Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Arthurs wakes to a murmur of pain caressing his left temple, tracing down his sinuses to rest in between his eyebrows. After a moment, he realizes his eyes are still closed, hazy red blinding him before they flutter open of their own accord, and the concerned face of Gwen comes into focus. Her face is etched with worry, and even though he’s not entirely sure where his fingers are, the urge to smooth out the creases around her eyes bubbles up in him. His tongue is dead weight in his mouth, and his words are cut off before they even begin, his throat dry as the crisp spring air outside. He wants to ask what happened, why is he on the floor in the-

“Where are we?” he manages, the last few syllables catching roughly on themselves.

Although unintended, the question seems to agitate Gwen, his precious Gwen, even further, and she opens and closes her mouth all at once, huffing through her nose in displeasure. He can recognize the castle walls around him, and the back of his mind nags at him that he should probably know where he is. The fact that he doesn’t and isn’t too panicked about it is something to be anxious about later.

“Arthur, we’re outside of Gaius’ chambers. Were you coming here for a sleeping draught? It’s nearly dark.” She speaks gently, as if the words could bruise him somehow if they traveled far enough to touch his skin. The answer rushes through his mind, that yes he was on his way to Gaius’, what was she doing here? How long has been lying here? But all that reaches the surface, in a drawn out and sloppy way, is:

“Yes. Would you help me up?”

As carefully as she can, Gwen slips a hand to the back of his neck and helps him slump up against the wall, where he finally takes in his environment. His body is intact, fingers still attached to his hands, feet to his legs, red linen shirt still too big on him- he’s lost more weight than he realized. It tingles, prickles, a little too painful to admit when he shifts his fingers and toes about, but the needles poke the haze out of his mind, and he swallows around a dry lump in his throat. They were in the hall right outside of the physician’s chambers, and as Arthur drags his eyes to the door, he’s met with the sight of the old man looming in the doorway, a look between anger and alarm draped across his features.

“Gaius.” Arthur blanches, drawing the ‘s’ too much out at the end of his name. The old man’s fatherly affection for Arthur, though deep and true, was not always kind, especially when Arthur found himself in situations like this.

“How very eloquent of you. Gwen,” he shifts his aim, and Gwen meets his gaze with clear focus, “would you help me get him inside?” and with little warning, Arthur finds himself held on either side, lurching onto his feet, crossing the threshold into Gaius’ room.

The room looks as it always does, glass bottles and experiments and potices scattered about. Gaius lets him lean on Gwen for a moment to clear a pile of books off his bench to let Arthur sit down. He does so with a thud, a wave of nausea finding itself in the back of his throat, head still lolling about. Noticing that she sat right next to him, he decides to rest it on Gwen’s shoulder, letting his eyes drift closed.

“Arthur,” Gaius starts, and even in Arthur’s clouded state, he knows that this will not be a pleasant conversation, “can you tell me why it is that you find yourself unconscious outside of my door?” His eyebrow raises on an angle. Arthur has never been able to figure out how he does that.

“Well, you see, I was…” he racks his brain for a good excuse, but thinking feels like walking through mud, and he lands on the truth instead, “here for a sleeping draught and I’m not sure, I must’ve passed out.”

Gaius stares to the heavens. “What an astute observation, sire.” He wets a towel in a nearby basin that Arthur is hoping holds clean water, and walks over to pat it on Arthur’s forehead. When the rag comes away red, Arthur flinches. He didn’t know he was bleeding. Gaius grabs Arthur’s hand so that he can hold it against his forehead by himself. “Arthur, you’re as skinny as I’ve ever seen you, you haven’t been sleeping if the number of draughts you’ve requested are anything to go by, and you barely train with the knights anymore. I’m beginning to wonder if this is more than just a regular funk you’ve been in.” The words are said with a gentle, yet firm tone.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He locks eyes with the old man. “I’m fine, Gaius.”

Gaius raises both eyebrows this time.

“Well not right now, clearly,” Arthur says, defensive, “but really, I’ve just, I don’t know, had a lot on my mind.” He tries to use his King voice, the one that makes people feel secure in his reasonings. It doesn’t work.

“Such as…”

“I run a kingdom, if you haven’t noticed.” Arthur bristles.

Gaius sighs, letting the air out through his nose, and Arthur knows he isn’t buying it. “And yet that didn’t stop you from eating before. If you keep on as is, you won’t be running a kingdom much longer, my boy.” A silent pause hangs between them. “Would you care to share as to what has been bothering you?”

Arthur looks away, cheeks tinted pink. He doesn’t answer.

“Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not too much that we all can’t handle it. You need to let us help you.” Gwen pipes up from besides him, caressing the back of his head. Her concern makes him cringe inside. He hates feeling as though he’s burdening those around him; it’s not like he can’t handle it on his own, and it’s not like he’s starving or dying of a disease.

He just misses his stupid manservant.

Not that he would admit that to anyone.

The wave of nausea from before returns full force, and he gags on the air, motioning out in front of him for Gaius to bring him a bucket. Nothing comes up except for a small amount of wine he had in lieu of dinner, but he rests his forehead on the rim and closes his eyes. Maybe he should lay down for a bit. He can feel Gwen rubbing circles into his back, and can hear Gaius muttering to himself over by his table of concoctions.

“Oh, Arthur,” Gwen breathes out, “let’s get you up to bed.”

“No, he’ll stay here with me tonight. I’d like to watch him just in case.” Giaus is back with a fresh cloth, and the cool water feels like heaven on the back of Arthur’s neck. “In fact, he can sleep in Merlin’s room after I check a few things. I’ll get a guard to escort you back, my lady, it is late.”

“I’ll be quite fine, Gaius, but thank you. And do look after him. I’ll be here at first light to check in.” Gwen runs her hand down his back one last time and then it’s gone with her, receding into the hallway, back up to their chambers, where he should be.

Gaius stands in front of Arthur and his bucket, and the back of Arthur’s neck tingles with the weight of Gaius’ gaze. “Are you planning on sleeping there, sire, or would you like a bed? I’d never take you for the sort to give up your luxuries.”

Arthur raises his head to level him with a stare, but a pang of pain behind his eyebrow stops him short. Gaius takes advantage of this and grabs his head, using his other hand to wave in front of Arthur, intently watching his eyes and letting out the occasional hmm. He pokes and prods at Arthur for a few minutes longer, before standing back and crossing his arms, lips drawn tight.

“Well you won’t be dying on us, sire. Let’s get you to bed.”

“A sleeping draught, Gaius? That is why I came.” Arthur cringes at the petulant tone he uses.

“Given your ability to quickly drop unconscious at will, or so it seems, makes me think you’ll be fine without one tonight. Now, on your feet.”

Arthur tries to stand, and barely manages it, swaying on his feet a bit. There’s a hand on his elbow, and Gaius guides him up the few steps to Merlin’s room. A sudden dread catches in his stomach when they reach the door, and he stalls, catching the physician off guard. Gaius tugs at him, a mixture of judgement and understanding flashing across his features. Opening the door, Gaius shuffles him inside, dropping him unceremoniously onto the bed.

“I’ll be back with some water.”

Arthur sits.

It’s not like Arthur hadn’t been back here, hadn’t been in Merlin’s room since he left, but he avoided it when he could. And it’s not as though Merlin had many belongings to begin with, but without them, the place feels too sterile. Arthur didn’t think that it would ever feel whole again, even with new items. It was Merlin’s presence, his very being, the aura of clumsiness and charm that was missing, and well, that was not coming back any time soon. His eyes scan over the space, something clutching his heart and squeezing. He feels lost.

Gaius, true to his word, returns with a mug of water, snapping Arthur out of his thoughts. He tries to look grateful when the old man sets it down on the table next to him. Gaius turns to leave and pauses, shooting Arthur a sympathetic look.

“He misses you too, I’m sure of it.”

-----

Wilfreth is awful. Arthur hates him.

Which is unfair, since he is actually quite good at being a servant and does everything a King would normally want, including slipping unnoticed into the shadows while working, as if carrying around the night sky in his aura. Unfortunately, Arthur was used to the sun, and everything else is too cold, like winter had refused to leave. Arthur wanted warmth, wanted to be burned, wanted to be washed in that warm glow.

So Arthur hates him. The fact that he had been in bed for the past three days is not helping. God help him, he loved Gaius and was grateful that someone is actively trying to keep him alive, but if he sees the walls of this room for one more day, he is going to murder someone.

Probably Wilfreth.

Arthur lays back in the bed with a groan, trying to light his canopy afire with his gaze.

If Merlin had been here, he’d have been sitting in the bed with him, playing games or doing his best to annoy him - literally anything but working. And Arthur would’ve told him shut up, Merlin and rolled his eyes, pushing him away or roughing his hair up.

But he isn’t. So.

He can hear logs being piled into the fire, even though it’s midday in spring. It’s like Wilfreth’s trying to annoy Arthur by being so good at his job.

The door squeaking open catches his attention, and he props himself up on his elbows to see Gwen coming through, a sweet smile on her face.

“Wilfreth, leave us,” he says, and feels a weird sense of satisfaction when the boy practically runs out the door.

“How are you, my love?” She asks, sitting near his knees, running a hand through his unkempt hair, checking on his healing cut. He wouldn’t have a scar, but the temporary reminder of his weakness the other night wounds his pride.

“Ready to strangle-” Arthur starts, but Gwen cuts him off.

“So I’ve talked with the knights and we’re going to have a council meeting so you can have a break.”

His mouth is still hanging open from speaking, and he blinks at her. “You what?”

“Well, you’ve been so, well, upset lately and then you hit your head and it’s not going unnoticed that you’re not exactly taking care of things and Gwaine even said that he’s worried and Arthur - we’re just all so worried for you.”

She’s looking at him so intently, with so much care that he has to look away. He churns his jaw, taking in what she just said. Not exactly taking care of things? Shame floods him, and he feels so bare, so naked, to have his weaknesses laid out in front of him.

“So you’re what, going to send me away? Take my throne? I’m King, Gwen, if you haven’t noticed. I can’t just run away from my duties.” He shifts in place so that he’s sitting straighter, now a few inches taller than her. She cocks her head to the side and purses her lips, always sympathetic.

“Arthur, you know more than anything that I’m not trying to take your throne. Please let us help you, you deserve a break, just a few weeks away.” She reaches out and grabs his hands, holding them gently, rubbing her thumbs across his knuckles. He pulls away, and tries to ignore the flash of hurt in her eyes. “I know you’re not happy, that you haven’t been happy and I, well, I don’t want to see you like this. You’re a great king, Arthur. Your people love you. You have incredibly loyal friends and knights, and… me. You wouldn’t have made me queen unless you believed in that.”

His anger deflates, listening to her speech. He knows she’s right, as she usually is. But damn, if it doesn’t hurt hearing it. Uther would be so disappointed in him, and that pang of hurt is an entire improperly stitched up wound that he doesn’t currently want to deal with. But it would be a lie if he tried to claim nonchalance again, tried to brush it all off and shoulder it all on his own.

He meets her eyes, sliding his hands back into hers, squeezing, trying to convey everything going on in his head through such a simple gesture. He gives a small nod.

“I’ll think on it.” He nearly whispers.

Her smile is blinding, wide, gorgeous. “I’ll schedule the meeting for tomorrow after lunch.”

____

“It’s like someone grabbed you by the balls and tied you to a horsecart, mate, you’ve been so down. You need to have a break and get a fucking drink.”

Arthur stares daggers at Gwaine, who is resting his chin in his hand, elbow on the table. Gwaine only shrugs at him, with a you know I’m right face. When Gwen had come yesterday with her tenderness, her understanding, something in him agreed with her. He is rethinking it all now.

“Thank you, Gwaine, for that wonderful illustration,” he grumbles, desperately trying not to roll his eyes into next week.

“I’m just saying, you need a break, and I know you’re too pig-headed to agree to it outright, but you do. The kingdom has been quiet lately, there’s no reason you can’t go find somewhere to fuck it out of your system.”

“We are at a council meeting, Gwaine, not that you care.”

This elicits a few smirks from the present members- Gwaine included. Gwen flushes.

Gwen had gathered his most trusted advisors and knights, Gaius included, to sit at the round table with him. He’s not sure what she had told all of them, but everyone has been looking at him like he’d lost someone, or like someone had died. He hates it immediately. The meeting had been awkward so far, to say the least, everyone too afraid of insulting Arthur to speak the truth of the matter, including Arthur himself.

Everyone except Gwaine, apparently.

Leon speaks up. “Sire, please let us lead in your stead. I do not mean to speak out of turn, but I do feel as if you’ve taught us well enough to stand on our own, and Gwen is a capable queen.”

Percival, Elyan, and Gwaine all nod seriously in agreement, looking between Leon, Gwen, and Arthur.

He is torn between knowing that they’re right and refusing to stand down. He doesn’t get the chance to decide for himself though, as Gwen pipes up next to him.

“Leon, you’ll be in charge of training the knights and running patrols. Elyan will deal with matters of the court with me, and I’m sure we can always find Gwaine in the tavern, not that he’d be of any help anyways.”

The humor is the knife that cuts the tension, and without it, the room erupts into chaos. As the discussion escalates, Arthur realizes he really doesn’t have much room to throw a stone into the conversation, everyone jumping over each other to iron out the plans of how to run the kingdom in his absence.

It is truly the first time he has seen such precise and confident strategies worked out by those he loves and trusts most all in one place, and as indignant as he feels at being treated as a child, an invisible child at that, a swell of pride festers in his heart. It isn’t that he doesn’t trust them, really. If anything, he knows wholeheartedly that they all would be fine without him, would make noble and gracious judgement in his stead.

It was more that a break - to do anything, quite literally anything he wants, for the first time since he was an innocent child unaware of what place he held in society - terrifies him. To have the chance to simply be Arthur, whoever that is, to go unencumbered into the world and flesh out his innermost fantasies as no one important to society...it is daunting, to say the least.

Merlin had been the first person to see him, look through his thick exterior and arrogant attitude and treat him as a person, and it had made him feel like one, for the first time in his life. Before he knew it, he was making decisions based on what Merlin would think, what a servant would think, and soon enough he was caught in a horrible tug-of-war between pleasing his father and pleasing Merlin. Usually Merlin tugged harder.

It had been the first time for him to want. Truly yearn for something besides material wealth and being a good prince. He wanted friendship and family and he wanted to earn it, and Merlin helped him do it. Merlin brought out the starving child quivering in the bleak corners of his chest that wanted to run, laugh, cry, go live on a nice little farm with Merlin and raise a family. Try hobbies. Learn a trade. Make community.

But he did love being a prince, he did. And Merlin believed in him, and that had been enough for him to continue on.

But without Merlin’s presence, and with a chance of freedom being handed to him, alone and yearning, he is terrified. What if he doesn’t want to come back? Or, without Merlin by his side to show him his own humanity, what if he doesn't even know who to be?
___

Later, as the sun dips behind the rolling hills and the chill of the stone floor seeps into the bottoms of Athur’s feet, he pulls out all of his clothing and unceremoniously dumps it all on the bed, to be sorted into essential and non-essential travel items. The notion of his final destination is nagging in the back of his mind, and he tries not to think about why he’s picking the shirts he is, convincing himself that his actions are entirely arbitrary. He is planning to take only a backpack and a saddle bag’s worth of things, and nothing expensive or shiny, else he will be spotted on the path. Just a few pieces then, one pair of pants, well maybe two, and his red shirt, white shirt… and the blue one, that was always a favorite. Not of his, really, but of--

He’s shaken out of his musing to the sound of his door creaking open, revealing Gwen’s gentle face.

“Hello love,” she starts, pressing the door shut behind her and taking small steps towards him. “I see you’re getting ready.” A pause fills the air as they both look at the two piles on the bed, one clearly meant for travel. “You’re really going, aren’t you? I would’ve expected more of a fight, to be honest.” Something in her tone seems hesitant, like she’s afraid to ask.

He closes the gap between them, grabbing a shoulder to swing himself behind her, enclosing her small frame in his arms, her heartbeat fluttering faintly against his chest through the back of her ribcage. “Yes,” he says, “I think… I think for once, you all might have a point. I haven’t...” he chews on the inside of his mouth, thinking of the right words for it, “I haven’t really been right, in the past year or so, since… well,” she reaches up to squeeze his arm, unspoken understanding coursing through the touch, “I won’t be gone long, I promise, maybe a month or two, and if anything happens, I will be back at once, of course, and Gaius gave me plenty of, “ he gestures to the pile of bottled liquids sitting on the table, “to make sure there would be no more incidents. I don’t want to scare you, or anyone, like that again.” He takes a more tender tone. “But I have full faith in you, Gwen. You are the best of all of us and no one could ask for a Queen more fit for duty than you.”

She turns in his arms and rests her head on his shoulder, staring up at him. “We all want what’s best for you, Arthur. We want to see you happy again.”

His lips purse just for a moment, and guilt spreads through his chest at being so inadequate as to cause others stress. “I know, and I’m sorry that I haven’t been there for you lately, all of you. I should be better.”

They stand like that for a moment, in the soft spring air, embracing for the sake of holding each other together, breathing in rhythm. Gwen breaks the silence, speaking so softly that Arthur slows his breathing to listen.

“You’re going to see him, aren’t you?”

Everything in Arthur hushes, extinguished, his heart clenching painfully. He knew that she would guess, his dear Gwen who could read him so easily, where his feet would lead him, even before he had officially decided for himself. Defensiveness cloaks over him, as if he could even argue that he didn’t know where he was going. He has been trying for too long to hide his longing, and apparently, he is doing a shit job of it.

“Yes, I think I will.” He concedes.

And he can hear her heart splintering in real time, cracking gracefully, falling to the ground almost tranquilly, like when he was a kid watching leaves twirl and float down from the heavens. His love can’t keep her pieces intact, for his love has never belonged to only her, and it’s this knowledge that they share, but never acknowledged, that is breaking them both. If, maybe, he could pour all of his heart into her cup, then neither of them would be thirsty for something more, but the well inside him only allows for so much giving, and he is drowning, gasping, treading in his love for someone else.

“I’m sorry, Gwen, I need to.. To make things right between us.” He chews on the inside of his mouth, and adds: “I miss him.”

She takes a hand away from his side and slides it up to cup the side of his face, fingers nestling into the hair at the back of his neck, a gesture she knows he finds comforting. “Oh, Arthur, you don’t need to explain. I’ve always known that he means more to you than you’ve ever said. You’ve seemed lost since he left. It hurts, it does, but I would do, would give anything to see you happy again, even if that’s not with me anymore.” Her voice cracks and Arthur regrets this whole situation entirely. “ I’ll tell the others where you’re going.” Her sincerity is piercing, and it makes him ache to know that she means all of it.

“I’m sorry, Gwen.” He whispers into her hairline, pulling her close into the crook of his neck. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Arthur, I always have.”
___

He leaves in the breaking of dawn, just as the sun begins to waken, but before the rest of the world stirs. The sound of his horse’s hooves on the cobblestone walkways reverberates loudly, echoing back to him the finality of his decision. No one sees him off, as he requested, otherwise it would have been too hard to go, too much guilt to bear, too many eyes watching his weaknesses.

A big sigh escapes his chest, and a yawn follows. He had only willingly been to Ealdor once (the other time was a series of tragedies, losses compounding on themselves until they were almost too much to bear, the betrayal of Agravaine still a fresh wound), but the path was ingrained in his mind, walked countless times in his dreams, so he doesn’t bring out his map. He thinks of the issues of his people, instead, to keep his mind off of the fact that Merlin doesn’t know he’s on his way, that Merlin had never once contacted him in the two years he had been gone, that Merlin left him like he was nothing-

Stop, he thinks. Just don’t.

Two families south of the castle were having a hard time with their crops, with all the children grown and gone, and requested help. Merlin left him, abandoned him, cut him away- stop. Another family in the lower town had reported someone stealing their animals, which was a definite concern. Didn’t Merlin know that he needed him, desperately, that Merlin was the man who had shaped him like clay to be who he is today-

Arthur shakes his head, as if the physical action would shake away his intrusive thoughts like water from his hair. This startles his horse, who jumped forwards ever so slightly, rattling all of Arthur’s things. He needs to focus. He could deal with all of that when he arrived, when Merlin was in the flesh before him to answer all of his questions.

The castle walls gave way to the lower towns, which gave way to the gate, to the outdoors. The trip would take a few days at most, if Arthur took his time, which, with all that sunk his heart down an extra few pounds, he would.

It wasn’t until he reached the cover of the dense forest that he began to cry, really cry.

All the sorrow of having the man he loved walk away from him too late, and doing the same to Gwen, of needing to abandon his position as king to regain some semblance of happiness, worrying his friends and loved ones so much, causing them extra work, of feeling like he’d lost his dignity somewhere along the way - it all hit him at once, a deadly blow to the chest.

Arthur tries to look ahead, but finds his path blurred incomprehensibly by his own tears. He’s heaving, ugly, heavy sobs that rack through him like he was paper-thin. His chest caves into itself, until the contents of his stomach threaten to spill, but he can’t help it, can’t do anything but sit there and let it course through him. He feels so hollow. In a moment of brief self-awareness, he realizes he hasn’t cried this hard since the night he had found Merlin’s goodbye letter placed carefully on the table in his room, and after a good and thorough search had elucidated that Merlin was truly gone, Arthur had crumpled by the fire, staring numbly afterwards until his eyes were glossy from the smoke.

Almost subconsciously, he feels for his heart, where the letter is neatly folded into a pocket inside his jacket. It’s heavily creased, unfolded and folded countless times, to the point where the ink in the folds is nearly gone. Arthur could recite it from memory, but carrying around a piece of Merlin has always brought some sort of comfort.

So he sits, shifting from side to side in time with his horse, holding his chest and letting his emotions run all over his face.

___

Arthur takes a deep breath in, letting his mind wander deep into the recesses of his memory, where a murky flashback comes into focus. The details are lost now, slipped between his fingers with the rest of time, but the memory holds a feeling, an embrace, a warmth that rounds the edges of what remains.

The people of Ealdor had fought so bravely, more than Arthur had ever expected of them, and maybe that’s what causes the memory to cling so dearly to his heart. The courage of mere peasants willing to fight for their village, to protect what little they had, to protect what they loved. They weren’t his people, but he had been proud to lead them, and it had broken open the tentative unfurling of hope in his chest that maybe, someday, he would be a good man. A good king.

The road, or path, really, looks roughly the same, glimmering in dusty sunlight, birds alertly flitting from branch to branch, the breeze sending a stray leaf floating through the air. His horse drags through the dirt, kicking up a dust storm behind him, leaving an obvious trail if anyone were to come looking for him. Gazing ahead at the expanse of forest ahead of him, he lets his mind wander lazily. What would things have been like, for him, growing up in a forest like this? Playing tag on the shore of crystal streambeds and finding rest in the clearings of dewey moss? Who would he have grown to be, without so much weight on his shoulders?

He could almost breathe in his last trip here, his only trip here, when he had Merlin by his side.

He inhales sharply.

A bird lands on a branch near him, the undulating limb reaching out to him, reminding him to stay centered.

Not yet.

He keeps his eyes on its feathers, a deep blue, nestled closely into itself, and slides his gaze upwards to make eye contact with the creature, who’s stare seems to pierce directly into him.

Can’t think about that yet.

For that would be admitting to himself that after all this time, after two years of Merlin’s painful absence, he came here, out of all places in or out of his kingdom. Because Merlin hadn’t been in Camelot when Arthur needed him most.

As they make slow progress forwards, the bird follows, darting from limb to limb to study the odd pair, horse and its lone rider, out in the nearly untouched wilderness.

Not yet. He takes a deep and slow inhale through his nose.

First he would tackle the winding forest passage, reach Ealdor, tie up his horse, and find the tavern, to down a drink to ease the bubbling anxiety forming in his gut. There had been a lot of that recently, though Arthur was loath to admit it. I am king, his mind cuts at him, sharp as a whip, and kings can’t afford to be weak, can’t afford to crack and let enemies slip through.

Especially out here, where I’m my worst enemy.

___

Time is endless, taking him on a path with no beginning and no end, just continuous and meandering. He had forgotten how silent the woods could be, and yet how loud and penetrating that same silence was, how the creaking and swaying of the wood above him is almost startling, traveling alone for the first time in years. His own breath seems like a cacophony of chimes, a symphony in itself, his heartbeat the drum reverberating at the center of everything. Even after two long years in its absence, Arthur yearns for the mindless chatter that he and Merlin would share. Anything to break the hush that hovers in the stillness.

The bird is still there.

To hear Merlin’s voice again, that stupidly annoying and yet comforting voice, was going to rip Arthur apart. The uncertainty of how that voice would be used against him almost brought on too much fear to continue forwards. Would it be worse to hear rage, hate, resentment or gentleness, eagerness, that quiet and endearing tone Merlin used just for him? What had festered inside of Merlin in these past two years?

A chirp sounds alarmingly close to his ear and he whips his head around, jumping out of his own thoughts.

Arthur was closer to Ealdor than he had thought, he might even reach the town before nightfall. Some part of him wanted to slow down, become like sludge, a permanent fixture in this outskirt, so that he couldn’t take a step over the border into his own volatile emotions.

But the bird, unaware of all of this, beckons him forward.

A deep sigh escapes his lungs, and he makes eye contact with the small creature one last time before it flies away, off to find something more important. The branch sways, solitary, seeking equilibrium in the face of such a loss, seeking to be motionless once more. Jealousy seizes him then, at the simplicity of the life of a bird, how freeing that must be. To be able to run away, leap into the sky and go, leave this madness behind. How easy it must’ve been for Merlin, to flee from him so effortlessly, and leave such destruction in Arthur’s heart. Him and the branch have that in common then.

The sun dips behind the horizon, and the shadows’ stark figures dissipate into a cloud of darkness, creeping up behind him, urging him onwards.

Chapter Text

Just as the darkness is reaching a pervasive state and the forest ambiance has calmed to a low murmur, Arthur spots a small hut, lightly dimly from the inside, a yellow glow spilling out from underneath what Arthur assumes is the front door. Swinging his leg over the saddle, his feet hit the ground with a heavy thud, and he winces in pain as his legs readjust to the concept of walking. Wasting no time, Arthur gives his mare a long rope and treads forward to the house. He tries knocking softly, not wanting to wake anyone inside if they were asleep, but the door cracks open just a moment later. Arthur is greeted by a middle-aged man, as average as they come, with tousled hair and a scruffy beard, his loose and rather threadbare shirt hinting at strong muscles from long days spent in the field.

The man doesn’t say anything, giving Arthur a dubious once over, which is a fair response to a stranger showing up at your door at the brink of night. Arthur takes the initiative to speak.

“Hello, I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of the tavern, or an inn?” He is suddenly aware of how posh he sounds, out here by himself, in unassuming clothing. The man takes note of this as well, as his eyebrows leap up for a moment, before he schools his face back into wary pleasantry.

“It’ll be over that way.” He takes a hand off of the doorframe and points vaguely to a direction off to Arthur’s right. “There’s a lantern hanging outside, can’t miss it, ask for Croften, she’ll help you in.”

Arthur gives him a good-natured smile. “Thank you, sir.” The man gives him an uncertain nod, and shuts the door. Arthur hears the distinct click of a lock being slide shut, not that Arthur can blame him.

The man is good for his word, however; Arthur quickly finds the inn, it does have a light hanging out the door, casting shadows upon a very worn down sign that reads Pitch’s Tavern. He knocks, unsure if he were to enter himself or wait.

Like earlier, the door screeches open to reveal an equally plain woman as the man before, who doesn’t seem half as wary, rather vaguely annoyed at being disturbed so late. Arthur imagines they don’t get many late night strangers.

“Hello,” Arthur starts, trying to tone down his accent, “I’m looking for a room for the night, maybe more, but… at least for tonight, and a stable, for my mare, I was told to look for a Croften.” He gestures to the reins in his hands. Her eyes follow his hands up to his horse, and then back to his face, and Arthur feels as though she’s peering into his soul, her crow’s feet scrunching up into neat lines as she judges his appearance. He knows he doesn’t look great, days spent riding, weeping, sleeping, and then repeating will do that to a man, but he doesn’t look unreasonably disgusting either.

She takes in a quick breath through her nose and pinches her lips together, nodding curtly.

“You were told right, come with me then.”

__

After eating a hunk of bread that she had left over, and downing some ale, Arthur turns in for the night and thanks the innkeeper and barmaid, Croften, for taking him in so late, always attempting to remember his manners for Merlin’s sake. He practically faints into bed, kicking off his boots in a very un-kingly manner and pulls the thin sheet over his shoulders, not even minding the fact that he didn’t get a bath.

Tomorrow, for better or worse, he sees Merlin. But for now, he wants to sleep.

_______

Merlin shoves him, hard.

The push sends Arthur reeling, stumbling backwards into the wood wall of Merlin’s bedroom, and he hits his head against the beams. His vision blurs, providing momentary respite from the horrifying scene in front of him.

“I don’t want you here!” Merlin yells, spit gathering on the edge of his lips, throwing the full force of his body into the statement, flinging his hands up into the air. His face is scrunched up in anger, bright red, and tears are threatening to spill over the rim of his eyes, gathering on his eyelashes. The room is thick with anger, its dense sludge pouring off of Merlin’s shaking frame like a wet rag being twisted too far.

Arthur blinks back the pain radiating from the back of his head, and watches in shock and confusion, can’t help but stare at the tears pooling in Merlin’s eyes, knowing that if they were to spill over, he’d let himself drown in them. He scrambles to find something to say, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish; he can feel his vocal cords straining, sore, like he’d been screaming himself raw, but still, no sound comes out. Sheer panic grips him. No no no, he thinks, not like this.

But Merlin can’t feel what Arthur is feeling, can’t know the desperation clawing its way through his limbs, and as Merlin steps forward into Arthur’s space, grabbing him by the jaw and pressing him flat against the wall, Arthurs tries to plead with his eyes, begging Merlin to listen, I don’t know what I did, please don’t leave me again. Arthur’s sight gives out again, his face involuntarily wincing as Merlin applies pressure just in the right spot so that the tender spot on the back of his skull thuds against the wall again.

“I left for a reason,” Merlin lowers his voice and his grip, letting his hand slide around Arthur’s neck, “and that reason was you.” And Arthur goes limp, not even resisting the chokehold, knowing that it was probably best Merlin strangled any apology Arthur would’ve faltered with anyways. Merlin’s grip tightens, and a dark haze creeps up on the edges of Arthur’s vision. I’m so sorry, he mouths, whatever I did, please, I-

Arthur’s heart pounds in his chest and his eyes fly open. Panic is high in his throat and he sits up abruptly, breathing like he had just run sprints uphill, and he feels small droplets of sweat run down his chest, pooling at the base of his stomach. There’s a small noise in the back of his throat with every breath and when he raises a hand to run through his hair, he finds that his cheeks are damp.

Arthur’s heart pounds throughout his whole body, and his eyes fly open. Panic is high in his throat and he sits up abruptly, breathing like he had just run sprints uphill. He can feel small droplets of sweat run down his chest, pooling at the base of his stomach, and there’s a tiny noise in the back of his throat with every breath. When he raises a hand to rub at his eyes, it comes back damp.

Just a dream then.

As he regains control over his lungs, his training as a knight kicks in, and he takes stock of his environment... Light is just beginning to stream through the window, and somewhere far away, a bird is crying out. No noise comes from the rooms below, so Arthur guesses that it’s still too early for breakfast, not that he’s sure he could eat anyways. All of his things are still sitting in a mess in the chair by the washbasin. Usually, once someone had dragged him out of bed, he quite liked the hushed haze of dawn, how still and untouchable everything seemed, but today the sights and sounds, or lack thereof, only instill anxiety in the base of his gut.

Feeling childish, he extends his knees back out and digs the heels of his palm into his eye sockets.

He sits there for a second like that, breathing in the silence. His hands are trembling, he notices.

Just a dream.

But what if it wasn’t? What if, after having come all this way, Merlin doesn’t want him anymore? What if he’s cut down, made a fool of, and has to return to Camelot knowing that he’ll never be able to put himself back together? Two years is a long time to spend missing someone, blowing small pieces of your love into the wind, hoping it would drift in the right direction.

Arthur slumps against the wall further, his chin nearly pressed into his chest, and lets his thoughts run freely.

After a decade of having Merlin by his side, it only took Arthur about a year to realize what a fool he had been for not loving him sooner. He would pick out Merlin’s favorite shirt, only to realize that Merlin wasn’t around to see him in it, or would turn to make an inside joke with his best friend and be met with thin air. Absence makes the great grow fonder, Gwen would tell him at dinner, hoping to brush off his growing forlorn and justify this yearning Arthur had begun to display. Probably too fond, Arthur would think, chest caving in on itself, and would likely take a sip of wine and change the subject so that neither of them had to jump headfirst into the chasm cracking open day by day between them. It had been a gradual spiral from there, Arthur finding his love in all the holes that Merlin had left behind. It fucking hurt.

And today, he would see him again.

The sun shines through his window in vibrant rays now, creating a stark contrast in the corners of the room where the light doesn’t shine, and Arthur can see the granules of dust floating through the air. He shifts himself back down to lay on his side, and grabs around until he feels the blanket resting on the floor, pulling it up to cover his face from the impending day. Maybe a few more hours of sleep would do him some good, if not put off the inevitable.

___

When Arthur wakes, it takes a moment to orient himself, mind groggy with the little and fitful rest he had gotten. He sucks in a deep breath as a yawn overcomes him, and it takes all the energy in the world to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed, eyes scanning the room to find where he had put his day clothes the night before. He gets changed and, after fastening his sword to his hips, hefts his bag onto his shoulder, double and triple checking that he packed everything, stalling for time.

He stands there looking at the empty room, and then down at himself. Maybe this isn’t the right shirt to wear, Merlin did always like the other one best, but as he reaches for the drawstring of his bag, his hand stills, and he realizes a second too late that he’s acting like the vain princesses he always accused Merlin of being. It’s Merlin, for the gods sake. He probably couldn’t even tell a fine shirt from a potato sack if a seamstress hit him over the head with one. Still, nerves make his stomach clench unpleasantly.

As he stumbles down the rickety and narrow steps of the tavern he found himself staying at last night when he had finally arrived in Ealdor, his first and foremost hope is that they have breakfast, after which he will be equipped to deal with everything else. He feels exhausted from the physical and emotional turmoil of the last few days, and vows to spend a little time refreshing himself before going to Merlin’s house, both for his sake and Merlin’s sake. No need to cause worry on the first day. As thoughts of freshly cooked eggs and a ripe apple drift through his mind, a familiar voice echoes from below and he halts his steps so harshly he almost trips on the air in front of him. Think of the devil.

“And that is for your little one. Remember, half a vial before bed time and no more, lest you want to murder her.” Merlin laughs a little too loud, too forced, and quickly clears his throat. “Not that I’m saying you’d want to murder your daughter. That was a joke.” A beat goes by in silence, and Arthur can practically see Merlin shifting from foot to foot with that damn sheepish smile on his face. “Well, I’ll be off then.”

The sound of the tavern door slamming shut jolts Arthur out of his skin, but he continues to stand there, in shock. Merlin had been right there, just down a few more steps and around the corner, living and breathing and still making god-awful jokes and fuck.

He can feel his heart hammering in his chest, all the way down to the tips of his fingers, where he is clenching and unclenching his fists in a steady beat. For about the hundredth time that day, he takes a few deep breaths and lets them out through his nose, and by the last one his muscles relax enough to let him finish walking down the stairs and into the main area, where Croften, the innkeeper, is bouncing a child on her hip and wiping down the dining table simultaneously. She looks up and squints menacingly at him, and he tries for a smile, thinking they had been through this last night. It seems to work, and she smiles back, showing a little bit of her upper teeth.

“Morning, or just about. I thought you might sleep through the rest of the day.” She eyes him briefly before shifting her focus back to the table, scrubbing at an invisible stain.

It’s just then that Arthur notices the sun barreling in through the windows and under the door, and with slight alarm, he asks:

“What time is it?”

“Early afternoon, I’d say. Dinner will be ready in a few hours, so I’d suggest getting your business done before then. I take it you’ll be needing the room again?” It’s said with such nonchalance that Arthur almost thinks she’s joking, and he can feel his eyebrows raising dramatically on his forehead. Early afternoon? He schools his face back into a polite smile, and shifts in place, his mind going everywhere at once. Maybe he should take the room, just in case things with Merlin don’t work. But he did come here to see him, and he was so sick of running away from his emotions. No, he should stay true to his intentions and drop in on Merlin.

“Yes, I’ll take the room again. I’ll just-” he turns on his heel and beelines for the stairs, inwardly cursing himself. He pauses in place and turns again, looking at her child. “The man here before, who was he?”

She follows his gaze to her little girl, who glances between them, oblivious. “Merlin?”

Arthur pretends like he doesn’t understand, cocking his head to the side. “The man with the medicine, he was here just before me.”

She nods affirmatively, bouncing the little girl over to the bar, setting her up on the counter. “That’s our Merlin, he’s the physician, came back not too long ago from some big castle, or so he says. Kind of an odd character, if you ask me.” She catches herself, adding: “but a talented physician if I ever saw one, helped my little Fleta out so much.” She reaches up to brush a strand of her daughters hair behind her ear, and turns back to Arthur. “Why do you ask?”

Arthur blanches. “My stomach, you see, I think I might’ve caught something on the way here.” He raises a hand to rub at his stomach and grimaces, hoping to make the lie convincing.

She bites. “Oh, dear, that would explain you sleeping through the day. I’ll go fetch him real quick-”

“No!” Arthur practically shouts, and she clamps her mouth shut in shock. “No,” he tries again, “I brought some medicine myself, just in case. I thought I’d ask just to make sure he was the town physician, if I needed him.” He presses his lips together and nods, mostly to himself.

“Right then.” She says, as if she’s not sure she believes him. “Right, well if you need anything, do let me know. I’ll bring some soup up, you go lay down and rest, I won’t be running any sort of hospital here, so let’s get you on your feet.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” he says, already turning back up to his room. As soon as he is out of sight, he makes a face at himself, raising his eyebrows high on his forehead and opening his eyes wide, huffing air out through his nose. That could’ve gone better. The room, as expected, looks exactly the same as before: one dingy bed tucked away in the corner, a small window high on the wall that didn’t close properly, and a meager washbasin with a pitcher of cold water opposite it. “Home, sweet home,” Arthur whispers to himself, dropping his bag onto his bed, again. The contents clink in disgruntlement, and it reminds him that he does, in fact, have medicine. Gaius had said something about the vials calming his nerves, helping him sleep, or something along those lines. To be fair, he had been suffering from a concussion at the time, which was maybe not the right time to be absorbing medical instructions.

He sighs. This is not how he had imagined the day going, which was not the end of the world; he had improvised countless battle plans and rolled with the punches in his time as King, but the unwelcome anxiety nags in the back of his mind that things are wrong now, you might as well go home.

He had been so used to him and Merlin’s dynamic, their friendship, had known where he stood. They cared about each other, in their own funny way, and Arthur hadn’t been able to tease anyone the same way after Merlin left. Arthur isn’t even sure if Merlin will be happy to see him, and Arthur can’t do anything about that. He would slay an army, face a beast, bring his father back to life again just to know that Merlin would be happy to see him. If he isn’t… Arthur doesn’t know what he’ll do. His life had already stopped once in the wake of Merlin picking up and leaving, but Arthur had been met with chaos at the time, too many people asking where Merlin had gone and why, and he had felt so useless not being able to answer any of them. This time, it would be him, alone, bearing the heavy weight of crushed hopes and it would be him, alone, to piece his crumbling heart back together. He feels so helpless in the not knowing - not knowing what he should do with himself, his kingdom, his feelings, not knowing how to face Merlin again and not knowing how Merlin will respond. Helpless. He feels like a child again, heart in his throat with the gaze of the council on him, asking him, the prince, for answers that he wouldn’t even know how to begin answering.

Frustration burns through him, suddenly, like a fire consuming a dry forest. He grabs for his sword, mostly out of habit, and wishes that he could use it against someone, something, hit it until his muscles weren’t so flighty and tense. He decides then that he will see Merlin tomorrow, but for now, he is going to let some steam out in the woods, and maybe get a lay of the village, if he could manage to avoid Merlin. He rushes down the steps, and into the swinging door behind the bar, where he assumes the kitchen is. He assumes correctly.

Croften is there, cutting up an onion and scraping it into a pot that hangs above the fire. Through his irritation, a pang of guilt needles into his chest. He clears his throat loudly, catching her attention and making her jump a little bit.

“I’m going out for a bit, I think some fresh air might help me feel better.” He glances down at the soup. “I’ll eat it when I come back.” And he backs out of the doorway before she even has a chance to respond, heading for the door, the outside.

“Just wait a minute there, boy,” Croften is hot on his heels, a look of stern displeasure meeting him as he whirls around at the sound of her voice. “I said it before, I’m not running a hospital, and if you’re not feeling well, you’d do best to lay down until you feel better. If you go dying on me, I won’t bury you. Up,” she points to the stairway, “to your room.”

“You can’t talk to me like that,” he starts, indignant. He remembers his place and can hear Merlin in his head calling him a prat, an asshole for speaking with such contempt, and the misplaced righteousness quickly turns to shame. He is the King, after all - but no one here knows. Yet. He can’t say how many people will remember him from years before, and he’s not entirely sure he wants them to. It would be so nice to truly experience feeling like no one for once, just a commonplace man meeting up with an old friend. She cocks her head at him, looking unimpressed.

“Who are you, the King?” She jests, and Arthur’s heart sputters for a moment, his pride rearing its ugly head, but is cast down by his nerves, fearing that his stupid comment would give him away. He almost says Yes, actually, I am, but he gets the feeling she might boss him around anyways. No wonder Merlin was so sassy, after having grown up in a place like this.

“Now, unless you want me to go get that physician,” Arthur's eyes widen imperceptibly, “ you were so keen about earlier, get your pretty face to bed.”

Arthur’s anger swiftly turns to bewilderment. Was he being sent to his room? She blinks hard at him and points again, with more feeling. His feet betray him, and almost as though he is experiencing this out of body, he catches himself traipsing up the stairs, again, completely against his will. She follows him up, and before closing the door behind him, says:

“Lay down. I’ll bring the soup up in a minute.” And the door thuds shut.

He spins in place, mouth open, ready to march back down and protest again, but instead shuts his mouth and pulls his chin backwards, eyebrows furrowing into one straight line, hands on his hips. He had been sent to his room. By a barmaid. He pivots back towards the bed, feeling so completely out of place that he isn’t quite sure what to do.

If Merlin could see him now, he’d be laughing his ass off. The Great King, brought down by a homely old barmaid. Not that Merlin hadn’t done this to him countless times as well. For someone who is supposed to be King, he gets bossed around more than cares to admit.

Arthur takes his sword off and sets it down next to his backpack at the foot of the bed, his previous restless energy still thrumming in the background of his consciousness, but pushed to the side by the sheer absurdity of his predicament: either stay here and pretend to be sick to avoid Merlin, or confess his lies to the woman he’s become a bit afraid of and go to find Merlin out before he’s ready. Currently, the first option sounds like the winner.

There’s a knock at the door, and Croften enters, holding a bowl and a spoon. “Here,” she said, holding them out to him with straight arms, a strict expression on her features. He gingerly grabs them from her and rests it all awkwardly in his lap. “Eat this and drink the broth, it’ll do your stomach good. You said you brought your own medicine?”

Gaius’ vials.

Arthur blanches, unwillingly to be caught in his lie. “They’re in my bag, yes.”

Her expression doesn’t change. “Well out with them, then. I want to see you take them with my own eyes, so I can rest easy.”

He places the soup on the floor in front of him, slipping the spoon into the liquid. The contents of his bag are few, so finding the vials doesn’t take long, and after a moment he is successfully holding the four small glass containers the old man had given him; they’re long and thin green bottles, holding a dark and murky liquid. Was it one whole thing at a time? That’s how they usually are, right? He pops the cork out and takes a sniff. A little sweet, mostly very earthy.

Arthur glances up at her, eyes meeting for just long enough for him to see the steely resolve behind her stare. She really isn’t going anywhere. Without any pause, he downs the whole thing, and pulls a face. He had tasted better. In terms of food and drink, it was bad. In terms of god-awful medicines he had been forced to take as a child...it was also bad. The water jug beckoned him from across the room, and he padded over to take a handful of water to his mouth.

“Good man. Now eat up, I’ll be back to check on you in the morning.” She looks him up and down like a mother with her child, and Arthur finds he can barely be annoyed at the setback. Maybe pulling a fake sick day had been the universe telling him to wait. Or maybe, Arthur thinks, I’m simply not ready to do this.

He picks the bowl up off the floor, beginning to eat as she leaves the room. It’s not bad, full of potatoes and carrots, definitely homemade. After eating only foraged vegetables and rabbit-like animals for a few days, soup was heavenly. His stomach already missed the kitchens of Camelot.

The only sounds in the room are the few voices drifting up from below, and his own slurping. He tries to think of anything but his own failure to keep with his resolve to see Merlin today. Sleeping until noon?

His legs are still fidgeting on their own accord, and there is a knot at the base of his gut, which makes him think that the medicine didn’t work, though Gaius’ instructions are murky and unclear in his memory. If he is going to do this convincingly though, might as well actually take the evening to rest, and Arthur supposes taking some sleep medication really wouldn't do him any harm. Was it only one bottle? Two? Maybe I shouldn’t have eaten right after, that probably cancelled it out.

With the bowl and spoon resting on the floor at the foot of his bed, he reaches for another vial, uncorking and swallowing it down in one go, bracing himself for the bad taste. He lays down, crossing his feat and resting his hands on his stomach, interlocking his fingers. There isn’t much to do besides wait, at this point. Maybe she really would kill him if he didn’t stay here. It was...refreshing, in the weirdest sort of way, to have someone like her worry over him; maybe his own mother would’ve done something similar, had he truly been sick.

He wonders, sometimes, what his childhood would have been like with a mother to look after him. When he visited Ealdor last time, something in his chest had cracked open at the sight of Hunith and Merlin, how deeply and plainly she adored him. It was a wound he had never taken the time to heal, despite it being with him his entire life, and it wasn’t like he had anyone to talk about it, certainly not his father. What kind of man would he be now, if he had experienced the caress of a mother’s hand during his nightmares, if he had received council from a woman who loved him unconditionally, if he had been allowed vulnerability in the face of hardening himself into a worthy prince? How strange it is, he thinks, to yearn for someone you’ve never met. He hopes that she is proud of him, in the afterlife, that she is rooting for him.

Sleepiness creeps up on him slowly, fading the edges of his senses. He should probably take the bowl back down to Croften before he sleeps though, just to be extra polite, like Merlin would want from him. When he stands, the world sways a bit, and he takes a few stumbling steps to the door, resting his forehead on the doorframe for a second, to take a breath.

By the end of his time here, he would be best friends with these damn stairs.

She looks surprised to see him, looking down at the dishes and back up to his face.

“Don’t worry, I’m going back up to sleep for a bit.” He says, preemptively.

She nods. “Right, get on with it then.”

The doorframe was a lot closer than he thought, and when he spins to leave, he clips himself on the forehead, wincing in pain as he brings a hand up to rub at the sore spot. Thankfully, she doesn’t comment, and he silently excuses himself. Halfway up the damn staircase, a sharp pang stabs him in the gut, and he lurches forward to grab the step in front of him, all the while fatigue washing over him in waves.

Well, that’s concerning, he thinks.

He slips into bed without second thought, nearly tripping over his backpack and sword on the way in, vision blurring as his eyelids falter shut. They won’t stay open, and Arthur sinks into unconsciousness.

___

Cold water slaps his face, dowsing him in a musty pond smell.

Sleep clutches at him, begging him to stay asleep, to drift back into the blank nothingness. Trying to wake up feels like slugging through thick syrup, but there’s an urgency somewhere in the back of his head that tells him he should really focus on opening his eyes.

Through the haze, he is vaguely aware of two voices, shouting as if annoyed.

Are they arguing? Over what?

His body feels like dead weight, and it takes a herculean effort to lift his hands to wipe the water out of his eyes, and the light is too bright; he has to blink a few times before the figure in front of him has a coherent face.

“If you don’t accidentally kill yourself with a sleeping draught again, I swear to god, I will, you absolute prat.”

Chapter Text

Oddly enough, the first thing that Arthur notices when he comes to is that Merlin has a beard. He didn’t even know what Merlin could grow a beard.

“Merlin?” Arthur’s voice sounds far away and crackly from sleep.

The man in question is leaning over him, about a foot above where Arthur is laying. It feels oddly intimate, given that they haven’t spoken in two years. Arthur is suddenly very conscious of the fact that he is laying down, unwashed, probably smelling of travel, and staring like a loon up into Merlin’s face. He wills his heart to calm down.

Merlin checks his pulse, two fingers on his neck, and frowns, confusion flickering on his face, and then asks:

“What did you take?”

No hellos, then. Something in Arthur sinks.

“Uh - Gaius, he, well, something to help me sleep, I’m not entirely sure.” He goes to sit up and Merlin is away from him, backing away too quickly for Arthurs liking.

“You didn’t know what you were taking?”

Arthur yawns despite himself and shakes his head no, eyes never leaving Merlin’s standing form. He was right there. Looking so much better than he ever had at Camelot, all muscles and a beard, with long hair tied back in a bun, and an authoritative stance. This Merlin looked confident, sure of himself, fit to lead people, bring them comfort, heal them back to health. If Arthur wasn’t so damn tired he might even admit that Merlin looked good.

It was almost as if they had traded roles.

Merlin rolls his eyes, pressing his lips together and Arthur almost cries on the spot, so happy to see such a familiar expression of exasperation.

They’re silent for a moment, and Arthur finds himself at a loss of what to say, despite having spent the last week meticulously planning it out in his head. Sorry to drop in on you like this, I know I’m being a clotpole again, but please take me in, I need you.

He says nothing.

“Well,” Merlin says, “Hilda won’t let you stay given that she doesn’t want someone dying in her inn, and I’m assuming unless you’d like to sleep outside, that you want a place to stay. Get your things then, I’m sure we have an extra bedroll somewhere,” and grabs his medicine bag and heads out the door, leaving Arthur by himself.

Hilda? Ah, the barmaid, Croften.

And next:

Merlin is letting me stay.

____

Things are tense, at the very best.

Arthur goes to untie his horse, which is thankfully still there and miraculously fed, and follows Merlin on the short path to his house. Merlin doesn’t say anything the entire time, and Arthur feels like he’s walking to his grave, anticipation and dread impeding his steps. Nerves swim from the base of his stomach up to the back of his throat and he is struck with the feeling that maybe he shouldn’t have come at all, that this was an exceedingly bad idea and he should leave before Merlin has the chance to tell him to go. He doesn’t get the chance to say anything, anxiety choking any attempts at peace he would have made. He isn’t even sure what he’s done wrong.

Arthur’s feet keep moving through, and before he knows it, he’s met with the almost familiar sight of Merlin’s house.

Merlin lets him in without a word, only speaking up to tell Hunith that he has a guest who will be staying the night. Hunith, unlike her son, is happy to see him.

“Arthur, your highness, you didn’t say you were coming! What a pleasure.” Hunith curtsies, and checks herself, going in after for a hug. The bundle of anxiety in his gut loosens just a little bit, glad that one person is going to welcome him. The house is just as he remembers, small and inviting, a fire in the hearth and familial love in the air. She gestures for him to sit, and he does, Hunith taking the seat opposite him. Merlin stands by the door, seemingly reluctant to join them.

“My apologies for not sending word beforehand. The trip was a bit sudden.” Arthur catches the brief look of alarm that crosses Hunith’s face. “Nothing is wrong,” he lies, “I just wanted to come say hello.”

“Well, I’ll be off then, Anna still needs me to check up on her.” Merlin says, backing out of the doorway before his sentence is even finished. He doesn’t even wait for Arthur’s confirmation, already gone by the time Arthur swings his head around to say goodbye. It stings, and high in his gut something tenses, making him feel as though he could cry and puke all in one go.

Arthur turns his attention back to Hunith, trying to be grateful that Merlin is letting him stay in the first place, blinking back the near tears. “So Merlin is a physician now?”

Her smile nearly overcomes her face, motherly love practically written into the lines of age. “Yes, your highness, after he came back he thought he should be of some use to the town, and since he had learned so much from Gaius, well.. The town was very thankful to have someone around to treat the little ones.”

“Oh I’m sure. You know,” his tone quiets, “for all the,” he waves a hand in the air in front of them, “flack I gave him, he truly was a great servant. I’m sure he is the same with the people here.” They share a meaningful look, both contemplating the charm of a man they loved. “And please, you can call me Arthur. I’m not the king here.”

She smiles bashfully.

“Well in that case, you can help me gather vegetables for dinner, Arthur.” She stands and wipes her hands on the apron, extending one out to Arthur.

If nothing else, Arthur will enjoy spending time with Hunith, even if Merlin only comes back to send him home.

___

Merlin comes home long after the sun has set, long after Hunith and Arthur shared a meager dinner together. Hunith had got him set up in a spare cot in what Arthur assumed was Merlin’s room. The room is dark as Merlin sneaks into it, Arthur’s back to him, and Arthur guesses Merlin thinks he's asleep, though if he were, he definitely would’ve awoken at the sounds of Merlin attempting to be discreet.

“Still clumsy then, are you?” Arthur surprises himself with the ease and familiarity he says this. Merlin goes quiet, unmoving, and Arthur rolls over to face him, a playful smile on his face.

“Still an arse then, are you?” Merlin practically spits, still in the middle of removing his boots, and Arthur’s smile drops, his heart clenches. This isn’t what Arthur wants. He didn’t mean it as an insult, but, he thinks wryly, this is how it used to be. He wishes...for something, he’s not sure. That Merlin will fall back into their regular banter, just the once. One last time.

“Sometimes, yes.” Arthur concedes. Merlin snorts at that, and Arthur counts it as a victory.

“Glad you’re finally able to see it.” Merlin’s tone is resentful.

Arthur clenches his jaw, trying to regulate his breathing, feeling himself turn inward to lash outward, like a wounded animal. He just wants Merlin again, not...this. He closes his eyes and imagines that it’s just him in the room, disassociating to ease the embarrassment of confessing his feelings.

“Merlin, I came back to see you. You’re my best friend and I’ve missed you.”

He opens his eyes to see Merlin staring right at him, the whites of his eyes glinting in the dark, not looking pleased at all.

“That’s very nice. What’s wrong this time?”

Arthur’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, and he props himself up on an elbow to get a better look at Merlin.

“What?”

“Who’s life needs saving? What’s attacking Camelot this time? Or do you just miss having someone to clean your floors, sire?” Merlin looks away, shifting into bed and away from Arthur, facing the opposite wall. The already dim and cramped room closes in on Arthur.

Silence extends between them, Arthur too shocked and bruised to respond. Agony turns to animosity, regret overcoming him.

He shouldn’t have come here. This was a mistake.

“Fine, if that’s how you want this to be.”

Arthur lays back down, rolling back to face the wall again.

Sleep doesn’t come for him that night. Instead, he listens to the rhythmic undulation of Merlin’s lungs, and his heart breaking in real time.

___

When Arthur wakes, Merlin is not in his cot.

He lies there for a moment, staring at the wooden ceiling, at the cobwebs that cling to the paneling, the lone spider that sits in the corner. There is simultaneously a heavy weight sitting on his chest, and nothing at all.

Sounds creep through the wall, what must be Hunith preparing breakfast for him, but Arthur cannot find the motivation to get out of bed, to move at all. If it were up to him, he would lay here for the rest of his short life, gladly withering away until dehydration takes him.

Merlin hates him. And he has no idea why.

Did he… do something? In Camelot? He racks his brain for every last interaction with Merlin, every conversation, every playful shove to find rationality in Merlin’s bitterness. Surely, Arthur must’ve gone too far or said something wrong. But… it isn’t like Merlin to not say something in the face of injustice. That was one of the reasons Arthur took to him so quickly. He had a passion for fair treatment, of comprehensive equality in the face of rank. Certainly, if Arthur had misspoke, Merlin would be the first one to rebuke him.

Arthur takes a deep breath, wiggling his fingers and toes as if telling his body that it’s time to get moving. For what, he has yet to see. But if Hunith is making breakfast, then he is not about to be a rude guest and sleep through it, no matter how much he desires to lay here for the rest of his life. His mere lifetime of etiquette wouldn’t allow him, even if Merlin always thought he was a brute.

He groans as he sits up, his body still not feeling properly well after his little incident with Gaius’ sleeping draught. The memory makes his cheeks tinge in embarrassment. How stupid he must’ve looked in front of Merlin, turning up half dead by accident. Proving, once again, that he is not worthy of a man like Merlin. It was so foolish to think anything good would come from vacationing here unannounced.

Even as his body aches in disagreement, he begins to stand, hazily throwing on his day clothes, which surely smell something awful after not being washed for so long. He’ll have to go to the river today, to wash both himself and his clothing. He wouldn’t want to impose on Hunith and ask for a bath.

His eyes scan over Merlin’s empty cot, an acute pain needling his heart, his throat closing up.

He won’t dwell.

Hunith is standing over the fire, with her back turned to him. With some sixth sense that women have that Arthur has never been able to figure out, she greets him still facing the fire, even though he has barely crossed the threshold into the common room.

“Good morning, finally. Glad you could join us.” The taunt is said with affection, but Arthur looks for the sun outside. The gods could strike him down without any confrontation if he slept past noon again.

“What time is it?”

She snorts. “Not too late, not too early. Merlin left earlier to start his herb gathering and rounds of the community.”

“Yes, I noticed.” He nearly mumbles. “Did he say when he’d return?”

“He’ll return when he’s done. Now, here, I made some porridge for the two of us, come sit.”

She turns and smiles wide at him, before grabbing two bowls off a shelf on the wall and spooning two portions of her porridge out, setting them on the table so that Arthur and Hunith would sit side by side. He takes his place, and she rubs his back as she sits down. Between Merlin leaving him behind this morning and this small act of motherly love, he nearly tears up, not being used to being shown such open affection from...well, anyone but Gwen, he supposes. He takes his first bite instead, hoping that a chewing motion will force his body to calm the fuck down. He can't seem to stop crying recently.

However, with that shrewd sixth sense of hers, his pain doesn’t go unnoticed.

To Arthur’s great appreciation, she takes her first bite and looks forward first, letting him save some face. “Would you like to talk about what’s going on?” She asks, gently.

He purses his lips, staring down into the brown, goopy food. He’s so tempted to shake his head and say no, but the untethered and abandoned child in him wants to talk with her, wants advice. But how do you talk to a mother about your failed relationship with her son? With all Arthur’s etiquette rigorously instilled in him, his mind comes up blank. Besides, he doesn’t even know where to begin: Merlin, his failed Kingship, his disconnect from Gwen, or the fact that he isn’t quite sure what type of man he is anymore, or what that man wants?

In the end, he figures, he has nothing to lose. He’s already lost everything else.

“I thought Merlin would be happy to see me.”

She shoots a pensive look at him, clearly mulling something over.

“I think he would’ve, had you come earlier. It was hard for him, the first few months back. He seemed lost, somehow. I know how much you meant to him--how much you meant to each other.”

The small praise sends Arthur’s heart aflutter. Stupid.

“And what changed?”

The bench they share shifts a bit, and to his alarm she’s facing him fully now, her legs almost pressed up against his. Her forehead is scrunched up and her lips parted, looking slightly confused. He continues to stare down into his bowl, almost forcefully.

“Well, you never did respond.”

“I didn’t think he wanted me to. His letter, it just seemed like he wanted to get away.”

She blinks, gingerly setting her spoon down in her bowl. “I think it took great courage to walk away from you, Arthur. He cares for you a great deal. But it was all too much, too hard.” She shifts back into her normal seat. “He missed you so much, I could tell.”

“So I didn’t respond. So he just.. Just hates me now, is that it?” He tries to keep the bitterness out of his tone, he does.

“How is he supposed to feel, with you never writing back? All those letters…” Defensiveness cuts her words, and he cringes on the edge of them.

Something makes him pause though. Letters? Plural?

“Letters? I think there’s a mistake, he only left me one.” And he would know, he could pull it out of his shirt pocket and show her the proof.

“No,” she says, cautiously, “his letters. More than one.”

All the muscles in him go tense, still, his heart skipping a beat.

“What?”

“His letters. Surely you must’ve got them. He wrote, well, nearly weekly for months. After so long, you never responded and then word had arrived that you had taken a new manservant, so… I guess he stopped. It broke my heart.” She gives him a hard look. “You did get them?”

He’s at a loss for words, confusion, distress, and maybe hope, beating around inside him. She must be able to see this on his face.

“I’ll take that as a no then. Oh, that nasty man. Merlin had been sure he’d been delivering them.” She says this more to herself than Arthur. They both sit in unsure silence, the realization of what had transpired dawning on them both.

Well of course Merlin hates him then. This whole time, he thought that Arthur didn’t want to talk to him, had been purposefully ignoring him. The very idea makes Arthur want to go running in search of the man to set things right immediately. They could’ve been writing to each other this whole time. Could’ve been friends this whole time. Arthur wouldn’t have had to go through so much turmoil and self-hatred if those letters had gone through, if the promise and proof of Merlin’s friendship had reached his hands. It’s almost laughable, the stupidity of the whole thing.

Anger catches him off guard. So what, Merlin was never going to say anything about it? Why hadn’t he mentioned it once? Why had Merlin been avoiding him so much?

Why did he leave in the first place? The real reason? Obviously Hunith is in good health, and although time has passed since Merlin left, it doesn't seem as though Hunith had suffered from any life threatening illnesses, as Merlin had let him believe.

It’s...too much. All too much. And Arthur doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Well.” He says.

“Yes.” She agrees.

“Is there a good river nearby for me to wash my clothes in?”

____

He’s half naked, well, mostly naked in his underclothes, laying on the side of a riverbank while the rest of his clothes dry out in the filtered sunlight. It’s still a bit chilly, his raised skin betraying him, but the fresh air is doing wonders for his inner turmoil.

It’s quiet, as quiet as a forest can be, with all of its life whirring about inside. He’s close to the village still, but far enough out that if he wanted to have a nice meltdown, no one would pay witness. But he’s not sure what he wants. He had come here wishing to wash away his dirt and overwhelming sense of misplaced guilt--how would he have known?--but had instead found that isolated brooding hadn’t given him a great epiphany. Mostly, he wanted to talk this over with Merlin.

But, given that Merlin had fled on him before they even really had a chance to talk, Arthur would either have to wait for evening to roll around, hopefully promising his eventual return, or hunt him down and drag him by his stupid ears to a quiet place.

He dreads both options equally.

But.

Hope has somehow wriggled its way into Arthur’s heart, adding in part to his anxiousness. There’s hope that this all was a great misunderstanding, that once Arthur and Merlin get the chance to have a conversation about how they both thought wrong, that it would give way to a tentative renewal of friendship. Arthur places a careful fence around the hope, not allowing it full occupancy, because when it inevitably gets ripped away from him, he’ll only have a small part of himself to tend to.

Hope is always a wound in the making.

Arthur stretches over to rub the edge of his shirt between his fingers: still a little damp.

Waiting until Merlin’s prodigal return it is then.

___

It’s nearly dark by the time Merlin returns and Arthur wonders where he’s been all day; he’s not entirely sure there’s enough villagers that live here to warrant Merlin being gone for that long. Hunith and Arthur had already shared a meal, a repeat of the porridge from earlier but with some vegetables mixed in. They had talked about life in Camelot, how the Kingdom was, and for once, Arthur didn’t really mind. It was comforting feeling like he could say anything without being judged too harshly for it, knowing that his political reign didn’t reach her town anyhow, and that she viewed him more as Merlin’s friend than as the King.

Merlin walks past the both of them, resting by the fire, and into Arthur and Merlin’s shared room. Hunith’s eyes follow him the entire time, patient and understanding, but calculating. Arthur doesn’t even try to make eye contact or say hello to Merlin, all of his earlier bravado escaping through the front door when Merlin had swung it open. Arthur can hear Merlin setting his bag down, and when he comes back out into the main room, he’s wearing a different shirt.

Merlin stands there awkwardly, looking as tense as Arthur feels.

“Arthur, I need to talk to you. Outside, now.”

Arthur is on his feet before his mind even registers that Merlin just gave him an order. They make brief eye contact, flitting, apprehensive, before Merlin turns his back and opens the door, leaving it open for Arthur to close behind him.

The outside air is crisp, but pleasantly so, like taking a cold sip on a hot day, and the low sun in the sky casts a warm glow over everything. Merlin looks as though he’s glowing.

Arthur follows Merlin, who takes off walking towards the woods, and maybe it’s the recognition that they’re going to have a painful conversation, or the role-reversal, or Arthur’s simple inadequacy to do anything right by Merlin, but Arthur would rather be on the brink of war right now, staring down into a field of soldiers bloodthirsty and eager to see his head cut off.

The forest flora shades the last sliver of sun, creating dark shadows that hover in the corners. They walk in silence for maybe five minutes, going slow as to not trip on any protruding roots or branches, until finally, Merlin stops, turning around and glaring at the dirt at Arthur’s feet. Arthur is (was) so used to Merlin’s emotions, so used to seeing him upset. But this, this expression is cold, sharp, guarded.

“Why are you here?” He asks.

Arthur hesitates, a thousand different sentences forming in the space in his mouth, one clever, one harsh, one loving, one a lie, one the truth. He decides to be honest. “Because I’m failing my kingdom and friends and nothing has been the same since you left, and you’re the only person I wanted to see.”

Merlin looks up at his face, his gaze so intense Arthur is stuck, couldn’t look away if he wanted to.

“I wrote you. I thought we were friends.” The accusation stings, but Arthur knows Merlin has every right to throw stones.

“Hunith told me earlier.. If I knew you had been writing, I would’ve written back. I never got them.” He turns defensive.

“You didn’t get them?” Merlin’s tone is somewhere between disbelief and accusatory. “This whole time, not one of them got to you?”

Arthur feels sheepish, as though this is somehow his fault. “No.”

Merlin looks a little taken aback at that, Arthur notices, grateful that whoever was delivering Merlin’s letter can shoulder some of the blame here, though suspicion nags at the back of his brain, wondering who would’ve interfered with simple letters between friends. Arthur continues, feeling bolder in his indignation: “You didn’t even say goodbye, just fucked off and what- was I just supposed to go on like normal?”

“I had to leave. You were fine without me.” Merlin goes toneless, says this like he’s had to repeat it a million times, like he’s reciting some sort of script.

Arthur’s eyebrows crinkle together, and his head comes forward, as if to say did I just hear you right? Anger rises in him: was this really the only explanation he was going to get? He digs his fingers into the inner lining of his shirt and pulls Merlin’s letter out, watches it unfold naturally, the creases coming unbent with minimal effort. He tries not to stare at the shock on Merlin’s face as he reads:

Arthur,

I have to go, my mother has taken gravely ill and I must return to Ealdor at first light. Thank you for letting me serve you all these years, I hope you find a better servant in the future. Don’t let them make you fat.

Please don’t follow me. I mean it.

Your friend,
Merlin

Arthur searches Merlin’s face for any sign of guilt, of remorse, of regret for leaving him behind like that; all he gets is Merlin looking away, off into the obscurity of the trees. The darkness was making it hard for Arthur to make out the lines of Merlin’s face, shadows hardening his cheekbones, blacking out the hollows of his face, accentuating his beard.

“What was I supposed to do with that, Merlin? I thought we were friends too. You asked me not to come after you. Do you know how worried I was? I would have come sooner if I knew you wanted me to.” The admission is painful, so much so that he has to glance away, looking down at the hollow between Merlin’s collarbones.

“Of course I wanted you to. I wanted,” Merlin stops short, opening and closing his mouth, trying to find the words, “I don’t know what I wanted, Arthur. But you had to know, you were going to be a great King, with or without me, and well, you didn’t need me anymore.”

“And who let you decide whether or not I needed you there?” Arthur says this quickly and quietly, sounding like a petulant child on the brink of a tantrum, his face prickling with the heat of nearly shed tears, his throat closing up. He lets out a breath through his nose, folding the letter back up and tucking it away. He looks up at what’s left of the sky, at the pattern of the tree tops and the dotted canvas of stars above, trying to let all the swirling emotions out through the air in his lungs.

Merlin is silent at that.

“Like I said, my whole life is going to shit in front of me and I… I missed you.” Arthur feels flayed, like his heart is beating right out in the open. He lowers his head back down. “Plus I think Gwaine would’ve kidnapped me and dumped me here anyways. He misses you too, you know.”

That earns a small and rather sad smile from Merlin, Arthur catches the slight upturn of his lips and downturn of his eyes. “He’s a good man.”

Arthur takes a deep breath, thankful for the cover of the woods. He’s not sure he would’ve been able to have this conversation in the broad and revealing daylight. He shoves down his pride and asks: “I think this has just been a misunderstanding, albeit a rather large one. I never got your letters. Can we… I don’t know, start over?”

Merlin quirks an eyebrow (damn Gaius). “From the beginning? I’m not very keen on cleaning up after your idiotic arse again. Plus, if I remember correctly, you tried to murder me.”

Arthur snorts. “I did not. You called me a prat, in front of everyone. I had to defend my honor.”

Merlin scoffs. “Your honor. Was I wrong though?”

Arthur cringes at the memory. “Well you’re never right, but I’ll make an exception.”

Merlin looks at him, his expression considerably softer than before. “Okay.”

Arthur nods forcefully, rubbing his sweaty palms off on the ends of his hips. A smile finds its way onto his face, and the fence around his hope must have holes, because it crawls into all of his limbs. “Okay.”

Silence follows the tentative compromise, and Arthur breaks it with: “Will you tell me why you really left?”

Merlin’s smile drops off his face, and Arthur can practically see the walls coming up. “Not tonight. I’ll tell you...soon, but not tonight.”

Arthur scrunches his face up, hurt that Merlin won’t trust him with this. But he won’t press it, not after carefully piecing together something he had thought was completely lost. “I’ll hold you to it. Right, should we head back? It’s not safe out here in the dark.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be Camelot’s finest knight?” Merlin guffaws.

“Oh I could defend myself, but having to defend the two of us? Too much, with your clumsiness. You’d probably fall on a root and take the both of us out before anyone else could.”

They share a shaky laugh, though Arthur makes out the slightest flicker of hardness in Merlin’s eyes before blending into genuine mirth, and Arthur almost loses himself in them, telling himself he’d think over it later. Something heavy lifts off his chest, and he’s floating on the high of hearing that sound again.

Things aren’t perfect, but Arthur sails on his own optimism all the way back to the house, ignoring the nagging feeling that he should be more concerned about the whereabouts of all of Merlin's long lost letters.