a curse to break.

Merlin’s affliction was entirely, completely human.

And Arthur couldn’t control it.

“Tell me what to do,” Arthur whispered against Merlin’s knuckles. His hands were clammy with sweat and so pale that Arthur could see every vein underneath his papery skin. Arthur felt the sting of tears behind his eyes but they refused to fall. Arthur didn’t know if he was too tired to cry, or if all of his tears had been shed.

Arthur didn’t know anything.

“Tell me how to fix this, Merlin,” Arthur whispered again. His voice was ragged and crackly with disuse. He didn’t expect a response, but his heart still ached when only silence greeted him.

The thing Arthur wasn’t expecting now that Merlin was gone was the silence that haunted his every waking moment. Arthur didn’t realize how much he had come to rely on Merlin’s near constant chattering to fill the silence in his life. Arthur had grown up silent, surrounded and suffocated by cold silence so that his only choice was to like it. Arthur seeped in the silence of an absent father for years, until Merlin incessant chatter disrupted it.

Arthur remembered hating it at first. His constant need to narrate what he was doing and tell Arthur everything that was going on in the kingdom that day was exhausting. Arthur didn’t care what the baker and his wife were fighting about today, nor did he care that Tommy in the lower town had a cough and Gaius was annoyed that his mother kept summoning him. Arthur had to supervise every single person in his kingdom, he couldn’t be bothered with the menial everyday problems of the common-folk.

That’s what he had been told, and that’s what he had believed until he brought Tommy a toy solider when he went with Merlin into the lower town as he ran his errands. The little boy’s face split open into such a wide and trusting grin that Arthur’s heart fluttered. He knew immediately that this was what kind of king he wanted to be. Merlin’s smile was no less radiant, and Arthur felt jittery all over, like he was ready to fight a thousand wyverns. Arthur wanted to be a king that the people loved, that knew their names and knew what they were doing. Merlin refused to cease his delighted chatter for the rest of the day, and Arthur couldn’t begrudge him.

As much as Arthur whinged and hemmed, he really didn’t mind. Merlin’s voice was so telling of how he was feeling. If his vowels were lilting, he was happy; if his consonants were harder than usual, he was annoyed; when he was silent, he was sad. Arthur had come to hate the silence. Merlin’s verve and joy for life were so contagious that he couldn’t keep it all in his idiot mouth. So when he was quiet, he was hurting.

Merlin hadn’t made a noise in days, and Arthur felt each encroaching minute of silence like the weight of his armor—oppressive, familiar, suffocating.

Merlin always told Arthur what he should do. He couldn’t keep his opinions to himself if he tried. He was always blathering on and on about one thing or another and his opinions were there more than anything else. He didn’t like how one of the eldest council members kept trying to undermine Arthur’s authority, he didn’t like the new tariff on crops that was proposed today, he didn’t like that coat on Arthur because it made him look like his father, he didn’t like how Arthur wouldn’t talk to him for a month after Gwen left, he didn’t like how Arthur kept his emotions locked up about Morgana where no one could see them, he didn’t like this soup, he loved the sun when it poked through the clouds, he loved the smell of cinnamon whenever they passed the baker’s, he loved the new red cloak that Arthur was gifted from a kingdom Arthur was creating a treaty with, he loved that Arthur was mending the rifts that Uther had taken great cares to make.

Merlin was an enigma wrapped in a mystery. He was blathering on one second and then just like that, he was sober and silent, watching Arthur with those big, blue eyes of his. He went from annoying and youthful from one moment to wise beyond his years and sage in the next. Arthur couldn’t understand him and was genuinely looking forward to the years he would get to attempt to.

But now Merlin could give no advice.

Arthur wouldn’t be given the time to understand.

Arthur wished Merlin was awake right now.

Arthur stomach twisted. He pressed a kiss to the back of Merlin’s sweat-soaked hand in his.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur managed to croak. “I’m going to find a way, Merlin, I promise.”

Arthur knew of only one way to bring someone back from the brink of death. Arthur was terrified, he was completely and utterly undone by fear at just the thought of it. But Merlin deserved to live his life. And Arthur would pay any price to get him that chance.

Gaius was sitting at the desk on the other side of the room. He had been asleep for the past hour.

“Gaius,” Arthur called, and the old man snorted and shot up, almost falling off of his stool.

“Sire!” Gaius straightened himself, shooting Arthur a bleary look.

“Can magic heal Merlin?” Arthur asked. Arthur felt the muscles in his body tense, ready for a blow that would no longer come. The person who delivered them at the mention of magic was gone.

Gaius balked.

“…Sire?”

“I—I want to use magic to save Merlin’s life.” Arthur said. “Please, Gaius. I’ll do anything.”

Gaius didn’t move or speak for a beat. Arthur couldn’t even tell if the man was breathing. He was about to prompt him when Gaius snapped back into motion, like a startled deer. He slid off of his stool, and rounded the table.

“Arthur, what you’re asking isn’t a simple feat.” Gaius said, crossing the room to the huddled king and his servant. Gaius pressed the back of his hand to Merlin’s sweaty forehead, almost to preoccupy himself as he spoke next. They both knew that Merlin wasn’t running a fever. He was freezing. Deathly cold. “Merlin living this long was a miracle. He’s…” Gaius’s voice hitched. “He’s on Death’s threshold.” Painfully, slowly, Gaius met Arthur’s eyes, and he could see the reflection of everything he was feeling in those icy grey eyes. Pain. Guilt. Mourning.

“Please, Gaius.” Arthur’s voice was barely a rasp. “Any price, I’ll pay it.”

Arthur didn’t need to say it aloud for them both to catch his meaning. Gaius turned away sharply, as if looking at Arthur proved to be too difficult a task. He took a deep breath, and Arthur could hear it shudder through his lungs. Arthur had forgotten how old Gaius was, but now he looked every year his age, perhaps even older. The lines in his face were deep—a spiderweb of story. A laughter line here, a dimple mark on the right side of his face from when he pulled a one-sided smile, the lines above his brow prominent there. Gaius wiped a hand over his face, swollen knuckles pressed to his mouth for a second, as if to gather strength, before he spoke.

“Sire, Merlin saved your life for a reason.” Gaius’s piercing gaze was on Arthur again, and Arthur felt like a little boy again, feeling indelibly stupid and naive as if the older man had patched him up from an injury he got while doing something he shouldn’t have. “He believed—believes—“ Gaius corrected himself quickly, eyes shining. “in the future that you will create. He will never forgive you if you give that up—if you throw away the chance he’s given you. And he’ll never forgive me for letting you.” Gaius’s gaze was intense, and Arthur felt that they were talking about more than just Merlin’s loyalty to him, but he couldn’t fathom what.

Arthur looked back at the man on the bed. Merlin’s eyes twitched under his sockets, once, as if in a dream. Shame curled low in his belly, but Arthur didn’t know why. He felt wretched, disgusting, selfish again, but why? Merlin’s life was worth just as much as his, so why did he feel so guilty for wanting a trade?

Merlin will never forgive you, Gaius’s words, spoken mere seconds ago, reverberated in Arthur’s head. It pounded against the sides of his skull, wanting release, wanting a denial. But Arthur knew it was true.

Maybe he just didn’t care if Merlin forgave him. Merlin would be alive, Arthur would be…gone. It wouldn’t matter.

Arthur’s entire life had been lived on two basic rules, and he knew what they were.

“You’re right,” Arthur said, once he realized Gaius was awaiting a response. Arthur brought Merlin’s hand to his lips again and pressed one last kiss there, closing his eyes tightly.

I’m sorry, He thought, pressing the intention of his words so deeply into Merlin’s skin he hoped that it reached him, wherever his mind was. If Gaius was surprised to see this display of affection, he didn’t show it as Arthur stood and turned for the door.

Every step away from Merlin’s prone form physically hurt, but Arthur knew what he had to do. He felt the finality of it settle into his bones and he closed his eyes tightly, bracing himself for what was to come.

“Goodbye, Gaius,” Arthur said, taking one look back at the older man—his guardian, his friend—before closing the door.

If Gaius wouldn’t help Arthur find magic, he was going to have to find it on his own.

~~~~~

Gwaine was waiting by the stables when Arthur had found time to sneak away from his chambers.

“Finally,” he muttered, kicking the worn toes of his boots against the doorpost. He rubbed his hands together, blowing warm air between his cupped palms. His eyes looked hollow in the thin, watery light of the torch above the door.

He gave Arthur a roguish smile as he approached, one Arthur had seen time and time again but now lacked its usual bluster. Arthur ducked behind the stable with him, hand gripping his bicep so tightly Arthur felt a little bad about it.

A little.

“Hey, hey, hey, princess, hands off the wares!” Gwaine griped, shaking his arm out of Arthur’s grip and making a big show of rubbing it out.

“What are you doing here?” Arthur hissed, pushing the hood of his cloak down to see him better. Gwaine nudged a rucksack at his feet.

“Same as you, I reckon.” Gwaine said, nodding at Arthur’s own rucksack slung across his back. Arthur shifted so it was less visible. “Knew you’d be over here eventually.”

If Arthur were any more amiable or any less tense, he would have made a retort, or demanded Gwaine return to the castle. As it stood, he could find the energy to do neither.

Gwaine tilted his chin up, mistaking Arthur’s silence for deliberation, and looked Arthur defiantly in the eye.

“I’m not slowing down for you,” Arthur said, pressing a finger to Gwaine’s sternum. Gwaine barked a laugh that Arthur quieted with a swift jab to the ribs. Gwaine kept laughing, and Arthur felt his lips twitch into a thin smile.

Things felt, for a split second, normal.

Guilt snatched Arthur between its sharp claws immediately, ripping through Arthur’s skin and down to his bones.

Arthur had felt that there was no joy in this world without Merlin, no way that Merlin could be dead and Arthur would be alright again. Arthur didn’t know that he had repeated the words until they felt like a vow—a vow that Arthur had just broken. He had proven just now that Arthur could be okay without Merlin, even for a second, and that felt like such a betrayal that it left Arthur breathless.

He couldn’t find enough air to fill his lungs as he swung open the stable door. His saddle wasn’t where it usually was (Oh, Gwaine muttered, eyeing the place where it used to hang. It was unsalvageable.) so Arthur grabbed another blindly.

Just like that, they were out into the night.

The wind felt incredible against Arthur’s skin, and he hadn’t noticed how stifled and hot he had felt before. As the houses thinned into plains, weight dropped off of Arthur’s shoulders. His chest heaved once, twice, thrice, over and over again until the sickening air of Camelot was out of his lungs.

Arthur could pretend, here, in the dark, that everything was fine. He could pretend that the familiar presence riding a horse behind him was someone else entirely and he was going into the woods for a reason not associated at all with what he was doing now.

But everything was definitely not fine, and Arthur had a job to do.

~~~~~

They found the shack exactly where Arthur and Merlin had left it, all those months ago, when Arthur was a boy, a child, who didn’t know what the weight of the crown felt like on his head.

Gwaine sidled up to Arthur as Arthur he stared at the house on his horse, not daring to dismount.

“I’ve been trusting that you know where we’re going, but…” Gwaine looked back and forth between Arthur and the house. “This place looks abandoned.”

Arthur dismounted, unable to look away from the front door for even a second.

“Gaius told Merlin that the most powerful healing sorcerer he had ever met lives here.” Arthur said, and realized suddenly that this was a terrible idea. “We” Arthur’s voice cracked but he pressed on, “visited him once.”

Gwaine tilted his head to the side, but dismounted as well, leading Arthur’s horse away as well as his own.

He returned a second later, but Arthur barely registered it over the roaring of blood in his ears.

“Will he help us?” Gwaine asked, pressing forward towards the door. Arthur wanted to reach forward and pull him back, but he knew that this is his only chance of saving Merlin.

“I don’t know,” Arthur answered honestly, following in Gwaine’s footsteps. The night was brisk and cool, the forest so dark and still behind the house that it felt like a separate entity looming over them. “The last time we parted it wasn’t on good terms.”

“Wait a minute,” Gwaine spun on his heel and was suddenly right in Arthur’s face. “Is this the bastard that ‘healed’ your father?”

Arthur should’ve expected this, but Gwaine’s words still felt like manticore acid splashed on his skin. When he didn’t do anything to deny it, Gwaine threw his hands up in the air.

“What were you thinking?” Gwaine spat, spinning on his heel again to pace in the other direction. He tore his hands through his hair, kicking at the dirt. “Merlin’s life is not something to be fucking gambled, Arthur.”

Arthur felt his hackles rise.

“Of course it’s not!” He shouted, stepping after him with purpose. “This is the only choice we have, Gwaine. There is not a single sorcerer in the world that would help me. This man is the only man who at least tried to help me. Gaius told me that my father had been cursed by Morgana and I don’t have a choice right now but to trust him. Don’t you dare think for a second that I value Merlin’s life any less than you do!”

Gwaine still had his back to Arthur and slapped Arthur’s hand away when Arthur tried to spin him around. Arthur heard him sniff, hard, and stopped. Arthur softened.

“Gwaine, we don’t have many options.” Arthur prodded. He steeled himself for what he was about to say. “I-I’m afraid because I don’t know if he will help us.”

Emotion on anyone, especially a king, was weak. Arthur made a point to never reveal his emotions to his knights, knowing that faltering could cause his men their lives. But this wasn’t a battle that Arthur could fight alone. This wasn’t a battle Arthur could win. Arthur needed as many allies—no, he corrected himself—friends as he could get. And Gwaine wouldn’t react to Arthur’s brave face. He had the uncanny ability to see through people, know what they really meant and how they really felt. Arthur supposed, if pressed, that’s why he and Merlin got along so well. Merlin could do the same thing.

Gwaine turned then, meeting Arthur’s blue eyes with his watering brown ones. Arthur felt relief and certainty settle into his bones. They were in this together.

“But I’m not leaving here until he does.” Arthur swore, searching Gwaine’s eyes for understanding.

Gwaine nodded, once. He swiped a hand down his face, and when he looked back up, cold resolution stayed in his eyes. He grinned. One could almost believe he meant it.

“Right, princess.” He muttered, turning back to the house. “Let’s get this over with.”

Chapter Text

Arthur closed his eyes tightly, expectation curling in the back of his throat.

The door to the cottage remained obstinately closed.

Arthur avoided Gwaine’s questioning look, instead staring straight ahead. Arthur knocked again.

Whump, whump, whump. The door rattled in its ramshackle frame.

“…Sorcerer?” Arthur called, realizing that he’d forgotten the warlock’s name.

“Nice one.” Gwaine commented snidely. Arthur elbowed him sharply in the side, taking only small satisfaction in his pained gasp. Arthur wracked his brain, but came up empty. The sorcerer had only mentioned his name once, and promptly knocked Arthur out. 

“It sounds like Dragon, I think.” Arthur hissed. “Dragon?” He called, unsurprised when no answer came.

“A sorcerer named ‘Dragon’?” Gwaine asked, disbelievingly. Arthur shrugged. An owl hooted somewhere far above them.

Arthur knocked again, impatiently. 

The door made a loud crack! and swung open with a long, drawn-out creak. Arthur winced, bracing himself for an angry warlock or a magical attack that…did not come. Arthur looked over to Gwaine, who had his hand on his sword, peering into the darkness beyond.

Gwaine and he made brief eye contact and Arthur nodded once. Gwaine took this as the sign that it was and drew his sword. They advanced into the cottage.

Dust and cobwebs seemed to cover every flat surface. The small table that Arthur had bumped into all those years ago was lined with a thick, dark layer of dust, like it had not been touched or sat at in ages. The bedroll in the corner of the room was rumpled and dirty. The rows of once tied-up drying plants now lay as skeleton-like husks—scraggly corpses lining the walls. Cobwebs were layered so thickly on the sparse, dirty windows that Arthur couldn’t see their horses tied up outside.

The watery light of the moon barely reached inside of the dark room, and Arthur found himself squinting into the dark. Water hit stone somewhere, and the steady drip, drip, drip calmed Arthur somewhat. 

Gwaine carefully crossed the room to the dark fire pit in the other section of the cottage, his footsteps crunching on fallen pottery. The noise was deafening in the quiet cottage, and Arthur’s eyes snapped down to look at it.

It was too dark to see, but Arthur could make out curved clay partially kicked under the table.

An unsettling feeling washed over Arthur, stopping his breath in his throat as he realized what it was. The same pot that Arthur had broken when he had first come here laid in ruins on the floor, cracked and grimy.

The sorcerer had not cleaned up the broken clay. 

“The fire’s cold. He’s not been here for a while.” Gwaine said, breaking the stillness of the room. If the steadiness of a solider had not been beaten into Arthur as soon as he could walk, Gwaine’s voice would have sent Arthur through the roof.

Arthur nodded in response, bending down to pick up a shard with shaky fingers. Why would he not pick this up? Arthur remembered him clearly, eyes wild as he berated Arthur for breaking it. Could he not fix it with magic? Could he not clean the ramshackle cottage with magic? 

When Uther had died, Arthur had not bothered to send knights to the cottage. The sorcerer had claimed to know Arthur’s next moves, and he would have to be truly foolish to return to his home. The sorcerer, as little as Arthur had known him, proved to be two steps ahead of him at every turn. Arthur had known the cottage would be empty, and by the time he had been able to process that his father was truly gone, he didn’t see the point in sending his knights away when they were needed in Camelot. After Gaius had proclaimed the sorcerer’s innocence and Morgana’s intervention, Arthur let the matter unofficially settle.

But had the sorcerer truly not returned since? Had Arthur banished an innocent old man from his home?

“This doesn’t make sense.” Gwaine said, slamming Arthur out of his head and into the present. He was now bent over an oven, one hand in the ashes.

Arthur straightened. Gwaine turned, holding out his hand and crossing the small cottage in two strides.

“Why does a warlock need to make charcoal?” Gwaine asked, holding his hand up to catch the meager light. Old, brittle charcoal sifted through his gloved fingers and fell to the floor in a shower of ash. Gwaine nodded behind him.

“He’s got barrels of the stuff. And a charcoal furnace.”

Arthur’s mind was spinning.

Nothing was adding up.

He examined the room one more time.

“I…don’t think he’s been here for years, Gwaine.” His voice was smaller than he wanted it to be as his eyes traced the cobwebs on the windows. “I—I don’t even think this is his house.”

“Fuck,” Gwaine whispered, spinning on his heel and slamming his fist against the wooden post of the back door.

Arthur wanted to bury his head in his hands and die here—just fall to his knees in the dust and shake until his bones rotted and his lungs clogged up with cobwebs.

The back door of the cottage slammed closed as Gwaine made an inhuman noise in the back of his throat, stomping into the night.

He…failed.

He failed.

Arthur fell to his knees, palms slapping against the stone flooring and dust flying like a ripple away from him. Arthur couldn’t get enough air in his lungs, and heaved desperately.

Magic would never fail to doom Arthur.

Over and over again it took and took and took.

It took his mother, it took Morgana, it took his father, it took Merlin, and it took Merlin’s only chance to live.

Or…

Maybe Arthur had done that.

Arthur had chased away the one sorcerer in the entire world that could possibly help him.

Arthur killed his mother, failed to support Morgana, sped up his father’s death and forced him to die in agony, let Merlin take the knife, and now had successfully destroyed any chance that Merlin would get to live.

Arthur had done it all.

He would never fail to doom himself.

Any good he was given he would dash upon the stone like a child playing with dolls. He was never able to keep anything because he didn’t deserve it.

Merlin was dying because Arthur was killing him.

Arthur’s hands balled into fists, and Arthur slammed his hand into the stone of the floor. Once. Twice.

He bit back the scream building its way up his throat. 

Stop.

Stop!

“Arthur.”

Gwaine’s voice broke the tension in Arthur’s body like a twig. Arthur, exhausted, raised his eyes to meet Gwaine’s, but the look on his face stopped him cold. Gwaine was sticking his head through the back door of the cottage, one hand waving Arthur closer.

Arthur stumbled to his feet, meeting Gwaine at the door. 

The cold air felt like sweet relief as Arthur’s lungs burned.

Gwaine held his hand out to stop Arthur before he passed him and held a finger to his lips. The strain on his face was gone, replaced by apprehension and interest.

Arthur listened. 

“I…don’t hear anything.” Arthur said, straining his ears.

“I know. There’s not even a breeze.” Gwaine responded, nodding towards brush of the forest ahead. “Then why is the forest moving?”

The brush was indeed moving, swaying and rustling as if by a strong wind. The movement seemed to limp slowly up the gargantuan trees until the leaves whispered high above. The branches high above groaned with their movement, dark shapes skittering against the canopy of the sky. Arthur felt his stomach twist painfully, trepidation igniting adrenaline until Arthur felt jittery down to his toes. Arthur adjusted his sword in his sweaty palm.

Magic.

Arthur cast a look back at the abandoned cottage. Dragoon was gone, but sorcery this close to his home? It couldn’t be a coincidence. Arthur needed a healer—would get on his knees and beg if he had to.

He and Gwaine shared a look, then plunged into the darkness ahead.

~~~~~

The woods were silent—eerily, entirely silent in a way that Arthur had never experienced.

Ever since he was a boy, he had been hunting and moving through the forests all around Camelot. He had travelled through these very woods more times than he could count. The brush was always rustling with quarry and high above, birds would call and flap about.

But now, the only sounds were Arthur’s and Gwaine’s footsteps on the forest floor. Even the groaning and creaking of trees had silenced as soon as they had stepped into the tree line. 

A large crack had Arthur spinning around, heart thundering and sword raised, but was only greeted by the sight of Gwaine holding up his hands abashedly. He had stepped on a fallen branch as big around as Arthur’s forearm, cleaving it in two.

“Sorry, mate,” Gwaine whispered, shrugging as he plodded forward. Arthur made sure to thwack him hard across the back of the head as he passed.

Time plodded on. 

Arthur was not sure what they were looking for, but something propelled him further. After another half-hour, Gwaine froze behind him.

“What?” Arthur asked, unnerved by the look on his face.

Gwaine cursed. He was paler than Arthur had ever seen him.

“What?” Arthur asked again, moving back to see what was wrong.

“We…we were here.” Gwaine’s voice was raspy.

“Who?”

But Gwaine was already gone, taking off at full speed. Arthur cursed and chased after him. The night air was brisk, but Arthur felt hot and uncomfortable like it were dozens of degrees warmer. Gwaine stopped suddenly, and Arthur slammed into his back.

Arthur turned to curse him, but Gwaine was already off again, this time in a different direction.

The next time he stopped, Arthur grabbed him by the collar.

“What are you playing at—“

Gwaine’s eyes were wild as he stared down Arthur in the dark.

“In the woods,” he panted, “when we heard you screaming. We were here.”

Arthur’s blood ran cold.

“We kept moving, it must be nearby.” He turned and continued on, and this time, Arthur’s heart hammered for an entirely different reason. They moved in silence, covering distance, then doubling back and sending off again.

Arthur blinked.

It was lighter than it used to be. Thinking it could be just a trick of his mind, Arthur slowed and rubbed a hand across his eyes. But no, the forest was illuminated by a faint glow. Gwaine slowed, too. Arthur turned his head this way and that, trying to find the source of the light.

They moved towards it. Light brightened the forest bit by bit until Arthur could see, through the trees, a pale orb--no bigger than a bucket--suspended high above the ground. Arthur knew this light. He’d seen one before, a long time ago. It had saved his life. Arthur’s heart hammered in his ears.

A friendly mage! Could it be the sorcerer?

Arthur pressed forward, excited by the possibility of aid. Ten meters from the clearing, Gwaine grabbed Arthur’s arm in an iron hold.

“Arthur, wait.” 

Arthur spun on him.

“What? It’s magic. We can get help!”

Gwaine shushed him, and Arthur was struck by the strangeness of the situation. Usually Gwaine was running in unprepared, and Arthur had to be the voice of reason. Gwaine quirked a brow at him, as if he understood.

“We can’t assume that all sorcerers are good, mate.” Gwaine said, “Especially there.” He nodded his head at the clearing.

Arthur looked again, and felt every nerve stand on end.

The light Arthur had seen before had none of the warmth that the one in his memory did. It was a cold light, dim and grey and foreboding. A single figure stood in the clearing, bent over a bush. They were picking flowers and placing them in a basket at their feet. But Arthur knew this clearing. It was the clearing where Merlin had fallen. Arthur’s breath caught in his throat.

“Why is she back?” Gwaine wondered, and Arthur looked at him in confusion. “The sorceress. That’s her.” 

“How do you know?” Arthur asked.

“I know my women, mate.” Gwaine said, trying to lighten the mood, but the jibe fell flat in the silence.

Arthur looked closer, and indeed, this was the woman that dragged Merlin off through the forest. She was the reason for all of this. She was the reason that Merlin was lying on a cot back in Camelot, corpse-like and in pain. She was the reason that Arthur couldn’t breathe, the reason that everyone was mourning, the reason for everything. Arthur reached for his sword, but he couldn’t feel his fingers. So much rage boiled inside of him that he feared he would explode.

“Arthur, we can work with this,” Gwaine said. Arthur’s mind spun, and he tried to focus on what was needed. Merlin didn’t need his anger, Merlin needed his help.

“We can…” Arthur fumbled for a second before finding his footing. “We can trade amnesty for information.”

Gwaine nodded encouragingly, but looked confused.

“We won’t arrest them for trying to assassinate the king if they tell us how to save Merlin’s life.” Arthur was building up steam now, building resolve. Gwaine nodded again, slapping Arthur on the bicep.

“There you go, blondie. Knew you had it in ya.” 

Arthur was up and moving, and heard Gwaine sputter and try to follow. When Arthur entered the clearing, the woman didn’t stop her movements. The sorceress was petite and barely reached Arthur’s shoulder. Her hair reached her waist in neat plaits, as pale and slick as animal fat. The bush she was plucking from was large, as long as a man and half as tall as one. It was bursting with bright purple blooms. Arthur had never seen anything close to them before. Even the leaves of the bush didn’t look like the surrounding foliage.

“Witch.” Arthur called, drawing his sword from his scabbard. He heard Gwaine tromp into the clearing behind him. The sorceress leisurely turned, eyeing them with a lazy smile on her face. She didn’t look alarmed or threatened, which made Arthur’s hair stand on end. He didn’t like being faced with opponents who didn’t recognize him as one in turn.

“Oh, good evening, boys.” She said, and her voice was a purr. The sound grated against Arthur’s eardrums, and he clenched his teeth. “I heard what happened.”

“I’m so sorry to hear about your manservant.” She said, eyebrow raising. Arthur wanted to wrap his hands around her tiny neck. He thought about doing it for a second. It would be so easy.

But Gwaine shifted at Arthur’s shoulder, and he snapped back to the present.

“I hear it’s so hard to replace help these days.” She continued, and feigned a sympathetic frown. The orb above their heads continued to emit the cold, grey light, and the shadows it casted across her face made her look inhuman. “After all, he was so irreplaceable.”

Arthur stiffened. There was no way that this witch knew anything about Merlin, but her casual smirk, as if she knew something, set all of Arthur’s nerves on end.

“We need your help.” He ground out. Each word felt like hell. Arthur tried to remember Merlin’s face back in Camelot—sallow, deathly, terrifying—and the image came all too quickly to sober him.

The witch looked all too delighted.

“Oh, boys, not with that attitude,” She purred.  She cast a look between them, and her smile widened. “Kneel.” 

Gwaine reacted immediately, hoisting his sword higher.

“Not on your fucking life,” he growled, moving as if to step forward. Arthur stopped him with an iron grip on his forearm and sheathed his own sword.

Arthur looked at her.

Arthur kneeled.

The mud squelched around Arthur’s knee as he lowered himself. They formed a gross mimicry of a knighting—supplicant, ruler, witness. The witch crowed hideously, cackling like a frog was trying to crawl out of her throat. Gwaine’s hands pulled at Arthur, trying to move him, but Arthur’s will was stone. 

“I need to know how to save Merlin’s life.” Arthur said. The act of Gwaine kneeling next to him was heard and not seen, for Arthur stared up at her with as much dignity as he could muster. He might have been a supplicant, but he would be damned if she thought him any less than the King.

Her face froze mid-laugh. Confusion clouded her features, but she managed one more haughty chuckle before she let her amusement drop.

“Your Emrys is dead. We made sure of that, Pendragon.”

“Emrys?” Gwaine asked. She rolled her eyes, flapping her hand dismissively.

“Yes, yes. I think you all call him Merlin.”

Gwaine and Arthur shared a look. Alright, that’s not a good sign. The look they shared debated whether she was mentally sound enough to continue speaking. A conclusion was reached. Arthur plowed on.

“Merlin is alive,” Arthur said, and tried not to think about the ‘barely’ that was implied by his tone. “If you tell us how to save his life, your clan of sorcerers will not be harmed.”

The witch looked startled, shaken. Her wide eyes flicked from Gwaine to Arthur and back. Arthur was used to people being shaken by his threats, but this seemed different.

“He’s…He’s alive?” She said, but her words got stuck in her throat. When neither man replied, she looked down at her basket, full of purple buds. “No, no. That’s not possible. The blade was enchanted with a curse of the Old Religion. No mortal—“

She stopped. She didn’t move. Arthur didn’t know if she was breathing.

“How can the curse be broken?” Arthur asked in an attempt to snap her back into focus. Her head tilted towards him, but her eyes never left the flowers.

“It…It can’t.” She said, and she sounded on the brink of tears. “The curse was designed to kill any living thing.  Emrys…had betrayed us for the crown. There was no other choice. He was supposed to help us, shelter us! A weapon that powerful should not have been commanded by the enemy. There was no other choice!” 

She sounded mad, and Arthur wanted to scream. The old sorcerer had been half-mad himself, but this sorceress was spouting pure nonsense.

“So the curse can’t be broken?” Gwaine tried again.

“His mortal body should have perished. The magic—“ She jerked down and scooped the basket up in her arms, almost emptying it in her rapidity. “The magic won’t let him die.” 

Arthur and Gwaine rose, swords unsheathing. She looked half wild, animalistic as she looked at her flowers. Her hair had come out of her careful plaits, and an unseen energy crackled in the air. The orb above them got brighter.

“The flowers—I thought…I don’t understand.” She wailed. “Emrys is a traitor! The magic should have killed him for his betrayal!”

Arthur was about to lose it. Gwaine was apparently two steps ahead of him.

“Stop!” He yelled, but it seemed to have no effect on her, and she continued to prattle anxiously.

Then, just as quickly as she started, she stilled.

“The magic.” She whispered. “I am such a fool.”

The sorceress fell to her knees, and began to carefully collect each flower that she had dropped one by one. Her hands were as gentle and slow as if she were picking up glass.

“King Arthur,” she said quietly, not straying from her task. Arthur almost didn’t hear it.

“Yes?”

“You are the Once and Future King. You and Your Merlin are two sides of the same coin.” The smile on her face was troubled. “I tried to cleave that coin, but magic has ruled in favor of destiny. He shall live.” 

The breath caught in Arthur’s throat. He didn’t know what she was talking about, but the words bounced around in Arthur’s mind until they stuck. He’d heard them somewhere before. They’d been whispered to him, given to him, sometime before. They were the truth. But in the moment it was all lost to the three words that made Arthur begin to shake.

He shall live.

Arthur’s knees felt weak, and the relief that overwhelmed him was too strong to be called relief. Arthur had known relief—when he crossed the threshold of Camelot after a battle, when a treaty was signed, when his knights turned to him and an unspoken gift of trust was passed into his arms.

This wasn’t relief.

It was encompassing. Overwhelming. 

“H-How do I help him?” He croaked, and Gwaine moved a little closer to him, shoulder to shoulder. Arthur hadn’t realized he’d been swaying.

“You are the only one who can,” She said, and held up a single purple bloom. “King’s Mantle.” It seemed almost grey in the light. “It is the flower that bloomed from Emrys’s sacrifice—his lifeblood.” She gestured at the shrubbery around her. 

Quick, sharp images of Merlin—bleeding, delirious, in pain—blinded Arthur’s mind. He didn’t want to think about how he had held Merlin in this clearing, how Merlin had bled out in this clearing. Arthur felt the familiar burn of hostility rise in his chest as he stared at the woman who had caused so much grief. She sat almost exactly where Merlin had lain, and the low, thick, green foliage was bursting—unnaturally so—with purple blooms.

“Take it.” She said, and gestured for Arthur to grab the Mantle from her hand. Arthur did. He made sure that he didn’t step near the bush. The flower was cool to the touch, and Arthur, startled, almost dropped it.

“Make a paste with it over his wound,” she said, “and tell him to wake up.” 

Arthur blinked.

“What?”

“Tell him to wake up.” She said again.

Arthur felt the edges of despair creep in.

“That won’t work.” His voice was a rasp. He didn’t say, I’ve done that. He didn’t say I’ve sat by his bed every day and begged him to live. But Arthur thought she heard him anyway when she nodded, and plucked a flower out of her basket. She held it up to the light.

“You are returning his offering.”

Arthur looked behind him at Gwaine. Gwaine looked like he believed it, and he nodded reassuringly at Arthur. That would have to do. 

“We will keep our word, sorceress. You and your people are safe.” Arthur turned, legs quaking, but something was tugging at his mind. He paused.

“There were three of us in the clearing. How did you know that you would hit Merlin?”

She looked at him, and the grey light of the clearing made her eyes glow a sickly amber.

“Simple. We aimed for you.”

~~~~~

The ride back to Camelot was no less frantic the second time.

Arthur was cradling the flower in his hand like a baby bird, like glass, like a child. He and Gwaine didn’t slow for more than the second it had taken to cross streams and leap fences. Arthur purposefully did not think of anything at all.

Their horses were steaming with sweat in the cold air as Gwaine and Arthur slid from them at the castle gates. It was early morning. The sky was lightening with the promise of dawn, but neither of them noticed as they pelted up the stairs.

They took them three at a time, four at a time. The stone edge of one clipped Arthur in the shin as he tried to take five at a time, but he hit the stairs—turning his body so his side hit instead of his hands—and Gwaine’s hands were scrabbling at him to get him up again.

When they finally burst into Gaius’s chambers, Arthur’s throat was so dry he felt like the heart that was beating there would choke him. Gaius jerked awake from his bed, eyes wide. Arthur could not yet speak, but held the flower out, panting around a smile so wide he thought his face would break.

“Paste. Wound. Words.” Gwaine gasped, and collapsed to the floor, heaving. Gaius did not let hope cloud his efficiency as he took the flower from Arthur and set to work. He was a blur of movement as he bustled from table to table, gathering ingredients and the proper tools.

By the time Gaius was finished, a palette of paste in his hand, Arthur felt like he could breathe again.

And only then did he allow himself to look at Merlin.

Merlin.

If he could be any more emaciated, he would have had no flesh left at all. His once hollowed eyes were so purpled and bruised that they looked like empty eye sockets. There should have been nothing keeping him alive. But yet, hollow breaths rattled so quietly that Arthur couldn't hear them at all. His skin was no longer pale but a sickly yellow that turned to grey on the shell that was his body. Arthur felt a sob bubbling up in his throat but he bit down on it just in time.

Whatever force that had animated Arthur for the past night vanished immediately, and he collapsed onto the stool by Merlin’s bedside, lifeless. Gwaine moved to stand beside Arthur as Gaius unwound Merlin’s bandages to apply the paste. Arthur looked away.

“Sire.” Gaius said in acknowledgement, and backed away once he had finished. Arthur grabbed Merlin’s pallid hand in his own. He looked up at Gwaine.

“I want Leon to be regent.” He said, and was surprised by how strong his voice was. Gwaine started.

“What?” 

“If this kills me, I want Leon to be regent. His bloodline can assume the throne.” Arthur repeated. Gwaine shook his head.

“No, absolutely not, Arthur. The sorceress didn’t say this would kill you.” 

“Sire—“ Gaius interjected, alarmed. Arthur silenced them.

“It’s always been a life for a life. A trade.” He said. “Always.”

He looked up into the grey eyes of the man who had raised him, then to the startled eyes of the man who had become a brother. Then he looked at Merlin, who couldn't open his.

“I’ve made my decision.” Arthur stated again. 

He shifted his hand so that he could intertwine his fingers with Merlin’s limp ones. He brushed Merlin’s bangs back from his forehead, and pressed his own forehead to Merlin’s ashen one.

“Merlin.” He said. “Wake up.”

For a beat, nothing happened.

Merlin’s chest continued to rise and fall, barely. But nothing happened. Arthur waited.

Arthur waited.

Arthur waited.

Merlin did not stir.

Arthur let a sob beat its way from his throat. He closed his eyes tightly, hoping that he could prevent his tears from falling on the side of Merlin’s face. He could hear Gaius slump against the table, defeated. 

Gwaine said something, hushed.

Arthur turned his head to him, but couldn’t open his eyes yet. He couldn’t look at Merlin yet, knowing that he failed. That the witch had betrayed them after all. That Arthur had killed someone he loved, once more.

Gwaine said it again, but it was barely louder than the first time. Arthur blinked his eyes open, but his vision was so blurry that it took a second for Gwaine to swim into focus.

Gwaine’s mouth was closed. But he said something again. 

Arthur’s eyes snapped to Merlin. 

Merlin had barely stirred at all, but his lips were parted. 

He…he had spoken.

Arthur was so startled by the ferocity of his joy that the stool had almost toppled with him on it.

“Yes!” He cried, “that’s it, Merlin! You daft idiot! Wake up!”

Merlin’s brow furrowed.

Arthur laughed disbelievingly, and looked up at Gaius. Gaius didn’t seem as happy as he should have been.

“Gaius!” Arthur prompted, tightening his grip on Merlin’s hand. Gaius didn’t look back at him.

“Merlin, can you hear me?” Gaius asked, placing a hand on Merlin’s arm. Merlin muttered something, but it was still unintelligible. His head jerked to the side, like a muscle twitch. His mouth opened, but formed words that had no sound. His brow furrowed further, and his head snapped to the other side.

Arthur’s joy was fading.

“Merlin?” 

Merlin made a low, pained groan, and his limbs began to move, as if caught in a nightmare.

“Merlin?” Gwaine placed a hand on Merlin’s uninjured shoulder, but Merlin soon jerked out of that hold. His groan was getting louder, and Arthur realized that it was not a groan at all, but words.

Arthur didn’t recognize any of them.

It was not any language Arthur had heard before.

“Gaius?” Arthur asked, panicked, as Merlin thrashed himself out of Arthur’s hold, head jerking back and forth as if being struck.

Gaius looked as frightened as Arthur felt as he tried to hold Merlin still.

“Merlin, you’re okay.” Gaius said, trying to be louder than Merlin’s words. “You’re safe.”

But Merlin seemed to hear none of it as he continued to flail.

Arthur tried to focus on Merlin’s words, but they seemed a nonsensical stream of sounds. Merlin’s cry rose to a shout. Arthur tried to prevent his head from hitting the cot frame, but Merlin was moving so quickly that Arthur couldn't prevent a couple of hits landing.

In a long stream of words, Arthur heard one that stopped his blood cold in his veins.

“--Emrys--”

Emrys. The sorceress had called Merlin Emrys.

Gwaine and he shared a wild look before Merlin fell completely still.

It happened so suddenly that Arthur was terrified for a split second that Merlin was dead.

Merlin’s eyes shot open, and chaos exploded around them.

Every single item that had been scattered on the tables around the room was thrown off, as if in a tempest. Glass bottles shattered as they hit the wall, beakers full of liquid cracked and spilled over the stones, and paper was thrown wildly. The bookcase was thrown over the banister, and books were ripped of their pages as they fell. Gaius, Gwaine, and Arthur were frozen in shocked, horrified silence as book pages rained down on them.

Merlin sat up.

His eyes were golden.

Chapter Text

Merlin opened his eyes.

He was sitting in the forest.

He was not sure how he got here.

The sun was filtering through the canopy high above, creating warm sun spots on the green grass. A stream bubbled happily nearby, and an ancient stone bridge—so covered in moss and worn smooth by rain that it shouldn’t have been able to stand—was arched across it.

Merlin tried to focus, tried to think of how he had gotten here, but each time he grabbed a thought, it drifted through his grasp. It should have been frustrating, but Merlin felt a sense of peace that he hadn’t felt in…years.

Merlin smiled.

A bird, tweeting merrily, swooped low nearby before landing in a nearby tree, chased by another.

Merlin assessed his surroundings and found that he had not been here before. There was not much of Camelot’s surrounding forests that he didn’t know, so he must be far from home. That thought made him pause, but just as quickly, was filtered away.

A breeze gently ruffled Merlin’s hair.

A feeling—the strong intuition that he had cultivated over years of life-or-death situations—encouraged him to stand, so he did.

He walked over to the bridge, and found that he should probably cross it.

He didn’t know what lay beyond, but he realized that he wanted to find out.

Merlin moved forward, stepping up onto the first step, when a rustling across the way caught his attention. He looked up.

A figure was emerging from the woods, but Merlin was not afraid. The person seemed familiar, although Merlin had not recognized them yet. It was as if something innate inside of this person was talking to him.

“Hello?” Merlin called. The person looked up, and a sad smile made the thin wrinkles on his face more prominent.

“Father?”

Balinor nodded in acknowledgment, and his smile brightened slightly. 

“Hello, son,” Balinor said. Realization dawned then, as sure and quiet as a breeze. 

“I’m dead.” It wasn’t a question, and Balinor didn’t respond. Merlin knew that he should probably be alarmed by this situation, but really couldn’t find it in himself. It was as if the usual pathway to panic was overgrown, so Merlin couldn’t see the familiar steps. In the absence of panic—an everyday adrenaline that had become his constant companion for the better half of a decade—Merlin didn’t know what to feel. Despair? Relief? Anger? All three?

This forest was strange. All of Merlin’s usual feelings—strong, ample, and primed to explode—were absent, and Merlin could feel only calm. Understanding. Yes. He was dead. That made sense. 

A noise stopped. Merlin didn’t know how else to describe it. A low, consistent rumble that Merlin had seemingly taken as a part of the forest was gone. Almost as if all of the insects on a summer night had simply shut off. The silence was…frightening. 

“What’s…gone?” Merlin asked, eyes scanning the dense woods about him.

Balinor paused. He didn’t look angry at the question. Or frightened. Almost…wary? But that couldn’t be right.

“Father?” Merlin pressed.

“Arthur’s voice has failed him, I believe.” Balinor muttered. “He has been screaming.”

All of Merlin’s calm was sucked into a vortex. His next breath caught in his throat. Arthur. His panic ignited and his hands started to tremble, magic sparking in his palms and heart thundering in his chest.

The magic of the forest was broken, Merlin knew, because only then could he feel the despair at his own loss, anger and bereavement of all the life he could not live. But mostly, urgently, the fear of the moment—Merlin’s old friend.

“Screaming?” Merlin said, but he could not hear the words leave his own lips. 

“Merlin,” Balinor stepped forward, hands out placatingly. “He is safe, do not worry. All of your friends are out of danger. There is nothing you can do to help them. It is out of...concern for you, but you are here.”

Merlin’s hands still felt molten, but he nodded slowly, trying to get his feelings under control. 

“Deep breaths, with me, my boy.” Balinor instructed. Merlin tried to acquiesce. “There, that’s it, now.” The gentle smile on his face gave Merlin an actual bit of warm pause. His father had just called him “my boy.” His friends were safe. Merlin was not in pain right now, which was a step up from his usual constant peril.

“I am…I am sorry.” Merlin felt his heart slowing now, and found that the rumble of the forest had picked up again. This still was concerning, but Arthur was safe. 

To his surprise, Balinor chuckled warmly. “My boy, you have every right to become angry. I did upon coming here, and I lived to a ripe old age.”

Merlin frowned.

“Father, I am so sorry for how you died. It was my fault, and I shouldn’t have—“

Balinor stepped onto the bridge now, holding out another halting hand to him. Merlin, obediently—almost elated at having a father to be obedient to — fell silent.

“Merlin. My son.” Balinor’s eyes were endlessly kind. “Any fault at our last meeting was immovably mine. I wish so much that I had been there to see you grow. To see you become the wonderful man you are today. To be there for you in Camelot, even now.” Balinor placed a work-rough hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “ I am sorry, my boy.” 

Merlin tried to blink the tears from his eyes, but felt slightly better at the fact that Balinor was also trying to blink his own tears back.

“At last I know where I got it from,” Merlin muttered, swiping a hand over his eyes. “Mum cries, but she says that I got my general weepiness from my father.” 

Balinor laughed, a deep, resounding thing, and Merlin wished that he had gotten the chance to feel it against his back as a child, feel it reverberate in his own chest as Balinor taught him to rake or run or shoot an arrow. But he had it now, and this time, there were no mortal or immortal conditions to stopper their joy. The moment passed fondly, and Merlin’s next comment didn’t feel like a breach of their warm moment, but rather an extension of it.

“Will I be going with you?” He asked, looking past Balinor into the sun-dappled forest behind him. Balinor shook his head.

“I have come to keep you company as you wait.” 

At Merlin’s raised brow, Balinor continued.

“Your destiny is bigger than you think. You are magic incarnate. Life is not quite finished with you yet.”

Merlin felt his brow furrow.

“I’ll be going back?”

“Yes. And you’ll find that you left quite a mess behind.” Balinor’s eyes softened. “You are very loved.”

Merlin scoffed. “Alright.”

Balinor shook his head, clearly exasperated. “Youth is wasted on the young.” 

“Mum says that all the time.” Merlin accused, his heart warming pleasantly. He had missed so much time with his father that these borrowed few seconds threatened to undo him.

“Well, she’s right! Did she ever tell you about that one time with the goat and Mr. Baker’s son?”

“No, she didn’t!”

Balinor spun tale after tale, slanting light unto Hunith’s past that Merlin had never seen before. Every child wanted to know that their parents had been happy and in love, and Merlin drank down story after story. After he had finished, Balinor pressed Merlin for some of his tales, and Merlin acquiesced. However, the longer Merlin talked, his lungs felt heavier and heavier. On his next inhale, his breath caught in his throat.

“I’m...I’m not sure what’s happening.” Merlin said, pressing a hand to his shoulder, where pain began to spread. It wasn’t a sharp pain, more a dull throbbing ache that thrummed under his skin.

Balinor smiled sadly, patting a hand on his shoulder.

“It shouldn’t last too much longer.”

Merlin tried to smile, but it ended in a grimace as another ache of pain travelled through his arm. 

It could have been days or hours or seconds when Merlin’s words cut off again in another wince. When he tried to move his arm, it rebelled in a shot of agony up his shoulder, over his clavicle. A wordless sound of shock leaked through his lips, and he fell forward in a hunch, barely catching himself on the railing of the bridge. 

“-- to be regent ,” a voice whispered in Merlin’s ear. Merlin shot up, almost overturning.

“Arthur!” Merlin spun on his heel, but only Balinor stood there.

“It sounds like it’s time for you to leave, Merlin.” Balinor stepped forward and grabbed Merlin in a tight hug. “I will see you when it’s your time.”

Merlin tried to return the hug, but his shoulder tensed in another arc of pain.

“ I’ve made my decision, ” Arthur whispered, and chills shot up Merlin’s spine, making his palms tingle with an aching, pulsing magic.

“ Merlin. ”

“Yes.”

“ Wake up. ”

Merlin fell through the world.

When he opened his eyes, Merlin thought he might have died in earnest this time. Darkness, thick and deep and endless like the sky at night greeted him. It was so absolute Merlin could not see any boundaries. He attempted a step forward, but an unseen barrier, thick and inky and cold, blocked his path. Merlin lit his hands with a flame, but it was quickly snuffed.

It’s not my time , Merlin reminded himself, and took another step forward.

Tendrils of shadow wrapped thick bands across his arms and legs, slanting across his torso and over his eyes. Merlin stumbled. He felt as if he were trying to run through molasses. His arms were heavy, and his feet could barely stumble forward. Time itself had slowed to a crawl around him. 

“ Who are you to do this? ” A voice hissed. It was raspy, dark, and older than time itself. It beat itself into Merlin’s ears, into his skull. It set his nerves alight, an overwhelming sense of wrong clogging his senses.

“I am Emrys. I have a destiny and he is calling.” His voice was immediately carried away by the shadows holding his body in place, whipping around his head before vanishing entirely.

“ Who are you to do this? ” The voice asked again, and a hand, as cold and solid as ice, clamped his ankle in a vice. “ One does not cheat death. ”

“I am Emrys.”

His shoulder began to ache, throbbing sharply. A seed, slow and bright and warm, bloomed inside of him. A flower made of pure light lit Merlin up from the inside out, making his very fingertips vessels of golden rays.

The darkness recoiled, hissing, and Merlin focused on the bright kernel of light. Warmth. Home . 

The light was as golden as the sun, and as Merlin took a step forward, the darkness retreated. 

“I am Emrys. I am magic itself.” Another step. “Death cannot hold me.”

Each step became easier, the thick fog becoming lighter and lighter until it felt as if he were walking through water alone. 

“I am the son of the earth, the sea, the sky. Magic is the fabric of this world, and I am born of that magic. I am magic itself. You have no claim to me.”

The light became brighter, brighter, blinding . Merlin closed his eyes tight, but that did not hold the light for long. It burnt through his eyelids, painting everything gold.

“ I am Emrys. ”

Merlin’s eyes shot open, and the world blew apart around him as his heart roared in his throat and blood pounded in his eardrums.

Merlin’s destiny was staring down at him with horror in his eyes.

~~~~~

Arthur turned over, stretching languidly in the warm morning light. The soft bed felt heavenly on Arthur’s aching muscles, and Arthur already dreaded having to leave its warm embrace. It was warm, but not stifling—pleasantly, incandescently comfortable in a way Arthur hadn’t felt in ages. Contentment made his brain sluggish, as a cat in the sun. Carefully, Arthur blinked his eyes open and looked over to his left. A long, thin figure was bundled in blankets next to him, and only a mess of black hair could be seen.

Arthur’s heart felt fuzzy as he pressed forward. He wrapped an arm around a blanketed waist, his face barely repressing a smile as he pressed a kiss to the black curls.

A deep groan resonated from the bundle, and it was…much deeper than Arthur had expected.

The body turned in Arthur’s arms, and Merlin’s blue eyes blinked blearily back at him.

Arthur felt surprise for a split second before it dissolved into contentment. Arthur didn’t know who he was expecting, but this felt right, as if the world had straightened on its axis. This was perfect.

A sleepy smile bloomed on Merlin’s face as he leaned closer to Arthur, head finding rest in the crook of Arthur’s neck.

“How dare you,” Merlin murmured, his voice a vibration against Arthur’s warm skin. His chest constricted warm and heavy, syrupy like molasses. Arthur scoffed to cover his temporary overwhelming sappiness.

“I’ll have you know I’m the king,” Arthur teased, a pleasant thrill shooting down his spine at how deep and husky Merlin’s voice was this morning. “I can wake up whomever I please.”

Merlin huffed a laugh against Arthur’s neck, and Arthur felt a warm brush of lips followed by a cold press of a nose.

“Stop!” Arthur whined, moving to shove Merlin away, but Merlin—the damned leech—unwrapped himself from the blankets and wrapped his long limbs around Arthur’s middle. “How is your nose always so damn cold?”

“’s not my fault,” Merlin said, “’s just long.” He shifted up, lips and hot breath brushing Arthur’s earlobe as he whispered, “You don’t seem to mind my long things, though.” 

Arthur barked a laugh, the sound sharp in the soft morning.

“That wasn't even good,” Arthur said, leaning back to look at Merlin’s face, “Is Gwaine the one feeding you these lines?”

Merlin scrunched his nose and slapped a hand on Arthur’s chest. The sunlight pouring through the windows made Merlin’s eyes glow with warm light as he leaned up and over Arthur, as if lit with embers.

Arthur blinked, filled with panic for such a sharp moment it took his breath away.

But then Merlin’s lips were on his own, and Arthur’s mind emptied pleasantly like water slipping over stones.

The chaste kiss—which felt monumental in a way Arthur could not name—ended far too soon for Arthur’s liking, and he tried to follow Merlin when he moved up and away. 

Arthur grabbed Merlin across his waist as Merlin sat and threw his legs over the side of the bed.

“Arthur,” Merlin sighed, voice suddenly very soft, “I have work today.” 

Arthur sat up as well, pressing his face into Merlin’s lightly muscled back. Merlin’s thin frame was dwarfed in one of Arthur’s own shirts, and the way it was sliding slightly off-kilter, exposing the nape of his neck and arch of his shoulder made Arthur throb .

“Ah, but I’m too comfortable to let you leave.” Arthur argued gently, pressing a kiss to a knob of Merlin’s spine. Merlin was rigid in his arms.

“And it’s all about you, isn’t it?” Merlin’s voice was flat, and what would’ve been a joke made Arthur’s chest tighten unpleasantly.

His grip loosened on Merlin’s waist.

“Merlin?” He prodded, and leaned forward, trying to catch Merlin’s gaze, but Merlin turned his head away. 

“It doesn’t matter what happens to me, as long as you get what you want.”

Arthur flinched, letting go of Merlin’s waist entirely. Arthur felt as if his mind had been left back in Merlin’s arms, and now could not understand what was happening. 

The comfortable, golden light of the sun only minutes earlier had been leeched of all warmth, and now filtered through the windows as a cold, dull grey.

“Merlin, what—"

“How did we even get here, Arthur? Do you remember falling asleep?” Merlin asked sharply. Arthur realized, with a start, that no, he didn’t. Dread choked the words that fought to exit his throat.

“No, you don’t, do you? It doesn’t matter as long as you get to keep me, as long as you own me .” Merlin’s words were acid, and his head snapped to the side, unnaturally fast. 

His eyes, such a familiar, well-worn blue that Arthur could find its exact hue in a field of flowers were now a bright, blinding, blazing yellow. Arthur jolted back, panic making his heart roar deafeningly in the room. Merlin, as if he could hear it, smiled a sharp, unnatural smile that twisted his face. 

“This is what you wanted, though, right?” Merlin purred, a hand snapping forward and shoving Arthur onto his back on the bed. “You asked for this, begged someone to make me this.” Arthur was frozen as Merlin moved closer, movements smooth and quick. He threw a leg over Arthur, astride his legs, yellow eyes arresting and skin sallow in the dim, grey light. “You made me this so you could keep me, didn't you? So you could control me, own me, make me yours?” Merlin’s face contorted into a scowl. No, no, Merlin , Arthur wanted to beg. That’s not it, you know that’s not it, please . “Haven’t I proved it, Arthur? Don’t I bear your weight?”

The loose collar of Arthur’s shirt on Merlin was ripped aside, revealing a large, gaping hole in his shoulder. It gushed golden blood, coating Merlin’s face, his chest, his fingers. It spilled, unendingly over Merlin’s lips, his arms, out of him like there would be no end, as if it would flow until Merlin was a husk, a shell.

Arthur tried to sit up, hands moving to press against the wound, but Arthur struggled in vain against invisible binds that held him immobile.

“Merlin, please,” Arthur begged, tears burning his eyes. The blood dripped in thick, fat drops against Arthur’s face, his neck, his eyes. It was startlingly cold, numbing his skin. Fast, fast, fast, too much .

Merlin smiled down at him, and his blood dripped from his mouth, coating his teeth in gold. “It’s okay, Arthur, you’ve won .” 

~~~~~

Arthur snapped awake, bile rising in his throat so rapidly that he was barely able to turn his head before he released the contents of his stomach over his bed. Or, it would have, if Arthur had been able to eat anything in the past three days. As it was, only bile spat between his lips, coating his mouth in bitter, sour grit.

Arthur kept coughing until his throat spasmed, anguish turning his already empty stomach to rot. Spots danced in his vision, and Arthur was torn between wanting the dark back and fearing what visions it would bring him.

Three days. In the grand scheme of things, it was barely time at all. Compared to the sleepless nights and weary days spent beside Merlin’s bed as he slowly lost weight, his skin sunk, his breath rattled, it was a blip.

Yet, these three days had existed in a space outside of time. Time had clotted together in the middle, healing Arthur lopsided. He would spend minutes staring at the wall, and the night would bloom from nothing. Eating would take hours. 

Arthur stared up at the ceiling as time came together again. It must be the third day.

The third day since Merlin woke, life and life and life surging through his body. Since his eyes had opened, and been as golden as the ichor of Apollo. 

Since Arthur had looked down into Merlin’s eyes, Merlin’s chest heaving.

“ Arthur. ” He had whispered. His voice had broken around the word, as days of disuse and dehydration made his throat stiff.

Arthur ran.

He had stared down into Merlin’s beloved face, his gaunt cheekbones and stupid ears and bright (now blue again) eyes. And he could not face the weight of it.

Arthur had not realized he was moving until his back hit his closed door. He had blinked the blackness from his eyes, and slid to the floor. 

Merlin had been recovering since then, slowly gaining color in his cheeks and life in his eyes. His wound had closed completely, although now a dark and ugly tapestry of browns, purples, reds, and greys. 

This was according to Elyan. 

Arthur had not seen Merlin since.

Gwaine had apparently not left Merlin’s side since, sleeping next to Merlin’s cot and harassing the servants about the quality of Merlin’s food. He had not tried contacting Arthur since...after what Arthur had done to Merlin. Arthur understood.

Elyan and Leon had come in shifts to ply Arthur with food in exchange for information on Merlin. They had discovered that first night that it was one of the only ways they could get him to eat. Arthur didn’t care if he was being obstinate—in fact, he hoped that Leon and Elyan would stop coming. 

Arthur now blinked at the canopy above his bed. It had stopped moving it seemed, so that was a good sign.

There was not a single path Arthur could find out of this.

If Arthur had never gone to the woods to find Dragoon, if Arthur had never found the witch and listened to her delusions, if he had never given the flower to Merlin, if Merlin’s eyes hadn’t burned gold.

Merlin would never forgive him.

And he shouldn’t .

Arthur had...cursed him.

Arthur had given him magic .

With a witch’s lie and a cursed flower, Arthur had forced the burden of magic down his throat until Merlin choked. Until Merlin woke up and wasn’t entirely... Merlin anymore. Arthur had taken what little beautiful untainted humanity left in his friend and given him a burden too heavy to bear.

Merlin had given him nothing but friendship and loyalty, and Arthur had repaid him only in selfishness. Arthur would do anything to keep him-- had done anything to keep him--at Merlin’s expense. 

Arthur would never fail to doom those closest to him, and had proven it again. He could feel Morgana’s cool gaze on him, his father’s sharp words, the weight of Gwen’s deafening disappointment. 

The witch must have lied to him--given him an intentionally poisonous flower. Arthur was a fool for trusting her in the first place, but desperation’s only partner was rashness. He should have known better, he should have...what? Let Merlin die? Arthur recoiled from the thought. No . 

Arthur had betrayed him, in a horrible, tangible, permanent way. And he had left him. He had turned tail and ran and left Merlin to handle it alone. Because Arthur was still a scared little boy who couldn’t…

How could Arthur claim to love anything? Anyone? His love was isolating--terrifying. Why else would they choose another every time, lose every time, die every time.

Arthur closed his eyes against the rising nausea. He couldn’t tell anymore if he was aching because his stomach was empty or full. Had he eaten? He couldn’t...no, he had almost thrown up. Elyan had come a few days ago...or was it...no...that must have been recently. 

This was pathetic. 

Arthur sat up, fighting through the spots dancing across his vision.

Merlin had been fighting through the confusion and pain he must be going through, and Arthur needed to fight alongside him. That’s what they did--rush into battle and unwinnable fights together. Arthur had left Merlin to drift mid-fray.

He had expected to trade his life for Merlin’s. A life for a life. But they had both, against the odds once more, walked away with their lives. They were both alive.

Merlin needed him, even if it was just to yell and hit and scream at him. Arthur would take it all, take every blow and curse and any magic retribution Merlin could now rain down on his head. Arthur would deserve it, and he would take his penance solemnly. 

It was Merlin.

And he was alive.

Blessedly, incandescently alive.

That was the real crime--Arthur would steal anything, cheat anyone, trade anything he owned for Merlin’s life. He should feel ashamed, horrified with himself. But, Arthur realized with a jolt, he would do it again.

Every trade had a price . 

Merlin could hate him and never speak to him again, but he had the breath in his lungs to choose that. Merlin could live a full and complete life--what he should have if Arthur had never challenged him outside of the gate. 

Merlin would be able to laugh and cry and scream and sneeze and trip over his own damn feet because he was alive .

Arthur had spent a lonely life before Merlin. A silent, desperately lonely life. The last week had been a living hell. One of his own making. It was not a reality that he wanted to face again. Merlin had given him the noise of friendship, of family, of love , and Arthur would let Merlin and Merlin alone take the sound away.

Arthur swung his legs over the side of the bed.

In this castle, Merlin was breathing. Arthur wanted to see every second of that that Merlin would allow.

He stood.

~~~~~

The door to Gaius’s chambers had never seemed so forbidding.

Arthur had been here loads of times—hundreds, even. For broken arms and sprained wrists and aches in his shoulders that never seemed to go away. To collect Merlin, to threaten Merlin, to look at Merlin’s threadbare room covered in the evidence of his life.

But now, the familiar worn wood looked unwelcoming, cold. 

Arthur inhaled deeply.

And he knocked three steady times against the wood. The sound echoed.

“Gaius is out, but you can come on in,” a voice called. Merlin . Arthur had to close his eyes against the rush of feeling that accompanied the sound. His voice wasn’t at its usual, but it was miles ahead of its state at the last time Merlin had used it. When he croaked Arthur’s name. 

Arthur placed a shaking hand on the wood, and pressed the door open.

Merlin was sitting inside, hunched over a workbench in the center of the room. He was achingly, painfully dragging a spoon up to his mouth. A bowl of broth sat in front of him, and the steam licking up his cheekbones make him look otherworldly, draconic.

He was barely a full person.

His shirt—the blue one, that Arthur had spent years looking at, patting under his hand, pressed against his skin as they stood together—was hanging off of him. He looked like a child wearing his father’s clothes, almost comical if it didn’t make Arthur want to throw up. 

His pants were in no better condition, and Arthur could see the thick texture of rope wrapped around his waist to keep them on his hips.

His hair was a shock of black against a too-pale face, arms so thin that Arthur could see the muscles that strung his bones together. His hair was longer than Arthur had ever seen it, brushing his browbone and curling down the back of his neck. He looked only marginally better than he had. His cheekbones were not quite so sallow, and he seemed to breathe without any impediment.

At Arthur’s entrance, his eyes widened, and his spoon stopped half-way to his mouth.

“ Arthur ,” he breathed. All of the tension in Arthur’s shoulders rolled off in waves. This was Merlin. Just Merlin. 

“Please, keep eating,” Arthur gestured at Merlin’s bowl. You need it went unsaid, but from the defiant edge in Merlin’s eye (that Arthur loved so very much), the sentiment remained.

“I just wanted to come see you. Well, how you’re doing. Elyan has been telling me, but I wanted to see for myself.”

Liar . If there were any time for the truth, it was now. Here. In the space between Merlin’s hunched body and Arthur’s shaking knees.

“I wanted to apolgize. For everything, really. About the way I left and how I reacted and—” Arthur cut his own rambling off with a wince. Merlin was looking at him blankly. “And about the magic.”

Merlin tensed so fast that the spoon clattered back into the bowl with a noise that split the air in two.

“The…the magic?” Merlin’s eyes were wide, too wide in his hollow face. He looked fey, almost.

“Yes. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. I know that it must be incredibly difficult for you, with your…powers.” Arthur winced again.

Merlin was still looking at him with shock. And could that be… hope? God, Arthur really was the worst. Merlin knew that Arthur would be so…Arthur about this.

“I thought you would hate me,” Merlin said, in a very small voice.

“No!” Arthur’s voice was so loud that they both winced. “No, Merlin, I could never hate you.”

“After all that your father said, I thought…” Merlin trailed off, shifting his feet. Arthur’s eyes followed the motion warily. He could see his ankles underneath the threadbare fabric of his pants. How could even ankles be starved? So bony and sallow that the shadows alone made his skin alien. Foreign.

Yes, his father.

“Especially after what my father has said.” Arthur said, leaning against the work table behind him gently. To sit would be presumption, as if Merlin wanted him there—allowed him to stay. Arthur had no such confirmation.

“After all the years we have worked together, I thought—”

“Exactly!” Arthur erupted. “After all of the years, I should have known better! But I still—”

Arthur cut himself off sharply. Did this to you , he wanted to scream. But he had done enough yelling, enough blustering for a lifetime. Merlin looked off to the side. He seemed incredibly pained, mouth and eyebrows drawn down in an expression of agony.

“You’re hurting?” Arthur asked, stepping forward before stopping the motion. What did he think—that Merlin was going to allow his touch? After what he had done? 

“Yes, obviou—” Merlin looked up sharply, eyes almost back to the same fire that Arthur had chased for years before whatever expression he found on Arthur’s face halted the words. “Oh, you were—No. No, I’m fine, Arthur. Gwaine’s out geting some—Gaius gave me—no.”

Settled somewhat by this, Arthur backed a step away. Unsure what to do with his hands, he crossed them across his chest.

Merlin, so small on his bench, looked out the window to his right. Arthur wanted to know what he saw there. Home? Or just the walls of the outer curtain, trapping him inside? 

“You need to know that this was never my intention.” Arthur said.

“I know that, Arthur. I know you wouldn’t do anything you didn’t need to.”

The words stopped him cold.

“Need to?” He repeated. “As in an obligation?”

Merlin didn’t say anything. Arthur wanted to whap him about the ears, a desire so incongruous with his usual Merlin is fragile now, be gentle with Merlin that he almost wanted to laugh. If he didn’t cry first.

“Merlin, I saved your life because I can’t live without you. You know that, right?” He didn’t mean to sound so angry, but Merlin looked up, so it must’ve worked. “I have become so reliant on your every breath that I have become utterly useless the second you are incapacitated.” Merlin’s eyes were comically wide. Arthur barked a humorless laugh. “Yes! I haven’t been to the council room in maybe a week, now. Leon is essentially running the country and I expected to have my life taken from me in exchange for your restoration and I didn’t care!”

“Arthur!”

“I know!” Arthur laughed again, desperation and incredulity crawling up his throat. “You have supported me for years, given me weirdly sage advice, been the stupidest person I think I’ve ever known, and endeared yourself to everyone in the citadel to the point—” Arthur’s throat closed. He cleared it. “You…you tried to die for me. For seven days, you tried to die for me.” 

Arthur looked up at Merlin and was surprised to see his outline blurry with tears. He blinked and a few tears rolled hot and heavy down his cheek. He wiped them away quickly.

“And I repaid your loyalty with this.” Arthur waved his hands about, gesturing at the castle, at Merlin. Merlin had magic now, Merlin was trapped now. Forever.

Merlin blinked up at Arthur, blue eyes big and doe-like. His black lashes kissed his hollow cheeks and how was it fair that all Arthur wanted to do was kiss him?

“You didn’t know, Arthur.” He said, finally. He sounded so tired, as if Arthur had talked with him one hundred times about this. As if the paths of their conversation were well-worn in Merlin’s mind, as if Merlin had walked them before.

No, Arthur didn’t know that the advice of a witch would lead to this. That Merlin would bear the brunt of Arthur’s selfishness forever. 

“No, I didn’t.” He admitted. “But I would do it again.”

He said it with as much earnestness as he could muster. Surely, Merlin could see . But Merlin jerked back, horror-struck.

“ You would do it again? ” 

“Yes, Merlin, I would do anything to keep you safe, you must know that.”

“To keep me safe?” Merlin repeated again, incredulously. 

“I know it’s a heavy burden, but–”

“ Burden? ” Merlin roared, “ What do you know of my burdens? ” He jolted to his feet. His eyes were liquid fire, and spoke with a voice that wasn’t quite his own, laced with more pain than Arthur could ever understand.

“Mer…Merlin, I—”

“I have done everything for you.” Merlin’s words were acerbic, slicing through to Arthur’s very core. “I have given everything to you. My friends, my loyalty, my life . What left is there to take? ”

Merlin stumbled back, and fell to the bench. A terrible cough from deep in Merlin’s lungs made his body heave, and Arthur, terrified, watched his mouth for blood. He jerked forward, but Merlin held an implacable hand to stop him from approaching.

When his fit had passed, he was heaving for breath.

“I didn’t mean that, Arthur. I’m sorry.” Merlin looked up and his eyes were rimmed in tears. “It’s been…so—so hard . Now that you know—I just…I’ve said it in my head a thousand times.” He laughed bitterly. “It’s hard to tell what I feel now and what I once did. I was bitter about my destiny for so long, but I…understand now.  It’s confusing. It’s a little frightening. I feel so exposed now, like a nerve. Or a butterfly on a board.”

Arthur struggled to keep up. After days of recovery, of illness, Merlin’s mind must be stretched to its absolute limits. Arthur wanted to give him time to rest, but his curiosity and confusion kept his feet rooted to the floor. 

“Do you know what it was like to be born like this?” Merlin asked, finally.

“Born like what?”

“Like I was…” At Arthur’s blank stare, Merlin chuffed a laugh. “With magic, you prat.”

Arthur’s brain whited out.

“Born…with magic?”

Merlin’s mouth was moving, but Arthur couldn’t hear it. His ears were ringing, as if he has been hit with a pommel. Merlin…born with magic? Arthur tried to reconcile this  in his own head, with what he knew, but he kept coming up blank. That would mean…this whole time…

Merlin blurred around the edges as he stepped forward, movement halted and then started again suddenly.

“...would you say that?” Arthur realized that his own mouth was moving. “You…You…”

“What were you talking about, then?” Merlin’s eyes were wide and afraid. “When you said magic? I—Arthur—I—”

“The sorceress gave you magic. When she told me how to save you, it must have been a trick…I…” 

“What sorceress? The one with the poultice?”

“What poultice?”

“In the well—I—What did she tell you?” Merlin was near-rabid, getting closer to Arthur by the second.

“That…the flower, the King’s Mantle…I… Merlin? ”

Merlin’s hands were balled so tightly together that Arthur was distantly worried that his thin skin would split over the white, sharp bone.

“I was born with magic, Arthur. My whole life. I was born like this.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“Arthur, yes. I am a sorcerer.” 

“No, you’re not.” Arthur couldn’t seem to say anything else. “No, you’re not , Merlin. I would know.”

Merlin only stared at him, brow pinched and eyes full of tears.

“I would know, right?”

Merlin took a lurching step forward, but Arthur stumbled back. He was shaking his head. Or the room was spinning. Maybe it was both— why was the world —

“Arthur. Please, I—”

Arthur hadn’t even realized he had moved until the door of Gaius’s chambers slammed behind him. His footsteps echoed in the corridor. Or maybe that was his heart, slamming against the cage of his ribs so hard Arthur wished he would die.

~~~~~

Arthur wanted to smash his head through a wall. He had run away again. Of course he did. Arthur was a coward, at his core.

Merlin had laid what must have been his darkest secret at Arthur’s feet, and Arthur had kicked it as hard as he could. 

The sting of betrayal still ricocheted around his chest cavity, making his breath falter at every whisper of the thought. 

Merlin had lied to me. All this time.

Because you forced him to lie to you. A voice whispered back. Do you think that you would have welcomed him? You would have put his head on a pike. 

Arthur shook the horrific image out of his head. No, no. This wasn’t him, this was Merlin.

Was it really?

He should have known that I would have kept him safe, I would do anything—

When would he have known that? While you were spitting your father’s venom? While you let him die? While you bargained with his life?

Arthur’s mouth flooded with saliva, and he was up before his mind could register the movement, retching deeply into a chamber pot. His throat closed, and the choking sensation of being unable to breathe was becoming uncomfortably familiar.

Only a string of bile came up. Arthur’s head spun while he tried to calculate the last time he had eaten. The fire burning in his hearth was a little too warm in the room, casting Arthur’s white-knuckled grip on the pot golden.

Merlin.

He needed to talk to Merlin.

Arthur closed his eyes and tried to breathe through his nose. 

They had always done their best thinking together, and Arthur felt severed from something vital. As if he had left his legs or arms in Gaius’s chambers. The phantom pain of Merlin’s absence was becoming unbearable, twinned with the sharp pins of hurt at what had been revealed.

Arthur needed to see him again.

Just with his own eyes. Just once more. 

Arthur had enough of seeing Merlin unconscious for a lifetime, and now that Arthur had seen him once, he had become addicted. Just once more .

Arthur stood on shaky, unstable legs, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He took a steadying breath before he was able to move again. He tried to plan what to say in his head. He didn’t know what to think of Merlin or their friendship, if he could even call it that. He didn’t need to know what to think just to see him, right? He just needed to see him.

Time was stretching again, amalgimating, and Arthur was suddenly at his door, swinging it open. The cold air was blessed against the sticky, close warmth of his room.

Merlin was standing on the other side of the door, hand raised to knock.

Time stopped as if it hit a wall. Arthur’s heart lurched in his chest. His mind, already aching with the weight of today, could not process Merlin’s emaciated form close enough to touch.

“Since when do you knock?” Arthur blurted. Merlin’s eyes widened, mouth opening. Arthur turned away before he could see whatever expression settled on Merlin’s face.

He could not talk to this man to save his life. He was truly irredeemable. 

Arthur had spent the better part of an hour trying to work himself up to talk to Merlin, but now that Merlin was a physical presence at his back, Arthur’s carefully planned words had shattered like glass.

Unable to walk any farther, Arthur fell into the chair at his table, wiping his face with a rough hand. Merlin followed him in, as silent and eerie as a ghost. Merlin had never been quiet a second in his life. Until…recently. And the appearance of Merlin’s silence in his room, where he had cajoled him out of bed, pressed cautious hands to bruised ribs, seen him in all manner of nakedness, felt wrong, off of its axis.

A shadow fell across his face, and when he looked up, Merlin was a few feet away, back to the fire, hands twisting at his shirt hem. When their eyes met, Merlin’s muscles went slack, as if his strings had been cut. Arthur looked away.

“It seems I will never stop owing you apologies.” 

Arthur raised a shaky hand to his mouth, rubbing his mother’s ring over his chapped lips over and over and over. 

“How can you say that to me?” Arthur said, eyes snapping up to Merlin’s. “I…”

Arthur couldn’t finish. The words turned to rot in his mouth, stilling his tongue and making his throat burn. He was his own worst fear.

He had become his father.

Despite his efforts, he had mutated--taken the familiar path and filled the familiar outline of his father. 

After years and years of striving and hurting and almost killing himself for shreds of Uther’s praise, Arthur had received castigation and anger. He had felt alienated in his home for most of his life--a desperate, little boy desperate for love. Uther’s last words still rattled in his skull: I did not spend my entire life building this kingdom to see my own son destroy it . 

And he had inflicted every ounce of self-hatred and isolation onto Merlin’s shoulders.

Arthur had made Merlin live in constant fear of execution--at Arthur’s hand--and had to hide himself from any and every connection he could ever make. Any friend he had gained and trusted enough to reveal his true nature was subject to Arthur’s surveillance. 

Arthur had thought they were best friends. Arthur had fallen in love. And Merlin was Arthur’s prisoner. Merlin had only ever seen Arthur as a threat, as an axe. 

A fox had found a rabbit in a snare and called it love.

Arthur stood, his nerves threatening to break his bones apart. The room blurred, black closing in his vision as he stumbled to the window. The glass was foggy with the warmth of the room against the cold night. Arthur’s breaths tumbled in waves against the panes, making the courtyard indistinguishable from the darkness. 

“I have made my father’s every mistake. You...you didn’t tell me because you were afraid.” Arthur turned his head to the side, but could not bear to look. “Of me. You were afraid of me.” 

Merlin made a noise then, a choked little thing.

“Never, Arthur. Not for a second.” Merlin stepped forward. “I have used my magic to help you, to save you. I trust you with my life.”

“But not with you , is that it?” Arthur snapped. He rubbed a hand over his face. “God, you shouldn’t, either. I...I am the reason the sorceress wanted to kill you. Because you were friends with me. I made you a traitor to your own people! I...I... God. ”

Arthur wanted to punch a hole through the glass, just to get some air. The fire in the room was too warm, too close, the flames licking at his heels. 

“You are my people, Arthur! You...you’re my destiny. And I only wanted to be by your side.”

“At your own expense, I take it.” 

Merlin seemingly had nothing to say to that.

Arthur ran a hand over his face. It at last brought some feeling to his face, so he did it again, this time with nails. The sharp bite made his mind clear a little, feel something that wasn’t so confusing —

“What are you doing?” Merlin snapped, and a pale hand snatched his own away from his face. He turned, and Merlin was here , suddenly, in his space, inhaling the air from his lungs. “ Arthur. ” He had never heard Merlin say his name like that. Endlessly sad.

He hadn’t let go of his hand. Arthur’s traitorous eyes flicked down to the space where they touched, long pale fingers over scarred palm. Merlin’s hands were cold.

Merlin snatched his hand away.

“I…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve…” 

Arthur’s eyes met Merlin’s and Merlin quieted.

“No,” Arthur said after a minute. “I’ve been…desperate the past couple of days. This might be the first time you’ve actually touched me since…since.” Arthur chuffed a bitter laugh. “Nothing I didn’t want.”

He turned back to the bare courtyard to avoid the pinpoints of heat Merlin was glaring into the side of his head. He knew that his advances were unwanted…so unwanted and unwarranted that Arthur wanted to pull the words back in his mouth.

They hung, deafening, in the sliver of space between their bodies. Can’t you see how hilarious this all is? They screamed and echoed. You said that Arthur was the stupidest king in the world and you were right! He’s delusional! Can’t you hear his heart falling on its own sword? I wonder what he’s mourning this time?

Arthur could feel the heat of Merlin’s body through the layers of their clothes. He listed towards it for a foolish, blinding moment before he corrected himself and snapped away. They were past that time of comfort. 

Merlin was…too close. Too real and too alive and Arthur had systematically obliterated any chance of Merlin looking at him with his soft eyes and brushing his shoulder with a long hand and—

“Arthur, stop.” Merlin followed him across the room, coming to stand behind Arthur, who was staring into the fire. 

Arthur crossed one arm over his middle, his mother’s ring finding its home on his bottom lip once more. 

“You…” Merlin sounded like he was speaking directly in his ear, but Arthur knew he was a few paces behind him at the least. It didn’t stop a shiver from shaking up his spine. 

Arthur heard Merlin’s posture shift, his too thin spine cracking, his feet on the stone shuffling.

“You have said some horrible things to me over the years. About magic-users, about who I am, about what I do. I’ve been scared as long as I can remember, and I didn’t know who I could trust since I arrived to the castle.”

Arthur flinched, curling in on himself, the metal of his mother’s ring cutting into his lip. Are you proud of your son yet? This is what I do to those I—

“And I’ve been in love with you for six years.”

Arthur spun around, and Merlin was standing straight, as if braced for a blow. He smiled at whatever laid on Arthur’s face.

“You didn’t know because I designed it that way. I…wanted to tell you. Every second of my life here, I’ve felt it at the back of my mouth. But with your father…I couldn’t let you choose. You didn’t choose wrongly, I took that choice from you. Please tell me you understand that.” Merlin dared not take a step forward, but his eyes were wide and pleading, tinged with gold from the burn of the fireplace.

Merlin’s voice echoed in the space, and Arthur clung to the last remnants of his voice as it passed.

“You…I…” Arthur felt utterly useless. Say it back, say it back! his mind screamed. 

But did he deserve to say it back? After everything that had happened, all the choices that Arthur had made and would make again? Was he…allowed? To say that, to change their lives forever? 

Arthur saw glimpses of Merlin falling in love, Merlin pressing kisses to a faceless cheek, marrying and falling asleep next to and making food with some cook or blacksmith or tailor. Merlin would give them his smiles and his laughter and press his gentle fingers into their hair while they kissed and—

He felt sick, hopeless, and betrayed by the very thought of it.

At his very core, Arthur was a selfish being.

“I love you, too,” He admitted, helpless. Arthur tried not to think of the last time those words had left his lips, to someone who didn’t deserve it, to a father who was disappointed in him, to a sister who wanted him dead. “As long as I’ve been alive, I think.” The words fell from a numb tongue in an unfeeling mouth. 

Arthur felt exposed, raw. Merlin’s eyes were too bright in the dark light of the room. Where once was numb, Arthur’s body burned in oversensitivity. The fire behind him was too warm, scorching the tips of his fingers where they were folded behind his back. His chest felt too light without the weight of his armor, without the weight of his sword at his waist, his cape on his shoulders.

This suddenly felt like a fight where Arthur had revealed his weakest spot, the corner of his chest that his armor couldn’t cover. Merlin’s face crumpled for a second, mid-sob, before he lurched forward. Arthur’s hands came up, palms out.

Maybe Merlin was upset again—angry again. Arthur wouldn’t stop whatever was coming. He wouldn’t. But Merlin was coming in fast, fast, too fast —

Defenseless, open, exposed, empty, defenseless defenseless defenseless —

Merlin’s mouth descended on his, white-hot and blazing, and Arthur could do nothing but melt. His hands wrapped around Merlin’s too-thin waist while Merlin held Arthur in place between his hands. His fingers were points of pure flame against his jaw. The kiss was desperate in its innocence—desperate to see and be seen, to feel and be felt, to take but to take nothing away. His lips were unsure as they grazed Arthur’s own, but they branded his skin all the same, sizzling his flesh until it took the shape of Merlin’s.

Kissing Merlin was nothing like Arthur had expected. He hadn’t known what to expect, really. Their first couple of kisses were awkward, unwieldy, as if they hadn’t really expected each other when they leaned forward. As if they were expecting to kiss someone else—or as if they were seeing each other for the first time.

It was nothing like kissing Gwen, whose small mouth was warm and soft and familiar. Merlin’s mouth was chapped, dry, and shockingly large against his own. 

But then…

Merlin tilted his head a little, long fringe dusting the skin of Arthur’s forehead and leaving sparks in its wake. He bit down softly on Arthur’s bottom lip. 

One of them made a noise—Arthur would deny for years that it was him—and Merlin opened against him like a flower, tracing a cool, balming path against the scorched earth he had left. 

His mind was spinning. He has always been painfully aware of each second he had kissed Gwen. His tongue always felt too big, his hands never knew where to go, his mind was intensely focused on everything he was doing (or doing incorrectly). But kissing Merlin felt like coming home. You threw your coat down and took of your boots and sat in your own space on your own bed and closed your eyes. 

Arthur had only ever gotten this thought-quieting headrush in battle before, in the heat and clamor of adrenaline. But Merlin’s mouth offered the same respite he had sought for years and he hadn’t even gotten his bloody hands on him yet —

He couldn’t believe that every second of his life up to this point has been wasted. He should have been doing this all along. Arthur could spend a year like this, he thought, but…this…was too…good.

Too easy, too comfortable, too mind-meltingly pleasant that an alarm bell chimed in his head. His hand shifted against Merlin’s middle, and he could feel the sharp ridge of a rib jutting against his palm.

What was he doing? Merlin was sick, barely alive after what Arthur had done to him. There was no way that he wanted this. His mind must be a swirl of emotions, of feelings, of ideas that might not even be his own. 

It was like kissing someone who was drunk. It didn’t count—it wasn’t right .

Arthur pulled back sharply, ripping their mouths apart. Merlin made a quiet noise in the back of his throat and Arthur’s mind emptied like a bowl. Merlin tried to lean down again, but Arthur pressed a hand to his clavicle, feeling the delicate, starved bone under his fingertips.

“Merlin, Merlin,” Arthur whispered against Merlin’s lips, eyes closed so tightly it almost hurt. “You don’t…you don’t owe me anything…I–”

“I am going to kick your arse.” Merlin pulled back, indignant. “Let me guess: I don’t actually want this, do I?”

Arthur winced at the outraged expression on Merlin’s face. He deserved it—he should have asked before he kissed Merlin.

“ I was the one who kissed you , you absolute prat .” Merlin accused. “If I didn’t want this, why would I have done that, hm ?”

Arthur opened his mouth. He closed it again. Huh . 

“Arthur,” Merlin ran a hand over his face. “I’ve been in love with you for six years. Six years! I’ve watched you fall in love and get your heart broken and be precariously in danger for the longest years of my life. I pushed you out of the way of the dagger—”

Arthur’s gut yanked painfully.

“—because I can’t imagine my life without you. Me without you. Gaius says it’s super unhealthy, but I can’t be bothered, really, because—”

Merlin was settling in for the long-haul, Arthur could tell.

“Merlin.” Arthur prompted. Merlin cut himself off.

“Ah, right.” He inhaled deeply. “What I mean to say, is…Arthur.” Merlin’s hands removed themselves from Arthur’s face and found his hands. “This is so soppingly romantic, and I’m sorry in advance, for I might cry.”

Arthur’s eyes widened in alarm.

“I was in love with you when you were a prince, I’m in love with you as a king, and I would be in love with you if you were a penniless commoner who couldn’t keep a roof over his head. I stopped the witch because I love you. You don’t owe me anything. Not protection, nor power, nor safety. You don’t have to earn this. You deserve to be loved because you’re you. ”

Arthur could only gape. He blinked. Blinked again. How had Merlin even known that that’s what Arthur was thinking? Did he know him that well? Was Arthur so painfully transparent?

You don’t have to earn this.  

As if Arthur could be simply allowed to be this happy, this fulfilled. It was hard to recall the bitterness in his throat at the beginning of this night. When he tried to summon the knot in his stomach, it felt like pressing against a nearly healed bruise: a flat pressure, nothing else.

“You…” Arthur floundered. And embarrassingly, suddenly, he realized he had tears in his eyes. The confession was so very… Merlin , almost too Merlin in its earnestness and wisdom and care that Arthur could roll around each word in his hands and they would come away stained with Merlin.

“I am going to kiss you now,” Merlin said solemnly, like he was admitting to treason. Which was such an absurd concept that Arthur’s laugh was tattooed on Merlin’s mouth as they met once more.

The kiss tasted different this time. Where once there was innocence, lips barely pressing forward as if afraid to bruise, this kiss was…full.

These kisses were desperate, a clash of mouths as Arthur tried to press every ounce of fear and grief and agony he had lived through the past week. Merlin, as always, met him blow for blow, hands coming up to grip Arthur’s head once more. 

They could both feel it, the sense of desperation, of doom if they should separate, crawling up their spines, making adrenaline slip into the kiss. Arthur had never felt more full, more complete, more whole as long as he had been alive.

This was what he had been waiting for. He hadn’t even realized he’d been waiting.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” The words are a benediction, a blessing, a rite pushed into Merlin’s open mouth, Arthur’s tears slicking both of their cheeks and making the kiss sting of salt. He realized they had both been crying, making up for lost time.

Merlin pulled back slowly, gasping for breath. When his exhale brushed Arthur’s cheekbones, it left tingles in its wake. He rested his head on Arthur’s shoulder, hand coming up to press against Arthur’s raging heart through ribs and sinew and skin.

“ Arthur .” Merlin whispered, and his voice broke on the word. Arthur could hear it. Every second of fear, every minute of pain, every hour of confusion and doubt. And every day of waiting. For Arthur.

“Can you—can you—” Merlin’s voice was trembling, hands snaking around to rest on Arthur’s hipbones, holding him back from pressing another frenzy of kisses against his face. His wide palms pulled Arthur close once more, into a tight hug that Arthur returned with a desperation he had only recently realized he possessed.

“Anything, Merlin, I’ll do anything,” Arthur swore, and he meant it. If Merlin asked him to cast himself into the blaze behind him, he would be scattered into ash for his enjoyment.

Merlin’s arms tightened around Arthur’s shoulderblades, hands scrabbling to gain more purchase.

“Just…hold me, please .” He whispered, and Arthur felt the deep reverberation of his voice in his chest more than heard it. He tightened his arms in kind, pressing Merlin and his bones together, a hand carding through his hair.

He turned his head, pressing a gentle kiss to Merlin’s black curls, a smile making the words gentle.

“ As if I would let you go. ”

~~~~~

Merlin’s arms tightened around Arthur’s middle, Arthur’s hands scrabbling against his forearms to gain more purchase as they sank to the damp earth.

“Just…hold me, please ,” Arthur whispered, and Merlin felt the reverberation of his voice in his chest more than heard it. He tightened his arms in kind, pressing Arthur and his bones together, a hand carding through his hair.

Merlin kept blinking, almost as if the man in his arms would disappear or stand up and be okay again, as if this were all an illusion.

Arthur’s eyes were blue, shockingly, dangerously, too blue in the overcast afternoon--Arthur glowing—his sun, his king—even now.

Merlin’s muscles were trembling, shaking from carrying Arthur so far, but he couldn’t yet feel the ache. He couldn’t yet feel anything.

Arthur’s head turned heavily to the side, to the lake. His too-bright, glassy eyes surveyed the waves. The water lapped quietly.

Merlin leaned forward, pressing a shaking, gentle kiss into Arthur’s blonde brow.

“ As if I could let you go. ”

Chapter Text

The bell above the bakery door made a merry jingle as Merlin entered.

“Mr. Merlin!” The clerk behind the counter called. Merlin smiled, moving forward past a couple pressed near the door.

The aroma of fresh bread and flour filled his nose. This was one of his favorite places in the world. After decades of losing—Gaius, Gwen, Leon, his mother—bakeries seemed to be the only constant that people had kept.

Through the colonization periods, the Saxon Wars, the French revolutions, the creation of the American colonies, the devastating wars that wrecked his home, the invention of electricity, television, and nuclear bombs, one could always find a bakery tucked away in the corner. 

Blacksmiths had come and gone, tailors stopped dyeing their fabrics in-store, and physician’s offices had started smelling of sharp chemicals. Booksellers had stayed the same the longest, but even they had a pointed smell now, leather and age making way for cardboard and industrial pages. Even butcher’s shops, with the thick iron scent pouring down the streets, had started smelling cleaner, fresher than before.

Flour and bread seemed to be a universal constant. Whenever Merlin was feeling particularly aged, when the weight of all of the friends he gained and lost over the centuries of his life, he always turned to a bakery.

Although somewhere around the 1700s the scent of bread was varnished with the bitter tang of coffee, Merlin still could find only comfort in their walls. 

After Merlin had explored every corner of the world, he had begun feeling deep-set homesickness for a home that no longer existed. Camelot had fallen with Leon’s great-great-great grandson, a selfish and cruel man that Merlin could not recognize. He had spent the majority of his many years chasing a ghost across the globe, unable to return to the ruins of his home.

But perhaps a century ago, he could no longer resist and followed the familiar path back to where Camelot used to be. 

Where once only agony had lain, Merlin could tread the familiar forests and walk the familiar—although paved now—lanes without the loneliness settling in. He had found a home near the lake, a small cosy thing where he could grow herbs and hoard his trinkets after 1500 years of living.

“Hello, Leia,” he said when he finally reached the counter. The clerk smiled warmly, a bright smile lighting her up from the inside.

Leia had begun working here…four years ago now. The bakery was built shortly after Merlin arrived, perhaps in 1924? Merlin couldn’t be sure. One would think after endless living, his memory would blend together, but the opposite was true.

Merlin could remember everything—every face of the friends he had made and lost, every home he had owned and abandoned, every invention he had lived through, every horror he had been forced to witness.

But the years were always tricky. Mathematics was difficult, as Merlin had never had a formal education—even now. He had tried enrolling in a university, but he had met a history professor in Munich that had reminded Merlin so much of Gaius that he had to move continents to assuage the ache in his bones.

“Hi, Mr. Merlin!” She said again, retying the strings of her apron. Leia had reminded Merlin of someone, although he couldn’t be sure whom. Her face was well-worn in his mind as if he had thought of her often, but that could not be the case. She was simply…familiar. Warm. She seemed the type who could have lived in Camelot, a warm smile and a smidge of flour above her brow as she sold Merlin tarts. 

Merlin was glad she was here now, though. Leia had taken to Merlin as a grandfather, and always offered him a discount on rolls and slipped him some pastries under the counter when her manager wasn’t looking. Merlin hadn’t been a young man in a long time. He had kept his older form since he moved back to England, and pretended to be a series of grandfathers and fathers and sons when the more observant mortals noticed.

“I’ve got a real treat for you today,” she said indulgently, turning around to gather something from the display case. When she returned, she had an array of apple tarts and a buttery roll. “I just pulled them out of the oven, so they’re a little hot. Be careful if you eat them now, sir.”

“Why Leia, that's so kind of you,” Merlin said, reaching into his bag for his wallet, but Leia reached across the counter and stayed his hand.

“On me, today, sir.” She looked over her shoulder, but her manager was in the back with the ovens. Her eyes were soft when she met his gaze again. “I know this time of year is hard for you.” 

Merlin blinked. Had she noticed?

She must’ve, but Merlin had kept the anniversary so close to his chest that the last person he told had died in 1897. 

“I—” Merlin stammered. “Yes, it is.” He found himself saying. The relief of being acknowledged filled him with teary gratitude. “I lost someone…a long time ago.”

Leia nodded, with big earnest eyes that encouraged him to continue. Inexplicably, Merlin did.

“He wasn’t the first and he wasn’t the last, but he was the most…real.” Merlin could feel himself slipping away, so he tried desperately to cling to something in the room. The oven timer beeped, and a short man came out of the back to open it. “It was the heaviest.”

Leia nodded solemnly. 

“We’ve all been there, sir. I’m so sorry for your loss.” 

She wrapped Merlin’s pastries in some paper and waved off his final attempt to pay. As Merlin thanked her again and headed for the door, she called,

“Thank you, Mr. Emrys!”

Merlin stopped dead in his tracks, hand stuck to the door.

Emrys .

He had not heard that name in…

He tried to turn back around, to walk back up to Leia and demand just from where she’d heard it, but a student was standing behind him.

“Excuse me, sir,” They said, gesturing at the door. Merlin opened the door for them, but Leia had already gone into the back of the store, leaving Merlin with…nothing.

~~~~~

Merlin continued down the street, pressing against the wind that cut through his jacket.

If he were in a different body or in younger years, his hands would be deep in his pockets, but as it was, his hands were at his sides to help with balance.

After the magic slowly died, Merlin was left truly alone in the world. The only magic alive on a dead, cold, modern earth. Even magic herbs, that Merlin had come to rely on so heavily, died out. His main ingredient for his aging potions that he had brewed with Gaius once upon a lifetime was functionally extinct. 

Merlin had spent years trying to find it and failed.

And eventually, he had stopped wanting to try. His aching muscles and fragile bones and pounding head were fitting. He had always felt too big for his bones in Camelot—bones and skin and sinew too small for the power and the secrets and the fear screaming inside of him. But this…was fitting. Small. Aching. Old .

He was…stuck like this.

An old man in an old man’s body.

Everything hurt. His knees wouldn’t bend quite right, his hips had a persistent ache that bugged him at every step and turn. His back would be in agony until he lay down, and even then would persistently throb. Merlin’s eyesight had a hard time focusing, his ears would ring at odd hours of the day, and his hands would shake if it got below twenty-four degrees Celsius. 

Merlin had tried all manner of incantations and spellwork to ease his pain but to no avail. He had tried going to a doctor in the 1950s—after a century of trying to “muscle through it”—but when he had asked the physician for some willow, the doctor treated him like an idiot.

He wasn’t a complete fool, but the new aspirin left a bitter, chemical taste in his mouth that would last for weeks. His body still hadn’t gotten the memo that the twenty-first century was here. It was still frozen in time, waiting for Arthur and Gwen and Gaius and his mother to return so they could uncork mead and celebrate with a calf.

Merlin realized, suddenly, that he was coming upon that bend in the road. The only downside to his favorite bakery was the lake.

He’d have to pass Arthur’s resting site every time. It was good practice, a way to press into the bruise until the dull ache vanished after centuries of avoidance. 

Merlin still couldn’t believe that he had told Leia that much. Maybe his age was finally catching up to his mind as well as his body—sentimental and reminiscent. It would be about time for that to start happening.

I know this time of year is hard for you.

Every time winter was at its start, the heavy snow not yet beginning, Merlin would feel called back to that time in his life.

Arthur lying in his arms as —

Stop .

Merlin took a steadying breath, his ribcage aching with the movement. There was no point. The first two centuries after Merlin had lost it all—his destiny, his love, his purpose, his family—he had grieved.

He had wept and screamed and broken things.

He had had over one thousand years to grieve. And yet it seemed to continue. Keeping him in a cycle of grief. He would be okay for a while—even happy and fulfilled—but the shadow of his home was always around the corner.

He had waited to die, that first century. He had aged and aged and aged, but he never got quite old enough. As Gwen and Lancelot and Leon died, Merlin kept waking up. Over and over and over and over again he would open his eyes to a world that was increasingly unrecognizable.

When it became clear that he wouldn’t die—the world had been far too cruel to let him go—Merlin had to reshape what life would be. He would have to hide, have to keep moving, have to never let himself shatter like he had that first time. 

Merlin had told himself he would never get close enough to mourn. 

Merlin had once dreamed of a world where he wouldn’t have to hide from those he loved. 

He ended up being wrong on both counts.

Merlin took another breath as he reached the bend in the road. If he were to look to his left, he would see the exact spot where it ended. So he would simply not look.

Even the knowledge that it was there sat hard and heavy in his chest, pressing against the bottom of his throat, cutting off all air. He cleared his throat. His steps faltered, and he took a steadying breath.

He needed to do this.

I know this time of year is hard for you .

Merlin looked.

The lake, like most of his home, was not what it used to be. Perhaps the water level was lower, or the water didn’t shine the correct way, or the tower was tilted. Or perhaps Merlin was just old—jaded and confused and hurting—and everything that he thought was sacred has lost its luster. 

Perhaps the water lapped at the same place on the shore, and the water was the exact water to which he had surrendered his heart, and the tower was as steady as it had always been.

But something…was wrong.

Not in any tangible way Merlin could identify, and he took a minute to inhale deeply, parsing the grass and mud and earth and blood—always blood, always—apart on his tongue.

Nothing.

And then, Merlin heard something.

Not something physical, not in the way he was hearing the birds in the distant trees, or the water lapping the bank, or the wind rustling the foliage around him. It was deep, ingrained, as light and unspoken as the wind or…

It was…hearing in a way he hadn’t experienced since…

Since Kilgarrah died.

Merlin’s hands began to shake.

There was no way. There wasn’t.

Merlin had spent the dragon’s last moments with him in a cave deep in the Andes. Kilgarrah had made him promise to burn his body to ash, insisting that the humans would try to use his very bones as a spectacle.

The humans , he had said, as if Merlin was no longer a person, but a vessel for magic in the same vein as Kilgarrah, as a poultice or book or cave.

Merlin incinerated the body with the fire from his palms. 

A last effort to erase magic completely—a move so nostalgic and horrifying and real that Merlin was twenty years old again, hiding Gaius’s book under his bed and deciding that Mordred needed to die.

A lorry slammed past Merlin, the driver laying an iron fist on the car horn as he blew past with a mighty roar.

Merlin’s bag slipped through his fingers, scattering his food over the grass.

Merlin cursed, trying to bend before surrendering to the fact that he would have to get on his knees. His joints screamed in protest, but Merlin persisted, adjusting his shoulder bag as he lowered himself to the ground.

He collected his pastries slowly—that was the only speed he could comfortably manage—but realized one was missing. A raspberry tart had rolled to the bank and rested plainly against the grass.

Merlin shuffled forward, collecting it to put in his bag.

Then why is the forest moving?

Merlin jumped, almost falling straight into the lake. He managed to catch himself at the last second, but his mind was reeling.

That was…that was…it couldn’t be.

Merlin shook the thought from his head, but his hands were shaking so badly that Merlin had to put the bag down before he dropped it again.

…breeze…breeze…know. There’s not even a…

It was Gwaine.

There was no way around it.

Gwaine .

Merlin had to close his eyes against the flood of agony. Gwaine .

Merlin was hallucinating. That was the only possible explanation. He had finally cracked under the weight of his guilt and grief and age.

Why on earth would Merlin hallucinate him discussing the wind?

Merlin opened his eyes.

The lake rippled against the breeze, little waves crashing against the east shore.

But…the wind had stopped.

Merlin blinked.

The lake was still moving, an imaginary wind creating ripples that undulated and coalesced to the east.

Merlin’s next breath vanished, and he gasped desperately to get air back into his lungs.

There…

There was no way. There simply wasn’t.

Magic.

This was magic .

Merlin’s eyes clouded with tears, and he laughed around the painful lump in his throat.

A gift. On the anniversary of the beginning of the end.

The magic—that Merlin thought died with Kilgarrah and Aithusa and every being but him—was waving through the lake. He could feel the magic buzzing around him—cloying his tongue, making his nose and fingers and chest burn .

What a blessing: to not be alone. To have a compatriot, to be able to look at something and recognize it. You’re like me .

Even if this was all he got—too-strong waves on a windless lake and magic burning his chest back into feeling—it would be enough. He felt buoyed, raised and invigorated and ready. 

One thousand five hundred years later, Merlin dug his fingers into the same dirt, fingernails breaking against the hard earth, bent over, and cried once more.

Open-mouthed, ugly, back-breaking sobs.

Thank you, thank you, thank you .

The lake that had carried hope away had just returned it. Not a restoration, but an acquiescence.

Emrys .

Merlin’s head snapped up. The waves were gathering in intensity.

That name, once so heavy and painful, twice in one day.

A warm tendril, almost like hands, held his face. Merlin fought the urge to flinch or pull the warmth closer.

Your king has been waiting .

Your king. Your king.

Your king yourking  

yourkingyourking —the words echoed around Merlin’s head until it ached. Until Merlin thought he might be sick or scream or drown in the tide of everything choking his lungs.

I’m about to die , Merlin realized. He could be with his family again. After years of considering this exact reality, of preparing and hoping and wondering, Merlin could only close his eyes. 

Thank you .

Merlin took a deep breath and waited.

But nothing happened. 

Merlin opened his eyes.

The lake was roiling now, buckling and lathering and collapsing against itself. Near the east bank, the water seemed to be swirling, creating a whirlpool. The lake was kicking up mist, and Merlin wiped a hand over his face to clear the beads of moisture there.

And then, slowly, a hand rose from the water, at the center of the whirlpool. And in that hand, fingers were curled around the golden hilt of a sword.

Merlin was dreaming.

Perhaps he had died already.

He hoped he had. Because this…

If he woke up in his own bed, he would throw himself into the road or into a river or god anything —

Merlin was up, knees failing before standing again.

He would not, he would not—

He stumbled, barely catching himself before he fell to the earth.

The hand was raising, the water revealing a chainmail-clad forearm, elbow, bicep.

Merlin sped up, throwing his bag to the ground and shedding his jacket as he ran around the edge of the lake. He would not be slowed he had to get there he had to get to the bank he had—

Merlin slammed into a stump, almost tripping entirely over it, but he kept pressing forward. He couldn’t even feel the hurt, but he knew he would be bleeding.

A blonde head crested from the waves.

Merlin couldn’t stop the sob that beat its way out of his throat. 

The sword was still aloft, and the figure was slowly treading through the water to the shore. He wouldn’t raise his head, face lowered as if in prayer. Merlin was closer, but the lake was massive. He considered jumping into the water, but the water slammed against the bank closest to him, forcing him to take a couple of steps away.

Merlin realized distantly that it was getting easier to run.

He started to sprint. 

He looked down to dodge a rock and realized that his hands…where minutes before his skin was delicate and papier-mâché, hanging loosely over his bones, his skin was…new. Young. Firmly stretched across solid bones and strong muscles.

Startled, his steps faltered, and he hit the ground, hard.

His whole body…

Merlin’s beard was gone. He reached a hand up, and his hair was no longer the straggly grey.

Merlin was…himself, again. Young and desperate and terrified.

The moment was interrupted by the sound of the lake sloshing. Merlin bent so he could look, and the figure was to his waist. Merlin scrambled to his feet, ripping grass from its roots in his desperation.

His heart was pounding in his chest, legs slamming against the hard ground, arms pumping.

Despite feeling more alive than ever, Merlin could only think, Please let me be dead.

Please let this be me dying. I can’t wake up alone again. I can’t keep waking up like this.

Merlin had spent weeks, months, centuries begging and pleading and willing to surrender anything to have him—Merlin wouldn’t think his name, as if the very thought of it would break apart whatever vision was in front of him—back. It couldn’t be this easy. It couldn’t— Please let me be dead .

The figure treaded onto the gravel of the shore, the sword dropping to his side. His head lifted.

It…

He….

Arthur .

It was Arthur. He turned his head to catch Merlin’s eyes across the bank as if he knew immediately where to find him.

Arthur.

Arthur!

Merlin didn’t think he could run any faster, but tilted forward, pushing forward harder than ever.

“Merlin!” Merlin was rounding the last curve, but the sound of his— Arthur’s! —voice almost sent him to his knees.

He had forgotten.

With the centuries, Arthur’s exact timbre and key and tone had faded from Merlin’s mind.

But this…it was home . It was comfort and strong arms and love and searing kisses against his spine and Arthur—

He was so close.

Arthur was barely a meter away, and was miraculously dry, as if the water had not touched him at all. Merlin wanted to dig his hands into Arthur’s blond hair, to fall at his knees and weep, to cut his torso open and expose the hollow places Arthur had left.

Merlin couldn’t bother to take an inventory of him before he threw himself forward.

He wouldn’t waste another second of breathing, of walking or running. He hoped they impacted hard. He hoped that his weight would send them to the ground and slam whatever hysteria Merlin was experiencing out of his system.

Arthur dropped his sword to the gravel and opened his arms wide and fuck —that sound. The last time Merlin had heard that sword fall to gravel and clang , Arthur was falling and—

Impact .

Arthur swept Merlin into his arms, and the ground Merlin was expecting never came. Arthur—Arthur— Arthur Arthur —steady and warm and real and tangible and here .

“ Merlin! ” Arthur was babbling his name into his hair, putting him back down so he could touch every inch of Merlin’s face, his torso, his arms. “ Merlin! ”

“ Arthur, ” Merlin could barely speak through the tightness in his throat. “Arthur, how are you here? Please, gods, please don’t leave again—”

“Never again.” Arthur laughed, picking Merlin up again so he could spin him quickly, the adrenaline running through his body making his hands shake as he pressed kisses to Merlin’s temple. 

Merlin fumbled for Arthur’s trembling hands, pressing them to his own chest tightly.

“I begged you to come back. For years. For decades —I—” Merlin rambled through his tears, trying to blink them awake as quickly as he could to see Arthur as clearly as possible.

“I heard you,” Arthur said, his smile blinding.

Merlin keened, sobs shaking his body so intensely that his breaths were ragged, fitful hyperventilations. 

“Let me—” Merlin was babbling, fumbling desperately with the clasps on Arthur’s armor. “I need to see—”

Merlin’s fingers were numb, entirely useless against the metal buckles. This alone almost sent Merlin to his knees. He had really forgotten .

After a decade of dressing Arthur, Merlin was convinced that he could do the armor in his sleep. And he could. Merlin was able to buckle these same clasps that his fingers were slipping over with his eyes closed.

He had forgotten. This small proof that the years had passed—that Merlin was a different person now—when Arthur was here, here, here, was too much, too much .

Merlin’s mouth opened in a wordless cry. Tears spilled over his cheeks as he tried again. And again.

“I can’t, I can’t —”

Arthur’s hand was cold against his own as he stilled his fingers. Merlin didn’t realize he was breathing heavily, hyperventilating, until Arthur’s steady eyes met his own.

“It’s alright. Merlin.” Arthur smiled, a slow, teasing thing that set every one of Merlin’s nerves alight. He seemed to like the way his name felt in his mouth, for he leaned forward, eyes soft. “ Merlin. ”

Merlin nodded, once, twice, until his head was stuck on a hinge, shaking apart with the rest of him. Merlin fell forward into Arthur’s chest, legs almost buckling beneath his weight.

“You’re here,” He rasped into Arthur’s sternum. He could hear the rumble of laughter. Merlin wanted to rip the metal apart with his bare hands, wanted to pry Arthur’s ribs open and curl up in the sound.

“Yes. Astute as ever, love.”

Love. Love. Love .

Merlin couldn’t help the sob that beat its way out of his throat.

“And may I just say, I’m so grateful you decided to shave that hideous beard,” Arthur chortled, tilting Merlin’s face up so they could look into each other’s eyes.

Arthur had not aged a second. It was as if whatever monster that had lived in Merlin’s chest for the past millennium picked the memory of Arthur straight from Merlin's deepest thoughts. That one tooth was still a tad crooked, he still had that furrow in his brow, and Merlin couldn’t look away from the small crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes.

The words were so ridiculous, that Merlin couldn’t resist the helpless giggles that took over. Arthur affected mock-sternness, brushing a thumb against Merlin's cheekbone.

“I have a reputation to uphold you know. I couldn’t be seen kissing an old man in public.”

Merlin snorted, feeling surreal, and looked up into Arthur’s beloved face.

“You are an old man, you cad.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes, “Excuse you, I believe that I died . I’m in fact still twenty-nine and a couple of months old. You on the other hand are older than dirt.”

Merlin sobered instantly, hands balling up before falling from Arthur’s chest. The metal was cold, but Merlin’s hands were numb for an entirely different reason now. The reminder, that Arthur shouldn’t be here, made Merlin’s throat close, his hands shake. 

“How are you back?” Merlin murmured. His doubt was starting to creep in, lingering in the spaces between Arthur’s quiet breaths. “Why are you back ? I don’t understand.”

Arthur’s hands were still holding Merlin’s, rubbing over his fingers and skin as if he could not stop moving for a second. Merlin appreciated the movement—he needed the constant reminder, the constant comfort.

“They told me that I could only return when Albion’s need is greatest. If…if you’re all that’s left, you brought me back.” 

Merlin had to brace himself against the flood of pure fire in his throat. Merlin had brought him back. How was that even possible? Merlin had begged for this for years. For decades. What had changed? Who had allowed this?

“They?”

“I don’t know. I never saw their faces. It’s…where I’ve been. Although I don’t know if it’s a place. I can’t explain it.” Arthur’s brow was furrowed, frustrated that he couldn’t put his thoughts to words. Merlin dismissed Arthur’s frustration with a tilt of his head. He had a sneaking suspicion that he knew where Arthur had been: at the other end of the bridge that Merlin had been forbidden to cross, all those centuries ago with his father. Back when Arthur had agonized over Merlin’s loss. Would they ever be able to stop mourning each other?

Arthur shifted his stance so he could pull Merlin close, cradling either side of his neck.

“I came back for you.”

Merin shook his head. The words were everything he had begged for. He had spent centuries sleeping under stars and being unable to breathe and desperate to have a home to belong to. He had spent his entire life—horrifically and unnaturally long—hearing those words in his dreams and waking up to an empty room. He couldn’t understand that Arthur was here. Even now, he feared breathing too heavily, as if Arthur would turn to sand at his next exhale.

Merlin’s hand strayed back to Arthur’s armor, desperate to see the spot where the sword had pierced. He needed to see it. He had to . He yanked ineffectually at the strap, tears blurring his vision.

“I’ve forgotten,” He said around a bitter laugh. I’ve forgotten your smile and your smell and the feel of your skin and your laugh and everything I’d sworn I’d never forget.

“You can relearn,” Arthur said calmly as if anything about this situation was normal. As if Merlin had been gone for a month or two, rather than the separation being a millennium and a half long. Merlin nodded slowly, reaching up once more to the clasp of Arthur’s armor. The buckle was unlike any Merlin had seen in the last couple of centuries, and had to focus. Arthur’s cold hands on his waist did not aid his concentration, but eventually, the buckle came undone.

Merlin looked up, satisfied, into Arthur’s face which was wearing a patronizing half-smile—a look he had perfected in the first decade of his life. 

Merlin rolled his eyes and had to catch his breath as he turned to the one on Arthur’s left shoulder. He had thought he’d never get to do this again: the wordless conversation, the gentle hands on armor, the breath shared.

When the next buckle came undone, Merlin dropped the armor carelessly, reaching down immediately to pull the chainmail off. It was much heavier than he remembered, and he had to let Arthur help him.

Merlin didn’t even see where it landed, for his hand was pressing into Arthur’s left side, fingers probing anxiously.

“Oh, Merlin,” Arthur said softly. “That was what—?”

“I needed—I needed to make sure,” Merlin said, through a tight throat as his fingers ran over slightly raised skin.

A scar.

Merlin’s tears came back in full force.

A scar . As if that was all it was.

As if Arthur had walked away with his life that day, as if the hurt that had been wrought could mend itself.

Arthur placed a hand over Merlin’s own, where it rested against the heat of his skin. Merlin had to bite down on his bottom lip to keep from sobbing.

“I’m so sorry, Arthur,” Merlin looked up into Arthur’s eyes, so blue that Merlin could go blind with it. “I’m so sorry.”

Arthur just shook his head, reaching up to unbutton the first couple of buttons of Merlin's shirt. His fingers were shaking. He moved the collar aside, down, to reveal Merlin’s own scar from the fight in the woods all of those years ago. It was still an ugly, pink mark as if it had never quite healed right. Every time they had made love, Arthur would press a kiss to the skin, the events surrounding it still too new and harrowing, even years later.

Now, he ran his fingers over the raised skin gently, a small rueful smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

“Now, we match,” Arthur said softly, eyes unstraying from Merlin’s own scar, as if he too, couldn’t believe that Merlin was alive. Merlin let his tears fall.

What a scene they must make: two crying men by a lake, weeping over scars that had long since been healed.

Been healed.

Merlin let out a breath he had been holding for one thousand four hundred and seventy-five years and six hours.

“ Please let this be real ,” Merlin muttered, reaching out for that old friend Doubt that lived, curled up in his chest.

“I’m real, Merlin,” Arthur sounded a little frustrated.

“How can I believe that?” Merlin said, a tinge of hysteria tinting his words. “I’ve spent years waiting for you, doubting that you’d ever come back, convinced that Camelot never existed! People think you’re a myth! I’m the last magical thing on this planet, Arthur. Do you know how hard it’s been to live through this?”

Arthur’s eyes were endlessly sad, as he reached up with the hand not on Merlin’s shoulder to hold his face.

“No,” He said, “I don’t.” 

Merlin had to close his eyes against the wave of agony that flooded his chest. In a way, they would never be able to understand each other now. Where Merlin had lived too much, decades and centuries longer than any one mind should be expected to, Arthur had a dearth of life—he had been robbed of marriage and children and growing old and seeing more than a set number of sunsets.

“I’m real,” Arthur murmured. “I can’t prove it.” He tilted Merlin’s face up, so he could look into his eyes. “But I’m going to be here when you wake up tomorrow. And the day after that. And every day after that until you’re absolutely and completely tired of me.”

“Never,” Merlin swore, shaking his head in disbelief. Things like that—things that good —couldn’t happen to Merlin. “Never.”

“Liar,” Arthur grinned. “Day three and you’re going to be begging for this lake to take me back.”

Merlin chuffed a laugh, tilting his face into Arthur’s palm so he could breathe in the scent of his skin. It smelled like a home Merlin had forgotten he had, and he had to brace himself against the bite of tears.

“Believe me. Please.” Arthur said quietly, eyes endlessly sad.

Merlin caught Arthur’s hand in his own, tilting his fingers to press against his wrist, where a pulse was beating steadily. He exhaled shakily.

“Alright,” Merlin nodded. “Alright.”

He took a steadying breath, but his lungs felt as if they couldn’t inhale. Arthur didn’t seem satisfied and leaned back so he could face Merlin head-on.

“Don’t you get it? I’m alive because of you.” Arthur chuffed a laugh, tears lining his eyes. “You’ve saved me again. Like you always have.”

A noise burned its way out of his throat. This…this had to be real. He couldn’t understand it but it had to be true. Arthur had never said that to him, in all of his dreams, in all of his imaginings. 

This. This was real. Arthur was here. Arthur was here .

Merlin cried freely once more, pressing desperate kisses to Arthur’s palm. It was starting again, he could feel it. He knew it in the way he knew most things—an ache, deep in his bones. The cycle was reborn—the coin had been re-minted and would have to be spent.

Merlin fell forward into Arthur’s arms.

Two halves of a whole, mended once more. A home found and lost and recovered. A once king that was now the future. 

A legend, who was now once again a man. And a sorcerer, who was now human once more. A destiny that had now been fulfilled.

But most importantly, two men that were clinging to each other, refusing to be parted again.