Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They found Morgana’s remains in the woods. She’s not the only one they found.

Leon seems to hesitate before delivering his report. Leon doesn’t usually hesitate, and his uncertainty sends a wave of unease through Arthur. 

“It’s Merlin, Sire,” says Leon finally. His voice is halting in anticipation of Arthur’s reaction. Arthur’s stomach drops, because Leon wouldn’t sound like this if Merlin was well. “We found him.”

Arthur swallows tightly. “Alive?”

“We’re not sure,” Leon replies. “We thought perhaps it would be best for you to see for yourself.”

The ride is quiet and tense. Arthur trusts Leon and refuses to ask what it is that awaits them or why it makes his men so unsettled. It wouldn’t be long until he sees for himself, anyway. Patience is a virtue, isn’t that what they always say? Yet he can’t tell what he hates more; the fact that his men know something he doesn’t, or the sad looks they shoot his way when they think he isn’t looking. It bothers him like an itch on his back that he can’t quite scratch. He wants to snap at them to stop bloody staring, but doesn’t want to give them any reason to justify all the staring to begin with.

It’s difficult to describe what Arthur is feeling, because not even Arthur can begin to understand how he is feeling. Like a great walking chasm, perhaps, with equal amounts of dread and cautious hope around the crevices. Like a bowstring stretched taut, moments before the arrow is let loose. Like a ball of anxious energy, vibrating in place without an outlet. He doesn’t know. It doesn’t really matter. 

When Leon calls finally for the party to a halt, Arthur is so anxious he feels sick to the stomach. He is almost scared to look, and to be fair, he doesn’t even know what to look for.

“That’s him, Sire,” Leon says, pointing at what appears to be a still figure in the distance, clad all in white, “that’s Merlin.”

Merlin stands motionless, smooth as if carved out of marble. One arm is protectively raised in front of his face, as if to stop an imminent danger. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out which imminent danger he was facing. It’s this dynamic position of his arm that tells Arthur what happened.

Arthur’s feet move as if on their own accord. From up close, he can see every crease on Merlin’s skin, every strand of hair, preserved in perpetuity. But it’s the look on his face that causes Arthur’s lungs to seize. Merlin’s mouth is open, trapped in a silent scream, his eyes wide and unseeing. 

Nothing could’ve stopped Arthur from reaching out then. In morbid curiosity, perhaps, or horrified disbelief. He touches Merlin’s skin; it is hard and unyielding. There’s no warmth there, no life. No spark to indicate that Merlin is there at all.

Arthur snatches his finger back as if burnt, but he couldn’t stop himself from calling out Merlin’s name. “It’s me,” Arthur says. Rather nonsensically, because what difference would his presence make to a man who has been entombed in stone? “It’s Arthur.”

Merlin, of course, doesn’t reply. 

Arthur wants to run. He wants to go back to his castle and forget that he was ever here at all. He wants to continue to pretend that wherever Merlin is, he’s alive and well, doing stupid little magic shows to delight village children. Even if it means that he’s far away from Arthur.

The Merlin in Arthur’s head, at the very least, is happy.

Arthur doesn’t want to be there, standing in the woods, staring at the cold, hard truth. All those years that Arthur spent searching, begging for any news, and Merlin had been so close to Camelot. Gods, not even a full day’s ride away. Still fighting what ought to be Arthur’s battles, all on his own.

Morgana is defeated, and while that may be all well and good, Arthur feels as though he just lost everything all over again. 

In all the years Leon has known Arthur, he has never seen Arthur look so shaken. He has always been a self-assured, confident leader, even in the face of colossal uncertainty. He didn’t hesitate when they faced an army whose size dwarfed their own. Not when they faced the dragon, not when they’re facing other impossible odds. 

In all those times, Leon has never seen Arthur’s control slip once—certainly not like this. He can hear Arthur’s sharp inhale as he steps closer to Merlin, and can see the way the hesitant, quiet hope on Arthur’s face slowly morphs into despair. 

Leon averts his eyes in an attempt to give his king some semblance of privacy. He hopes the other knights are doing the same. 

“Merlin?” Arthur’s voice is so soft, so tremulous, full of old pain that never truly went away. Leon desperately wishes the wind hadn’t carried the sound to his ears. “It’s me. It’s Arthur.”

Leon hears Arthur take a deep steadying breath, and then another. He straightens his back. When he turns back to face his men, his features are schooled into an impassive mask. But Leon has known Arthur since they were children, when they were only young boys with wooden swords. He is privileged enough to call Arthur a friend. He knows Arthur well enough to see something fractured in Arthur’s eyes. 

When he speaks, his voice is controlled. “How long?”

“We hadn’t patrolled this area recently,” Leon replies apologetically. They had been too preoccupied with reports of a white dragon in the east. “But judging by the state of Morgana, I would say no more than a couple of weeks.”

Arthur nods. His movements are jerky.

“Sire—” one of the other knights begins to say, but Arthur raises his hand. The knight falls silent. 

“Bring him home,” Arthur orders. Without another word and nary a second glance, he mounts his horse and rides off. 

The other knights look to Leon for guidance. 

“You heard the King,” Leon tells them. “We bring him back to Camelot.”

Leon finds Arthur alone by the stream, away from the main camp. He rustles every leaf, snapping every twig he can find under his boot, giving Arthur plenty of warning.

Arthur turns to face him, a filled water skein in his hand. His face is deliberately blank, but Leon knows Arthur all too well. No amount of self-control can hide the haunted look in his eyes. 

“I’m sorry, Sire.”

Arthur looks grave, but he nods in acknowledgement. “Thank you, Leon.” 

Five years ago, the response would’ve been something along the lines of a fake laugh and an insouciant whatever for?, but Arthur is not the same man he was five years ago. He has been forced to come into his own, break the perfect image of his father that he built in his own head. And he’s had to do it all without the man he loved by his side—the man who forced Arthur to confront the errors of his father’s ways to begin with. 

“Can you believe it?” Arthur chuckles then, but there’s no humour there. “He still wears those ridiculous neckerchiefs.”

“Indeed,” Leon smiles. This, at least, is more familiar territory. 

Arthur goes quiet again. “Any signs of Gwaine?”

“At present, we have no reason to believe that there was a third person at the tie of the battle.”

“He’d never abandon Merlin,” Arthur comments, if bitterly. His tone speaks of years of regret, laced with more than a little amount of envy. “He’d follow Merlin everywhere. I can’t imagine he’d leave Merlin in his time of need.”

Leon doesn’t comment. Gwaine is a fiercely loyal man, but there’s no doubt as to where his loyalties lie. “We’ll continue to scour the forest.”

“See to it that you do,” Arthur nods with approval. After a beat, he speaks again. “Is it—he—a heavy weight to carry?”

“Nothing we’re unhappy to shoulder, Sire.”

“No,” Arthur agrees. “I suppose he never was.”

When they arrived in Camelot, they were faced with another problem: they don’t know where to place Merlin. It would be beyond grotesque to put him alongside other sculptures lining Camelot’s hallways—actual statues that were never, at any point, alive. Arthur had half the mind to place him in the catacombs that snake under Camelot, along with other effigies of the old kings and queens of Camelot. The only thing keeping him from doing so is the fact that he can’t bear thinking of Merlin, cold and alone in the dark. 

In the end, they put the statue of Merlin in his old room. Arthur would give everything to forget the look on Gaius’ face when he truly sees what fate had befallen his son. 

“Morgana did this?” Gaius asks faintly. 

“We found her body in front of him.” It’s neither a confirmation nor a denial, but it’s the best that Arthur could offer. “Is he—“ Arthur swallows. “Gaius, is he dead?”

“It’s too soon to say,” replies Gaius. “Was there anyone else with them?” 

“We only found Morgana.”

“It would be difficult to determine without knowing what truly happened.”

“My men will be scouring the forest,” Arthur assures him. “If there is something to find, they will find it.”

Gaius nods. He looks very old suddenly, and very frail. 

Arthur stands, wanting to give Gaius space to mourn. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Thank you, Sire.” He doesn’t look at Arthur. And then, in very faintly, he adds, “you’ve brought my boy home.”

It doesn’t sink in. 

Everything feels, curiously, the same. Merlin has been gone for so long that him being gone for longer will not theoretically change a thing. The Court Sorcerer position has been filled. Magic has been allowed to return. Camelot’s greatest enemy has been vanquished, and Arthur’s destiny has been fulfilled. Merlin wasn’t there for any of it. 

The prospect that Merlin will never return to Arthur shouldn’t bother him; in a way, Arthur has been grieving for Merlin for years.

Yet Arthur cannot mourn, properly mourn, until he knows for sure that Merlin is gone. He still doesn’t have that closure. 

A part of him is convinced that Merlin is still in there, frozen and trapped but alive. Perhaps it’s nothing but delusion, a way to seek solace because he never had the chance to say goodbye. He tells himself that something in him would know if Merlin died. He would feel it, somehow. He refuses to believe that they had grown so far apart—that Arthur had pushed Merlin away so irrevocably—that Arthur didn’t even notice that Merlin had died and found out this way. 

All those years of friendship, and all it took was one grave misstep. He has spent all the years since trying to rectify his mistake, but in the end, it wasn’t enough. 

He’s done everything he’s supposed to do—restore the balance and all that. He refuses to believe that destiny could be so cruel.

When the night falls and the moon hangs high in the sky, Arthur sneaks into Gaius’ room.

“You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?” He peers closely at Merlin. “You’d tell me if you’re truly gone.”

Arthur has always loved Merlin in this light. He looks ethereal bathed in the moonlight. Otherworldly. Perhaps he is, like the god some of the druids believe him to be.

Now, the expression on Merlin’s face leaves him with an ache somewhere deep in his bones. Arthur turns away. He always hated to see Merlin in pain.

When they return to the copse where they found Merlin and Morgana, the forest seems unnaturally still. The wind itself seems to stop before they reach the trees in the copse, and the leaves on the trees don’t flutter like they are wont to do. There was no bird merrily chirping along. The clops of their horses’ hooves sound unnervingly loud among all the silence. It’s as though the earth knows that something was wrong.

They didn’t find anything new. 

They find Gwaine, naturally, in a tavern.

“Well, well,” he drawls, not bothering to look up from his tankard. “Who do we have here?”

“Well met, Gwaine,” Arthur stretches out a hand, and Gwaine, after a moment of consideration, takes it. 

“What brings the King of Camelot round these parts then?”

“You know exactly what.”

“No, I want to hear you say it.”

“Merlin,” Arthur grits out. “Of course it’s Merlin.”

Gwaine grins. “Came to your senses, did you?” Gwaine sneaks a glance Arthur’s way and scoffs at something that he sees on Arthur’s face. “Took you some time,” he takes a swig of his ale. “But hey, you got there eventually.”

“You heard, then.”

“Bit hard to miss, mate.”

“Then what on earth kept you for so long?”

“Don’t blame me,” Gwaine sneers, “Merlin was the one who wanted to stay away.”

Arthur feels his heart shatter in his chest. He reckons everyone can hear it echo for miles. 

Arthur goes to a druid settlement, where Mordred is their leader. The druids part for him, but Arthur wishes they hadn’t. They part from him, and judging by the looks on their faces, they know exactly why he’s there. 

“We grieve with you,” Mordred says, handing Arthur a goblet as he pours his own. 

Arthur tilts his head in thanks. “How did you know?”

“Emrys’ downfall is one that has been foreseen for centuries.” 

“So you knew,” Arthur snaps. He puts his goblet down, if slightly too hard, and takes his hand off the table so Mordred doesn’t see it shake. “You knew all along that this was going to happen, and you fail to warn me.”

“None can know for sure, though it is right that his death has been foretold,” Mordred replies. “There are many paths to the future, each leading to a different outcome. This is merely one of the many outcomes that have been prophesied.”

Wouldn’t need magic to understand that, Arthur thinks, but he doesn’t voice it out loud. What good is a prophecy, then, if it doesn’t tell you anything real?

“Did you know where he was?” Arthur presses. Did you lie when I asked you if you knew?

Mordred shoots Arthur a pitying look, his demeanour cool and unflappable. “You chose to banish him,” Mordred points out blithely. Not that Arthur ever needed reminding. “He chose to stay away. I chose to respect his decision.”

Do not blame me for the consequences of your own actions.

“Tell me this, then,” Arthur retorts. “Is he alive?”

“He is frozen in time,” Mordred replies. “But how to restore him to life, I cannot tell you.”

Chapter Text

This is the story of how the Great Purge started.

When Arthur was born and Ygraine died, Nimueh was never banished. Uther wanted her dead, so he went straight for her jugular as if he could ever kill the High Priestess of the Old Religion. He didn’t see a friend who tried her best to give him the heir he always wanted; he only saw red, he saw evil—the devil who took away the only person he had ever truly loved.

In the beginning, Nimueh, too, saw only a friend who was blinded by grief. And it wasn’t as if Nimueh felt no remorse. Ygraine was her friend too—she was her friend first. Ygraine wasn’t the one who was supposed to die—it was always supposed to be someone else, a faceless form in the crowd. Nimueh fled then, going on a self-imposed exile, consumed with guilt and grief.

Except, of course, the killings didn’t stop when Nimueh left. In an attempt to coax her out, Uther started burning her followers, and then those who followed her religion, and then those who used magic at all. Advisors who dared to speak in her defence were hung in droves, their families stripped from wealth and exiled to far-reaching corners of the land, where they would live on, penniless until they died with their hungry children.

The stench didn’t leave the citadel for weeks. 

Those with magic tried fighting back, of course. Those who sympathised with their causes helped any way they could. But they were scattered and disorganised, weakened and torn inside out with their loss, their grief, and their fury. It should’ve been a righteous war, but it all happened too fast and too suddenly and it took them by surprise. They didn’t have time to plan, they didn’t have time to join their forces and unite against the mad King Uther. 

They watched as those sworn to protect their realm turned their swords against them. Then, slowly, they learned to disagree quietly and keep their heads down. Their sorcerer friends would call them cowards as they were torn out of their homes and murdered before their children, but what was there to do? They were scared for their lives too. You bend or you break, and you can’t feed your children if you’re dead. 

So Nimueh never returned. What was the point, anyway? It’s not as if the Purge would stop if she came back to Camelot and faced Uther. She would burn, along with her followers and her kin, along with other sorcerers and sorceresses, and who would carry on the word of the Old Religion?

Once the executions became less and less frequent, the King changed tack. He was mad, sure, but let it never be said that he wasn’t cunning. He went on his balcony and issued a public apology, swearing blind that it’s a new day, it was a mistake, magic users would be compensated for all they had suffered if only they would come forward. 

The burnings began anew, but the people won’t forget this time. 

Arthur was four when he learned that he didn’t have a mother.

He simply didn’t have any framework to compare it to. He never realised that something was missing. He was always surrounded by people—he had his father, he had his nursemaid, and he had Gaius. He had suitable friends to play with, and friendly knights he looked up to, who taught him stories about quests and bravery. 

It wasn’t until he saw the affection that his friends had with ladies who were not their nursemaids. He wanted that closeness; he craved what they had. So Arthur had gone to his Father, demanding for a mother. All his friends had one, why didn’t he? They weren’t the Prince, he was, yet how come they could have something that he couldn’t?

Arthur attended his very first execution the very next day.

When Arthur was seven, his father gave him a puppy. Uther thought that it would teach Arthur invaluable lessons about responsibility, and what it meant to care for another life that would so heavily upon him. Arthur trained the puppy every day, even on days where he would be exhausted from training and all his lessons. The puppy grew into a handsome beast, loyal and fiercely protective. He was good-natured, friendly and well-behaved, with a particular penchant for sniffing out unsavoury characters.

Arthur loved his dog. He’d sneak him treats when the kennel-master wasn’t looking and exercise him whenever he could. He’d play with his dog and give him belly rubs, never too proud to demonstrate his affection. The dog, in return, would follow Arthur everywhere, nipping closely at his heel, growling at anybody who dared to come close with less than pure intent. 

When Arthur was fifteen, he made the mistake of questioning his father’s decision in public. A small child was to be burned at dawn—the child couldn’t have been more than seven years of age. Her neighbour caught him making things fly. Arthur had protested, though not as fiercely as Morgana had.

He never saw his dog again. He didn’t cry, but he certainly learned his lesson.

Arthur was nineteen when Merlin arrived in Camelot. Merlin was strange and Arthur couldn’t put a finger on why. He was a mass of contradictions; a lowly peasant boy who knew how to read, a scaredy servant who would hide behind trees when the bandits attacked but would tag along without fear as Arthur rode into the jaws of death. He had no knowledge of courtly behaviours and tact, seemingly disinclined to learn, but he was unmistakably clever enough to be Gaius’ apprentice. He was unlike anybody Arthur ever met, and Arthur was so intrigued. 

Arthur was never a patient man. When presented with a puzzle, he’d rather hack it to bits than sit and have at it for hours. Merlin is an enigma, that much is clear, but something about Merlin drew Arthur in, and once Arthur was in, he never wanted to leave. 

It took Arthur years to realise how terribly he loves Merlin. It seemed so obvious looking back, but then again things are always clearer in hindsight. The bone-deep fear that rattles his core every time Merlin brushed too closely with death, the aching worry that surges his blood when Merlin goes missing, the simple joy of talking and laughing with Merlin, the spark on his skin when Merlin touched him—they all had a name. There’s a reason why Merlin can brighten his day with a daft smile, and it has nothing to do with magic. 

Sometimes, Arthur would look at Merlin, and golden warmth would flood his chest. He doesn’t know how a person can feel so much and not burst apart at the seams, but when his world is nothing but bland duty and unceasing responsibility, that simple feeling makes him feel alive. 

As king, everything that he is belongs to the crown, and he is nothing more than a means to serve his land, and his people. This, though—this is his to have, and his to cherish.

Merlin was found out the same way he arrived at his job: saving Arthur’s life from an assassin. It made an absolute perfect sense, if one was poetically inclined.

“You saved my life,” Arthur breathed out, numb and with shock. He couldn’t think. His mind was blank, detached, as though he was far away. Magic. Merlin had used magic. Merlin had turned to the thing that killed his mother, his father, and took away his sister. The thing that had tried to kill him, over and over, all throughout his life. 

Merlin lowered his arms slowly, as if to be less threatening, having just killed a man. The gold was fading from his eyes. He looked devastated. “Arthur—“

“Don’t,” Arthur snapped. “You’ve betrayed me.” Morgana did. Lancelot and Guinevere did. Why not Merlin too?

“I saved your life!”

“With magic!” Arthur bellowed. “How long?”

Merlin’s eyes were so very bright. All traces of his magic were gone, but Arthur couldn’t forget what he saw. The assassin laid dead across the room, his blade wrenched from his hand and plunged into his own heart. 

“I was born with it,” answered Merlin. “I’ve only ever used it for you.”

“You’ve lied to me.” Arthur said in disgust, “you’ve lied to me since the day we met. ”

“Arthur, you know me,” Merlin pleaded, “you know me better than anyone.”

“Maybe I don’t,” Arthur murmured. It hurt so much to breathe. “Maybe I never knew you at all.”

Arthur chucked Merlin into the dungeons. He had used magic, yes, but he had also saved Arthur’s life. It wasn’t as if they had any precedent for this. The guards didn’t ask any questions, which was really more of a testament to how often Merlin ended up in the dungeons. 

Arthur visited Merlin, deep in the night, and tossed cold iron collars at Merlin’s feet without a word. Merlin paled at the sight of them. Arthur noted the blood draining from Merlin’s face with something akin to grim satisfaction and wondered when he became so cold. 

“Put it on.”

“Arthur—“

“If what you said is true—“  if you cared about me at all,  “—then you will put the bloody collar on.”

Merlin flinched, but he took the cold iron without protest. His hands tremble when he snaps it into place. He takes one look at Arthur, hurt and disbelieving, then promptly crumbled at Arthur’s feet.

“I don’t understand.”

“He’s magic.”

Arthur scowls. “I know that.”

“I apologise, perhaps I should have been more clear,” Gaius replied, but there isn’t any real apology in his tone. “Merlin doesn’t use magic. He is magic.”

Arthur clenched his fist. “How is that possible?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

“Merlin doesn’t.” Gaius reached out for Merlin’s wrist and gently took his pulse. “Even now, he is slipping away. Cutting off his magic is like cutting off his lifeblood—if you wish to keep him alive, Sire, I must implore you to unlock his shackles.”

Arthur grit his teeth. He had hoped for a compromise, that Merlin would be able to meet him halfway. Give up his magic, and Arthur would forgive him of his transgressions. It seemed highly unlikely now. “Fine.”

Arthur watched, dispassionately, as the collar was unshackled. Immediately, Merlin’s eyes snapped open, his irises gold, and he awoke with a gasp. He sputtered and coughed, rolling off the bed and onto the floor. It was a gruesome sight; Merlin’s back arched as he continues to hack violently. 

Arthur stepped back in alarm and looked to Gaius in askance. “What’s happening?” he demanded. 

“It’s his magic, sire,” Gaius says, but he looks as startled as Arthur. “It’s rushing back all at once.”

And this thing wasn’t supposed to be evil?

Arthur made his decision. “When he wakes, tell him to leave,” he said, refusing to look at Merlin's pitiful plight. “I don’t want to hear any of it. If he comes back, I’ll light the pyre myself. And Gaius?” he looked at Gaius then, making it clear that he knew. You harboured him, Arthur thought. You hid him. When your loyalty should be to me. “I won’t ask.”

Chapter Text

Merlin wasn’t even gone a year when, much to Arthur’s horror, he began to understand. 

It’s no secret that Arthur is quick to anger, and his blood rushes hot to his head. The thrill that comes with his ire would force the words he didn’t mean right out of his mouth, and it wouldn’t be until later that he would lie in bed, regretting ever saying anything at all. Arthur is rash, a man of action, swinging swords first and asking questions later. But that’s not how kings are supposed to operate.

Arthur wondered if Merlin would ever forgive him.

Undoing Uther’s laws took time. His hatred spread wide and took deep root, and Arthur had to introduce changes slowly for fear of rebellion. He began with the druids first, sending them trade envoys and inviting them back to live in Camelot. He strengthened fledgeling relations with kingdoms that never succumbed to Uther’s campaign of hate, forging new alliances where he could. He learned all he could about magic and the Old Religion, ensuring that he could counter any arguments that may arise in court.

When the ban on magic was finally lifted, the kingdom waited with bated breath. 

The people hadn’t forgotten. They remembered what happened when Uther devised the same ploy, all those years ago. They still remembered the screams of their friends and their families. And when Arthur appeared on the same balcony, appealing for those with magic to come forward so they can be made Court Sorcerer—only two years after his servant was sent away for using magic—they dismissed his appeal. 

They were not foolish. They knew what happened when sorcerers were “sent away”. 

Two years after Merlin was exiled, Arthur sent out search parties. Entire forests were scoured, and then scoured again. The druids politely said that they’ll keep an ear out, but Arthur knew that their loyalty was to Merlin first. 

He spent many nights awake thinking about all that he would say to Merlin if he ever came home. 

I’m sorry, he’d say. Thank you. I never deserved you, but I think now you know it too. 

Merlin was right to hide his magic from Arthur, and wasn’t that a difficult thing to swallow?

The search for a Court Sorcerer did not go smoothly. Arthur announced the position far and wide, but the one answer he waited for never came. 

When it became clear that Merlin was not returning, Arthur approached Mordred first. He had saved Mordred’s life, once upon a time, and then Mordred saved his later on. But if Arthur thought saving each other’s lives was a basis for servitude, he was wrong.

“I am humbled that you think of me, Your Majesty,” Mordred had said, bowing, and Arthur’s heart sank. “But I must decline. I belong here, amongst my people.”

Arthur couldn’t understand. “Surely you could affect more change at the court?” he cajoled. “It is my wish that all of my people are fairly represented on the table, and I can think of no one better to represent the druids.”

“I am honoured, Sire,” Mordred replied firmly. “But I will not take the place which is not mine to take. I wish you the best of luck in your search.”

In the end, Gaius seemed to be the natural choice, but that didn’t go smoothly, either.

“I am not so sure if the magical community will accept me with open arms, Sire.”

Well, if they had better ideas, perhaps they should’ve come forward,  Arthur wanted to grouse. Couldn’t they see that he was trying? He wondered if it was worth trying at all when it felt as though he was being rebuffed at every turn. It was an uphill battle, and Arthur was so exhausted—would it be so hard to believe that Arthur was not Uther?

“Nonsense, Gaius. Your loyalty to the Crown is indisputable. You have served me well, and my father before me.”

“That is exactly why I mustn’t,” Gaius interjected mildly. “If it is their trust you wish to earn, they will not see kindly to you appointing an old man who betrayed his kin to serve your father.”

“Who, then?” Arthur burst out. “Merlin’s not here, and—“ Arthur took a deep breath, then changed tack. “You harboured a sorcerer right under my nose,” he said. “Right under my father’s nose. You broke the law every day to harbour not just any sorcerer, but the one they call Emrys. You taught him everything you know. You hid his father before him, and led his father to the woman who would become his mother.” 

“You served my father during the Purge, that is true,” Arthur continued, emboldened when Gaius smiled hesitantly. “But if it wasn’t for you, Emrys would’ve died a long time ago.”

Three years after Merlin left, a fever swept through Camelot. Arthur had it bad, the fever left him bed-bound for days. They downplayed the severity of his disease, of course. Without an heir apparent, it would not do to cause his kingdom undue worry. It was just a fever, after all, and Arthur was a healthy man in his prime. He was bound to recover. 

Gaius had looked after Arthur ever since he was a babe. He delivered Arthur himself and still remembered the loud squall Arthur made as he took his first breath. He had seen Arthur in every state possible—crying over scrapes as a little boy when Uther wasn’t looking, stoic and unflinching as Gaius washed his wounds, motionless and near-death and Merlin puttering nervously by his side. This, though, was something else entirely:

Arthur’s eyes were wide, as if glazed over, fixed at the foot of his bed. His face was splotched with red, bright with fever, but his gaze was warm and honeyed. His hand was outstretched, as if reaching out for something. Gaius followed his gaze, but he saw no one there. 

It didn't matter. Arthur was delirious, but he was happy. 

“Merlin,” Arthur beamed, sighing. He didn’t seem to notice Gaius’ presence, and Gaius couldn’t remember the last time Arthur smiled like this. It made him look like a boy again. “Where the hell have you been, I have so much to tell you—“

Arthur stood at the market. There was something contemplative on his face. He took in the colourful charms and amulets, vividly-coloured vials and remedies. He took in the bustling stalls, where magical and non-magical folk were mingling freely, as if the Purge never happened at all.

Leon took in the changes Arthur had made in the years since he sent Merlin away and watched as Arthur's eyes flit from stall to stall. 

"Do you think he knows?" Arthur asked softly. 

Leon didn't know how to comfort his king. That was always Merlin's job, but Merlin wasn't here. 

For your sake, I hope he doesn't, Leon thought, but he'd never say the words. But Leon wasn't one to use empty lies to appease Arthur, either. "Perhaps."

Leon wondered if this was to be Arthur's tragedy—that he would spend a lifetime trying to reach for someone who was out of his reach, trying to rectify the one mistake that finally drove away the man he loved.  

Arthur thought of Merlin often. It would be the silly little things—the warm moments they shared, moments that seemed so inconsequential at the time. The brush of his fingers on Arthur’s skin; the nudge of his shoulder against Arthur’s own. Arthur hoarded all the details like a jealous man, terrified that he’d forget the crinkle in the corners of Merlin’s eyes when he laughed, or the dip in his cheeks when he smiled. If Arthur was never to see Merlin again, let him live on in Arthur’s memory. 

And then, unbidden, he’d think of Merlin in the dungeon. The despair on his face when Arthur tossed the collar at his feet, the way the light went out of his eyes. He’d think of Merlin, clasping together the collar that would cut off his magic and drain him of life at Arthur’s request, just so Arthur would trust him again. Arthur might as well have lit the pyre under his feet then and there. Merlin, prone and bloodless on Gaius’ bench, his breaths almost too shallow to mark, the cold iron that Arthur wanted him to wear tight around his throat. And then, Arthur would think about how he could ever claim to love Merlin.

Chapter Text

“Merlin was the one who wanted to stay away.” 

It takes Arthur some time to find his voice again. When he does, he couldn’t stop himself from blurting out what is possibly the most preposterous question that will ever leave his lips: “Did he ever say why?”

Gwaine stares in wild disbelief. “You banished him,” he points out hotly. “He sacrificed everything to save your life, over and over again, and you sent him away, not to return under the pain of death.”

But I repealed the ban and welcomed magic back into Camelot, Arthur wants to say, but he remains quiet instead. It’s the best thing he can do.

“You cannot know how much he lost,” Gwaine continues. “You cannot know how much he had suffered. And then, right when he needed you the most, you turned him away.”

At that, Arthur feels his hackles rise with the need to defend himself. “He lied to me—“

Gwaine scoffs. “It’s not exactly difficult to see why—“

Arthur doesn’t know why he is stoking Gwaine’s anger like this. He doesn’t know who he’s trying to justify himself to—they both know that Arthur’s fucked it. They both know that Merlin was right to hide it from Arthur. 

“You weren’t there.” Gwaine sounds defiant. “You didn’t see him.” 

Arthur flinches. He wants to ask but is afraid to hear the answer. Why would he want to know, anyway? What is it that he wants to hear—that Merlin suffered in his absence, much like Arthur still hurts? It would be nothing less than perverse, especially considering that Arthur was the reason why Merlin suffered at all. 

“What is he like, with his magic loose?” Arthur asks instead. He wants to collect and hoard every little bit about Merlin’s life that he missed out on. But perhaps he just wants it to sting. What’s he like, when he doesn’t have to hide from me?

Gwaine pauses for a beat, considering. “Free,” he finally replies. 

He says it so casually, so matter-of-factly, but he must’ve known how his answer would devastate Arthur. Gods, Arthur aches with how badly he would’ve loved to see Merlin—whole and unrestrained, his magic flowing freely through his fingertips, as natural as life itself. Merlin’s laughter echoes in Arthur’s memory, bright and ringing.

“The village children loved him,” Gwaine continues, but his voice sounds far away. Arthur smiles at the thought nonetheless. “And the adults are always ever so grateful. He could restore water to their dry wells, healed the crops when they were blighted. I think,” Gwaine takes a deep drink. “He just wanted to be useful. And not—not in a destructive way.”

Not by killing, Arthur hears, and has to suppress a flinch. Not by inflicting injuries to others. Not by causing anybody harm. That has never been in Merlin’s nature. 

“I can imagine.”

“Oh, can you.” 

Arthur elects to ignore him, but Gwaine isn’t really someone one can truly ignore. 

“You put a collar on him,” Gwaine reminds him. He says it so blithely, but Arthur doesn’t miss the venom in his voice. That tone alone would have been enough to get someone flogged, but Arthur wants to hear it. “I would’ve had more respect for you if you had your sword at his throat. But no. He saved your life with magic, and the first thing you tried to do was to enslave him.”

Arthur opens his mouth to protest, but Gwaine wouldn’t let him. “What would happen when the next magical threat comes along?” Gwaine’s voice drops dangerously. “Would you unleash him, use him as a weapon, and then collar him again once you’re done?”

“I would never—” Arthur’s blood runs cold. “I didn’t think—“

“That’s right,” Gwaine interrupts him. “You didn’t. That’s not even the worst thing—the worst thing is that he let you. For what it’s worth, fair play to you for trying,” Gwaine concedes, tipping his tankard in Arthur’s direction. “But if there’s one thing you’re yet to learn, it’s this,” Gwaine says, sounding threatening. “Sometimes, a change of heart doesn’t fix everything. Sometimes, it really is too late, and you can’t always make it better, no matter how hard you wish otherwise.”

Arthur sees his reflection in his mirror and catalogues the ways his body has changed over the years. The scars he has collected, the way his history wrote itself onto his skin. He turns away before he can stare too long. 

He rubs a hand on his face, feeling drained. He was so young when he turned Merlin away. Old enough to know better, but still. Only a boy, barely into adulthood, thrust into kingship he was in no way prepared for. He used to think that the world can sort itself into rigid dichotomies. Wars are for the brave, magic for the wicked. His father good, Morgana evil. He had much to learn, then.

He used to think that sending Merlin away was a form of clemency. His father would think it a weakness. But Merlin had served Arthur well, saving Arthur’s life multiple times, even. Paying that sort of unwavering loyalty with execution simply would not do. 

Arthur was a boy, but Merlin was even younger than him. The things he’s had to do—the decisions he’s had to make—Arthur wonders how Merlin doesn’t break. 

Arthur goes to see Merlin again that night.

Gaius is asleep when Arthur sneaks in. Between acting as Court Sorcerer and finding ways to bring Merlin back, he is no doubt exhausted by his duties. He is yet to take another apprentice.

Arthur’s fingers shake when he pushes the door to Merlin’s tiny room open. He takes a deep breath to steady himself. He doesn’t know why he’s nervous. It’s not the first time he’s here, but the air still seems to leave the room when he closes the door behind him. He forces himself to walk closer, even when he wants nothing more than to turn around and run and forget that Merlin was found, only stopping when he is directly in front of Merlin. Then he makes himself look.

It’s not the first time he’s seen Merlin in this state, but seeing him like this still feels like a lance through the chest. 

“Do you remember that summer,” Arthur finds himself saying. “We went hunting, just the two of us, and I pushed you into the stream—“ Merlin had emerged from the water, sputtering and indignant, before standing up and yanking Arthur with a surprising burst of strength into the water. They ended up wrestling like boys on the bank, hooting and howling with laughter until they were both breathless and muddied and happy. Arthur had looked at Merlin then, his hair sticking up in ridiculous tufts and wetter than he’s ever been, and wanted so desperately to kiss him.

It was the best day of Arthur’s life. 

Arthur’s heart constricts at the memory, at the simple joy of having Merlin by his side. He wants to cry, he wants to touch Merlin, to hold him even in this form, but he doesn’t know if it will be welcome. After all, he stayed gone for a reason, and at the moment, it's not like he can exactly say no.

Out of all the things Arthur regrets the most in his life, the thing he regrets the most is how all too often, he can’t seem to distil his emotions and churn them out as words, especially when Merlin is involved. It should come easy to him, second nature almost, because he’s been taught how to wield his words like he would a weapon. He was bred to say the right things at the right time, and the absence of his words often say more than if he didn’t say anything at all.

Then Merlin came along, and he had Arthur’s tongue all tied up in knots. Merlin was Arthur’s punching bag when Arthur needed to let off steam, a shoulder when Arthur needed a friend. A wise advisor when Arthur needed one—someone who saw him as him, flaws and fears and all. It felt like it was a given that Merlin would always be there for him, because the alternative was so far-fetched that it’s inconceivable. 

Arthur thinks, now, about all the things he could’ve done differently. If he had said the right words and acted the right way. If he had been a better friend and loved Merlin harder. If instead of pushing and shoving and throwing things, he used the words he was taught to use and simply told Merlin that he had a friend in Arthur too.

Arthur keeps drinking with Gwaine. Gwaine doesn't even like him anymore, but he keeps accepting Arthur's invitation. 

“Were you there,” Arthur swallows tightly, “when Morgana—?”

“No,” Gwaine replies. He looks angry, but for once, not at Arthur. “He trapped me. Locked me in a tower, like some damsel in distress, so I wouldn’t follow him.”

Arthur has to suppress a laugh. “How did you get out?”

“Dunno,” Gwaine frowns. “I suppose his enchantment broke when he was turned into stone.”

Chapter Text

A fortnight passes, and they are nowhere closer to finding out how to bring Merlin back to life. Arthur knows that Gaius is doing everything he can, that he has dropped everything to try to find a way to break Merlin out, but Arthur is getting impatient.

“So it’s a curse, then?”

Gaius nods. “A very powerful one.”

“I don’t understand,” Arthur insists, “if Merlin is the most powerful sorcerer who has ever lived, then how can Morgana do this to him?”

“A magical duel works much like any other duel,” Gaius explains patiently. “You’re only as good as your last blow.”

This, Arthur understands very well—you could be the most skilled swordsman in all the lands, and all it would take is one distraction, one stumble, and it would be all the difference between life and death. He wonders how Morgana could’ve gotten one in.

It doesn’t stop Arthur from trying again. “Surely he would’ve been able to break it—“

“—even if he wasn’t able to, curses tend to break when the one who cast them died,” Gaius continues. “And we can be certain that Morgana is dead.”

There’s a lump in Arthur’s throat, making it difficult for him to speak. “Gwaine says the enchantment that kept him away from the battle broke when Merlin was cursed.”

Gaius doesn’t seem surprised. It’s only then that Arthur noticed that he looks like a mourning man—like a man who has been grieving for some time. Like a father who has outlived his child. He knows, suddenly, what Gaius is about to say. 

“Sire, we must consider the possibility that he simply isn’t there anymore.”

“No.” Arthur is shaking his head before Gaius can finish his sentence. Despite his best efforts, he cannot fully contain the break in his voice when he says, “No. I would know.”

“This isn’t the first time this curse was used,” says Gaius. “But in every story there is, none have found a way to reverse it. It’s a curse meant to kill.”

But they’re not Merlin, Arthur wanted to say. They’re not the most powerful sorcerer who ever walked the earth.

“Is there a way of knowing for sure?” 

Because what if Merlin was alive? What if he was simply trapped inside, with no way to communicate that he was in there at all? What if Arthur buried him, or burned him, and Merlin was alive all along, only for Arthur to unknowingly take his life? “I cannot—“ Arthur clears his throat. “I will not risk it.”

“Mordred’s word is the only thing we have to go on,” Gaius reasons. “As much as I would like to believe him, history points to the contrary.”

Arthur talks to Merlin. As morbid as it sounds, it’s so easy to talk to Merlin like this. It’s so easy to be honest when Merlin can’t distract Arthur with his woeful, if disturbingly successful, attempts at misdirection.

“Do you remember the Questing Beast?” Arthur asks Merlin conversationally. He’s not expecting an answer and isn’t disappointed when none is forthcoming. “I wish I’d known what it was, back then.”

Arthur had thought it odd. He had thought that Merlin was just being strange and unnecessarily cryptic. He wishes he had understood what Merlin was truly saying. It may have been a goodbye, but it was also a declaration of his devotion. And if Arthur has never called Merlin’s devotion into question—

Despite Arthur’s reservations, he does try to kiss Merlin. Because true love is meant to conquer all, doesn’t it?

Arthur cups Merlin’s cheeks in both of his palms, gentle as he can, and rests his head against Merlin’s cool forehead. It sickens him, what he’s about to do. It seems like a cruel twist of fate—Arthur has been wanting to kiss Merlin for years and years, and the one time he gets to do it will be the one time Merlin can’t refuse. 

“I don’t know what else to do,” Arthur whispers.“I’m sorry.”

It’s the briefest brush of lips, and it’s the strangest sensation. Merlin’s lips are hard and unresponsive against his, and Arthur’s horror dawns before he even pulls back. 

It doesn’t break the curse. This is not that kind of story. Arthur chooses not to dwell on it—he has a feeling that if he started, he won’t stop. 

At night, Arthur dreams of Merlin. It’s not an uncommon occurrence. He’d dream of distinct memories sometimes, of heartfelt conversations around the campfire or fond insults spoken thick with affection. He’d dream of Merlin’s cheeky smile under the relentless summer sun, the way shadows from the dance upon his cheeks.

Other times, it’s an intangible feeling or an elusive sensation, like the feel of Merlin’s shirt on his fingertips, the scent of his soap when he is standing close. The low cadence of his voice when it’s just the two of them talking. His senses remember, even when his mind forgets the details. That makes it worse, somehow. 

Tonight, it’s neither of those things. 

They are on a lake. Arthur suspects that he has been here before, a long time ago. Merlin is standing still, his back to Arthur, waist-deep in the water. He doesn’t turn when Arthur approaches him. 

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he hears Merlin say. Merlin sounds different in a way that Arthur can’t place. Wearier, perhaps. Older, more worn out, but who isn’t?

“Of course I would,” Arthur replies simply. The water is bitterly cold against his skin, sharp and biting like needles pricking at his bones. Arthur wades in deeper; it would take more than this to keep him away from Merlin. “You’d do the same for me.”

Merlin hesitates. “A long time ago, perhaps.”

Merlin didn’t say it to wound, but the honesty in his words feels like a lance to the chest. Merlin’s never been a good liar, anyway. Arthur forces himself to ask, “And now?”

Merlin sighs. “I don’t know.” 

Arthur wants so badly to step closer and touch him, but his limbs feel heavy and refuse to cooperate. There is a wall between them, thick and impenetrable with magic, and Arthur can’t get through. 

“If I could take it back, I would,” Arthur pleads. “I was a fool. But you know that too.”

Merlin chuckles humourlessly. “No,” he retorts. “You were a lot of things, but you were never a fool.”

Gwaine thinks a change of heart wouldn’t change anything, but Arthur never cared much about what Gwaine thinks. He’ll be damned if he starts now.

Arthur comes to Merlin and stands close to him. He faces Merlin, forcing himself to look. He takes in the silent scream, the dust gathering at Merlin’s shoulders. Then he splays his fingers open, mirroring Merlin’s outstretched hand, and something in him breaks when their fingers touch.

“Merlin,” Arthur whispers. His throat is burning and it’s very painful to push the words out. Kings don’t beg, certainly not to banished servants, but Arthur is long past propriety where Merlin is concerned. He feels like a drowning man—he doesn’t know how one can hurt this much and still be alive. “Merlin, please—“ 

He doesn’t know what he is begging for. Merlin can’t hear him, Merlin isn’t there. Arthur lost him a long time ago. Arthur closes his eyes against the onslaught of emotion, willing himself not to shatter. It doesn’t do him much good.

He wraps his fingers around Merlin’s. He reckons he can feel some warmth on Merlin’s skin where there should only be cool lifelessness. Perhaps he is fooling himself. Perhaps Arthur has willed that warmth into existence. Perhaps it was only his own warmth absorbed by the stone. 

“I don’t know how to reach you,” Arthur admits. He’s crying, tears and snot and great heavy sobs that wrack his frame and makes him tremble. “Sometimes I think that I can feel you, but I don’t know,” Arthur’s breath hitches. “I don’t know, I can’t know, Merlin—“

It sets him off again. Arthur’s never cried so hard in his life. He’s never been one for crying—he didn’t cry when he sent Merlin away, he didn’t cry when he began to realise his mistake. He doesn’t really know why he’s falling apart now. Because really, when you step back and look closely, nothing had truly changed. Merlin was gone then; Merlin is gone now. 

It’s the cautious hope, Arthur realises. He never realised, before, just how much he had wanted for Merlin to be all right. For him to come back to Camelot and give Arthur just one more chance. And now, to have that hope ripped away from him—

“But you must’ve known,” he hiccoughs. The repeal, the druids, everything—it was all a selfish appeal to get Merlin back. I’ve changed, you’re right, and I’ll change everything if that means you’ll be here. “I only ever wanted for you to come home.”

He doesn’t know why he’s here. He wants to scream, angry and miserable and so so tired. He just wants Merlin back, wants everything to go back to the way it was before. He wishes he never found out about the magic, he wishes Merlin trusted him enough to tell him, he wishes he’d done more to earn that trust. 

“I love you so badly,” Arthur confesses, past dignity and past shame. “I was so afraid that the man I love was a lie all along.” He chuckles without humour. “I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. I should never have told you to leave. I shouldn’t have told you to put the collar on and don’t know how I can take it back. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—” 

This cannot be the end of them, but Arthur doesn’t know how to make it not so. How is he meant to carry on living his life as he did before, knowing that Merlin is right here, forever frozen out of his reach? How does he have so much power yet be so helpless in this?

“If you’re in there, please—“ Arthur opens his eyes. He sees nothing but stone, Merlin’s pained face in front of him, and his heart breaks all over again. “Come home. Come home to me.”

Arthur doesn’t know how long he stands there, weeping and holding Merlin’s hand, all the hope he had draining out of him in a slow trickle. Perhaps he wouldn’t know. Perhaps they had drifted too far apart for Arthur to notice that Merlin was truly gone. And if this was to be his reality, then he must learn to accept it. He cannot let this ruin him—the fate of his kingdom depends on him. He cannot afford to fall apart. He must keep it together, for his people if not for anyone else, because he doesn’t have the luxury to do otherwise. 

“Okay,” he says to no one in particular. He wipes his tears dry and draws himself up to full height. “Okay.”

He turns away, ready to leave, knowing that a part of him would always be here. He knows, too, that he’ll never go back to this room. He'll never see Merlin again. 

He takes one last look at the man he loves and whispers, “goodbye, Merlin.” 

He has one hand on the door when he hears something crack. 

Chapter Text

Merlin was born with golden eyes to a world that was determined to fight him at every turn. He was fatherless, for one, and his mother never married. The whispers that followed Hunith were vicious, but she never much cared, because she had her beautiful little miracle in her arms and she had no room for anything else.

Merlin was only days old when he made things fly. It made Hunith tear up to see just that little bit of Balinor in Merlin, knowing that it’s his blood flowing through Merlin, his magic running in Merlin’s veins. 

She wanted to be pleased. She’s never heard of anyone who can do unspoken magic without years and years to hone the craft, and her Merlin was obviously a natural talent, a force of nature. She wanted to be proud, because Merlin’s bloodline is that of the noble Dragonlords. More than anything, she wanted to be able to breathe a sigh of relief. 

She wanted Merlin to be happy and free and unafraid—she wanted to be happy and free and unafraid. But there she was instead, endlessly worried that word would one day get out and draw Uther’s men in, and that they’ll take her boy, the only thing she has left of Balinor and the life they tried to build together.

She wanted more for Merlin, and she wanted better, but in the end, Merlin learned to hide his magic before he ever learned how to walk. 

Merlin always knew he was different. The village children never let him forget it, anyway. He was born outside wedlock, he knew his numbers and his letters, and he had a secret that could bring Uther’s men to their doors.

Life in the village was simple. Merlin could coax the crops to grow, tend to the chickens, and persuade the cows to produce more milk. It was honest work. He might not have got on with the boys, but the earth embraced him.

Merlin didn’t always know that he was meant for more, for a life outside this quaint village life. A life where he’d serve the greatest king Albion will ever know, where he’d be a tool to unite the land. What he did know was to keep his head down and his secret tightly locked away. 

“What was he like, do you think?” Merlin asked Will, one summer’s day. They were fourteen and it was the hottest day of the year; the sun was beating hard on their skin, and Merlin had to shield his eyes from the brightness. It was lovely. They laid, side by side, by the local pond; the soil damp and cool against their bare back, a soothing contrast from the unrelenting heat. “My father, I mean.”

“Dunno,” Will grunted. Merlin didn’t know why he bothered asking. “Like you, I s’pose.”

Merlin thought about his magic and the way it thrummed under his skin, tingling at the base of his spine, hungry to be let out. He must’ve got it from his father, because Mother hadn’t got an ounce of magic in her.

Merlin couldn’t help but wonder if his father was alive, after all these years. Wondered why he left and never returned. If he had another happy family that he cherished and looked after.

And then, inevitably, Merlin wondered if it was his fault. 

Merlin remembered Will’s father, who taught Merlin how to swim and taught him how to work with his hands. He went to war and never came back. Merlin had grieved with Will, because Will’s father had always treated Merlin like he was his own. Some of the villagers in Ealdor was wary around Merlin—though Merlin never understood why—but not Will’s father. He had always treated Merlin with kindness, and but now he was gone.  

“It wasn’t even his war,” Will had raged, when months went by without any word of his father’s fate. “What was the point? It never mattered before, whose arse sat on the throne. It made no bloody difference to our lot, why does it matter now?”

Will was right, Merlin thought. It never did make much difference to their lot. Kings come and go, reigns rise and fall, but they hardly ever touched Ealdor. Those lords and ladies had their little squabbles and start petty wars, but out here, people had more pressing matters to worry themselves about. Like if they had enough grains in the stores for the winter, for example. If their wives would survive childbirth, or if their babes would live to see another summer. 

Merlin didn’t think he’d ever understand the royals.

Merlin was seventeen when his mother sent him to Camelot with nothing but a rucksack on his back and a head full of wonders. He’d heard stories, of course, of the glittering Camelot and the proud King Uther. Merchants passing through Ealdor would spin stories about its vibrant market, where you’d be able to find everything you never knew you wanted: exotic fruits and expensive spices hailing from distant lands, richly dyed fabric in colours you had never seen, jewellery set with stones sparkling under the sun. They’d tell tales about gallant knights from far and wide clashing in riotous jousts, ladies so fair men would start wars over them, and banquets so merry they’d continue well into the morn. 

They never spoke about how King Uther burned those with magic—those like him. But when he finally arrived in Camelot, that was the first thing he saw. Not the market, not the jousts, and certainly not the banquets—it was the pyre, a man burning to death, his mother screaming in the crowd, and the brave King Uther painting the gruesome picture as though it was a cause for celebration. 

And then, when Merlin was still reeling, he met Arthur.

He was determined to dislike Arthur on sight. And it’s not as if Arthur made it particularly difficult—the man was obnoxious, an entitled prat, swanning around Camelot as though everyone else was so blessed to have his presence in their midst.

That didn’t mean that Merlin wanted him to die. 

The woman was grieving, yes, having just seen her son burned alive, but that was no excuse for attempted murder. Killing Arthur wouldn’t bring her son back.

What happened next was completely instinctual. Merlin thought stop and his magic flowed from his fingertips to make it happen, natural as anything, and he couldn’t have stopped it even if he tried. 

When the dust settled and the commotion died down, they lifted the chandelier off of the woman. Merlin hoped to god that she was still alive. 

It didn’t take long for Merlin to see the king that Arthur was destined to be. He might be an arrogant arse with a penchant for rushing in with the fools, but it didn’t take Merlin long at all to see the good in his heart. To see the kind, honest man underneath all the swagger and bravado. Perhaps he was a little bit wrong about Arthur, but Arthur didn’t need to know that.

And if Merlin came to love Arthur after that, well. Everyone did, at least a little bit. 

When Merlin killed Nimueh, he retched for hours and didn’t sleep for days afterwards. 

He’d tell himself that she didn’t honour her end of the deal. She was going to kill his mother, if not Gaius, if not Arthur. He’d tell himself that she was the one who tried to kill him first, first with the poison, then with trying to prevent Arthur from getting the Mortaeus flower. 

It was for the greater good. But that didn’t make it better. It didn’t wash the blood off of his hands, and it certainly didn’t help him sleep.

Merlin asked himself if this destiny was worth it. He wondered if it would destroy who he was in the process. Was this what it would be like from now on—lurking in the shadows, vanquishing Arthur’s enemies before Arthur even had a chance to muddy his hands? Fighting battles and getting himself nearly killed at night before pretending nothing happened by the time dawn broke?

Something shifted on that fateful day. Something in Merlin was shaken loose when he called upon that thunder and made his first kill. And Merlin wouldn’t say a word to Arthur, but Arthur knew something was wrong. He wheedled Merlin for days, after that. He’d cajole and tease, trying to get Merlin to talk. And Merlin would look at him, look at his stupid crooked smile and his tender gaze, and think that right, even if destiny wasn’t worth it, Arthur certainly was. 

There were moments when Merlin thought that Arthur had to know. Merlin wasn’t exactly subtle, and his lies always sound so far-fetched, even in his own head, that it would make him cringe inwardly. Perhaps Arthur knew and deliberately chose not to act because if he knew and said something, he would be duty-bound to do something. But if Arthur knew and kept quiet and looked away, nothing would have to change. Merlin was only all too happy to play along. 

Of course, as it turned out, Arthur didn’t know. He didn’t deliberately look away. He wasn’t being wilfully ignorant; he genuinely never cared enough to notice. The peril of the week would pass without too much trouble, and he just boiled it down to luck. And that, really, was the beginning of the end. 

Crouched in the cold dungeon, Merlin hardly recalled the confrontation. Arthur was shouting but Merlin couldn’t remember the words. What he remembered was Arthur’s red hot anger, his disgust, the hurt in his eyes. Merlin remembered pleading, but not much else. It was probably for the best.

Later, when Arthur came, Merlin was prepared. He’d tell Arthur everything—the bargain Uther had struck, the dragon, Morgana. All the times Merlin had killed for him. All the times Merlin had gone behind Arthur’s back.

He wasn’t prepared for Arthur to toss cold iron collars at his feet for him to put on. All the words he had prepared dissipated into thin air. Merlin looked at Arthur and didn’t see the man he loved standing there. 

“Arthur—“ he tried. It came out as a soft plea. He couldn’t breathe for the despair in his lungs. It felt an awful lot like drowning. 

“If what you said was true,” Arthur grit out. There was a hitch in his voice, but his words were no less harsh. “Then you will put the bloody collar on.”

It felt like a slap to the face. Was that it, then? Had it all been a lie? All the horrors Merlin had committed—was it all for nothing?

Merlin crouched and took the collar. He looked at Arthur and his gaze never faltered. Perhaps he had never known Arthur at all, either. But if Arthur needed some kind of proof that Merlin had never betrayed him, then he would bloody well have it. 

Merlin snapped the collar into place, and then he remembered burning. 

Chapter Text

Merlin woke. The collar was no longer wrapped around his throat. Gaius told him that Arthur wanted him gone. Gaius didn’t say that Merlin was not to return under the pain of death, but he didn’t have to. 

It felt like a fever dream. It didn’t seem real, but then he would wake up from the chill, damp soil on his back and rucksack underneath his head, lumpier than any pillow he’d had in Camelot. And then he’d think, Oh. It really did take one day. One day to undo years of friendship. Everything that they were to each other—gone in a flash, but then again he supposed it was all built on a web of lies. Pull one thread, and the whole thing comes tumbling down. 

Gwaine caught up with Merlin before the month was up. His cape was gone, his hair shorn shorter than Merlin had ever seen it. 

Merlin didn’t bother with his glamour. He was so tired.

“Did Arthur send you?” 

Gwaine sputtered as though offended, but Merlin wasn’t sure what to expect anymore. He once thought Arthur was a friend all along, too. He thought that he’d be given a chance to explain, at least.

“Yeah, fair enough,” Merlin muttered. “How did you find me?”

“You’re not an easy man to track,” Gwaine admitted. “But I’m a better tracker than most.” 

He didn’t say it to boast; it was a simple observation. 

“I couldn’t stay in Camelot,” Gwaine continued. “A man who treated their friend the way Arthur treated you was no man I’d be happy to serve.” 

“I lied—“

“No, you omitted,” Gwaine corrected, grinning. 

“No, I lied too,” Merlin retorted.

But Gwaine’s smile didn’t falter. “You did what you had to do.”

Merlin wasn’t so sure. 

“Does he know you’re here?”

“Well, I did make my feelings perfectly clear,” Gwaine cringed. “And now that that happened, I don’t think I would be welcome in Camelot anymore, either. So what’s the plan now?”

“Plan?”

 “Well, what have you been up to?”

Merlin stopped in his tracks. What had he been up to? He’d been moping, that’s for sure. He didn’t stray too far from Camelot’s borders, because what if the next monster made an appearance? Or if an undead army rose again?

“Merlin?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted finally.

Gwaine looked at him with sympathetic eyes. For a moment, he seemed to appear far too sad and understanding for Merlin’s liking, but then his eyes sparked up. He slung a casual arm around Merlin’s shoulders, and suddenly it was the two of them against the world. 

“Come on, my friend,” Gwaine cajoled. “Let’s go find an adventure.”

They went after Morgana. Everything else was supplementary. 

“Do you miss it?”

Merlin pretended to be clueless, focusing instead on the shirt he was washing downstream. He did not look up at Gwaine.   “Miss what?”

Gwaine rolled his eyes. This sort of tactic might have worked on Arthur, but not him. “Camelot,”

Merlin considered his answer carefully. “Yeah,” he decides. “All the time.”

“You know, I do have to point out—“

“Gwaine,” Merlin said, his tone posing a clear warning.

“I just think that maybe he didn’t send all those knights out to capture us.”

Merlin looked up at Gwaine helplessly. “I know.”

“Magic isn’t illegal anymore.”

Merlin sighed. “It doesn’t change anything.”

It changes everything, Gwaine wants to say. He did it for you.

Gwaine didn’t voice it, though. Because the thing is, he liked this too. He had forgotten how liberating it felt to live untethered. He loved Merlin’s company, loved meeting new people in their travels. Loved watching Merlin use his magic freely and without fear, loved the smile on the faces of the people they helped. Merlin was magic, and he was strength, and together they traipsed around the land, fixing fences and restoring water to dried up wells. 

Morgana seemed ever-elusive, always a step ahead and a finger-width out of reach. They didn’t know how long their chase would go on, but Gwaine didn’t really mind.

In the end, they tracked Morgana down to her hovel. No magical cataclysm, no warlord alliances, no vicious monsters. Gwaine wanted to strike, but Merlin had his doubts.

“Maybe she’s changed.”

Gwaine looked at Merlin as though he had grown another head. “This is Morgana we are talking about!”

“Magic is allowed back in Camelot now. Maybe she’s done fighting. Look, she’s not doing anyone any harm—“

“Not at the moment,” Gwaine pointed out furiously. “Have you forgotten? She tried to take over Camelot—what, three times now? Multiple murder attempts on—well, let’s see, almost everyone that we cared about? She’s planning something. I say we strike now.”

“We don’t know if she’s planning anything—“

“Merlin,” Gwaine interrupted. “Look at me in the eyes and tell me that this isn’t your guilt talking.”

Merlin floundered for words. “If I can reach her now, talk her round, then maybe we can stop her for good this time.“

“You’ve gone mad,” Gwaine shook his head. “It may be a bit late for that, Merlin.”

“People change, Gwaine,” Merlin sighed. “Things change. Perhaps she’s had a change of heart.”

“Fine. But you’re an idiot if you think I’ll let you face her alone.”

Merlin’s face was inscrutable when he said, “I’m sorry, Gwaine.”

Of course, Gwaine ended up being right, and Morgana most definitely had not had a change of heart. 

“Here you are now,” she snickered gleefully. “Cast aside. Alone. Tell me—was it worth it?”

Merlin hesitated, and that brief moment was all it took for Morgana to pounce.

“Was he worth it?”

“He was.” 

His answer seemed to only fuel her fire.

“And was I not?” she demanded. “Was I not a good friend to you, to Guinevere?”

Merlin thought about how Morgana used to be like. About how Uther used to shout at her and how she used to shout back. Arthur was righteous, but Morgana was too. And when her fierceness failed to make Uther budge, she’d sneak off to go and do things herself. 

“Would I not have made a good queen to the people?”

“You would have,” Merlin conceded. She would’ve been a good queen then, but then Morgause came along. “But Morgause wouldn’t.”

“She was all I had!” Morgana shouted. “You could’ve helped me. You and Gaius both. You didn’t. You chose to let me live in fear.”

Merlin felt nauseous. His voice was choked when he said, “I blame myself for what you’ve become.”

“And as you should,” Morgana bit out. “You’re no better than he was.”

Merlin didn’t ask if she meant Arthur or Uther. He was afraid of her answer. 

“We could’ve been magnificent, you and I,” she lamented. Mournful. “What a shame that you chose Arthur instead.”

When Merlin didn’t rise to her bait, she taunted again. “He mistreated you, hurled things at you. You sacrificed it all and he never once bothered to hear a word you say,” she laughed. He was pathetic, and she knew it. “That was the man who was worth it? My, my, Merlin. You really are as stupid as Arthur said you were. Look how well that ended for you.”

Merlin grit his teeth. His face was burning with shame. 

“This ends today, Morgana.” 

When Morgana’s final curse hit, Merlin didn’t stop it. 

Merlin woke in an unfamiliar place.

“Hello, Merlin. Fancy seeing you here.”

Merlin gasped at the familiar voice. “Freya!”

He stood, patting himself head to toe. He seemed corporeal enough, whole and uninjured. He looked around. The place looked familiar, even though it was shrouded in mist. Its name danced on the tip of his tongue, ever so slightly out of reach. “Where am I?”

“That would be your decision to make,” Freya smiled. “You can come with me to Avalon. Or you can stay.” 

Am I dead? he wanted to ask. Is Morgana?

Before he could answer, he heard another voice. “I don’t know how to reach you,” he heard the voice say. It sounded like Arthur, but the Arthur from Merlin’s memory would never sound like this. Lost, helpless.

He looked to Freya in askance.

“Destiny has not been kind to you,” Freya continued, as if she couldn’t hear Arthur’s voice. “But you can rest now, Merlin. It’s your choice.”

“Sometimes I think that I can feel you, but I don’t know,” Arthur’s disembodied voice said. “I don’t know, I can’t know, Merlin—“ His voice broke on the last syllable. Gods—despite everything, it broke Merlin’s heart near in two to hear Arthur like this. So far removed from the proud king that Merlin once knew. Merlin reached for the sparks of anger he knew he had inside of him only to find that it had down to mere embers. Arthur had been suffering, Merlin realised. And how bad must it be for it to break Arthur down so completely like this? 

“And what of Arthur?” 

“The balance has been restored,” said Freya. “His destiny is fulfilled. The rest is up to him.”

“I love you so badly,” Merlin heard Arthur say. He froze. And all along he had thought that he had been the one building up every little thing Arthur did in his own head, while glossing over his transgressions.

Arthur's voice continued. “I was so afraid that the man I love was a lie all along. But I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. I should never have told you to leave. I shouldn’t have told you to put the collar on and don’t know how I can take it back. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—” He dissolved into sobs then, harsh and heartbroken, the sort that would’ve wracked his whole frame. He cried like there was nothing left, and then some more. Merlin ached to hear him. As much as he was glad he couldn’t see Arthur, his fingers twitched with the urge to soothe.“If you’re in there, please—“ Arthur pleaded, and Merlin could hear him as if Arthur stood next to him. “Come home. Come home to me.”

Chapter Text

When Arthur hears the crack, the first thing that comes to mind was, oh gods, what has he done?

He’s not sure what happened, but Merlin is fracturing in front of his eyes, and Arthur is suddenly terrified that he had somehow broken Merlin by accident. He doesn’t know what would happen once the stone breaks, and frankly, he’d rather not find out. 

“No,” he breathes. Arthur is back by Merlin’s side in an instant, confused and stunned and wild with panic. He’s numb with shock and it feels as though his blood has turned to ice. He can’t think past the fear blanketing his mind, settling heavy like a fog. There is thunder in his ears but it doesn’t drown out the horrible crack-crack-crack coming from Merlin. “No, no, gods, please—“

What if Merlin shatters into a million pieces—how on earth would Arthur piece him back together?

It’s as though time itself has slowed down. He’s transfixed, unable to look away as the fissures in the stone begin to unfurl outwards from the centre of Merlin’s chest, crawling up his arms and then down his legs.

When he could move again, Arthur grabs Merlin by his upper arms in a desperate attempt to keep him in one piece. His fingertips are white where they are clenched tight around the stone. His grip would be tight enough to bruise if Merlin was made of flesh. And watching Merlin’s screaming face fracture is a special kind of nightmare. It’s not a sight he would forget until his dying day. 

He leans forward, resting his forehead against Merlin’s. “Don’t go,” he says, but he can’t hear his own voice. “Stay with me.”

There is a clatter as the first fragment falls, but Arthur doesn’t want to look at it. He wants to look at Merlin. He wants to think about all the laughter they had once shared and all the devotion they once nurtured. He wants to think about the world they were going to build together before it all crumbles into dust.

He’s so choked with his own grief that it takes him some time to realise that Merlin isn’t falling to pieces—quite the opposite. The stone pieces are falling away, but underneath the stone was Merlin all along. 

And this time, when Merlin falls, Arthur is there to catch him. 

Arthur is the first thing that Merlin sees. 

He looks wretched. There really is no other way to put it. His hair is wild, his face is splotchy and flushed, his eyes wide and wet and red-rimmed. He looks like he hasn’t slept for centuries. The look in his eyes—

“Merlin,” Arthur’s voice is croaky, hoarse as if he had been screaming. “You’re awake.”

Merlin has never heard Arthur say his name like this; with relief and hesitance but so much hope it makes Merlin ache. He says Merlin’s name like a fervent prayer, and this—gods, this is why he never wanted to go back to Camelot. He’s never been any good at telling Arthur no. 

Merlin has to look away. 

“Merlin,” Arthur says again, steadier this time, but there is a pleading note in his voice. He sounds as lost as Merlin feels.

Merlin has dreamt of this moment. The whole time he was in exile, not a single day went by that he didn’t think about what he would say to Arthur if they were ever to meet again. He remembers feeling resigned, adrift and alone. He remembers wandering around the forest, thinking what the hell he was supposed to do now. He remembers that resignation turning to indignity, and then to anger, and then to bitter resentment. How dare Arthur turn him away when he needed it most—does he know how many times Merlin has saved his ungrateful royal arse? Does he know just how much Merlin has sacrificed, does it not matter?

But now that Arthur is right before him, Merlin is struggling to think of something to say. What do you say to someone who exiled you from your home after trying to put a collar that chokes off a part of you? He eyes Arthur warily. “How did I get here?” 

“Leon found you while he was out on patrol,” says Arthur. “You were—“ Arthur clears his throat, “You were turned into stone.”

Oh gods, Morgana. The short-lived duel in the forest. Gwaine. It’s all coming back to Merlin in a rush, and his stomach lurches in apprehension. “Morgana?”

“Dead,” Arthur replies tersely. His jaw is tight and his lips barely move. He looks the way he always does when he’s shaken but trying to appear disaffected; he’s determined not to mourn for Morgana. It strikes Merlin that after all this time, he can still read Arthur like a book.

“How long was I—?” Merlin trails off. Trapped in stone—gods, what an awful thought. 

“Some time,” answers Arthur. “A few weeks.”

Merlin forces himself not to react visibly. One minute he was battling Morgana, and the next he wakes up in his old bed in Camelot without even knowing how. Suddenly he’s back somewhere he swore he wouldn’t return, whole weeks gone in a blink of an eye. It’s disconcerting, to say the least. 

“You’re injured,” Arthur says. He speaks gently, but he is refusing to look at Merlin, staring intently instead at the blanket covering Merlin’s body. It seems as though Arthur doesn’t know where to start either, and Merlin takes comfort in the fact that he’s not the only one finding this unbearably awkward. 

For the first time, Merlin notices the bandage wrapped around his chest. It’s speckled with red. His shirt is nowhere to be seen. Inexplicably, there are bruises around his upper arms. 

Come to think of it, everything hurts. His legs in particular ache when he shifts under his blanket, but he supposes that’s what happens when you don’t sit down for weeks. “Oh,” Merlin replies intelligently. Arthur looks as if he’s waiting for a response, but Merlin doesn’t really know what else to say.

“Well, I’ll leave you to rest, then,” Arthur says, when no further response from Merlin is forthcoming. He presses his lips together into a polite smile, the sort you give to an acquaintance when you bump into them in the hallway but not really looking to strike a conversation.

Merlin’s heart sinks as he watches Arthur make his retreat. He may still be able to read Arthur like a book, but it doesn’t change the fact that instead of a home, Arthur just feels like a stranger. 

“You stopped sending knights after me,” Merlin blurts out, just like the complete idiot Arthur had always accused him of being. 

Arthur turns around. He smiles, but Merlin can see the sadness in his eyes. “I figured that I wouldn’t be able to find you if you didn’t want me to.”

“Only took you so long, but then again you’ve always been a bit slow,” Merlin was ready to say, but he holds his tongue. It’s distressing how readily his mind leaps into old habits. “Yeah,” Merlin says instead. “I suppose."

After a silence that stretches into eternity, Arthur speaks again. “Do you think we could ever—?” He trails off, then seems to change his mind. “Never mind. I’m glad you’re alright, Merlin.”

He is out the door before Merlin could say another word. 

“Idiot,” Arthur mutters to himself with feeling. He rests his forehead at the door and takes a deep breath. He had a speech prepared. He practised his words. But seeing Merlin there—alive and well and wary of Arthur—robbed him of words. 

And the scar around his neck—

Nausea rises up Arthur’s throat because he did that. Arthur did it to Merlin. His breaths begin to come up fast and harsh, and once Arthur starts he finds that he cannot stop. 

Arthur doesn’t know how long he stands there, eyes clenched tight and his heartbeat racing, a cacophonous thunder filling his ears. It’s been such a long day. He’d gone from begging Merlin to come back, to letting Merlin go, to breaking Merlin’s curse. And now he learns that it wasn’t enough that he imprisoned Merlin, tried to collar him, and sent him into exile—Arthur had to leave an indelible mark on Merlin. A permanent reminder of what Arthur had done, of the man that Arthur once was. 

It feels like an eternity, though Arthur knows that, realistically, it couldn’t have been more than a couple minutes. He straightens. If he is to try and prove his worth and win Merlin back, then he has some work to be getting on with. 

Chapter Text

Predictably, the moment word got out that Merlin’s curse is broken, Gwaine comes in to shout at him. 

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Merlin refuses to back down. “I was thinking that I didn’t want you getting hurt!”

Gwaine looks affronted. “That’s not how any of this works!”

“Gwaine,” Merlin rubs his temples. He doesn’t have to be a seer to foresee a headache looming on the horizon. “It was a magical duel, all right? You don’t have magic. If something happened to you—“

“I appreciate the sentiment, but I didn’t need you to make any decisions for me,” Gwaine growls. “I signed up for this too, remember?”

“Right, I’m sorry,” Merlin concedes. He really doesn’t want to argue with Gwaine. “I’m sorry, Gwaine, all right? I thought that I was trying to protect you.”

“Leave me behind one more time,” Gwaine threatens in a low voice. He’s still glowering, but Merlin knows that he is forgiven. “And it will be the last thing you’ll ever do. You hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” Merlin grins in return, relieved.

Moments pass in companionable silence, but Gwaine has never been one for quiet. “What now, then?”

It’s surreal, being back on his old bed. Merlin stares at the stone walls and it’s almost as if he had never left. He remembers with visceral clarity lying here all those years ago, day in and day out, wondering what else destiny might throw at him. Gaius could come knocking at any moment to wake him and remind him to fetch Arthur’s breakfast.

He looks at Gwaine’s shorn hair and it shatters the illusion. It has grown longer since Merlin saw him last, but nowhere near as long as it used to be while he was Arthur’s knight. 

Beyond these four walls, he knows everything has changed. The Camelot outside his windows is not the same Camelot that he left. It doesn’t even feel like the Camelot he knows and shaped and built a home in. If he was being honest, it feels like Camelot has moved on without him. 

“I don’t know,” Merlin replies truthfully. He eyes Gwaine curiously. “How did you get here?”

“Arthur found me,” Gwaine admits. “I thought I lost him somewhere near Wessex, but he can be bloody persistent if he wanted to. And once I learned that you were here, I went with him.“

Merlin hums. 

“He wouldn’t stop,” Gwaine says softly. “Kept pestering me, wanting to know everything that happened. Gods, he wouldn’t stop talking about you,” Gwaine huffs. He glances quickly at Merlin, suddenly unsure. “Now, I’m not defending him, but—“

“Yeah,” 

“You know he did this all for you.”

“Maybe he just realised that his stance on magic was wrong,” Merlin retorts. “Doesn’t mean he did it for me.”

“That’s bollocks and you know it.”

“He didn’t even notice—“

“To be fair, neither did I,” Gwaine points out. “Neither did anyone else. Maybe you were just that good.”

Merlin chuckles. “You know, it’s funny,” he says, sobering. “I once thought I found my place here. Then I realised that it was only because I had to hide who I am. That’s not really fitting in, is it?”

“No,” Gwaine agrees reluctantly. “It’s not.”

“I know he’s sorry,” Merlin says, “Gods, I’d have to be blind not to see it. I’m just—“ Merlin sighs. “I’m not sure if I’m there yet.”

“That’s fair,” Gwaine claps his shoulder. “Well, just let me know what the plan is, because I’m still coming along with you.”

Arthur doesn’t visit him again for the first couple of days, choosing instead to leave gifts of clothing at Merlin’s door. The fabrics are richly dyed and soft to the skin, and considering that Merlin arrived back in Camelot with nothing but the clothes on his back, he is grateful. The gifts may have been anonymous, but there’s really only one person the gifts could be from. 

Three days after Merlin regains consciousness, Arthur finally knocks on Merlin’s door. 

“How are you?” asks Arthur.

“Can’t complain, Sire,” Merlin replies, equally pleasantly. He doesn’t elaborate.

“Good, that’s good,” Arthur mumbles. He looks anxious and distinctly uncomfortable. Merlin doesn’t blame him. He doesn’t know how to break through the awkwardness either. 

“Er, thank you for your gifts, Sire,” says Merlin nervously. “It was, er. Very generous of you.”

“I’m very glad to hear that,” Arthur replies, forgetting that the gifts were supposed to be anonymous. “I, er. Well.” He clears his throat and awkwardly shoves a scroll of parchment into Merlin’s hand. “I wrote you a royal pardon.”

Merlin glances at the scroll in surprise before taking it gingerly. His fingers, not deliberately, brush against Arthur’s, and it sends a jolt through him that he would rather suppress. 

“It should go without saying, of course, that you are a free man,” Arthur coughs. “But I thought that there would be no harm in making it official.”

Merlin flounders for words. Suddenly, he can’t quite wrap his head around the enormity of what Arthur is giving him. The drastic changes he enacted in Camelot. Merlin remembers how successfully Uther’s campaign of hate took root, how deeply his hatred of magic ran in Arthur. And how, over everything, Arthur had only ever wanted to make Uther proud. For Arthur to cast that aside—

It is a bit of a delayed response on his part, Merlin realises, feeling rather silly. Magic has been legal for years now, but Merlin has been far away. 

After what feels like forever, he realises that he hadn’t said anything and that he had been gaping like a dolt. His mother would’ve smacked him for being so rude. 

“Thank you, Sire.”

Arthur’s expectant face morphs quickly to something akin to disappointment, though he valiantly tries to mask it. “Never thought I’d see the day that you’d be lost for words, Merlin,” he comments with a hesitant smile.

Merlin recognises the comment for what it is and a retort immediately leaps to the forefront of his lips. It’s almost distressing, how readily his subconscious reverts into old habits. He has to stop himself from uttering the words. He forces himself to look away. 

Arthur’s small smile drops. “I understand that my actions were abhorrent,” Arthur continues haltingly after a brief pause. He sounds practised, stilted, as though he has been standing in front of a mirror to repeat the words over and over to get it right. It makes Merlin’s heart clench in sympathy. “I cannot begin to imagine the hardships you have gone through. For Camelot, for me. I can only hope that one day, you may be able to forgive me.”

Merlin wants to say yes. He wants nothing more than to accept Arthur’s apology and firmly leave the whole ordeal in the past. He has already spent five years stewing in anger, his resentment eating away at him like acid. It never did him any good. 

Merlin doesn’t know when he stopped resenting Arthur.  The realisation takes him almost by surprise, because he remembers all too well the time when Merlin wanted Arthur to grovel. For Arthur to realise just how much Merlin had done for him. He once swore that he would make Arthur beg. But that feels so long ago, now. This—the repeal, the pardon, the apology—it should’ve been all he ever wanted. All this time, he has thought about what he would say to Arthur if given the chance. 

Now that Arthur is in front of him, giving Merlin all the things he thought he wanted on a silver platter, all such thoughts escape him. This isn’t the same Arthur he left—this Arthur is an unknown variable, and Merlin is more than a little wary.

“I don’t know what to say,” Merlin admits. His words feel stuck and caught in his throat, but they are sincere. “Thank you.”

It’s not long after Arthur leaves that Merlin begins to curse himself out for being an idiot. He spends the next couple of days trying to gather his wits and courage. And then, in a turn of events that Merlin couldn’t have seen coming, he finds himself knocking at Arthur’s door. 

“I wanted to say that I’m sorry too,” Merlin blurts out the moment Arthur opens his door. 

Arthur gestures wordlessly for Merlin to come in and closes the door behind him with a soft click. “You did what you had to do,” Arthur responds graciously. “With the benefit of hindsight, I would perhaps even concede that it was the right thing to do.”

Merlin’s first instinct was to tell Arthur to stop being so hard on himself. To stop beating himself up when it was Merlin’s fault too. Not when they both had a hand in the breakdown of their relationship. “Arthur,” Merlin begins, but then stops. He stares at Arthur, bewildered. He still can’t find his words. 

“I know,” Arthur lets out a self-deprecating laugh. It takes Merlin by surprise; he never would have thought that self-deprecating was even an emotion Arthur was capable of. “I never would’ve seen this coming, either.”

For the first time since he wakes in Camelot, Merlin looks at Arthur. Really looks, until the pressing weight on his chest becomes unbearable. He takes in the slump of Arthur’s shoulders, the faint lines left by the furrows between his brows. The dark circles under his eyes, the way his belt is just a couple of holes tighter. This Arthur isn’t new, Merlin realises, and the realisation strikes him like lightning. This Arthur was completely broken down and has had to stitch himself back together. 

Gods, Merlin thinks, feeling nauseous. How did they become this? They were supposed to have this golden destiny, pushing each other towards greatness. How did they end up being the other’s undoing instead? 

“It was never meant to be like this,” Merlin says out loud, his voice filled with regret. “Our destiny. We were never meant to be like this.”

Arthur opens his mouth, no doubt ready to take on the blame, but Merlin beat him to the punch. 

“I thought that you knew,” Merlin finally admits. It feels so stupid to say it out loud now. He had wanted it so desperately to be true that he only deluded himself in the process. “I thought that you turned a blind eye so you wouldn’t be forced to make a decision.” Because otherwise you simply never cared enough to notice.

“I never would’ve thought that you had magic,” replies Arthur softly. “Not when I believed that magic was evil.“

“I wanted to tell you, so many times. But I was a coward—“

“No,” Arthur interrupts him firmly. “You were a lot of things, but you were never a coward.”

“I was scared,” Merlin tries again. “All the lies—it added up. In the end, I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t risk being sent away. I had to be here so that I could protect you.”

“I can’t possibly blame you for hiding your magic.” Arthur looks at Merlin helplessly. “Not when I reacted the way that I did.”

Merlin flinches. He can still remember the fire around his throat.

“All my life, I was taught that magic was evil.” Arthur says. “It took away the people I cared about the most. My mother, my father, Morgana. I trusted you more than anyone. And the thought that you would turn to magic, betraying me—“

Merlin thinks back to when he discovered Morgana’s true nature and couldn’t tell Arthur. When he discovered Agravaine’s duplicity. He thinks about every single time Arthur took a stranger’s word over Merlin’s own, dismissing Merlin and brushing him aside. If that was Arthur trusting him—

“I never could’ve betrayed you,” Merlin says softly. “You should’ve known that by then.”

“I know,” Arthur replies miserably, and Merlin knows that he is telling the truth. “I don’t know how I can convince you,” he continues, voice heavy with regret. “How regretful I am. How much I’ve tried to make it right. If I could take it all back—”

But he can’t, and Merlin knows it. He might have stopped resenting Arthur, but the truth of the matter is that Arthur broke something in Merlin that fateful day. And it’s not something that he could piece back together, even if he wanted to, even after all the years that had passed. Merlin knows that he won’t be able to forget.

“I don’t know what I can do to prove it to you, but there has to be something,” Arthur's voice breaks when he says, “don’t tell me the time for us is long past.”

Merlin had given everything that he was to Arthur. Ten years is a long time to be living a lie and denying who he was. He committed heinous acts and turned his back against his own people. And Merlin had to believe in the destiny that was foretold, because if he didn’t, then Merlin had given his all for somebody who would cast Merlin aside so easily without a second thought. It meant that all his sacrifices meant nothing to the person who meant the most to him. And that hurts somewhere that he didn’t think he could be hurt. He doesn’t know how to come back from that.

Looking back, he’s not sure he could stomach the person that he was when he was with Arthur.

“I know you’re trying to make it better,” Merlin says past the tightness in his throat. “Not just for me, but for everyone with magic.” His heart is beating so fast against his ribcage, but it’s time to face the truth. “And I appreciate it. I do. You cannot imagine how much this means to me, to all of us. I know you’re not the same person you were all those years ago. But the truth is that I don’t think I’ll be able to forget. I’d be lying to you if I said that I could. And I don’t want to lie to you. Not anymore.”

When Merlin looks up at Arthur, his face is bloodless, his body hunching as if every word was a dagger. Finally, Arthur nods jerkily. “I understand,” he says at last, but his voice is faint.

“I’m sorry.”

Chapter Text

What was the point, Arthur thinks numbly as Merlin turns to leave. It’s hard to contain his despair; it’s a great big gorge on the ground threatening to swallow him whole. 

He is sick with the realisation that he has alienated long-serving advisors and ripped up his father’s legacy to bring magic back. All for a man who wants to have nothing to do with him. 

This changes when he walks into town, where he’d see the children of Camelot, fearless and animated with the sparks flying out of their fingertips. They’d look up from their merrymaking and spot Arthur and grin, toothless and unafraid, while their mothers bow down in a curtsey. He’d see a druid among the townsfolk walking shoulder-to-shoulder, arms linked and chattering away. He’d see the charms-sellers next to the market traders selling earthenware, trying to outdo each other in attracting new patrons, all in a good-natured fashion. They are all innocents. 

And then he’d think, oh. That’s why. Because even if he did it for Merlin to begin with, in the end, he knows that it has always been the right thing to do. 

The thing about getting hurt and leaving your home is that time works differently. The science of that statement may not be sound, but it certainly feels that way to Merlin, anyway. 

In his head, Merlin knows that it has been five years. Not only for him, but for Arthur too. But that knowledge is surprisingly difficult to internalise. Merlin knows that Camelot would change in the time that he was away, just like he has. It’s not like he expected Camelot to stay at a standstill. But it’s still so jarring, if not completely surreal, to leave and come back only to find himself in an unfamiliar Camelot with an unfamiliar Arthur at the throne.

It's difficult not to be wary. A part of him is terrified that this was all a figment of a broken mind. After everything that happened—after all the bloodshed and the bitterness and the fire—a Camelot where magic is welcome and he doesn’t have to hide seems almost too good to be true. Perhaps he did die after all, and this is the version of Avalon he desperately wanted. Or perhaps he’s still entombed, and this is the reality that his subconscious has created.

There’s only one way to know for sure.

Arthur finds Merlin folding the shirts and trousers that Arthur had surreptitiously left for him and putting them on the side. He’s wearing his old clothes, the ones Arthur found him in.

Arthur’s world grinds to a halt. 

“You’re leaving.”

Merlin freezes like a deer caught between a hunter’s aim. Looking guilty as though he’s been caught red-handed doing something he wasn’t meant to be doing.

“No, it’s fine, don’t let me stop you,” Arthur recovers quickly, forcing a polite smile he doesn’t quite feel. Merlin’s leaving. Of course Merlin’s leaving—didn’t Arthur hear the last conversation they had? Merlin certainly isn’t staying. 

Arthur draws himself up to full height and nods in acknowledgement. “Should our paths not cross again, I wish you a safe journey and good weather ahead.”

“Arthur,” Merlin sighs. He puts down the red tunic he was folding and takes a tentative step closer. There’s something on his expression that Arthur can’t quite decipher. He would’ve been able to, a long time ago, but he has resigned to the fact that after their long separation, he doesn’t know Merlin well enough to read him anymore. Where they grew entwined for ten years before Merlin's exile, they have grown separately after, outside of each other. 

Arthur stares resolutely at the tunic. It’s Camelot-red. Just like the ones Merlin used to wear when he was Arthur’s, if a little bit more well-made and a little less threadbare.

It aches differently, Arthur finds, when you’re not the one dictating the terms of a goodbye. When someone you still care for is the one dictating it for you. He always knew that he wanted Merlin back by his side, but it’s not until now that he knows just how desperately he wants Merlin to choose to stay. It feels an awful lot like drowning. 

A part of him wants to stomp like a child and let the door slam shut when he leaves. It’s not fair. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to go. He’s supposed to fix everything and Merlin is supposed to fall into his arms, but unfortunately for Arthur, this isn't the fairytale he used to pretend not to read. This is his reality and it's an awful lot messier.

“I’ll leave you to your packing, then,” Arthur says, a little too loudly and with too much false cheer. He turns his back on Merlin, keen to salvage what little pride he has left. If Merlin wants to leave, fine. Arthur tried, it doesn’t work, he’ll carry on. He’ll learn to get used to his new reality in time. 

He’s shown Merlin enough. He’ll be damned if he lets Merlin see him shatter again. 

“Arthur,” Merlin calls again. “Arthur, wait.”

What now? Arthur wants to cry out. Why is everything not enough?

He sighs. He grits his jaw and turns to look at Merlin, forcing his lips to curl into a smile. 

“That day, when I woke up after you broke the curse,” Merlin bites his lip. “You were going to say something.”

Arthur tries valiantly for the polite confusion look, but he knows that he is not fooling anybody.

“You said, ‘do you think we could ever,’ and then trailed off,”

“I’m sorry?”

Merlin takes a deep breath, visibly trying to rein in his impatience and failing spectacularly. “What were you going to say?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Arthur sighs, “you’re leaving. What does it matter?”

“It matters,” Merlin rushes to reassure him. “Arthur—of course it matters what you want. You’re the king.”

Arthur suppresses a flinch.

“Whatever you want to say, Arthur, just say it,” Merlin pleads. His eyes are so wide, and Arthur how forgotten how long his lashes are. “Please.”

Arthur opens his mouth, then closes it again. There’s a ferocious debate raging in his head—he has done enough and revealed far too much, how dare Merlin ask for more? 

But then again, much as he always tried to resist at first, he's never been much good at denying Merlin anything in the end. 

“I was going to ask if you think that we could ever go back to the way that we were,” Arthur forces through gritted teeth. Gods, this is humiliating. “But then I saw your scar. And I realised what a stupid question that was.”

Merlin’s hand fly automatically to his neck, where his neckerchief is securely tied around his throat.

“Either way, you’ve made your feelings on the matter quite clear.”

Merlin seems stunned into silence. The sight is a rarity. Arthur wishes he still had it in him to be amused by the sight of a speechless Merlin, but he is far too tired now. He wants to turn away and leave. It’s all out in the open, it’s bloody terrifying, he doesn’t want to hear Merlin’s answer.

“Why did you do it?” Merlin asks him finally, when the silence becomes unbearable. “Why the collar?”

“Magic was against the law—”

“The law would’ve sent me straight to the executioner’s block.”

Well. Arthur is too far gone now, he might as well go the whole way. 

“I didn’t want to lose you,” Arthur confesses, face burning, red with shame. He’s trembling with the effort not to run. “I didn’t want to send you away. I still wanted you by my side. It was the only way I could think how.”

Merlin falls silent. “Oh,”

“I know that you want to leave,” Arthur acknowledges. “And I swear that I won’t stop you. But if you do, then I just wanted you to know that I—“ he takes a deep breath. This is it for him. Once he crosses this line, there will be no going back. “I love you,” Arthur finally confesses. “I always have. From the very start.”

Merlin lets out a sharp intake of breath.

“And I still do.”

It's mortifying, saying it out loud, knowing full well that Merlin doesn't return his feelings anymore, but Arthur can't deny how liberating it is. He's weightless, untethered. He didn't realise how heavily the confession had weighed on his shoulders until it's all out in the open. 

“Gods, you’re not making this easy, are you,” Merlin mumbles. He chuckles humourlessly—he’s refusing to look at Arthur.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Arthur rushes to tell him. He didn't say it to change Merlin's mind, after all. If this is the last time he'll ever see Merlin— “I just wanted you to know.”

Merlin shakes his head. “There was a time when this was all I ever wanted to hear,” Merlin’s voice is gruff, tight with barely-checked emotion. 

“I know,” Arthur replies. It’s all so obvious, in hindsight. He wonders why they’ve always made it so bloody difficult for themselves, but things always seemed to make sense at the time. He wants to rush Merlin and ask and now? But he's said enough, revealed enough. He purses his lips and swallows his words, then says instead, “I’m sorry.”

“I was given a choice,” Merlin reveals after a long pause. His voice is halting, unsure. “I could come back here, or I could go to Avalon and rest.”

Despite himself, despite the fact that he’s letting go of Merlin again for what feels like the fiftieth time, Arthur has to quell the rising swell of panic in his chest at the mere idea of Merlin dying. 

“But then I heard your voice,” Merlin peers up at Arthur hesitantly. “I could hear you calling me.” 

Arthur stiffens at the memory. He remembers with vivid clarity the despair and the anguish he was in, even if his exact words eluded him. 

“I know I said that I won’t be able to forget,” says Merlin softly. There’s a tentative smile on his face—the first genuine one he’s directed at Arthur since Arthur exiled him—and Arthur’s heart soars at the sight. Arthur smiles back at Merlin helplessly, his relief making him slightly weak at the knees. “But maybe that doesn’t have to be the end of everything.”

Chapter Text

They avoid each other, at first. Merlin doesn’t know how to act around Arthur anymore and Arthur is afraid that he’ll ask for too much and push Merlin away. It’s not like it’s difficult, considering how in-demand Arthur’s presence is on an average day and how Merlin isn’t Arthur’s manservant anymore. 

They would see each other in hallways and nod at each other in acquiescence. Merlin’s magnetism never fails to draw Arthur in, and Arthur’s eyes know how to seek out Merlin in a crowd without trying. Their eyes would meet, and it’s enough to make Arthur’s stomach swoop. There’s always the flood of relief, knowing that Merlin’s still there at all, followed soon after with a bitter tang of regret. He’d think, how did we get here, thinking of all the times they were there for each other, thicker than thieves. And then he’d stop himself, because he knows full well how they got here. 

If only Arthur had been looking away, the way Merlin thought he did. If only he had better control of his emotions. If they never lost what they once had. 

Arthur wonders if Merlin hates the distance as much as he does. 

It takes a month for Merlin to come to Arthur and tell him everything. Arthur didn’t expect Merlin to be the first to break. 

They fight and it’s terrible. They shout at each other, they scream and they cry, but it’s always better out than in. It’s always worse when it’s with Merlin, because the downside to knowing each other that well is that they know how to wound and hurt each other more deeply than anyone else can. 

“Tell me this, then,” says Arthur, tired beyond his bones. “Some of the things that happened—the fomorrah in your neck. Morgana poisoning you and leaving you for dead.” Arthur swallows, cold all over. His voice wavers, and it becomes impossible to hide the hurt. “It had nothing to do with your magic. Why did you never tell me?”

There’s contemplation written on Merlin’s face, deliberation in the way he chooses his words. Arthur awaits his answer with apprehension because whatever it is, it can’t be good when Merlin’s being this careful. 

He avoids Arthur’s eyes when he mumbles, “Habit, more than anything, I suppose.”

Arthur inhales sharply, stung. He briefly wonders what the other answers Merlin was considering if this was him trying to soften the blow. 

“Did you think that I would not have cared to know?” Arthur loathes how vulnerable it makes him sound, but what on earth was Merlin thinking? He takes a deep breath, struggling not to shout. There is an ache in his chest that has been lodged there for days and wouldn’t budge. He grits his teeth.

“I was just a servant, Arthur,” Merlin murmurs softly. “In the end, that’s all I ever was.”

“You can’t believe that,” Arthur has to laugh in disbelief. “You can’t truly believe that.”

“You’ve said it often enough,” Merlin argues, his voice rising again. “You ask about why I don’t tell you things, even when it doesn’t concern my magic. But what is the word of a servant over that of a lord? Or a knight, or—” 

“I have always listened to you—“

“Only after,” Merlin replies, equally resentful. “Only when there was no other option.”

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” Arthur shakes his head, bitterness creeping into his tone. He forces himself to look at Merlin, even though he wants to be everywhere but here. The room feels too small, the air too suffocating. “I had thought that you understood what you meant to me. I didn’t realise it would be so difficult to believe.”

“Arthur, you were going to bind my magic,” Merlin stares at him, incredulous. “And when that failed, you banished me.”

“Try to understand what it looks like from my end,” Arthur retorts, but his voice is soft. He’s very tired, suddenly. They’re going round and round in circles and he just wants it to stop. “Until you came, I’ve only ever seen magic used for harm. All my life, they told me that magic corrupts one’s soul from within. I had my doubts, sure. I thought that nothing could possibly be bad enough to justify all the deaths. But when I saw what it did to Morgana—well. It looked like my father was right, after all.” He sighs, rubbing his face tiredly, but he is not finished. “And then, when the assassin wounded my father—I saw you doing magic, and then my father was dead.

“I didn’t know the truth, then. That you were trying to heal him. That Morgana had found out and caused your spell to backfire.” Arthur says. “I didn’t know that magic had saved my life, all those times before,” He looks at Merlin, pleading. “But then again, you never told me. 

"I can understand why,” Arthur adds quickly before Merlin could say a word. Everything that happened between them that day hangs in the air, thick and heavy. They don’t need to say anything; they both remember it all too well. They’ve pondered it over to death and then some. “But I had no way of knowing. Not when you couldn’t tell me.”

Merlin budges closer. He’s close enough that Arthur can feel his warmth, almost close enough to touch, but he moves no closer. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” 

Arthur looks up at Merlin and finds the same bone-deep exhaustion reflected in Merlin’s eyes. 

“I was afraid,” Merlin admits. “And I became so used to hiding it all. I didn’t want to volunteer information because I was afraid that you’d connect the dots. That you’d ask more questions and find out about my magic. Because to be honest, I was starting to find it—difficult—to keep track of all the lies that I told you." Merlin chuckles, but it's a sad, sardonic sound. "And it’s not like I tried very hard to dispel the notion that magic was evil, every time it was brought up," he adds. “I always went for the easier answer. I never gave you the chance. But you deserved to know the truth, too.”

Arthur closes his eyes, letting Merlin’s words wash over him. It feels a little bit like salvation, and already he feels the weight melting off his shoulders. It takes everything he has not to surge forward and kiss Merlin’s lips. But he can’t, at least not yet. So he says instead, “thank you, Merlin.”

“Did they ever tell you about the prophecy?” Merlin says conversationally. As if he is merely commenting about the weather, instead of a force that has been shaping their lives even before they were born. It’s a peaceful morning, the quiet only broken by the rustle of leaves in the summer breeze.  

“About a united Albion and the return of magic to the land?”

“Yeah.”

“They did.”

“Did they tell you about us?”

“Us?”

“About the Once and Future King and me,” Merlin closes and opens his palm absentmindedly, causing a daisy to bloom from his hand. Arthur glances at the daisy and suppresses a fond smile. 

“You mean you, the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth?” Arthur teases. He doesn’t have to look to know that Merlin is probably rolling his eyes. 

“They said it, not me.”

Arthur grins. “Sure, I’ve heard of us.”

“We were supposed to do it all together,” Merlin says wistfully. “In the end, you did it all without me.”

“Oh gods, you really are thick,” Arthur breathes out before he can stop himself. “Merlin, I did it all for you.”

“You would’ve done it either way, I think,” Merlin replies after a long, loaded pause. “With or without me. Eventually, anyway. Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“Perhaps,” Arthur isn’t so sure. “I suppose we’ll never know.”

They fall again into companionable silence. Arthur doesn’t mind. The sun is warm upon his face and he has the man he loves the fiercest by his side. 

It’s a long time before Merlin speaks again. 

“It scares me, sometimes,”

“What does?”

“This,” Merlin gestures vaguely at the world around them. “Everything. That none of it is real.”

The morning stills, the easy air broken. This isn’t something Arthur knows how to fix. “Merlin—“

“I know,” Merlin sighs, interrupting him. “Ridiculous of me.”

“No,” Arthur sits up and looks at Merlin intently, but Merlin is staring resolutely at the sky. “I wouldn’t say it is.”

Arthur knows the feeling. It is hard to believe that they’re finally here. After all the tears and all the pain, after all the shouting and pleading and bitter fighting, they’re out here on the meadow, side by side once more. 

Merlin eyes him curiously. He looks so at ease here, stretched out languidly on the soft grass, bled free of tension. Open and trusting. Arthur’s chest feels so full that he doesn’t know how he doesn’t burst apart at the seams. 

“I can only imagine the things you have gone through,” Arthur says, brows furrowing. “Living in fear for so long. Always having to hide who you are. Fighting battles in silence, not being able to share the burden.” There’s that twinge of regret again. Arthur knows that it’s a long time before he would be able to think of Merlin without feeling guilty. He swallows his acrid shame and continues, “but I swear to you that this is real.” 

“You’d say that even if you’re not real,”

“It’s real enough to me, anyway,” Arthur replies casually, suppressing a smile at the faintest whine in Merlin’s voice. But he turns serious again before too long, because there’s something buried in his chest that has been desperate to be let out. “You’ll never have to hide anymore,” Arthur vows. “And whatever it is you have to fight, I’ll fight it with you.”

It warms something in his core, the idea of fighting with Merlin by his side. Fighting for Merlin. Being Merlin’s knight, the first person he turns to when something inevitably turns up. Gods, they’ll be able to take on everything.

Merlin smiles. “I think that’s my line.”

“And it’s about time you hear it said to you,” Arthur counters easily, not missing a beat. He lies back down. “Of course this is real. You’re not creative enough to make all this up, anyway.”

Later, something would shift. It’s impossible to say what it is. But Merlin would look at Arthur and believe him when Arthur tells him that he loves him. And Arthur would beam at him, relieved, because he would be able to tell when Merlin believes him. It doesn’t matter if Merlin isn’t ready to say it back. They’re relearning each other and it is working, and Arthur learns to be happy where he is.  

Later still, Arthur would ask Merlin to be his Court Sorcerer. To stand to his right, where he has always belonged, and be recognised by eyes far and wide in an official capacity. And Merlin would kiss Arthur and forget to say yes, but it doesn’t matter because Arthur knows what he means. 

But that comes later.