[Hart Royal: PG, Merlin/Arthur]
Title: Hart Royal
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Warnings/Spoilers: Merlin-leaves-and-comes-back!fic, future!fic, character death and "death." Embarrassingly tame Merlin/Arthur, with bonus Arthur/Gwen, and pinches of Merlin/Gwen, Merlin/Morgana, Lancelot/Gwen, Gwen/Morgana and Arthur/Morgana. I want to apologize in advance for my awful grasp of Old English - all I could think of while writing it is the grammar scene from The Life of Brian. Romani ite domum!
Summary: “It's alright, m'lord. When you wake, I won't be far.”
Hart Royal
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
- From "The Lake Isle of Innisfree," by W. B. Yeats
“I cannot make exceptions.”
The king watches Merlin, and Merlin watches the stone floor.
“To me, to the rest of Camelot, you are dead.”
“For Arthur?” He offers, and Uther nods once.
He expected rage, he expected the dungeons, the executioner's axe that only cut clean if you paid him well.
How could he have expected this?
The forest is dark, but dry. Merlin has a fire going in a small clearing, and managed to nick enough food from the kitchens to last him until he reaches Ealdor. He stills when he hears a branch snap to his left, but relaxes at the sight of the figure that emerges from the shadows.
“Hullo.” Merlin smiles cheerily up at Arthur. “How'd you find me?” He had cast at least five spells that should have made him impossible to locate.
“I,” says Arthur, “Am an expert hunter. And you are an idiot. Obviously.” Merlin raises an eyebrow, well-taught by Gaius, and Arthur, defeated, takes a seat next to him. “It was a lucky guess.” Merlin's grin returns, and Arthur stares at the fire. “So. You're magic.”
And Merlin likes the sound of that - not that he practices magic, or uses it, but that he simply is it.
“I had my suspicions, of course.” Arthur pokes the flames with a nearby stick, and frowns when it doesn't catch fire.
“Sorry, magic.” Merlin interrupts, and Arthur tosses the stick away.
“But I figured that the less people who knew - or who you thought knew - the better.” Merlin nods his agreement, and there is silence. “You're coming back.”
There's not even a waver of doubt in Arthur's voice, and Merlin stares at him for a moment.
“Not any time soon, I'm not. Your father said, and I quote,” Merlin clears his throat to use his best King Uther voice: “Do not return to Camelot until I am cold in my grave.”
“I meant eventually.” Arthur grumbles. “You will come back.”
It's an order, and Merlin doesn't mind.
“Well, yes.” Merlin concedes, and smiles when Arthur looks up at him. “After all, I am your only friend.” He knocks their foreheads together playfully, and laughs at the clunk that follows. Merlin is a bit surprised when Arthur does not pull away, but keeps them close, shutting his eyes. He thinks, and he breathes. Merlin wonders if Arthur is trying to read his mind, or if he's letting Merlin read his. “You're thinking rather loudly.” He teases, feeling Arthur's brow furrow before he pulls back.
“I'll head back to Camelot at dawn.”
Merlin nods, and then: “When you go back. Tell Gaius and Gwen - and Morgana - I'm sorry.” He pauses, miserable. “I'm sorry.”
When Merlin is convinced Arthur is fully asleep (he whispers the prince's name at varying volumes to no response), he crawls over to him and hovers his hand over Arthur's face.
“Ic insegle mín drýcræft in Arthur Pendragon.”
The king dines alone for days, then weeks. Morgana finally joins him (lips set in a firm frown, eyes sharp and cold) one month after he sent Arthur's manservant away. His son returns two weeks after her, expression blank.
They never speak of Merlin.
There comes a cry from the far side of the hall, and King Arthur watches Gwen, on the verge of tears, rush up to the visitor. The man had kept his head down, the hood of his cloak up, since he entered the court, and was just about to speak when Gwen had burst out of the crowd of servants.
“Merlin, Merlin.” She sobs, brushing back the hood and his ridiculously overgrown fringe, kissing his forehead, his lips quickly. He calls her name back earnestly, even though they are standing right in front of each other, and Arthur tries to fathom how he could not have recognized him the instant he walked in.
Arthur follows Merlin down into the catacombs of the castle, beyond the dungeons. When Merlin hands Arthur a torch and proceeds down a very foreboding flight of stairs, Arthur steels himself for something particularly awful - only to enter at an empty cave.
“Is he gone?” Merlin asks no one in particular, and Arthur is about to reply when a gust of wind leaves them both breathless.
“Merlin.” The Dragon rumbles. “You have returned.”
“I'm here to keep my promise.” Is his reply, and the Dragon chuckles.
“So I see. You even brought King Arthur.”
Arthur can hear his heart in his ears (and his father's voice - magic is a curse upon Albion, magic will destroy us all, but Merlin is by his side, and he is all magic) when the Dragon turns to him, but Merlin just looks rather annoyed.
“I told him I'd free him.” Merlin tells Arthur, and the king nods hesitantly. “He's the only one left - in Albion, at least.”
Arthur is silent for a long time, but finally clears his throat.
“Alright - Dragon. If you're to be freed, I must have your word.”
“My word?” Both the Dragon and Merlin look amused.
“Promise that you will not harm the citizens of Camelot, nor any other kingdom.”
“Is that all?” Merlin hisses at him, and Arthur nods again.
“If that is all you request, King Arthur Pendragon,” The Dragon snaps the chain around his leg with one easy bite, and begins to beat his wings, slowly rising upwards. “Then I will be happy to comply.”
There is a great rumble as the Dragon breaks through the top of the cave, and Arthur hears Merlin shout something as rocks begin to tumble. When they are back at the top of the stairs, Merlin looks outraged.
“He could have escaped whenever he wanted, that ridiculous, long-winded worm!”
Arthur has a feeling he'll never hear the end of it.
They visit his father's grave one month after Merlin returns, heading to the hills where most of Arthur's ancestors are buried. Merlin stares at the stone monument solemnly, while Arthur studies the mountains on the horizon.
“He didn't know.” The king says, and Merlin turns to him.
“Pardon?”
“My father didn't really know that you - that you were -”
Merlin watches Arthur's face, and bites his lip when he understands.
“If I had called his bluff?” Merlin feels anger begin to spin the world around him, so he closes his eyes, and breathes. “I don't know why, but he let me go. I'm alive.”
“He made an exception for you.”
“No,” says Merlin. “For you.”
It is not until two weeks later that Merlin tells Arthur his story. He has been to every edge of the island, seen the sea that surrounds them on all sides.
“I met a man, a king, whose kingdom was...a wasteland. He couldn't move on his own. And he just sat by a river, and fished. He did nothing, and he said I couldn't help him. I have never felt so useless in my life.”
Arthur nods, staring into the fireplace. Merlin lights it with a firm look.
“Look, my lord.” There's a touch of desperation in his voice, and Arthur turns to the window. Merlin draws the drapes with a sigh. “I know that your father told you that magic brings nothing but ruin. But I refuse to be useless to you. You tell me what you need me to do, Arthur -”
Arthur finally turns his eyes to Merlin's.
“ - and I'll do anything.”
“Morgana - we found each other, in the north.”
Arthur stills at the windowsill, and turns to half-face Merlin.
“And?”
“She is with the Fay.”
“The Fair Folk?”
Merlin's eyes dart around the room nervously, as if he expects fairies to crawl out of the woodwork.
“Is she in good hands?”
Merlin hesitates, and Arthur's jaw locks.
“She's safe.”
The servants' children love Merlin, especially when he visits the kitchens. He spins magpies from flour and pepper, coaxes dried seeds to bloom in his palm. They are always at his heels, laughing, pulling at his coat, but they never quite ask for another spell.
If Merlin crosses the courtyard to Arthur's quarters, they scatter like dust.
“I am afraid this is the end for today.” The sorceress announces to the court, and then in a lower voice: “You have a mark upon you, sire.”
Arthur dismisses both the nobles and their servants, and the hall empties quickly.
Gwen is laughing behind him, and with a sigh, he sends the visiting magician away as well.
“Guinevere, you know what this mark means?” He turns in the throne to see Merlin next to her, staring intently at the nearest wall.
“I do not, m'lord.” She curtsies politely, but her smile reminds Arthur of Morgana as she heads for the servants' door. “Perhaps someone else does?”
Merlin scratches the back of his head.
“I can explain, honest.” Merlin rounds the throne to stand in front of it, and looks strangely more like Merlin than Arthur can ever remember.
“Please do.”
Merlin clears his throat, and begins to gesture wildly.
“When I was - we were - in the forest. You fell asleep. I - I marked you.”
“I beg your pardon, Merlin?”
“No, no! Nothing like that, sire. It's more like - I left a seal of magic - my magic - on you. In case anyone tried to hurt you, they'd know I'd been there first, that I might come back and find them. The druid boy, he knew me, so I thought maybe it would work with others. And you're still alive, so it worked, I just wanted you safe, and now we never have to speak of it again.” Merlin's ears are a fetching maroon.
But it was true - quite a few suspicious characters had stared (frightened?) at Arthur when they had come to seek an audience with the old king.
“You. Marked me?”
“We really, really don't have to talk about it.” Merlin pleads.
“Well, since you're back, can you take it this seal off?”
Merlin's almost purple ears give him his answer.
Merlin begins to talk much more - but he runs out of light-hearted stories quickly.
“I felt Gaius's death. And I knew of your father's.”
“Felt it?”
“It feels a lot like -” Merlin smiles strangely. “Like bad fish. I was sick for hours.”
Then, Arthur is gripping Merlin's wrists tightly, and when he presses their foreheads together, Merlin can only think of the forest, and a fire that does not burn.
“My father would have been flattered, I'm sure.” Arthur smiles when Merlin laughs, pauses, and then: “Your mother?”
“She's doing remarkably well for a woman her age.” Merlin pulls away with a grin that means there's a good story behind it, and with a quick dip of his head, he is out the door.
(That Merlin knew when Gaius died, ages away from Camelot, is true.
But Merlin came to know of the Uther's death at that place between sleeping and waking, many days after he had left Morgana in the north - and yet she found him. He had felt her leaning over him, a hand on his shoulder, her words morning frost on his ear. He was sure that if he opened his eyes, she would be gone.
“The king is dead, Merlin. Long live the king.”)
Gwen is always happy to see him, and Merlin is equally happy to find that they settle into their old chatter easily. With no lady in the castle to care for, she instead spends most of her free time with Merlin, who bites his tongue whenever he sees a strange, lonely look cross over her face. She tells him the story on her own one day, while they are eating lunch in a secluded corner of the kitchens.
“Lady Morgana left barely a month before King Uther died. She wouldn't - couldn't tell me what happened, but I think she had an awful row with the king, she came back one night, she wasn't crying, or even sad, just - angry. Furious. If had known - I would have stayed - she took a horse and was gone by morning.” Gwen stares at her plate, worrying her bottom lip. “I figured it out later. Her dreams, she told me she saw horrible things that felt too real. She saw him dying, didn't she? She tried to tell him. I can't even imagine...”
Merlin can recall Morgana's face in the cold north easily, the look in her eye, the set of her jaw, when Merlin went with her to entreat the Fay to take her into their care. “Emrys,” they had said, “You will vouch for this Seer?”
“She's alright, Gwen. I promise.”
Gwen asks for no explanation, just nods quietly, and rests her head on Merlin's shoulder.
“I'm something of a no man's land.” Merlin says when Arthur finally asks about his magic. “Born of the Old Religion, loyal to the king. Wherever I went, there was always someone who knew me, by one name or another.”
Arthur stares into the fire.
“It was easier to think of you as dead. To think that you were out there, and that I could do nothing? It was -”
“Unacceptable?”
“Something like that.”
“You do realize you're the king, don't you? That you're the one who decides what's what?”
Merlin paces the room, agitated, and Arthur rolls his eyes in frustration.
“Of course I do!” One hand covers the side of his face, and then, tentatively: “I'm King Arthur.”
But the ghost of Uther still roams the halls of Camelot: in the old laws Arthur has to confront, in the aged blood that dots the cobblestones of the square, in the very fact that Merlin is alive. Merlin understands that he has a part to play in destroying Arthur's preconceptions of the world, and that Gwen has quite another.
Arthur marries Gwen on a bright spring day (Merlin makes sure of it), before ceremony and ritual can be weighed down by the heat of the summer sun. Lancelot catches Merlin's eye just before the king and new queen kiss, and Merlin can feel Destiny scratching at his ribs.
Merlin wades waist-deep into the lake, closing his eyes to shut out the birdsong and Arthur's wary gaze as he waits onshore.
“Áwæcne, gúðsweord.”
Nothing. Merlin sighs as Arthur clears his throat, and he tries to think of something else.
A name. Could it be that simple? It had to be something...perfect.
“Áwæcne, Excalibur.”
A sharp wail seeps through dark water, and Merlin takes what he has summoned from a skeletal hand.
Merlin trudges back to shore, drenched and exceptionally pleased with himself, grinning as he hands the sword to Arthur.
The king is silent for some time, weighing the sword carefully in his hands, running a hand over the blade, twisting his arm to measure the weight.
“What did you call it?” Arthur's voice is rough and near reverent.
“Excalibur. What do you think?”
Arthur can only shake his head, at a loss for words. He holds out the blade to Merlin, and gestures at the fuller.
“Can you tell what is says?”
Merlin takes the sword carefully, and holds it up to the sun.
“Take me up...” He turns Excalibur carefully, to reveal the writing on the other side. “And cast me away.”
Arthur frowns as Merlin hands back the sword.
“It was made for you,” Merlin says with a smile. “It will be a long time before you have to return it.”
There is nothing but silence at Camlann, so Arthur waits, his back against the earth, watching the sky. He can feel his own blood seeping through his chain mail, running down his chin. He is sure that part of Mordred's blade remains in his ribcage, but still - he waits.
The king closes his eyes for what he is sure is only an instant - but when he opens them again, the sun has set, and Merlin is shaking him awake.
"Sire. We have to go."
(There is an instant where Arthur is back in his bed at Camelot, it is dawn the day of a tournament, and Merlin is dropping his armor on the floor over and over again to wake him up, but the sheets and pillows cannot last and give way to field and sky.)
Arthur sits up easily, strangely, feeling no pain. Merlin hauls him up by the hands through the sharp night air, and Arthur can only stare at the stars.
"Where are we headed, Merlin?" Arthur follows Merlin though he gives no answer but a sad smile, as Camlann fades and blurs.
Arthur fights sleep desperately, holding tightly to Merlin's wrist. The sky is bright, life sings all around them, and Merlin can feel the strange magic of eternity that echoes endlessly in this place. He places his forehead against Arthur's to feel the spreading chill, and when he pulls away, the king shudders.
“It's alright, m'lord. When you wake, I won't be far.”
“Promise?” The king's eyelids flutter closed, and Arthur's grip shifts to clasp Merlin's hand.
“I do, Arthur.”
Here lies Arthur, the once and future King.
Morgana waits for Merlin at the edge of the lake, the morning light caught in her hair. He holds a sword in his hand, and carries all the ages in his eyes. She runs her fingers over his jaw, follows the line of his shoulder and arm to the hand that holds Excalibur.
“Gwen and Lancelot have gone, and the surviving knights do not need me.” He lets her take the sword from him, and she drifts her eyes over the blade. “So what else can I do?”
“You would wait forever, Merlin?” Her frown is mournful, but Merlin smiles in return.
“I promised.”
And Excalibur is once again in his hands as he wades into the lake for the last time, frozen to the bone. He holds the sword just barely above the surface of the water, eyes closed, and whispers:
“Nimueh.”
Her hands reach out for him, and he lets her lead him into the cold.
Take me up, and cast me away.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Warnings/Spoilers: Merlin-leaves-and-comes-back!fic, future!fic, character death and "death." Embarrassingly tame Merlin/Arthur, with bonus Arthur/Gwen, and pinches of Merlin/Gwen, Merlin/Morgana, Lancelot/Gwen, Gwen/Morgana and Arthur/Morgana. I want to apologize in advance for my awful grasp of Old English - all I could think of while writing it is the grammar scene from The Life of Brian. Romani ite domum!
Summary: “It's alright, m'lord. When you wake, I won't be far.”
Hart Royal
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
- From "The Lake Isle of Innisfree," by W. B. Yeats
“I cannot make exceptions.”
The king watches Merlin, and Merlin watches the stone floor.
“To me, to the rest of Camelot, you are dead.”
“For Arthur?” He offers, and Uther nods once.
He expected rage, he expected the dungeons, the executioner's axe that only cut clean if you paid him well.
How could he have expected this?
The forest is dark, but dry. Merlin has a fire going in a small clearing, and managed to nick enough food from the kitchens to last him until he reaches Ealdor. He stills when he hears a branch snap to his left, but relaxes at the sight of the figure that emerges from the shadows.
“Hullo.” Merlin smiles cheerily up at Arthur. “How'd you find me?” He had cast at least five spells that should have made him impossible to locate.
“I,” says Arthur, “Am an expert hunter. And you are an idiot. Obviously.” Merlin raises an eyebrow, well-taught by Gaius, and Arthur, defeated, takes a seat next to him. “It was a lucky guess.” Merlin's grin returns, and Arthur stares at the fire. “So. You're magic.”
And Merlin likes the sound of that - not that he practices magic, or uses it, but that he simply is it.
“I had my suspicions, of course.” Arthur pokes the flames with a nearby stick, and frowns when it doesn't catch fire.
“Sorry, magic.” Merlin interrupts, and Arthur tosses the stick away.
“But I figured that the less people who knew - or who you thought knew - the better.” Merlin nods his agreement, and there is silence. “You're coming back.”
There's not even a waver of doubt in Arthur's voice, and Merlin stares at him for a moment.
“Not any time soon, I'm not. Your father said, and I quote,” Merlin clears his throat to use his best King Uther voice: “Do not return to Camelot until I am cold in my grave.”
“I meant eventually.” Arthur grumbles. “You will come back.”
It's an order, and Merlin doesn't mind.
“Well, yes.” Merlin concedes, and smiles when Arthur looks up at him. “After all, I am your only friend.” He knocks their foreheads together playfully, and laughs at the clunk that follows. Merlin is a bit surprised when Arthur does not pull away, but keeps them close, shutting his eyes. He thinks, and he breathes. Merlin wonders if Arthur is trying to read his mind, or if he's letting Merlin read his. “You're thinking rather loudly.” He teases, feeling Arthur's brow furrow before he pulls back.
“I'll head back to Camelot at dawn.”
Merlin nods, and then: “When you go back. Tell Gaius and Gwen - and Morgana - I'm sorry.” He pauses, miserable. “I'm sorry.”
When Merlin is convinced Arthur is fully asleep (he whispers the prince's name at varying volumes to no response), he crawls over to him and hovers his hand over Arthur's face.
“Ic insegle mín drýcræft in Arthur Pendragon.”
The king dines alone for days, then weeks. Morgana finally joins him (lips set in a firm frown, eyes sharp and cold) one month after he sent Arthur's manservant away. His son returns two weeks after her, expression blank.
They never speak of Merlin.
There comes a cry from the far side of the hall, and King Arthur watches Gwen, on the verge of tears, rush up to the visitor. The man had kept his head down, the hood of his cloak up, since he entered the court, and was just about to speak when Gwen had burst out of the crowd of servants.
“Merlin, Merlin.” She sobs, brushing back the hood and his ridiculously overgrown fringe, kissing his forehead, his lips quickly. He calls her name back earnestly, even though they are standing right in front of each other, and Arthur tries to fathom how he could not have recognized him the instant he walked in.
Arthur follows Merlin down into the catacombs of the castle, beyond the dungeons. When Merlin hands Arthur a torch and proceeds down a very foreboding flight of stairs, Arthur steels himself for something particularly awful - only to enter at an empty cave.
“Is he gone?” Merlin asks no one in particular, and Arthur is about to reply when a gust of wind leaves them both breathless.
“Merlin.” The Dragon rumbles. “You have returned.”
“I'm here to keep my promise.” Is his reply, and the Dragon chuckles.
“So I see. You even brought King Arthur.”
Arthur can hear his heart in his ears (and his father's voice - magic is a curse upon Albion, magic will destroy us all, but Merlin is by his side, and he is all magic) when the Dragon turns to him, but Merlin just looks rather annoyed.
“I told him I'd free him.” Merlin tells Arthur, and the king nods hesitantly. “He's the only one left - in Albion, at least.”
Arthur is silent for a long time, but finally clears his throat.
“Alright - Dragon. If you're to be freed, I must have your word.”
“My word?” Both the Dragon and Merlin look amused.
“Promise that you will not harm the citizens of Camelot, nor any other kingdom.”
“Is that all?” Merlin hisses at him, and Arthur nods again.
“If that is all you request, King Arthur Pendragon,” The Dragon snaps the chain around his leg with one easy bite, and begins to beat his wings, slowly rising upwards. “Then I will be happy to comply.”
There is a great rumble as the Dragon breaks through the top of the cave, and Arthur hears Merlin shout something as rocks begin to tumble. When they are back at the top of the stairs, Merlin looks outraged.
“He could have escaped whenever he wanted, that ridiculous, long-winded worm!”
Arthur has a feeling he'll never hear the end of it.
They visit his father's grave one month after Merlin returns, heading to the hills where most of Arthur's ancestors are buried. Merlin stares at the stone monument solemnly, while Arthur studies the mountains on the horizon.
“He didn't know.” The king says, and Merlin turns to him.
“Pardon?”
“My father didn't really know that you - that you were -”
Merlin watches Arthur's face, and bites his lip when he understands.
“If I had called his bluff?” Merlin feels anger begin to spin the world around him, so he closes his eyes, and breathes. “I don't know why, but he let me go. I'm alive.”
“He made an exception for you.”
“No,” says Merlin. “For you.”
It is not until two weeks later that Merlin tells Arthur his story. He has been to every edge of the island, seen the sea that surrounds them on all sides.
“I met a man, a king, whose kingdom was...a wasteland. He couldn't move on his own. And he just sat by a river, and fished. He did nothing, and he said I couldn't help him. I have never felt so useless in my life.”
Arthur nods, staring into the fireplace. Merlin lights it with a firm look.
“Look, my lord.” There's a touch of desperation in his voice, and Arthur turns to the window. Merlin draws the drapes with a sigh. “I know that your father told you that magic brings nothing but ruin. But I refuse to be useless to you. You tell me what you need me to do, Arthur -”
Arthur finally turns his eyes to Merlin's.
“ - and I'll do anything.”
“Morgana - we found each other, in the north.”
Arthur stills at the windowsill, and turns to half-face Merlin.
“And?”
“She is with the Fay.”
“The Fair Folk?”
Merlin's eyes dart around the room nervously, as if he expects fairies to crawl out of the woodwork.
“Is she in good hands?”
Merlin hesitates, and Arthur's jaw locks.
“She's safe.”
The servants' children love Merlin, especially when he visits the kitchens. He spins magpies from flour and pepper, coaxes dried seeds to bloom in his palm. They are always at his heels, laughing, pulling at his coat, but they never quite ask for another spell.
If Merlin crosses the courtyard to Arthur's quarters, they scatter like dust.
“I am afraid this is the end for today.” The sorceress announces to the court, and then in a lower voice: “You have a mark upon you, sire.”
Arthur dismisses both the nobles and their servants, and the hall empties quickly.
Gwen is laughing behind him, and with a sigh, he sends the visiting magician away as well.
“Guinevere, you know what this mark means?” He turns in the throne to see Merlin next to her, staring intently at the nearest wall.
“I do not, m'lord.” She curtsies politely, but her smile reminds Arthur of Morgana as she heads for the servants' door. “Perhaps someone else does?”
Merlin scratches the back of his head.
“I can explain, honest.” Merlin rounds the throne to stand in front of it, and looks strangely more like Merlin than Arthur can ever remember.
“Please do.”
Merlin clears his throat, and begins to gesture wildly.
“When I was - we were - in the forest. You fell asleep. I - I marked you.”
“I beg your pardon, Merlin?”
“No, no! Nothing like that, sire. It's more like - I left a seal of magic - my magic - on you. In case anyone tried to hurt you, they'd know I'd been there first, that I might come back and find them. The druid boy, he knew me, so I thought maybe it would work with others. And you're still alive, so it worked, I just wanted you safe, and now we never have to speak of it again.” Merlin's ears are a fetching maroon.
But it was true - quite a few suspicious characters had stared (frightened?) at Arthur when they had come to seek an audience with the old king.
“You. Marked me?”
“We really, really don't have to talk about it.” Merlin pleads.
“Well, since you're back, can you take it this seal off?”
Merlin's almost purple ears give him his answer.
Merlin begins to talk much more - but he runs out of light-hearted stories quickly.
“I felt Gaius's death. And I knew of your father's.”
“Felt it?”
“It feels a lot like -” Merlin smiles strangely. “Like bad fish. I was sick for hours.”
Then, Arthur is gripping Merlin's wrists tightly, and when he presses their foreheads together, Merlin can only think of the forest, and a fire that does not burn.
“My father would have been flattered, I'm sure.” Arthur smiles when Merlin laughs, pauses, and then: “Your mother?”
“She's doing remarkably well for a woman her age.” Merlin pulls away with a grin that means there's a good story behind it, and with a quick dip of his head, he is out the door.
(That Merlin knew when Gaius died, ages away from Camelot, is true.
But Merlin came to know of the Uther's death at that place between sleeping and waking, many days after he had left Morgana in the north - and yet she found him. He had felt her leaning over him, a hand on his shoulder, her words morning frost on his ear. He was sure that if he opened his eyes, she would be gone.
“The king is dead, Merlin. Long live the king.”)
Gwen is always happy to see him, and Merlin is equally happy to find that they settle into their old chatter easily. With no lady in the castle to care for, she instead spends most of her free time with Merlin, who bites his tongue whenever he sees a strange, lonely look cross over her face. She tells him the story on her own one day, while they are eating lunch in a secluded corner of the kitchens.
“Lady Morgana left barely a month before King Uther died. She wouldn't - couldn't tell me what happened, but I think she had an awful row with the king, she came back one night, she wasn't crying, or even sad, just - angry. Furious. If had known - I would have stayed - she took a horse and was gone by morning.” Gwen stares at her plate, worrying her bottom lip. “I figured it out later. Her dreams, she told me she saw horrible things that felt too real. She saw him dying, didn't she? She tried to tell him. I can't even imagine...”
Merlin can recall Morgana's face in the cold north easily, the look in her eye, the set of her jaw, when Merlin went with her to entreat the Fay to take her into their care. “Emrys,” they had said, “You will vouch for this Seer?”
“She's alright, Gwen. I promise.”
Gwen asks for no explanation, just nods quietly, and rests her head on Merlin's shoulder.
“I'm something of a no man's land.” Merlin says when Arthur finally asks about his magic. “Born of the Old Religion, loyal to the king. Wherever I went, there was always someone who knew me, by one name or another.”
Arthur stares into the fire.
“It was easier to think of you as dead. To think that you were out there, and that I could do nothing? It was -”
“Unacceptable?”
“Something like that.”
“You do realize you're the king, don't you? That you're the one who decides what's what?”
Merlin paces the room, agitated, and Arthur rolls his eyes in frustration.
“Of course I do!” One hand covers the side of his face, and then, tentatively: “I'm King Arthur.”
But the ghost of Uther still roams the halls of Camelot: in the old laws Arthur has to confront, in the aged blood that dots the cobblestones of the square, in the very fact that Merlin is alive. Merlin understands that he has a part to play in destroying Arthur's preconceptions of the world, and that Gwen has quite another.
Arthur marries Gwen on a bright spring day (Merlin makes sure of it), before ceremony and ritual can be weighed down by the heat of the summer sun. Lancelot catches Merlin's eye just before the king and new queen kiss, and Merlin can feel Destiny scratching at his ribs.
Merlin wades waist-deep into the lake, closing his eyes to shut out the birdsong and Arthur's wary gaze as he waits onshore.
“Áwæcne, gúðsweord.”
Nothing. Merlin sighs as Arthur clears his throat, and he tries to think of something else.
A name. Could it be that simple? It had to be something...perfect.
“Áwæcne, Excalibur.”
A sharp wail seeps through dark water, and Merlin takes what he has summoned from a skeletal hand.
Merlin trudges back to shore, drenched and exceptionally pleased with himself, grinning as he hands the sword to Arthur.
The king is silent for some time, weighing the sword carefully in his hands, running a hand over the blade, twisting his arm to measure the weight.
“What did you call it?” Arthur's voice is rough and near reverent.
“Excalibur. What do you think?”
Arthur can only shake his head, at a loss for words. He holds out the blade to Merlin, and gestures at the fuller.
“Can you tell what is says?”
Merlin takes the sword carefully, and holds it up to the sun.
“Take me up...” He turns Excalibur carefully, to reveal the writing on the other side. “And cast me away.”
Arthur frowns as Merlin hands back the sword.
“It was made for you,” Merlin says with a smile. “It will be a long time before you have to return it.”
There is nothing but silence at Camlann, so Arthur waits, his back against the earth, watching the sky. He can feel his own blood seeping through his chain mail, running down his chin. He is sure that part of Mordred's blade remains in his ribcage, but still - he waits.
The king closes his eyes for what he is sure is only an instant - but when he opens them again, the sun has set, and Merlin is shaking him awake.
"Sire. We have to go."
(There is an instant where Arthur is back in his bed at Camelot, it is dawn the day of a tournament, and Merlin is dropping his armor on the floor over and over again to wake him up, but the sheets and pillows cannot last and give way to field and sky.)
Arthur sits up easily, strangely, feeling no pain. Merlin hauls him up by the hands through the sharp night air, and Arthur can only stare at the stars.
"Where are we headed, Merlin?" Arthur follows Merlin though he gives no answer but a sad smile, as Camlann fades and blurs.
Arthur fights sleep desperately, holding tightly to Merlin's wrist. The sky is bright, life sings all around them, and Merlin can feel the strange magic of eternity that echoes endlessly in this place. He places his forehead against Arthur's to feel the spreading chill, and when he pulls away, the king shudders.
“It's alright, m'lord. When you wake, I won't be far.”
“Promise?” The king's eyelids flutter closed, and Arthur's grip shifts to clasp Merlin's hand.
“I do, Arthur.”
Here lies Arthur, the once and future King.
Morgana waits for Merlin at the edge of the lake, the morning light caught in her hair. He holds a sword in his hand, and carries all the ages in his eyes. She runs her fingers over his jaw, follows the line of his shoulder and arm to the hand that holds Excalibur.
“Gwen and Lancelot have gone, and the surviving knights do not need me.” He lets her take the sword from him, and she drifts her eyes over the blade. “So what else can I do?”
“You would wait forever, Merlin?” Her frown is mournful, but Merlin smiles in return.
“I promised.”
And Excalibur is once again in his hands as he wades into the lake for the last time, frozen to the bone. He holds the sword just barely above the surface of the water, eyes closed, and whispers:
“Nimueh.”
Her hands reach out for him, and he lets her lead him into the cold.
Take me up, and cast me away.