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When Albion’s Need is Greatest

Summary:

Merlin has waited more than a thousand years for his king to return, his hope growing as weary as his body after so many years with nothing to show for it. But prophecies are fickle, and without a when or where for Merlin to go off of, when Arthur finally awakens, he is not there to meet him. Instead, Arthur is met with a gregarious young girl named Eleanor who, alongside her loyal dog Cavall, does her best to acclimate Arthur to the modern world and reunite him with his useless manservant. As soon as she's convinced he's not just a historical reenactor who hit his head, anyway.

Notes:

Hi Merlin fandom if you're still alive! There are so many Arthur returns fics out there, but here, have another cake.

Some notes:
- I've had this idea knocking around in my head since the series finale that happened [checks calendar] 12 years ago. Oh good god. I'm writing this now for that little girl who made her playmobil figures look like merthur and cried uncontrollably when Arthur died. I'm agender now but she's still in there somewhere.
- I wasn't sure about the timeline given the show doesn't really have a fixed date and Arthurian legends go back Very far, so I just took a shot in the dark for this.
- Same with the setting. The last shot in the series finale shows Merlin in Glastonbury, so I went with that.
- I am slowly working my way through a rewatch but it's still been a while since I watched the finale, so if some details are inaccurate, sorry about that. I'll try my best to update anything I got wrong.

I'll be real with anyone reading this, I'm not sure it'll get finished - it's gonna be a doozy if so - but I'll give it my damnedest. If you don't want to read a fic that might never get finished, that's cool, I understand. But if you do still want to stick around, then hi! I hope you enjoy! Let me know if you do, and I'll be even more motivated to procrastinate what I'm supposed to be doing and continue.

Chapter 1: Prologue

Chapter Text

“And as Arthur took his dying breath, Merlin felt all the hopes and promises of a better Albion dying with him.

“He held on tight as his friend grew cold and heavy in his arms, and felt the weight of the world crumble on top of his shoulders as he realised it had all been for nothing.

“Every battle, every near miss, every petty argument and pointless squabble. The resentment over ‘destiny’ and forced proximity turning to easy camaraderie, to genuine friendship and care and love, to trust built between them over years at each other’s sides, solid as a mountainside.  Two sides of a coin. 

“All for nothing.

“For in the end, Arthur had been no more than a lamb bred for slaughter, and Merlin his rearer, shepherding him towards the abattoir at the right place at the right time. Just a pawn in the sick game the universe called ‘fate’.

“Over and over, Merlin had been told that his destiny, his one purpose, the reason for his very existence, was to protect Arthur, to keep him safe and alive. But he couldn’t save him in the end, not when it mattered most. He had never been supposed to.”

Merlin glanced up at his audience; took in the ashen faces of children and their parents, young couples and loitering teens, pensioners who’d just happened to sit nearby to take the weight off their feet, all of them staring at him in mute horror.

Merlin couldn’t really blame them; this wasn’t how he’d wanted the story to end either.

He cleared his throat, which had grown hoarse, and swallowed down the painful lump that had been forming there.

“But he held onto hope,” he continued, aiming for a more chipper tone before the children sitting cross-legged at his feet started crying, or someone started throwing things, as had happened a few times before.  “As he drifted Arthur’s body out over the Lake of Avalon and watched it float away into the mist, he recalled the Great Dragon’s words:

“When Albion’s need is greatest, Arthur will rise again.”

He didn’t mention how long he’d waited. The hundreds of years spent walking the earth, searching. How he’d used magic to keep himself young so that Arthur, who’d no doubt be disoriented when he finally awoke, would have a familiar face to welcome him, but how he’d dropped the habit after only a few centuries, letting himself grow withered and frail, black hair bleaching white and bones becoming brittle.

He stared down at his wrinkled old hands, feeling the weight of so, so many years settle deep into his bones. He’d have to return to youth soon if he didn’t want to shrivel away for good. But oh, he was tired. Tired of outliving every friend he’d ever made, of seeing the landscape of his homeland change until it was unrecognisable. His heart had long ago been torn apart and remoulded with grief as its new matter. Grief for the many, many people he’d lost, but mainly for a man he was losing hope of ever seeing again.

How much longer could he bear to wait?

He didn’t tell his audience any of this. He let the final words of his story be words of hope. Someone deserved to still feel it at least.

Realising the tale really was over, the audience gradually thinned, grumbling their discontent to each other as they shuffled away, some promising their companions that better versions of Arthur’s legend could be found elsewhere, not spouted in a park by a senile old man.

Merlin ignored them, more than used to this after years of travelling and telling his story. People never liked the ending, but what other ending could there be?

He leant over, his back giving a low creak of protest, and began counting up the coins that had been cast upon the blanket below his stool. Fewer than usual. Always few for the last show.

As he was shuffling the last couple of coins into his wallet - enough for a hot meal, at least? - a shadow fell over his blanket.

“Mr Ambrose?” said a voice, clear with youth, using the false name he’d chosen for this particular visit.

Merlin looked up into the bright, resolute eyes of a young girl. She couldn’t have been older than 14, face plump and pimpled in the midst of adolescence, and stature too short to be done growing. She stood at the edge of his blanket with her arms folded. At her heels, untethered, waited a dog large enough to be mistaken for a small horse. 

He recognised her, though he didn’t know her name; she’d been there since the first day he’d set up his stool in the park and started speaking, transfixed on his every word, with wonder in her eyes whenever he spoke of magic, and arms tight around her pet at every tense moment in his and Arthur’s escapades. Except now the wonderment had vanished, and she looked just plain cross, bottom lip stuck out in a pout and eyes thunderous. Her stubborn posture, paired with her wavy, golden hair, had him reminded suddenly, painfully, of Arthur, stood in his bedchambers scolding Merlin for missing a spot when polishing his armour or forgetting to muck out the horses.

Honestly, Merlin, could you be any more useless?

“So?” said the girl, snapping him out of his spiralling thoughts. “Did he ever come back?”

Merlin swallowed a sigh and forced what he hoped was a grandfatherly smile. This happened sometimes; people who weren’t satisfied with the ending demanding more. At least with his aged form, people were more hesitant in their anger lest they cause a sudden heart attack.

“Well, some say he was reincarnated as the Duke of Wellington,” he said, unable to keep the weariness from his tone. “His name was Arthur too, you see. Defeated Napoleon in the Battle of Waterloo.”

“And are they right?”

Merlin let out a hollow chuckle. “Well,” he said slyly, “it’s not as though anyone was there who can tell us for sure.” He paused, surveying the girl contemplatively. “But… no,” he said, surprising himself in his honesty. “I believe when Arthur returns, it will be as himself, not some reincarnation. I hope so, at least.”

The girl looked somewhat thoughtful at this, and Merlin took the opportunity to bend down and begin packing away his little setup. He tried to, at least, except his knees gave a loud pop of protest that revived the girl’s attention, and she shooed him away and began rolling up the blanket for him, grass stains quickly forming on her jeans where she squatted on the ground. She did a shoddy job of it, the rolled blanket ending up too thick and threatening to unravel, but Merlin tucked it under his arm and thanked her all the same; most disgruntled audience members weren’t so kind.

“Are you a historian or something, then?” she asked, picking up his stool, too, when the tremors in his hand nearly had him dropping it. She followed him to the park’s exit with it, her dog trotting happily along by her feet without need of a leash. “You seem to know a lot about Arthurian stuff.”

“Just an old man with a passion,” Merlin wheezed, struggling a little to hobble along at her pace in case she accidentally ran off with his only stool. “I suppose you could say it’s a story very close to my heart.”

The girl hummed thoughtfully, continuing to walk with him until they reached a bus stop a little ways down the road, then waiting patiently as he took a seat at the bench there before passing back his stool. “Well, if I see any lost kings wandering around, I’ll come find you.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Merlin said with a chuckle that felt more substantive than his last one.  

His heart was made of grief, but it was still a heart, and it still found ways to feel fondness for the people he met, and the little kindnesses they granted him. Humans never changed much, he’d found, no matter how much the world around them did.

“But if you do find one, I hope it will be soon,” he said. “I won’t be around much longer.”

“You’re dying?!” the girl cried instantly, eyes widening in horror as the dog at her feet gave a little whine of concern at the fright in her voice.

“No, no,” Merlin quickly reassured, a little touched that she seemed so panicked, but also a little insulted. He didn’t look that old, surely? Maybe he really was overdue for a de-aging spell. “Just off travelling.”

He didn’t like straying far from the Lake of Avalon, though the place went by a different name now, and towns and roads had grown around it. It was where he’d layed Arthur to rest, and where, he suspected, Arthur would rise. But he couldn’t shake the nerves that Arthur would awaken somewhere else, somewhere he was more needed, and so Merlin travelled and searched, and wherever he stopped to rest, he told his story, laid out in instalments over weeks to a crowd that grew and grew until their disappointment had them dispersing with angry mutters. He didn’t try altering the ending; he’d found that a story that sparked anger tended to stick, and he needed Arthur’s tale to be remembered, so that when he finally arose it would be to a world that still knew his name, to a world that might recognise him, even after centuries, and welcome him home.

But no matter where he ventured, he always returned. Here, to this place, with the tower stretching so high into the sky it could be seen over the surrounding buildings, always in clear sight. A gaping wound marring the horizon.

Even if he wasn’t searching, he couldn’t stay here for long. Time hadn’t healed this sorrow, and it hurt more the longer he lingered, like trying to keep his hand on a hot stove.

But he wouldn't die, of course, no matter how much he played with fire letting himself age like this. He couldn’t. So long as Arthur stood a chance of returning, he would wait. He had to.

“Oh,” said the girl, expression sinking into relief. “Will you be coming back soon? Will you start your story again when you do?”

Not until you’ve grown enough to forget me, Merlin thought, but aloud, he said, “Soon enough.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” she said brightly, like this was a fun game. “In case he comes back while you’re gone. What’s he look like, again?”

“Handsome,” Merlin said without missing a beat. “Hair about the same shade as yours. Eyes like a stormy sea. Tall and strong and brave.” He let himself smile fondly, the muscles in his cheeks aching as they locked back into a long-forgotten place. “But you won’t notice any of that because he’ll be too busy behaving like a huge prat.”

The girl let out a surprised giggle, face scrunching up in mirth and hand flying to her mouth. “You sound just like Merlin!” she said gleefully. “From your story.”

“I get that a lot,” Merlin said.

A bus pulled up at the curb, and the girl leapt to help him stand, supporting him beneath his twig-like elbow as he creaked over to the doors.

“I’ll be alright from here,” he said, patting her arm in both gratitude and dismissal.

But she lingered a moment longer while a few people made their way past them off the bus.

“I liked your story!” she blurted, still hovering just outside the doors while Merlin went to show the driver his bus pass. “Even if the ending… Well, it wasn’t really the ending, was it?”

“I suppose not,” said Merlin, though the hope in his heart had long ago been drowned within the grief. “But it’s all I have.”

“For now,” the girl added, stubborn expression back on her face and hair ruffling in the breeze, the evening sun igniting the strands in gold like the glint of a dragon crest on a shield. “Maybe there’ll be more when you come back.”

Merlin missed the days when he had that kind of naive certainty. “I hope so,” he said. “I wish you well, miss…”

“Eleanor,” she said just before the doors slid shut.

Merlin creaked over to the closest seat, nearly tripping on his way as the bus began to move, and waved through the grimy window at Eleanor. Just before she faded into the distance, he watched her turn, her dog lolloping happily by her heels as she strode toward a tower on the horizon.

 


 

A short distance away, there lay a lake. It had stayed pristine and resilient for thousands of years, and it would remain for thousands more, marred only by an island at its centre with a tall tower protruding from it, piercing up into the sky. 

It lay in perfect silence, its water still and clear as glass. Not an insect made a sound at its banks, no birds passed overhead, no fish stirred beneath the surface, almost as though time was standing still and the world was holding its breath.

And then a head broke through the surface.

The glass shattered, water frothed, fish fled, a bird let out a cry and took flight from a nearby tree. The figure thrashed, gasping and spluttering, fighting to remain afloat despite the heavy armour threatening to pull them back into the darkness below. And somehow, through sheer stubborn will, they managed to stay above the surface long enough to drag themselves ashore.

Arthur Pendragon collapsed onto the muddy bank, exhausted and soaked through to the bone, and gazed up at the sky as he drank in his first breaths in over a millennia.

Chapter 2: 1

Summary:

Arthur stumbles out of the lake and meets a strange girl.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Arthur staggered up the slimy bank, feet threatening to lose their grip on the sodden earth, and headed towards the closest cluster of trees, aiming to put as much distance between himself and the lake as possible. He was still choking with every breath, throat roaring in protest at the fresh air as though wishing he was still sucking in water instead. Thoroughly drenched, he left murky puddles alongside every footprint, and by the time he managed to reach the treeline and collapse against a sturdy trunk, he was frozen stiff, as though his blood had been replaced by frigid lake water.

He slumped to the earthen floor, trying to force his breathing steady, to hold down a deep breath without inciting a coughing fit. But he found it difficult to focus as he took in the woodland.

There was nothing glaringly anomalous surrounding him, no rustle or creak or snapping twig to suggest that some beast or mercenary was preparing to pounce on him, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was… off. 

The trees… They didn’t look quite as large and mighty as he remembered, mere saplings in comparison, and not nearly as densely packed as he would expect of the forests surrounding Camelot.

The air, too, as he drank it in, felt just slightly too warm for the time of day. That may have been simply a trick of the mind with the rest of him so cold, but it also didn’t taste quite right to his tongue. Tainted. Like lingering smoke after a fire.

The sun was quickly setting beyond the tree line, and he looked to the sky for the familiar sight of the moon. He found it, a splotch of milky white in the distance, crescented, still a little faint with the sky clinging to its last dregs of sunlight. He breathed a small sigh of relief, comforted in the knowledge that this, at least, was unchanged and familiar. But the feeling didn’t last long. 

As the sun dipped lower, painting the horizon in vermillion hues and the sky above a deep blue, little pinpricks of light began to form, except… not enough. Not nearly enough. 

He stared up at the sky in enrapt horror, ignoring the way his limbs were growing stiff with cold, waiting and hoping for more stars to appear. And they did, gradually, but so few. He was used to a night sky that looked as though an artist had flicked his brush and splattered white paint across a dark canvas, but this sky was almost barren, as if the same artist had decided he’d made a mistake and smothered his masterpiece under more dark paint.

Feeling sick, Arthur forced his rigid limbs to move and clambered to his feet, ignoring the furious protests of his aching muscles and abused lungs.

“Merlin?” he called through chattering teeth, except his voice came out in only a hoarse whisper. He coughed to try and clear the way for his voice, gullet ragged yet expelled air still uncomfortably moist, and tried again. “Merlin?!”

He stumbled further into the woodland, searching for a shock of charcoal hair or a crimson scarf. Merlin had been with him not long ago, he was certain. He couldn’t have gotten far. Except…

He frowned. Something seemed to be missing, a blank spot in his memory. Trying to think back to how he’d somehow wound up in the lake had him feeling like he was trying to force his way through a brick wall, as though his memory had been sealed away from him. 

But he remembered Merlin. He remembered Merlin’s distraught face, the guttural sound of his sobs, the stinging hot moisture of tears hitting his face. Merlin had been upset, Arthur remembered that much, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember why.

“MERLIN?!” he called again, louder, trying to convince himself that the tightness in his chest was annoyance and not panic. Annoyance and anger he could manage, not anything else. “MERLIN, WHERE ARE YOU?!”

Footsteps heavy, limbs stiff with every movement, weighed down with exhaustion and armour and waterlogged clothes, he ventured further into the trees, over ground that felt too hard and through foliage that felt too thin. He spied a thin dirt path not far away, lit by the rising moon, and made his way over to it before stumbling in surprise at the sound of footsteps.

“Merlin!” he called, throwing caution to the wind as he threw himself forward toward the path. “Merlin, is that-?”

He managed to stop before colliding with someone who decidedly wasn’t Merlin, though the effort combined with his heavy attire nearly had him toppling over and his armour clanked embarrassingly loud with the effort not to. He quickly righted himself and gathered his kingly manners.

“My apologies, my lady, I-”

“Woah! Is there a festival on?”

Arthur stopped mid-apology in perplexment at the words, and then only grew more perplexed when he actually took in the figure he’d nearly collided with.

A young girl, that much was easy enough to get his head around, though her hair was cropped much shorter than he was used to seeing on a lady - barely meeting her shoulders! - and she was dressed unlike any girl he’d ever seen. The fact she was in trousers was odd enough when she hadn’t even a horse to ride, but the materials of her garments and the patterns upon them were different to anything he'd witnessed before. Her shoes alone looked far too flimsy and colourful for a walk in the woods.

He startled when something hot and wet touched his hand, and looked down to see a large, shaggy dog sniffing at his fingers. At least, he assumed it to be a dog, though the shape of its snout and ears looked far different than those of his own hounds back home.

Things just kept getting stranger.

“You okay?” the girl said when Arthur failed to come up with any words. “How come you’re all wet?”

“I…” Arthur frowned; her dialect was so peculiar, and his mind was beginning to feel as numb as the rest of him. “I just… fell in the lake,” he finished lamely, unsure how else he could explain his current state when he didn't know either.

The girl only looked at him blankly, and while Arthur was already feeling very confused, her next words had him feeling like he’d just been dunked under frosty water again. “What lake?”

“The… the lake,” he reiterated, staring at her and trying to figure out if she was playing a joke on him, but her expression seemed genuinely bewildered. He pointed back the way he’d come. “The lake right over there!”

She squinted in the direction he pointed, and then her expression lit up in understanding. He had only a brief moment of relief before she snuffed it out again. “You mean the tor? Sometimes the mist rises around it and it looks like an island in a lake. They call it the Fata Morgana. Y’know, like the witch!”

“Morgana?” he repeated, then shook the thought away immediately. If sorcery was afoot - and that was growing more likely by the minute - it couldn’t be his sister’s doing. He’d watched the light leave her eyes after Merlin had-

Merlin had…

And Arthur had been…

He frowned, trying to grasp the memories and weave them back into a complete image, but the threads of the tapestry slipped through his fingers before he could get a grip.

He swallowed a curse word and shook his head. Morgana was dead, that much he recalled. Whatever this was had nothing to do with her.

“It wasn’t mist, it was a lake!” he insisted, voice strained as his frustration grew. At least the blood rushing to his face was taking away some of the cold. “How could I be wet otherwise?”

“There’s no lake there,” the girl insisted right back. “Or if there was, it dried up years ago. Look.”

She left the path and moved past him, not waiting to see if he’d follow, though he did. When they reached the treeline where Arthur had first entered the wood, she pointed.

“See? No lake.”

He stared. There stood the familiar hill with the tower cresting at its centre, but surrounding it, where he was sure there had been water, stretched out only green, grassy fields in every direction.

“It… it was a lake…” he said, words feeble to his own ears. He stumbled away until his back met a tree trunk and leant on it for support, head dizzy.

“Maybe you got caught in flash rain or something?” the girl suggested.

He only shook his head, unable and unwilling to come up with any other explanation.

“Maybe you should go home and dry off,” the girl said instead. “Your festival can wait, can't it? You’ll freeze like that if you’re not careful. End up catching pneumonia or something.”

The more she spoke, the more Arthur felt like he did when he was very hungover after Gwaine had dragged him to a tavern the night before, and he was at a meeting trying to follow the droning tone of whatever nobleman was demanding his attention. Her words, while decipherable to an extent, were giving him a headache. But one stuck out.

Home.

Home sounded perfect.

He straightened. “Listen, miss…”

“Eleanor,” the girl supplied. 

“Miss Eleanor,” Arthur said, a little relieved that she at least had a fairly normal name. “I need to get back to Camelot. Could you point me the way?”

He could figure everything out once he was back in his castle safe and sound. Maybe Merlin had found his way back already. And Gwen would be waiting for him. How long had he been gone? God, she must be worried sick.

“Um…” said Eleanor, frowning a little in thought. “Do you mean the bed and breakfast? Camelot Retreat, I think it’s called. Is that where you’re staying?”

“What? No,” Arthur blurted, accidentally letting his manners slip. “Camelot! The Kingdom of Camelot. A great big castle, difficult to miss.”

Eleanor’s frown deepened. “Is your festival King Arthur themed or something?” she said, which left Arthur completely flummoxed. “If the venue’s a castle, you must be very lost, ‘cause there’s none ‘round here. Unless you mean the abbey? Or the tower?” She pointed back at the tor.

No,” Arthur said again, frustration growing into what was definitely bordering on panic. “Camelot. Surely you’ve heard of it.”

“Of course I’ve heard of it,” she huffed as though it was very stupid of him to suggest otherwise.

That was something at least.

“Right, well, where is it?” he said, gesturing around him. “Which way?”

“I don’t know!” Eleanor told him, clearly growing upset as though it was Arthur who was making no sense. “I don’t know what you mean!”

“You just said you’d heard of it.”

“Everyone’s heard of it!”

“Then where-”

“It’s not real!” she cried, and Arthur felt his world tilt. “Or it’s long gone, I don’t know. I don’t know where you want to go.”

“But…” Arthur didn’t know what to feel, so he picked anger. “Listen, young lady, if you are lying to me, I could have you put in the stocks! Tell me the truth: where is Camelot?!”

Rather than appearing frightened, Eleanor only looked more bewildered. “Put in the stocks?” she repeated, tone incredulous.

“Or the dungeon! I am your king, you hear? Arthur Pendragon of-”

He stopped short when she snorted a laugh which quickly grew into more breathless giggles.

“Ohhh, are you just really in character?” she said, sounding relieved. “Can’t you wait ‘til you meet up with all your knights or whatever? I kinda need to get home soon.”

“I-” Arthur stared at her, completely baffled. “What are you talking about? Did you not hear me? I am King Arthur Pendragon of-”

“Yeah, yeah,” she shrugged, making to move past him back towards the path and beckoning her dog to follow. “Look, your costume is really cool, but you’re gonna get sick if you don’t dry off soon. You should drop it and head home.”

Arthur stood frozen for a moment before regaining his senses and moving to block her path. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do, but one thing he was quite certain of was that he didn’t want to be left alone in this strange version of his homeland, even if his only choice of company was an odd little girl and her dog.

“I don’t know which way my home is!” he insisted. “Why won't you listen to me? I am King Arthur Pendragon and I need to find my way back to Camelot!”

Eleanor finally paused, looking at him closely. “Are you… did you hit your head or something?”

“Excuse me?!”

“‘Cause you seriously seem to think you’re King Arthur.”

“I am King Arthur!”

“And I should probably take you to a doctor or something. You might hurt yourself with that sword.”

She seemed genuinely concerned, and Arthur clutched the hilt of his sword protectively, gripping it tightly like it was a lifeline, his proof that he wasn’t going mad.

“I am not hurt and if I was, I would go to Gaius,” he insisted. “And Gaius is at Camelot.”

“Maybe the hospital,” Eleanor said as if she hadn’t heard him. “You could have a concussion. Or something traumatised you? I don’t know how it works, but you definitely need to see someone. I can’t leave you here alone.”

“I AM NOT A MADMAN!” Arthur shouted, patience snapping like a taut thread. “I have not hit my head! I am a man who needs help and now I know I should have tried to find someone else who is actually willing to believe me instead of arguing with some silly little girl who refuses to listen!”

Eleanor’s face had fallen into one of stunned silence, and she’d even backed away a few paces during his rant. Her big round eyes, growing wet as they looked up at him, had Arthur realising just how young she was, and her frightened expression shot a sudden sharp pain through his heart as he was reminded of all the times his father had snapped at and belittled him.

Guilt was already clawing through his gut, but he didn’t get a chance to apologise before Eleanor’s face dropped into a glare so ferocious that even Uther Pendragon would have cowered before it.

“I was trying to help you!” she snapped furiously. “But if you’re going to be like that I won’t bother! You must be royalty to act like such a spoiled little brat! You’re supposed to be the adult here, but you’re behaving like a huge-!”

She stopped suddenly, eyes widening as her anger seemed to seep from her.

“I- I am sorry,” Arthur said, taking the opportunity to apologise before she started shouting again. “I should not have spoken to you in that manner. I just… Everything feels so strange, and I…”

“You’re King Arthur,” Eleanor said blankly.

“I… Yes,” he said, a little confused now. “I mean, that’s what I have been trying to tell you.”

“You’re for real Arthur Pendragon,” she said, still staring at him. 

“Yes, that's-”

“And you’re a prat.”

He gaped at her. “Excuse me?”

“A huge prat,” she repeated. “A big, massive… clotpole!”

“Wh- Have you been talking to Merlin?!” Arthur exclaimed, equal parts ecstatic and furious. “Is this all his idea of a joke? Where is he?” He spread his arms wide and turned in a circle. “You can come out now, Merlin! Jokes over!” 

“Um…” said Eleanor, eyeing him cautiously. “I heard it from the storyteller in the park. I don't think Merlin's here.”

“He's got to be somewhere!” Arthur said, turning back to face her. “I know he put you up to this. Only Merlin calls me a clotpole. Come on. Where is he?”

“Probably… dead?” said Eleanor, hesitantly. “Or waiting for you to rise again? I don't know. How long do wizards live?”

Arthur ignored the first part, because there was no way Merlin could possibly be dead despite how accident-prone he was, and scoffed. “What do you mean ‘wizard’? There’s no way Merlin’s a -”

He stopped, flashes of memory emerging from the fog in his mind. Guttural incantations and glowing gold eyes. Merlin using magic. And Arthur’s fury, at first, his feeling of betrayal, and then his acceptance, because his father must have been wrong when he said all magic was evil. Merlin was a good man, and Arthur would trust him with anything, even sorcery.

“Um, listen… Arthur,” said Eleanor, approaching him slowly like one would a startled horse. “Your majesty? The thing is… You've been d- I mean… You've been gone a long time.”

“What?” said Arthur, looking up at her. “What are you talking about?”

“You-” Eleanor stopped, biting her lip in thought. “It's been… Well, I'm not sure, really. What year are you fr- What year do you think it is?”

Arthur frowned at her phrasing, but answered, “518.”

“Oh, wow,” said Eleanor, eyes widening. “Arthur, you've been dead for about one and a half thousand years.”

Notes:

Thank you to everyone who's left kudos/commented so far! I will try to update this as much as possible :-)

Chapter 3: 2

Summary:

Arthur, understandably, has a bit of a breakdown.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Arthur stared at the girl, not knowing what to feel other than disbelief.

Dead? Him? For over a thousand years? That just couldn't be possible. 

That would mean everything and everyone he loved was long gone, just bones in the ground somewhere probably long forgotten. His Kingdom, his friends, his knights, his wife. Merlin… A world without them was unimaginable, therefore it couldn't be true.

But then he looked back at the trees, too sparse; back up at the sky, too dark; back at the girl, too strange. He remembered the glint of metal flashing through the air, the rush of white-hot pain, and his hand automatically flew to his side, expecting to meet warm blood but finding only frosty chainmail.

Scolding hot tears hitting his cheeks, arms holding him upright, strength seeping out of him with every second. Merlin clinging to him, sobbing, begging him to hold on just a little longer…

And then… Nothing. 

Until he woke up in a lake.

“No,” said Arthur. “No, I -”

It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t. This was some kind of sorcery, an illusion making the world appear so, so wrong. He just had to get through it somehow and he’d find his way back to Camelot, where Gwen would greet him with a hug and a worried brush of her hand across his brow, and he’d have Merlin run him a hot bath and fetch him dry clothes and scoff as his servant complained about the work and made fun of him for falling in a lake. And later he would tell his knights the tale of the strange world he’d found himself in while they laughed and drank around the round table.

He just had to get through it. He had to get out of here.

“Hold on! Wait -” Eleanor cried and he pushed past her. She tried to grab his arm but he shrugged her off, already running down the path, feet pounding on the soil, armour clanking in protest. “ Arthur!

She wouldn’t be able to stop him. She was just a little girl. Probably another illusion, anyway. A fabrication created by Morgana - or… some other sorcerer - to confuse and disorient him.

He kept running, searching for something familiar, anything

Instead, the path shifted into something grey and hard and so foreign that he stumbled to a stop in bewilderment. Clearly, he wasn’t escaping the madness, but being pulled further in.

A noise caught his attention, something rumbling and loud, and he looked up to see two bright white lights coming towards him at a frightening pace. He immediately drew his sword, ready to fight what he was certain was some manifestation of malevolent sorcery, when a sound like a carnyx horn but louder pierced the air. Then, when the lights had just gotten large enough to consume his vision and he had blindly raised his sword in a defensive position, he felt a yank on his cloak that had him stumbling backwards just as something huge and rectangular like a great metallic beast shot past him, right over where he’d just been standing.

“YOU IDIOT!” Eleanor screamed at him before Arthur could even get a word out, for, of course, she was the one who had pulled him back. “Why’d you run off?! You should know the world’s way different now; where’s your common sense?! The legend doesn’t say ‘When Albion’s need is greatest, Arthur will return, only to immediately get hit by a truck and die again ‘cause he was a great bloody moron’, does it?!”

Arthur gaped at her, not quite sure what she was saying but feeling much the same as he did whenever Merlin had a go at him. Which had him remembering Merlin again. And the look on his face the last time Arthur had seen him.

He stared at Eleanor as she continued to spout words that barely made sense to him, with emotion so real there was no way magic could have constructed it. He looked across the strange road to the landscape that stretched out beyond it, to buildings that sprouted up in absurd shapes and lights in the windows that were too bright and still to have been made by flames. He could hear noises in the distance similar to that of the creature that had nearly struck him, and other noises, too, that he had no idea how to place. Things beyond his imagination. Things beyond anyone’s imagination.

The missing stars had still not appeared.

Suddenly, Arthur's armour felt far too heavy.

He vaguely registered Eleanor letting out a yelp as she rushed to try and catch him but stumbled under his hefty weight. He crumpled to the ground despite her efforts, though she at least managed to keep him sitting upright. 

Arthur barely noticed. His world was collapsing around his shoulders, his heart pounding in his ears. His chest had constricted, his vision blurred, he couldn't breathe, couldn't think straight, his thoughts spiralling.

Could it really be true? Could he have really died? But he'd come back now? Hundreds, thousands of years too late for his loved ones to welcome him. They must have grieved for him, waited for him, but he'd taken too long and now it was his turn to grieve. For everything he'd ever known.

His Kingdom - dust by now. His people - gone. He'd never again be able to spar with his knights, laughing good-naturedly when Elyon managed to knock Percival on his backside or Lancelot tricked Leon with a feint. Never again hear Gaius chiding them for being too rough as he cleaned up their scrapes and bruises.

He'd never hold Gwen again, never feel her stroke his hair back, never hear her soft voice chiding him for being too brittle, never hear her laugh as he and Merlin got into another pointless squabble. They'd wanted to start a family soon, but any children they would have had would now be long gone too. 

And Merlin… God, Merlin. How had he broken the news? Did he have to go back to hiding his magic without Arthur protecting him, or had he confessed to Gwen eventually. Gwen would have been kind to him, Arthur was sure. She would have kept him safe in his stead. They would have been alright, surely? They would have managed without him?

He wished he could know, somehow; wished he could go back in time even for a moment, just to see. Would there be any records of them left? Anything to say how Camelot and its people got on? Or had they all been forgotten? One and a half thousand years was almost too long to comprehend. Everything would have changed - everything had changed - and here he was, spat out into the world again by forces unknown. Alone.

He gasped for air, skin somehow too hot and flushed despite clothes that were still soaked and clinging to him, his heart pounding so fast he felt as though his chest would burst, as though he was dying all over again. Maybe that would be better. He couldn't do this, king or not. Not alone. He needed someone. Anyone.

He almost didn't register as a small hand lifted his own, and his palm met something warm and soft. Confused, vision still blurry, he spread his fingers out feeling… fur? 

A weight rested itself on his knee as he stroked his hand further down the animal's hide until his palm met a back that rose and fell with steady breaths. He sat there, hand still, captivated by the rhythm, and soon found that his own breaths had smoothed out to match.

He blinked a few times, vision clearing, and looked down to see a dog's head resting calmly on his knee, unconcerned by Arthur’s hand idly petting his fur. Eleanor’s dog.

“I’m sorry I shouted at you,” said Eleanor from just above his shoulder. Arthur hadn't even realised she'd been standing behind him, rubbing his back unfelt through thick armour, expression distressed and guilty. “You just scared me. But we’ll look after you from now on, okay? Me and Cavall.” She nodded to the dog.

Arthur looked down at the dog, still threading his fingers through the soft fur, and it looked back up at him with large, dark eyes. It almost looked worried for him.

“I -” Arthur started, then swallowed, feeling like his tongue was too heavy in his mouth. “I think I must be ill.”

“You just had a panic attack, that’s all,” said Eleanor.

“A… what?”

“Um… It’s like when you have this sudden burst of fear that has your body reacting like you just fought a bear or something,” Eleanor said. “I get ‘em sometimes. They’re not nice.”

“Oh,” said Arthur. He seemed to remember he’d had such occurrences happen to him before, though he didn’t have a name for them.

“Are you okay now?” said Eleanor. “I mean other than… everything.” She grimaced. “I’m not - I can’t even imagine what it’s like to… I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” said Arthur, though it really wasn’t. But at least the people were kind, even if they weren’t his people anymore. Maybe he would be alright. Eventually. “Thank you, Eleanor. You should return home before your parents worry. I’ll manage on my own.”

“I just said I’d look after you, didn’t I?!” Eleanor protested immediately. “You were on your own for one second and almost got hit by a truck!”

“What on earth is a truck ?” Arthur said.

Eleanor seemed not to have heard him and just kept rambling on. “Listen, I’ve got a plan! I promised I’d tell the storyteller if I ever found King Arthur, and I did! So I’ll take you to him. He’ll know what to do; he’s probably got a whole procedure planned out or something. I just hope he hasn’t left already.” She paused, eyeing Arthur with some concern. “We should maybe get you into something dry first, though. And, uh, less conspicuous.”

Arthur looked down at his sopping wet clothes and heavy armour and thought longingly of a hot bath. “I would very much appreciate that,” he said.

Eleanor continued looking at him with some level of trepidation. “I probably shouldn’t be bringing strange adult men I found in the woods home with me,” she said. “Buuut, it’s not like anyone’s here to stop me!” She clapped her hands together brightly and stood up, offering Arthur a hand to help him to his feet, not that she had the strength to be of much use there. “Come on, Your Highness or My Liege or whatever. Let’s go home.”

It wouldn’t be home, Arthur thought, not his home, at least. But it seemed his home was far out of his reach now; somewhere he’d never get back to. Lost in time. Maybe Eleanor’s home would do for now. At least it was somewhere to go. Somewhere he wouldn’t be alone in this strange new world he’d found himself in. So he got to his feet and let her guide him.

Notes:

I swear there will be goofy fun stuff soon, we just have to get through the depressing bits first

Chapter 4: 3

Summary:

Cars, bathbombs, and the dawning horror of what diseases a mediaeval king might be carrying.

Notes:

Hiiiii :3 Sorry about the wait. In my defence, I promised nothing <3

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

As soon as Arthur was up, Eleanor took his arm to lead him down the road, and Cavall the dog began trotting on his other side right at his heels. Arthur felt a lot like he was being flanked by two very strange, very undersized guards.

“Don’t run off again in case any cars come by,” Eleanor told him sternly, leading them down the side of the road instead of in the middle of it as Arthur would have done had he been left to his own devices. “I don’t want to have to break it to the storyteller that he has to scrape you up off the street.”

“Are you going to explain what a car is or just keep nattering?” Arthur said.

“It's like... A carriage? Without horses,” Eleanor said, frowning. “And it goes really fast and there are loads of them and they could all kill you, okay?”

“A carriage?” Arthur repeated, even more confused.

“Were they not invented yet either?” Eleanor said, then sighed. “How about wagons? Do you know what a wagon is?”

“Of course I know what a wagon is!” Arthur scoffed.

“I don’t know when things were invented, okay?!” Eleanor cried. “Look, a carriage is like a wagon with a roof and seats that’s pulled by horses and carries around people, and then a car is like that without the horses.”

“Then how does it move?” said Arthur.

“With an engine,” said Eleanor. “That’s like, uhhh…” She looked at Arthur and grimaced. “Let’s just say it’s magic, okay? Modern magic.”

“...Right,” said Arthur, not any less confused.

“But what you nearly got hit by was a truck,” Eleanor continued. “That’s like a really big car that's made for carrying cargo or whatever instead of people. A truck’ll squash you flat. And then there are buses, that’s like trucks but the cargo is lots of people. Oh, and trains! But we’re not near any train tracks right now so we should be fine. But people like to come here on their holidays so there’ll probably be some caravans…”

She continued rambling until Arthur gave up trying to keep up with all the nonsense words and instead chose to observe the surroundings. They had just turned right onto a much larger road, paved in the same ugly, grey material, except it seemed to have been painted with strange lines and markings, and it was bordered by extra roads of grey, slightly raised above it. Eleanor led them quite happily along one of these raised pathways, and had loosened her grip on his arm, no longer concerned with keeping to the edge.

Across the street were houses, though they were unlike any houses Arthur had ever seen. They were built like castles, only smaller, with strange red stones, and lay neatly in some kind of grid, each with their own patch of grass and trees contained within. Strange metal creatures guarded the thresholds of most, all in an assortment of colours and branded with odd markings.

“Those are cars,” said Eleanor, seeing him looking. “But they’re parked, so they’re not much danger. Just stay off the road.”

“Aren’t we on the road?”

“This is the pavement,” said Eleanor simply, pulling him to the side to avoid a metal pole as large as a tree. Arthur blinked up at it but saw only bright light beaming down on them. 

“Lamp post,” said Eleanor helpfully as though that meant anything.

Arthur was getting a headache.

Thankfully, it wasn’t long before Eleanor pulled them off the ‘pavement’ onto a smaller path and up a slight incline towards a building that looked to be a grand manor house if not a small castle; it even had its own tower, albeit a small one. It was built of thankfully normal-coloured stone and, even more thankfully, there was no car guarding its entrance. Like the other houses they’d passed, it had its own miniature garden, though it was very overgrown, and the front door had been painted a garish red, though dark wood could be seen peeking through where it had peeled off in places.

“Home sweet home,” said Eleanor, rummaging in her pocket before producing a key to unlock the door. “Thank god we didn't bump into anyone. I would not be able to explain why I'm walking around with a soaking wet mediaeval knight.”

 As soon as the door was open, Cavall immediately bounded past her into the hallway. Arthur was a little more hesitant to follow.

Inside, Eleanor touched something on the wall that gave a faint click, and the hallway was suddenly flooded with light. Arthur blinked away the sting in his eyes at the sudden brightness, squinting up at the orbs of light that hung suspended from the ceiling, no candle in sight. They illuminated the room, which was lavishly decorated, making Arthur think Eleanor’s family must be obscenely rich. Not even Arthur could afford this much carpet - let alone one so luxurious - nor patterns painted on every wall, which were startlingly smooth. He wondered if there were in fact tapestries hung everywhere to conceal the brickwork. But that couldn’t be right; there were dozens of portraits and paintings hung upon the walls, all frighteningly realistic. They must have been painted by a true master.

There was something off, however; for all the lavish items, the room seemed to be in some state of neglect. There were cobwebs in every corner, and dust lining all the frames and furniture.

“I’ll get you a bath sorted, okay?” said Eleanor as Arthur studied a portrait of what he assumed to be a younger Eleanor, grinning out at him from some sort of wooden crate filled with sand. “And I’ll have a hunt for some clothes that’ll fit you. My mum’s boyfriends probably left a few things behind.”

“Right,” said Arthur, still only processing about ten percent of her words. “I’ll need a servant to help me out of this armour.”

Eleanor barked out a surprised laugh. “I don’t have servants.”

Arthur stared at her in astonishment. “You don’t have servants?” he repeated. “But you’re clearly from a wealthy household.”

Another laugh. “Yeah, right!”

“You have so many fine things.”

Eleanor looked around her, frowning. “Not really. S’all just grandpa’s old stuff.”

“This house is enormous!”

Eleanor shrugged. “Inherited it.”

“Where are your parents?” Arthur tried, wishing very much for some form of adult he could talk to.

“Mum’s at work,” said Eleanor.

Arthur looked at her.

“My mother ,” Eleanor clarified. “She, uh, works late. And leaves early. You probably won’t see her.”

“And your father?”

“Never met him,” Eleanor shrugged.

Arthur gaped at her. “Were they not married?”

“No.”

“So you’re a bastard?” 

“Hey!”

“Yet you live in a house like this?”

Eleanor put her hands on her hips and gave him what he supposed was meant to be a stern expression. “It’s modern-day, Arthur! I told you, lots of things have changed. Single mums are pretty normal. And you can't talk! I know how your sister was born.”

Arthur felt his neck flush and decided to pretend he hadn't heard the last part.

“So carpet is suitable for commoners now?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And repeatedly calling your king by his first name is considered appropriate?”

“You’re not my king,” Eleanor told him. “I didn’t vote for you.”

What? ” he said. “You don't vote for kings!”

For some reason, Eleanor let out a snort of laughter, then refused to explain why when Arthur pressed.

“Count yourself lucky, alright?” she said instead. “I've heard people call our actual king way worse than just his first name.” She crossed her arms surveying his armour distastefully. “Can't you just take it off yourself?” she sighed. “Can’t be that hard; LARPers do it all the time. I’ll go run your bath, ok? Just don’t touch anything. You’ll probably end up electrocuted or something wearing all that metal.”

With that, she clambered up the creaky staircase and left Arthur abandoned in the hallway, his headache growing steadily worse.

He managed to get his armour off eventually, which wasn't helped by Cavall repeatedly jumping up at him and headbutting his hand, begging for cuddles.

Cavall got what he wanted as soon as Arthur stripped his last layer of chainmail. He stayed crouched, idly scratching behind the dog's ear while he surveyed the discarded pile of armour on the hallway carpet. He got the inclination that he probably shouldn't leave it there if Eleanor was telling the truth about there being no servants around, and all of a sudden, he started missing Merlin again. Not that he'd ever admit it to anyone, but he felt a little lost without his manservant around to boss around and bicker with. And a part of him knew that he wouldn't feel as lost as he did right now if only Merlin were by his side.

Giving Cavall's head one last pat, he stretched to his feet, grimacing a little at the sensation of damp cloth sticking to his skin and, not quite knowing what else to do with it, shuffled his armour into a slightly neater pile by the wall.

He looked down the hallway towards the closed doors, wondering what new-fangled creations lay behind them, then decided against it, lest his headache grow powerful enough to incapacitate him, and headed for the stairs in search of Eleanor.

“Eleanor?” he called as he neared the landing. He was gripping the bannister tightly, not trusting how creaky the wooden steps were beneath his feet.

Close by, he could hear the sound of bubbling water, as though he was near a stream, but that was ridiculous. Surely no one had found a way to put streams inside houses.

“Eleanor?” he called again, voice a little less confident.

“In here!” Eleanor called from one of the rooms.

The door was already cracked open, so Arthur only had to push it lightly to step inside. It was a bedroom, that much was normal enough, though the bed lacked posts and curtains for one so large and grand, and the wardrobe - which was strangely white and smooth - seemed to have been set into the wall. 

Eleanor was currently digging through said wardrobe, intermittently tossing strange, colourful garments onto the bed into what had become quite a large pile.

“I think I’ve found some things that’ll fit you,” she said, holding up a bright purple shirt with barely any sleeves and oddly proportioned horses somehow painted on the front. She frowned as she gauged whether or not it would fit. “You’re not too fussed about fashion, right?”

“I thought you were drawing me a bath?” he said instead of answering.

Eleanor seemed to decide the horse shirt was unsuitable and stuck it back in the wardrobe. “I am,” she said, unphased. “It’s running.”

Arthur let his silence speak for him, as he was used to doing with Merlin. Eleanor was a little quicker to the draw than his manservant, thankfully.

“Oh, right!” she said, turning back to him. “Sooo, it’s like, uh…” She paused, thinking. “You had wells, right? And pumps for water?”

“Yes?” said Arthur slowly.

“So it’s like that, except automatic, and inside the house. You just turn the tap, and water comes out!”

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “And are hot coals automatic too, or are you having me bathe in cold water?”

“Yeah, it’s heated before it comes out the tap,” said Eleanor brightly. “There’s a boiler that heats up the water as it passes through. I think. I don’t know really, but there are lots of pipes involved. It’s called plumbing!”

“Right…” said Arthur.

“I’ll show you. C’mon!”

Eleanor led him out of the bedroom and across the hall to another door, behind which the sound of bubbling water could be heard.

“This is the bathroom,” said Eleanor, opening the door.

A whole separate room just for bathing? Arthur peered inside curiously, and was almost blinded by the sheer whiteness of everything inside. He managed to blink away the worst of the stinging while his eyes adjusted, but still wasn’t quite prepared for what faced him.

“What on earth is that ?” he said, staring at the thing that was currently half-full of steaming water.

“That’s the bathtub,” said Eleanor simply.

It certainly looked like no bathtub Arthur had ever used. It wasn’t even round, and seemed far too shallow and slippery. Water was spouting from something that looked almost like a water pump, as Eleanor had described, but that was the only thing vaguely familiar to him. There were colourful bottles balanced on the rim of the rub,  like an alchemist’s laboratory, and another metallic contraption was bound to the wall above the ‘taps’.

“That’s the shower,” Eleanor said helpfully. “It's like hot rain. It’s for washing quickly.”

Elsewhere in the room were other white basins, one with water pumps like the bath, the other far too strange for Arthur to comprehend.

“That’s the toilet,” said Eleanor. “You had toilets, right?”

“We had… holes overhanging the castle walls,” Arthur said stiffly.

“Oh, yeah!” Eleanor said, far too cheery for the topic. “I’ve been to castles with them. What if someone was standing under them? Gross!”

“They’d have had to be a moron,” said Arthur shortly.

“Well, this is nicer, anyway,” said Eleanor. “You just pull that handle and all the waste disappears.”

“Just vanishes?”

“Well… goes through more pipes,” Eleanor shrugged. “And then you wash your hands in the sink.” She pointed to the raised, miniature bathtub.

“Why?” said Arthur. 

“So you don’t walk around with pee and poop on your hands!” cried Eleanor, sticking her tongue out in disgust. “That’s how you get sick. Dysentery and cholera and stuff. You better not give me any weird mediaeval diseases! Oh my god,” she said, suddenly staring at him in horror, “ you might have smallpox!”

“I do not have smallpox!” Arthur objected.

“You might!” Eleanor insisted. “It might be dormant or something. OH MY GOD!” she wailed abruptly. “YOU’RE NOT VACCINATED!”

“I… what?!” Arthur blustered.

“Oh my god, there’s gonna be a smallpox epidemic ‘cause I brought a diseased mediaeval king home!” Eleanor cried despairingly. “Or you’ll just immediately get measles and die. ‘When Albion’s need is greatest, Arthur will return, only to die immediately of a common cold ‘cause his immune system’s from thousands of years ago.’ AGH! Why’d I have to find you?! There should be programmes in place for this sort of thing!”

“I - It’s not like I had a choice!” Arthur cried, feeling like he needed to defend himself. “And I’m not diseased!”

“I wonder if the doctor will give you all the vaccines,” said Eleanor, not seeming to hear him. “If we tell them your parents were anti-vaxxers or something.” She paused contemplatively. “I bet Uther would be an anti-vaxxer. Okay, okay, we’ll go to the doctors tomorrow. And hopefully, neither of us die in the meantime. Oh crap!” 

Dashing for the bath, she shut off the water pump before the tub overflowed, then stuck her hand under the water to pull out a small device. The bath began to drain a little, through more pipes Arthur suspected, until Eleanor deemed it a suitable depth and plugged the object back under the water. She turned to wipe her wet arm off on a cloth hanging by the ‘sink’, before grabbing another, larger cloth from a cabinet by the wall and setting it on a rail by the bath.

“There’s your towel. I’ll grab a change of clothes for you in a sec. Ooh!” Suddenly, her worry over mediaeval diseases seemed to vanish. “Do you want a bath bomb?”

“A what?”

Eleanor, crouched to pull a box from under the cabinet, filled to the brimming with brightly coloured balls. “They make the bath pretty and smell nice,” she said. “Ooh, this one’s supposed to be a dragon egg! That’s perfect.” 

Before Arthur could protest, she’d dumped something large, egg-shaped and golden into the tub. It started fizzing as soon as it hit the water, sending swirls of gold throughout the tub and filling the air with a scent that was both sweet and earthy.

“It’s chocolate-scented,” said Eleanor. “Have you ever had chocolate? You’ll love it.”

“Is that… safe?” said Arthur, lip curling as he watched the shimmering gold spread throughout the water.

“Yeah. It’s basically just fancy soap,” Eleanor shrugged. 

She jumped up and ran out of the room before returning with a bundle of fabric in her arms. 

“Change of clothes!” she announced, dumping the pile on the lid of a large basket. “You can put your current ones in there for the wash,” she said, indicating the basket. “Soap’s on the side of the tub. I think that’s everything? Holler if you need anything, ‘kay?” And with that, she disappeared from the room and shut the door behind her, leaving Arthur alone in this porcelain dystopia with the smell of ‘chocolate’ consuming the air.

Well, a bath was a bath, Arthur thought as he stripped off his damp clothing and hesitantly tipped a toe into the tub. The water was wonderfully hot, even if it was now gold, and still felt like water at least. He stepped in and let himself sink under the surface as far as the shallow space allowed, something easier than he’d realised with how long it was, more catered to his shape than the wooden tubs he was used to.

He supposed he could get used to this, this alien room with its numerous basins and its shiny white walls. It wasn’t so bad, really, just foreign. Quiet, though, without Merlin bustling about with his chores while spouting his usual nonsense.

He sighed, not sure if he’d ever get used to the absence of his manservant. He’d been such a fixed, if irritating, presence in his life that his absence felt like a missing limb. 

He supposed Eleanor wasn’t the worst person who could have found him. She was certainly odd, and babbled almost as much as Merlin had with even more nonsense, but she was friendly, and tried her best to guide him. No, she wasn’t the worst. She wasn’t the best, either. But she was all he had right now, and he’d get used to her.

As he reached for the bar of soap at the corner, he stopped, realising his arm was now shimmering with tiny specks of gold. 

That , he thought as he picked up the bar of soap, better not stick.

 

Notes:

So fun fact, I made a tumblr post asking people what they'd do if they stumbled on Arthur in the modern day, just to get a few ideas on how to torture him ya know? Post flopped as mine often do, but then got plagiarised and ratioed by a popular merlin blog. On tumblr.com. Of all places. So yeah that's a thing that happened. I guess I did get those ideas in a roundabout way but like. C'mon man.

Anyway, stay tuned for Eleanor force-feeding that mediaeval king dino nuggies! Love and light <3