Chapter Text
Arthur learns to swim when he is five years old.
Like all things, he was required to learn with experience. He had been given his first sword a year earlier—a practice one, but Arthur loved it, and he used it to viciously attack the knights’ legs at the time—and he was learning to read and write with Geoffrey, and his father was teaching him that he needed to be a great king, and future great kings don’t leave their bed in the middle of the night, even if they’ve had a nightmare.
This is how Arthur learns to swim:
There is a lake. It starts off deceptively shallow, but then comes the depths, where not even the tallest of men can stand. Two knights take Arthur there—he remembers Sir Oswald only, and cannot recall the other man—and they throw him in the water, unclothed.
Arthur loves being bathed, and he loves the smell of water. So he yells out in glee when Oswald throws him in, and expects to be able to stand.
He cannot stand.
Arthur gulps in the sweet water of the lake as his feet don’t find any muddy ground, and goes under. He looks up, and kicks his feet in an attempt to go back up, because he didn’t take a deep breath and the panic is making him lose air. But the water drags him under, and Arthur thinks he sees a man in the depths below him—two sharp eyes in a blue face, and Arthur distantly thinks, magic, because that’s another thing that his father has taught him about.
His mouth falls open and bubbles come out, and the thing in the water below him smiles, his teeth sharp and oddly white. Arthur thinks he can see the faint outline of something else even further down, as if there is something in the water that is waiting for Arthur.
Not yet, Arthur finds himself thinking, and will later not be able to explain why. He drifts down anyway, unable to get himself to break the surface of the water with the desperate flapping of his legs and arms. And the magical creature—for it surely can’t be a man—reaches for him, its fingers oddly long.
Arthur feels hands under his armpit, and he’s roughly yanked out of the water and into the sweet, sweet air.
“There’s something there!” he gasps, when Oswald has hoisted him up and into his arms. “In the water!”
“There’s nothing there, my lord,” Oswald says, and takes him back to the shore. Arthur shivers from the cold breeze touching his wet skin, and Oswald takes pity on him by setting him back in the shallow ends of the water. It’s still cold, but the wind doesn’t touch him.
Arthur imagines for a moment something else does, grazing his ankle, and his heart speeds up.
“I saw it,” he insists, and Oswald shakes his head.
“There’s nothing to be scared of, Prince Arthur,” the knight says, and Arthur always remembers him like this when he grows up—this large man, with his large brown eyes and his merry laughter and his kind solace, who does not take his tiny prince seriously.
(He always liked Oswald before, but he will not so much, after today.)
The other knight—Davin? Dorwin?—looks over in their direction. He’s been polishing his sword, a far end away from the water. “Just teach him, Oswald,” he insists. “The king’ll have our hide if the prince can’t keep himself from drowning after today.”
Arthur knows what drowning is—he’s well aware of all sorts of ways a man might die. But the thought of drowning, with the water suffocating his lungs and him trying to reach for air—something makes his heart restrict at the thought. The lake looks that much more foreboding, after that.
Oswald only laughs, and gently grabs Arthur’s forearm. “Come on, little prince,” he says. “You’ll have to learn one way or another. I’ll show you how.”
Arthur doesn’t want to, but his father always says that a great king cannot be afraid of anything. So he wordlessly follows and tries to mimic Oswald, but he ends up with his head under water several times more.
He doesn’t see the creature again, and he knows it wasn’t his imagination. But he learns to swim, and then he turns six, and seven, and eight, and he doesn’t think about that day in the lake, when something tried to grab him and he thought, Not yet.
Arthur is thirty-two years old when he sees the creature again, and realises—
I didn’t know I was waiting for this.
~*~
He doesn’t actually remember the boat, or that it rocked in a storm. The further it drifted away from the mainland, the louder the thunder became. Eventually, an island came into sight, and the sky roared and the waves lurched higher and higher, and the boat capsized.
Arthur does not remember any of this, because he is dead at the time.
Still, he thinks he somehow knows it anyway—sensed it, the moment that his skin touched that water, and he knew that he had come back to the lake in which he once learnt to swim. He does not need to breathe, but he draws breath in the water, and there are no bubbles to rise to the surface.
(He does not fear this—he cannot. Great kings do not fear—they have no nightmares of drowning in the deep, and Arthur cannot drown, because he was killed by the sword pierced in his chest, and he died in the arms of someone he loves and not in the depths of the cold, unyielding lake—and yet, he thinks he is drowning, and there are no bubbles rising to the surface.)
He cannot move, so he lets himself fall—is this falling? Is it floating?—deeper and deeper, and the creature that he saw decades ago appears before his eyes.
“Pendragon,” it says, and it touches his face. Arthur feels himself grow cold, and something dark crawls in his belly. Still, his sword fell somewhere else, and he can’t see it. Even if he did find Excalibur, he cannot even flex his fingers. He is at the mercy of this creature, and he cannot imagine it will do anything kind.
It’s magic, he considers vaguely, and then thinks of Merlin, and takes another shuddering breath that he should not be able to take.
“Do not touch him.”
Arthur cannot turn, so all he knows is that a woman is speaking. Her voice cuts clearly through the water—is this still water? Arthur has been reevaluating everything he knows in the last few days of his life, ever since Merlin made that dragon dance from the fire—and she speaks with unconcerned authority.
“He is ours,” the creature hisses, and Arthur focuses on what he sees behind the creature. There is a citadel here, it looks like, and the creature does not swim here but it flies. Its wings are translucent, and the air is not air. Whatever Arthur breathes, it prickles his skin uncomfortably, and it tastes sweeter than oxygen.
“He is a guest here,” the woman says. “He is not here to stay.”
She comes to stand beside him, and grabs his wrist. She turns to look at him, and she looks younger than Arthur imagined her to be. Her eyes are dark in a pale face, and her hair drifts around her face, much as if she were swimming.
“Avalon is not your realm,” the creature says.
“I am the Lady of the Lake,” she answers. “He entered through my domain, and he was given into my custody by Emrys. Even you have to answer to the laws of that world. He is a guest of Avalon only.”
The creature snarls. “Emrys is nothing to us.”
“Liar,” the Lady of the Lake says, and she sounds oddly fond. “Leave Arthur Pendragon to me. You know that he cannot stay—not if you force him. I will explain everything to him, and you will see him when he chooses to see you.”
The creature’s eyes are calculating and cold. Arthur does not doubt, suddenly, that it would take him if not for the woman’s presence. How could anyone choose to remain here? There are goosebumps on his arm, even though he is dead. Dead. He cannot understand any of this, and he tries to keep breathing evenly to stave off the dread in his stomach.
A great king does not fear, even when he has been taken into a magical realm after his death.
“He will choose to see us?” the creature says, suddenly, looking at the Lady of the Lake.
“Have faith in what was promised,” is all she says. The creature takes in Arthur, and slowly bows. Arthur wants to frown, but then the creature disappears, flying back towards the citadel that he can only still distantly make out. There is too much fog to see anything but the faint lights.
The Lady stands in front of him, exhaling loudly. “I think that went well. I saw your coming, but the Sidhe have been watching you closely. They know the prophecies well enough, but not all that is promised has happened the way they intended. Try not to upset them, next time you see one.”
Her eyes glow golden, and Arthur shudders. Then he finds that he can flex his fingers, and roll his shoulders, and he suddenly can’t stop breathing heavily.
“Who are you?” he manages, trying not to fall to his knees. If he looks up, he thinks he can still make out the surface of the water, but he stands on—a sort of fog, once again. Is this the bed of the lake?
“This is Avalon,” she says. “The lake is one of the gates to the world of the Sidhe. I am the protector of the Lake, and the guardian of the Between. And it is a good thing I am here too—the Sidhe are no friends to you or Merlin.”
“You know Merlin?” Arthur asks, and tries not to sound too eager. Judging by the Lady’s careful smile, he doesn’t succeed.
“A long time ago,” she says vaguely. “Come. There are places where the Sidhe do not come.”
Arthur has no choice but to follow her. Avalon confuses him, and he cannot wrap his mind around the direction he is being taken—the mists make it impossible for him to see, and he thinks he can vaguely make out some trees, its leaves drifting as if moving with the waves. He loses track of where he is going as soon as they take turns, and he can only follow because the Lady is holding his hand. Her hand is cold in his.
There is a—clearing, is the best word for it, he thinks. Above him, the sky is dark and faded, and there are no stars. There is a beauty in it, though, in the multicoloured landscape that doesn’t make sense beyond what he can even process.
There is a lake. Arthur frowns, and drops to his knees next to it.
“I don’t understand this,” he says, and feels hopeless. “I know I am in the lake—I know that. I was—Merlin put me in a boat, because I died. And I fell out, and there was the creature—the Sidhe—and I know I am in the water.”
“The water was a gate,” the Lady says.
“Then I want to go back through the gate,” Arthur snaps, and looks back at the pond of water before him, and it glitters as though it knows it’s being watched. “Is this another gate? One lake to come here, and one lake to return? I need—Camelot needs me, and Guinevere—”
He doesn’t want to think about Gwen. It’s bad enough to think about Merlin. He is dead, so he can’t remember—but he knows. He thinks of Merlin’s anguished cries, and of their foreheads touching. Merlin had held him for so long, he thinks distantly, had rocked his body for hours and hours.
“You can’t return now,” the Lady says, and her smile is a bit apologetic, even if her tone isn’t. “You are the Once and Future King, Arthur. There is a destiny written for you that you don’t understand yet. You have built your kingdom in your lifetime, and now you must wait.”
“For what?” Arthur demands.
“For the world to need you again,” she says. “And it will. The fate of magic is irrevocably tied up into your existence. But for a long time, things will pass as they will. And you will come back, and you will understand what must be done. You are a king of peace, Arthur. One of a kind. You are a man who will unite and who will build. But you must wait.”
“But—Merlin,” Arthur says. “He is a sorcerer, isn’t he? Maybe he can find a way to—open up this world. He can bring me back. He will bring me back.”
“Merlin is magic itself,” the Lady tells him. “He could come to Avalon and command the Sidhe. It is his birthright, probably, as I’ve come to understand it. But Merlin is still young, and he knows far less of his destiny than he thinks he does. He’ll learn, Arthur, he will—but not for a long time. And not now that he’s grieving.”
“He’ll come for me,” Arthur insists, and the Lady of the Lake sits down next to him. Arthur inhales deeply—and still finds it odd that he can—and takes a better look at her for the first time. She is human, he thinks, or she looks human. And her dress is oddly familiar. “I’m—who are you? Is that Morgana’s dress?”
“Oh, is that who he stole that from?” she says casually, and runs a hand down the flowing fabric. “Well, it’s lovely, isn’t it? But we’re not here to talk about me. Put your hand on the water, Arthur.”
“Why would I?” Arthur says. “I’m dead, and I can’t go back.”
“Don’t you want to see?” she asks.
Arthur doesn’t need to ask to understand. He shudders, and eyes the water again. It seems to whisper to him, and it’s oddly still. He hesitates for a moment, and then puts his palm flat on the water. It doesn’t ripple.
~*~
Gwen is as beautiful as she always has been, but she does not smile.
“We need to start thinking about more alliances, my Queen,” Leon ventures hesitantly, standing by her chair. “We need to move fast. Without Arthur—we will look vulnerable.”
“I will do what must be done,” Gwen says, without looking at him. There are an array of papers before her, but Arthur can’t see what they say. She shuffles through them, her hands trembling. Arthur wants to reach out, but he has no body, no voice—all he can do is watch as Leon lays a hand on Gwen’s shoulder.
“I know that,” he says, soft. “No one doubts you, my Queen.”
Gwen scoffs. “I do,” she answers, and rises from the chair abruptly. She wanders over to the window—Arthur wonders if she has spent a long time looking out to the courtyard, waiting for his return. It took them days to travel to the Lake of Avalon. She must not have known his fate for a long time.
(He wonders now, who told her.)
“My Queen—”
“Has anyone heard from Merlin?” she asks, and turns back.
Leon frowns. “No. I thought it would be best to let him be, for the—first few days. I’m sure Gaius is looking after him, but I can send—well.”
“Gwaine?” Gwen says, and runs a hand over her face. “Gaius won’t be enough, Leon. Arthur is dead, Gwaine is dead. We’ve lost so many men in the battle, and Camelot is shaken. If our enemies come now, we would be lost. We need Merlin—I need Merlin.”
“I don’t think he’ll want to,” Leon says carefully.
“I’ll go to him,” Gwen murmurs, and carefully dusts off her black dress. “He’ll need a friend. We’ve all lost so many, after all.”
She closes her eyes, and leans against the wall. She doesn’t cry, but Arthur recognises her grief for what it is—and finds himself sobbing in return, raging to hold her. But there is a veil, and he cannot break through.
~*~
He finds himself sitting beside the lake, his eyes swollen. The Lady of the Lake sits next to him still, dirtying Morgana’s dress as she unceremoniously draws druid symbols in the mud.
“Do you understand?” she asks.
“I need to go back!”
“You can’t,” she says, harshly. “You’re not the only one who has ever lost his life, Arthur Pendragon. You think you deserve another chance at the life you had? That is not what this is. Merely because this is your destiny, because you are a promised king, does not mean that this is about you. This is about a promise once made—a promise you were born to fulfil.”
“She’s my wife,” Arthur cries. “My kingdom—my people.”
“You are not the only one who has ever lost his life,” she repeats, and digs her nails into the mud. Her eyes are dark, and Arthur falls quiet. She is wearing Morgana’s dress—why is she wearing Morgana’s dress?
“I don’t understand,” he mutters. “Am I—forced to sit here, and watch Guinevere’s life unfold? To watch as my kingdom is attacked and my people are murdered? Am I—do I need to watch them?”
“You will watch,” says the Lady, “to make you understand. Time passes differently here, but when you return, you need to know everything that was promised, and all that was done. This is only one of the things you will learn when you are in Avalon—to watch, and understand the views of many. Learn what magic is, and what it is to the land.”
“When can I return?” Arthur presses. “I’ll—I can watch them. But when can I return?”
“When you stop asking that question,” the Lady says, and rubs her forehead. “You can watch a great many people, and you can return here when you like. You won’t require water or food as long as you are in Avalon. When you are here—and you will be here for some time—the Sidhe won’t bother you.”
“And you?”
“I will be here whenever you need me. And I will bring you to the Sidhe, when the time comes.”
Arthur’s heart skips a beat. “You would relinquish me to the monsters?”
The Lady of the Lake smiles. “Not without you asking it of me.”
There are a great many things he still doesn’t understand, but Arthur thinks it might be that way for a long time. The Lady is not forthcoming with answers, but at least she will guard him. She’s a slight woman, but the Sidhe listened to her, and she is familiar with Avalon in a way that Arthur thinks he’ll never be.
(And she knows Merlin. Arthur has no idea why that instils such trust in her, but it does.)
“Can I watch them again?” he asks, hesitantly. His fingers hover above the water.
She nods, and Arthur lets himself fall away again.
~*~
He soon learns that he is not suited to watching without taking action.
He watches a lot, and always finds himself reaching out. He follows Gwen mostly, at first, and feels pride as she handles her grief along with her new throne. The knights stand by her side, and she makes the choices she must. Through her discussions with his advisors, he learns that she is planning to relinquish the ban on magic.
It aches to hear—his own chest burns with shame, but she is doing the right thing. He knows she is.
Following Gwen soon becomes a bit monotonous, though. He loves her dearly, but he is well-familiar with the drudgery that comes with ruling a kingdom, and most of it is routine. Despite his death, Camelot moves on. And when she cries, Arthur cannot help her or hold her, and he isn’t sure if he is a coward for leaving when she clutches the pillows so tightly that her arms tremble with effort.
Her grief feels too personal, somehow. It is not meant for Arthur, although it is because of him.
It takes some practice, but he learns to switch fairly easily. He follows around Leon and Percival, and tries to figure out which of his knights still live. Gwaine is dead, he knows, and tries to follow as many of his knights as he can to figure out how that happened. Gwaine survived the battle, he thinks—he remembers seeing him on the battlefield before he came face to face with Mordred. And Gwaine is—was—a good fighter, who should’ve been left standing.
He never figures out what happens exactly. But Percival barely speaks, and barely responds to anything that’s not a direct command from Leon, and one time, he twitches when someone says Morgana, and Arthur thinks he can guess.
From his most loyal knights, only Leon and Percival now remain. Other knights are recruited, and Arthur respects Leon’s choices. They are good fighting men, but Leon doesn’t comment on Owain’s footwork, and he doesn’t correct Galahad’s grip, and Arthur has to leave again when he thinks that he won’t be able to instruct these men.
That these knights won’t serve under King Arthur again, because King Arthur is dead.
And so he watches, and sees Camelot prepare for a future without a king, and pushes down the grief of his own life.