Chapter Text
There is one thing that never left Merlin’s memory.
The cool crispness of twilight, frigid stone, silence over the castle. Not a figure in the courtyard save himself, stealing away in the middle of the night on some desperate quest. Every window dark, except for one.
Each time he saw one alight, the feeling was often the same. It was a complex slurry of emotions– to see another without sleep and to know the reasons why brought on an odd sense of companionship yet the burden of responsibility, which urged him on his escapades with a heightened sense of duty.
In the beginning, the light shone from Morgana’s window. Then, once she was gone, it had jumped across the courtyard to Arthur’s, leaving Morgana’s dark and vacant. Sometimes, in his dreams, both are aglow, with him standing between them down in the courtyard, solitary. Faced with his part in all of it.
Time taught him many things, after Arthur’s passing. He could see every choice he’d made laid out before him, retrospect offering him the clarity that would have ensured all success. Was the prophecy despite him, or because of him? Was it not his hands, once young and impulsive, too overburdened with power and responsibility, that forged Arthur’s glory and solidified his fate? If he had been a friend to Morgana in her loneliest hours and allowed Mordred his trust, would Arthur have lived a long and prosperous life as king?
Morgana’s chambers shone bright, and Merlin turned his head away from it shamefully. She was made by pain, confusion, and solitude. She was already forged into something vengeful long before Merlin had arrived in Camelot, he knew this, and he was right to keep his head low for fear of losing it. Perhaps it really was fate that things ended as they did. His younger self hadn’t been equipped to save her.
There was no changing things now. He’d forgotten the look in Morgana’s eyes as he’d slain her, but not the feeling. Not the sick mixture of dread and victory in his gut as he twisted the blade in further, separating her from her possession of vengeance at last. Some details never left.
Even as the visages of everyone he knew and loved grew faint and dissipated from his mind, the windows still remained lit. It was the only company he had left; a cold and adjacent sort, riddled with guilt.
After some time, Merlin found himself content again, able to accept life’s little pleasures without remorse. He let himself have reasons to enjoy living, when he could.
The day started early, with a cup of tea by the window where he could watch the weather roll over the pasture. He’d watch the birds at the feeder, the neighbour’s flock of sheep, a dog, a horse here and there. Hikers crossing on the footpath in the distance, some days. He’d work on his stitchwork, or widdle something out of scrap wood or wax. Merlin liked waking slow, taking time to breathe and ground himself in his life before breakfast. The Welsh countryside let him have a life that wasn’t far removed from the comforts of Camelot. He could almost imagine a hiker or a shepherd had a familiar face, too far to tell for sure. There was a comfort to this delusion.
“Light rainfall today through Sunday in Bath, Northeast Somerset, Bedford, Bournemouth Christchurch and Poole, with heavy winds moving through to Cardiff and across East Sussex and Essex towards Kent. Heavier rain is expected in Portsmouth, Greater London, Newport, Southend-on-Sea…”
Merlin made his breakfast with his back turned to the small telly which sat on the kitchen bar, pushed to the side against the wall. It hardly ever left the channel it was on, and it rattled on in a charming static clad fashion, its screen fuzzy. Merlin was perfectly happy to be isolated from the other goings-on in the modern world. He’d experienced enough of it simply out of curiosity, and now he rarely watched anything other than the weather and local news. If he did switch the telly on at all, that is; the quiet of the countryside was often preferable.
His little cottage was an old and charming thing he’d bought discounted and patched up himself, a stone's throw from town and an hour’s drive to Glastonbury. There was still plenty to do: a garden to tend, neighbour’s fences to help lay, barns and stables to fix, clothing to mend… Merlin did as Merlin would.
After breakfast and a languid clean-up, Merlin wore some wool socks and pulled on his wellies, tucking himself into a warm raincoat and a hat at the door as he left for his stroll. A gust of wind nearly stole the knitted cap from his head a mere step outside, and he held it down with one hand as he pulled the door shut behind him with a firm tug against the warped threshold. He brought his hood up and continued down the path through the plush verdant pasture, invigorated by the cool maritime wind and the light spattering of rain against his face. A neighbour waved in the distance when they spotted him, and he raised his hand back with a grin.
Merlin didn’t always take the same route on his walks. There were a few destinations he enjoyed visiting, a cheery grove or a nice hill or the flat plain of grass out overlooking the nearby lake. He visited the lake the most, regardless of it not holding a candle to Avalon in its best years. Possibly it’s where he stalled the most, too, just looking out over it as the cool wind swept over him and swayed the grass. It wasn’t Avalon, but it was still beautiful and thrumming with life. He didn’t fault himself for these wistful moments, wishing it was a time and place it was not, wishing there was a firm shoulder pressed against his own, side by side. He didn’t even suppose that it was because he was old and sentimental. No, he’d always been sentimental. The lake would be his pleasant and melancholic scenery for hours some days, drinking it in as the clouds grew darker on the horizon and the rain and wind picked up and the chill became more frigid and biting. It wasn’t until he was really shivering that he would get up and let the weather usher him away back to his little home a mile and a half, sometimes laughing at it for being so adamant, as if it spoke to him in a familiar nagging voice. In a way, Merlin could sense that it was.
When finally the wind and rain was shut out with a scuffling of boots on the doormat and the abrasive budging sound of the threshold securing the door, it was sometime between late afternoon and early evening. Catching his breath, Merlin shed his coat and his boots and put the kettle on, watching the rain pick up outside against the windowpane with reverential contentedness, only marginally aware that this would be his last normal day.
A coin turns.
Little under 200 miles south, somewhere between the layers of reality and several sheets of lake sediment, the once and future king rests. Slowly, called forth from the mud and ecosystem he’d lent himself to in his millennium of absence, his being forms again. Carp and pike swim nearby undisturbed by the stirring of silt and algae, in some way that would poetically suggest their familiarity with this presence.
Arthur himself is having a pleasant dream.
It’s a warm day, with everything already tended to. It’s fuzzy at first, simple, as his awareness builds around him. He knows only by sensation that the sun is warm and gentle upon him, and his back is resting against a strong tree, and the grass is cool underneath him as it shuffles in the breeze. Birds chirp overhead. Sound. A pleasant tingling washes over his arms and his back, elated to have a moment of respite to himself. Feeling. He breathes in, long and slow, then lets it crash out just as the breeze grows to shake the tree branches above him.
Arthur smiles to himself, then opens his eyes, and remembers that he isn’t alone. Merlin traces the meadow ahead, scanning the grass and flowers, his medicine pack slung over his shoulder. He looks young, scrawny, his eyes big and focused as he sifts through the grass for some sort of herb or something. It’s one of those days that Arthur sees fit to hover around, pestering Merlin whilst he collects for Gaius.
This Merlin is one from the past, when they’d just met. He doesn’t have the same surety and pride in his eye when he raises his head and looks over, like the man Arthur had come to know. Doe-eyed, stote-like, all sharp youthful angles, the look of defensiveness Arthur forgot had faded into something else once Merlin finally stopped holding himself an arm’s length away. Somehow, this doesn’t disturb Arthur, rather just makes him a bit sad like he’d lost something.
Young Merlin tucks a cutting into his bag, his eyes following the movement, not looking where he’s going as he trudges across the field to Arthur. When he speaks, his voice is high and light, and Arthur sees him as a clumsy younger brother in need of protection. Merlin looks down at Arthur as he stalls before him, and Arthur takes in the details of his features. He really had changed a lot since his first year in Camelot, hadn’t he? He supposed both of them did.
“Right,” Merlin sighs out, quirking his lips in an expression marking the end of his task. “I think that’s all Gaius needs, besides the toothwort. I’ll just go and get that later on.”
“Already giving up, are we?” Arthur scoffed gently, teasing. He couldn’t muster the will to really lay into Merlin as he used to, not like the younger Arthur this Merlin would have known. Still, it landed just as well, and Merlin’s face screwed itself into one of theatrical contempt as he shook his head.
“No,” he said emphatically, his voice dipping lower as he cushioned the syllable with unnecessary movement of his jaw and mouth, and Arthur laughed at him.
With a huff Merlin sat down into the grass beside Arthur, failing to hold back a smile of his own. He’d crashed down like a stack of clattering plates, and Arthur caught himself looking him over like there could really be a chip of him fallen off somewhere. The younger Merlin gathered his legs up to rest his arms, smiling out at the clearing contentedly, and again Arthur’s gaze was drawn to his profile.
Merlin was quiet for a breath, and then he scrunched his brow pensively, his lips pressing into that thoughtful purse he always did. He turned his head away, plucked at the grass beside him idly.
“What is it?”
Merlin looked over to Arthur quite quickly, then faced forward again.
“...’s just thinking,” he responded lightly, dismissing the inquiry with a shrug. He still looked quite content, but Arthur could tell there was something else. It was odd, seeing how much easier Merlin used to be to read. And yet, he hadn’t paid any attention until Merlin really started closing up. Arthur leaned across the distance, elbowing him.
“Ow!”
“Well??”
Merlin met his eye, frowning as he rubbed his arm. He opened his mouth as if to berate the man, then it closed around a scoff. Arthur watched as Merlin’s face fell again, this time a little more openly thoughtful as he looked out into the clearing. Arthur waited as Merlin breathed and gathered his words.
“I was thinking about what you said.”
“And what was that?”
The boy was quiet for a long pause again, then began speaking with no regard to the question.
“Sometimes I just. Wonder, if I could’ve done anything… differently.”
It was a cryptic phrase, one that stunned Arthur out of his illusion of a perfect day. His abdomen tensed up. It wasn’t something this Merlin should say. It was like his entire timeline was packed into the younger guise, and it all made Arthur feel nauseous. Which words of his was Merlin thinking of, then, if it could indeed be any he’d ever said to him?
“What?” He mumbled, everything coming back to him. His death, Mordred’s desperate face, Merlin cradling him in his arms. Merlin, a sorcerer. Everything Merlin had ever done for him and for Camelot, in secret, so that he wouldn’t be executed.
Thank you.
Merlin sniffled and broke into a wide grin, not meeting Arthur’s gaze. Immediately he began babbling like an idiot, long limbs scrambling to stand from the grass.
“Come on Arthur, it’s time to go,” Merlin urged, pulling Arthur up with great effort.
“What?” He questioned again, more audibly. Arthur aided Merlin’s efforts and stood dumbly, their arms tangling at each other with opposing directions. Merlin seemed saddened, distraught even, like he was trying to hold back tears. Arthur held him still by the fabric at his arms.
“You have to go,” Merlin insisted again, sounding quite serious. Arthur was confused by what he was perceiving, as the dream warped around him and the colours thrashed and became viscous. The sunlight dimmed and went out, until all there was around him was frigid darkness.
He was being pulled up. His limbs were frigid and numb, and he was sluggish as he tried to regain consciousness. There were fragments he perceived distantly: water in his ears, hands grasping at him, and finally air filling his lungs as he blinked up at the night sky. It was dark again after that.
The coin spins once more and falls flat.
Merlin knew the king was risen when for the first time in decades Arthur appeared to him in a dream of his own. A face he hadn’t been able to conjure had returned to him, at last. The rest of the details were meaningless. Merlin woke in the dead of night with a start, the sweat clinging to him making the room feel all that much colder. He rose quickly and in a disbelieving but hopeful stupor he’d managed to drive himself all the way over to Glastonbury in the middle of the night. The lake of Avalon was still and dark as he scanned its surface, and despite better judgement he waded out into it as far as he could go as if physically compelled, the polluted water soaking him through.
He felt a pull in the air like nothing he’d ever felt before, and the water was stirring, and he called out. He waded in further, the new waves threatening to choke him, and then he was grabbing at a solid form in an adrenaline filled desperation, pulling the man back out toward the shore. As Arthur broke the surface his head was lulling and he took a sharp breath in, sputtering water from his lips as his body began moving, their feet struggling for purchase in the soft lake bottom together.
When Merlin finally managed to get Arthur ashore, he looked over him as he caught his breath. Arthur was cold to the touch and unconscious, but he was breathing, and his eyes moved under his eyelids. Merlin laughed in weak exasperation and put his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, affirming that this was real.
It wasn’t until the darkest hours of dawn that Arthur stirred in the back seat of the old SUV Merlin often shared with the neighbours. He was laid out with a dry raincoat over him that Merlin had found in the trunk.
“Where’m I,” he mumbled, still sounding half asleep. Merlin smiled at the rumbly familiar cadence and spared a glance at the man over his shoulder. Arthur was still struggling to keep his eyes open.
“You can sleep a bit longer. It’s alright,” Merlin soothed. “Are you still cold?”
“Little.”
“You’ll have a nice fire soon.”
“Mmm.”
Merlin lugged Arthur out of the car and into the house with minimal help, the solid weight of him further grounding Merlin in the surreality of his return. Arthur babbled something incoherent here and there as Merlin tended him, stripping the wet clothes from him and checking for any wounds before clothing him in warm pyjamas and settling him on the sofa in front of the fireplace.
The cottage was cool without a fire in it, but by now the sun was rising and the weather was moderate, so it wouldn’t take much to heat the house once Merlin had got a few logs lit. He could wait until then to get himself into drier clothing.
“Merlin,” Arthur called groggily, and Merlin turned from stoking kindling to look. There was a bit more colour in Arthur’s face now, and his eyes were fluttering open and shut more than earlier. Merlin stood quickly and crossed, kneeling beside Arthur and wiping blonde hair back from his forehead.
“...‘m here.”
Arthur opened his eyes tiredly, like it took great effort, but he gazed up at Merlin’s face with new consciousness in them, like he was finally acknowledging that Merlin was really there. Arthur raised his hand feebly and Merlin took hold of it while studying the other man’s features.
“You have to rest, Arthur.”
“Where…” He croaked.
“Doesn’t matter just now. Rest.”
Arthur breathed in slowly and closed his eyes, sighing as he brought Merlin’s hand down with his own to his chest, relaxing. Merlin uncurled his fingers, laying his palm flat, feeling Arthur’s chest rise and fall, the pattern of his heart beneath his sternum. The warmth of Arthur’s hand over his own, still just as calloused as it used to be. Merlin leaned down, almost giving in to the urge to rest his head against Arthur’s temple. Instead, he just studied him.
“I have to tend the fire,” Merlin murmured, sliding his hand out from under Arthur’s. “I’ll still be near.” Arthur’s only reply was a deep exhale and turning his head over.
Two small logs cracked and hissed in the hearth, the flame settling deep and calm into its fuel. At last Merlin saw fit to change and take care of their still damp clothing, letting Arthur sleep peacefully in front of the fireplace while he hung the garments on a drying rack nearby.
Hours passed, a few of them spent in the armchair diagonal across from the sofa, Merlin with his head propped in his hand and his eyes on Arthur’s sleeping form, deep in thought. It wasn’t until mid afternoon that Merlin rose and finally started cooking something, turning on the little telly and prodding the volume lower.
Arthur woke to the smell of food and some form of distant accented chattering, and opened his eyes to see a familiar man step around the kitchen counter and stride over to the door. Arthur hadn’t registered a knock, but there was someone there just out of eye sight as Merlin opened the door with a small smile. There was a brief exchange, something about borrowing something early in the morning, something about a friend staying, bla bla bla… Merlin bid the visitor farewell and shut the door again, returning to whatever he was doing on the other side of the house, his back to Arthur. Arthur sat up slowly, feeling his head reel like he’d drunk too much mead the night before, a wave of panic striking him as he felt around his torso with his hands. How could there be no injury? He lifted the strange unfamiliar shirt and looked. There was a scar where Mordred had run him through, but it was flat and smooth to the touch. There was a lot to ponder. Arthur let his hands fall as he considered his surroundings.
It was a quaint little abode, clean and furnished with belongings that admittedly looked quite nice. A lot of the things around him were puzzlingly foreign, but he had just died, so he found it rather hard to be shocked by it much. Then there was Merlin, only his top half visible over the bar counter. Arthur squinted as he scrutinised the man across the way. His back was familiar. Shoulder blades protruded delicately through muscle and fat, both things Arthur was glad to see on Merlin’s frame again. He remembered seeing Merlin’s face briefly in the periods of flitting consciousness Arthur had since they’d arrived here, but it was bleary and he could hardly recall any of it. As he silently watched Merlin busy himself with his cooking, Arthur felt some complex emotion tighten his chest. He wasn’t sure how Merlin had done it, but it had to have been his doing. Arthur was well and truly dead. He’d died in Merlin’s arms, spoke unto him his last words, far too sentimental and yet not sentimental enough. Arthur could always have done better, he sorely knew that now. For Camelot, for… Well, everyone. Especially Merlin. Arthur couldn’t possibly know everything that Merlin had gone through for him, but he was aware it was leagues more than Arthur had ever intentionally put him through. Arthur couldn’t stop the familiar guilt that soaked through him like a stain. Was this his second chance? What power could grant such a thing?
Merlin reached for a pair of herb shears on the wall and disappeared around the corner, and Arthur heard a door open that he wasn’t aware was even there, his head craning to follow the movement in vain. He took in a breath and slowly got up from under the woollen blanket, finding more strength in his legs than he expected. It felt good to stand.
Arthur padded over the cold cottage floor to the kitchen, eyeing the food which bore such a wonderful savoury smell on his way towards the back door. It was still open, and Arthur was met with the sight of Merlin’s vegetable garden, Merlin himself hunched over to tenderly clip into a potted rosemary.
A light rain patted the greenery and the dark damp soil, petrichor rising up from the earth. Seeing a figure in his periphery Merlin looked up, meeting eyes with Arthur standing in the threshold. Merlin paused, gathering his cuttings and his shears close to his torso like he was still that same young apothecary from so long ago. A very frozen moment passed as they registered each other, taking in the sight and feeling out for any semblance of remaining connection. The world was still, save for the rain and the scent of dirt and electricity swimming in the air.
Then Arthur took a step out, and Merlin watched as the blonde squinted up at the sky once droplets set upon his face. He let Arthur approach, staying completely stationary for fear of dissipating some form of hopeful mirage. But as Arthur came closer, his eyes on Merlin’s now, Merlin’s stomach leapt and his throat tightened. Arthur’s skin shone with that inner warmth that it always had, his irises crystalline blue and his pupils blowing out as mirth overtook his expression. Merlin held back, pursing his lips against the impulse to cry, to smile, to reach out and take Arthur’s face in his hands for a better, proper look at him. He swallowed.
“You’re meant to be resting,” he tried first, not sounding so nonchalant as he’d hoped he would. Arthur stood before him, scrunching his nose off to the side like he hadn’t heard, pretending to frown at the weather. His hands came up and took Merlin’s shoulders, and Merlin faltered finally, scoffing as Arthur pulled him into an embrace. With rosemary and pruning shears still in either hand, Merlin reciprocated.
“Welcome back, old friend,” he said tenderly. A well of emotion struck him in full force with the phrase at last said aloud. Arthur was warm, and whole, and his pulse was right there against Merlin’s, chest to chest. Merlin held him more tightly, fighting back tears, Arthur pressing his cheek to his temple.
Arthur could feel Merlin shaking, and he didn’t blame him one bit for it. Arthur cradled the back of Merlin’s head, tucking it in closer to his neck. He was at a loss for words, never knowing how to comfort another, least of all in an impossible situation such as this. He pulled back half an arms length, looking up at the sky again, then the garden as Merlin regained himself.
“No, really, Merlin, where are we?”
Merlin laughed in a release of tension, a slight snivelling present in his voice.