Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Arthur is nine-and-twenty when he wakes by the lake alone. He was dying; he knows he shouldn’t be here. Death had claimed him, he had felt it in his fingertips. He shouldn’t be able to open his eyes at all, let alone sit up, but he manages to do both without much issue.

His first thought is of Merlin. He knows immediately that something is wrong.

He looks around and finds Merlin lying just a few feet away from him, unmoving, his eyes open and staring at the sky. Whatever scant relief he felt at being alive and being able to come home dissipates instantly, replaced by ice that starts to creep from the base of his spine. 

He scrambles to Merlin’s side. It’s impossible to breathe through the panic around his throat, choking him like a vice. 

Merlin is alive, but only just. His thin blue tunic is almost completely black with blood soaking through it. Arthur stares for a beat, uncomprehending. It's a mirror of the wound that was on his side, not too long ago. 

“You idiot,” Arthur mutters, but his voice sounds strangled even to his own ears. “Merlin, what on earth have you done?”

Merlin’s eyes find Arthur and his bloodless lips curve in a smile. There is immense relief etched in his features and he huffs out a breathless laugh. 

“It worked,” Merlin rasps. “I’m glad.”

Arthur can’t speak. There are a thousand conflicting thoughts in his head, none of it coherent. The loudest one is this: his best friend is dying in front of him and he doesn’t know what to do. 

“We need to get you to the lake,” Arthur decides. The lake is not too far away—he can see the mists in the distance. His eyes are dry; no man is worth his tears. He bursts into a flurry of movement, gathering Merlin into his arms. It’s amazing how much strength he had regained in such a short amount of time. Merlin hisses in agony, but there is no time to lose. 

“It’s too late, Arthur,” Merlin breathes out, his words an echo of what Arthur said to him.

Merlin’s eyelids are fluttering closed, and the terror gripping Arthur’s heart is unlike anything he ever felt before. Is this what Merlin had felt when it was Arthur who was dying in his arms?

“There’s no time for such nonsense,” Arthur bites out. He’s going to carry Merlin to that lake, even if that’s the last thing he’ll ever do. “It’s only a few feet away.”

He tries to lift Merlin with a grunt and promptly stumbles. Merlin cries out, harsh, and Arthur feels his heart break in two. Merlin has always been the kind to bear things in silence, to mask his pain with a light-hearted joke. To hear him cry out the way he did—

“Stop,” Merlin pleads. “Arthur, please. It’s too late.”

Arthur shakes his head furiously. 

Merlin is gazing at Arthur with eyes that are too fond. “My king,” he whispers faintly. His eyes are already glazing over. His breaths are becoming more laboured and Arthur can feel them rattling against his chest. “I’m sorry,” Merlin breathes. “For all of it. I never wanted—to lie to you.”

The thought of Merlin’s magic is a mere whisper in the back of his head. Nearly forgotten, even though it is the only reason that Arthur is here at all. The discovery should have felt like a betrayal of the worst kind. Arthur should be furious, at the very least about the lies, but he doesn’t find it in him to be. Camelot would not still be standing if not for Merlin—of this, Arthur has no delusions. The man saved Arthur's whole world several times over, but Arthur can't save him when it matters the most. How is any of this fair?

In the face of Merlin's death, Arthur does not care about Merlin's magic. What good would fury bring anyway? Merlin is dying in his arms and there is nothing Arthur could do to stop it.

“Things will be different when we get back to Camelot,” Arthur vows. The promise is reckless, short-sighted even, but he'll swear it if it somehow means that Merlin will stay. “You won’t have to hide anymore, Merlin, I swear it.” 

“Arthur—“

“I can’t lose you,” Arthur breathes, pressing soft kisses into Merlin’s hair, trembling fingers gripping the back of Merlin’s head. He takes a deep breath, frantically inhaling Merlin's scent and committing it to memory. He's colder than he's ever been in his life, terror like ice crystallising in his veins. “Not you. Merlin, I can’t.”

“Don’t let go,” Merlin exhales, his breath hot against Arthur’s skin.

Arthur tangles his fingers with Merlin’s, squeezing tight as though it will keep Merlin here. “I won’t,” he swears. “Merlin, please.” 

“It’ll be okay,” Merlin promises. “You’ll build the greatest kingdom the world will ever see.”

“Don’t go,” Arthur chokes. It hurts so badly to breathe. “Don't leave me. Merlin—“

Merlin smiles, his fingers squeezing Arthur's once. It’s all the goodbye Arthur gets.

This is how Percival finds them: Arthur curled around Merlin, his face buried in Merlin's chest and shoulder shaking silently with the force of his grief. He doesn't know how long they have been there, so close to the lake but never reaching it. 

Merlin must've succeeded, then. 

Percival feels his shoulder drooping, helplessly torn by the confusing mix of relief and grief. He is heartened, of course, that Arthur has survived. But Merlin is—was—a dear friend. He was a friendly warmth who was always there with a sunny smile and a mischievous glint in his eyes. Losing him doesn't make sense. He was a servant, not a soldier. It's not right that he became a casualty of Morgana's war.

Percival makes as much noise as possible in his approach, boots crunching against the gravel. Arthur tenses, his hand going immediately towards his sword. He looks up but doesn't turn. 

"My Lord."

The column of Arthur's spine visibly relaxes. "Percival." Arthur's voice is rough. He sounds so drained that Percival's heart clenches in sympathy. 

"I grieve with you, my Lord."

"Thank you."

Arthur doesn't make a move to stand, so Percival takes it as permission to step closer and crouch down next to them. Arthur doesn't protest. 

"He saved my life," Arthur tells him. "He used his magic to heal me. It killed him."

Percival barely conceals his surprise. He knew that there was something about Merlin, but he never would have guessed that this was the secret that he carried. 

He clears his throat. "The sorcerer at the battle—"

"—was him." Arthur lets out a mirthless chuckle. "I know."

The revelation takes all the words from his lips.

"I'm sorry, Arthur."

Arthur falls silent, and for a brief moment, Percival wasn't sure if he had said the right thing. 

"Me too." 

They sit side by side in silence for a while. Percival allows himself to look at the body of his dead friend. Merlin's eyes are still open, looking unseeingly at the sky, and there is an unnatural blankness to his features that makes death impossible to deny. The clouds are reflected in his glassy eyes, not a trace of burning gold Percival has come to associate with magic. Arthur's hand is splayed over Merlin's chest, red with blood. Arthur looks so thoroughly defeated; a man who might have won the war, sure, but lost the battle. His face is wet with tears and his eyes are swollen, and Percival's heart breaks for him. He's not sure what to do. He wants to console Arthur but doesn't know how.

Before Percival could say a word, Arthur speaks again.

"We'll bring him home. It's the least we could do."

"Of course, my Lord."

Arthur's hand trembles terribly when he moves them over Merlin's eyes, closing them gently. His voice breaks when he says, helplessly, "could I just—"

Percival stands back up without a word, bowing his head and turning away to give Arthur some privacy. He begins to walk away, but he's not so far that he can't hear Arthur murmuring apologies that will forever fall on deaf ears.

Gaius comes to Arthur in the early hours, shortly after Merlin's funeral pyre died down, leaving behind only ash and bones. Or so Arthur had thought, anyway. He wouldn't have known for sure—he had walked away hours before the last embers flickered. 

"Sire," Gaius bow. He doesn't meet Arthur's eyes. "I believe this belonged to you."

He hands Arthur a small parcel wrapped in tatty red cloth. Immediately, he recognises the fabric as one of Merlin's old neckerchiefs, and just looking at it leaves a lump in Arthur's throat.

"We found it when we gathered Merlin's ashes," explains Gaius. He sounds frail. For the first time, Arthur truly sees Gaius as an old man. "He would've wanted you to have it back."

Arthur's hands are steady when he takes the parcel. He knows what it is before he even opens it, and it's like being stabbed all over again.

"Thank you," says Arthur. "You may leave."

Gaius bows again and leaves without another word. 

Arthur closes the door, his fingers so tight around the sigil that the metal digs into the flesh of his palms. It's difficult to breathe, but he manages it eventually. 

The door opens with a slam.

"Gaius?" calls Arthur. "I've come for my—"

Arthur trails off. He realises, suddenly, that this is the first time he has stepped foot in Gaius' chambers since the battle six months ago.

"Sire?" answers Gaius.

Arthur looks at the empty chair where Merlin used to sit, pounding away at some herbs or reading a book he probably nicked under Geoffrey's nose. For the merest moment, it doesn't register. Merlin could just be out gathering herbs or running himself ragged around town making deliveries. 

The realisation, when it finally hits, is like an arrow to the back.

He remembers, now, that he had been avoiding these chambers. In this very moment, he can't even remember why he came.

"Your sleeping draughts," Gaius kindly supplies, far too much understanding in his gentle eyes.

"Yes, of course," nods Arthur. His mouth is dry. Forcing the words out feels much like scraping his throat raw.

When Gaius hands the little vials to Arthur, he retreats without another word. 

Arthur is thirty and he is standing by the spot where he buried Merlin. 

Where there was only a simple pile of rocks before, there is a gravestone now. The inscription is simple, etched meticulously into the stone; here lies Merlin, the dearest of the King’s companions. It’s painfully explicit, leaving no room for interpretation. Years ago, the lack of subtlety would’ve made his cheeks burn with embarrassment. 

Arthur doesn’t care now. He has lost far too much.

He doesn’t say a word. He crouches down and places the flowers he brought upon the rocky pile. They are little blue blooms, delicate with yellow throats. 

“It is done,” he announces. “The ban is repealed. My only regret is that—“ he chokes, unable to finish.

That he only did it too late. That Merlin never lived long enough to enjoy the fruits of his sacrifices. Certainly not long enough for Arthur to bestow the upon him the honours that he has always deserved.

That Merlin will never get to see the Camelot Arthur built for him.

Arthur looks heavenward, eyes burning, blinking away the tears that threaten to fall. He clears his throat, fingers spasming involuntarily where they are gingerly placed over the gravestone. He breathes in. Breathes out.

Above his head, the trees rustle in the gentle breeze. 

Arthur is one-and-thirty. His room is scrubbed clean and there is no empty seat at his round table. He has a manservant to bring his meals and dress him in the mornings, a court sorcerer to preside over magical matters. It sometimes feels like Merlin was never there at all.

He taught himself how to draw. Each stroke against the parchment is soothing when his mind refuses to quiet. He never draws Merlin, but he draws Merlin’s features obsessively, terrified that one day the curve of Merlin’s smile will elude him. Or the sparkle that was in his eyes, the shadow cast by his cheekbones. He never managed to get the lines right. 

Arthur is three-and-thirty. There is a drawing he made of Merlin that he keeps in his drawer, weighed down by the sigil he once gave Merlin.

He got the angles right this time. But each line had felt like torture, and once he was done he never looked at it again. It will never see the light of day as long as he is alive. 

Arthur is five-and-thirty. There is a statue upon Merlin’s grave, bronze glinting in the sunlight. It’s a crisp spring day, the first snowdrops breaking through the ground. The birds are merrily chirping, conversing in a song only they know.

Arthur looks up at the statue, squinting against the bright light. It’s Merlin the way Arthur remembers him best, cheeky and grinning, his shoulders straight and unbowed from the weight of his destiny. The statue has been cast with infinite care—when the sculptor was done, Arthur had taken one look at it and fell silent. He likes to think that if he hadn’t known better, the real Merlin is lurking just beneath the surface, the best man Arthur had ever met.

He wants so badly to see Merlin's smile again. To hear the ringing sound of his laughter. Just one more time, and then he'll let go. 

There is a twined bunch of flowers gripped in Arthur’s right hand; little white blooms that are upturned like bells. He picked them up on his way to the grave. He lays them down with utmost care, fiddling with them until the bouquet is in an orientation he is happy with. He stands there and looks at his work, mouth opening and closing again. He shakes his head, lips twisting in a bitter, humourless smile. 

“Gods, you would’ve thought, after all these years—“ he gasps, resting his forehead against the statue. “You would’ve laughed,” he continues. “You would’ve relished the opportunity to accuse me of being the girl.” His shoulders are shaking so badly; Arthur takes a deep breath, and then another, and then another. His voice sounds so loud in the deathly silence of the woods. “I woke up this morning and I realised that I can’t remember what your voice sounded like. I don’t want to—“ Arthur shudders violently, his voice breaking. “Merlin, I don’t want to forget.”

Arthur is forty. There is a feast to honour his name day, but Arthur excuses himself before the festivities fully devolve into a night of drunken merriment. 

He has the Horn of Cathbhadh safely tucked in his bag. It’s ill-advised, but he has been so lonely for so long. Just the once, Arthur tells himself. He knows what to do, now—or rather, what not to do. He won’t do it again. Just this once.

When Merlin appears in front of him, first as a wisp of smoke then slowly becoming more corporeal, Arthur sways on his feet, nearly dropping to his knees. He had forgotten how young Merlin was. 

“Merlin.” Arthur exhales. He finds that it’s all that he could say. 

“Arthur,” Merlin smiles. He takes a step closer and then another, and then another until he is standing right in front of Arthur. "Gods, Arthur, look at you," Merlin says with wonder. His eyes are very bright, even in the dark. He puts a hand upon Arthur's cheek; Arthur leans towards it helplessly. 

Arthur is weak and unsteady, like a child, raw emotions leaking through every single bit of wall that he has built around himself.

“Arthur,” says Merlin, his smile quickly fading when he notices Arthur’s deep unhappiness. "What's wrong?"

Arthur wants to smack him.

“I—“ he trails off. Not a single day went by that he didn’t think of Merlin. He had thought about this moment for so long, in his dreams and his waking moments both, but that Merlin is standing in front of him, he finds himself overwhelmed by Merlin's sheer presence. He bows his head. 

“Arthur, hey,” Merlin says, gripping his shoulders, resting his forehead against Arthur’s. His voice is so gentle that Arthur could weep. He always loves the way Merlin says his name. His chest feels so full that it's a marvel that he hasn't burst apart at the seams. “You’re doing so well,” Merlin kisses his forehead, the touch of his lips so brief and fleeting it’s altogether likely that Arthur only imagined it. "A better king than I could've ever imagined." 

"Was it worth it?" murmurs Arthur. He's terrified of Merlin's answer, but he needs to know.

"How can you ask me that?" sighs Merlin, as if the answer was exceedingly obvious. "Of course it was. I wouldn't have changed a thing."

“I never would have asked you to,” Arthur chokes out. I never wanted you to die for me, he wants to say, but the words are stuck somewhere between his throat and his lips.

“I know,” replies Merlin apologetically. “But it was always going to end the way that it did. I never would’ve let you die if there was anything I could do about it.”

Arthur cries. 

"Don't cry," says Merlin. "No man is worth your tears, remember?"

It only makes Arthur cry harder—then again, he never listened to Merlin, even when Merlin was alive. Merlin pulls Arthur into his arms and Arthur clings on to him, hiccoughing sobs into Merlin's chest. 

"You're an idiot, I hope you know," he rasps out once he regains the ability to speak. 

Merlin pulls away; Arthur mourns the loss.

"Yeah," Merlin agrees easily. "I know."

“I wish you were here,” Arthur confesses. It's the first time he ever admitted it out loud. He wants to close his eyes, to look away, but he would loathe missing even a single second of Merlin’s presence.

“I am with you, Arthur, always,” swears Merlin. He opens his palm and a dragon rises, sparks from a fire that burned a long time ago. Arthur raises a finger to touch the dragon; it doesn’t burn. “Then, now, and hereafter.”

When he turns to leave, it takes everything Arthur has not to look back. 

Knowing that Merlin is with him should be a comforting thought, but it’s difficult not to turn resentful. What does it matter when Arthur can’t reach him? He can’t see Merlin. He can’t feel his presence. He can’t hear Merlin’s voice—can’t tease him and be teased back or hear Merlin speak his name. He can’t feel Merlin’s fingers on his skin—can't feel incidental brushes when Merlin dresses him, familiar and intimate. Can’t playfully shove Merlin’s shoulder and have him shove Arthur back. 

He knows he should move on, but it's not as if he hadn't given it a damn good go. It only ever takes him here again, eventually; on top of an empty battlement, where he used to go up with Merlin sometimes. He looks out at his sprawling kingdom, all too aware of the empty space next to him. If he closes his eyes, Merlin could very well be sat next to him, saying nothing, just watching the night unfold. 

He understands now, more than ever, why the Horn of Cathbhadh is treated with the reverence it is treated with. How it can drive men into madness, and it wouldn’t even have anything to do with its ability to release the spirit of the dead back into the world of the living. 

It’s the temptation; it’s the knowledge that somebody he once thought he lost is only a ride and a summon away. If he wanted to speak to Merlin again, he can. When his loneliness becomes too heavy to bear, he’d be able to alleviate it. Who is going to be there to stop him?

He doesn’t need anyone to tell him how much of a terrible idea it is. He already knows. It doesn’t stop him from taking the Horn out from where it was safely hidden from time to time. He’d trace the intricate engraving with a gentle finger, thinking of all the things he’d like to say to Merlin.

Arthur once thought that he and Merlin would have forever ahead of them. He was always invincible when Merlin was by his side. How foolish it was; how naive. It was hubris only young men would have the arrogance to concoct.

He twirls the Horn in his hand again. 

Arthur is five-and-fifty. He is older than his father ever got to. He looks at the mirror in the morning and catalogues all the changes to his body and all the ways he is not the man he was in the fields of Camlann. In his reflection, his eyes look tired. 

Camelot flourishes. His people are happy and they have forgotten that it wasn’t always this prosperous.

Albion has been at peace for years and Arthur has been allowed to grow old and comfortable in his castle. It should be all he ever wanted. 

He goes to Merlin's grave again. He likes to sit here when he wants to be alone with his thoughts. He feels like he can breathe, out here. Something in the air clears his head, relaxing the worries wound tight around his chest. 

He knows there’s no one there, but sometimes, he’d speak into the silence anyway. 

“It was always supposed to be the two of us, you know,” Arthur says wistfully. “That’s what all the stories say.”

He wonders what it would’ve been like to rule with Merlin by his side. His right hand, his advisor, his court sorcerer. Arthur's heart twists with how badly he wants it all, even now. Even after all the years that have lapsed, his skin never forgot what it felt like to hold Merlin as life bled out of him. The sight of Merlin’s unseeing eyes is permanently branded onto his brain, no matter how much Arthur would rather forget. 

He tries, every day, to earn what Merlin has given him. He wonders if it will ever be enough. 

Arthur is two-and-seventy. His hair and beard are completely white and he feels every scar he has earned pulling at his muscles. His joints ache with every exertion, especially in the mornings when the air is biting cold.

He never learned to forget his best friend. He never allowed himself the luxury of forgetting his greatest failure.

Arthur climbs the hill with utmost determination, fingers clutching tight at his cane. He is panting and breathless, no longer the man he was when he laid Merlin to rest, but he doesn’t stop until he reaches the foot of the statue. The contrast between them is remarkable; this ancient king and his friend who never had the chance to live past twenty-seven.

“I wonder what you would have looked like,” he says. His voice comes out weak and thready. He looks up at the statue of Merlin, an eternity of regret that he cannot speak. He crouches and lays a fresh bouquet, yellow daffodils this time. He murmurs softly, “if there is any true justice in this world, then I’ll see you again.” He sighs. “Perhaps one day.” 

Something in Arthur broke after the Battle of Camlann. It wasn't  the only war Camelot went through under Arthur's reign, but it's the one Arthur never came back from.

Guinevere knew this when he saw Arthur entering the Camelot gates, weakened but alive and without Merlin in tow. Arthur had addressed the jubilant crowd, speaking triumphant words with red-rimmed eyes, trembling lips curving in a gracious smile.

She knows this now, going through Arthur's worldly possessions and finding a stack of drawings buried deep in his drawers.

Camelot needed him. His wife needed him, and so Arthur was there through it all, but it always seemed to her as though half of Arthur was gone with Merlin. She saw in Arthur tremendous guilt, a lifetime of regret for not having treated Merlin better. As he grew older, the quieter he became, the deeper he retreated into himself when he thought no one was watching. None of the bluster and boyish delight he had in his youth. But Arthur carried on with his duty nonetheless, a good husband and an even better king.

Guinevere tells herself that she should be grateful to even have half of Arthur back. That she can't come to resent Merlin, because without Merlin, there would be no Arthur at all. It shouldn't matter if it seems as though Arthur had buried his heart at the foot of Merlin's statue. 

But the thing is, she misses the Arthur that she once knew, the Arthur from the early days of their courtship. The Arthur that she married. She has missed him for so long now that him truly being gone doesn’t cut her off at the knees the way she thought it would. 

It’s difficult, sometimes, not to think of Destiny as a cruel mistress. 

Chapter Text

When Arthur was seven, he started dreaming about wooden swords and tall shining knights, their metal mail glinting under the bright sun.

He dreamed of a flash of red billowing in the wind, the thrill of being allowed to join a hunting party. The sound of a woman screaming as she was seared alive. Arthur was only a boy; he couldn't have made sense of any of it if he tried. 

His father dismissed Arthur’s dreams as night terrors. Not knowing how to deal with a child—bitter, lonely, and desperately missing his wife, he sent Arthur to a boarding school, hoping that a strict discipline would triumph over a juvenile over-creative mind. That these dreams would be nothing more than childhood fantasies, something that Arthur would grow out of in time.

“Magic,” Uther scoffed. “There is no such thing as magic, Arthur. Be reasonable.”

(And it never mattered if Uther, too, had dreamt of glorious battles and a lonely throne when he was a young boy. Reason always triumphs, in the end. If Uther could learn to suppress it, there was no reason why Arthur couldn't, either.)

When Arthur was thirteen, he realised that his dreams weren't going to stop, no matter what his father said. It didn't make sense; nothing about his dreams made any sense. Arthur continued to dream of a crown upon his brow, its solid weight heavy enough to crush his spine. He dreamt of swords clashing with swords, of people in rough-spun clothing strolling up and down washed stone walls, curtseying to him as he walked past them. A life other than his own, except for the fact that it  felt  rather like his own.

Morgana was there, in his dreams, and so was his father. And much like the King in Arthur's dreams, the father Arthur knew was disinterested in his silly dreams. 

"These dreams are for children, Arthur," Uther had said with dripping disdain. "It’s high time you leave them in the past."

Away from his father’s hawk-like gaze, though, Morgana would whisper from the corners of her mouth that she had dreams much like his. Arthur wanted to take her hand, to sit with her in a corner and piece together a life they both appear to have lived. He didn't know how, though, so he never did. 

“They’re just dreams, Morgs,” he said to her. “Father said I have an overactive imagination.”

“Sod what he says. It doesn’t explain my dreams,” she insisted, her eyes wild. “Or how I’d dream the same things as you.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “How would you know?”

Morgana looked away; shifty but insistent in keeping her jaws shut.

Realisation dawned. “You read my dream journal!” Arthur accused her loudly. The journal that he kept locked and so well-hidden that not even his father would know where he ought to start his search, “you complete cow, how—“

“They’re not dreams, Arthur,” she interrupted him, “they’re memories —“

“Oh, get off the internet, Morgs,” he scoffed derisively, even as discomfort trickled down his spine. “Sometimes dreams are just dreams, you know.”

The thing is, Arthur knew that it hurt her, his reluctance to share this with her. But there was an uncertainty he couldn't quite explain—something about her that he couldn't put his finger on—that stilled his tongue from telling her the truth. 

If the dreams were memories, then what did that say about her? For the first time, Arthur saw the girl he grew up with and felt a stab of fear. Does he know her or doesn’t he?

Arthur was fourteen when he started dreaming of a boy with bright blue eyes and a shock of black hair. He dreamt of high cheekbones, sharp enough to cut his fingertips if only he was brave enough to touch. He reached out and woke with a jolt, heart pounding hard enough to bruise his ribcage from within and a flood of blood rushing in his ears. Involuntarily, his fingers curled around his bedsheets, clenching so hard his knuckles turned white. 

The boy’s name was on his lips, but it was gone before he can say it out loud.  

At fifteen, just before Morgana goes off to uni, Arthur decided, fuck it.  He sat with her and told her everything. It was too much for one person to keep alone. And perhaps more importantly, Morgana told him everything. 

(It was only almost too late—Morgause waited for Morgana at university, but they didn't know that yet.)

“I’m going insane,” groaned Arthur when he was sixteen. 

“Bit dramatic, isn’t it, brother?” replied Morgana without missing a beat. “You've barely started your A-levels.”

But Arthur didn't roll his eyes, didn't snark back; he just sat there looking at his hands. 

“No,” Morgana added, sobering up as soon as she realised that Arthur was being serious. To be fair to him, the memories of a kingly life fully lived could not have been easy for a boy to make sense of, let alone someone as stupid as her little brother. “You know what, as much as it pains me to say it, I don’t think you are.”

He offered up a grateful smile. 

It was different, this time around, because they know how their story went. And given the chance to rewrite it, they'd be damned if they were to let their first destiny repeat itself. 

And then, when Arthur turned eighteen, he remembered. Merlin. The boy’s name was Merlin.

It didn't fall apart. His life, his relationship with Morgana, his sanity. When Arthur stood, the earth was steady beneath his feet. 

It was a near thing, though.

In a moment of weakness, and with far much more vulnerability than Morgana ever expected to hear from Arthur, he asked her, “do you think he’s here?”

There was a house party hosted by one of her friends, but somehow, they were in a field, still buzzing and not quite sure how they got there. 

Morgana didn't have to ask to whom Arthur was referring. 

For a brief moment, she considered offering up some comforting words and consolation. She decided on honesty instead, hoping that Arthur would appreciate it and not misread her intention. “I don’t know,” she admitted. 

“Well, you’re here,” Arthur pointed out, almost accusingly. He was looking at the sky as though he was waiting for something to appear on the horizon, but perhaps he was just avoiding her searching eyes. She could almost hear the plea in his voice. “Father’s here, Leon’s here. If I’m here, surely he would be, too.”

“Not sure if that’s how it works,” said Morgana. Arthur sounded so certain as if he truly cannot grasp a world where he would exist but not Merlin. “But for your sake, I hope you’re right.”

“You should know, shouldn’t you?” Arthur raised his eyebrows. “What’s the point of being a High Priestess if they don’t even tell you things?”

Morgana took a casual sip of her drink to hide her smile. This all seemed so easy. She wondered if it could have been like this too, back then. If all the pain and suffering could have been prevented. If they could’ve just ruled, side by side, King and High Priestess. 

They would never know. It was just another thing that Uther’s hatred took from them.

“Maybe he goes by a different name,” suggested Morgana. “Merlin isn’t a very common name these days.”

“In Surrey, sure,” drawled Arthur as though it was exceedingly obvious and Morgana was being particularly thick, but he looked thoughtful. “It’s probably more common in Wales.”

Morgana tilted her head in acknowledgement.

“Maybe he’s a girl this time,” said Arthur, chuckling to himself. “He was always one before. Would only make sense for him to be reincarnated as one.”

“Imagine if he’s old,” added Morgana, thinking of the long silver beard and ridiculous croaky voice her old enemy had. “Would you still go after him?”

Arthur groaned in disgust.

“Certainly would give Uther a heart attack,” Morgana waggled her brows. “Which, you know, might not be all bad.”

It was difficult to describe her relationship with Uther. It was tumultuous, but she rinsed him of his money, and he seemed all too happy to throw it her way. She wondered, sometimes, if he had remembered their life in Camelot and just pretended like he hadn’t so they don’t have to deal with the repercussions. It certainly would explain the sheer amount of money he let her spend and the way he tries to get Arthur to forget his dreams.

She often wondered what goes on in that little head of his. But then again, trying to make sense of Uther’s head only drove her to madness last time. Perhaps it was just not worth doing this time around.

By the time Arthur was twenty, he had nearly given up on trying to find Merlin at all. He had missed Merlin for so long that missing Merlin was weaved into the very fabric of his being; Arthur didn't know how to be without it. 

For years, Arthur had been looking for Merlin the only way a modern boy knew how; with endless internet searches and going to the house parties of a friend of a friend of a friend. He went on the dating apps, not really looking to match with anyone, but only on the off chance that he would see a face he’d recognise anywhere. 

(This, incidentally, was how Arthur found Gwaine. But there was only so much swiping you can do before it gets to you.)

Of course, when Arthur finally saw Merlin again, it required no interference from either of them at all. He should've known, really.  

Arthur is twenty one when he sees Merlin again. 

It’s nothing short of a pure fluke that they met at all. There is no shared group of friends, no thread that would pull them together from the different worlds they belong to. 

Nonetheless, their eyes meet across the crowded club. It’s electric; a jolt to his system. The pounding bass fades into silence, time grinding to a halt. It doesn’t matter how many people are standing between them—they’re the only two people in the world.

They fight through the crowd until they stand in front of each other. Arthur does so with a sense of urgency—he is not going to let Merlin slip through his fingers again. 

“I’m Merlin,” Merlin says. It's a marvel that Arthur can hear him above the thundering of his heartbeat. 

“I know,” Arthur fights not to roll his eyes. “You have no idea how long you’ve kept me waiting.”

“Just like the old times, then,” Merlin grins. His eyes still crinkle when he smiles. 

Arthur smiles in return. “Something like that.”

Chapter Text

“Just like the old times, then.”

“Something like that.”

Arthur leans forward, shouting over the din of the music, “shall we head out?”

“Bit forward of you, isn’t it?” Merlin shouts back, but he’s grinning and there’s a twinkle dancing in his eyes. The light reflected in his eyes makes them look as if they were molten gold. “I thought kings were supposed to be—I don’t know, chivalrous and all that.”

“I’ve waited for centuries, Merlin—“

“Have you, now?” Merlin’s smile widens, but there is a tenderness in his gaze that wasn’t there before. He is still bopping along happily to the music, dark fringe falling over his eyes.

“Fine,” Arthur returns, faking aggravation, “I’ll get you a kebab on the way.”

“That’s more like it!” Merlin laughs, but then his brain catches up to him. “On the way where?”

“To mine, you dimwit,” replies Arthur. “Unless you’ve got a better idea?”

“Nah, my place is a bit shit,” returns Merlin easily. “Go on then, lead the way.”

They talk all the way to the kebab shop. 

“What do you do at uni, then?”

“Software engineering,” comes Merlin’s reply. “I’m in my third year. How about you?”

“I graduated last year,” says Arthur. “Economics.”

Merlin snickers. “Oxford or Cambridge?”

“Cambridge.”

Merlin ducks to hide his grin, but Arthur doesn’t miss the gleam of amusement in his eyes. “Of course.”

Arthur had wanted to read history, wanting to understand the world around him has changed since he was last here. His father hadn’t allowed it. 

“What kind of job do you expect to come out of it?” Uther had said, disdain dripping from his words.

“It would still be a History degree from Cambridge, Father,” Arthur tried to reason. “There will be jobs at the end of it.”

But in the end, much to Morgana’s dismay, his father had won out.

“I don’t know why you still don’t stick up for yourself,” Morgana shakes her head in frustration. “You’ve been through this once. You don’t have to do it again.”

Arthur had thought it too. When he first started remembering, he had thought that he would argue with his father a lot more. But there was a reason why Uther managed to conquer Camelot then; there is a reason why Pendragon & Knight is one of the biggest consulting firms in the world. He’s a difficult man to stand up to, and at the end of the day, he is still Arthur’s father. 

But it's different, now. He has Morgana, he has his degree and his money and all that he would need to start again if it comes down to it. It's a different world, and h e's not an heir anymore—if he stays here, it's because he chooses to. 

“Are you sure this place is up to your standards, Sire?” Merlin teases at the kebab shop, his voice down to an exaggerated whisper. “The food hygiene rating’s probably not all that high.”

“Shut up, Merlin,” replies Arthur. The sticky floor clings to the soles of his shoes in a way he refuses to examine further, and he is fairly sure he just saw a rat diving under the fridge. It’s probably best not to think about hygiene ratings too hard. He draws upon his courtly training to keep himself from scrunching his nose up in disgust. Not very successfully, if the way Merlin snickers is any indication. 

“Where’s your flat, anyway?” asks Merlin, “Mayfair?”

Arthur coughs. “It’s not too far away.”

“It’s in Knightsbridge, isn’t it,” crows Merlin triumphantly. “You probably have got a cleaner coming in twice a week, stocking up your fridge with Waitrose finest—“

Arthur puts on his loftiest tone and says, “only Essentials, I'll have you know—“

Merlin tosses his head back with laughter. “Naturally,” he agrees when his laughter subsides. 

“It’s a wonder that I’ve forgotten how annoying you are,” Arthur comments without much heat. 

“You know what they say,” replies Merlin, chewing thoughtfully. “Time fades all things.”

Arthur’s not too sure about that. He takes a bite of his kebab and says nothing. 

They don’t talk about Camelot until later on in the night.

“You’re not quite how I remember you,” comments Merlin. They are sat at Arthur’s dining table, a bottle of wine between them. 

Arthur stiffens in the face of his own perceived failure. This bit, at least, is still the same. Well, I lived far longer than you ever did, he wants to say. What comes out instead is a breathless: “is that a bad thing?”

“No,” replies Merlin, but he appears thoughtful, which is never a good sign. “You’re still you.”

Inexplicably, Merlin’s reply only causes heat to prickle at his eyes. Arthur clears his throat. “Of course I am,” Arthur replies, as if Merlin was being particularly thick and Arthur was a saint for humouring him. “Who else would I be?”

Merlin’s lips curve in a smile. “I don't know, some dollophead,” he says, too fondly, “but it’s good to see that some things stay the same.”

Arthur’s breath catches; dollophead has always been Merlin’s word. He hasn’t heard it since the day Merlin died—he had forgotten, even, that it was ever a word. 

Arthur stands abruptly, chair scraping against the wooden floor. “Excuse me,” he mutters, looking anywhere but Merlin.

His legs are steady when he walks to the bathroom, but his fingers shake as they turn the lock. It’s all so overwhelming, suddenly. Arthur had spent a larger part of his life without Merlin by his side, distantly aware that he is missing something and not being able to do a single thing about it.

Now that Merlin is here again—in Arthur’s flat, sitting on Arthur’s chair—it should feel like everything is falling into place. Arthur doesn’t know what he’s doing, hiding in the bathroom with his face in his hands. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling; he only knows that the air is too thin and he can’t get enough of it in his lungs. 

He knows that he will do everything he can to keep Merlin by his side. He’s lost Merlin once; he can’t let it happen again. It’s terrifying, how much he’s feeling, emotions swirling inside him like a storm that threatens to rip him apart. 

He gulps in a breath and then another. This is stupid. Merlin is outside, probably wondering what the hell is going on. Arthur should be overjoyed. He should be courting Merlin, whisking him away to Rome for a first date or something, begging at his feet never to leave Arthur again.

He splashes water on his face, looking up at his reflection in the mirror. He looks terrible; grey skin, bloodshot eyes, mussed-up hair.

There is a knock on the bathroom door.

“Arthur?” Merlin’s muffled voice asks. “Everything alright?”

“Yes, thank you,” he calls back out. “Just a minute.”

He grabs a towel and wipes his face dry, steeling himself, feeling sick with apprehension. He hasn’t got a single clue what to do next. There’s no destiny to bind their paths together, this time around. He wants Merlin to stay; he doesn’t want to scare Merlin away. 

He takes a deep breath and opens the door. Merlin is standing on the other side, hand raised as if to knock again, brows furrowed with worry.

“Was it something I said?” asks Merlin, biting his lip. 

“No, don’t worry,” he offers, “I didn’t feel very well.”

Merlin seems wholly unconvinced. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No!” says Arthur, too quickly. “Please. Stay.”

Merlin studies Arthur’s expression with eyes that know too much, and Arthur feels stripped naked, altogether too exposed. Merlin finally nods and says, “I’ll grab us some water.”

They end up back on the dining table, just chatting, voices low and intimate. Speaking to Merlin has always been easy; Merlin has always known him better than Arthur knows himself. 

Merlin’s not quite how Arthur remembers him, either—something about this Merlin reminds Arthur of the way Merlin of Ealdor was in the first years of his service, the Merlin that Arthur first fell in love with. It’s the easy way his smile comes, the lightness in his footsteps. Time has been kinder to this Merlin; he isn’t burdened with a destiny too heavy to bear, far less haunted with the memories of his past mistakes.

Arthur learns that Merlin grew up in a small village in Wales with his mum. Much like it was the first time around, his father wasn’t in the picture, having been declared missing in action during active service in the Royal Navy. Merlin moved into London when he went to uni, living in a flat his uncle Gaius owns.

“Have you met anybody else from Camelot?” asks Merlin curiously.

“Leon is a couple of years above me in school,” Arthur tells him. “Our fathers are business partners.” He hesitates. “Leon is seeing Morgana.”

Merlin’s hand stills around his cup. “Oh?”

“It’s different,” says Arthur. “She’s different.”

It’s Merlin’s turn to hesitate. 

“She’s still a bit of a witch, if it helps,” adds Arthur, injecting some levity into his tone. 

A beat passes in pregnant silence.

“You grew up with her,” Merlin finally concedes. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Arthur’s heart stutters. They just met again that night, after centuries of death followed by decades of lives that weren’t lived entwined. They’re separate people now; Arthur is not how Merlin remembers him and Merlin isn’t how Arthur remembers him. Yet already, Merlin expressed his trust in Arthur’s judgement. 

“How about you?” Arthur forces himself to say. “Anyone we knew?”

“I grew up with Will,” replies Merlin. “You know, from Ealdor. And Gaius is here too. But other than them, no, not yet.”

They stay up all night just talking about everything and nothing, about the world they left behind and the world they live in now.

“It’s strange, isn’t it,” muses Merlin. “I was walking down Hyde Park the other day when I thought about it. It’s astounding that so much time has passed, and yet people are still the same.”

Arthur knows exactly what Merlin means. The changes are obvious; all the advances in technology, the seismic shifts in culture. What wasn’t acceptable then, what isn’t acceptable now. But the similarities in humanity are there too when one looks for it; friends meeting up at the tavern—pub, now—to share laughs over a drink. Parents looking after their children, making sure they’re not wandering off. People still laugh over bawdy jokes and cry over tragedies.

“Good to see that some things change, though,” says Arthur. 

It strikes him again that they are sitting in his flat, with all the modern amenities that come with modern life: running tap so they can have water whenever they wish, toilets that flush like magic, lights that are much less of a fire hazard. Yet they could very well be in the forests of Camelot, talking quietly over the crackling fire as the night draws to a close. Talking to Merlin has always been easy, and it’s good to know that this hasn’t changed despite all the years that they were apart.

Arthur looks at Merlin and thinks about putting a ring on his finger one day. Because they can do that, now—they can get married if they want to. He can be Merlin’s, and Merlin can be his, in front of the law and all the witnesses. It’s too soon, perhaps, to entertain such thoughts. He has only just met Merlin again, after all. But if living whole lives without Merlin by his side has taught Arthur anything, it’s that Merlin has always been it for him. 

They fall into bed together. They keep a respectful distance at first, sticking firmly to their sides of the bed. Then their feet touch, and then their legs, their hands, until Merlin’s back is pressed against Arthur’s chest and Arthur’s arms are firmly around him. 

Arthur is wide awake. There is no doubt that Merlin can feel every thud of Arthur’s heart, beating wildly against his ribcage. 

“Arthur,” whispers Merlin, very very quietly. 

“Go to sleep, Merlin.”

Merlin doesn’t listen. “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur admits, muttering his answer into Merlin’s hair. He doesn’t let go. 

“Are you sure about this?” Merlin whispers back, pressing his back further against Arthur’s chest. 

“I have loved you in every lifetime,” Arthur grunts, tightening his arms around Merlin. “But that will very quickly change if you don’t shut up and go to sleep this instant.”

Merlin fidgets, his hair tickling Arthur’s nose. “As you wish, Sire.”

When Arthur wakes up in the morning, Merlin is already awake, watching him. Arthur watches back, drinking in the sight: Merlin splayed in Arthur’s bed, open and trusting like the Merlin of Camelot never was. He’s beautiful. He always has been.

Arthur’s heart aches. 

“I saw you, you know,” murmurs Merlin softly. His gaze is tender upon Arthur’s.

Immediately, Arthur knows what Merlin is referring to. The flowers, the grave, the statue. Oh gods, the statue. Arthur stiffens, his cheeks flushing hot with embarrassment. “You did?”

“Yeah, course I did,” Merlin’s lips quirk in an affectionate smile. “I saw all of it. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Arthur sinks deeper into his pillow, feeling far too exposed.

“I told you then,” Merlin rests a hand upon Arthur’s face, thumb stroking gently. “A better king than I could’ve ever imagined.”

Arthur sucks in a sharp breath. Merlin’s words are an echo of the words he said beyond the veil, all those years ago, and hearing them now makes something in his chest twist painfully. 

A part of Arthur had thought that the encounter was only a dream. That it wasn’t the real Merlin talking to him, but a mere spectre conjured up by his grieving mind. 

“Was it real, then?” he dares himself to ask. 

Merlin presses a soft kiss upon Arthur’s forehead. “It was real enough to me.”