Chapter Text
𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰 :
Hello, readers, and thank you for giving this fic a chance!
1. I'm an American (boo!), so my research on British slang and daily life may be incorrect! I do have my lovely British friend, Ned, aiding me in the customs.
I've also never written a fanfic before, so things may not be the best, for lack of better words. Please be nice about my shoddy writing.
2. This fanfiction will have Merthur as its primary ship, but keep in mind that it's a slow burn and there will be heavy plot. I plan on making this fic around 200k-300k words or more.
3. Warnings: This specific chapter isn't terribly graphic, but this work will have graphic depictions of violence/the dark side of mental health.
4. Updates will likely be inconsistent, as I have a sporadic schedule! (Aiming for every Sunday, weekly)
Thank you, Zeph, for helping me choose the chapter theme songs and instrumentals throughout<33
Spotify Hyperlink for this Fic - All songs in order
That's all for now! Words: 5,020
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"Saturn ₊ ⊹ Sleeping at Last"
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✧˖*°࿐ Enigma - Jacob Lavallee
Merlin rolled relentlessly about in bed, tossing first to one side and then the other, sideways, and eventually– he found himself upside down, his feet wedged against a battered pillow. Thick lashes stuck to his waterline as he peeled them open, sticky, trapped tears now reluctant to fall. He harshly swallowed, flinging aside his paperweight blanket, lazily swinging his legs over the bed and padding towards the paneless window, exposing his room to the elements.
Dawn tiptoed up on the horizon, sneaky and still colourless amongst the hazy blue sky. It was cold, ever so cold, yet Merlin did not shiver. In fact, the wind that rustled the trunks of trees wouldn’t dare cross the open window, obeying Merlin’s magic that barred the weather from his chambers. As his slim fingers slid across the cool stone, sliding down the edges of the outside wall, he could finally feel the brutal cold nip with vengeance. It woke him from his somnolent state with ease, and his blurry vision soon fixed into its usual readiness.
This was his morning routine: fitfully sleep, toss and turn, fitfully sleep, toss and turn some more, then get up and breathe in the inclement weather. Something about the serene sound of raindrops hitting the forest floor, arousing the pleasant smell of petrichor, had Merlin canting forward and hanging his head to get closer to the source.
Near the Lake of Avalon, plants from all regions grow at Merlin’s whim, uncaring whether they’re compatible with the land or not. Here, the plants never wilt, the trees never rot, and the snow only serves as an accessory. Merlin’s magic, like ambrosia to earth, was a life source. In a way, it was like Morgana’s life during Morgause’s sleeping spell on Camelot, a growth sprouting from the existence of magic. Once Merlin was dead and magic went with him, the life he supported would fall with him.
He could smell the woodsy musk of Sessile Oaks, Coast Redwoods, Sweet Chestnuts, Douglas Firs, and a great variety more. Along the water was lined with Willows, draping a curtain over the banks– near his abode were fruit trees, blossoming with new produce every season of the year for critters to eat. He couldn’t stand knowing they’d starve, feeling them starve, so he turned a blind eye to overpopulation. Was it such a problem if there was enough food for them all?
As he closed his eyes, he was reminded of his hunting trips with Arthur. Half the time, he purposefully spooked the prey, and other times, his own ungainliness ruined the hunt. A tightness draws the breath from his lungs. Merlin dipped his head, feeling the familiar wave of nausea wash over him. He longed to have cherished his time with Arthur more, even when doing things he hated– even if it meant dragging stags back to Camelot.
If only Arthur would come back, no, if only he could go back in time, he wouldn’t complain anymore. He’d wipe the peevish expression off his face; he’d happily drag the four-hundred-pound deer all the way back home, and do it with beady, devoted eyes. He’d even strip the hide off and make Arthur an intricately sewn coat for Camelot’s harsh winters, if the prince so wanted.
Merlin pried his mind away from his grief, pushing himself away from the window and aimlessly picking things off the floor. Here were the next steps of his morning: clean up the remnants from the night before, make a pot of overly creamy coffee, then journey to the castle of Camelot and do his chores. He didn’t have to, but he’d like for Arthur’s chambers to be homely when he returns.
“All this bloody glass...” He huffed under his breath, frustration threading the air, “All this bloody magic…” With a flick of his wrist, the shards of broken tinctures levitated from the floor, and with a flash of gold from Merlin’s irises, they smashed together with a bubbling orange. Once the molten glass cooled, the once broken bottles were restored to their unique shapes and sizes. Where he slept was a perfect replica of Gaius’ chambers, down to the same sheets his uncle slept on, which he now curled into for comfort in order to sleep rather than his own bed.
He was thankful for little nowadays, far more frumpy than he’d been when he was a boy. However, amidst his complicated opinions about his magic, he was grateful that he could preserve such ancient artifacts, down to their smell. He even attempted to keep the familiar messes of Gaius strewn about the room, even if it complicated his daily life.
Describing Merlin’s rest as fitful is an understatement; not only was it irregularly timed, but it was caustic. His under-eyes were miscolored, gray and purple– his eyes sparkless, paired with a melancholy disposition. His dreams, contrary to Morgana's, were twisted memories of the past.
While his mind reeled, his eyes would flutter and roll back, gold lighting his cheeks in hue of the night. Tendrils of his magic would take to silent keening, ripping at whatever they could touch in desperate attempts to relieve such unbridled anguish. The apothecary glasses were just one of several things his magic would rip apart: his furniture, his clothes, his curtains– all a part of his unconscious massacre. Fire would rage through the room, his only thanks being that his walls are stone.
With just as much ease as he destroyed, he repaired. Over the years, Merlin had waited in his solitude, and he had come to realize that anything of physical matter could be fixed. The only thing that couldn’t be fixed is that of emotion and the heart.
He could mend broken bones, reshape shattered glass and metal, reconnect snapped branches back to their lively trees, and mold bread back into one loaf so he could get the perfect slice. But– he couldn’t extinguish the heartache of a grieving mother, the fear from a trembling child, or rid the anger from a broken man.
Another thing he realized was that no matter how much one has– how much power, how much money, how much magic—it won’t heal the heart. That’s why he remained here, housed at the shore of The Lake of Avalon– awaiting his Prince’s return with unwavering devotion. Because, most importantly, no matter how much time you have, it doesn’t heal the heart.
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✧˖*°࿐ Tenderness - Elia Lo Monaco
Once he finished his room cleaning, he exited his chambers and entered the corridor. Just like his room, all the walls were built from stone and adorned with resemblances to his previous life. Banners of the Pendragon crest were hung from the top and draped to the bottom, armour stands held the attire of the Roundtable Knights, now passed and forgotten throughout the centuries, and weaponry was hung upon the walls like paintings. Some of his sculpted artworks lay beside armor stands, statues of what he could remember of his friends. No matter how gruelling it was to sculpt chainmail, he’d do it a million times over if it meant bringing honor to his friends’ noble occupation.
Merlin dragged his eternally youthful hands across the walls, remembering every rock he’d hand placed to build his now—forever—home. The windows stretched high, casting shadows and morning light in lines and planes, but the sun offered no warmth. His eyes rested on the statue of Gwaine, a cocky smirk on his face as he usually wore. It took an internal war not to embrace the stone, or run his lengthy fingers over the rock waves of his hair, desperately grasping for the wild head of hair he adored.
‘I hope you find what you’re looking for.’ Gwaine had told him, the last words he’d ever hear from the hothead’s mouth.
And while he may have back then, all he looked for this past millennium was the warm bodies of his cherished, chosen family.
His steps echoed in the emptiness of the hall, and his gaze remained fixed forward as he tried to keep his mind on one objective: coffee. Upon entering the kitchen, the early medieval aesthetic of his home shifted into one of modern likeness. It was nothing like Camelot’s kitchen.
Oh. He even missed Audrey, Camelot’s head cook, yelling, “Keep your dirty fingers off my food. Do you understand?”
Merlin slouched against his wooden counters, basking in the light from the window in front of him. He took his time washing his hands in the sink, gazing at the shrub in the windowsill, then removed the filthy coffee filter from the basket and tossed it into a bin. His counters were mostly devoid, most things put away in cupboards, but his coffee-making supplies remained set out. Closest to the sink was his pot, and beside it was his coffee grinder.
“Wex þú, and þín wæstm fullwurde.” He incants conversationally to the potted shrub beside him, and on cue, the glossy, dark green leaves of the plant reach toward him and sprout an abundance of clustered cherries.
Within the next few moments, Merlin is sliding a ceramic bowl under the plant, and the cherries split themselves in half, and downfall two beans per cherry, still moist and pale green. Rapidly drying under Merlin’s magic, the coffee beans' color changed from a pale green to a perfect golden brown, ready to brew.
“Thank you.” He hums mindlessly, and the shrub retreats to sit prideful in the kitchen window. Merlin took the bowl and plopped all the contents into the cast iron of his grinder. Even with the invention of the electric coffee grinder, Merlin preferred his antique mill.
After a few minutes, he poured the ground portion into the filter and stored the excess beans in the drawer attached to the mill. “Let’s have you, lazy daisy.” He hummed to himself, mentally batting away his solemn thoughts about waking Arthur up in the morning and how making him coffee would be just another chore.
Here was another one of his many routines: Change filter, grow fresh coffee beans, dry fresh beans, grind fresh beans, pour fresh ground beans into the filter, fill the pot up to the ten cups mark, pour the ten cups of water into the water reservoir, return the pot to the burner, and press the power button.
In the past, he wasn’t a great manservant– he knew that, but the job stuck with him all these years, routines, steps, his mind a to-do list. After pacing the kitchen, wiping down the counters and dining table, his coffee was finally brewed. He scoured his cabinets, looking at an arrangement of homemade mugs, mainly eccentric ceramics.
Over the past 1,499 years, Merlin’s taken up just about any hobby that can be thought of. Pottery, Painting, Baking, Crocheting, Embroidering, Sculpting, anything he could use to busy his time. He’d become an excellent tailor.
He settled upon a red mug with a brim of gold, the colors of Camelot. When creating it, he tried to do anything but think about Arthur, but here he was with the colors of his family crest laced between his fingers. He imagined the gold brim as Arthur’s crown, specifically the one he wore when being Crowned Prince, a beautiful ring that sat upon his golden head.
Merlin found himself nearly dropping the mug as he flinched back into reality, swaying lightly forward. “Rise and shine,” He muttered to himself, sluggishly pouring the mug halfway full and rummaging through the fridge for some creamer. Ah, there it was! ‘Bridgerton English Toffee Delight.’ Gwen would probably love this. It was an incredibly cheap creamer compared to everything else, and adding it to his home deliveries from Tesco was all too easy.
Well, maybe he takes it back; he is grateful for a lot. Merlin is grateful for fridges and home deliveries from Tesco.
All the servants would probably be grateful for Tesco home deliveries, not having to run and get the items for their master, or maybe the servants would be the workers in this modern world.
He’s also thankful for this coffee pot, which was much easier to use than a kettle. He couldn’t understand why the British public hadn’t popularized such a wonderful appliance, and felt a bit of pity that they couldn’t enjoy fresh coffee every morning. To possess magic and grow a plant that is sourced from places like Africa, the Middle East, Asia, and Latin America–right in his kitchen window was a simple privilege.
This is what his life has become. His days are mundane, simple, nothing but loitering around his abode like a ghost tied to its deathplace. The only breath of fresh air he gets is on his walk to Camelot, or on the rare occasions, when something is only available in person rather than online shopping.
There was one road that wound for dozens of miles to his home, where buildings and other civilization were kept devoid of Merlin’s land. He was reluctant to sell it or let others live amongst it, not that anyone would want to anyway– with the eerie feeling that creeps up people’s spines as they intrude on his land, Merlin’s magic makes sure to run potential inhabitants away.
If you asked him, he’d never accept the title of “Lord,” but that’s what he was– a lord who owned hundreds of acres. To everyone else’s knowledge, it’s a family-owned property that’s been passed down through generations. Even if they did oppose him, Merlin possessed the Mage Stone, which could easily be used to buy out the land. Nothing a little bit of alchemy couldn’t fix.
Typically, Merlin spends his morning hours watching the telly, which was now a thin flatscreen that everyone called a Smart TV—much better than the boxes he used around 1930, which were known as “Televisors.” Unlike the Televisors, the Smart TV had much better resolution and, most importantly, colour. For a short while, he watched the news and deflected all their Christmas cheer, hyping up how last-minute grab deals are going half off tomorrow, on Christmas Eve. Funny, the people are rewarded for their poor planning.
Merlin was also grateful for Smart TVs.
After his sixth cup of coffee and third hour sitting about watching BBC Sherlock’s second season, he decided it was time for his daily walk to Camelot. Still in his sleep shirt, an oversized off-white linen tunic, Merlin pulled his signature russet jacket from the coat rack and slipped it over his shoulders. How it was still together was a miracle, or magic.
As he swung the door open, the cold immediately bit at his bare legs, and it was only then that he remembered he’d only been wearing braies on his lower half, rather than trousers.
“Oh, you idiot, leave it up to Merlin to wear his boxers out and about!” He chastised himself, imitating Arthur’s voice. Quickly, he shut the door and attempted to rub the goosebumps away as he hurried down the corridor and back into his chambers to put on a pair of loose brown strides.
Once he was done with his pacing, Merlin ran his hands through his raven hair, tracing his long fingers through the strands. Similarly to the first day he arrived in Camelot, it was much longer than he usually wore it. Nowadays, it is even a bit longer.
With new length, his hair curled around his ears and the back of his neck, his bangs a brisk away from caressing his brows. He never bothered to brush it down, so cowlicks ran free and strands happily pranced over his scalp like tiny dancers. Even stubble began to protrude, but he’d surely shave that before it became too wild.
Soon enough, he was out the door and breathing in the scent of the forest and sterile snow. Halfway through his journey, he began to haze out of the present, his mind replaced by that of his past self.
๋ ࣭ ⭑
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✧˖*°࿐ Moments-Voice Memo —Teesa
“You look like a startled stoat.” Arthur’s voice rang in his ears, and he couldn’t help but speak, like Deja Vu took his cheeks and squeezed the words out of his mouth–
“Well, at least I don’t look like a bone-idle...toad. Let’s go!” Merlin imitated himself, or his younger self, for lack of better words. His steps quickened, sticking his hands into the pockets of his trousers. The more he welcomed himself into the past, the more his barren neck chilled and his tunic felt all too loose without his belt. But he let himself savor the memory for a moment longer.
“You’re saying that I look like a toad?” Arthur sounded incredulous, and unlike the original memory, Merlin’s heart swelled with relief at the Prince’s voice.
“Yeah!” Merlin hastily replied, “And maybe one day you’ll magically transform into a handsome prince, cause magic’s outlawed, that’ll probably never happen, c'mon, let's go.”
“Merlin!” The chime of his name on Arthur’s tongue rivets his heart, “I’m the one who gives the orders, remember?” Merlin brings his hands up to his neck, a hollow feeling settling in his gut at the absence of his neckerchief. Even if what he saw was a warm day, the reality he lived in was unforgivably chilly.
“Yeah.” He mutters, “You ready? Let’s go.” Merlin bites back with no weight behind it. His original self may have paid no mind to Arthur’s words, but now he was convinced that he’d obey any order or reminder that Arthur sprang from his royal throat. Like a fading dream, Merlin returned to reality.
๋ ࣭ ⭑
His vision cleared as he stood in front of a mountainside, his nose inches from the rock. With a flash of gold in his eyes, he stepped through the mirage and admired Camelot in all her beauty. Lord forbid some of the modern mortals discover the castle, then he’d really have to fight for his property. Luckily, he wouldn’t have to worry about such a thing with magic.
Every day since the fall of Camelot and her people, Merlin has come to her courtyard. It was a part of his unwavering devotion to Arthur, for he must prepare for his return, which meant keeping his castle pristine. So for the next several hours, Merlin used his magic like a phantom limb. He effortlessly, all at once, swept the castle, mopped the floors, meticulously scrubbed the throne room, dusted the shelves and furniture, and beat the rugs into cleanliness.
Eventually, he made his way out to the spigot and filled a bucket with water. He recalled how the Afanc poisoned Camelot’s water supply soon after he’d become Arthur’s manservant, and how his reckless use of magic resulted in his best friend being thrown into a cell and nearly killed. Shaking his head, he headed back into the castle with a full bucket in hand.
As he approached Arthur’s chambers, the tendrils of his magic retracted into his body and cooed gentle thanks as they rested. Upon entering the doorway, Merlin nearly doubled over, struck by the familiar aroma.
Like every time he entered since Arthur's death, a wave of unrestrained emotion surged through him, each heartbeat echoing like a chanting drum, drowning out rational thought. It clawed violently at his stomach, twisting like a vise, while a fire ignited in his throat, choking back sobs that threatened to break free. Then his vision blurred, a kaleidoscope of colors swirling chaotically everywhere he looked– beautiful hues of red and gold most prominent.
The world around him felt distant and surreal, as if he were submerged underwater, framed by a muffled silence. Each breath became shallow and erratic, the air heavy and thick like fog, causing his chest to feel impossibly tight. His pulse thudded in his ears, an insistent beat that merged with the anguish building in his heart, strangling him in a cacophony of dread.
A cold sweat broke out on his skin, sticky and clammy, as the room spun slightly, and the walls closed in like a trap. He imagined Arthur’s trained arms wrapped around him, pulling him up and steadying his thoughts.
“Merlin, have you a mental affliction?” He’d ask, probably. Or is that what he’d say? Was he forgetting Arthur? How would Arthur react to seeing him this way? Would he view Merlin as pathetic? Perhaps Arthur would say, “You’re acting like such a girl’s petticoat.” Or would Arthur show that softer side of himself and talk him out of it? The more Merlin realized he had no idea, the more he lost control of his breathing, helplessly hyperventilating, grasping at the threads of reality as they slipped away.
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✧˖*°࿐ Miste - The Haxan Cloak
For nearly five hundred forty-seven thousand eight-hundred sixty-five days, Merlin has been tortured by his king’s death.
That’s seventy-eight thousand two hundred sixty-six weeks.
For nearly five hundred forty-seven thousand eight-hundred sixty-five days, Merlin had been tortured by his king’s death.
That was seventy-eight thousand two hundred sixty-six weeks.
That was one hundred and fifty decades, or fifteen centuries.
Merlin heaved a shaky gasp as he sank to his knees, lightheaded and nauseous. The cool, damp fabric of the cleaning rag clung to his fingers as he dipped it into the weathered bucket of water, the surface rippling in protest.
The floor held nothing but dust, no matter how often he cleaned it, like a sadistic reminder from the world itself that nothing inhabited these chambers— or was it just another hallucination? It held remnants of years past, yet that didn’t stop Merlin from pressing his palms as hard as he could into the weary surface. Nothing could distract him from preparation.
Some days, he found solace in this monotony, the simple act of cleaning providing a brief reprieve from the tumult of his memories. On those days, he moved deliberately, each action a meditation as he imagined how thankful Arthur would be. Maybe he’d even spare a sliver of his ego and call him useful.
Other days, however, he spiraled into despair and became one with the dust, laying his scrawny body against the floor like a one-sided embrace– neither warm nor inviting.
Merlin was painfully reminded of his losses at those times, curling in on himself as he remembered how he sailed all his friends away on a little wooden boat.
He considered Gwen and grasped every memory he had of her, raking his brain for anything he might have forgotten. He remembered her beautiful curls and eyes of oak wood, her warm smile, and the diligent way she moved about the castle. He remembered how, in the beginning, she had been just as awkward as he was. He remembered how, even when his resentful heart twisted during her and Arthur’s wedding, he never could bring himself to be mad at such a courageous and kind woman— so devoted to becoming an exceptional ruler.
He dwelt on Lancelot, the noblest of all his friends. Merlin attempted to recreate the shade of Lance’s olive skin when he closed his eyes, gritting his teeth when the darkness behind his eyelids remained unchanging. What had his undertones been again? He forced himself to picture the knight’s smile, the light stubble along his jaw, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed.
A lingering regret pitted in his stomach as he recalled how destiny spat Lancelot back into life. His purpose had been to redirect Merlin's course back to Camelot, to ensure Albion would prevail—but the warlock had refused. And to Lance’s dismay, he had been forced to accept Merlin’s decision and return to Camelot alone.
Was it his fault that Arthur hadn’t returned? If he had gone back to Camelot and brought about peace between magic and man, would Arthur have returned? No. Or had Merlin secretly hoped that, sitting idle, Albion would fall into danger, forcing Arthur out of that lake?
There had been few instances in his long life when he had been separated from the lake. Once, he had willingly aided Britain during the Black Plague, some sick part of him hoping that it was the work of dark magic—that it might somehow bring about Arthur’s return.
It hadn’t.
A second time, it was through conscription that he found himself tangled in the horrors of World War II. Surely, he had been proud to play a part in the fall of Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan, yet the memories he carried with him were not those of triumph. They were of loss—gut-wrenching and endless.
Many times, death had consumed Merlin and spat him back out like gristle— not just by the slow grip of poison or the strike of a Dorocha, but through artillery shells that screamed through the air, rockets that lit up the sky in a haze of fire, and the thunderous devastation of atomic bombs. He had witnessed the unfathomable destruction wrought by mankind, a testament to humanity’s capacity for chaos.
It had been a stark reminder that human ingenuity had birthed not only small comforts like coffee pots and fridges, but also colossal machines of war, and the radiation sickness that befell countless innocents.
And still, he stood in the chambers of his dead king, surrounded by the remnants of a once vibrant court. Because in the end, it was this loss that ailed him the most.
It wasn’t the mass, gruesome death Merlin had experienced on the battlefield, the putrid stench of decaying soldiers, bodies torn and blown apart, the surrounding skin melted and disfigured. It wasn’t the feeling of life dwindling from those he tried to save like a snuffed candle. No matter how terrible, that wasn’t what plagued the majority of his nightmares.
It wasn’t his days trapped in shellshock, a hollow body of what he had once considered himself to be. Nor had it been the years he drowned himself in alcohol and amphetamines, chasing sleep—or the absence of it.
No. It was the wan appearance of Arthur Pendragon’s face, a ghost of the noble king he had once known, as he had sailed him away on a little boat across the vast, silent waters of Avalon.
The memory had carved itself into his soul—a moment steeped in tragedy, softened only by the fragile promise of Arthur’s return. All Merlin could do was cling to the intimacy of that final embrace—a farewell to a king, a friend, and half of his heart.
All Merlin could do was hold onto the intimacy of Arthur Pendragon—son of the genocidal, magic-hating, Uther Pendragon–– telling him that he didn’t want him to change, and that his magic was accepted.
Merlin found himself halfway through his task, slumped forward, his forehead pressed against the cool, damp stone of Arthur’s chambers. He closed his eyes and quietly sobbed, rocking himself gently forward and backward in a feeble attempt to comfort himself.
“Merlin?”
The sound of Arthur’s voice cut through the haze, calling softly from the doorway. But Merlin couldn’t bring himself to lift his head. He knew it wasn’t real. It was only a phantom of Arthur—a memory resurfacing in an attempt to calm his cries.
Still, he could almost feel the warmth of Arthur’s presence beside him—calloused fingers trailing gently up his spine, settling on his shoulders, and teasing at the curls at the nape of his neck.
“I miss you so much.” Merlin croaked, his voice barely above a whisper. He opened his eyes and gazed blankly at the stone walls. They stared back at him, indifferent and silent, mocking him for his vulnerability.
Guilt resided so deeply within Merlin that it felt as much a part of him as magic. His thoughts were riddled with “if only” and “what ifs.”
What if he had summoned Kilgharrah before it was too late? Would the dragon have remained so cryptic, or would he have helped? Would anything have changed?
What if he had heeded the warnings of his destiny and killed Mordred when he had the chance?
What if, on that night, when Arthur asked him that fateful question, he hadn’t said: “There can be no place for magic in Camelot?”
“I don’t understand!” Merlin choked, fighting not to cough. “There’s no more Camelot. There are no more sorcerers. There’s no more magic to unite with man. Why haven’t you returned? What about the millions who died from the plague? What about the world wars? Where were you?” The weight of each word threatened to crush him.
“Where are you?” Merlin repeated to himself, his voice hoarse.
And then, in the stillness of his dread, Arthur’s voice whispered down his neck.
“I’m here.”
“No, you’re not.” Merlin snapped, lifting his head to fix his eyes on Arthur’s hand, which was lightly resting on his shoulder.
“Merlin, would you just listen to me, you dollophead?” Arthur grunted, words of frustration that carried no real weight or malice, his fingers curling into Merlin’s sleeve.
At first, Merlin’s expression remained unreadable. Then, gradually, his features softened. With a resigned tilt of his head, he returned his gaze to the ground to watch his own hand resume its scrubbing..
“That’s my word.” He responded flatly, carrying no emotion. This was the same conversation he had every evening with Arthur, and the familiarity of the banter dulled the ache, easing him back into a neutral state.
“You can’t claim a word, Merlin.” Arthur scolded, slipping his temperature-less hand off of Merlin’s frame.
“You can if you made it up.” Merlin tilted his head, carefully wiping away dust that wasn’t truly there.
“Describe ‘Dollophead’ in two words.” Arthur's voice followed him, though his footsteps made no sound.
“I tell you this every night.” Merlin huffed in return, his usual peevishness poking through the sorrow. He always told himself he’d be extra nice to Arthur when he returned—but apparently that didn’t extend to the imaginary one.
“So, tell me again.”
This version of Arthur always sounded so vulnerable, so soft. It was the one side Merlin had always wished he’d seen more of— but after so long of pretending this was him, it meant nothing. It wasn’t the real Arthur. It never would be.
“Prince Arthur.”
₊ ⊹