Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It's not that he doesn’t want to tell Arthur the truth about his magic. In fact, once upon a time, he had thought it would come easily.

The day King Arthur had legalized magic, Merlin had sworn to himself that he’d tell him the truth the next day, but the next day came and went. And the next. As months pass, Merlin becomes less sure that he will ever actually work up the nerve.

The mood has to be right. It has to be one of those nights when it’s just the two of them, maybe a little drunk and too close, to remind Arthur that Merlin is his friend. Those nights don’t happen quite as often anymore. Arthur is always busy with a thousand things now that he is the King. When they do spend time together, it’s usually under the guise of doing work, but they’ll still have moments, opportunities when it would be perfect to speak up, and Merlin will nearly work up the courage, only to lose it all when Arthur looks at him with complete trust in his eyes.

It seems foolish to hide his secret when it has been legal for nearly a year, but having magic is hardly the worst thing Merlin has kept from Arthur. There are things he's done that hes never told a soul, unforgivable things that have left his body and soul scarred, and he's never spoken a word of them to Arthur. To anyone.

He isn’t ready to talk about it. If he mentions the magic, Arthur will have questions. Merlins answers would only destroy Arthur's view of him. He isn't sure he could discuss it at all after so many years of burying it all down into an ever growing mass of grief.

Long ago, he thought there would come a day that he could tell Arthur everything, and the strength of their bond would ensure Arthurs forgiveness. He promised himself he would only use his magic for good, never for harm.

He was younger then. Naive to what acts he would eventually commit in the name of destiny. That was before he had killed for the first time, or the second, or the tenth. Before he could no longer count the number of executions he had witnessed, before he failed over and over again to protect anyone, learned to cover his hideous scars under long sleeves to hide the evidence, learned to lie to Arthur as easily as breathing. Before he discovered just how far he would go to keep Arthur safe, even if it meant sacrificing every moral he thought he had.

He isn't sorry about the magic, but the betrayal would be too much. So many people have betrayed Arthur's trust already that it's hardly fair for Merlin to add to the list.

Selfishly, he doesn't ever want to have to look into Arthur's eyes and see that trust gone.

He has to tell him someday. Eventually.

‘Eventually’ becomes further and further away. If Merlin is honest with himself, he would take these secrets to his grave if he had the choice.

-

The choice is taken from him.

They’re at the border investigating rumors--well, more like solid evidence--of a Lord violating treaty agreements. Fairly boring as far as these things go, and definitely not enough to warrant the King himself visiting, but he’s pretty sure that’s why Arthur had decided to come in the first place. He’s been under a lot of pressure lately, and the whole affair is a perfect excuse for some pleasant hours of riding on the way to their destination.

Now that they’re actually at their destination, the day is rapidly becoming less pleasant.

It’s a beautiful estate, Merlin notes as he dismounts his horse, boots squelching in the mud. They won’t spend long here. He hopes not, anyway; it’s looking like rain. The Lord finally rides up to greet them. At least the man is decent enough to meet them outside. That'll make it quick.

“Your Majesty,” Gaillard bows. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“I have several accounts detailing your mistreatment of land, mistreatment of servants in your care, and misuse of magic,” Arthur says.

Lord Gaillard smiles thinly. “I haven't the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

Arthur meets Merlins eye for a moment, both of them wearing matching unimpressed looks.

Arthur shakes his head. Merlin holds out a hand to indicate that the rain is going to start soon, and tilts his head back in the direction of the castle. Arthur sighs and looks at the horses, then back at Merlin, in silent conversation. He plucks a stray piece of grass from Merlins hair, barely stifling a grin. They’d taken a detour through a field earlier which had resulted in a bout of wrestling in the grass and-

Lord Gaillard clears his throat and they both jump back. “Majesty?”

”Yes. Right. If you truly have no recollection of your crimes, we can discuss it at the castle. Come along.”

Arthur smirks, condescending. He’s riling the man up. Merlin has been to enough of these things that he can practically see what Arthur is thinking, trying to fluster him into a confession. Arthur thinks that since Lord Gaillard is a small, portly man, if he puts up resistance they can easily take him.

However, Merlin has also been to enough of these things that he is aware of the reality of the situation. This is a sorcerer, and he’s been committing magical crimes alongside his other, pettier ones. Making him angry before they’ve got iron shackles on him will only cause problems and as always, it will be up to Merlin to fix it. Sometimes it feels like he's single handedly keeping Arthur alive.

Lord Gaillard doesn’t take Arthur’s bait. “No need. We can settle this here, outside of court, sire. I’ll hand over the rights to the land. I relinquish them to you.”

He holds out the papers with a flourish. Arthur steps forward to take the papers, but Merlin stops him with a hand. It’s never this easy. They’d given him advance notice that they were coming, but settling immediately without argument, outside at the edge of his estate where there are no witnesses? He’s up to something.

Merlin steps forward himself and snatches the papers, magic buzzing as it encounters something foreign. He tucks them under his arm, against his side. It itches. So he was right, Gaillard enchanted them somehow.

The triumph of being right doesn’t last long. The itching sensation turns to a stabbing pain, and he drops the papers. Pain shoots through his side and he tries his best to make no sound, because Arthur is watching. Taking deep breaths, he steadies himself and readies to strike. He’s felt pain worse than this many times, the ringing in his head and the burning sensation familiar. The only difference now is that Arthur is right there, in plain view of what’s happening. Merlin clutches his side and steps backward. No way is he letting Arthur find out over something so stupid.

But Lord Gaillard moves his hand toward Arthur and there is no time to worry about being seen, no time for thought as light burns behind his eyes.

-

“Merlin, he’s-” before he can finish, Merlin has already struck, so fast Arthur doesn’t even see it happening before Gaillard lies twitching on the ground, surrounded by smoldering ash.

Merlin glances back, breathing heavily but with a face so nonchalant that Arthur wouldn't believe he had just scorched a man if it hadn’t happened in front of his own eyes. Blood gushes from his side like he’s been stabbed. Arthur stares, and Merlin pales, backing away.

“That wasn't what it looked like."

Arthur raises his brows, dazed and unbelieving. He'd had his suspicions, but this is not what he had expected.

Merlin shifts and tries again. "He wasn’t going to honor the contract, I had to do it,” he says. He’s still backing away. “I had to.”

The look on his face snaps Arthur back to reality. “What? I don’t-- Are you alright?” He steps forward to steady Merlin, who looks like he’s going to fall over at any moment. He sits him on the ground and tears his shirt to press against the wound.

Merlin hisses. “Fine. The- er, magic," his voice goes low as he says it, as if hes worried someone will hear out here in the middle of a wet field, "will take care of it in no time.”

“Yes. That.” He’s not sure how to tactfully bring up the obvious fact that Merlin has magic. Unlike his official speeches, there is no preparation or script for this interaction. He’s not even sure he wants to bring it up until they’ve made it home and he’s had this wound looked at properly. He’s not going to remove pressure long enough to take a good look at the wound, all he can do is staunch the bleeding and pray it’s not life threatening. It’s concerning how unreactive Merlin has been; Arthur can’t remember many times he’s been hurt this badly and he should really be screaming right now. The lack of panic may mean he’s in shock. Suffice it to say, magic is the last thing on his mind right now.

It seems Merlin has other ideas, because he immediately launches into what is clearly a rehearsed speech fumbled by blood loss. “I’m sorry,” he says. "I have magic, and I use it to protect you and fight your battles, and I'm not sorry about that part, but. Anyway. Er. It all started when the great dragon- That is to say, Kilgarrah- I- I don't know where to start," he trails off, staring into space. He's bleeding rather a lot.

Gaillard drags himself away, escaping. Arthur turns, and hesitates, but does not go after him. The red soaking Merlin's shirt seems to consume him entirely.

"You're not making sense," says Arthur.

"Sorry," he says again. "It's a lot to explain. I know it’s no excuse but it was all for you. I know you want a better explanation, and I'll try to give you one. I swear I will, and I'm still useful! Just need... a little while to get myself together.”

He honestly still isn’t sure what Merlin is trying to say, but he has tears in his eyes for gods sake, looking at Arthur pleadingly like he thinks he's angry with him, and has Arthur mentioned he’s bleeding? Yes, he’s giving Arthur the shock of his life, but how is he supposed to be angry?

“Hush. Save your strength.”

“Told you, it’s fine,” he bats Arthur’s hand away from the wound and holds pressure himself, stubbornly mounting his horse alone.

He’s still wearing that calm expression like this happens every Tuesday. Arthur frowns, unsure. But Merlin seems certain it will be alright, already sitting in the saddle for the ride back, and Arthur trusts him to know what he’s doing. He shrugs and mounts his own horse. They’ll ride back and talk more later.

Surely all will be well.

-

Arthur is strange on the way back. He keeps checking up on Merlin, which is very sweet of him even though Merlin is fine, but which is also... unusual. Arthur isn’t often so careful with Merlin; many times he’s been injured and Arthur has slapped him on the shoulder and told him to get on with it. Not that Merlin minds, except that the gentleness feels like a consolation prize for the eventual inevitable screaming match about how Merlin is a traitor. Which leads him to the most interesting thing of all- Arthur hasn’t once brought up the magic.

Merlin hates stewing in it.

When they get back, Arthur brings him to Gaius, but he’s able to weasel his way out with promises to keep the wound clean himself. As soon as he’s free, he goes immediately to Arthurs chambers.

Arthur sits at his desk. Merlin wastes no time.

“So. I have magic,” he says.

“Yes.” Arthur stops and says nothing more.

He crosses his arms defiantly, waiting on Arthur’s response even as his heart thumps hard in his chest. He’s imagined it many times, Arthur hating him for his years of lies, never forgiving him, or worse.

Moments go by, the two of them in silence. Arthur sighs.

"I know, Merlin, I saw.” He doesn't even sound angry, just… tired. "We can discuss it later, alright? Now go rest, I have to read this treatise before tomorrow." He waits a moment, but Arthur has already put his head down to read parchment, as if this conversation had been just another task in his busy day. As if it all meant nothing at all that Merlin had lied to him all along, and he doesn't care enough to ask questions or be angry, or even react.

Somehow, it’s worse. At least if he had reacted negatively, Merlin could relax knowing it was finally over. This feels unreal. Foreboding, like a calm before a storm.

He blinks and the room is dark. The fire has gone out. He turns and leaves the way he came.

-

Arthur sits heavily on the edge of his bed, looking over treaties but hardly seeing them, too lost in thought at the events of the day.

Out of practically nowhere, Merlin had confessed to having magic. It’s not as if it’s a problem anymore, Arthur had repealed the ban over a year ago, and figured out that Merlin had it even before that, but he hadn’t thought Merlin would ever actually confess.

When he had first begun to suspect, he was angry beyond belief. But he had soon reasoned that Merlin would never harm anyone with it. The man probably used his magic for something stupid like washing clothes faster, or cutting down on armor polishing time. Its Merlin, after all. This theory was confirmed the first time he saw him using it to light a fire.

And then there was today.

Merlin had scorched a man and knocked him flat on his back in under a second. Perhaps even stranger was the fact that he’d acted so nonchalant afterward, like he had done it a million times.

In a way, knowing Merlin’s power is greater than he thought had come as a relief. Arthur often finds himself worrying about the idiot, but if he is capable of combat, he can train and use his magic to make sure he stays safe, and Arthur won’t have to worry any longer.

-

Things go on as normal. Merlin serves him during the day, and Arthur asks him questions about what his magic and gets vague answers, to his growing frustration. He still gets his opinions on policy, and the two of them have writing practice on odd evenings, which devolves into complete stupidity as they pass notes back and forth. He attends meetings and events, and the two of them make eye contact and try not to laugh as nobles peacock about in their ridiculous outfits trying to get Arthur's attention. Little do they know, his attention is quite taken.

Leaving the latest meeting, Merlin shivers in the chill of the summer evening. Camelots nights tend to be chilly even this time of year. Arthur goes to take off his coat to drape over him, but pauses, remembering that they are in the company of nobles who might think it odd for a King to drape his servant in fineries. Instead, he slaps Merlin’s shoulder gently, ushering him down the hallway toward his rooms.

"Let’s have a fire tonight," he says, rubbing Merlins back.

Arthur makes a mental note to have more warm clothing made for him. He had commissioned Merlin some boots last winter and the idiot had been so odd about accepting them that he had to make up a lie about them being hand-me-downs. It’s utterly ridiculous, sometimes, being his friend.

They sit in Arthurs chambers and Merlin kindles a fire. He keeps glancing nervously at Arthur like he’s going to suddenly realize he’s doing magic and reprimand him. Arthur thought they were over this already; avoiding a confrontation about it had seemed the wisest idea before, but Merlin continues to be hesitant and strange.

He sighs and Merlin glances at him again. The fire crackles pleasantly. It will last for hours, as Merlin’s fires always do. He had always thought it was a knack, but now it is still is a knack, but in a different way. He passes Merlin a cup of mulled wine and he smiles, reaching out to take it.

Arthur knows everything will be fine between them, in time.

-

No one brings his breakfast. It’s half past eleven when Arthur finally gives up on waiting and goes to find his late manservant himself.

“Where is the idiot,” Arthur mutters to himself as he strides toward Gaius’ chambers. It’s not like Merlin to be so late.

Bursting through the door of his room, he calls out, “Merlin, you were supposed to… be...” he trails off as he catches sight of Merlin, who stands in the corner, rewrapping bandages over his stomach.

Merlin turns and smiles at him. “Oh, hello Arthur. I’ll bring your breakfast shortly, I couldn’t find the bandages for the longest time this morning, turned out they were under the bed. I must have put them there when I was putting away my, er.” he flushes red. “-my pillows,” he finishes lamely, and then jumps into a meandering ramble about what’s on Arthurs schedule for the day.

He keeps talking, crossing the room to grab his neckerchief. Arthur hardly registers the words, too busy staring at Merlin's torso, covered in all manner of scars. Some fresh, some older, as if they’d been there a number of years. Merlin opens a foul smelling jar of some kind of poultice, and spreads it over a jagged red scar that can’t be more than a few months healed.

The bandage on his most recent wound is already showing red. When he had said the wound would heal by magic, Arthur had assumed it would be instantaneous, or somehow less painful, but all his assumptions are blown away as Merlin continues dressing, flinching as he bends to pick up his shirt from the floor. The movement pulls the scars on his back and Arthur stares.

He realizes he hasn’t said anything in response, or heard anything Merlin has said. Merlin is looking at him oddly.

Arthur opens his mouth. “Take the day off,” he says.

“You're so impatient. I just told you I’ll be ready in a second,” Merlin says, irritation lacing his tone.

“I can’t believe I’m having to convince you to take time off when you’ve been magically stabbed!”

Merlin has the audacity to throw up his arms like Arthur is the one being unreasonable. “Only barely! And it will heal, it always does.”

“What do you mean, it always does? How often-” It’s a stupid question, it’s obvious from the state of his scarred skin that this is not an unusual occurrence. Questions flurry in his head, but he doesn’t even know where to start. “Where did you get all these?”

“From fights, and things. Protecting you. I told you that,” he says slowly, like he’s talking to a child. "You know all those times you've passed out during a fight and I told you that you defeated the beast? You know it’s impossible to come out of fights like those unscathed."

Arthur gapes at him. He hadn't thought it was anything like this. Even seasoned knights don't get scars like these, and they are given months of time off to recover from their worst injuries. Merlin has never taken more than a few days off at a time.

“You-- you let me assign you chores like usual.” Arthurs stomach churns like he’s going to be sick, but he keeps it together.

“It’s my duty to protect you no matter what,” he says. “No big deal, I can still function. Well, besides little things. My wrist clicks now, and sometimes my shoulder hurts something fierce... Oh, and sometimes when you talk to me on the left side I, er, can’t actually hear you. I got hit on the head and- story for another time. Nothing too major, luckily. Well, besides… ” he mutters something under his breath and trails off.

Arthur composes himself, and attempts to rally his most essential questions to the front. Why would Merlin do this? How long has this been going on? The most critical sentiment makes itself known. “You have to stop. I’m officially ordering you.”

For some reason, that of all things makes Merlin's face fall. "No, no, no, look, it’s really nothing. I shouldn’t have said anything. Please, let me keep working, it’s the least I can do.”

Arthur has lost the entire thread of this conversation. “You've done more than enough.” And his bandage is bled entirely through. “I’ll fetch Gaius. Off to bed with you, and I’d better not see you for the rest of the day.”

-

Merlin, ever stubborn, brings his dinner five hours later.

Arthur ignores him in hopes that he will get the message and go rest. He has much to ponder. Perhaps he had been hasty in thinking Merlin should train with his magic, tacking on further duties for him to fulfill. It is becoming increasingly obvious that Merlin would work himself to death given the chance, and that he very nearly has already.

He's realizing that he knows even less about this situation than he thought, and the reality of it is far more disturbing than he could have imagined. Part of him knows it isn't his fault, he couldn't have possibly known, and part of him knows he has failed his friend on a fundamental level for years. Perhaps even the entire time they've known each other.

When he looks up, Merlin is still stood in the corner, waiting. Suspiciously silent, not like his usual chatter that fills the space.

“What are you doing here?”

“Tonight is writing practice.”

He’s right. Wednesdays are the nights that Arthur teaches Merlin to read and write. It had started as a genuine practice, but as time went on and Merlin became proficient, the time had become more of an hour long note passing gossip session.

He isn’t sure he’s up for it tonight.

Arthur pushes out his chair and faces Merlin, making eye contact for the first time. He is tired of deflections. “I want you to tell me everything.”

“I have," he says. Damn him, it doesn't sound like a lie, even though they both know it isn't true. He's gotten too good at hiding from Arthur, and Arthur cant even be angry because he understands exactly why Merlin needed to hide for so long. He just never thought he would hide so much.

“I believe some aspects were glossed over.” Like the part where you have a massive burn on your chest and a gouge in your stomach, and-

"I want to," he blurts. "I will, I swear, but I'm not- I don't want things to change between us."

"Never."

Merlin swallows and his eyes flicker to the door, then the window, as if mapping an escape route. Arthur deflates. Merlin had said he wasn’t ready to discuss all of it yet, and it wouldn’t be right to push with something so obviously painful for him.

“Is it hasty to bring it up? I apologize.”

“It’s not hasty when it’s so many years coming. I’ll- What if I wrote it down? Would that be alright? It’s writing practice night, so...” his voice is panicked. "I'll tell you anything you want to know, just please, please don’t-"

The silence is thick. Arthur swallows. The fear is tangible, and in this moment he is his father, standing over some cowering innocent who fears death.

"Don’t what?" he says softly, and prays his voice holds no judgement.

"Don’t hate me," Merlin’s voice cracks and his eyes glisten. His hands twitch and Arthur knows him, knows that when his hands move just like that he wants contact, because they are best friends and because Arthur loves him more than all else, and his name together with hate is oxymoronic.

Arthur opens his arms for a hug, and Merlin comes to him immediately.

“I don’t,” Arthur says, muffled against his ear. He is normally more eloquent than this. He shakes his head, frustrated. Arthur needs to end this conversation before he puts his foot in his mouth more than he already has.

"Yet," says Merlin, so quietly it could have been his imagination.

Merlin steps back far too soon, already composed again. This worries Arthur more than anything else. Merlin had worn his heart on his sleeve, once.

"Are you really okay to work?" Arthur asks. He already knows the answer. Merlin gives one of his little grins.

"For you, I always am. No matter what." It’s not the reassurance Merlin might think it is. Merlin sways so slightly that Arthur might not have even noticed had he not been looking, his white knuckled hand gripping the bedpost for stability even as his face displays that same casual impassivity, and does he really know Merlin at all?

Arthur wonders how many times he’s had to school his face and hold onto furniture to get through the day. How long did it take him to perfect that calm facade, to stand up straight even as he slowly bleeds through bandages under his clothing?

Arthur sighs. “Alright. Leave me be, and get some rest. I’m serious."

Merlin rolls his eyes and collects the dishes from dinner, carrying them on his right side and keeping his other hand pressed to his stomach as he leaves. The door swings shut, the only sound in the heavy silence of the room.

Arthur runs a hand down his face. God. All the scars on his body, the way he talks about being wounded as if it’s nothing, like his health and his life mean nothing at all. And Arthur had never noticed. He can’t believe he’s been so careless. He had thought it was the two of them fighting together, for one another, but now he sees how much Merlin has sacrificed. Arthur doesn’t have nearly that volume of scars, far less gained from protecting Merlin. Shame prickles up his neck, remembering all the times over the years that he had noticed Merlin looking worn, or tired, or empty, and had chalked it up to mere fatigue, even joked with him about it. Roughhoused.

”It will heal, it always does.”

How could he not notice his best friend throwing his life away for him? How could he not notice how far Merlin has had to go? And he has given him so comparatively little in return, never even realizing he was in pain. It's obvious that he doesn't value himself the way Arthur does. Guilt and fear after seeing violence are concepts he is familiar with, present in many of his knights. He is at a loss for how to help, because he doesn't even know the half of what happened, much less how Merlin feels, and if Merlin isn't ready to talk about it then there's nothing he can do.

No, he won’t let it continue. He has to find a way to do something, somehow. Even if Merlin won't talk to him. Merlin absolutely cannot continue to overwork and sacrifice himself. He can simply assign Merlin's tasks to other people, if that’s what it takes. Merlin has done more than enough already. He can laze around in comfortable retirement for the rest of his life, if it will keep him out of danger. It’s about time they had some peace, after everything that’s happened. If there’s anyone that deserves rest, it’s Merlin.

He’ll probably appreciate it. After all, he’s constantly complaining about chores. Time off will do him good.

Chapter Text

There's nothing to do.

The realization comes to Merlin slowly. He’s brought Arthur breakfast as usual, and goes to wash laundry. He then goes to find Arthur in his meeting, as he knows they can be terribly boring at times and he likes to make eye contact with Arthur when someone says something stupid. He also likes to make faces at Arthur and Gwaine and try to get a reaction out of them. Most of all, though, he likes to sit at the table and talk about the future of Camelot, and politics, and how to make Camelot’s citizens happy.

He sets the laundry outside and steps into the room. Arthur and the others sit around the table, papers strewn across it.

“Merlin,” Arthur nods at him and turns back to the circle. Merlin nearly bristles at that, ready to be irritated at Arthur brushing him off, but then he remembers that Arthur is still mad at him. He shrugs it off and prepares to sit down, but there are no seats left at the table. He lingers awkwardly for a moment, but Arthur does not offer a seat. That’s alright, he can stand. He lingers behind Arthur, peering over his shoulder at the map before him. It is the same one as they had looked at prior to meeting Gaillard, but with new lines and figures added.

“Oh, are we going to try and capture Gaillard again? Did he escape?” Merlin had sort of assumed him dead, but it wouldn't be the first time he's tried to kill someone and they've escaped.

Arthur jolts like he hadn’t known Merlin was behind him, and he turns to glare. “No, we are doing nothing. The knights and I are going to patrol for him, meanwhile you are still healing from a magical stab wound."

He looks around the room for support. The knights avoid his eyes.

"Sorry Merlin, he's right."

"From what I heard you shouldn't even be on your feet, mate."

Arthur points at the door. "Go see Gaius.”

This again. He suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. He knows Arthur cares about him, the man has nearly died for him many times- but he also knows Arthur doesn’t care about minor little things like this. Merlin’s gotten dinged up plenty of times in his service, and Arthur has only ruffled his hair, punched his shoulder and given him more chores to do. So the excuse isn’t going to fool him. Arthur is just mad at him and is faking concern so he can get Merlin to give him some space. Well, Merlin can give him as much space as he wants.

“Fine,” he mumbles. “Go see Gaius,” he mocks under his breath. He will not be seeing Gaius; he only goes to Gaius for his really severe life-or-death injuries, when he absolutely can’t deal with it by himself, because he’s getting old and Merlin doesn’t want to strain him any more than he already is.

Merlin ducks out of the room the way he came in. Screw Arthur. He has other things to do anyway. He ducks through the kitchen, dropping off some herbs, scratching graffiti into the wall and getting hit on the head with the cooks wooden spoon for his troubles. He says hello to the seamstress, then heads to the stables to begin mucking them.

Ewing, a stable boy, is there as usual, loafing around. Merlin hands him the honey cake he snatched from the kitchens. It had once been a rare treat for the boy, but over time he’s found himself bringing it every time he sees him. He can’t help it, Ewing is so tiny; he looks like he needs the extra food.

“I’m here to do the mucking,” he says as Ewing munches his cake. Merlin looks around and does a double take. To his surprise, the stalls are already clean.

“Oh!” Ewing spews crumbs from his mouth. “I’ve already done it, the King gave special orders and gave me a whole extra silver coin to finish up early! And a bag of sweets too!”

“Well... good,” he says, caught off guard by the enthusiasm. Ewing, much like most children, drags his feet on every chore, especially those that Merlin is willing to do on his behalf. But Merlin supposes that if anything, candy would do the trick to get him motivated. He purses his lips, thinking aloud. “That gives me a little extra time. I was meaning to go down to the lower town and take a look at the medical inventory-”

“Already done,” says Ewing through a mouthful of sweets.

Merlin blinks. “Done? Gaius surely couldn’t have been down.” He’s getting up in years and his back has been troublesome recently. Merlin feels terrible about it, because between all his other duties he can’t spare much time for running errands for Gaius these days.

“His new assistant. They were in this morning and they brought me a jar of syrup-!”

“Sweets, honeyed bread, and a jar of syrup all in one day? No wonder you’re bouncing off the walls,” Merlin remarks, pinching his cheek. His hand comes away sticky with sugar, and Ewing grins, jumping up and down.

Gaius has a new assistant. That’s a relief, since Merlin rarely has the time. Still, it throws him for a loop.

“Right. I’d better get back to my own work then, and you should go run around and play to get some of this energy out of you. If someone reprimands you for not watching the horses, you tell them the King's manservant said it was okay.” The horses will be perfectly fine, Ewing literally never watches them anyway.

“Okay!”

“Bye, Ewing.”

“Bye Merlin!”

Leaving the stables, he goes to check on his affairs in the lower town. He’s been trying to practice his magic to help out here and there, making animals and plants more fertile. He’s also experimented with passive magic to increase the water flow to the well he built in town square after the last drought. It’s not much, but he hopes his efforts have some effect. It’s always lovely to see his friends and their livestock. And it's nice to have a place where he's contributed nothing but good, where he can feel like a net positive influence for once. He gets a bit high on the feeling, honestly. Arthur pays him a frankly obscene wage for a manservant, more than he could reasonably spend on himself, so he often tries to spend it on food and things in the market and bring them by where they're needed, and he helps install fences and do repairs wherever he can.

(One wonderful side effect of his trips to town is that they have made his time in the stocks more pleasant. No one wants to throw rotten fruit at someone who supplied the fruit in the first place.)

The villagers don’t need his help so much anymore, though, now that Arthur’s got social security measures in place, something no ruler had done before him. Merlin smiles to himself thinking about Arthur’s good heart.

He visits for a while, and then heads back toward the castle far earlier than he had planned to, because Arthur must have something for him to do by now. If nothing else, he can get a head start on chores.

He goes down the hall to Arthur's chambers. He can start cleaning his armor, and then edit Arthur's next speech. He won't make the bed, because Arthur likes it unmade like the true slob he is, but he can sweep and mop and fluff the pillows and everything else that needs doing.

It will be good to be useful. He’s been really trying since the magic incident, in the hopes of someday gaining back Arthur's trust and friendship to the place they had been before.

Though he hadn’t even shared the worst of it. He’d hardly told Arthur anything, actually. Some of the details are too fresh to speak aloud, and he knows that if he tried he would be unable to finish with any amount of dignity, if at all. He doesn’t want to face the humiliation of opening up and dumping his rotten self all over the floor as Arthur watches.

Merlin has thought of a clever solution. Now that he is decent at writing and reading, he can attempt to write it all down and hand it to Arthur in a letter that he can read on his own time. Then, at least, Merlin could keep a shred of his dignity. He wouldn’t have to look Arthur in the eye while he read it.

Easy as it sounded in his head, he still hasn’t managed to actually start writing the letter. He’s not sure where to start, or how much to tell. Merlin figures he shouldn’t get his hopes up too high, since Arthur is unlikely to forgive him. He understands. If he were Arthur, he wouldn’t forgive himself either.

He opens the door to Arthur's chamber, and George sits in a chair, polishing Arthur's armor.

"George," he says.

“Hello, Merlin. How are you?”

“Are you supposed to be here?”

“The King requested me, yes,” he says, mouth twitching like a stupid smug idiot, like he wants to smirk but is too professional to follow through.

“You’re doing my job.”

“Looks like it. Must be nice for you, getting paid to loaf. I suppose the King has decided which of us is truly the superior servant.”

Merlin opens his mouth to retort, but stops, thinking. Something is off here. George may be supremely annoying, but he knows this isn’t a part of his duties, and he would never do Merlin's duties for him unless he was explicitly ordered to. And according to him, the King has ‘requested’ it.

Things begin to click into place. The lack of chairs at the table. Ewing mysteriously finishing his own work for once. Gaius suddenly having a new assistant overnight. And now George, doing Merlin's job, cleaning armor in Merlin's special designated armor cleaning spot.

Arthur is trying to get rid of him, or at the very least, see less of him. It’s the only possible answer to why, by some insane coincidence, all his duties are being reassigned at once.

Anger simmers in Merlin's gut. Obviously Arthur is less forgiving of Merlin's lies than he pretends. Perhaps he was hasty in thinking they could return to how things were before, if Arthur is doing this even before he’s heard the whole of it.

A pain spikes through his side. He presses his hand to the spot and it comes away red.

George is looking at him, not-smirk gone and replaced by an expression of concern. “Do you need a chair? You look like you’re about to fall over.”

How embarrassing. He won’t fall over in front of George of all people. He doesn’t need a stupid chair from George. He schools his face, desperately grasping at a calm that won’t quite come.

“Must have eaten something bad.”

“King Arthur said you were ordered to rest.”

“Okay.” Tell the bloody King he can say it to my face. “I'll still be bringing his breakfast."

"Fine."

He closes the door a little harder than necessary and walks back to his own room. He kicks the wall and screams in frustration, and then he punches his stupid, thin little pillow, which aggravates the pain in his bad shoulder so that he has to take a breather. When he’s done with that, he changes his bandage which he has once again bled all the way through, and lies in the bed, numb. Absently, he scratches his name into the wall, and scratches a little castle beside it with a knife.

Maybe he’s overreacting and making this into something it isn’t. It’s possible that this is all just a coincidence, and that tomorrow he will have all his normal duties back. He doesn’t know who he thinks he’s kidding. But there could still be a chance, couldn’t there? He could still fix this, couldn’t he?

He sits up and snatches the parchment from under his bed.

Arthur,

He probably shouldn't address him so informally here.

King Arthur,

This is better. But then the intimacy is stripped away, and he remembers what a great leader Arthur is and how proud Merlin is of how far he’s come, how he respects him. He can't help but imagine that sick look of dawning horror on his face when he realizes he's been betrayed.

He sets the paper down.

He picks it back up.

Where does he even start? Does he explain Kilgarrah, or… maybe how he was born with magic, or further back, how his parents met. Would Arthur care about that? Probably not. Maybe it's better to start later. The day he learned about the prophecies. The day he started trying to protect Arthur. The day he fell in love with Arthur. Should he start at poisoning Arthur's sister, or killing his father?

He shakes his head. This isn't productive. He needs to write something whole, something that holds the entire truth in a way that Arthur can understand and judge for himself, without Merlin's feelings getting in the way.

Although it seems Arthur may have already made his judgement.

-

Over the next few days, he waits for Arthur to bring it up, and he never does. Merlin brings his breakfasts, but George swoops in to do every other damned thing and there’s always some perfect excuse for why Merlin should just leave.

He spends a great deal of time pacing, worrying, practicing magic in his room, contemplating, because after years of constant wariness and perpetual work, he has… free time. A lot of it.

Finally, sick of the waiting, he goes to Arthurs chambers. Arthur smiles at him like nothing is the matter, and Merlin smiles back, stiff. He’s going to be tactful. If Arthur won’t have him close by as a servant, he can protect him in other ways.

"Healing well?" Arthur asks.

“Hm? Oh. Yes. But that's not why I'm here. We were talking about my magic the other day and I was thinking-”

“That’s new.”

“-that I could have some kind of position. I know there’s already an appointed court sorcerer, and she’s quite good but I’m more experienced and I was thinking there could be more than one-”

“She’s perfectly capable of doing the job herself.”

“Naturally. I would be more of a bodyguard. A silent bodyguard, if you want. You wouldn’t even know I was there-”

“No.” Arthur holds up a hand.

“So you don’t trust me to protect you, is that it?” Even if Arthur doesn't want him as a friend anymore, he can still use him. He needs that. Merlin may have to be less tactful than he had planned. "That's why you're giving away my job to other people?" he bites out.

“You’ve proven you’re more than capable,” Arthur says thickly. “I don't want you taking on more responsibility, I want you to be less of an idiot, and to at least try to be safe.”

Of all the excuses he could have come up with, that one is the least believable. “Arthur, when has my safety ever been a priority?” he laughs.

It’s hardly even a valid concern. In the grand scheme of things, Merlin knows he exists only for Arthur and Camelot. If he comes to harm, it is the price that must be paid, and he is glad to pay it as often as it takes. If he doesn’t, what is the point of him?

For some reason this causes Arthur's face to crumple. “I’ve failed you"

"You haven't-"

"How can I be a good King if I allow my subjects to do what I've let you do on my behalf? I can't let anyone, much less you. So yes, I am cutting back your duties involuntarily because you won't do it on your own. A retirement, of sorts.”

"You can't retire me!"

"Retired, released from my service, fired, whatever wording gets the idea into your thick skull,” he snaps.

"You need me here." He's aware he is pleading, but he can't bring himself to care, because Arthur is stripping away his only purpose in life.

"I never asked you to go out and do whatever the hell you've been doing."

"So your solution is replacing me."

"Merlin," he says, standing at his full height, shorter than Merlin but still intimidating, because he’s being so cruel right now, but he’s speaking so gently, "you've done your part, okay?" He says it so softly Merlin could cry. Arthur reaches out a hand as if to touch, and aborts the motion at the last second.

Merlin nods. Arthur pours a cup of mulled wine and holds it out to him. Merlin takes it, and he drinks, because what else is he supposed to do?

-

There’s nothing left for him to do.

Arthur has a kingdom to reign over, and his duties are many, but Merlin has played his part to completion. Arthur doesn't want or need his protection any longer, he's made that clear.

Nothing in the prophecies had mentioned what to do afterward, in the times where he is functionless, all his old roles suddenly filled by people more competent than him. Even roles he thought were his to keep, like the simple task of polishing armor.

He was irreplaceable to Arthur, once. There was a time he believed that no one could do what he did, and sometimes Arthur would look at him, and he would feel like he would spend forever by Arthur's side.

It’s always been about destiny and the roles they both needed to fill, so said the Druids and Kilgarrah and everyone else under the sun. But for Merlin, it was always about Arthur. If Arthur doesn't need him anymore, then that's it.

He hasn't planned for this day, and he's not sure what exactly to do. He hardly wants to skulk around the castle when he has no job here. Maybe it's time to sit back, live a normal little life in the countryside, move back to Ealdor and spend some time fishing at his favorite spot. Visit the graves of his friends, if he can bring himself to go there. Try to find some peace within himself.

Maybe this was how it was always supposed to go.

It’s not necessarily a bad thing. He’s served his time, hasn’t he? Done what he had to do in the name of destiny, and Arthur hadn't reacted as badly as he could have; given the circumstances he had given Merlin more mercy than was warranted, and Merlin should take it as it was intended.

The longer he thinks about it the more sense it makes. He has built a life here with all the people he loves, and he doesn’t want to give that up, but lately everything has weighed on him more than ever. He’s receded into himself, drifting away from nearly everyone. Even Gwen hardly speaks to him anymore. The castle is so haunted with memories that there are entire hallways he avoids, and he can hardly look himself in the eye in the mirror, and there are cold days when his scars ache so badly that his chores take twice the time, and Gaius is too old to rub his back with salve the way he used to.

He could just up and leave, but that doesn’t feel right. He doesn't want to be another haunted memory in this place, a hallway or a room for people to avoid when they remember him. And on the off chance that Arthur would care, he doesn't want Arthur to worry, or ask questions, or think he's up to something.

He has been studying magic from his books, looking for a solution.

This spell gives the user warts which can only be vanished by drinking cows milk mixed with clover and flax.

He turns the pages, flipping through to the section with more advanced spells. He had bookmarked a few pages in the ‘transportation,’ ‘physiological magic’ and ‘memory’ sections, but none are quite what he’s looking for. He needs something to cure his mind, or take him away. There was a spell he had seen once, reading through the old tome. He only has to find it.

This spell improves self esteem, making the user believe in themselves in all affairs. It works by reducing memory of past failures. Brew five seeds of dandelion and six-

He skips further into the chapter. The next section is marked with a warning, advising that only powerful and advanced magic users should attempt the more complex spells listed thereafter.

This spell erases collective memory of a person. After use, no one within the users chosen radius will have any recollection of their name, face, or any memory associated with them.

He pauses. This is it. He could fade away in peace and obscurity.

The spell is difficult to sense, even by other magic users. For this reason little information is available regarding it’s side effects or interdisciplinary potential.

He reads further, the ingredients needed and the ritual to use them. It's a difficult spell, but Merlin is confident he can do it. He could do it today, if he nicked a few things from Gaius. This way he can leave without any problems.

It wouldn’t be forever, just… for a few weeks or months to see how he feels. Then he could decide what to do next.

-

He wakes early in the morning to bring Arthur breakfast one last time. Gwen waves to him in the kitchen, and the cook hits them both with the big wooden spoon as they leave, punishment for scratching graffiti into the door frame yet again. For old times sake.

"What did I say about carving your bloody name into the walls? For the last time-!"

"I won't do it again, cross my heart," he swears. He aches looking at his name there, a memento in a place no one will remember him. Ever since Arthur first taught him to write he's delighted in carving his name here and there around the castle. It makes him feel like he's leaving his mark, like he's allowed to leave pieces of himself here in a way he never could in Ealdor, lay out his things and stretch out and take up space because this is his home.

Was, anyway.

At the last second, he decides to leave the breakfast tray. It wouldn’t do for Arthur to hear him setting it down and wake up as he’s leaving. If he does, Merlin might lose his nerve.

He enters Arthur’s chambers and closes the door quietly behind him. He looks at him in the bed where only the top of his soft golden hair is visible under the blankets, the sun shining through the curtains.

"Goodbye, Arthur," he says. Arthur snores on, oblivious.

Merlin sighs. Best to get on with it. His things are waiting in his room, packed up and ready to go.

He leaves Arthur alone.

Chapter Text

Arthur wakes late. He knows it’s late, because the sun is burning his eyes and he’s got the groggy feeling that comes with oversleeping, something he hasn’t done in ages. Someone should have come to wake him by now. He bolts upright. There’s no breakfast set out for him, either.

He yawns, trying to shake off the fog. Odd of George to be late, maybe he’s sick. Arthur stumbles out of bed, tripping over several dirty socks, sticks his head into the hall and tells a passing servant to fetch George.

His head still feels fuzzy. If he catches a cold, he's going to be so irritated with himself. He splashes a bit of water on his face and stares in the mirror sternly, trying to bolster some motivation, but he can’t seem to muster even a good mood.

Finally George arrives, without breakfast.

George scrambles to dress him, hastily going through his closet. “This one will suit you well, sire,” he says, bringing the dark blue cloak up for Arthur to see.

The material is softer than what he prefers, a rich blue color that doesn’t suit him at all. He had that made years ago, though he doesn’t recall ever wearing it. God only knows why he had it made in the first place. He brings it to his shoulders, and it is far too tight, like it was made for someone slighter than him, and taller. He thinks back. Perhaps he made it for a suitor and forgot to send it?

"Something else, please, George. Lighter.” George bows and goes to fetch something different. The gesture of subservience irritates Arthur in a way it never has before, and he nearly snaps at him to quit it before it dawns on him how ridiculous that sounds. Yell at him for what? Doing his job adequately?

Finally dressed, he stomps out of the room toward the meeting chamber in an awful mood.

The meeting is so boring he thinks he’s going to fall asleep for a good fraction of it. It is necessary that they discuss important issues such as taxes and crops, and Arthur takes the responsibility very seriously. It’s the part afterward that he hates, where he must mingle with local and foreign nobles, despite it being where he most excels.

He is an excellent mingler, and he’s only gotten better at it with time. He’s young enough that his roguish charm shines through, and old enough that he can display some hard-earned wisdom as well. He smiles and makes small talk and flatters the people who need flattering to ensure their continued support for Camelot. Inside, though, he is dying to do anything else besides massage aristocratic egos. Arthur can’t believe there was a time in his youth when he actually enjoyed this.

It’s times like these that he feels the most alone, when he looks around at a room full of people who see him as a title and not a person, when he is most aware that he will never really know any of them even though they have all been attending the same meetings and balls and events since birth. It's a very specific loneliness that comes with the territory of being King. Yet, the feeling strikes him as unfamiliar today.

People vie for his attention, asking if he has considered certain affairs, or has taken on a consort or considered marriage. He answers vaguely, politely, and idly wonders why he hasn’t thought of marrying. He must have been too busy recently to think of it, frantically working on enacting new laws and overturning old ones. And the idea of intimacy hardly interests him. In another life he would have liked to marry for love, but there’s no chance at his station. Maybe one day he will marry for appearances, but for now he only entertains the idea for the sake of peace.

An elderly man presses a hand to his shoulder and he suppresses a flinch before he turns to chat with the old fellow, a friend of one of his father’s advisors. The contempt in his eyes is likely reflected in Arthur’s own as they make small talk. Arthur's policy changes have not been popular with everyone, that much is abundantly clear.

When the meeting ends, he finds himself exhausted. He’s supposed to go run drills with the knights, though, so he only gives himself a moment to lie in bed before he stretches and makes his way outside.

There was something else on his schedule today, something he had cleared several hours in the evening for, though he can't recall it offhand. He will have to ask George.

-

The evening comes. Nothing is on his schedule after all. He sits alone in his chambers with a cup of mulled wine, idly wondering why he continues to drink the stuff when he far prefers ale.

He sips at it half-heartedly and reflects over the day. Several influential people had approached him about his recent social welfare implementations. As has been the case since he first started trying to undo Uther’s damage, some people were in favor, and most were opposed. It was the same when he legalized magic, and allowed common born people to become knights. Every decision he makes is an uphill battle, and it’s easy to doubt whether he’s even doing the right things.

Sometimes he thinks he should just give in and let things go on as they were. It would be so much easier to continue on without breaking the status quo that Uther had created.

Arthur absently plucks a stray hair. He’s greying young. He wonders if his father had greyed so young. Arthur is just as adrift. He cares for his kingdom--but hadn’t Uther too? How is he supposed to know if he’s doing the right thing when half his advisors are against him, and the ones who agree only do so to curry his favor? He never knows whom to trust, and more than ever he understands how this drove Uther mad, only trusting his own intuition and never listening to his subjects. It’s frighteningly easy to see, and it would be so easy.

He has seen what it does to a man, to be so consumed, and he will not become that man. No matter what it takes.

Still, he is lonely in the evening, sipping his overspiced wine.

George brings his dinner, moving quietly as a ghost, and some insane part of Arthur wants him to reach out and touch him so he knows he’s there, that another person is in the room and he could conceivably talk to him, offer him wine and reach out to lay a hand on his shoulder. George, of course, does not reach for him. And he would not accept wine even if it was offered.

“George,” he says. He may not like George per se, but he does not doubt his loyalty. “What do you think about the new welfare measures?”

“I’m certain I agree with them, Sire,” he says smoothly.

“What about them do you like?” he presses. “Are there any aspects you disagree with? There’s no wrong answer, I only want your honest opinion.”

“I… I agree with the concept,” George says, glancing around as if someone might appear with the correct answer. “It’s been a great benefit, Sire.”

Arthur waits, but he says nothing more. George sets the dinner tray before Arthur and waits, looking at him expectantly. Arthur lifts the fork and takes a bite, which seems to please George. He had better not ask him any more questions; the man looked unbelievably uncomfortable trying to think of a neutral response. Arthur should have known better than to try conversing with George of all people.

He chews, listening for any sound in the silent room. George does not move. Even his breathing is quiet. Arthur finds himself resenting the silent spectator to his dinner.

“Wine?” he offers, to hear himself speak.

“No, thank you,” George says, just as Arthur had known he would. “I’m on duty, Sire.”

Arthur feels ridiculous. George is not his friend, George is a servant who is doing his job.

He finishes his dinner in silence.

His sleep is sickly and disturbed, that night. He tosses and turns, dreaming of strangers and strange situations, and old wounds that had long since healed over.

"I think it's going to scar," Arthur grumbles. The claw marks are deep, and when he twists to try and look at them, pain shoots through his side.

"It’s not that bad, they’re pretty small. At least you managed to dodge to the side."

"Not enough," Arthur grumbles. "It stings like hell!"

Here, let me rub the ointment in, you're doing it all wrong, clotpole."

Warm hands touch his skin just to the left of his newly healed wound and begin to rub the ointment in. He’s quite good at this kind of thing, Gaius must have taught him to do it well. Arthur would never say so aloud.

He’s always being touched by these hands, but he’s never the one reaching out to do the touching. He wants to, and he’s not even afraid it would be poorly received. He’s afraid of what it would mean if he wanted something for himself, for once--not for Camelot, not for Prince Arthur or King Arthur, but just for Arthur--afraid of what would happen if he reached out only to lose him, or to realize it was all in his head, one-sided after all.

He finishes his ministrations on Arthur’s back, and Arthur opens one bleary eye as the touch retreats, leaving his back cold. The hand returns to stroke against his back, fingers grazing lazily against his skin as if the only goal was to touch him. He closes his eye, and allows himself to hope that this… feeling, whatever it is, of friendship or love or whatever comes between, is felt in kind.

Arthur’s fingers twitch, grasping for purchase. Slowly, not opening his eyes, he opens his palm. His hands find only air.

-

The morning brings fresh frustrations.

“These aren’t my size," he says to the seamstress, confused. She's brought in multiple heavy winter garments, claiming he had asked her to make them.

“You commissioned them in this size, Sire,” she says, frowning. “I had assumed they were a gift for someone.” Her eyes widen. “I don’t mean--that isn’t to say you made a mistake, I--”

He holds up a hand to silence her. He can only hope his subjects’ instinctive fear will fade with time; he’s been King for over a year and a half and Regent even longer, and has tried to treat his people with dignity, but the scars of previous decades have instilled a fear not so easily removed.

“It is likely a mistake in communication, no one’s fault. You will be paid in full. They are beautiful garments, and skillfully made.”

“Thank you, Majesty.”

He dismisses her. As she leaves, he ponders: a full winter wardrobe as a gift? He wouldn’t go to such efforts without a good reason. It would be far too much to gift to another noble unless for some specific reason, and he’s not so empty-headed that he would forget something like that. He would suspect some type of trick here, but Katarina came highly recommended and has never failed in a commission before.

It strikes him as oddly similar to the situation with George, that blue cloak that had been too small for him. He picks up one of the new winter garments from the stack and inspects it. This one looks about the same size. Made for the same person, then? Shrunken, somehow? It could be a trick, some kind of assassination plot, and--

He stops, realizing how paranoid he sounds, and tosses it aside. He has no time for this. It will be one of those little mysteries he never gets an answer for, there is no need to be overly suspicious, or go accusing people like a madman. He has other, far more important things to attend to.

-

The meeting is dull again. Everything is dull. Even the food from the kitchens has been bland, like they’re somehow forgetting to add the correct herbs to it, though he knows it’s all in his head. Arthur has always been affected by a bit of seasonal melancholia but never so dramatically. It’s like he’s waiting for something to happen and it never does. It’s a strange feeling to have, especially since so much has been happening lately. The city’s affairs are going to hell. Apparently the well in the lower town has run dry, and the crops and gardens have been poorly this season. His more conservative advisors are blaming evil magic, as always.

He is overwhelmed, as he has been since he became King. Something is different recently, these past several months. He can’t put his finger on it. Though he is always surrounded by trusted advisors and loyal knights, it feels like he is more alone than ever.

He shivers. Autumn is well on its way.

-

The knights are all sat in their usual places around the fire, Arthur beside Percival with a gap between himself and Gwaine, as if leaving room for Gwaine’s obvious disdain for him.

After the fifth unnatural lull in conversation, he’s beginning to think it's not just him. Gwaine makes another drunken joke, and they all pause a moment waiting for a response that never comes. It can't be in his head.

Percival shifts. "Has anyone noticed the…" he motions nonsensically. Arthur nods, and Gwaine, and Elyan. "Ghost? I don’t know what to call it."

"I found an extra training sword yesterday," says Elyan. "Could be a dead knight... joining our circle, somehow, so he’s not forgotten."

“Bit of a reach over a few awkward conversations and an extra sword.”

“We’ve had enough run-ins with ghosts and the like, I believe it.”

“You have to admit it sounds insane.”

“I know how it sounds.”

Gwaine crosses his arms in thought.

“I don’t think it’s a ghost. But I think I know what you all mean. I’ve been having weird lapses in my memory--”

Percival laughs. “You sure that’s not from drink?”

“That’s what I thought at first, but it’s not the same. There are things I think back on and I can’t quite get the details, or it doesn’t make sense.”

Arthur sits up. “Like what?”

"Let me think.” He pauses. "Here’s one. You knighted some of us when we weren’t noble-born."

Arthur could strangle him, because for a second he really thought Gwaine had something. "That is how things are, now--"

"Not back then. You didn’t always agree with it, and I didn’t even like you, much less want to swear fealty to you, princess. No offense." Gwaine looks at him, wide-eyed and staring into Arthur’s very soul. “Why did I become a knight?”

They stare at each other, and none of them have an answer.

-

He’s been having strange dreams again.

The sheets are rumpled. The two of them had come back from a quest so exhausted that they hadn't even had the strength to bathe or change clothes before collapsing onto the bed.

He knows it's a dream because he remembers this night, and he dreams of it often. He’s thought of it nearly every night since it happened, the memory keeping him company as he falls asleep.

They’re both filthy, flecks of blood still in Arthur's hair and a week of grime on his skin. Arthur’s been an ass all day. His father had torn into him again and he's been in a bad mood ever since, taking it out on everyone.

Yet his companion had lain down beside Arthur and snuggled up against his side like it was the easiest thing in the world. In that moment, Arthur knew there was no one else in the world he would rather have by his side.

The morning finds the bed wrinkled and dirty.

"Is it too much to ask for you to make the bed? You know, the thing I pay you to do?" He couldn’t actually care less about the bed. He remembers this day. It’s the day he stopped asking him to make the bed at all, because when it was rumpled he could think of this very moment.

He shrugs. "The short answer: yes."

"What’s the long answer?"

"Yes, Crown Prince Arthur, to whom I swear my undying allegiance and loyalty."

He turns to laugh and no one is there.

-

Gaillard sits in the dungeons, dirtier and more worn than he had been at Arthur’s last brief visit. It brings him no joy to see it. He doesn’t revel in others’ suffering. These days, executions in Camelot are private, quick affairs, none of the drawn-out torture of public burnings. The man is covered in scorch marks, but he won’t explain how he got them. Arthur only hopes he isn’t being abused in the dungeons. Torture has yet to be outlawed, but he is in the process of making it so. In the meantime, he tries not to feel too vindictive, even as a part of him recognizes the poetry of Gaillard’s own abuse being reflected back on him. No, he won’t have those thoughts. He is trying to be a good person, he won’t think it, he won’t.

Arthur sees the reflection of Uther more every day he looks into the mirror. There is a part of him that can see just how his father had come to hate and to fear, as the assassination attempts continue and he sees enemies around every corner. A part of him wants someone to take it out on, whether it be Gaillard or any number of other prisoners. They deserve it, don't they? For hurting people? No, Arthur cannot be that man. He had loved his father but he cannot let himself become him.

And yet he fears there is no one to stop him.

-

He sits in his room. George arrives with dinner and sets it beside him, then starts a little fire.

It’s the night time that leaves him to sit with his thoughts. Memories of the past and all the mistakes he’s made. As much as remembering his youth makes him cringe at the self-absorbed man he was back then, he misses those carefree days. He misses Morgana. He misses a feeling he’s not certain he ever had, something that feels just out of reach.

Sometimes, when he sees the way people have suffered, he wishes Uther had died far sooner. When yet another sorcerer comes in the night to kill him, he wishes he had never ended the ban on magic at all, and he’s wretched for thinking it. Sometimes he doesn’t know what to do with himself, curled in bed with his back to the cold wall like a bedmate, and George standing in the corner like he doesn't exist.

“George, either the wood in Camelot is getting wetter, or you’re getting worse at lighting fires,” he says jokingly. Anything to interrupt the silence. George’s fires are weak little things, recently, probably a result of the early snows dampening the wood. “They’ve gone out faster this past few months than ever before.”

“I don’t understand, sire,” he says. Leave it to George to take Arthur completely seriously. “I could not have gotten slower in that time. I was only assigned to you three months ago. Are you sure you’re alright?"

Arthur blinks, uncertain. Perhaps he really is going mad.

He dismisses George for the night.

Something is all wrong, inside him. There is a lack that he can see clearly in the silence of the night. A lack of what is not sure, he only knows that it is an ache that has never been soothed. In a way, he blames his father for that too.

He makes a point to avoid confiding in people. He’s never had anyone he particularly wanted to do that with, anyway. Gwen is his friend, but her relationship with Morgana had always been closer than she had ever gotten with him. He sometimes suspects that everything that had happened with Morgana had made Gwen as wary of trusting others as himself, which had driven the two of them apart; she hardly looks at him anymore.

George obviously wouldn’t be good for it; as sure as Arthur is that he would keep any sensitive information in confidence, he’s also sure that George would offer no interesting or useful input. His knights need to see him as a leader, not a gossip, Gaius is too old and wise to really talk to as an equal without feeling lectured to, and he doesn’t trust anyone else enough to even think of speaking so vulnerably.

No, it’s best if he keeps personal matters to himself. He must only try to keep it from consuming him with fear and loneliness, the way it consumed his predecessor. Some days he feels more successful at this than others.

He blinks at the fireplace. The fire has gone out already, even in the well insulated fireplace that usually stays alight for hours and hours. George really is losing his touch.

Arthur sighs. George isn’t the only one losing it. He gets up and relights the fire himself. He doesn't want to sleep yet, but that will prove more fruitful than continuing to ruminate. He slips under the sheets and closes his eyes.

-

Arthur paces the floor of the room frantically, nerves high as he rants about every anxiety of the day. The meeting had been... not a disaster, but certainly not a success, either. ”I don’t know. Maybe they’re right, the new program is too ambitious. What if it raises taxes too much and no one can afford it? Everyone is doubting me, they all think I’m changing things too fast.”

He sits in the corner, watching Arthur as he raves like a madman, and he sighs. “I’m telling you that you need to have a little faith in yourself. You’ve got this.”

“But--well, what do you think?”

“I think it’s a bloody great idea, Arthur,” he says, eyes shining with sincerity. “It’ll raise taxes, but that’s worth it if the elderly will have something to support them well into old age, and around town people are excited for it. They have faith in you too, because you’re actually looking out for their interests. They love you.”

Arthur couldn’t have done it without him, and he knows it. Every question, every speech on the matter, every late night going over old tax records, he was there to steer Arthur to do the right thing. Even when Arthur didn’t know what the right thing was, he could trust him to be a guide.

“Go polish my armor,” he says, hoping his voice isn’t choked.

He scoffs. "Chores, after I said all those nice things? You are a real arse sometimes."

"You're not allowed to say that," Arthur reminds him.

"Not in front of other people." He gestures around the empty room. "Just like you aren't supposed to talk about how annoying some of your advisors are, but you do, all the time."

"Only to you."

"Yeah," he smiles. "Only to me."

-

It is early morning. He wakes before dawn and paces the kitchens. The cook is staring openly as she makes her preparations for the day, but he can’t be bothered to feel self-conscious.

Something is wrong. There’s something important missing--something just at the tip of his tongue, but he can’t quite remember what.

His eye catches on the doorframe and he pauses. There is a word carved by the door, choppy as if done with a kitchen utensil and worn into the wood as if it had been there for years.

MERLIN

Arthur runs his fingertips over the word. Something about it scratches an itch in his brain. It's a type of bird, isn't it? Or, judging by the names surrounding it, just a very odd name.

“Audrey,” he says. “Who is Merlin? Is that a worker here?” Few servants are literate enough to write. Even knowing how to write their own names is rare, and the steward discourages it as a waste of time.

Arthur pauses. He isn’t sure why he knows that. He files the thought away for later.

The other names are in the same choppy lettering. EWING. GWEN.

“I don’t recall a Merlin ever working here, sire,” Audrey says. “But plenty of servants have their little ones in and out. Could be somebody’s child scratching up my walls.”

"Has it been written elsewhere?"

She gestures to the corner. "Someone did a number on that wall, wish I could catch the brats responsible. The termites have been bad enough recently without people coming in and doing the job themselves."

The far wall indeed has more words.

GWEN the wall says again in cramped, shaky letters.

MERLIN again, beside it. Several times. Both names have been scratched out unsuccessfully, probably by Audrey.

"Whose names is it, Sire?" She’s holding her wooden spoon menacingly, and Arthur doesn’t want to resign Gwen to a spoon smacking, so he doesn't mention her.

"It’s this strange word again: 'Merlin.'"

"Well, rest assured if I see hide nor feather of the bird in here, it will go right into the soup."

He stares at her for a long moment, her forehead wrinkled with anger and her mouth lined from years of scowling. Her eyes crinkle, and he laughs, realizing she was joking.

"I had heard revenge is best served cold."

She laughs and sends him on his way with a portion of oatmeal for his breakfast. Despite the early hour, Arthur is awake.

-

The name doesn’t ring a bell with anyone he asks. No servant remembers, not even Gwen, who also claims she never put her name on any walls, and who is clearly in a rush. He inquires with the few servants that reportedly know how to read or write, and they recall the name only from the various places it is written in the city. He considers following the graffiti to find a clue of Merlin’s whereabouts, but it would take time. Then he steps back and looks at how stupid he’s been to waste his time looking for someone who vandalized a wall when there is no reason to suspect it is important, and he has so much work to do. There’s no way he’s indulging himself in this wild goose chase any longer.

He sighs and sits down in his chambers for long hours of paperwork he’s been avoiding.

A half hour in, he adjusts his legs to try and regain circulation, and his foot nudges against something hard beneath the table. He bends to look. A small leatherbound journal, clearly well-loved, lies open where he has kicked it. He reaches down and flips through the pages.

The first page is just letters and half scribbles, and... that name again, Merlin, over and over.

Why would someone write this so many times? Perhaps the name is some kind of… rune, or a spell, and the repetition casts it? That would explain the strange gaps in his memories and the sudden appearance of things he doesn’t understand. This must be another assassination attempt. He glances around suspiciously, ensuring he is alone. He turns the page.

...The alphabet.

Though he is undoubtedly alone, his face warms in embarrassment at his paranoia. Whoever had this journal last had been learning to write, which explains the name and the illegible scribbles. He flips through. The alphabet again, some small sentences. Halfway through, the person seems to get the hang of it and begins writing in it in earnest, though the handwriting is still sloppy and nigh unreadable. They’ve written quite a lot. Quite a lot about… oh. About Arthur.

Arthur is being a prat to day. Wont let me go with him. I will be borde to death.

And, to his surprise, Arthurs own handwriting accompanies it at the bottom of the page.

You won’t be bored. I’ll be gone two days, and I’ve made you a list of plenty of chores to fill the time, not even including your writing practice that you constantly neglect. -Arthur

Despite the seeming coldness of the words, he senses a fondness there that is foreign to him. He’s never been close enough to anyone to direct their damn writing practice! There is a clue there, too. He must have been a servant after all, if Arthur was directing him to do chores. But why was he teaching a servant to write?

More pages of terrible drawings. A brief conversation about getting Merlin a new training sword. An entire page of Arthur’s name. Arthur’s writing again, with gentle corrections and small notes telling Merlin to stop wasting good paper with idiotic art when Arthur is using his valuable time and paper to teach him to write.

So Merlin is a person after all.

A knock interrupts his reading. He slams the book and shoves it under the table.

"Come in," he calls.

George steps inside and bows. Absently, Arthur reaches out to ruffle his hair.

George freezes. Arthur freezes.

He snatches his hand back and coughs awkwardly.

"Apologies, I--" I thought you were someone else. "--didn't sleep well last night."

"Shall I have Adelaide send up a sleeping drought, Sire?"

"Adelaide?"

"Gaius’ assistant."

Arthur remembers now. He had hired them himself. "Yes. Right. Do that."

George bows again. It's getting a bit excessive at this point. Arthur goes back to reading through tax documents and George makes the bed in silence. At some point he falls asleep.

-

He didn’t bring much with him to Camelot. Arthur notices this early, from the way he wears the same clothing every day, that stupid threadbare neckerchief and his sorry-looking boots. It’s confirmed again when he sees his room, the way all his belongings fit neatly into two boxes. None of it is laid out or put away, as if he’s planning to leave at any moment. It strikes Arthur as odd, but everything about the man is odd, so he writes it off as a character quirk. It could be many things: he hasn’t unpacked yet, he’s planning on quitting and leaving, he’s moving to a different room, his things are stored somewhere else.

As months go by, though, each visit to his room reveals it the same sparse area as it has remained since his arrival. He asks why, and the man tells him he can’t afford much as he’s sending money home to his mother. This does not answer his question, but it does raise more.

Soon after, Arthur begins buying him things whenever he can. Small things that are easily received, larger things that make them fight because he thinks Arthur is ‘flaunting his wealth’ by buying him a thick blanket and a few sets of new boots and a custom made dagger and--alright, he’s flaunting his wealth. That’s half of what being royalty is all about, isn’t it? Twenty-year old Arthur thinks so.

He doesn’t think so, apparently. He keeps living out of his boxes, and Arthur has seen him tuck his blanket in the box in the morning instead of leaving it on the bed, and roll up the rug Arthur gave him to put that in the box too, and it’s so incredibly frustrating and he doesn’t know why. But all he can do is steadily fill the boxes in hopes that one day they might overflow, and he might be forced to leave the blanket on the bed and put his clothes away in the closet, like Camelot is a place he would consider putting down roots, because… because...Arthur doesn’t know why it’s so important, it just is.

And then it happens.

The first time he leaves his socks by Arthur’s hearth, Arthur is thrilled. He says nothing, letting them sit there for a day and a half first, like it needs to settle in before he can call attention to it. It’s too fragile to touch. Or is it stranger to say nothing? He mentions it as casually as he knows how.

“Not only do you not clean in here, now you’re bringing your own mess?”

He startles and looks up. Arthur points at the socks and he only grins, the smile of someone who thinks they are about to get away with something. Not an expression common to servants who disobey in Camelot, but Arthur has learned that this one has yet to understand how things are around here.

“Hey, if I ever decide to quit this measly paying job, you’ll have these socks to remember me by,” he says, slingshotting the dirty sock at Arthur’s head.

“I’m sure I won’t need a reminder of your terrible service.” He catches it easily, and flings it back. He’s definitely sending him to the stocks. He’s never had a servant so brazen and disrespectful. “You’re quite unforgettable.”

The next day another sock sits wadded by his chair. Arthur leaves it there.

-

He puts out a notice, framing it as a malady. A group delusion. Anyone who has experienced symptoms of strange, missing, or foggy memories must report to the castle to be examined.

Gaius is unimpressed.

"Please, Gaius, I don’t expect many replies."

Gaius peers out the door and raises a brow. "Sire, I think you’d better take a look at this."

Arthur stands and takes a look outside. A line has formed all the way round the corner, and if he stretches his neck, it goes even further. It seems many people are afflicted with this malady.

"Ah," he says weakly.

-

There are a few common ones. No one can remember where the well in the lower town came from, or who treated their wounds before Gaius' new assistant was hired. One stable boy is missing entire mornings from his memories, and the stables have reportedly become far less clean than usual--though Arthur suspects that might be a result of the stableboy not doing his job. Extra items have been found around town that no one could recall buying, like extra food and soaps and seeds for gardening, and that name, Merlin, carved and scratched and written all around the city.

"It’s been an odd few weeks," mutters the woman miserably. "Some angel has blessed us with extra things, but an evil force has taken the soil’s fertility and the plentiful waters away. I think it’s something in the water. Bad miasmas, Sire. Me ‘n my wife think it’s a warning from the angels,” she whispers conspiratorially.

"I see," he says, though he doesn’t. Whatever is going on in Camelot, he knows it's connected to this Merlin.

-
He reads the journal often, entertained and confused and irritated in turns as he goes through it.

Where is my hairbrush? -Arthur

I have it in my room. Told you yesterday cabbage head.

An illustration of a man, presumably Arthur, with a cabbage for a head. He pauses.

He wants to be angry, because this--this servant seems like an obnoxious person with no sense of boundaries or respect, and a terrible servant all around. Hiding his King’s hairbrush? George would never.Even if he sits at a round table now, with equality among his people, there is still a certain respect one gives! There must be distance between a King and his subjects. Certainly none of these playful insults and wrestling, of all the undignified, inappropriate things to do. Merlin, a servant, shows no respect for Arthur at all, and yet Arthur finds himself oddly attached to the fellow’s antics...

He turns the page, and the next, becoming increasingly invested as the two of them talk to each other through the pages.

I am glad to have this journel. Arthur is the greatest man I have known and every day I am proud of who he becoms. I have faithe that Arthur will make a great king, and I will always serve him loyaly. Unless he gets killed being foolish or gives me chores or succumbs to chronic terminal clotpole disease.

That’s the longest and most grammatically correct sentence I’ve ever seen you construct. Unfortunately it is still incoherent. -Arthur

Its a real disease. sereously ask Gaius

His heart beats fast. Even through the text, he knows himself. If he had been offered that kind of friendship he would have… done anything for it. Would have wanted it more than anything. He can read it in his own writing.

It all makes sense. He hadn’t been off base when he thought it was sorcery. Whoever had erased his memories had done so strategically, removing his memories of this Merlin because he was important to Arthur somehow. Perhaps Merlin had political sway? That would explain all the extra supplies left around and public works, like the well.

He turns the page again. There is another drawing, not a doodle this time but a page of thoughtfully-rendered sketches of Arthur, sitting by the fire, on the bed and the floor. They aren’t skillful but there is care to them, as someone spent time getting the details precisely accurate.

He traces the lines with his finger and pulls back, afraid of smudging the charcoal. These pages are not wrinkled or torn like the others, or stained with spilled drops of wine, but flattened carefully as if someone had preserved them to look at in later times. Was it Merlin, wanting to look upon Arthur even when they were apart? Or was it Arthur, entranced by those soft charcoal lines that made him softer than he ever was in reality, a reminder of the way he was seen and loved by another person? Because it was love, wasn't it, that he had and lost without ever knowing?

What was it like, he wonders. What was he like? He may never know what it felt like to love someone and be loved in return. All his life he had been resigned to that fact, but now, it's laid before him just out of his reach, and the lack is like a bucket of ice water upended over him. Arthur had been loved. Arthur had been able to… be close with someone. Wrestle, and talk, and tease each other with inside jokes that Arthur doesn’t even understand now, and this Merlin had said he believed in him and called him foolish in the same sentence, had drawn him for what must have been hours, had filled an entire book with devotion. It's overwhelming. It's baffling. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with all of it.

Holding the book reverently, he vows to do everything in his power to get his memories back.

-

Gaius doesn't remember his previous assistant, and for a moment he is alarmed, thinking his old age is getting to him, until Arthur explains the situation. Adelaide and Gaius are both skeptical, though Adelaide says it makes a lot of sense, as their predecessor was supposed to train them and never showed up on their first day. He needs them to allow him to look at Adelaide's room for traces of whomever last lived there.

“Was there anything in the room when you first moved in?"

“I only moved in about a month ago, so whoever lived there before may have gotten mostly everything. There was a box of papers, I believe. A patient left some letters in there; I was going to throw them out but Gaius insisted on keeping them in case someone came back for them. He’s kind that way, always looking out for everybody. Last week, a man came in with a goat and he said the funniest thing--”

“Where are they?” Adelaide can be a rambler, he is finding out, but he can't even be mad at them for it, because at least they're more excited about doing their job than most people in this godforsaken castle.

"Where are what, Sire?"

"The letters."

“Oh, I have no idea. You’re welcome to look, but I’m not the neatest person, your Majesty, and we have a lot of people in and out of here. There are papers scattered all about.”

“I’m sure it’s no problem,” he says, opening the door a crack. Adelaide reaches out a hand to stop him but it is too late, a veritable wave of clutter avalanches past him onto the floor. "Ah."

This may prove more difficult than he thought.

-

Gaius has a great deal of interesting literature, and an even greater deal of incredibly boring literature. That name, Merlin, has come up again and again in his notes and documents, except for the ones from recent months. ‘Merlin delivered the poultice to the lower town.’ ‘Remind Merlin to gather clover and cricket legs.’ Occasionally, less formal notes. ‘Send Merlin to see Hunith for the week. Mother’s day,Ealdor, 3 day’. ‘Merlin- CLEAN LEECH TANK. IMMEDIATELY,” followed by a picture of a leech tank. Gaius is no artist. Thoughtful, though, to keep in mind that his assistant struggled with reading and might need visuals.

Nothing especially useful has come up. He’s been through nearly everything in the whole room, now, and is near to giving up when he sees it. A small box, tucked into the corner under the bed.

He opens it. Inside are stacks of papers, crinkled as if they had been crumpled into balls and smoothed out again.

He flips through the stack. Some of them say nothing. Some have the beginnings of sentences, but nothing else, or furious scribbles over whatever they used to say. All of them begin with Arthur’s name. They’re letters, just like Adelaide had said.

Dear Arthur,

-

Your Majesty King Arthur,

-

I know it is th

-

Turniphead,

I have to tell you this. You are

Entire paragraphs are scratched out completely on this one, and he can’t make out any of the words under the ink.

Finally, he finds one with more than a single sentence.

Arthur,

If you’re reading this it means either I actually gave it to you, which would mean I am a lot braver in the future than I am now--Or you somehow found it on your own, in which case I beg you not to read it.

Well, he’s obviously going to read it now. Ordinarily he would respect privacy, but there’s every possibility Merlin is dead, or being held somewhere in need of help, or so far away Arthur could never hope to find out the full truth. If this chance will help Arthur unravel the mystery, he has to take it.

There are things I’ve done that I couldn’t say to your face and for that I apologize. I know this is the coward’s way out. That’s the way I’ve taken every time. I’m sorry, Arthur, for everything. You don’t even know what I’m sorry for and that makes it worse.

The page is warped there like liquid had touched the paper. Arthur’s stomach sinks, dread filling him as he reads on.

Even in writing I can’t tell you everything. I know you have questions. So I will lay out what I can and you can fill in the gaps. I have protected you all this time, as you know. I have also killed many people, and attempted to kill far more. I have kept secrets from you since we met. I have gone behind your back constantly and deliberately and done things to hurt you and your loved ones an

It cuts off there and does not continue. Arthur flips it several times just to be sure there are no parts he is missing.

He should have expected this. Merlin had betrayed him. It explains why Merlin would erase everyone’s memory on the way out instead of simply going. He was trying to get away with his crimes, whatever they were. Murder, obviously, but the rest is vague enough to leave him guessing. He had hurt Arthur’s loved ones, but what loved ones did he have to hurt anymore? He couldn’t have done anything to Gwen or the knights, he sees them frequently. The citizens of Camelot as a whole, perhaps, that could be the cause of the recent drought and crop infertility. Was he truly Arthur’s friend at all, or just another man getting close to him on a quest for vengeance like so many others left in Uther’s wake?

Something doesn’t add up. He doesn’t sound vengeful. Why would he write this note, which sounds so burdened with his actions? How could he keep up the ruse with Arthur for so long? Maybe he put Arthur under an enchantment.

Arthur won’t let him get away with it, whatever it is. He will track him down and get answers.

Gaius’ notes had mentioned a relation: Hunith of Ealdor. He’s familiar with the town, a tiny place on the edge of the lands of Essetir. It’s a few days’ travel, but this merits his attention. An unknown sorcerer forcefully erasing the King’s memory is grounds for imprisonment, if not execution. By all means he should be bringing his knights along to ensure his capture, but this is personal. It’s something he has to do alone.

That's why he's going, he tells himself. For answers, that's all.

He leaves at dawn.

Chapter Text

As Arthur begins his journey, things return in bits and pieces, as though his memory loss was tied to the castle, fading slowly as he moves toward the outside of Camelot.

Merlin was taller than him, which was endlessly annoying. He had surprisingly good teeth. He could whistle extremely well.

None of it is useful for anything, except to give him a headache. It still doesn’t answer the question of why Arthur had trusted Merlin, or how Merlin had betrayed him, or why any of this is happening. As often as he’s pored over the pages of the journal, Arthur still can’t make sense of it. The most he can surmise is that something happened between them, causing Merlin to take drastic measures to escape. Had Arthur done something?

No, if it were his fault, Merlin wouldn't have written that letter. Or... maybe he would have. Arthur doesn't know, he has only wisps, strings of memories that lead nowhere but the edges of a story. Without the knowledge of Merlin's tendencies or their history, he can't tell what would make Merlin do something like this.

He urges Llamrei through a snowbank, pulling his scarf further over his face against the snow as memories continue to come back.

Merlin frequently had to visit the stocks. Merlin had a freckle on his neck.

He rides up to the gate and the guards nod at him, letting him through. Arthur is finally out of the city boundaries.

The next memory hits like a blow to the head.

-

His socks are scattered across the room, and his books and his half-finished writing practice. Merlin has half moved into Arthur’s room at this point, and has developed a bit of entitlement about the whole thing, lying on Arthur's bed and putting his feet up, whining when they run out of firewood as if it's not his own job to fetch more.

Arthur stands over Merlin where he sits barefoot at the hearth, setting up wood for a fire. Merlin turns, holding out his hand, and though Arthur can’t make out his face, he knows he’s smiling expectantly. Arthur looks down and he’s holding the wineskin, ready to pour a cup. He pours, hands steady despite the way he can hear his pulse thumping in his ears.

They do this often. It’s becoming a habit, dare he say, even a tradition. When it gets cold out, he curls up by the fire with one of Arthur's blankets and a bowl of dried fruit, and Arthur pretends to work while watching out of the corner of his eye, pleased at the state of things.

Merlin sips his drink, nearly empty, and sets it aside to light the fire. He struggles with it for a few minutes, and then does something to finally make it spark. Arthur nudges him to offer more drink and, absently, Merlin turns to look up at him.

His eyes are gold, and Arthur freezes, thinking of magic, the force that slaughtered so many and corrupted even the gentlest of people. His eyes flicker to his sword where it sits against the wall, and for a second he thinks of taking it up in self-defense, because there is a sorcerer in his room and he is dangerous.

The gold fades and the soft blue is back. Merlin gives one of his stupid grins and downs the last sip from his cup. He takes the wine skin from Arthur’s frozen hand and pours himself more. The fire crackles merrily on.

Arthur doesn’t move. A trick of the firelight, he tells himself. Maybe he had only imagined it. Or maybe he hadn’t. If he hadn’t, then… what? There are two things he believes in more than anything: his father’s ideals, and Merlin's good heart. If the two are at odds, then one must be false. He cannot bring himself to doubt either.

Arthur will think of it again later, privately, at great length, and he will look at himself in the mirror like he’s seen his reflection for the first time. He will think of it again as he grows older and wiser and more exhausted with the way things are, and he will be quietly devastated.

But at this moment, he has no such thoughts. He only looks at Merlin, and thinks that he is hogging all of the wine, that he smells terrible from mucking the stables earlier in the day, and that his eyes match the fire exactly.

-

Arthur gasps as he surfaces from the memory, and barely manages to cling to Llamrei’s back without falling. She protests, swinging her mane as he tries to get his balance back.

“Whoa, girl,” he says, soothing her. "Steady."

He feels like he's just run a mile. He treks on, wondering if he ought to tie himself to the saddle lest he fall and become stranded in the snow with no horse. The memories don’t falter in intensity.

-

Merlin's tongue pokes out in concentration as he finishes writing his last sentence. He’s holding the pencil wrong, and Arthur has told him a thousand times.

"You need to hold your hands steady," he scolds.

"Yours are steady enough to do it for both of us," He doesn't mean it as an innuendo, but Arthur feels his face heat.

Merlin pats his hand absently and it tingles at the touch. Arthur blinks at it, mesmerized.

“You alright?”

“Hm?” he looks up. “Quite.”

Merlin looks skeptical, but shrugs. He’s good at reading Arthur. He’s been too busy to spend much time with Merlin outside of their respective duties, and the heaviness of responsibility has been a weight alongside his father’s recent death. Arthur has much to think about. He hadn’t expected his father to go so soon, and he’s still trying to sort out what kind of ruler he needs to be, how much of Uther’s legacy he wants to continue.

Every day feels like a betrayal of his dead father, and a reparation to his subjects all at once. Merlin knows this, they’ve discussed it often, and in every case he has ended up following Merlin’s advice to do right by the people of Camelot. He’s learned not to ignore Merlin’s advice, as it is often the soundest of any he receives.

“If there’s anything you ever want to talk about, we can. I’m told I’m a great listener. You can tell I’m great at it because I remembered they told me that,” he jokes.

“You’d better be, with ears like those.”

“People like them!”

“Sure,” he says with faux skepticism. He’s well aware that people like them. He is a person too, after all.

Merlin shoves him, and Arthur shoves back. Then Merlin stops, and gets that look he gets when he’s about to say something actually insightful.

“I meant it, though. We can talk anytime.”

“I know, Merlin,” he says. And he does. At times like these, after years of friendship, Merlin’s capacity for compassion still takes him by surprise. He taps the paper and Merlin looks away, back to writing.

-

The distance between Camelot and Ealdor seems to stretch on forever. Arthur thinks to turn back several times, but decides against it. It is not the longest journey he has taken, not even close. So why does it feel insurmountable?

-

Merlin rubs his wrists, likely sore from the stocks. Arthur can’t believe he’s gone and done something so reckless yet again.

“That’ll be the last time you disobey me,” Arthur says furiously.

“Not even close,” says Merlin.

They glare at each other, and for a moment, Arthur seriously considers sacking him. For a second, longer moment, he considers that Merlin might be worth keeping around forever.

-

The snow covers everything, and he puts on gloves to prevent frostbite. He is past the halfway point, he notes, checking his map. Yet there is still a ways to go.

-

Merlin is always touching him, and talking to him, and giving unsolicited advice, and chasing after him into danger with absolutely no weapon to speak of. He’s not sure what to make of it.

No one has ever been like this with Arthur. He can take many things, having been trained as a warrior and negotiator since childhood. He doesn't know how to take this.

-

He feels like he's going mad.

-

While Merlin’s not looking, Arthur drinks the entire chalice, poisoned or not, because he’s not going to sit here and watch him die.

-

He can hardly breathe between memories. They come faster the further he gets from Camelot, disjointed and out of order, spanning the course of years.

-

Merlin begs him not to trust Lord Agravaine, and he scoffs, because he won’t trust the word of a servant over his uncle, even if that servant is Merlin.

-

He makes camp and starts again at dawn.

-

He throws the goblet at Merlin's head, as he has so many times before when he’s bored or frustrated or needs a bit of entertainment. Merlin hadn’t shown up to serve him dinner last night and was incredibly late to work this morning, so it serves him right. It hits with a resounding thunk and Merlin doesn’t make a sound. That takes the fun out of it. He usually shouts obscenities and gets so worked up.

Arthur glances over to where Merlin stands, sweeping the same spot over and over and staring into space like he’s haunted. As if only just realizing what’s happened, Merlin reaches up to touch his forehead, where a bruise is already forming. He prods the spot and hisses quietly, and then he continues his wordless sweeping. Arthur could comment on his strange behavior, but he suddenly feels he has no right to ask. If something were really wrong, Merlin would tell him.

He resolves to stop throwing things at Merlin. He wonders why Merlin never stopped him before.

-

He drinks from his waterskin as he goes. He tries to ration out his food, but finds his appetite fluctuating. Perhaps it is nerves.

-

Arthur watches, everything moving slowly like a nightmare, as Merlin drinks the entire chalice of poison and makes the most horrible, wet, gasping noises before falling to the floor in a heap, and for the first time in his life he wonders whether his father might be evil.

-

He looks at Merlin fondly as he pours him a drink.

-

He looks at Merlin desperately as he walks to his death.

-

He looks at Merlin just for the sake of looking, and they make eye contact only to break it straightaway in embarrassment.

-

Oh, he thinks. So that’s what it feels like.

His hands are fisted white-knuckled in the reins, and he notes that they’ve veered off course. He steers Llamrei correct and prays he isn’t assaulted by so much information in a short period again. The cacophony of emotions has him nauseated and thrilled all at once.

Merlin didn't betray him at all. The very idea is absurd, he would never, and if Arthur had his full mind he would have dismissed the mere idea immediately. Arthur trusts him with his life and his heart, and anything he has, and... god, he remembers that much but he doesn't even remember Merlin’s voice, or basic information. How did they meet? Why would a sorcerer come to Camelot?

He can't see his face in his memories; there's a silhouette of emptiness replacing his figure as if he was torn out of the past. It hurts to think about his appearance or to force himself to remember beyond what he already has. Arthur is left with only more questions, because if Merlin didn't betray him and run--and he is quite certain of that--then there is something else at play. He had spent years treating Merlin terribly. It would serve him right if Merlin had simply become fed up. A self-deprecating part of Arthur whispers to him that it must be his fault, that he makes people he loves tire of him or betray him. He’s just like--

He's getting off the subject.

If it were up to Arthur he wouldn’t remember any of it until he actually finds him, because none of this is of use. It only shows him how he lacks and he never even knew. There is an ache in the pit in his stomach where there was something, and now there is an echo of what was.

What if he can’t find him, and it’s like this forever, caught half between memory and forgetting? What if he forgets it all again and he goes back to Camelot and lives the rest of his life without knowing what’s gone?

What if he finds him, and the answers he gets aren't the ones he wants to hear?

Arthur treks on. The snow falls.

-

Ealdor is a pleasant little place. No one is likely to recognize him so far from Camelot, but he pulls his hood up as he enters the tavern anyway. It pays to be careful, especially when he had told so few people where he was headed.

Arthur sighs, slumping against the bar. He has a drink to calm his nerves. The memories have slowed now, and for that he is grateful. He closes his eyes to block out the light, which is worsening the residual throbbing in his temples.

A hand touches his back and his eyes shoot open again.

"What's the matter?" a quiet voice asks. Arthur hurriedly pulls his hood further over his face as a villager sits down beside him, smelling ripe. How humiliating that every villager in this place has seen him moping in public. He should have saved it for his room in the inn.

"It's... nothing. It's complicated.”

"Is it nothing, or is it complicated?"

He rolls his eyes, and then remembers that the villager can't see him doing so. He can't be annoyed at the intrusive questions, he reminds himself. He is not King Arthur right now, merely a traveling stranger on a quest.

"Nothing I want to tell, I've just had an... odd few months."

"Tell me about it," sighs the stranger, scratching his chin absently. "I've got nothing but time. C'mon--buy you a drink?"

He chanced a quick glance at the fellow, a manure-smelling man in ratty clothing who despite having turned to order another drink, still has his hand firmly on Arthur's back. Absurdly, jealousy spikes in him. Peasants touch each other easily, like every one of them is a friend to the rest. Sometimes Arthur wishes he could have been born someone else, that he could share in such things.

The villager turns back around, and even in the dim lighting his smile is bright.

"So what's your story, traveler? Your clothes are too fine for a place like this, you must be here for a reason."

What is his story? He hadn't planned out what he would tell villagers in Ealdor. It would be unwise to share everything, or even most of it. Especially his identity. He can twist it into something easy to tell.

"Love troubles,” he blurts. Not his best, though it is technically accurate. “My…" servant? Merlin? What? "love, er, left,” he blurts, then cringes.

After this, he must think up a better story, because this is a truly awful effort. He blames his headache.

The man nods, scratching his stubbled chin. “There’s a story I’ve heard before. Could be for the best. I was in love once or twice," he rambles, bumping Arthurs shoulder conspiratorially.

He must be drunker than Arthur had initially thought, or just incredibly chatty. Arthur couldn’t imagine sharing personal information with someone he had just met. Then again, he is a King, and peasants don’t have assassins looking for their loved ones, so there’s nothing to lose. "It's a pretty interesting story, actually; my first love killed my second. Love is a curse, eh? But there are worse curses."

Somehow Arthur doubts the man's story is quite as interesting as his own, but he isn't here to commiserate about romantic woes.

The man keeps rambling on. “You know, someone once told me that no man is worth tears. Or… I suppose it applies to women, too, or anyone--”

He doesn’t seem to be reaching a stopping point. Perhaps Arthur will have to be more forthcoming to receive help on this venture.

Arthur cuts him off. "I'm actually here looking for him.”

"Sorry, I can't hear you very well. You're muffled," he gestures at Arthur's hood.

He takes it off. It's warm enough inside, and it's not like anyone here will recognize him on sight, unbathed and far from home, in the dim lighting of a tavern. Don't be paranoid, he reminds himself. No one will know.

"I said I'm here looking for him. I don't suppose you've met anyone named Merlin, have you?"

"I--'' the villager says faintly, staring at Arthur like he's grown a second head. Then he picks up his drink and downs it in one go. "What?"

"Merlin. Like the bird. He used to work in Camelot--'' Arthur winces, because he doesn't want to reveal anything, have anyone asking more questions, but it could jog someone's memory. "--and now I have reason to believe he’s here."

"Why are you looking for him? There's plenty of fine men to choose from here. Who wouldn't want a man like yourself?" He laughs, a strange, nervous sound, but his gaze flickers up and down Arthur's body in genuine appraisal.

Arthur is starting to become annoyed. "That's very flattering, but I already told you I'm spoken for, and I have eyes for no other. So if you have no information, I'll ask someone else. Thank you for the drink." Arthur stands and turns to go. It's half a bluff; if he can't find anyone else that recognizes the name, he'll come back. But the villager clambers to his feet.

"I know where he is," he blurts.

He turns back around, suspicious. “Where?”

“...Out of town.” Right. Arthur crosses his arms, unimpressed. He's trying to lead Arthur on a fruitless journey in hopes of getting paid for his help. Arthur isn't naive; he's been on many similar escapades, and met many people with the same goal.

Arthur hums. “Then I will wait here until he returns.”

The man scoffs. “You are really serious about this, aren't you?”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“I don't know,” he says softly.

Arthur could seek information elsewhere, because this man is drunk and acting a bit mad, but if he leaves him he may not be able to find a new lead. And if he is unable to find him again, he will be back to nothing. If this fellow truly knows where Merlin could be, he needs his help.

If Merlin is truly out of town, Arthur can remain in the area for a few days to see if he comes back before Arthur must return to Camelot. It will do no harm to wait.

"How about you take me to his home? I'll pay you." The upfront promise of payment should encourage honesty.

The man nods and walks out of the tavern. Arthur follows behind.

They walk in silence for a while. The cobblestone path turns to dirt road, then to nothing.

"How much further?" Arthur asks. "I can hardly tell it's a path."

"That's rural areas for you. Probably another ten minutes’ walk."

The silence is becoming awkward. "So, what do you do here?"

The man sighs. "Not nearly what I used to. I'm retired." Arthur thinks he looks rather young to be retired, and he must sense this, because he continues. "My body isn't what it used to be. I had an accident, and I can't exactly work the fields anymore. Too many aches and pains. Now I do a lot of fishing and standing about."

"I'm sorry."

"It's in the past. Fishing is good, here, plenty of… fish. To catch." He coughs, reddening. "And what do you do?"

"I work in Camelot."

"The big city. That sounds important." He waggles his eyebrows, and Arthur laughs. "Did you and, er, Merlin work there together?"

"We did. How do you know him?"

"Everyone knows everyone, in a town like this. He moved back recently after he quit his job."

"Did he say anything about Camelot?" He wants to ask more, what he looks like and whether he had talked about Arthur and why he had left, and why the memory loss apparently hadn't affected the people living here since the man could remember--or maybe it was because they met him afterward. To ask would only prompt questions, and ruin Arthur's anonymity.

The villager frowns in deep thought. "Only that he loved his job very much, and he wished he'd said goodbye. We had a very enlightening conversation about the whole thing, and it--it seemed like it was time for him to go. He loved being your servant, but he didn't want to go back."

Finally, some answers. Arthur latches on immediately. "Did he say why not?"

"I don't know," he sighs again, and looks anywhere but at Arthur. "His time there was finished, I suppose. That's life, one day you're here and then you aren't, and the world moves on without you." He says nothing more, and the two walk in silence, listening to the crunch of snow under their feet.

Finally, they arrive at a little cottage. The two of them enter the front door and sit inside at the little table. There's a fireplace and a kettle beside it. Quaint.

"Here we are." The man sits at the table and slumps into a chair, watching Arthur like a hawk. "I never asked you exactly what your business was with him."

He shouldn't say anything. This man is a stranger, after all, and could have bad intentions, or tell someone and spread rumors. But the man has an awkward, gentle sort of face, and he's been friendly thus far, and it's been so long since Arthur had someone to talk to. He has been trying to be more trusting of people. They're in the middle of nowhere, who is he going to tell? Merlin may well have told the whole story anyway, it sounds like he had told the villager a great deal.

"I don't remember. That’s why I’m here. There was--something happened, and I…" Arthur chokes on the words, so simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar, as he's been alone forever and has loved Merlin forever in his two clashing sets of memories. "I needed him, and he went away. Things aren’t right without him in Camelot. I need to know where he is so I can make things right. I can’t function without him.”

The man taps on the table with his fingers, a nervous pattern.“That sounds unhealthy. Maybe the two of you are better apart.”

“You don't know that," he scoffs.

"I've been in similar situations. Sometimes it’s better to be apart. If he left without contacting you, it probably means he doesn't want to see you again.”

"You don't understand,” he snaps. “If that’s what he wants I’ll leave him to it, but I need to know why, and at least say goodbye, and tell him that I- what he means to me. I wouldn't be where I am without him.”

“How can you put all that on one person? Who’s to say you're not forgetting all the bad that he's done?”

Arthur pauses. What an odd thing to say. “Do you hate him or something? Why are you saying this?” This whole conversation has been strange. He didn't stop to think about it before, too caught up in the thrill of being so close to getting his answers, but… “This isn’t his house. You came right in the door, and knew where everything was. This is your house, and-" He thinks back over what the man had said. He loved being your servant."You know who I am. Who are you really?”

Arthur's sword is instantly at the man's throat. He's been an idiot, following a stranger into the woods on a tip that could have been a total lie.

The man has the nerve to put up his hands pleadingly, like Arthur is being unreasonable.

“Arthur, it’s not a trap--”

“What have you done with him?”

“I haven’t done anything!”

“I don't believe that for a second. You will tell me what I need to know, and then I may let you live.”

Arthur leads him to the wall, sword still at his throat, to take the length of rope from the hook by the door. The man swallows, holding out his wrists to be tied, eyes not leaving Arthur's face for a second even as Arthur secures the rope around his wrists.

“He’s not the man you think he is. Merlin has committed more crimes than you know. Did he tell you he got his best friend killed here? Will, he used to live around here too.”

"Liar." He remembers Will. He had died a warrior, using magic for the good of his community. Arthur knows that much, even if he doesn't recall Merlin's presence at the time.

Light surges from his hands and he breaks loose from the rope. He’s a sorcerer--that will make this all the more difficult. Arthur quickly tackles him to the floor, pinning him down. Arthur has no iron to hold him, so if this man truly wants to escape and kill him he could.

“Tell me where he is," he demands desperately. All he has are words, now, to convince him. His chance of finding Merlin may well go out the window if he escapes, assuming the man leaves him alive.

“Why do you want him back so badly?”

“Because I need to know,” he grits out, the statement humiliating in its honesty. He has to know, if it's the last thing he does, he has to know. “I just want to know who he was. He owes me that much.”

The man stops struggling. The two of them look at each other for a long moment, and he sighs.

"Damn it," says the man. His eyes glow gold once again and Arthur's forehead begins to ache, pressure building behind his skull and temples and his head is splitting open in pain, pain, pain-

-

He stumbles backwards as years of memories flood into his head like puzzle pieces slotting into place, and suddenly he is whole again, he remembers--

Everything.

Chapter Text

This isn’t how he wanted this day to go. Arthur wasn’t supposed to come looking for him, or even know there was a him to look for. Merlin’s not prepared for this confrontation in the slightest, but at the same time he wants nothing more than to look at Arthur’s face for just a few moments longer before the inevitable.

He really has bungled the whole thing at every step. He could have given Arthur bad advice and sent him searching all the wrong places, and escaped before Arthur realized who he was. He could have let Arthur use that sword, desperate as he is. Merlin has half a mind to forget the ordeal and bolt while Arthur is distracted by the pain of his memory returning, but Arthur quickly gets a hold of himself, forcing Merlin to deal with the consequences of his own actions. Fine. Merlin wouldn’t have left anyway, and he knows it. Arthur is right, Merlin owes him an explanation, at least.

Arthur stands. Blood trickles from his nose, and there’s an emotion on his face Merlin has never seen there before as he strides toward Merlin with intent. Merlin scrambles backward, trying to keep space between them. With Arthur’s memories back in his head, he’s got to be furious right now, and rightfully so. Merlin has betrayed Arthur’s trust for the final time. This is the inevitable outcome, but he’s still hoping that… something. He doesn’t know what he’s hoping.

“Wait, wait, just let me explain--”

His back hits the wall and he closes his eyes, waiting, accepting his fate whether it comes in the form of a closed fist or an open one.

He waits a moment longer.

Merlin dares to crack an eye and suddenly warm arms are surrounding him in a hug. Arthur holds him and breathes like he’s inhaling him, though that can’t be the case, because Merlin smells like farm animals and mud, nothing a royal nose would enjoy. Still, Arthur's face is planted firmly into his shoulder like he never plans to move again. The two of them sit there for long minutes, the sound of their drawn breaths the only thing between them. Arthurs breath is heavy and irregular, almost like crying. Merlin says nothing, bemused by the situation and unwilling to be the first to let go.

Finally Arthur leans back, and Merlin is certain he’s finally going to start yelling, but he only brushes Merlin’s damp, sweaty hair back with a hand.

“I missed you,” he says.

That’s it. Merlin shoves him off. “What is going on?”

Arthur sits up from his newfound place on the floor with a scowl of disbelief. That's better. Now he knows what to expect. “What’s going on with me? I’m not the one who swanned off for months and erased everyone’s memories!”

“I was going to restore them eventually," he mumbles, unconvincing even to his own ears, given that it’s been months and he hasn’t felt any closer to ending his self-exile.

“In a decade? Or more like a century?” He shakes his head. “I don’t want to fight. God, I know we never talk about anything important but for once, let’s discuss this like adults.”

“‘This?’” He knows exactly what “this” is. He’s putting off the inevitable. And Arthur's yelling is music to his ears after so long without.

“All of it! I couldn’t put it together, because I didn’t have my whole head, but now--something was going on with you before you ran off, and I’d thought it was my fault because I told you to take time off--and you obviously took that request in the most extreme way possible--but from your letters, I believe it’s some kind of misplaced guilt."

“It’s not misplaced.” He read the letters? How embarrassing.

“I would have no way of knowing, would I, because you never tell me anything!" he snaps. Merlin flinches. "No, I'm sorry. That's not fair. I’m sorry you thought you had to hide from me, or run, or whatever this is."

"Stop apologizing," Merlin says. "We both know I'm the one who should be sorry, but I'm not. I would do it again in a heartbeat."

Arthur throws up his hands. "There you go again, doing whatever you please and leaving me behind. I used to think we were best friends." Merlin’s throat closes up at the past tense, as deserved as it is. A stupid thing to be upset over, given that he had honestly not expected to see Arthur again, before today. "How would you feel if I told you I've been throwing myself into danger for you, and when you tried to get me to stop, I disappeared without a trace? You never involve me in any of your decisions, and all of your decisions are suicidal or mad!"

"I’ve managed myself. You don’t know what I've had to do. If you did, you wouldn’t want to be involved, I swear that." Merlin always handled the darker, more complicated situations.

"I can make that decision for myself."

Merlin shrugs. They're talking in circles, and he’s still against the wall, sitting on the hard floor, which is beginning to irritate his bad shoulder. It’s awfully cold.

“I’m tired, Arthur,” he says, willing Arthur to understand.

Arthur reaches out again and Merlin lets himself be taken into another hug, even as it feels like it’s breaking him, to allow himself a moment of this comfort. It’s not fair--having Arthur, almost having Arthur, not having him at all--none of it feels permanent.

Arthur never used to hug him like this. He never used to hold him at all unless Merlin was gravely hurt or upset. He wonders what has changed. Merlin waits a long moment for Arthur to let go, but he never does. Finally Merlin takes initiative and extracts himself. Arthur lets go with obvious reluctance.

Merlin stands, gesturing to the table. "Let’s sit down. Kettle?"

Arthur nods curtly. "I'll put it on. You're shaking."

"Don’t be ridiculous, you're the house guest." Merlin turns to put on the kettle and Arthur herds him into a chair.

"I'll cook, too," he says stubbornly, like it’s a threat, holding Merlin by the shoulders when he tries again to stand. Merlin winces. “You just sit here.”

"Come on. I can do it. That's no work for a King," he jokes, trying desperately to lighten the horrible, fragile mood they’re sitting in. Years and years spent together, building up to this one bizarre little encounter. He doesn’t know where they stand. Maybe they’re strangers again, and once Arthur gets whatever answer he’s searching for, this is goodbye. "It's not a big deal, alright?"

"It is to me." Arthur looks at him sadly. It’s only a kettle. Merlin hates it. "If it's for you."

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Fine. Whatever you like. Sire,” he tacks on to be irritating.

“Just trust me.”

True to his word, Arthur lights a pleasant little fire, warming the small cottage quickly. Merlin hadn’t realized just how cold it was before. The heat melts into his stiff muscles, and before he knows it, he’s dozing off in the chair.

When he wakes, it is dark outside. He is covered with blankets. A bowl of soup has gone cold on the table beside him, and the fire crackles on.

-

There are two rooms, a table, a fireplace, and one bed in the cottage. Merlin could have afforded better with his savings, but in a place like Ealdor he would have stuck out like a sore thumb with anything much larger. He likes it this way; the coziness of the place makes it less empty, so the few things he has taken with him fill the space easily. It also means, however, that besides the room Merlin is currently in there is only one place Arthur could be. There is no way to avoid him. Merlin has to sleep somewhere, and he has learned that hard chairs and floors are no longer a good option for his back and shoulder.

Merlin ambles his way into the bedroom. The old injury to his ankle is acting up, making his feet drag unevenly. He should probably invest in a cane, he thinks idly.

It’s all catching up to him.

As he stands outside the doorway, he half hopes Arthur has decided to leave in the night, and half wonders if this was all some strange dream brought on by too much drink at the tavern.

Merlin braces himself, and enters. There is Arthur, breathtaking, sprawled across Merlin’s cramped bed. The moon shines through the shoddy slats of the wall to illuminate a thin sliver of his face, a hint of his arm. Merlin indulges himself in a long look, and sighs like a lovesick fool.

Arthur moves. Merlin jolts, looking anywhere but at him as he pretends he had only just walked into the room. He sits up in bed, and his hair sticks to his face.
“You’re awake," says Arthur. "I... you seemed so tired, I didn't want to wake you, so I..."

Arthur glances between Merlin and the bed, and moves like he’s going to get up. Merlin shakes his head and sits on the edge. He hesitates, and then takes off his shirt. The fabric bothers his skin at night, and Arthur has already seen what he looks like. It’s not a big deal. It’s not a big deal. It is not.

“It’s okay. There’s room for us both,” says Merlin.

There isn’t really. But as he shuffles into place and settles against Arthur’s chest, he finds he has no complaints. He slips for a moment and Arthur’s arms shoots out, wrapping around him to keep him from falling off the side of the bed. They've slept in beds together before, on bedrolls and even in Arthur's own bed on a few memorable occasions. Never before, though, had they slept in Merlin's bed. He cannot pinpoint why, but it seems a different beast entirely.

Merlin is wide awake. He chooses to blame it on his long sleep in the chair, nothing more. Arthur seems to be of the same affliction, because he isn’t even attempting to sleep, instead tracing nonsense patterns over Merlin’s skin. He smells familiar, the way Camelot smelled, in that indiscernible way that one only recognizes when they have been on a long trip and returned home. Merlin never realized it had a smell until now, as the nostalgia of that place floods him. Merlin has missed him so much. His solid presence now fills the cottage in a way it never has been.

In another life he could ask Arthur to stay here--if they had no destinies. But he supposes they would have never crossed paths at all that way, and he prefers to miss Arthur when he is gone than to have never met him. Arthur must have some semblance of the thought, given that he had showed up looking for memories to miss. Arthur will return to Camelot with his answers and his memories, and Merlin will remain here with whatever is left of himself.

Knowing Arthur, he will try to drag him back, but Merlin isn’t sure he can go. He also isn’t sure he can deny Arthur any request. Hopefully Arthur will leave in the night without a word, because Merlin couldn’t bear to say goodbye to his face.

Arthur traces over the serket scar between his shoulder blades. Merlin waits for him to ask about it. He is here for his answers, after all. Merlin will try to give them to him, though months away haven’t made him any more ready.

He has tested his limits, trying to tell the stories to friends in Ealdor who inquired, but to speak of the serket sting only brings him back there again, in that moment of quivering pain like he had never felt, and pain for the betrayal of Morgana, head swirling with venom and the certainty that he was going to die chained up there, a stupid, meaningless death without a drop of heroism to be wrung from it. In all his years, none of it had felt heroic. It had only hurt. There is nothing for him in those memories.

The villagers, many sympathetic from their own injuries and aches, had soon learned not to talk about it. But if Arthur wants answers, he sees no way around the discussion.

“Go on. Ask,” he says in a clipped tone.

“Alright,” says Arthur. “Why did you leave?”

Merlin stops short. He rolls the answer around in his mouth, trying to find a way to say it that would let Arthur understand. There’s nothing that would make it any less uncomfortable.

“I needed time to sort myself out. And I was afraid of things changing, I suppose. How you would see me after you knew.”

“Because you have magic? I don’t--”

“There’s a reason I never let you see," says Merlin, as Arthur's hand continues to trace over his scars. "I’m not a good person, Arthur. My purpose was to protect you, and I’m proud to have done that to my best ability, but I’m not proud of what I’ve had to do to get there. I knew if you saw the scars you would see who I really am and you would know.” His voice catches as it always has when he’s tried to say it, stuttering to a stop.

Arthur touches him again, over an older scar. Merlin winces, and he pulls away, but Merlin takes his hand and puts it back. "Don’t worry. It hurts whether you touch them or not."

"Does it always?"

"In the cold, and if I move wrong. Normally I massage a salve into them at night, but my shoulder’s been acting up, so I… well, it doesn’t matter."

Arthur sits up, nearly knocking Merlin off the bed. "Where is the salve?"

"You don’t have to--" He stops at the look on Arthur's face. "On the table. The green one."

He returns quickly and sits at the foot of the bed to open the container. Merlin lies back down, feeling like he’s taking up too much space, which is silly because it’s his bed in his own cottage, but the King of Albion is in his bed, about to massage paste into his skin, so he’s probably within his rights to feel peculiar about the whole thing. No one has done this for him, except Gaius, and although Arthur has seen his body before, this is different somehow.

Warm hands reach out to touch his back. He's warmed the salve between his hands. Merlin wonders if someone taught him to do that. They glide over his skin slowly, clumsily. It's obvious Arthur has never done this before, but the fact only endears him.

Arthur presses into his shoulder and he whimpers. He digs his thumbs into the ridge of knotted muscle, and Merlin tries his best to relax.

“How is that?”

“Fine,” he says. “Better than when I do it myself.”

They are quiet again, and the touch is soothing to his back. Merlin has nearly drifted off when Arthur speaks again.

“I'm sorry you've had to do it yourself."

"It's nothing."

"I never want you to feel like you can disappear and it won’t matter. We should trust each other, shouldn’t we?”

"We can’t,” he scoffs. He feels Arthur stiffen at that behind him, and hastens to clarify. “I told you, I’m not what you think.”

“Pray explain.”

He’s thought it over hundreds of times, the role he’s played in the lives of everyone he’s known. It always comes back around to him.

“I was supposed to be a defender, and use my power for good, but there were so many people I didn’t help at all, or whose lives I made worse simply by crossing their paths.”

“People would have been hurt anyway; being present for something doesn’t make it your fault. There have been enough failed crops and assassination attempts during my reign to tell me that blaming yourself for others actions and for natures way is counterproductive. Besides, I've perpetrated evil as well, simply by standing by when people were harmed, and you’ve not been nearly as harsh with me as with yourself, especially over incidents you didn’t cause."

It's not the same, Arthur hadn't always known better. As soon as he realized he was in the wrong, he always sought to improve. It is what has made him such a great ruler.

Merlin, however, had always known exactly the harm he was causing.

“It wasn’t all indirect. I killed your father._

Arthur is quiet for a moment. "Did you," he says, finally

"I didn't mean to do it." He shuts his eyes. "I don't regret it. I'm sorry. I was relieved. Is it awful that I was-- And I killed your sister, and… and others."

Nimueh. Will and Freya. Balinor, his own father. Even if he hadn't directly caused all of them, it makes no difference in the way they fill his head and dog his every step. He hadn't done enough. Nothing he could ever do would be enough to make up for the past; whether it's his fault or destiny's, what difference does it make? They're still dead. He still lies awake at night thinking of them, and he can no longer separate guilt from grief.

Arthur sighs. "You forget I was there when we killed Morgana. I did not know of your involvement completely, but I share the guilt. As for my father..."

Arthur is silent again for several long minutes. Merlin counts the passing time with the movement of Arthur's hand up and down Merlins back, up and down, up, and down again, like a careful tide moving over a beach, wearing it down over the ages. Merlin waits patiently for his judgement.

"I loved him," says Arthur.

"I know. I'm so sorry."

"You should not be," says Arthur firmly. "He was-- he is my father, it is up to me to love him. To you and many, he was despicable."

"You do not have to speak ill of him to soothe me," Merlin assures him quickly. "I accept your judgement, I told you, I--"

"No. I know it to my core, he was a flawed man. I have spent so many months trying to to-- to undo the damage he--' Arthur sighs. "You wouldn't just wake up and decide to kill without horrific circumstances forcing you into it as the only option.”

"But--"

"I will not blame you. I am not sure I could. You may have noticed I have some weakness surrounding you," Arthur laughs wetly. "God, Merlin, all you've said to me today is that you're sorry, can't you see that I cannot accept an apology when I see no blame?"

"They're still dead."

"Is it absolution you need? Then I forgive you.” Merlin would accuse him of flippancy if he didnt hear the frustration, the genuine strain to comprehend. That is what makes the tears well in his eyes. He wants Arthur to understand, and Arthur wants to understand, but there is some disconnect in logic that he cannot overcome without putting all his pain on display.

"You don’t know the worst of it," he says, attempting to subtly wipe his damp face on the pillow. "My fault or not, it hurts, and it never ends, Arthur. Every time I tell myself it will be the last time and it never ends. It's not going away. All that death, it's done something to me, and I’m not fit for anything else, and yet I can’t bear to continue as I have been, now that you know. I’ll give you your answers, but if you're here to ask me to come back and do it all over again, the answer is no."

It's not true. If he asks, Merlin will go, and he will perform his duty until there is nothing left of him. It is his fatal flaw. He only hopes Arthur will not call his bluff.

"I wouldn’t ask that of you," he says. "Of course, if you wanted to return to Camelot, you are always welcome."

"I can’t do anything for Camelot. I told you, I won't use my magic; Gaius has another assistant; you already have a capable court sorcerer. Even George is more crucial than me at this point," he chuckles and it comes out harsher than he had intended.

“Are you going mad? No one is more crucial."

"I told you, I won’t use my magic for-"

"It’s not about that. You really don’t see." He laughs high and clear, and Merlin can feel his shoulders shake with the movement. "You’re half the reason I’m not a royal arse like I was when we met. You made me realize magic isn’t evil, and that common-born people are worth as much as royals, and you were my friend when I didn’t have any friends in the world. Even if you hadn’t done any of that I would still need you. When I didn’t remember you, I learned a great deal about who you really are to me. I kept finding things that I didn’t understand, because I wouldn’t have had them without you. I needed you for your wisdom, and how you talked, your advice, your presence, your damned… socks, everywhere. I never even knew you had protected me until my memory returned--and that’s not to say that it didn’t matter, because it did--but it didn’t even make the list of ways I needed you. That is how I see you, not as the sum of your mistakes. I loved you even when I didn’t know you, and I may never know all of your past and I'll feel the same.You are indispensable to me.”

That makes little sense. If he’s so indispensable, he would still have his job.

“And yet you made me retire.”

“Your life has worth beyond sacrificing it for other people. I mean, I’m held to the code of knights: to defend the people of Camelot. I’m bound to serve you as much as you are bound to serve me. And you have served me. I don’t care if you never work another day, as long as it means you’re not off somewhere dying and I don’t even realize it.”

"But--but you said I'm indispensable. You need me to work."

"Please. I can hire people to clean for me, or to watch over me for assassins, but I can’t get another Merlin. “

"You don’t know," he says again, as if the repetition will get it through Arthur's head.

"I know that you're strong. Brave. I don’t know how you can be so strong all on your own."

"It brings me no satisfaction to be those things.” It’s never enough. So he has been strong, and brave. So many people are dead. So his scars ache at night. He sometimes wishes he were less strong, less brave, that people would see him as something to be protected for once.

"Then...then don’t be. You're loyal, and a good friend. I don’t need you to do my chores, or to fight or be strong. I just need you to be… I just need you."

Arthur continues. "It’s unfair. You've been shouldering all that for the both of us." He goes silent for a long moment. "I want to share your guilt, though, and your life."

“I can’t tell you everything. I’ve tried, I can’t.”

“Only when you’re ready.”

He’s not stupid enough to think one conversation will change anything. The guilt still sits heavy in his chest, a tangled ball of memories and feelings that he’s not sure will ever go away fully, no matter what he does.

“What if I never am?”

“Then I’ll be here. We’re a team, aren’t we? Together?”

-

Merlin makes breakfast before Arthur wakes. They eat together in silence, not comfortable, but not so tense as it had been yesterday. Merlin goes to town to buy a few things at market, and Arthur insists on tagging along. Afterward, they go fishing for a few hours, and during the walk home Arthur manages to wheedle and nag at him until he admits his joints are acting up, and he is sat in a chair while Arthur makes dinner for them both. It’s like a strange dream, Merlin thinks. The kind of life he had envisioned for himself as a child, except he had never thought there would be an Arthur by his side. The life he hadn't dared to dream of as an adult.

Each night Arthur lays him down and rubs salve into his shoulders, and they sleep side by side, settled carefully so as to avoid falling off the bed. It is a delicate balance between them.

Arthur snores gently. Merlin’s feet are cold. Here they are, together again.

He doesn’t know what to do.

-

Will’s grave isn’t grandiose by any means. It's a rock, the name worn off and the rock itself well on its way out. Hunith is apparently buried nearby, but Merlin hasn't mentioned visiting her, so Arthur doesn’t either.

He crouches by the little stone. He sets down the flowers they had picked on the walk here. Arthur is fairly sure they’re weeds, but he will not say a word about it. “The two of you must have been very…” he trails off. Merlin nods.

"We were.” He clears his throat, and Arthur looks away as he wipes his eyes. "People make stupid choices. I didn’t deserve him."

"Maybe he wouldn’t have thought of it that way. We just… love people, and we show it, whether they think they deserve it or not."

They are quiet. Merlin pats the ground and stands.

“We can see Morgana’s on the way back," Merlin says.

Arthur's breath hitches and he keeps himself from asking, because he’s been trying not to ask if Merlin plans to come back with him. He doesn’t get his hopes up--even if he visits her grave, located just outside Camelot’s gates, it may be only a pilgrimage there and back.

Still, he tries to plan for all outcomes. If Merlin chooses to return with him, he would not need to work any longer if he did not wish to. If he did, Arthur would want him to have a position of honor, something that lets people know that he is held in regard. Something that would allow him to offer his true talents, of honesty and moral strength and compassion. Magic is only one of the many things that had drawn him to Merlin, and he had only seen him use it on a few occasions. Combat magic is flashy, and terrifyingly impressive, Arthur supposes. He was impressed by it, anyway, and it is a useful skill.

He glances at Merlin, who has spotted some squirrels nearby and is talking to them conversationally, like they can understand. Merlin waves a hand. A puddle forms by magic, and the squirrels drink from it, pressed against his legs like they know him.

Well, there are things just as impressive.

-

The two of them lie side by side under the trees, empty soup bowls and spoons stacked in the grass. This is what Merlin likes to do after meals. Arthur supposes it is relaxing. He sneaks glances at Merlin, who has leaves in his hair. It is cold outside, but manageable for two young men who spend a great deal of time in the forests, and the ground is insulated by the leaves.

"I am in love with you, you know," Arthur says, because it seems like the time to say it, in this time of peace between Merlin’s dark moods and his own uncertainty.

Arthur has always preferred plausible deniability, since the day he realized there was something between them. Friendship or more than, he's lived in fear of it being taken away at a moment’s notice. He has debated whether it is appropriate to mention, given his fear of influencing Merlin’s decision to go or stay. But why shouldn’t it influence him? It is true. It matters. It is crucial that these things are spoken aloud, that much has become evident. Lest Merlin not know what he means to him.

Merlin nods. "You’re saying that 'seeking your lost love' wasn’t just part of your cover story in the tavern?"

"No, of course it--" he stops and rolls his eyes at the cheeky grin on Merlin’s face. He's joking.

"I never knew," Merlin says, which is utterly ridiculous, because in hindsight Arthur has been so obvious.

"It amazes me how dense you can be."

"Hey, destiny only said we would forge a future together. It never said you had to love me."

"But God help me, I do." How odd to think that a month ago he would balk at the very idea of being so open with another person, or trusting deeply enough to fall in love in the first place. He pities his past self, alone like that. Perhaps his future self too, if Merlin doesn’t--

"I…" Merlin studies the grass. "Feel the same way. Always have."

In that moment Arthur has many thoughts. How long, and why, and how, and does this change anything, or is it too little too late? He settles for the most burning of them, and reaches gently to take Merlin’s chin between his fingers in a silent question. There are mere moments between them.

Merlin answers, leaning into the touch and meeting his lips halfway across the gap. His mouth tastes salty from their soup, and from the way the corner of his mouth twitches into a coy little smile as he presses into the kiss, Arthur knows he is pleased. Even as they pull apart, Arthur cradles his head, holds his hand tight, unwilling to let go just yet.

-

They lie in the grass.

“What was it like when I was gone?”

Terrible. I had to deal with so much bureaucracy.”

“So the same as ever.”

“No.” he stops, thinking. “I was all alone. It drove me mad."

"You’re so dramatic," he laughs.

"I mean it. You were the one who taught me how to think for myself, and to decide what was right for all of my subjects, not just those with power. You really--you showed me that I should trust my allies and myself. Without that, I tried to do the right things but I worried that…"

“What?”

“That I would become like him.”

“Him--? Arthur,” he says, opening his mouth like he’s getting ready to scold him.

"It made me understand him, though," he admits. "I could really see who I would have become, if fate had run a bit differently. It felt like everyone was against me, and every bad thing that happened was like a personal failure that was mine alone to rectify."

"That's ridiculous, you cant blame every bad thing in Camelot on yourself, you've always tried your best to keep everyone--"

"Sound familiar?" Arthur raises a brow at him and he coughs, turning away.

“You’re not like him at all,” Merlin says, baffled. “You always try to do what’s best for the people, and I have it on good authority that everyone thinks you're a great leader."

He dips his head, embarrassed. “I would never have become such a leader without your guidance. I'll never be able to repay that debt."

"I would never expect--"

"And that is precisely why I must."

Merlin sighs. "Here you speak of me again like I'm a saint. I did lie to you for over a decade, you're entitled to some anger."

"Try as I might, I can’t muster any. Later, perhaps?"

"Don’t be flippant," he chides.

Arthur sighs. A leaf falls on his face and he blows it away.

"Alright, you lied. You also came to Camelot--which at the time was the worst possible place for someone like you--to thanklessly do demeaning tasks for me and defend me."

"The tasks were rather demeaning, at times," he laughs softly.

"As if you weren’t already going beyond your duties, you were kind to me even when I wasnt at all. You changed everything. It was so easy to love you that half the Kingdom mourned your loss even when we couldn’t remember. How… how am I ever supposed to be angry at that?"

Having someone who understood, that he could talk to freely, has been crucial to his rule. He only regrets that he was never that person for Merlin in return, when he needed it just as much. They could guide each other now, forever, if Merlin would allow it.

Merlin has turned away so Arthur cannot read his face. He doesn’t know what it will take for Merlin to believe him, but he is willing to wait for it.

"What do you want, Arthur?"

The question catches him off guard, and feels like a non sequitur. Perhaps from years together, though, he knows what Merlin is asking.

He has come to realize he is not so like his father, and to fear becoming like him is fruitless. He loves Camelot, his people, and Merlin too. He trusts them, relies on them, and he wants people to be able to rely on him in return. He wants Merlin to be able to live freely, rather than being a pawn of destiny or even of Arthur himself. Uther would have been glad for recent developments. Arthur can think of many ways Merlin’s wrecked mental state and utter devotion could be twisted to his advantage, if Arthur had chosen to rule through fear. He could ask anything of Merlin and he has no doubt it would be granted, even to the man’s own detriment.

But there is only one thing he wishes to ask, and it is the one thing he has the least right to. So he leaves it alone.

"I want my people to be able to rely on me," he says, and it feels like a great confession, though he feels as though he’s been screaming it at the top of his lungs since he got here, since he took the throne.

He has legalized magic, and provided food for the hungry, care for the sick. He has rubbed salve into Merlin’s shoulders, and has made soup and tea, and has listened to whatever he is willing to share. Still it feels like it is never enough.

"They can," Merlin says.

"Can they?" He asks softly, reaching out to join their hands.

Merlin turns to face him fully, eyes as blue and damp as the sea, and nods.

-

On the fifth day Arthurs bags sit by the door, Llamrei tethered outside, and Arthur keeps giving him long, lingering looks like he’s drinking him in for the last time. Merlin knows what that means. It is time to make his choice.

“I’m leaving today for Camelot,” he says. Merlin nods. “I--I’m going now. If it’s alright with you, I’ll be back to visit in a few weeks’ time,” he hesitates, as if Merlin would say no.

“No,” Merlin says.

“Alright,” says Arthur, and turns to adjust Llamrei’s saddle, which he has adjusted three times. He shuffles his feet. "Better be off then."

He adjusts the saddle again, and then he looks like he's really about to go, and Merlin’s heart beats in a sudden panic.

He doesn’t want to go, he isn’t ready, but he wants Arthur to stay. He can’t ask. Arthur has to go back to Camelot. He has a Kingdom to run.

Merlin wants to go with him, he does. He wants to believe that he might live a full life in spite of everything, could be loved and tended to without sacrificing everything in the process. Merlin could simply be, enjoying the company of his friends and his King, the fruits of his labor. The things he’s yearned for on his most hopeless nights could be real. Tentatively, in these past days he has allowed himself to think it in earnest, and yet his doubt lingers.

“Is there still a room for me in the castle?” Merlin asks.

“Of course,” Arthur says immediately. “Not your old one, but I could easily find you a better one, or Adelaide might be willing to share if you’re dead set on it, or--or you could stay in mine.”

He swallows.

“What about a job?” Arthur’s face goes carefully blank. Merlin isn’t sure if it’s hope he’s hiding, or disapproval.

“I wouldn't hire you on as protection, if that’s what you’re asking,” he warns. “Or anything else too physically taxing. I said it before, you are under no obligation to return at all, your health is more important than whatever sense of duty--”

“I know, Arthur,” and he stifles a fond smile that threatens to overtake his face. “You’ve said so several times.”

He likes work. He always did, even when it was dirty or exhausting, he liked working for Arthur. However, he doesn’t think Arthur would let him go back to what he used to do, now that he knows how great Merlin’s workload was, and all of the damage wrought by his non-work activities. Merlin misses being a servant in some ways, but these months have shown him how deleterious it was to work his body in such a way for so long. The guilt and stress have aged him.

“If, er, you were to return--what would you think of being an advisor?" Arthur says hesitantly. "I trust your judgement above anyone else’s, and you would have a great degree of honor that… by the way, everyone thinks you deserve. You would be my right hand, and it wouldn’t involve any heavy lifting, only a great deal of meetings to justify all the changes we want to make; and you would have a great deal of say in things, but above all it would be a position of honor," he says in that overly formal tone he adopts when he’s proposing something that means a great deal to him but he doesn’t want the other person to know. He's also repeating himself, which means he's nervous. Merlin suppresses a smile.

"I don’t need honors,” he says carefully, and Arthur’s face falls a fraction.

“Of course. It was only a suggestion. I… right. Goodbye, Merlin.”

He adjusts Llamrei’s saddle a final time.

Merlin has thought about this. Though Arthur hasn’t brought it up in these past few days, he’s hardly been subtle, and Merlin has had nothing but time to think things over, straighten them out in his head. He will always be welcome in Camelot, and for all his trouble he has the greatest gift that could be given, something he has longed for so many times: a choice.

He could stay, he could go. No matter what he chooses, Arthur will support his decision and stand by him as an equal at last. Arthur needs him, and he needs Arthur, the two of them serving each other as sides of a coin--no, as two people who love each other very much. Destiny complete, all that's left is the two of them, standing awkwardly apart and pretending not to linger as they say goodbye.

“I'll be your servant til the day I die," Merlin reminds him.

"And I yours," Arthur says. Merlin blinks at the admittance of such devotion.

It feels too easy, to gain something so great without paying a price. The knotted mess of memories tells him so, for every time he has gained something valuable he has paid and paid and paid. But Merlin is beginning to understand that such things are possible, despite the doubt that clings to his mind.

And the proof stands before him, nervously clutching his hands like he thinks Merlin will run away again.

Arthur had found him. He had found him and been with him, because his heart was stored in Merlin’s, following each other anywhere. He has faith in that above all.

“Merlin, I've been adjusting this damned saddle for ten minutes," says Arthur. "I don’t want to say goodbye again."

"Then don’t."

"Come home?” Arthur asks quietly.

And Merlin comes home.

Chapter Text

Camelot has a long, cold winter that drifts slowly into spring. So, too, does the heart of Camelot begin to beat again.

Ewing remembers, all of a sudden. It's like a gentle stream trickling into his head, of his good friend who would bring him snacks and take care of his chores. Such an odd thing to forget, he wonders if he might have imagined the whole thing. After all, no one has spoken of Merlin in months.

He runs down the dirt road and past the well, into his mother's garden.

"Mum," he calls. "Mum?"

There she stands, behind the fence. A bucket by her feet, and the ground darker there where the water has all spilled out.

"You spilled your water," says Ewing.

"That I did, baby bear," she says, and lifts him up into her arms with a grunt, playfully biting at his chubby cheeks. "I had a… a moment there, and it shocked me right out of what I was doing, and I spilled all our water."

"Because you're old?"

"That's it, my head's gone," she laughs, but her eyes hold something else.

"You remembered too, didn't you?" He asks shyly, unsure if she will know what he's talking about. But she only nods.

"I remembered our good friend."

"Why is he gone?"

"I don't know. Maybe he had to go somewhere."

"Like on an adventure for the King, probably. Fighting evil sorcerers."

"Maybe so."

He can hear her talking with her friends that night, all of them boisterous and chatty as they sit by the fireside, sharing the day's gossip.

"It's all anyone can talk about in the lower town all day! No one could get anything done."

"So many mysteries solved. I bet Francis is embarrassed about praying to the well, now that we remember where it came from. 'gift from the angels.' How foolish."

"I'm just glad I finally know why those garments that took me eight months to make didn't fit the King!"

"Oh, you have been on about this forever."

"I thought he had gained some pounds and was embarrassed to say, or something, but it turns out he only wanted to keep his boy warm. I think it's sweet."

Adelaide laughs. "I hardly knew him, but Gaius and I remembered at the same time and he said, and I quote, 'that boy is responsible for every one of my remaining gray hairs.' I was a bit shocked by the whole thing, head aching from the new memories and all, and I accidentally said, 'but Gaius, you're bald!'"

"Adelaide! You are going to get sacked!"

"It's alright, he thought it was funny. I hope."

"I missed our little songbird Merlin. I hope he finds his way back here."

"Remember how he used to come to the Yuletide festival with us and spend his pay on mulled wine, and then when he was thorough drunk he did those impressions of people in the castle?"

"His Audrey impression was ever so funny, with that giant spoon he conjured up. Oh, and how he thought none of us knew he had magic and he came up with the most ridiculous excuses. That was funny."

"Funny, yes, but… not really."

"Yes."

They go somber for a long moment.

Ewing's mother clears her throat. "Sometimes, I still can't believe how much things have changed. I'm scared to believe it. My eldest daughter has been," she glances at the door, "floating, lately, practicing her spells, and I have to tell myself that the greatest danger is that she falls and skins a knee. Times change, don't they."

Greta nods. "When I worked at the castle, the King was only a lad. Bit pompous at that. I would have never thought he would grow up so. He's a fine man now."

"He did used to be a papas boy, even as a grown man. What do you reckon changed?"

"Who could possibly say," Meredith deadpans.

Katarina giggles. "His clothing size, perhaps."

---

Gwen cries and touches the markings in the wall, ashamed that she hadn't even noticed he was gone, or that he was clearly gone long before he decided to actually vanish. And that is what has happened, she knows it, even after all this time he is her friend, and she knows it was his own doing.

Audrey smacks her hand with the spoon, but it is a gentle motion.

"Keep your head up, Guinevere," she says. "He may return yet, when we need him most."

"How do you know?"

"Think, you foolish girl. The King leaves on a mysterious journey, alone, and suddenly we all have our memories back? Something's happened. Try this, does it need salt?"

"No, it's delicious...could use some herbs, perhaps."

"Thank you. Anyway, the King will know something when he returns. And when he tells you, you tell me alright?"

"You and your gossip," Gwen fights a smile. "Alright."

--

Sir Leon is having an awful dream, when he wakes to the sound of Gwaine scrambling into his room and shaking him.

"What? Bloody hell, what?! It's not even dawn, stop waving that lantern in my face-- oh, my head is killing me."

"You-- this is going to sound mad, but think very hard when I ask you this, okay? Do you remember a fellow that used to run with us, black hair, skinny as a twig, and his name was--"

"Merlin," he says, suddenly awake. "Oh, god, Merlin."

"It's not just me? Okay." Gwaine slumps against him, and doesn't move besides a slight shaking. This is not like him, but for god's sake, they've just remembered years of their lives that went missing. No wonder his head aches. He pats him awkwardly on the back, and Gwaine clutches harder at his nightshirt as Leon tries not to notice his shoulder becoming damp. A lot of things about the past few months suddenly make a great deal of sense.

"How could we forget?" Gwaine says, muffled by fabric.

"Hey, hey, I'm sure it's not our fault. None of us remembered. Magic can influence anyone."

"Arthur knew something was wrong, though. Do you think it's because he loved him more than us? Do you think that's why--?"

"No. It couldn't be that. I… he's been kidnapped or something, or he's on a mission that requires total anonymity so he cast a spell himself. Or Morgana did this to try and destroy Camelot, or… anything else but that."

"We have to find him," Gwaine sobs. "He's been gone for months. This memory curse might have worn off because he's dead, for all we know."

Leon wants so badly to be calm and reassuring to others. It is difficult, at times.

"Get up, I'll wake the others, and we can discuss it."

--

They're meeting at the round table, Gwen sitting at the window and looking out as if she'll see something. No one has approached the castle, but she frequents the window anyway. They've exhausted a few avenues of looking for Merlin in the past days, talking to people who may have seen him last and trying to figure out exactly when it was that he went missing, but no luck.

"I was thinking we could go through his things, see if there are clues to where he's gone."

"Good idea. We could check places he went often, the stables, Gaius' room-"

Gwen turns. "He's back."

"King Arthur? Finally, When he comes in, could someone tell him to join us, he'll definitely want to be here for--"

"There's two people on the horse."

Everyone runs to the window.

--

George makes his way outside to see the King, who has finally returned after his odd impromptu journey that left many matters unattended and many important people irritated in his absence. He has a list of items the King must look at, and several papers to sign. It's been a hectic week, what with this Merlin business and the King leaving and--

Oh. Merlin is stepping off the horse.

"George," says Arthur. "Is there anything that needs tending to urgently? I'd like to catch up on things, since I've been gone so long. Especially the tax reforms."

George manages to close his mouth and stop gaping at the two of them, and he realizes he needs to respond.

"Yes, I have a list, Sire." He hands it over and Arthur scans it quickly.

"I'd better go and handle this. Be good," he says to Merlin, striding into the castle.

George approaches Merlin, who is removing his own bags from the horse like he's still a servant here. George isn't sure if he is or not.

"Thank God you're back," he says, truly meaning it. "You are to immediately take back every duty related to the King, I have had enough."

Merlin laughs. "Has the prat gone mad with power in my absence?"

"No, he's been…. Insufferable."

Those months of confusion, wondering if the King was going mad, are now so obviously symptoms of another kind of madness. The kind he's had for years.

"That means a lot, coming from you."

"Yes. Well."

The stableboy dashes up, practically flying to reach them, and squealing at the top of his lungs.

"You're back!" he screeches, latching onto Merlin's leg and looking up with wide, adoring eyes.

"That I am! My, you've grown!"

"I have to tell my Mam!"

The boy scurries off as fast as he came. George means to stop him and remind him to brush the horses sometime today, but he's too fast. George will likely end up doing it himself.

Merlin watches the boy go, and George notices for the first time how old he is. He doesn't know what has happened to Merlin in these strange months, and he does not want to know, but it stirs something in him to see the same crows feet he sees in the mirror echoed on Merlin's face, when he thinks back to how fresh faced they both were at the start of this job. He found Merlin so frustrating back then. It feels like yesterday. They've seen the fall of a king and the rise of another. They aren't friends, they never were, but somewhere along the way they grew old together.

George shuffles his feet, unsure if he should let Merlin go and get settled in. He's uncomfortable with this, it's not in his realm of expertise at all, and addressing the situation seems unprofessional and lacking tact. Still, it seems appropriate to say something, after all this time.

Merlin turns to go through the doors.

"Merlin," says George softly "Welcome home."

Merlin's eyes shine. "Thanks, George."

George smiles thinly, and carries Merlin's bags inside the castle.

--

The Knights barrel down the hall and Merlin finds himself trapped in the most oppressive group hug possibly in all of history.

"What happened? Where were you?"

"I thought you'd died!"

"We missed you, mate."

"I" he says, trying to breathe. "I missed you too. So much."

"Let him go," says a voice that sounds like Arthur even through the mass of bodies currently holding Merlin hostage.

"Your things are in my room. I know you like your boxes, but they are a bit ragged, so we could transfer your things to some nicer ones and--"

"No need," he says, breathless. "I don't need to live out of any boxes. I've got nothing to run from, now."

--

"Well, Merlin, you've successfully created an army of gift givers," says Arthur, poking at the massive pile of gifts.

"Tell me about it," Merlin says. "I don't even know what to do with all this stuff! Everyone's doing things for me!"

"They're just glad you're back."

"I know. They did it before, in a way, taking care of me. I just never saw, or I took it for granted, I don't know. I'm a bit uncomfortable with all the attention."

"I'm sorry. I'll tell them to stop."

"I don't want them to stop," he says. "It's just… strange to not be alone. And I feel silly for running away from home when everyone is so kind here, but… I don't understand why they're going to these lengths. Someone tried to gift me a house today! I don't understand."

"You will," he says. "In time."

---

Gwen is going down the hall when she sees Merlin standing strangely still in the entrance. She waits, but he doesn't move. She approaches slowly.

"You alright there?" She asks, and he jumps.

"Gwen. Er," he looks around, spooked, "hello."

"Hello. I saw you standing here. What exactly are you doing?"

"I was trying to go down this hallway, and then I got thinking about M-Morgana, and she lived in this hall. But you knew that, er."

Gwen's heart melts in sympathy, because she does the same thing, more often than she'd like to admit.

"There's a way to get around it and still go to the laundry, you go out the back and turn--"

"I know. I usually go that way, I'm... trying to figure out how to go this way," he sounds frustrated, but she knows better than to think it is directed at her.

"I could go with you, if it helps. I don't go this way either." She looks at him, trying to make him understand that she is the same. "Do you mind?"

He thinks, eyes haunted and face pale. She wonders how long he's been standing here, staring down a dark, empty hallway.

"Let's try it," he says, with the courage in his voice that she remembers from all that time ago, the very thing that made her love him. "It can't hurt."

It can, though she doesn't say that. She takes his arm, and the two of them walk down the hall step by step. She's drowning for a moment as they pass the door, and she can feel him tense up beside her, until they are at the laundry area, and her heart slows down again.

"You okay?" He asks.

"Yes," she says. "We braved it out, huh?"

"We'd better! We've faced worse than a hallway." He knocks their shoulders together, and it brings back a thousand memories of times he's done the same thing, reassuring her after they've faced one ordeal or another. Brave. Kind. Strong.

The two of them are brave and kind as when they met, only now, it's not dragons and magical curses that they face, but… hallways. Aches from battles long past. It's strange, she thinks, how wars never truly end, in one's mind, they only take new forms. She doesn't know if they'll ever heal, truly, or if every day will be like weathering a storm that's long passed.

These recent events have made her realize how far apart she and Merlin had drifted before, simply because they both had this isolating pain. It's ridiculous, they're both in the same castle, afraid of the same hallway, and they never talk anymore. No longer. She wants her friend back.

"Again tomorrow?" She asks tentatively. He grins.

In all this time his smile has never changed.

--

Gwaine is the most outwardly torn up about what happened. He always has considered Merlin his best friend, and for such a thing to have occurred without his knowledge breaks his heart. When he sees the scars he throws a fit at Arthur, blaming him for everything under the sun, but they come to an agreement. He's practically glued to Merlin now, as much as Arthur.

Not that the rest of them are much better. The poor man is so enveloped in love and care he can hardly get a break from it. That is, until Arthur comes and yells at them all to give him a break because he's having phantom pains and needs bedrest and quiet. But the next day Merlin is lonely and melancholy, and they're right back at it.

"You don't have to sit with me," he says to Gwaine, who has brought him soup.

"I don't have to do anything," says Gwaine. "I do whatever I want, you know that. Speaking of which, are you allowed to have spirits?"

"It's the middle of the day," Merlin says. Shame, it seems Gwaine snuck this entire bottle in past Arthur for nothing. "But really, I know you're all training today, so you could--"

"If you need peace and quiet, I'll go, but I want to hang around with you otherwise. You've done the same for me many a time. Arthur said you think everyone's going overboard being kind to you, but we're merely paying back what you've done for us."

Merlin seems to think on that for a bit.

"...you said you brought drinks?"

Gwaine takes out the bottle and two cups from his shirt.

--

Gwen and Merlin carve their names into the hallway. They carve Morganas name there too, because it is her room, and her hallway, and then they cry into each other's shirts.

MERLIN

GWEN

MORGANA

THREE TRUE FRIENDS FOR EVER

The old memories mingle with the new. There are a million memories. Merlin, here, lost. Gwen, here, all alone. Morgana, here, angry at the world. Yet somewhere, in time and space, there is an intersection where they are all together in this hallway. Sometimes they live in that moment, with their friend Morgana.

Nothing ever ends.

--

Merlin is discussing a new treatise with Arthur and Gwaine when Leon enters the room in full armor.

"There's a sorcerer attacking the edge of Camelot," says Leon. "We're headed out to investigate, are you lot coming?"

Merlin stands, only to be immediately sat back in his chair by both Arthur and Gwaine.

"Not you," says Arthur.

"But-"

"You said you didn't want to do this kind of thing anymore. Has that changed?"

"No, but you can use me out there, I can fight!"

"I don't want to 'use you', Merlin. Listen close, because I won't repeat-- who am I kidding, I'll have to say this at least a few thousand more times before it finishes bouncing around in your ears-- we all want you to be safe. Go on, say it. Say, 'my life is valuable.'"

"Your life is valuable," he says sarcastically.

"You're impossible," sighs Arthur "I'll put it this way. If you follow us I will kill you."

"Weak threat, since you don't think I care about my life."

He doesn't want to admit that Arthur has a point, even though everyone in the room knows Arthur has a point. Damn Arthur and his point making abilities.

"Hmm." Arthur pretends to think hard about what he's just said. "Follow us and I'll tell Sir Leon what you said about his--"

"You wouldn't do that." His eyes widen.

"Don't test me."

"Gwaine?" Merlin says, turning pleading eyes on him.

"Sorry mate. I hate to agree with Arthur, and I can't stop you from coming because I know how stubborn you are. But I think it would be better for you to work on this instead." He taps the treatise. "More useful too, since these things turn out to be a wild goose chase most of the time."

"If I had a head for this sort of thing I'd stay and do it, but dare I say your edits to documents are always more eloquent than even our Kings, now that he's shown you how to pen them down."

Arthur rolls his eyes, but nods. "He's right, Merlin. You have a gift. Use it."

The three of them leave, door closing heavily behind them. The door creaks open again after a moment, and Gwaine sticks his head through.

"We love you Merlin. See you this afternoon."

It closes again before he can reply.

He hates that they're right. He's being a hypocrite, he himself was the one who didn't want to fight anymore, but it still feels like that's what he's good for, so that's where he should be. He tries to remind himself that he can do other things too, and that he is useful here.

Seething, he starts looking over treaty papers. At least he can do something productive this morning. Using his gift, as Arthur called it. Gift. It's been so long since someone used that word to refer to something besides his magic. He thinks he likes the idea. The gift of insight, instead of violence. Mind instead of magic. A quieter gift.

"My life is valuable," he says to the empty room.

It echoes off the walls, and seems to come back to him, louder than before.

--

"Did you hear Merlin's on the council?" asks Francis, as the group settles down to discuss new gossip and to sew some frocks for the coming spring season.

"Who hasn't? Where have you been, Francis, under a rock?"

"Merlin is wonderful for the job, I'm ever so glad he was chosen for it. He seemed so tired when he was a servant… it's not for everyone, that's for certain."

"Merlin's been running this Kingdom for years, it's about damned time."

"Is that true or another conspiracy theory, Francis?"

"It's true, I'm telling you! You don't know because you haven't worked in the castle!"

"Neither have you!"

"My wife does, and she says that he and the King are lovers."

"Now that I do believe. Finally, something that's not an outlandish conspiracy theory."

"And that Merlin is a shapeshifter who controls dragons."

"....There it is."

"Well, I for one am happy for him. If he's happy, that's what's important."

"Do you think he's happy?"

"I do think so. I really do."

--

"Another cold snap, and here I thought spring was coming!"

Merlin stumbles in the door to their room and takes off his socks by the fire to warm his feet.

Arthur looks him up and down. "You wore that out? I know you were raised in a barn, but your clothing is the most mismatched disaster I think I've ever seen."

"I happen to think it's dashing."

"You couldn't possibly. What is it, are you still cold with all those layers? Spring is coming soon enough."

"Well. The neckerchief is from my mum. You gave me this new coat, and Gwen gave me these mittens, and Gaius sewed up these socks for me back when I lived with him. I like wearing them when I have a bad day, because it's like… it's stupid."

"What?"

"It's like… it feels like everyone's love keeping me warm. I know it's stupid, so you can't say it's stupid because I already did, so there."

"It is stupid," he says, though his message is undercut by the way he is actively kissing Merlin's neck between words. "Maybe we all are, though, since even though you keep saying dimwitted things like that, we keep giving you new clothes anyway."

"When's the last time you gave me new clothes?"

"I've already ordered you some muffs to cover those ridiculous ears."

"I ought to order you a muzzle for your stupid mouth."

He laughs. "You think me an untrained dog?"

"You follow commands about as well."

"You wound me! Apologize to your King!"

"I'm sorry, my King," Merlin deadpans. "Okay, as much as I am enjoying this, you have to stop kissing me, I want to sit."

"Very well. See, I do follow directions."

"A great quality in a King, I'm sure."

"Can't win with you, can I?"

"Mm. Oh! Here, I meant to give this back to you but I kept forgetting."

Merlin slides a folded scrap of parchment over. Arthur unfolds it, and it is a drawing.

"I took this one with me when I left," Merlin explains. "I thought about taking one of the drawings I did of you, but I decided I could draw a new one whenever I wished."

"So you kept the drawing I made of you, instead," Arthur breathes. How fitting that they'd had the same thought, love visible in the lines of the drawings themselves even when memory took it away. He remembers drawing this, the tentative touch of quill to parchment, how quickly he had finished it and tucked it away in fear of someone else seeing and somehow knowing how he felt. Now, he's certain that everyone has seen, and they always have, even when he himself didn't.

"Come here," Arthur says, opening his arms wide. They play-wrestle, Arthur gentle and mindful of Merlins shoulder, and then he gathers him up in his arms like the most precious thing on earth.

They live happily ever after, a moment at a time.