Chapter Text
Time doesn’t feel quite the same anymore. Arthur knows he’s holding Merlin and he knows he’s crying. And then at some point there’s Leon, solid and grounding with a hand to his shoulder. Reminding Arthur that he’s a prince. He has a role. He has a life he has to return to. No matter how meaningless it all feels. So Arthur gets up.
Not that he lets go of Merlin – God no. Merlin lies weightless in Arthur’s arms, and he tries to remember if he’s ever he held him like this, but his memories are losing clarity.
Now he’s standing, he isn’t sure what’s next. He knows all the things that should be done. What his father would want him to do. What Merlin would want him to do. What his knights might want. What his mother might have wanted. What his people might expect. He isn’t sure what he, himself, wants. Maybe because he does. But now it’s too late. Too little. Arthur is always…
Again, it lies on Leon to act for Arthur’s edification. It is Leon, the man who’s lost every friend, who directs the aimless knights to pack-up camp. He suggests a private funeral for Merlin – one he knows Uther would never allow for a servant. Elyan, made stationary by his injury, readies the horses, dismissing any notion of a pyre. The connotations of such an action in light of recent revelations having been lost in the First Knight’s pragmatism. The conversation drifts over Arthur, the movement of his men blurring as he stands and he holds and he stands some more. He’s glad for Elyan’s intervention; the very thought of burning Merlin makes his skin crawl. His mind sways between their words, unhearing, broken only by the hesitance in Lancelot’s voice. That and another mention of Merlin’s name. Something about there being multiple entrances to Avalon? Lancelot seems sure Merlin would want to be set upon a lake he frequented.
Percival provides directions as he gathers up the unused medical supplies that Merlin no longer needs, his movements roughened by regret. He appears surprised by his own words, as if instinct – similar to that of Merlin’s ‘funny feelings’ – is pulling him somewhere he’s never been. More surprising is Arthur’s acceptance to follow a clearly magical draw to an unknown location. But if there’s a chance it could bring Merlin peace, a peace in death Arthur denied him in life, then what can he do but agree? His discomfort is a lesser price to pay.
Arthur shifts Merlin in his grasp, his skin brushing against the cold iron cuffs. Arthur’s knees almost buckle at the reminder. His mind feels empty but he can’t stop thinking and thinking and thinking. What if they hadn’t brought them? What if he hadn’t used them? What if he had let the others remove them? His eyes lock with Lancelot. Something in him must convey his thoughts because without a word the other man frees the sorcerer from his shackles. The instant he does, something changes in the air, causing them all to freeze in their ministrations.
It’s hard for Arthur to understand what’s happening but three things are intrinsically obvious. One: it’s magical; not as in wonderful or extraordinary, but as in it’s clearly a work of magic. Two: it’s Merlin; Arthur can feel it beneath his skin, the same way he felt whenever Merlin was near, that thing he was scared to name but desperate to cling to. And three: it’s beautiful.
Arthur is sure the air itself is crisper, like that of the cold winter mornings he adores – brisk but welcoming. The light around their campsite seems to lift, the sun brightening where it should be setting behind the trees. Arthur feels a tickle against his ankle and, upon looking, sees flowers blooming before his eyes: anemone in Pendragon red, crystal-blue forget-me-nots, and more golden yellow chrysanthemums than is usually found in nature, all of it broken up with sprinkles of baby’s breath, like hints of springtime snow. Morgana once tried to teach him the language of flowers as she thought it would be a fun way to communicate when Uther would separate them ‘for his own sanity’, but he can’t remember much past their names. He knows were Merlin here—here here, not here and not all at once—he’d needle Arthur until he gave in and listened to each flowers' individual meanings. God, Merlin was always such a petticoat. God, does Arthur wish he could remember what the plants meant, just to feel something that might slightly resemble normalcy. Instead, he takes a breath of air that tastes just enough of Merlin to bring a red tint to Arthur’s paled skin.
A butterfly that didn’t exist a moment ago lands on Arthur’s shoulder. It feels like home. Like safety. How could this have been what he was raised to fear? He tastes salt on his lips. Apparently he’s crying again; he isn’t sure he stopped. He didn’t know magic could feel like this. Truth be told, he’s seen little magic outside of attacks against him and his people. This might be the first time he’s seen magic merely existing. Not doing anything. Not hurting or taking or poisoning minds. It all feels so…innocent. Soft in a way Merlin always felt.
If this is Merlin’s magic, and he knows it’s Merlin’s magic, then this is who Merlin truly was. Who he was even in the moment of his death. A good man. The one Arthur always knew him to be. Which means…which means…
His father is wrong.
An all-encompassing grief sickens him. It should be the worst he’s felt today but shame as he is to admit, even the endless blood on his family’s hands pales in comparison to Merlin’s. Dear God, how many needless deaths are they responsible for? Children condemned for making toys float, parents burnt for protecting their family, pyres built because someone had the audacity to heal a wound. Druids hunted for existing. Men Arthur couldn’t control. A civilisation devolving into screams. Were they truly the villains all along?
The butterfly leaves his shoulder. It’s the same colour as Merlin’s eyes. He doesn’t notice the other man’s name on his lips.
Merlin made Arthur into the man he is today, a man he thought he could be proud of. He made him into the leader his people deserve. Merlin made him feel like a king regardless of what crown he wore. How had he questioned that?
Arthur walks Merlin to his horse in a painful mimicry of how they arrived at this clearing. Strange, how such a destructive betrayal seems meaningless now. Arthur would love to still be able to hate Merlin. To be able to feel anything other than hollow.
What he isn’t expecting to feel is surprise, tinged with fear and a hint of hope, strong enough to cause him to drop the suddenly re-conscious man. Then again, he isn’t expecting the man he was mourning to speak.
“I thought no man was worth your tears.” Merlin’s throat cracks around the humour in his voice. He’s impressed it’s not inaudible, all things considered. He can’t say why he thought a joke was a good idea, call it a defence mechanism, call it habit, call it a desperate need to catalogue each of Arthur’s reactions, especially the frustrated flush whenever Merlin rattles his cage. Whatever the reason, he regrets it the moment Arthur drops him to the forest floor. “Ow.”
It’s like Arthur was underwater, drowning and accepting and accepting he’s drowning, and then…and then he’s violently been pulled ashore. It’s like everything he just went through never happened. It’s like it’s all that’s ever happened. It’s like being betrayed all over again but…a good betrayal, somehow? Or a forgivable one, at least.
The silence they’ve been drenched in breaks as Merlin pushes himself to his knees.
“Merlin?”
Arthur is surprised at the strength in his voice until he realises it isn’t his. He’s not sure whose it is but something primal crawls up his spine. Merlin is his. And this moment is his. And he’ll be damned if anything, his own men included, get in the way of a reunion he wishes was never needed.
Arthur is distracted momentarily as Merlin’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, distracted further still by the sound of his voice saying his name. Saying more than his name. “Arthur…I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry. But I can’t find it in me to regret anything.” Why does Merlin always talk so much? Who starts rambling after they’ve just died? Dear God, Merlin had died. “I’ve used it for you, to protect you.” With everything warring inside Arthur’s mind, it hardly seems the time for something as needless as an apology. “I wasn’t–I didn’t–I was born with—” This is getting bloody ridiculous.
Merlin would be mad about his pre-prepared speech going once again unheard but his thoughts seem to halt around about the time Arthur’s lips quite literally crash into his own. Arthur’s face is wet with tears that have yet to cease and Merlin’s teeth are aching from where they collide with Arthur’s and his body hasn’t adjusted to being whole again and he can’t quite feel his fingertips where they brush through the prince’s hair and his wrists still pulse and his consciousness isn’t complete yet and Arthur is more pressing himself to Merlin than he is embracing him and Merlin has imagined this moment a million times over and he’s imagined it perfect but this even better. This is real. And that alone means everything. After all, Arthur’s always been more interesting than perfect.
As it turns out, no matter how many times Merlin’s dreamed of Arthur, the one thing he could never have imagined was this: them clinging together on the forest floor as the knights hold each other in relief and Gwaine begins to cheer. And if, later, Arthur courts Merlin in Camelot’s worst kept secret, and if, after that, money changes hands between a number of bets throughout the city, and if, later still, Merlin is forced to sit through a number of elocution lessons as Consort to the King and even more council meetings to process the legalisation of magic…well, Merlin was right, he could never get himself to regret any of it. Not with the prince murmuring Merlin’s name against his lips.
“So…is now a good time to tell you that my name’s not actually Merlin?”