Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Arthur learns to swim when he is five years old.

Like all things, he was required to learn with experience. He had been given his first sword a year earlier—a practice one, but Arthur loved it, and he used it to viciously attack the knights’ legs at the time—and he was learning to read and write with Geoffrey, and his father was teaching him that he needed to be a great king, and future great kings don’t leave their bed in the middle of the night, even if they’ve had a nightmare.

This is how Arthur learns to swim:

There is a lake. It starts off deceptively shallow, but then comes the depths, where not even the tallest of men can stand. Two knights take Arthur there—he remembers Sir Oswald only, and cannot recall the other man—and they throw him in the water, unclothed.

Arthur loves being bathed, and he loves the smell of water. So he yells out in glee when Oswald throws him in, and expects to be able to stand.

He cannot stand.

Arthur gulps in the sweet water of the lake as his feet don’t find any muddy ground, and goes under. He looks up, and kicks his feet in an attempt to go back up, because he didn’t take a deep breath and the panic is making him lose air. But the water drags him under, and Arthur thinks he sees a man in the depths below him—two sharp eyes in a blue face, and Arthur distantly thinks, magic, because that’s another thing that his father has taught him about.

His mouth falls open and bubbles come out, and the thing in the water below him smiles, his teeth sharp and oddly white. Arthur thinks he can see the faint outline of something else even further down, as if there is something in the water that is waiting for Arthur. 

Not yet, Arthur finds himself thinking, and will later not be able to explain why. He drifts down anyway, unable to get himself to break the surface of the water with the desperate flapping of his legs and arms. And the magical creature—for it surely can’t be a man—reaches for him, its fingers oddly long. 

Arthur feels hands under his armpit, and he’s roughly yanked out of the water and into the sweet, sweet air.

“There’s something there!” he gasps, when Oswald has hoisted him up and into his arms. “In the water!”

“There’s nothing there, my lord,” Oswald says, and takes him back to the shore. Arthur shivers from the cold breeze touching his wet skin, and Oswald takes pity on him by setting him back in the shallow ends of the water. It’s still cold, but the wind doesn’t touch him.

Arthur imagines for a moment something else does, grazing his ankle, and his heart speeds up.

“I saw it,” he insists, and Oswald shakes his head.

“There’s nothing to be scared of, Prince Arthur,” the knight says, and Arthur always remembers him like this when he grows up—this large man, with his large brown eyes and his merry laughter and his kind solace, who does not take his tiny prince seriously. 

(He always liked Oswald before, but he will not so much, after today.)

The other knight—Davin? Dorwin?—looks over in their direction. He’s been polishing his sword, a far end away from the water. “Just teach him, Oswald,” he insists. “The king’ll have our hide if the prince can’t keep himself from drowning after today.”

Arthur knows what drowning is—he’s well aware of all sorts of ways a man might die. But the thought of drowning, with the water suffocating his lungs and him trying to reach for air—something makes his heart restrict at the thought. The lake looks that much more foreboding, after that.

Oswald only laughs, and gently grabs Arthur’s forearm. “Come on, little prince,” he says. “You’ll have to learn one way or another. I’ll show you how.”

Arthur doesn’t want to, but his father always says that a great king cannot be afraid of anything. So he wordlessly follows and tries to mimic Oswald, but he ends up with his head under water several times more.

He doesn’t see the creature again, and he knows it wasn’t his imagination. But he learns to swim, and then he turns six, and seven, and eight, and he doesn’t think about that day in the lake, when something tried to grab him and he thought, Not yet.

Arthur is thirty-two years old when he sees the creature again, and realises—

I didn’t know I was waiting for this.

~*~

He doesn’t actually remember the boat, or that it rocked in a storm. The further it drifted away from the mainland, the louder the thunder became. Eventually, an island came into sight, and the sky roared and the waves lurched higher and higher, and the boat capsized.

Arthur does not remember any of this, because he is dead at the time.

Still, he thinks he somehow knows it anyway—sensed it, the moment that his skin touched that water, and he knew that he had come back to the lake in which he once learnt to swim. He does not need to breathe, but he draws breath in the water, and there are no bubbles to rise to the surface.

(He does not fear this—he cannot. Great kings do not fear—they have no nightmares of drowning in the deep, and Arthur cannot drown, because he was killed by the sword pierced in his chest, and he died in the arms of someone he loves and not in the depths of the cold, unyielding lake—and yet, he thinks he is drowning, and there are no bubbles rising to the surface.)

He cannot move, so he lets himself fall—is this falling? Is it floating?—deeper and deeper, and the creature that he saw decades ago appears before his eyes.

“Pendragon,” it says, and it touches his face. Arthur feels himself grow cold, and something dark crawls in his belly. Still, his sword fell somewhere else, and he can’t see it. Even if he did find Excalibur, he cannot even flex his fingers. He is at the mercy of this creature, and he cannot imagine it will do anything kind.

It’s magic, he considers vaguely, and then thinks of Merlin, and takes another shuddering breath that he should not be able to take.

“Do not touch him.”

Arthur cannot turn, so all he knows is that a woman is speaking. Her voice cuts clearly through the water—is this still water? Arthur has been reevaluating everything he knows in the last few days of his life, ever since Merlin made that dragon dance from the fire—and she speaks with unconcerned authority.

“He is ours,” the creature hisses, and Arthur focuses on what he sees behind the creature. There is a citadel here, it looks like, and the creature does not swim here but it flies. Its wings are translucent, and the air is not air. Whatever Arthur breathes, it prickles his skin uncomfortably, and it tastes sweeter than oxygen.

“He is a guest here,” the woman says. “He is not here to stay.”

She comes to stand beside him, and grabs his wrist. She turns to look at him, and she looks younger than Arthur imagined her to be. Her eyes are dark in a pale face, and her hair drifts around her face, much as if she were swimming.

“Avalon is not your realm,” the creature says.

“I am the Lady of the Lake,” she answers. “He entered through my domain, and he was given into my custody by Emrys. Even you have to answer to the laws of that world. He is a guest of Avalon only.”

The creature snarls. “Emrys is nothing to us.”

“Liar,” the Lady of the Lake says, and she sounds oddly fond. “Leave Arthur Pendragon to me. You know that he cannot stay—not if you force him. I will explain everything to him, and you will see him when he chooses to see you.”

The creature’s eyes are calculating and cold. Arthur does not doubt, suddenly, that it would take him if not for the woman’s presence. How could anyone choose to remain here? There are goosebumps on his arm, even though he is dead. Dead. He cannot understand any of this, and he tries to keep breathing evenly to stave off the dread in his stomach.

A great king does not fear, even when he has been taken into a magical realm after his death.

“He will choose to see us?” the creature says, suddenly, looking at the Lady of the Lake.

“Have faith in what was promised,” is all she says. The creature takes in Arthur, and slowly bows. Arthur wants to frown, but then the creature disappears, flying back towards the citadel that he can only still distantly make out. There is too much fog to see anything but the faint lights.

The Lady stands in front of him, exhaling loudly. “I think that went well. I saw your coming, but the Sidhe have been watching you closely. They know the prophecies well enough, but not all that is promised has happened the way they intended. Try not to upset them, next time you see one.”

Her eyes glow golden, and Arthur shudders. Then he finds that he can flex his fingers, and roll his shoulders, and he suddenly can’t stop breathing heavily.

“Who are you?” he manages, trying not to fall to his knees. If he looks up, he thinks he can still make out the surface of the water, but he stands on—a sort of fog, once again. Is this the bed of the lake? 

“This is Avalon,” she says. “The lake is one of the gates to the world of the Sidhe. I am the protector of the Lake, and the guardian of the Between. And it is a good thing I am here too—the Sidhe are no friends to you or Merlin.”

“You know Merlin?” Arthur asks, and tries not to sound too eager. Judging by the Lady’s careful smile, he doesn’t succeed.

“A long time ago,” she says vaguely. “Come. There are places where the Sidhe do not come.”

Arthur has no choice but to follow her. Avalon confuses him, and he cannot wrap his mind around the direction he is being taken—the mists make it impossible for him to see, and he thinks he can vaguely make out some trees, its leaves drifting as if moving with the waves. He loses track of where he is going as soon as they take turns, and he can only follow because the Lady is holding his hand. Her hand is cold in his.

There is a—clearing, is the best word for it, he thinks. Above him, the sky is dark and faded, and there are no stars. There is a beauty in it, though, in the multicoloured landscape that doesn’t make sense beyond what he can even process. 

There is a lake. Arthur frowns, and drops to his knees next to it.

“I don’t understand this,” he says, and feels hopeless. “I know I am in the lake—I know that. I was—Merlin put me in a boat, because I died. And I fell out, and there was the creature—the Sidhe—and I know I am in the water.”

“The water was a gate,” the Lady says.

“Then I want to go back through the gate,” Arthur snaps, and looks back at the pond of water before him, and it glitters as though it knows it’s being watched. “Is this another gate? One lake to come here, and one lake to return? I need—Camelot needs me, and Guinevere—”

He doesn’t want to think about Gwen. It’s bad enough to think about Merlin. He is dead, so he can’t remember—but he knows. He thinks of Merlin’s anguished cries, and of their foreheads touching. Merlin had held him for so long, he thinks distantly, had rocked his body for hours and hours.

“You can’t return now,” the Lady says, and her smile is a bit apologetic, even if her tone isn’t. “You are the Once and Future King, Arthur. There is a destiny written for you that you don’t understand yet. You have built your kingdom in your lifetime, and now you must wait.”

“For what?” Arthur demands.

“For the world to need you again,” she says. “And it will. The fate of magic is irrevocably tied up into your existence. But for a long time, things will pass as they will. And you will come back, and you will understand what must be done. You are a king of peace, Arthur. One of a kind. You are a man who will unite and who will build. But you must wait.”

“But—Merlin,” Arthur says. “He is a sorcerer, isn’t he? Maybe he can find a way to—open up this world. He can bring me back. He will bring me back.”

“Merlin is magic itself,” the Lady tells him. “He could come to Avalon and command the Sidhe. It is his birthright, probably, as I’ve come to understand it. But Merlin is still young, and he knows far less of his destiny than he thinks he does. He’ll learn, Arthur, he will—but not for a long time. And not now that he’s grieving.”

“He’ll come for me,” Arthur insists, and the Lady of the Lake sits down next to him. Arthur inhales deeply—and still finds it odd that he can—and takes a better look at her for the first time. She is human, he thinks, or she looks human. And her dress is oddly familiar. “I’m—who are you? Is that Morgana’s dress?”

“Oh, is that who he stole that from?” she says casually, and runs a hand down the flowing fabric. “Well, it’s lovely, isn’t it? But we’re not here to talk about me. Put your hand on the water, Arthur.”

“Why would I?” Arthur says. “I’m dead, and I can’t go back.”

“Don’t you want to see?” she asks.

Arthur doesn’t need to ask to understand. He shudders, and eyes the water again. It seems to whisper to him, and it’s oddly still. He hesitates for a moment, and then puts his palm flat on the water. It doesn’t ripple.

~*~

Gwen is as beautiful as she always has been, but she does not smile. 

“We need to start thinking about more alliances, my Queen,” Leon ventures hesitantly, standing by her chair. “We need to move fast. Without Arthur—we will look vulnerable.”

“I will do what must be done,” Gwen says, without looking at him. There are an array of papers before her, but Arthur can’t see what they say. She shuffles through them, her hands trembling. Arthur wants to reach out, but he has no body, no voice—all he can do is watch as Leon lays a hand on Gwen’s shoulder.

“I know that,” he says, soft. “No one doubts you, my Queen.”

Gwen scoffs. “I do,” she answers, and rises from the chair abruptly. She wanders over to the window—Arthur wonders if she has spent a long time looking out to the courtyard, waiting for his return. It took them days to travel to the Lake of Avalon. She must not have known his fate for a long time.

(He wonders now, who told her.)

“My Queen—”

“Has anyone heard from Merlin?” she asks, and turns back. 

Leon frowns. “No. I thought it would be best to let him be, for the—first few days. I’m sure Gaius is looking after him, but I can send—well.”

“Gwaine?” Gwen says, and runs a hand over her face. “Gaius won’t be enough, Leon. Arthur is dead, Gwaine is dead. We’ve lost so many men in the battle, and Camelot is shaken. If our enemies come now, we would be lost. We need Merlin—I need Merlin.”

“I don’t think he’ll want to,” Leon says carefully.

“I’ll go to him,” Gwen murmurs, and carefully dusts off her black dress. “He’ll need a friend. We’ve all lost so many, after all.”

She closes her eyes, and leans against the wall. She doesn’t cry, but Arthur recognises her grief for what it is—and finds himself sobbing in return, raging to hold her. But there is a veil, and he cannot break through.

~*~

He finds himself sitting beside the lake, his eyes swollen. The Lady of the Lake sits next to him still, dirtying Morgana’s dress as she unceremoniously draws druid symbols in the mud.

“Do you understand?” she asks.

“I need to go back!”

“You can’t,” she says, harshly. “You’re not the only one who has ever lost his life, Arthur Pendragon. You think you deserve another chance at the life you had? That is not what this is. Merely because this is your destiny, because you are a promised king, does not mean that this is about you. This is about a promise once made—a promise you were born to fulfil.”

“She’s my wife,” Arthur cries. “My kingdom—my people.”

“You are not the only one who has ever lost his life,” she repeats, and digs her nails into the mud. Her eyes are dark, and Arthur falls quiet. She is wearing Morgana’s dress—why is she wearing Morgana’s dress? 

“I don’t understand,” he mutters. “Am I—forced to sit here, and watch Guinevere’s life unfold? To watch as my kingdom is attacked and my people are murdered? Am I—do I need to watch them?”

“You will watch,” says the Lady, “to make you understand. Time passes differently here, but when you return, you need to know everything that was promised, and all that was done. This is only one of the things you will learn when you are in Avalon—to watch, and understand the views of many. Learn what magic is, and what it is to the land.”

“When can I return?” Arthur presses. “I’ll—I can watch them. But when can I return?”

“When you stop asking that question,” the Lady says, and rubs her forehead. “You can watch a great many people, and you can return here when you like. You won’t require water or food as long as you are in Avalon. When you are here—and you will be here for some time—the Sidhe won’t bother you.”

“And you?”

“I will be here whenever you need me. And I will bring you to the Sidhe, when the time comes.”

Arthur’s heart skips a beat. “You would relinquish me to the monsters?”

The Lady of the Lake smiles. “Not without you asking it of me.”

There are a great many things he still doesn’t understand, but Arthur thinks it might be that way for a long time. The Lady is not forthcoming with answers, but at least she will guard him. She’s a slight woman, but the Sidhe listened to her, and she is familiar with Avalon in a way that Arthur thinks he’ll never be.

(And she knows Merlin. Arthur has no idea why that instils such trust in her, but it does.)

“Can I watch them again?” he asks, hesitantly. His fingers hover above the water.

She nods, and Arthur lets himself fall away again.

~*~

He soon learns that he is not suited to watching without taking action.

He watches a lot, and always finds himself reaching out. He follows Gwen mostly, at first, and feels pride as she handles her grief along with her new throne. The knights stand by her side, and she makes the choices she must. Through her discussions with his advisors, he learns that she is planning to relinquish the ban on magic.

It aches to hear—his own chest burns with shame, but she is doing the right thing. He knows she is.

Following Gwen soon becomes a bit monotonous, though. He loves her dearly, but he is well-familiar with the drudgery that comes with ruling a kingdom, and most of it is routine. Despite his death, Camelot moves on. And when she cries, Arthur cannot help her or hold her, and he isn’t sure if he is a coward for leaving when she clutches the pillows so tightly that her arms tremble with effort.

Her grief feels too personal, somehow. It is not meant for Arthur, although it is because of him.

It takes some practice, but he learns to switch fairly easily. He follows around Leon and Percival, and tries to figure out which of his knights still live. Gwaine is dead, he knows, and tries to follow as many of his knights as he can to figure out how that happened. Gwaine survived the battle, he thinks—he remembers seeing him on the battlefield before he came face to face with Mordred. And Gwaine is—was—a good fighter, who should’ve been left standing.

He never figures out what happens exactly. But Percival barely speaks, and barely responds to anything that’s not a direct command from Leon, and one time, he twitches when someone says Morgana, and Arthur thinks he can guess.

From his most loyal knights, only Leon and Percival now remain. Other knights are recruited, and Arthur respects Leon’s choices. They are good fighting men, but Leon doesn’t comment on Owain’s footwork, and he doesn’t correct Galahad’s grip, and Arthur has to leave again when he thinks that he won’t be able to instruct these men.

That these knights won’t serve under King Arthur again, because King Arthur is dead.

And so he watches, and sees Camelot prepare for a future without a king, and pushes down the grief of his own life.

Chapter Text

The Lady of the Lake did not lie when she said that the passing of time is tricky in Avalon.

“It’s the magic,” she explains. “Magic is older than time, you realise. Magic is in the fabric of the world, and this much of it—it distorts the laws of nature. That is why you can be dead and still live. That is why you can pass the barrier and watch where you should not be able to see. Magic has created these portals.”

Arthur is letting it sink in. “So the Sidhe,” he says slowly. “Are they—creatures of magic? Is that how they built their citadel?”

“The Sidhe are powerful magic users,” she says, “but they are not made of magic. They need to be close to it, and the more powerful, the better it is for them. Avalon is a place of magic, though, which is what I think drew them here in the first place.”

“So Avalon was here before the Sidhe.”

“It was,” she confirms, and twiddles with her dress again. “They have been here for a long time, however. As long as magic is here, they cannot die. But this requires a balance—without magic in our world, the magic here will leave, too. It is an ongoing stream, a cycle that must not be broken.”

(Arthur knows many things. He knows the history of Albion, and he knows how to use his sword, and he knows that there is a cycle in nature that is best left undisturbed. He doesn’t know magic, though, and he doesn’t know the Sidhe, and he doesn’t know anything about the interaction between worlds.

He is starting to understand the Lady of the Lake, though, to a degree.)

“This is part of why I’m here, isn’t it,” he says. It’s not really a question.

She frowns at him, as if she’s surprised to know that Arthur is paying attention. “You know,” she says, and watches the lake rather than Arthur. “The way that you are watching Camelot, I have watched, too. When I first came here, I didn’t really understand. But I found the lake, and I thought—like you—that I might find a way back.”

She doesn’t say anything else, so Arthur prods. “You must have been angry.”

“No, not really,” she says, absently. She runs her fingers over the water, and there are still no ripples. She and Arthur cannot impact the world they are watching—they cause no ripples. There are no actions they can take. “I didn’t mind dying, necessarily. But I thought—well, like you, I watched someone I left behind. Someone I loved, and who grieved me, and I thought that I could take away his grief if I just came back. But it was hard to watch, and I stopped for a long time.”

“It’s the worst part,” Arthur says quietly.

“I will never return to your world,” the Lady tells him. “But you will, one day. And you will be able to change everything.”

~*~

(It’s not as if Arthur is avoiding Merlin. He is dead, so obviously he can’t avoid Merlin. It’s just—Merlin never happens upon the knights or Gwen, even if Arthur hears whispers of his name. Merlin’s secret has come out, and magic is legalised, and everyone seems to be waiting for Gwen to give Merlin an actual title. 

And during all of this, Arthur doesn’t see him a single time.)

~*~

It’s sword practice. Arthur likes to come here, even through the bloodcurdling frustration of not being able to teach. The knights are some of his best friends, though, and the fresh additions are a joy to watch. Arthur still wishes he could train them himself—he has extensive plans on how to train Kai out of that unnecessary twirl he does—but Leon is doing a good job, all things considered.

“Make sure not to lower your sword,” Leon says to Owain. “You always need to be prepared—”

He loses track of his words, and stares. Arthur turns to find what can be so important to make Leon lose focus, and finds himself looking straight at Merlin.

He looks mostly the same as he’s always done. A blue tunic, a red scarf—his hair has grown out a bit, but outwardly, there’s nothing to suggest that Merlin is—what, really? Grieving for Arthur? Using his free time to be a sorcerer? Anything else that is out of the ordinary?

“Merlin,” Leon calls out, and gestures to the knights to continue as he jogs towards the fence. Merlin stands still as a statue, and doesn’t answer Leon’s greeting smile.

“I’m here to say goodbye,” Merlin says, his voice hoarse, and Arthur—he just remembers Merlin’s warm hand on Arthur’s cheek, his desperate pleas for Arthur to come back. The words of disbelief and the cries of agony.

“I don’t understand,” Leon says, and leans against the fence. “Are you going on an errand? You must know that someone else can be sent, if you’re not feeling up to it—”

“I’m leaving,” Merlin interrupts him, and a hint of colour touches his cheekbones. “I’m not coming back, Leon. I know that—I know what Gwen wants, but I can’t. I can’t.”

(You’re an idiot, Arthur wants to tell him. You have people you love here—what are you doing, Merlin?)

“Where would you even go?” Leon says in exasperation. “Merlin, Arthur wouldn’t—”

“Arthur is dead,” Merlin snaps.

Leon softens. “And that is why you should stay.”

“You don’t understand, Leon. You can’t understand.” Merlin’s shoulders sag, and he doesn’t look at Leon directly. Arthur’s heart constricts, and he wants to hold Merlin, to thank him once again—tell him not to throw his life away over this. Merlin deserves so much more from him, and it is Arthur’s eternal regret that he hasn’t given it to him.

“What is this errand of yours, then?” Leon asks. “Where’s this place where you can uphold Arthur’s wishes better than here? Gwen will need you, you know.”

“I need to—” Merlin shakes his head, and tugs at his sleeves for a moment, before he continues. “I know Gwen needs my—magic, but it’s—erratic. Ever since Arthur died, I’m—it has lost its focus, in a way. I need to—well, I think I need to go back to the Lake of Avalon.”

(Come and get me, Arthur wants to shout at him. I’m right here, Merlin! Come and get me!)

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Leon says gently.

“There’s—” Another moment of hesitation. “This is going to sound insane, but there’s—a spirit, that I think—well. She might be able to help me. I’ve been—dreaming.”

Is it entirely impossible that Merlin can see him, Arthur wonders. The spirit—that must be the Lady of the Lake. She mentioned that she knows Merlin, so obviously Merlin must think that she can help in some way or another. If Merlin’s magic is that powerful, the way she keeps telling him it is—can Merlin see Arthur, too?

Arthur has to calm himself at the thought. Merlin hasn’t mentioned Arthur at all, but if he comes to the lake, and talks to the Lady… well. He’ll have to watch that.

Leon clasps Merlin’s shoulder. “If that is what you think you have to do, we’ll help you. You shouldn’t go alone. We’ll send a knight with you.”

“I don’t think there’s any you can miss,” Merlin says, and eyes the knights. “Or that will be of any help.”

“That bad, huh?” Leon says, and smiles, but it fades quickly enough. “No, I think there’s someone who could benefit from coming with you. Promise me you won’t go alone?”

“That depends on who you want to send with me,” Merlin tells him.

Leon turns around. “Percival.”

~*~

Arthur sleeps by the lake, and wakes up alone, most of the time. There is no need for food or drink, but he often feels weary after spending hours following his knights and his wife. He’s not sure if sleeping is the right word for what he does—but he falls away, and he wakes up, so it’s as good a word as any.

This time, the Lady of the Lake is here.

“Merlin is coming,” he says, when he sees her glancing at the lake.

He doesn’t know where she goes when she isn’t here. Arthur stays by the lake, always making sure that he doesn’t stray too far. He wouldn’t be able to find his way back if he got lost, and he doesn’t believe that the Sidhe will show him any kindness if they stumble upon him. The Lady, despite her mystery, is the only ally he has here. 

She responds visibly at Arthur’s words, looking up at him with surprise etched in her features. “Did he say that?”

“Yes,” Arthur says, and waits for a moment. “I think he means to talk to you. He said—the spirit of the lake. That is you, isn’t it?”

“I—yes.”

Arthur presses on. “He has come here before, hasn’t he? That is how he knows you. You can talk to him, if he comes here—you can tell him that I’m here, and that he can come and get me—”

“No,” she says, and stares at him. “I can’t talk to him.”

“But you said you knew him,” Arthur says.

“Before I was the Lady of the Lake,” she says, and takes a deep breath. She looks oddly stricken, but Arthur wants the answers too badly to wonder at it. “I guard the Lake, and I protect its entrance, but I cannot access it myself. I’ve tried once, but I couldn’t—not all the way. I would have, if I could.”

“You’re lying,” Arthur insists. “If you know him—and evidently, he knows you—”

“I died in his arms,” she says, and drops to her knees by the lake, slowly entrenching her fingers in the water. 

“You—what?”

She glares at him. “I wasn’t always a water sprite. I was a druid once.”

“I don’t understand,” Arthur says.

“No, I know that,” she says bitterly, and sighs, the fight leaving her body as she slumps forward. “I met Merlin years ago, in Camelot. Merlin brought me to the lake, and he held me. He must’ve done something else—I ended up here, as the Lady of the Lake. It is his magic that bound me here, and granted me this place. So I have been watching him, and trying to help.”

“You love him,” Arthur realises, his mouth dry.

“He was going to leave with me,” she says, eyeing him. “I’ve never seen him consider leaving your side afterwards, in all the time I’ve watched him. But you were Merlin’s world, and I think—he wasn’t even aware of it, I think. I’m not sure if he is now. But it was his aim in life to be by your side and protect you—and for him, I’m doing the same.”

Arthur stares at her. “But if he was—surely, you’ll go up and talk to him?”

“I can’t,” she stresses. “I’m not strong enough for that. The last time he came, I only managed to raise a single hand above the water. That world cannot be reached from the lake by us. If he’s coming, he will not find anything here.”

Arthur isn’t sure about that. Merlin is coming, and surely Merlin will know what to do. He has no idea when he gained such trust in Merlin and his abilities—he remembers the nights by the fire, ruffling Merlin’s hair and laughing at his clumsiness—but then again, he never knew all of Merlin, did he?

“We’ll listen,” he says. “Both of us. And then we can decide what to do.”

“We can do nothing,” the Lady of the Lake says decidedly. But Arthur doesn’t respond to that, and she doesn’t bring it up again.

~*~

Merlin arrives at the Lake of Avalon three days later.

(Arthur watched him during the journey, but it felt oddly private. Percival didn’t speak for most of it, but one evening, Arthur’s most stoic knight had started crying, and Merlin had just sat down next to him and held him, his own face unreadable.

It’s something he doesn’t want to see again, and yet knows it will be unavoidable. Merlin has never talked about his grief—Arthur had never thought about it, before he died. Now he thinks he understands that Merlin is just better at pretending than Arthur ever was.)

Percival stays back. Arthur doesn’t know if Merlin asked him to, or if Percival understands that this is something that Merlin needs to do alone.

(Arthur, for his part, is both relieved and anxious about not being alone. The Lady of the Lake kneels next to him, both their hands submerged in the water to watch Merlin. Arthur doesn’t know if he’ll sense her by his side, or if she will sense him. 

He does know that he wants to jealously guard Merlin from her gaze, and cannot quite explain why. Merlin isn’t just his to see—his to follow, but it feels odd that he would have to share him when he never has before.)

Merlin doesn’t move quickly. He stands on the grass, his eyes peering through the mist that hangs over the lake. He breathes, so deeply that Arthur can see his chest moving, and then his eyes drop to the ground.

To where he held Arthur, the last time he was here.

Merlin takes off his jacket first, and then his boots, and his socks, and discards them carelessly. Merlin walks towards the lake, and walks in, one step, two steps, three steps—and stops, the water rippling around his calves. It must be cold, but Merlin’s expression is taken up by one of tender care, and he stoops forward to let the water run through his fingers.

“Freya,” he whispers. “Freya.”

That must be her name, Arthur realises. The Lady of the Lake—Freya. The girl who Merlin had loved, and Arthur had known nothing about her.

There is no response, and Arthur feels something complicated crawl up in his chest at the falling expression on Merlin’s face—the deep disappointment, the grief. For a moment, Merlin looks back at the water, and sits on his knees. He wobbles as the waves shake him, and the water comes up to his midriff, but Merlin is unyielding.

“I thought it might be a long shot,” Merlin says, bitterness tilting his lips. “But you helped me once before, when all hope was lost, and I thought you might again. You would’ve come, if I asked, wouldn’t you? But you only gave me the sword—Arthur’s sword. I wanted to see you, but that was all you could do, wasn’t it? But you can hear me.”

Arthur doesn’t understand. Then again, this conversation isn’t meant for him, and perhaps he should leave—have Freya have this last conversation with Merlin. The jealousy flares up, and he stays.

Merlin continues, “I don’t know how much you know—how much you see. Did you find the sword again? I left it with—I thought you might find it. Keep it safe, again. It will be needed once more, you see. I don’t know when exactly, but I—” His voice wobbles, and Merlin takes a deep breath, running his wet sleeve past his eyes. “I don’t know if you’ve seen him, but Arthur might be there with you.”

Arthur exhales. I’m here, he wants to say. Talk to me, Merlin. Please.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers, and closes his eyes, and lets out a sob.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and reaches for him, and will never touch him.

Merlin just sits there for a few minutes, composing himself. Arthur watches him intently—he has never seen Merlin like this. Even when they were travelling here together, with Merlin’s desperate faith that Arthur could still be saved, Merlin’s despair had been hidden to Arthur, and Arthur had been thinking about other things at the time.

“Arthur,” Merlin repeats, his voice stronger this time, and he opens his eyes again. They’re red-rimmed, offsetting the blue of his eyes, and Merlin runs a hand through his hair, wetting the strands. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t know if you—but I don’t think I can do this. All of this, all of me—if only ever was for you, and now you’re not here, and I keep—it’s the grief, I know that, it’s the grief. But some things never fade, and I think—well.”

Merlin sits still for so long that Arthur thinks he forgot what he’s going to say. The wind tugs at Merlin’s hair, and he can see the goosebumps on Merlin’s arms. 

“I never got to explain everything,” Merlin says, in a bitter tone that Arthur has only heard of him a handful of times. “I always thought I would. But now—it hardly seems to matter now, because nothing worked out the way I thought it would. I thought the worst part—no, sorry, I never thought the visions were the worst part. But I thought—well, I’ve seen Arthur die, I know to keep Mordred away—and I tried, and I tried, and the fact that I knew it was coming didn’t do anything at all to stop it. I thought it would, and I thought I could, and I—”

The monologue just stops, and Merlin slumps forward again. 

“I’m talking to a lake,” he says to himself, and shakes his head.

“Don’t be so stupid, Merlin,” Arthur says, even though Merlin can’t hear him, and he can’t hear his own voice either but he’s sure it’s breaking a little. “You’re talking to me. Prattling on as always.”

Merlin sniffs. “You’d be insulting me, of course,” he says, and Arthur’s heart skips, and for a moment, he considers that Merlin can hear him. But then Merlin says, very quietly, “If you were here to insult me, that is. I’ve made a fool of myself on many occasions, just to keep you from figuring it out, you know. And then other times, I may as well have told you I was magic, just to get it over with. But you always thought you understood so well—you never once considered that things weren’t as you thought they were.”

“Who’s insulting who now?” Arthur asks him.

Merlin stands up, and panic rises in Arthur’s chest. His friend is completely drenched by now, but he’s lost that desperate glance, despite the fact that he looks like a moron, standing in the lake in all his clothes.

“You always were a bit thick, weren’t you?” Merlin says, and hiccups out a laugh. “You’re coming back, Arthur. And I’ll be waiting. And I’ll—I’ll try to do my best by them. Gwen, and Leon, and Percival, and Gaius. But in the end, you’ll be coming back to me. And that’s—as long as you do that, I’ll be fine. I can—the magic, I’ll make sure it works. No more control issues. If you promise that you’re coming back to me.”

Yes, I promise, Arthur wants to say, but anything he says just goes unheard. He focuses on the lake, and wills the waves to lap at Merlin’s stomach—anything. Just to give him a sign, just to make sure that Merlin knows that Arthur is here. 

There is no sign, and there is nothing Arthur can do. Nonetheless, Merlin smiles—a little forlorn, but genuine, and runs his hands through the water once more.

“You’ve always been impossible to rouse,” he murmurs, and walks out of the lake. Arthur watches him go, mildly panicked at the thought of Merlin leaving. He wants Merlin to be with his friends, of course, he wants Merlin to be surrounded by those he loves—but he also really wants Merlin to be here, and to drag Arthur back to where he belongs.

(And if that doesn’t work, he wants Merlin to stay here with him. But that is selfish, so he doesn’t consider that.)

Merlin takes a deep breath, and gathers his things. Percival comes out of the forest, clearly gathering that whatever Merlin came to do has been done. Merlin looks back at the lake, and his lips go thin. Then he murmurs, “Drȳġe,” and his eyes shine a pure gold. Suspiciously, his clothes go dry. 

“That’s a neat trick,” Percival says dryly, a bit more like the man that Arthur used to know.

Merlin smiles at him. Arthur has missed that smile—the broad grin that makes Merlin’s ears stand out more, and the one he’d give to Arthur only when he actually meant it—and he hates the thought it won’t be aimed at him for a long, long time.

“I’ve a lot of neat tricks,” Merlin says. “Maybe you’ll see some of them soon.”

“We are going back to Camelot, then?” Percival asks.

Merlin’s grin wavers, and he eyes the lake once more. “Back to Camelot.”

~*~

Things slightly change after that, even though they really should not have.

Freya and Arthur don’t talk about Merlin coming to the Lake of Avalon. Arthur just says, “Freya,” in a rather exasperated tone, and she says, “I do have your sword, you know,” both as a warning and probably as a sort of explanation, and Arthur thinks about asking her if she’ll give it to him but already knows the answer, and so doesn’t ask.

(In all fairness, he’s not sure what he would do with Excalibur himself. Arthur is a ghost, a phantom, haunting his people from afar, and he can’t even tip over a jar to spook them. He is an unknown watcher, and he spends his days sitting by a portal-lake inside a lake inside a magical realm. He has no use for Excalibur, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t like to hold it.)

Things settle, and Avalon slowly becomes familiar. Arthur has taken to doing short runs in the forest, and to watching the sky shimmer, distant and iridescent. He now knows how to find his way back to the lake in the mists, if he doesn’t stray too far. Freya hasn’t said anything about that either, so he figures that he is still safe.

Most of the time, though, he watches.

~*~

Percival slowly starts talking to the new knights. Whenever he sees Merlin, their eyes meet, and Arthur thinks he missed a few important conversations between them, but he can never tell, because they don’t talk about it again.

The important thing is that Percival trains, and he takes over teaching from Leon. Arthur is thankful, because Percival’s insights are more precise than Leon’s have ever been, and he has a keen eye for spotting new recruits, too. 

Leon stands by Gwen’s side, and Arthur is thankful for that, too. Leon has watched Arthur all his life, has been his friend all his life—he was bound to pick up a few tricks. He’s a noble, and he understands some things that Gwen still has trouble with. They’re a good set, Arthur decides, and is content to let his oldest friend rule with his wife.

Gwen still cries, sometimes. But she no longer wears black, and she laughs at times, and it’s a rare occasion that her gaze becomes pensive. She leans on her remaining friends, and she now smiles when she says, “Arthur,” and thinks of him fondly, rather than with so much grief.

And it is Merlin who Arthur watches the most. Merlin, who gracefully returns to Camelot and takes up a position in court that should’ve been his under Arthur’s rule—the Court Sorcerer of Queen Guinevere—and who protects Camelot, and whose eyes Arthur watches shine gold in defence of the people he loves.

Merlin, who still has a ready smile for everyone, but rarely laughs in private, and who locks himself up, and who goes to the forest more often than he ever did.

It is Merlin who concerns Arthur the most. Merlin, who is the strongest and bravest man in all of Camelot, and Merlin, who wakes up in a cold sweat with Arthur’s name on his lips. Merlin, who promised Arthur he would wait—and Merlin, who cannot let go.

And then the war starts.

~*~

It’s a year and a half after Arthur’s death, and he’s a little surprised to find it’s been that long already. 

(He watches his own world, but the passing of time feels off, still. Freya says that it will probably never stop, as long as he is in Avalon.)

The only people he ever watches are those who live in Camelot. Those are the only lives that matter to him, really, and he sees no reason to diversify. And the thought of watching someone else oddly feels like spying. Besides, Arthur is trapped in Avalon—there is nothing he can do, even if he saw something of importance.

All of this is to say that he only learns of the attack when Merlin does.

Merlin’s sitting on top of Gaius’ desk, slowly muttering out incantations to make Gaius’ tinctures more potent. His legs are crossed, and his eyes are half-closed. It’s a slow day, but Arthur likes to watch Merlin like this anyway—thoughtlessly powerful, slowly paging through a magic book whenever he’s not sure what spell might work best for a certain tincture. 

Watching Merlin do magic is fascinating, really. He does it so effortlessly, as if every nerve in his body is waiting for the spell to be released. And he has heard Gaius’ responses to the more intricate spells that Merlin performs on an almost daily basis—he knows of the disbelief, the awe that Merlin’s talent inspires.

Gaius comes in, slamming the door open. Merlin starts, and swings his legs off the desk, but Gaius doesn’t tell him off for that.

“King Alined has attacked,” he says, and Merlin jumps off the table.

“What?”

“Unprovoked,” Gaius says. “The Queen just received word. They have breached the outer towns of Camelot, and burnt them down. The survivors are on their way to Camelot, but many have died. Alined has supposedly allied himself with Bayard.”

“Bayard?” Merlin repeats, as Arthur does the same. “But he’s our ally. The peace treaty with Mercia comes from Uther’s time, there’s no reason for them to attack Camelot!”

“Uther is not king anymore,” Gaius says darkly, “and neither is his son. Bayard never said so to Arthur, as far as I am aware, but many kingdoms take their nobility very seriously. Arthur married a servant girl and enlisted knights from outside the noble families—he made a great many enemies that way, Merlin. And if he were here, he might have had a chance to convince them, but now—Guinevere on the throne is a threat to them. And one they mean to eradicate.”

“How many kingdoms are involved?” Merlin demands, already shrugging on his jacket and his hand on the door. 

Gaius holds up his hands. “I’ve no idea, Merlin. It might be only Bayard and Alined.”

“Alined’s a coward,” Merlin says. “You’ve seen how his plans unfold. And Bayard can say what he likes about Gwen, but he was at their wedding, and he’s been an ally for years—I wouldn’t be surprised if someone else is involved.”

“I don’t know,” Gaius repeats. “Go and talk to Gwen. Perhaps you can—”

“Going,” is all Merlin says, and he’s out the door before Gaius can even finish his sentence.

Gaius sighs, and leans against his desk. Rather than following out Merlin, which is what Arthur really wants to do, he hesitates, and watches Gaius. His physician is getting on in age, his hair whiter every year. Arthur already thought Gaius the oldest man in the world when he’d been just a child—every day, it strikes him as more truthful.

“Are you okay?” Arthur murmurs, and watches as Gaius breathes carefully for a few moments. “He needs you, you know. You’re a father to him. And he’s lost—so many people, now. Freya, and Lancelot, Gwaine. Me.”

“I need to stop running around,” Gaius says to himself, and wipes his forehead. “An old man. Just an old man.”

“But the wisest one I know,” Arthur says.

Gaius doesn’t hear him, and looks at the tinctures that Merlin has been working on. He holds one up incredulously, and watches the potion glimmer a faint purple.

“You’d almost wonder if he does it to make them look shinier,” Arthur tells him, if only just to talk to someone else for a bit.

Gaius sighs, and puts it back. “Silly man,” he says fondly. 

“Yes,” Arthur answers. “But very wise, too. He gets it from you, I think. Don’t tell him I said that.”

The tinctures clink as Gaius orders them again, a faint smile on his face. Arthur watches him for one more moment, and then follows Merlin.

~*~

As it turns out, Merlin is right in his assessment. It’s not two kingdoms that have allied themselves against Camelot—in the end, they fight four kings.

It’s a long and weary battle. The only reason they’re left standing in the end is because of Merlin’s protection. He does what he can, and he does what he does through rough power alone—there is no finesse to his spells by the end, just an endless supply of magic to defend Camelot against their enemies.

It takes four years. In that time, almost half of Camelot’s land is lost to the other kingdoms. It happens due to a shortage of knights—they lose over a third of their number, in that time. A few sorcerers, under Merlin’s tutelage, strengthen their numbers, but there aren’t enough of them.

Arthur screams at Merlin during this time, and screams at Gwen and Leon. They haven’t protected their most valuable assets, they’ve sent soldiers too late, they’ve not arranged enough peace talks, and the ones they did were lacklustre in their grief and rage—there’s a thousand things that Arthur knows to do better.

In the end, Arthur has to admit that he, too, may have lost the war against four kingdoms. However, he’s certain he might’ve left more land by the end of it. And if they hadn’t fought at Camlann, their numbers would’ve been larger, and he would’ve been alive—

It doesn’t do to dwell on that. He yells at Freya too, and pleads, “Let me go back, I need to go back,” and she disappears for far longer than she has before when he screams at her, and she is right to, when he thinks back on it.

There is no turning back, no matter how much Arthur sobs. 

But four years pass, and the kingdoms back off. Merlin is strong enough to defend what is left, even if it means that he passes out every few hours—even if it means he doesn’t eat, doesn’t drink, doesn’t sleep. Merlin is relentless, even more than he is weary, and Arthur has to admit his tenacity in this, even if his strategies are flawed.

(Then again, Arthur was supposed to be the strategist between the two of them. So he supposes that it’s his failure rather than Merlin’s, and he spends his days apologising to Merlin for shouting at him. Even if Merlin doesn’t hear.)

The four years have done a lot to Camelot, and to its people. They are no longer the rich kingdom that they once were, proud and strong. Gwen has done what she can to provide for them, but she is one woman alone, and Arthur hates it when she cries.

It gets better when she marries Leon.

In effect, this is also what ends the war. Leon is a nobleman, if not from a high house. But Leon has a title, and he takes control of Arthur’s kingdom. Arthur, after seeing all the bloodshed and the nights of creating plans and more plans and having all of them fail, knows that it’s the only way this could have ended. And Leon and Gwen respect each other, if it’s not entirely based on love.

But still. Arthur feels like he has less and less of a claim on those things he once had. His kingdom, his wife. Everything is fracturing, and he knows he could come and help, if only he weren’t stuck—

The only person who still wholly feels Arthur’s is Merlin. Merlin, who is decidedly not okay, and who calls his newest king Sir Leon like he’s always done, and who does not swear fealty to Leon at all, and wryly grins when he tells Leon this. 

Merlin, who lost Gaius the third year of that horrible war, and his mother in the fourth, and who has no one to look after him anymore.

They are all older than Arthur now, he realises. Merlin will be—thirty-five, soon, even though he still looks the same way. Gwen does look older now, but she is still so very beautiful, and sometimes Arthur just aches with the thought that she found the first grey hairs on her head during that war, and that Arthur wasn’t there to share those with her.

Leon is kind to her. And really, that is all he can ask.

So Camelot is left standing, if not proudly. And it is really mostly because of Merlin, who turns down all praise and returns with a newfound vigour to his magic books.

Chapter Text

“What would happen if I were to meet the Sidhe?” Arthur asks.

Freya frowns. She is laying on the muddy sand near the lake, unbothered as it sticks to her dark hair. She is unlike anyone Arthur has met, but if he had to choose, he’d say that she mostly reminds him of Merlin. They share the same unbridled joy for nature, and she is quieter and less obstinate but she is just as dry, and she doesn’t tell him things that she thinks he ought to not know.

So, yes. He can see why Merlin loved her—loves her, maybe. Arthur cannot ask, but even if he could, he is not sure that he would.

She pulls at a blade of grass. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I want to know,” Arthur says, “Obviously.”

Her lips twitch. “You are afraid of them.”

“I’m not afraid of them,” Arthur tells her, and crosses his arms. He amends, “I’m not entirely afraid of them. You seem to trust them, to a certain degree—and you told me I would ask to meet them, once. So supposedly, that is something you think ought to happen.”

“Why do you think I trust them?” Freya asks, and plucks at another blade of grass.

“You go to them, when you are not here.”

“Is that what you think?”

Arthur eyes her. “You told me that no one lives here but the Sidhe. I’ve asked you where the forest leads, and you tell me they lead nowhere—that it’s an endless cycle, and you would end up back with the Sidhe. When we met, they knew who you were, and you knew how to get them to leave.”

Freya smiles. “Fair enough. Yes, I do go and see them.”

“Why?”

“Well, we’re neighbours,” she says. “I like to be courteous, even if I don’t trust them. Besides, I am your guardian here, and you will need them once.”

He inhales deeply. “So, tell me. What would happen if I met them?”

Freya sits up, and looks at the lake. “I can tell you, but it’s complicated. I’ve told you, in the past, about the promise that was once made to the Sidhe people, and I’ve explained to you about the cycle of magic from Avalon to your world. I’ve told you that Avalon is made of magic, and this is what drew the Sidhe here.”

“I know,” Arthur says. “They are not magic, but they’re—magic users. That’s the important distinction.”

Freya hums. “When I first came here, I didn’t know any of this. All I know comes from the Sidhe—and it took me years to learn, and they only taught me because I wasn’t leaving, and they couldn’t make me. My place as the Lady of the Lake protected me, as someone who crossed through the portal. Neither of us should have been able to, you know. And once it became clear that Merlin himself had placed me here, someone of major importance to anyone who has magic, they respected me far more.”

Arthur still has some trouble wrapping his head around Merlin—Emrys, as most magic creatures call him—being that important to a great many people. He’s come to accept it, however, and after having seen Merlin do what he can in the war, he knows that Merlin’s abilities are no small matter.

“I didn’t think they would be the type to care for anyone from our world,” he says. Our world, he says, the way she always says, your world. Arthur has corrected her sometimes, but she always looks pensive when he does, so he stopped.

“This is the important bit,” she says, and leans forward. “Your world doesn’t have many places of magic—actual magic, pure magic. The Sidhe think that Avalon and your world were once connected more closely, and that there were many gateways to one and the other—gateways that are now disappearing. These places will still be strong in magic, but Avalon is the real source. For the cycle to continue, magic must exist in your world as well. And so, the ancient Sidhe, a Court that no longer exists, placed magic in your world to serve the cycle. And they made a promise, and a prophecy—there would be a king who would make sure that magic would always prosper in your world. A king who would unite nations and protect magic, and who would bind Avalon and your world back together.”

Arthur blinks. “The Once and Future King,” he says.

“Now you see,” Freya says, and tilts her head. “And to assist him, there would be a warlock, a man made of magic rather than in possession of it—one last beacon of pure power to represent the union. The Sidhe have been said to once put this magic in your world, given from Avalon, to make sure the cycle survived. And you are a product from that promise.”

“And Merlin,” Arthur says, because it needs to be said.

“And Merlin,” she repeats, and looks back at the lake. “And that is why you must meet the Sidhe, one day. To make that union, and to fulfil that promise.”

Arthur swallows. There are a great many questions he can ask, but Freya already seems hesitant, and he thinks that she might not know more. These are all myths from centuries ago—maybe even more, if the Sidhe live as long as Freya has implied they do. Millions of years ago, perhaps, if these are legends even by their reckoning.

“And how will I do that?” he asks, in the end, because if she knows the answer to that, at least Arthur has something to think about.

But she just shrugs, and offers him a tiny smile. “So do you still want to meet the Sidhe?”

He considers the question. The Sidhe are not his allies, and they might have been promised an alliance, but that doesn’t mean all of them will be in favour of one. The war flashes through his mind, and Merlin’s pale and haggard face—there are so many ways that they could have won. Arthur could have won, if he’d only been able to strategise.

He can strategise, now. He has to wait, and get to know them. Understand more about Avalon, and about magic. He needs to understand what the promise entails, and what an union would look like.

He needs to know Merlin’s role in this, and what it means.

“Later,” he says, and looks over his shoulder to where the Sidhe will live. He cannot see the citadel from here, and he would not be able to find his way back—but maybe Freya can go back with him, just so he can see. And get a lay of the land.

Later.

~*~

Percival leaves the knights nine years after Arthur’s death, and marries a beautiful girl. He moves away from Camelot, and Arthur watches him only once or twice. They have a little boy, and Percival calls him Gewain.

Leon and Gwen don’t have any children. They don’t share their chambers, so there is no expectation for one. They have a named heir—Galahad, one of the noble-born knights, who has grown into a just leader and a kind man. During the war, he lost two fingers, but he is still among their best fighters.

(Merlin doesn’t age. Arthur notices it fairly early on—it’s easy to miss, because Merlin is always tired and overworked these days, but he is nearing forty, and he doesn’t look a day over twenty-eight. Arthur distantly wonders when he stopped ageing—was it before or after Arthur’s death? Had he just not noticed?

If Merlin has noticed, he never says. He thinks that Gwen might be aware of it, but they never talk about it when Arthur watches. And by now, he watches a fair bit.)

And so the years pass on, as everyone ages—except Merlin, and, of course, Arthur.

~*~

“I’m going to leave,” Merlin says, and Gwen blinks in surprise. 

They’re sharing a meal, the way that they usually do when neither of them are called away by other business. It makes sense, Arthur thinks, because they are the only friends truly left, if they don’t count Leon. Leon is a loyal friend, but Merlin and Gwen are closer to each other than Leon really has a claim to.

“Leave?” Gwen repeats faintly, and slightly panicked. “Where?”

“To Arthur,” Merlin says, and Arthur is taken aback upon hearing his own name. He’s sat in on several conversations about himself, of course—impossible not to, when you’re listening in on your wife and your best friend, who also happen to be very close—but it usually had some context.

“Merlin,” Gwen says kindly, and lays a hand on his. “You cannot truly expect—”

Merlin raises his eyebrows at her. “You know what the dragon told me.”

“A barmy old dragon,” Gwen argues (and Arthur privately agrees). “A dragon who once tried to destroy Camelot. And you’re still trusting him? Merlin, I want—of course I want for Arthur to come back. I loved him, and I still love him, of course, that’s not what I mean—but he’s dead. He’s not going to return.”

“I’m here for a reason,” Merlin insists.

“You’re here because we’re your friends, Merlin,” Gwen says. “Because you loved Arthur, too. And you’ve made sure his kingdom did the best it could.”

Merlin looks away. “I can’t stay, Gwen.”

“Merlin, I don’t understand. Why?”

“People are starting to notice,” Merlin murmurs. “The immortality—thing.”

Gwen sits still for a long moment, and then uses the hand she already has on Merlin’s skin to grab him with. “The—reason that you’re not ageing? I—well, I thought you were doing that yourself.”

“Oh, I can age,” Merlin says wryly. “With spells. I used it a fair bit, actually, when Arthur—well, you know. But I’m not—I haven’t—I think it happened in the Crystal Cave. When I reclaimed my magic before Camlann. But it might have always been like this.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Gwen says, and rises from her chair to embrace him.

“It’s for the best,” Merlin says, but he leans her head against her chest, still sitting in his chair. “I know you don’t believe it, but Arthur—he’s dead, but he’ll come back. It might take a long time, and I might have to wait for longer than I want to—but he’ll be back, and I need to be there. And I need to—learn more. About myself.”

Gwen pats his hair. “You’ll say hi for me, when you see him?”

(Because she will be dead, Arthur thinks. Guinevere is going to keep ageing and she will die, and Merlin will be here, waiting, and Arthur’s heart breaks for both of them. He loves them, he loves them both, he loves them, and he is never going to be able to talk to Gwen again. And who knows how much more Merlin will give up before Arthur gets to see him?)

“Of course I will,” Merlin murmurs, and stands up to press a kiss against her forehead. “It’ll be the first thing I do.”

“Maybe not the first,” Gwen muses, a little tearfully. “Maybe the first thing ought to be, erm—I don’t know. What do you think about, you took a long time to get up, sleepyhead. Isn’t that how you used to greet him?”

“I think more insults were usually involved.”

“Alright then, you think of what to say.”

“I do that every day,” Merlin says, and grins. “I’m not sure yet. I might have to wing it.”

Gwen sighs, and engulfs Merlin in her arms again. “I just don’t see why you need to leave.”

“It’s hard to explain. It’s the magic, you see—I’ve read all the books I can find, and I’ve learnt the spells, but I think there’s more. I think I’m capable of more, but I need to figure out how to—control that power. How to use it.”

“But you’re already so powerful,” she whispers. “Is that really necessary?”

“I don’t know,” Merlin says, and holds her tightly. “I think it might be. One day.”

“Will you come back?”

Merlin is silent for a long moment, and buries his nose in her curls. She closes her eyes in return, her hands tightening their hold in Merlin’s tunic.

“This isn’t the last time you’ll see me,” he murmurs. “I promise.”

She lets go, with a watery smile. Merlin smiles back, and Arthur just watches them. He’s just glad he’s not the one who has to let Merlin go.

~*~

It’s odd to have to choose between watching Gwen and watching Merlin. Usually, it didn’t much matter who Arthur saw—Merlin always knows what Gwen is doing, and Gwen is usually aware of what Merlin is up to. If something is going on, Arthur knows who to watch to be aware of what is going on.

But now, if something happens to one or the other—Arthur might not know. 

So he has to switch. Merlin does go back to the Lake of Avalon, but he doesn’t stay for long, and he doesn’t try to talk to Freya and Arthur like he did before. Instead, he sleeps in the forest and gathers his own food, and he has no one to talk to. Arthur worries about him, especially when Merlin grows more and more lean, and sleeps for shorter and shorter durations.

Gwen’s life is a little more hectic. With Merlin gone, her advisors are wary of another war. Marrying Leon was a way of salvaging some of the friendships, but Camelot has lost most of its allies. Merlin’s protection is a part of what caused the stalemate, in the end, and he has left with little in the way of assurances. His protegées remain in Camelot, but they aren’t nearly as powerful, and their magic is unpractised. It has only been legal for just over ten years now.

The advisors are right. War comes to Camelot again within the year.

(While this happens, Merlin is wasting away near the Lake of Avalon. His skin is deadly pale, and not even the birds that came to peck at his arrangement of nuts could wake him. Arthur wants to shake him, wants to send him back, wants to—

Merlin is a greater man than this.)

Leon goes to war, but there’s only one king on their doorsteps now—a king that has never even known Arthur, and that is unsettling to him—and what follows can mostly be described as a skirmish. Galahad follows him in battle, and the fight seems to be going in their favour. Their strategy is sound, and this young king is unchallenged and thought Camelot would be easier to take than Leon is making it for him.

Still, Leon is killed in battle. Arthur is numb as he watches the sword pierce his heart, and watches as Galahad cries out in grief, and takes on two men at once.

The war is won, but they take the body of Leon home, and the pyre burns and burns and Gwen just stares.

She has loved three men, Arthur realises. And she has lost all of them.

If Merlin knows about the fight, and about Leon’s death, he doesn’t show it. Arthur can’t quite tell what Merlin does and does not know, these days. He seems to have visions, sometimes, or dreams—his eyes shine golden, and he mutters to himself, and he looks more like a madman than a court sorcerer most days.

What he gains from this, Arthur doesn’t know. But Merlin seems content, even if he’s starving himself. He softly talks to the animals that have come to keep him company, and he sits by the lake, and he practises his magic. He asked Freya once, what she thinks Merlin is learning from this—she’d just shaken her head.

Merlin’s magic is beyond understanding, at this point.

Life continues, and Arthur sees everyone he once knew grow old and die, and wonders when he’ll be allowed to join them.

~*~

“You should be crowned king next year,” Gwen says.

It has been fifteen years since Arthur’s death. 

Galahad tilts his head. He’s bright, but he was never trained for the life of a royal. Arthur barely remembers what House he’s from, and who his parents are—a bad sign, really. He used to know all of them with ease. The relevance has largely disappeared, now, and with it, Arthur’s memory of the nobility of Albion.

“My lady,” he says, and kneels before her. He doesn’t need to—they’re all alone. “Why do you think that?”

Gwen smiles self-deprecatingly. “The other kingdoms will never accept a queen who isn’t a noble,” she says. “And now that Leon’s—well. It turns out that I’ve run out of men to marry.”

“You became a queen when King Arthur married you,” Galahad says. “That never changed.”

“You’re sweet to say so,” is all Gwen says, and tugs at his hands.

“I say it because it’s true.”

“And I hope all of Albion will think the same, one day,” Gwen says, and sighs. “Camelot needs a king, Galahad. Leon once thought you were the best option, and he was right. If another kingdom declares war, Camelot will fall, and I can’t—Arthur would never—that mustn’t happen.”

Galahad watches her for a long moment. Arthur isn’t surprised that Leon and Gwen took to him so well—he reminds him of Lancelot. And if anyone were to be chosen as a King of Camelot, it should be someone who is as kind and loyal as Lancelot was.

“I think you should stay,” Galahad says quietly, “But I know that you’re right. If you think this is the right thing to do—”

“It is,” Gwen says, and smiles.

Galahad is crowned a year later.

It has been sixteen years since Arthur’s death.

~*~

Merlin is gone so suddenly that Arthur panics for a moment, when he first sees it.

No longer is he at the lake—gone, are the gathering supplies and the thick blankets. Merlin is wandering, and he’s not going in the direction of Camelot. Arthur sometimes wishes that Merlin had company, if not solely for his social needs, then for the fact that Merlin might be arsed to explain what is going on—

But alas. Merlin insists on staying as much of a mystery to a deceased Arthur as he was when Arthur was still alive.

Arthur watches him for the entirety of his journey. Merlin travels, and no one bothers him on the road, because they probably figure there’s nothing to steal for them. It’s true—Merlin didn’t take much from Camelot, and there’s nothing that would be of any value to bandits.

None of that means that Arthur is any less concerned for him. 

When he figures out that Merlin is in the Valley of the Fallen Kings, the worry doesn’t go away. They’ve had enough misadventures here for Merlin to be more wary than this. Magic won’t help him if he is shot through the heart—and Arthur doubts that immortality will really help with the injuries.

(He’s seen Merlin near death before. He never wants to see it again.)

Merlin walks as if he knows the direction, and he probably does. His eyes shine golden whenever he stands still, and Arthur remembers that little trick. Merlin stumbles sometimes, but that’s mostly out of clumsiness and hunger.

Arthur follows, and feels oddly at peace. Merlin still looks the same as he always did, even if his cheekbones stand out all the more for the lack of food he’s had, and even if his clothes are dirtier and older than they’ve ever been in Camelot. Arthur can almost pretend that they are on a hunt, the way he sometimes used to order Merlin to come with him, and that they are here together.

That Arthur is still alive, and that Merlin is his clumsy manservant, and his closest friend, and they’re out on a nice day. But Merlin doesn’t smile at all, and he makes his way with magic, and so Arthur’s imagination has to fill in for most of it.

I imagine I’m catching dinner, then, he thinks about saying, as Merlin pokes at a fire. Since you’re clearly too horrible of a hunter to catch us anything.

In his imagination, Merlin smiles at him, and watches him through his lashes. I don’t think anyone can catch a pheasant fat enough to appease you, my lord, he would answer. How many holes does your belt have, now?

Arthur would throw something at him, and Merlin would duck and laugh, until Arthur got him under his arms and made sure that Merlin was punished for his words.

“I wish you could hear me,” he finds himself saying, when Merlin lies on his back next to the fire. He imagines sitting down next to Merlin, and talking to him the way he never thought he could in life—honestly, like equals. He’s tried, but either his own pride or Merlin’s own kept them from ever truly having the important conversations.

Maybe Merlin would’ve told him about his magic sooner, if Arthur had tried harder.

Merlin turns, his face to the fire. The embers glow in his eyes, as he stares at it. 

“I know it wouldn’t have made that much of a difference,” Arthur continues. “But I think you would have benefited from it. I certainly would have—you’re poor company enough, as it is, but now that there’s only one person I get to talk to—”

I miss you , he wants to say, but even if the words won’t be heard, he can’t get them over his lips.

Instead, he says, “Trust you to find me a sprite who’s even more mysterious than you, Merlin. Honestly. You’re absolutely useless in every sense of the word, aren’t you? Leaving Camelot to go and starve away, all by yourself. You could’ve stayed with them. It’s as much your kingdom as it is mine.”

Merlin closes his eyes, and curls up. His hands are trapped between his knees and his body for warmth, and Arthur wants to sit by him and give him a cloak—the red one with the Pendragon emblem on it. Anyone who passes by would know who Merlin’s allegiance belongs to—who Merlin belongs to.

“I’m serious, you do know,” Arthur says quietly. “I’ve had time to think. And I can’t know everything you’ve done for me, and I doubt you’re going to talk to the empty sky just to tell me. But I’ve had enough time to think, and I know everything that you’ve told Gwen, so I know—my kingdom does belong to you. In a just world, you would have been a king. A fair and a wise one—or a king’s companion, at least. I would have offered you that.”

Merlin’s breathing evens out, and he shudders in his sleep. The fire flickers, but it stays on. Arthur cannot smell the trees, or touch the grass, and he can’t sense the cold of the night air—but he hears the birds chirp, and he sees the rustle of the leaves. It’s half a life, almost, where he cannot feel and touch Merlin’s hair, curling towards the end now that he’s let it grow, or run his hand over Merlin’s cheek.

“I think you would’ve stayed, then,” Arthur murmurs, and sits with Merlin throughout the night.

~*~

Merlin runs his fingers over the stone. He slowly wanders inside, making sure to touch the walls and to breathe the air—and Arthur has been inside caves before. They don’t smell good, most of the time. There is always the risk of wild animals and, possibly, bandits, so Arthur is on edge when Merlin enters, careless as a child.

He can sense it, though. The magic.

(He’s not sure if that is Avalon or his own abilities. Perhaps he has grown used to being surrounded by it, even only a bit, but he can't sense anything else in the world that he no longer inhabits.)

Merlin sinks to his knees in the middle of the cave, and presses his forehead to the ground. He breathes in and out, and in and out.

“I’m here,” Merlin whispers, and lets out a sob. 

The cave glitters, and at Merlin’s words, cracks in the wall light up. A thousand blue butterflies escape from the walls, and Arthur jumps away before he realises that he can’t be touched. Even so, he feels ashamed—what would butterflies have done to him?

Merlin laughs, the tears still streaming down his cheeks, and the butterflies fly past him to leave the cave.

“I can sense you,” Merlin says, then, and looks just past Arthur.

“Me?” Arthur asks, and turns around. There’s no one there—there’s a path further into the cave, but he can’t see. He doesn’t think anyone is there, anyway.

“Or maybe I’m just imagining things,” Merlin continues, and his smile fades. He roughly runs his hands over his face, cleaning his cheeks. “Father? I’m here again—I found the Crystal Cave again. I want—if you’re still here, I want to talk.”

He’s still looking for someone to answer his questions, Arthur realises. He has no idea why Merlin picked this particular place—the Crystal Cave, apparently—or why he came now, and he also has no idea why Merlin is calling for his father. A father who, as far as Arthur knows, Merlin never knew. 

“Father?”

Merlin’s voice is more hesitant, and Arthur curses.

“Well, I’m here,” he tries. Merlin’s expression remains the same, and Arthur represses the urge to kick a rock—even though it wouldn’t hit. The magic is strong here, he knows that, and still he can’t reach out and talk to Merlin. What will it take?

“I suppose I shouldn’t have expected you to linger,” Merlin murmurs, and shifts to lie on his back and stare up at the dark nothing. His eyes flash golden, and another butterfly appears—red and gold, and it flutters down to Merlin’s face to sit on his cheek.

“Just you and me, then, butterfly. I should give you a name, I think. You’ll fly away in a minute, but you’ll still have a name. What do you think about—Arthur? Hm? You’ll share a name with a clotpole, but in his defence, he’s a king. And you have his colours. Do you like that?”

The butterfly slowly spreads its wings, and doesn’t leave. Merlin sniffs.

“You’re just as much of a vain prat. I can tell.”

“You once thought talking to a lake was weird, Merlin,” Arthur says, feeling oddly defensive. “Now you’re talking to a butterfly?”

“If I told him I’d named a butterfly after him, he’d be mad at me,” Merlin says, and lifts a finger to gently touch the butterfly. “D’you think you can keep it a secret? I’m good at those. To be fair, I don’t have many people to talk to these days.”

“And whose fault is that?” Arthur reminds him.

“Right,” Merlin says, and huffs. The butterfly flies off, apparently done with Merlin’s theatrics. It flutters towards the light, and Merlin and Arthur both watch it go. Merlin smiles. “Well, that’s another one gone.”

And that is how Merlin comes to live in the Crystal Cave.

~*~

Arthur misses many things at Camelot. Truth to be told, he mostly spends his days watching Merlin.

There is no good reason for him to do so. Camelot is livelier and he can stay more current. Merlin has been in his Crystal Cave for a year, and has made a home out of it. Arthur can’t fathom why he doesn’t return to the lake—where he’s at least somewhat close to Arthur, even if neither of them can do anything about it—but he figures it must be the magic.

He could ask Freya about it. He doesn’t.

Most of Merlin’s activities stay the same. He gathers his food, and he practises his magic. The magic is different now, though, and Merlin doesn’t take the book out anymore to look at spells. He murmurs words, sometimes, in a language that Arthur can’t understand—try as he might—but most of the time, he simply breathes and glows gold.

It doesn’t always work. Merlin is frustrated, those days, and works deep into the nights to get his magic to do as he wants. Arthur doesn’t know what makes for a spell that works and for a spell that doesn’t, and he thinks that Merlin isn’t entirely sure, either. Sometimes, he wonders if Merlin wouldn’t be better off with the druids to teach him.

(It takes him two days to consider that Merlin might not have anything to learn from the druids, at this point.)

The spells are different from those at the lake, though. Arthur enjoyed watching the magic that Merlin performed at the Lake of Avalon—minor illusions, sometimes, or spells to make the wave dance, and spells to turn the water into something else entirely. Things from the books, mostly, spells that would make the trees rumble with discontent and spells that would cause new herbs to grow.

At the Cave, Merlin experiments more boldly. He stands in the opening of the cave and lets stone grow to close it off entirely—Arthur shouts at him for that, when Merlin is stuck inside and takes two days to find a spell strong enough to blow away the entire new wall. There are spells that cause storms, and spells that make the forest walk a few inches.

Merlin is always faint, after the bigger spells. Arthur knows that he has the capacity, but it is practice that makes perfect—and just because Merlin can do these things doesn’t mean that he needs to. Merlin doesn’t seem to be of the same opinion.

So Merlin’s days are quiet and solitary, but Arthur can’t leave him alone. Merlin finds a spell to walk on the walls for a few minutes, and he cheers and laughs as he manages, and Arthur laughs with him, until Merlin falls. The rest of the day is spent setting his own bone and finding the correct healing spell for mending fractures at a faster pace.

But Merlin smiles even through the pain, and so Arthur cannot leave him.

And this is why Arthur doesn’t realise that Gwen has fallen ill.

He visits Camelot, and finds her in her bed. She is pale, but as beautiful as ever, even with the grey in her hair and the lines on her face. It’s mid-afternoon, and so Arthur frowns as he sees her, blinking faintly at the company she already has.

“That may be true, but I don’t think it matters as much as you think it does,” says Gwen to Galahad, who sits by her bedside in clothes fit for a king. He’s not wearing his crown, and his expression is one of nervous constipation—Arthur would laugh, if he didn’t fear the reason for Galahad’s concern.

“Of course it matters,” Galahad says quietly, and takes her hands in his own. She seems frail, next to him.

“Guinevere,” Arthur murmurs, and wants to run a finger over her cheek. Would he have sat here, had he not died that day at Camlann? He wouldn’t be a young man anymore, the same way that Gwen isn’t a young woman. They would have grown old together.

Would they have had a son to sit at Gwen’s bedside, instead of Galahad? 

“I like to think I’ve done my part,” Gwen says, and smiles. “And I’ve made you King of Camelot. That might be my proudest achievement, really. You’re such a strong man—a good king. Arthur would be proud of you.”

Maybe, Arthur thinks, and watches the man who might as well have been Gwen’s son, it would always have ended up this way. 

“I wish I’d known him,” Galahad says, and a weak grin pulls at his lips. 

“Merlin always told me he would be back,” Gwen says, and she laughs at the astonishment on Galahad’s face. “No, really, he did. The Once and Future King, that’s Arthur. But I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that. I think I’ll be seeing Arthur before Merlin ever does. I’m sure he’ll be a little jealous of that.”

Galahad frowns. “Well, you’re his wife.”

“Oh, now I truly wish you’d known Arthur,” Gwen teases, and pinches Galahad’s hand. “Merlin loved him as much as I ever did, you know. Sometimes I wonder if he even loved him a little more. I loved Arthur, I always have—but no one ever softened him as much as Merlin did. If anyone has to see Arthur again, it should be him. They deserve that.”

“It’s hard to imagine,” Galahad says, his cheeks a little pink. “Lord Merlin never seemed like he cared much for anyone but you.”

“Oh, he disappeared as much as Arthur did,” Gwen tells him. “But Merlin will come back. He promised me. He’ll come back, before the end.”

Merlin has made a lot of promises, Arthur wants to tell her. He hasn’t kept all of them.

But that’s not fair. Merlin could save her, he knows—Merlin can make stone grow and trees disappear and clouds thunder with only a thought. If Gwen is hurting, then Merlin has the power to save her. 

Merlin needs to hurry.

~*~

He stays with Gwen for the time after that, and soon learns that the physician—a middle-aged man named Jenver—is already treating her with little efficiency. Gwen was sick only two years ago, and the cough never truly left her. She is always weak and she can’t do much anymore, but she still manages to work on some embroidery. Arthur watches her do it, as fascinated with her long fingers and her craftsmanship as he is with Merlin’s magic.

He knows that she won’t be alive for much longer. Arthur is familiar with death, with the cries of men in the battlefield and the smell of blood, and he knows the grasp of a man’s fingers as he clings to life, as the knowledge of the passing death is reflected in a knight’s eyes—

This is another death bed, one that lasts longer and is far gentler. Guinevere is strong, and he doesn’t see her cry even once—Galahad does. But Gwen does what Gwen has always done, and that’s defy everything that stands in her way with poise, grace and an endearing amount of awkward blustering. It shouldn’t work the way it does, but Arthur has always loved her a little bit for her fierceness, and then the humbleness as an afterthought.

She sleeps a lot, but Arthur doesn’t have it in himself to do anything but sit by her side.

(He remembers their wedding, as he imagines holding her hands through her pain. He thinks back on that uneven smile on her face, and the crown in her hair, and he remembers thinking—I have never seen a more beautiful woman in my life.

He still thinks that.)

Merlin arrives at some point, and Arthur hasn’t bothered to count the days. He leaves when Merlin comes to sit in, and the contrast between Merlin and Gwen has never been greater—one still in the prime of his life, and the other a sickly and aged queen. They smile at each other, no words necessary, and Arthur dives out of the lake and back into Avalon to let them have their privacy.

When he comes back, the day after, it’s in time to say goodbye to Gwen.

Merlin cries, and cries, and cries, but does not save her.

Arthur falls back into Avalon.

~*~

“I know it can’t be easy,” Freya says, as she finds him in the trees. Arthur strayed as far away from the lake as he thought he could manage, but it’s no surprise that Freya can still find him. He didn’t think she couldn’t, but he’d hoped she would take the hint, at least.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he snaps. Guinevere is dead. 

“Okay,” she says, and sits down next to him, by the tree.

Arthur looks at her, but Freya has her eyes closed, her head laid back against the stem of the tree. She’s humming to herself, a song that he’s never heard before. If she knows that he’s looking at her, she doesn’t show it.

“You’re wearing my sister’s dress,” he says, and doesn’t know why.

“Yes. You’ve said so before.”

“Merlin stole it for you.”

“He’s nice like that,” Freya says, and still doesn’t open her eyes. “I’m sure she didn’t miss it. And I ended up dying in it, so I doubt she would have wanted it back.”

“Did Merlin—” Arthur asks, and stumbles over the words, “Did you ever—did he love you?”

“We didn’t know each other for that long, if that’s what you’re asking,” Freya says, and smiles. “But he did love me. He made me a tiny rose, right in the palm of his hand. I’d asked for a strawberry.”

“He’s a moron,” Arthur says.

“I would’ve enjoyed being his wife, I think,” Freya muses, as if she hasn’t heard Arthur. “It would’ve been a good life. I don’t think he would’ve been very happy, but it could have been nice while it lasted.”

Arthur thinks of Merlin and marriage in the same sentence. It feels oddly wrong.

“Is that what you would’ve done?” he asks carefully. “If you hadn’t died?”

“Yes. He was coming with me. But I think he always would’ve found his way back to you, eventually. No one really gets in the way of these prophecies, you know. Perhaps that’s why I died.”

Arthur sits up straighter. “Is that what you truly believe? That Merlin and I are destined to—be by each other’s side?”

“You don’t have to watch, if you don’t want to,” Freya tells him, and nods towards where the lake is. “I know that is what you’ve been doing, and that is good. You loved her, and you’ll grieve for her. And you’ll have time for that, before the future comes.”

“And leave Merlin?” he asks.

“Merlin doesn’t know you’re there.”

He thinks about that. Considers it for a moment. 

“I can’t,” he says.

Freya smiles, and kisses his cheek.

~*~

He doesn’t return to it immediately. Arthur spends a few days to himself, and remembers all the tiny things about Gwen that he loves. Loved. She is the last person to truly tie him to Camelot, and now all the people are those he only knows from a distance—some of the younger knights he once trained are now seniors, but he barely knew them in person, and most of them are entirely different now that they were scars that they didn’t before.

King Galahad rules Camelot, and Arthur has grown to trust him—love him, even, in some measure, for the love that he bore for Leon and Gwen.

When he returns to the lake to watch Merlin, it’s only to find that four months have passed.

(“I’ve told you this so many times, Arthur,” Freya scolds him, when he complains to her. “Time works differently in Avalon.”)

Merlin has gone back to the Crystal Cave. He still practises magic. The spells come more easily to him, more naturally. In the still water that drips inside the cave, Merlin has visions. Arthur cannot see these, but Merlin only goes rarely, and when he does, he has nightmares.

(Arthur is secretly relieved Merlin doesn’t go too often.)

Merlin stays inside the Crystal Cave, and he stays there for twenty years.

Chapter Text

This is how events unfold, when Arthur watches how Camelot falls:

A messenger comes to Merlin, one day.

“Master Merlin?”

There is a river that Merlin bathes in. Arthur felt odd about watching him, and he didn’t start intentionally—it’s just that there is something familiar about it now. Merlin is lithe and strong, and his back is muscled, and his time in the water is the only time that he’s really relaxed, as he cleans his thighs and his toes with utmost care.

The expression on his face is the same he used to have when he was scrubbing Arthur’s boots. It’s a little funny to watch Merlin practise the same amount of care to stay clean when he’s a hermit who lives in a cave.

The knight finds Merlin when he’s just out of the river, his hair still dripping and his clothes wet with the water from the river. It’s summertime and surprisingly warm—or at least Arthur thinks it must be, because Merlin sweats so easily, and he keeps taking off his tunic in the middle of the day.

“Who are you?” Merlin demands, and he looks wild and fey, with his hair dripping and his eyes gold as he picks up his clothes. One thing that Merlin has unlearned in his time since Arthur’s death is his hesitancy to use magic. Ever since he has taken up residence in the Crystal Cave, Merlin has been living and breathing magic—the way, Arthur privately thinks, Merlin was always supposed to.

“I’m—” the messenger stammers, and he’s as tall as Merlin and seemingly able with a sword, even if he can’t be older than nineteen, which makes it even funnier to watch, “I’m from Camelot. I’m looking for the sorcerer—Queen Guinevere’s sorcerer, the old Master Merlin. Is he here?”

Merlin’s eyes soften at the mention of Guinevere. Arthur wishes he knew what Merlin thinks of all the years that have passed, the friends that they have to miss. But Merlin isn’t the type to talk to himself, and so he remains as much of a mystery as he always has, and Arthur has no idea if Merlin still thinks about Camelot. About Arthur.

“What is he needed for?” Merlin asks quietly, and the messenger looks politely away until Merlin has finished putting on his pants and a breezy tunic. If he notices that Merlin uses magic to dry himself, he doesn’t say anything.

“There’s a battle,” the messenger says, clearly uncertain what to call Merlin. “King Galahad is near death, and everyone is in panic. Camelot is under siege, and I fear—I fear, even as we’re talking, that the citadel has fallen.”

“So why are you here?” Merlin’s tone is deceptively light, but Arthur has been watching him for decades now. There’s a tremor in Merlin’s hand when he turns away from the young knight, and he only ever blinks that fast when he’s trying to keep his emotions in check.

The messenger falls to his knees. “Please, if you know the sorcerer—if you know where he is, if he can help—Camelot is lost. Camelot is lost, and I don’t know if we can ever get it back. I would’ve come earlier, but my father—”

“Galahad,” Merlin says, and turns around again to face the young knight. “The King is your father, isn’t he? And you are the Prince of Camelot, then?”

The knight looks up, and now that Merlin has said it, Arthur can suddenly see it—Galahad’s eyes in a pale face, and the familiar cheekbones in place. A handsome boy, and clearly Galahad’s son. A prince who has witnessed the fall of his kingdom, and who has no way of protecting it but to appeal to a sorcerer who left before he was even born.

“Are you Merlin?” the knight whispers.

Merlin sits down next to him, and takes his hand. Arthur feels a burning jealousy run through him, at the sight of it—of Merlin’s sympathy and affection, all physically given to a boy he hardly knows. And then it subsides as quickly as it came, when Galahad’s son lets out a sob.

“I can’t do anything,” Merlin murmurs. “I’ve seen this—I’ve kept away, because I couldn’t have changed it. I’m sorry.”

“But my father. My people.”

“I don’t have the power to save them.”

“But you’re—”

“A man,” Merlin says, and places a hand on the knight’s forehead. “I’m a sorcerer, and I’m powerful, but my part in history has been played. I’ve seen the future—well, I’ve seen parts of the future. I can’t change anything—and believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve tried so hard to avoid what is coming, and in doing that—everything I ever did, it all led to the one thing I feared most.”

Galahad’s boy looks at Merlin in confusion. “If you’ve seen it, you can change it.”

“That’s what I thought, too,” Merlin tells him, and helps him up from the ground. “Come now, Prince of Camelot. One of the greatest men on this earth carried that title before you, and when I’m by your side, I’ll make sure you honour it. Camelot will fall, but its people will endure. I can’t give you a crown, but I can give you and your people a measure of safety.”

“What are you going to do?”

Merlin gives the boy a weary grin—one that Arthur hasn’t seen in a long time, and his heart skips a beat as he thinks back to their days in Camelot.

“We’re going to watch the fall of Camelot,” Merlin says.

~*~

The knight—was Arthur ever that young? He is nineteen or eighteen, but he follows Merlin as readily as a child follows his mother—watches the citadel burn and does not cry.

Merlin does, though. They stand atop a hill, and he cries silently, his shoulders shaking even as he refuses to let any sound escape. Arthur thinks he, too, would sob his heart out, if he had a physical body. As it is, he stands there hollowly, and watches his home burn.

(Merlin saves more people than Arthur can count, dousing fires near the walls and letting people escape. He doesn’t even find out who is invading, because the banners are unfamiliar to him and Merlin doesn’t ask. It doesn’t matter, Arthur thinks, because like Camelot has fallen, all these other kingdoms will fall, and other ones will rise—and Merlin and he will watch.)

Galahad’s son stands alone, and doesn’t take charge unless he needs to. He seems heartbroken, but he is practical when he directs their people to safety, and advises them to go in small numbers to avoid detection and suspicion.

He is the last Prince of Camelot, and if Arthur ever learns his name, he’s forgotten by the time the day is out.

~*~

Freya finds him as easily as she always does. She hoists up her dress, mindful of the mud as she has never been before, when she comes to sit next to him. Arthur refuses to look at her, but Freya doesn’t let that stop her.

“You cannot keep doing this,” she says, eventually. “The lake is here for you. It is for you to know the world, and to understand what your role is.”

“I don’t care.”

“You haven’t looked for a long time,” Freya insists, her voice gentle. “And you’re just sitting here. It’s not like you, Arthur. I know you’re grieving, but—”

(Arthur isn’t always sure who he is, now that he remains here. A lost king, a forgotten man. He has already lost the count of years, but he knows that he has only been waiting for a fraction of time. The only one who remembers him is Merlin.)

“You don’t understand,” Arthur says bitterly, and throws a handful of dirt at the lake. There are still no ripples, and the dirt disappears as if it were never there. “There is no point in returning, is there, if my kingdom has fallen? Is there a reason for me to live on, for this cursed between-point, where I can watch everyone die and forget?”

“When will you stop feeling sorry for yourself?” Freya snaps, suddenly vicious, and her eyes are hard when Arthur looks at her in surprise. “This isn’t a punishment, Arthur, this isn’t something done to abuse you—this is about something that affects everyone. You are not the king of Camelot, have you not realised? You are the king of all of Albion. You are what will save them all, and save magic, and save Merlin. Are you truly so self-absorbed that you cannot see beyond your own grief?”

“I died,” Arthur says, and curls his arms around himself.

“So did I,” Freya tells him. “By your hand, Arthur Pendragon. And have I ever held it against you?”

Arthur blinks, and shifts. The land under his body seems far realer than it has before, and he can’t look away from Freya’s cold stare. Her lips are pushed together, and her face is pale. He doesn’t know her face, he knows he never met her in life. He has killed so few women—but she would not lie.

“What?”

She looks away. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean to tell you.”

“No, tell me,” Arthur insists, and grabs hold of her arm when she tries to rise. “Freya, please. We’ve earned the truth from each other, haven’t we?”

Freya hesitates, but sits back down. “You won’t remember,” she says, and swallows. “I was cursed, in my life. I was captured, and brought to Camelot. It was Merlin who saved me—Merlin who could not bear to watch me die. He didn’t know I was cursed—that I turned into a vicious animal every night, an animal who would stop at nothing. You caught me—injured me. When Merlin managed to save me from Camelot, and bring me to this lake, I thought that would be the end of it. And it wasn’t. I don’t think Merlin knows it was his magic that allowed me to come to this gateway, but I would recognise it anywhere.”

“I killed you,” Arthur says, and feels more hollow than he has in a long time. “I killed you. And Merlin knew—and you’ve been helping me, all this time—”

(In all the years since he first came to Avalon, Arthur has often lamented the pain he has caused Merlin unknowingly, and knowingly. The addition of Freya’s death, the woman who Merlin loved and who has been relentlessly kind to Arthur, is more painful than he could have believed before.)

“I have had years to watch you, before you came,” Freya says, and now she rests her hand on top of Arthur’s, and curls her fingers around his. “Merlin loved you, beyond anything else. And I know the man you are—the King that you will be. I have forgiven you, and Merlin has, too. But he needs you, Arthur. Even if he doesn’t know you’re awake here, he needs you.”

Arthur trembles, and Freya pulls him against her chest. She is frailer than he, but she holds him so tightly that Arthur doesn’t think he could break from her grasp, and she kisses his hair.

“Camelot is gone,” Arthur murmurs. “Merlin is all alone. I can’t do anything.”

“Are you sure about that?” Freya asks, and runs her fingers through Arthur’s hair.

Arthur takes a deep breath. “I don’t understand what I need to do about the Sidhe. I don’t understand their—powers. I’ve seen Merlin’s magic, but even so…”

“You don’t have to do all of it right now,” she tells him. “But there’s a way forward, Arthur. There’s a future to live for, even if you think you’ve lost it all.”

As long as Merlin is still there, Arthur thinks privately, he hasn’t lost it all, yet.

~*~

Time passes by, awfully slowly and oddly fast.

Two centuries pass, and Merlin remains in his Crystal Cave. His magic seems to have surpassed tricks with the weather and strength; these days, Merlin seems to have no need to practise his magic anymore. He breathes, and his eyes will glow gold, and the world will rearrange itself to Merlin’s every desire.

Not that there’s many, Arthur has noticed. Merlin eats, and drinks, and sleeps, and does all these things far too little. If Merlin has spoken to anyone in fifty years, it’s not been any time Arthur has been around to listen to his words.

(He misses it, Merlin’s prattling. The days in which they walked the grounds of Camelot seem far in the distant past, even as Arthur doesn’t consider himself changed. But time softens old blows, and it is Merlin who is Arthur’s most pivotal concern now.)

Merlin doesn’t speak, but sometimes he sings, and his voice has grown gravelly and low in disuse. It’s lovely, and Arthur lives for the nights where Merlin lies under the stars, all by himself, and sings.

~*~

Arthur is very much aware that the world is passing them by.

He has no idea what Merlin’s plan is, in the long term; he thinks Merlin is waiting, but he hasn’t spoken with Merlin in a long time. He’s not exactly the same bumbling manservant that served Arthur for so long, so loyally—in fact, Arthur can’t even be sure that Merlin is still waiting for him. Merlin is despondent and alone, and he doesn’t seem particularly bothered by his lot in life.

He doesn’t seem happy, either, that is, but he’s surviving. Not thriving, but he’s still there, and he avoids all life that he can. 

That all changes when a young man stumbles his way into Merlin’s cave, a late August evening. The sun stays out for long, and Merlin tends to sit outside in the lingering warmth for a long time, his eyes closed. It’s the closest Merlin ever gets to being content, so Arthur always makes sure to come and sit next to him, and pretend they are still together.

“Please,” the young man gasps, coming from between the trees. He falls to his knees, his eyes wide as he sees Merlin. “Please, sir, please—”

His accent is odd, the language having changed. Arthur blinks as he notices it, but Merlin immediately gets to action as if he hasn’t shunned human contact for centuries. The sorcerer comes to sit down next to the man—injured, Arthur can see now, his hand pressed to a bleeding wound in his abdomen—and catches him as he faints.

“That’s not good,” Merlin murmurs, and runs his hands over the injury. He closes his eyes, and adds a quiet, “Þurhhæle dolgbenn.” The spell does its work immediately, and Arthur watches as the injury closes between Merlin’s fingers. 

The man doesn’t wake. He’s wearing rich clothes, Arthur notes, but not anything near what a nobleman would wear. Then again, Arthur hasn’t been alive for centuries. Perhaps the fashion has changed; it wouldn’t be the first time, even in a lifetime.

Merlin whispers another spell, and the man’s torn clothes are fixed. Merlin bites his lower lip—he looks so much like the manservant Arthur knows, suddenly, that his chest aches with the memory—and sits up. Wordlessly, he lets the man float and brings him into the Crystal Cave.

And that is how Merlin finds his first apprentice, and how Ari comes to join him in the Cave.

~*~

“I have been thinking,” Arthur says, and finds himself staring in the direction of the capital of the Sidhe. He still cannot see it, but he feels a pull towards it, and he knows it’s time. There are answers to be found that he cannot find staring at a world he cannot return to. It is time the work here starts. 

Freya eyes him a little suspiciously. “If you’ve been thinking about making another wooden sword to thwack the trees with—”

“Not that,” Arthur grumbles, because honestly, how can she begrudge him that? There’s little else to do besides watching Merlin, and even that gets a little old, sometimes. She is still holding onto Excalibur, at any rate, and Arthur doesn’t want to find himself whisked back to the world of the living only to have forgotten how to hold a sword.

Freya, however, immediately cheers up. “What, then?”

“The Sidhe,” Arthur says. “I think it’s time to meet them, and to see what they know of this—prophecy, and the cycle of magic. If we’re to create a union with them, it’s best to get started, isn’t it? There’s no saying when I’ll be allowed to return.”

“When the need of Albion is dire,” Freya recites, and shrugs. 

“The vagueness of prophecies aside,” Arthur says, “I think I’ve seen enough of Merlin’s magic to understand. He is made of magic, isn’t he, unlike most other sorcerers? And he was created by the Court of the Sidhe, a long time ago, to create a balance between Avalon and our world?”

“Yes, and so have you,” Freya reminds him. “Other sorcerers depend on the magic already present in the world. Merlin is that power, and has no need of the connection between Albion and Avalon.”

“I still don’t understand how I am part of this,” Arthur says, a little helplessly.

“The union can’t be created by another man. You are born of magic, Arthur. You’re a natural part of both Albion and Avalon—Merlin should belong to Avalon, for all intents and purposes.”

“And the other parts?” Arthur demands. “The Crystal Cave—that’s part of the cycle, too, isn’t it? A part of pure magic in Albion?”

“The Sidhe are going to want it back,” Freya says. “You shouldn’t let them. Beacons of pure magic are so rare in Albion. If the magic is to continue, there’s a balance that needs to be maintained.”

“And it’s not, now?”

Freya looks uncertain. “I don’t know,” she says, eventually. “But I don’t think it is. It’s been dying for a long time, and it’s going to continue dying. I can’t feel that part of Albion, anymore.”

Arthur sighs deeply, and takes Freya’s hand. “I’m going to need your help in this,” he says, solemnly. “We are a council of two, you understand? They respect you, but they don’t know me. I might not understand everything they tell me, but we need to come from a position of strength.”

“They aren’t your friends,” Freya says, and squeezes his hand. “We won’t be able to trust everything they say. They want the magic for themselves, and they won’t want to let you go.”

“They will want Merlin?” 

“They fear him,” she says, and raises her eyebrows. “For good reason. But they will want him, too, if only because he’s pure magic. You need to be careful with your promises, Arthur, and you cannot give them anything—not even a single thing. The Sidhe will want to trick you.”

Arthur smiles without a trace of humour. “Good thing I’m used to advisors, then.”

“Another thing,” Freya says, and lets go of his hand. She murmurs something, and her eyes flash gold—it’s the first time Arthur has seen her use magic, and he starts as Excalibur appears in her eyes. Freya hands it to him, hilt first.

“I thought you didn’t want me whacking any trees,” he says dryly, but takes the hilt with an odd hesitance. The weight is just as he remembers, perfect and lethal; it’s as if it were made for his hand. It belongs.

Freya sighs, but she smiles wistfully at him. “If you misbehave, I’m taking it back.”

“It’s my sword!”

“Finders, keepers,” Freya says, deceptively lightly, and grabs his free hand again. “Are you ready to meet the Sidhe?”

“No,” Arthur says, and lets her lead him through the forest, and away from his lake.

~*~

The capital isn’t entirely what Arthur remembers. His memory of it is hazy and filled with confusion about the situation. He mostly remembers Freya’s rescue and the expression on the Sidhe’s face when she’d told it off. 

He remembers being five, and learning to swim, and peering into the water, and seeing the snarl on a blue-skinned face.

Today, their terror will end. Arthur is not afraid of anything, not while he has sword in hand and a magical friend by his side—not while Merlin still lives and breathes, and will need Arthur to fight his own battle in Avalon, while Merlin stays in Albion.

They aren’t attacked now. Freya’s tentative acceptance among the Sidhe counts for a lot, because she strolls them through to the capital easily. Above them, the sky shimmers a thousand colours, iridescent and indescribable, and Arthur wishes they were normal clouds.

The citadel isn’t anything like Camelot, although it has the same sort of structure to it. There are a dozen towers surrounding a large tower, and it’s not so much a castle as a fortress, if Arthur would have to put a name to it at all. It’s not as fortified, though, and Arthur wouldn’t think much of it if the very air didn’t vibrate with magic. The little hairs on Arthur’s skin stand up uncomfortably, and not even the magic near the lake is comparable to this.

Distantly, he wonders if Merlin’s presence feels the same, whenever he uses his more powerful spells—he doubts it, though. Merlin could never feel this menacing, not to Arthur.

The Sidhe watch them, whispering among each other. Arthur doesn’t know if they fly or walk or swim; they have wings, but not all of them flutter, and he sees one or two Sidhe fly upwards towards the shimmering air. He doesn’t know if they can easily break through to Albion, actually, the same way Freya can’t, and he files the thought away.

They are stopped before the tall tower, and the Sidhe eyes them. If he has any emotions about their presence, his face doesn’t betray them, and Arthur holds his breath as tightly as his sword.

“We are here to see the Court,” Arthur says, and his eyes flicker towards Freya. She doesn’t nod, but she raises her eyebrows at the Sidhe, as if daring them to protest.

It does, in fact, protest. “The Court is not open to outsiders.”

“We’re of Avalon, as much as you are,” Arthur says. “There’s a prophecy, and I will know what your people do. Your cooperation would benefit both of us.”

“You’re not of Avalon,” the Sidhe says. “You aren’t to stay. The Lady of the Lake was very clear about that, when you first came to Avalon.”

“We are here to see the Court,” Arthur repeats. “I’m the King of Albion, and I will speak with them regarding the prophecy.”

“We are not commanded by the prophecy,” the Sidhe says, and crosses its arms. 

“I think that’s a matter best left to the Court,” Arthur says, and tightens his hold on Excalibur. “They need to meet with me, and I need to know what they know.”

“You cannot help us.”

The Sidhe turns to leave, and Arthur takes a step forward. “The magic is dying.”

A moment of hesitation, and the Sidhe turns back. “And you want to help with that?” he asks, his voice even. “Are you sure you are willing to keep magic alive? We have seen your father, Arthur Pendragon. We don’t trust you to keep to the prophecy. You are wrong.”

“I know I was,” Arthur says, and the Sidhe bares its teeth. Arthur doesn’t know if it’s an indication of surprise or something else entirely, so he keeps going, “I was raised to think magic was evil, and that it needed to be eradicated. I’ve no doubt that it’s been part of the problem. But you know about Merlin—about Emrys—and you know he is, and always has been, my dearest friend.”

“Emrys was misled, too,” the Sidhe says, but there’s less of a hiss to its words now. It stares at Arthur for another moment, and turns again. “Follow me.”

Arthur shares a cautiously optimistic look with Freya, and trails behind the Sidhe. He has a hard time differentiating between the different members of the Sidhe, to the point he can barely even tell their gender. He hopes the members of the Court will not be too difficult to recognise—if it’s anything like Camelot, they’ll have their own seats, and Arthur might be able to remember them by who sits where.

Freya told him she’d never met the Court, either, but they are the ones to run everything. They are not the Court of old, the ones responsible for harnessing the magic that would eventually lead to Arthur’s existence, and therefore Merlin’s existence, but they are powerful in their own right, and Freya’s magic will not be enough to protect them, should Arthur offer insult.

They are whimsical, and dangerous, and moody, and they have been expecting Arthur for a long time.

The Sidhe leads them further into the tower, and Arthur’s legs tire from the stairs, but he doesn’t complain. Freya is silent besides him, and Arthur dares not to take her hand again. The Sidhe stops at the same time the stair does—below them, it winds for a long time, and Arthur doesn’t relish walking down again.

“They will know that you are here,” the Sidhe says, and stands still.

Arthur hesitates for a moment, but no other movement comes. The stairs have led them to a portal, but he cannot see through. It glows a dark blue, almost as if coloured by the night. Arthur steps forward, and puts his hand through it.

He falls through the door, and finds himself in the middle of an oval chamber, surrounded by five Sidhe. Freya follows him, and she is pale as she stares at the Court of the Sidhe, and they stare back relentlessly.

“Welcome, Arthur Pendragon,” one of the Sidhe says, their voice deeper than Arthur expected, “The Once and Future King.”

“And Freya, Lady of the Lake,” another says, and Arthur has to whirl around to even see who is speaking.

“Hello,” he says, cautiously, and childishly finds himself wishing for his own court. They bickered all the time, and there had been laws he should have upturned and more changes he should have made, but they had been his men. Now he only has Freya, and he feels a surge of gratitude that she is here, at least. “You seem to have the advantage. You know my name, but I do not know yours.”

“You are unfamiliar with our customs,” the first Sidhe says, and leans on an old staff. Arthur recognises it as one very similar to Merlin’s. “We do not give our names. You can learn on your own, or you will not know at all.”

“It seems to be true of most of your realm,” Arthur acknowledges wryly. “Tell me something else, then. I was meant to be here, and to foster an alliance between our kingdoms. Tell me how I can do this, and why this must be done.”

The Sidhe glance at each other. A third one speaks. “The magic is imbalanced,” it says. “Our ancestors foresaw this, and thought to set it right. A huge part of magic was stolen from Avalon and brought to Albion, to keep the stream going.”

“Then it’s not stolen,” Arthur says.

“It was,” the second Sidhe insists. “Albion never needed the energy from Avalon—in our opinion, this is what may have caused the disruption in the first place. Your birth called into existence the warlock Emrys, born for you, to serve you. But your world does not need magic. It can die, and it can return to Avalon. Return to us what is ours, and we consider our realms at peace.”

“You want Merlin?”

“He is magic,” says the first Sidhe, waving around its staff. “You were made from a magic that the sorceress Nimueh took from Avalon, as our ancestors decreed. She did not even know it as she did; the Court of Avalon has long reigned over both our realms. Your existence was necessary, and we acknowledge this. You are here to make peace, and you will return to Albion.”

“However,” the fourth Sidhe continues, causing Arthur and Freya to whirl around again, “The sorcerer that is bound to you is unnecessary. He does not understand the power he wields; he is, perhaps, the strongest source of pure magic that remains in either of our realms. It is not a matter of what we want or do not want, Arthur King—he is ours.”

“I don’t think he’d much like that,” Arthur says, and grimaces. “As far as I understand, the magic needs to remain in Albion if the cycle isn’t to be broken. Merlin is needed there. You can’t have him, for your own sake.”

“Not if the connection is severed,” the fifth Sidhe says, slowly and quietly. It stands further apart from the other Court members, and Arthur can’t tell genders or expressions apart, but he knows this Sidhe is old. Older than the others.

“The connection between Albion and Avalon?” Freya says, and frowns. “But they’re bound together. They always have been.”

“They started off as one,” the elderly Sidhe confirms, and inclines its head towards Freya. It’s more human behaviour than Arthur has seen so far. “But then the gateways started closing, and now they are apart. If they are all closed, our magic will be kept safe.”

“Or you’ll lose it all,” Arthur argues. He feels out of his element and taken by surprise in turns; this is already not going the way he’d hoped. “The cycle—”

“Don’t presume to understand,” the second Sidhe says, and that’s certainly a disdainful tone. 

“It’s why we will take Emrys,” the first one adds. 

“You will not,” Arthur says, and twirls Excalibur in his grasp, “take Merlin.”

Freya steps forward, her hands raised. Her face is calm, and Arthur lowers his sword immediately at the sight of her. He needs to be above this—needs to be a king worthy of this peace talk, but the thought of Merlin’s magic being taken, all for the Sidhe’s greed, has his blood boiling.

(That magic is Merlin’s. And Arthur will die before he lets them have Merlin.)

“It’s a risk you are taking,” Freya says, when everyone has grown silent. “The prophecy exists for a reason. Magic will not survive this blow, and Emrys will never let you take him. He is stronger with every day, and you know he has enough magic to change both realms permanently. But he will follow Arthur, and Arthur is willing to negotiate with you.”

“We will not negotiate with the Once and Future King,” the first Sidhe says. “There is peace now, but we can affect Albion if you stand in our way.”

“We can have magic in both realms, if you listen to me,” Arthur insists, but he feels empty-handed. He doesn’t know enough about magic, or the cycle, and they clearly have been thinking of an option to have the magic without helping Albion. This will not be a matter he can win today.

“We will not,” the Sidhe says, and raises his staff. “You will leave, and we will not see you until you leave Avalon again, Once and Future King.”

Fortunately, Arthur is very stubborn, and he has a lot of time on his hands.

“We’ll see,” he says grimly.

Chapter Text

“It’s more the thought that counts,” Merlin says to Ari, as they sit before a log of wood. It’s been raining, and no ordinary man could ever create a fire with the wet branches that they have assembled. “You’re focusing too much on the words.”

“I’ll forget them, if I don’t,” Ari complains, but he raises his hands anyway.

Merlin smiles. Arthur wishes it were aimed at him. “The words don’t matter. You can do it without words, if you want to. The words aim—but the intention creates.”

“I will never understand you,” Ari says, but obligingly mutters, “Leoc morla.” Nothing happens, and Ari lowers his hands again, clear disappointment on his face.

“Again,” Merlin says, and rises. Arthur follows Merlin as he walks back into the cave, and leaves Ari behind them. They can still hear the quiet curses from outside when Ari fails to have the logs catch fire, and Merlin sighs as he starts laying out his bedroll.

“I don’t think he’s very good at that,” Arthur says, having long since learnt not to take Merlin’s lack of response personally. “He’s been with you for months. I’m beginning to think you’re mostly doing this so you have someone to talk to again. I’m a little offended, Merlin—one would almost think you don’t think I’m good enough company for you.”

Merlin rubs his eyes, and sits down. Even through the years, he’s as uncoordinated as always, and it’s just as endearing as it’s ever been. 

“I’m not getting it,” Ari says, and Arthur is startled at his entrance, but Merlin doesn’t move a muscle.

“No, I know,” Merlin says, and offers him another weary smile. “It’s alright. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Ari sits down next to Merlin. “I don’t know if I’ll ever learn,” he murmurs, and Merlin huffs out a laugh, and creates his own fire in the cave. The fire plays over their faces, immediately, and Arthur feels his chest tighten. He has never felt as if he has intruded on Merlin’s space before, not even when Merlin is washing—but now, he feels as if he is seeing something he is not supposed to.

Merlin’s fire goes without any wood, a pure flame flickering in the dark, and Merlin has his gaze focused on it. Ari stares at Merlin, rather, and Arthur recognises that expression, suddenly—raw, open desire.

“I don’t know if you will, either,” Merlin says, and lowers his hand again.

Ari kisses him, so suddenly that they both fall over. Merlin lets out a little “oomph,” as he’s pressed against the cave wall, but Ari doesn’t let that deter him, his hand now covering Merlin’s pale cheek—as if he has any right to it, as if he’s allowed to touch Merlin like this, as if Merlin will let him—

Merlin kisses back, suddenly, devouring and powerful, twisting them around. Arthur can only just see the fire still gleaming in Merlin’s eyes, and that strange look in his eyes that has never been reserved for Arthur, and then Merlin pushes Ari onto the bedroll.

Arthur finds himself back in Avalon, and stares at the still water.

~*~

“Are we going to sit here all day, then?” Freya asks, a little primly, as she watches the Sidhe stare at them. Arthur has planted himself firmly in front of the Sidhe’s tower, Excalibur still in hand. His Camelot cloak, which he hasn’t worn in years, sits comfortably on his back.

“We need to convince them,” Arthur says, “and the first step is to let them know that I will not be backing down. I will have peace, one way or another.”

“It’s a bit of an aggressive take on peace,” Freya notes, but joins him. “I’m sure you’re only doing it so I won’t take Excalibur back from you.”

Arthur runs his hand over Excalibur’s hilt possessively. “She is mine.”

“I’ve carried her for longer than you have,” Freya reminds him, smiling as she does. “I think, for as long as you’re in Avalon, we’ll have to have shared custody.”

Arthur huffs out a laugh. “We have been doing that.”

“Merlin,” Freya says, and shares a glance with him. “I suppose we have.”

Arthur stays silent, but keeps rubbing Excalibur’s hilt, working up to the steel, and then starts running his fingers over that. He hasn’t mentioned the newest developments of Merlin’s life to Freya, and has no idea if she is still watching. In fact, he has no idea how to even bring it up, or how she would feel about it.

(Merlin is their common factor, the man they both love, but in very different ways. Or at least, that’s what Arthur thought until he saw his dearest friend kiss another man, and couldn’t help but feel the jealousy burning in his chest.)

Ari has remained in Merlin’s life, and Arthur knows, he knows, that Merlin’s life has improved severely for having someone by his side. The nightmares are growing less in frequency, and last time Arthur checked in, Ari dragged Merlin to the nearest village. Merlin had been pale and awkward in a way he had never been when Arthur was alive, and Ari is helping him find himself again, in a new time and a new place.

Despite all that, Arthur cannot help but loathe Ari for being the one to help Merlin, when he himself is stuck here. When he is the one that Merlin is bound to, but Ari is the one who gets to touch, and who gets to help. Because the fact of the matter, plain and simple, is this:

Arthur loves Merlin, far too deeply and far too completely, to ever let him belong to someone else.

So in that way, he supposes he does share Merlin with Freya—Freya, who is only here because Merlin was as desperate to save her as he was Arthur, and who has made it her purpose in life to help Arthur, partly because she’s a good woman, but mainly out of love for Merlin. 

And now, whenever Arthur watches, he has to see the man he only now realises he loves, because he truly is an idiot, find his way back to the world of the living with someone else. So there’s yet someone else to share with. 

He deals with both the newfound realisation of his feelings and the burning jealousy in much the same way—not thinking about it at all. He hasn’t checked up on Merlin in three days, and feels too guilty to think about abandoning him at all.

(That is three days, his time, as Freya would remind him. A week may have passed in Albion, or six months, or five years.)

“There’s no other way I know to make them listen,” Arthur says, and redirects his thoughts to the issues with the Sidhe, rather than Merlin. “I have no influence in this world, and no way to have them listen. I am not their king. I am their invention.”

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit,” Freya insists. 

“I am giving myself as much credit as they are.”

She takes his arm, and he glares up at her, only to soften upon seeing her expression. She looks scared, more than anything, her eyes large and liquid in the odd light of Avalon. Never before has he been aware of her youth as much as today—despite having been a spirit many years before his death, she must have been younger than him when she died. Arthur sighs, and folds his own hand over hers.

She presses her lips together, her eyebrows scrunched in concern, and says, “I know I have told you this needs to happen, Arthur, and it does. If the future is to happen the way it is prophesied to, you’ll need a union with the Sidhe. But you do get only one chance at this, and I’m not sure…”

“You’re not sure if this is the right path,” Arthur says, and gently squeezes her hand before he lets go. “I’m not, either. But this world is foreign to me, and I’ve never faced a people like theirs. I have to do what I know, Freya. And what I know is how to lay siege.”

Freya offers him a crooked smile, small but genuine, and shuffles her bare feet under the red dress. “I’ll follow your lead, I suppose.”

“You suppose,” Arthur echoes, deadpan, but they sit outside the Sidhe’s tower for all of that day, and for many of the following days.

~*~

Arthur is five years old when he learns to swim for the first time, and is faced with a Sidhe for the first time. Arthur is thirty-two when he dies in Merlin’s arms, and is set free on Avalon, which will be a prison for many, many years.

In the time between those two events, Arthur is a prince and a king, a fighter and a leader, a husband and a friend. Under Uther, he learnt to make war; during his own reign, he learnt to make peace.

In Avalon, he has to use both to make the Sidhe listen to him.

He abandons the lake, for a time, both out of necessity and a realisation that he cannot follow Merlin forever, not while his heart is still reeling from the extent of the feelings he’s carried for Merlin for longer than he knew. They have their own tasks to do, and Arthur might miss some of Merlin’s life, but then again, Merlin isn’t here to witness Arthur’s.

(And this is a life. He insists on thinking of it like that.)

It takes a full month before anything happens. Arthur learns to tell apart the Sidhe, and he learns to navigate the citadel. Freya explains to him some of the magic that they use, and most of it goes above his head, but some things he understands.

They draw from the world outside them, and apparently, that’s similar to most sorcerers in Albion. Merlin is an exception, as he is a source of magic, and can take as much as he needs. But the Sidhe are reliant on these sources for their ways of life, and they thrive off it. Avalon is rich in magic, and the Sidhe could not live without it.

(He is growing to understand why Merlin is so important to them. What the Sidhe are failing to understand, however, is that Merlin is far more important to Arthur than he ever could be to anyone else.)

But after a month of learning more of the Sidhe’s life than Arthur has in the long, long time that he has been here—has it been three centuries, now? More?—one of the Sidhe from the Court finally leaves the tower.

It’s the elderly one, Arthur remembers, his blue skin more faded and the lines around their eyes more pronounced. He leans on his stick, and eyes Arthur.

“You show tenacity, Once and Future King,” he says. “Follow me.”

Arthur looks at Freya, but then they both follow the Sidhe leader. Despite his age, the Sidhe doesn’t move slowly or hesitantly; he flies and walks in turns, until they are at the citadel gate. He raises his hand to the guards stationed, and Arthur feels the eyes of the other Sidhe on him as he follows the elderly Sidhe into another forest.

This isn’t like the forest he’s grown used to; it feels darker, and the magic pushes on Arthur, making it hard to breathe. He understands the magic of his seeing lake, to a degree, and it’s grown familiar and comforting, like a blanket in the night. This magic, however, wants to choke him, and snake its tendrils around his legs, and leave him here to die.

“There are two sides to magic,” the Sidhe says, and lays his hand against one of the gnarled trees. Despite the darkness, the tree stretches upwards, far above Arthur’s head. The canopy makes it hard to see the iridescent sky above them, where the lake parts and changes into Albion, but there are some lighter shades above them.

(Arthur thinks, the further into the forest he would go, the less of that world he would see, and suddenly is thankful for Freya’s intervention. Who knows where he would have ended up, if left by himself?)

“I know that,” Arthur says, eventually, and eyes Freya. She is looking intently at the Sidhe, frowning and holding onto her dress. “It can be both evil and good. Like a sword.”

The elderly Sidhe glances towards the sword. “I suppose, in a way. If that’s the metaphor you feel comfortable using.”

“Which one would you use?” Arthur asks.

“A tree,” the Sidhe answers, after a moment of poignant silence, and runs his hand over the moss on the tree trunk. “Magic exists, and it grows. It is influenced by its environment, and most often, it requires patience to grow. It can be ruthless, when it is challenged—it can be gentle, when it is nurtured. It provides shade, and it provides wood. Mostly, it just is, and one does not think about destroying all trees, the way that destroying magic cannot be done.”

“Magic is not a sword,” Freya says, her voice even. “It was never meant as a weapon. It is a way of life, as much as singing is.”

“She knows,” the Sidhe tells Arthur, and raises his eyebrows. “I wonder if you’ve learnt, in all that time you have been here. I asked for you to be brought to the citadel, do you know, Arthur Pendragon? The Lady of the Lake, very kindly, told our people to leave.”

Arthur remembers very well. “I want peace with you, Lord Sidhe,” he says, politely. “That does not mean I trust you. Freya has my best interest at heart.”

“I believe that,” the Sidhe says, and huffs out a laugh. “Please, do not call me a lord. That is not how our society works, King. If you need a name for me, call me… Stormfeather. Yes, I quite like that. Call me Stormfeather.”

“Fine,” Arthur says. “Stormfeather, why did you bring us here?”

Stormfeather’s lips curl into a smile. It reminds him, oddly enough, of Gaius. “To remind you of something, Arthur Pendragon. And I don’t do it to be cruel, or to tell you that your prophecy is unwarranted. Your birth was foretold, and I believe you are a necessary part of the future of Avalon. We must make peace, but the terms have changed since the day that your conception was agreed upon, by a Court that no longer exists.”

“My aim is to make peace,” Arthur says, “and to bring back magic to Albion.”

Stormfeather inclines his head. “And you have. Your birth heralded the coming of the strongest warlock your world has ever seen. But now, King, think of what follows. Your sorcerer has not been taught adequately, and there is only so much that he can do. He does not understand his role to play, and your magic will die in Albion.”

“You underestimate Merlin,” Arthur says. “I know, because I used to do the same thing.”

“Perhaps,” Stormfeather says. “But I am an old man, Pendragon, and that means a great deal, by human standards. Emrys can hold off the death of magic for a while, but he does not understand how to make it grow in the world, how to give back and continue the cycle. It will hurt both your world and Avalon, until Emrys is a shell and all magic has died out.”

“That will take a long time,” Freya says, and frowns, but there’s something else tugging at the corners of her mouth. Doubt, maybe, or something else that Arthur has barely seen in her expression before. Seeing it causes him to grow more hesitant, too.

“A thousand years is nothing to the Sidhe,” Stormfeather tells them, and runs his finger over the tree again. “This forest has stood here for the lifetime of a thousand generations, and it remembers magic so dark that it could swallow worlds. Your Emrys is capable of that, Pendragon, and of much more, besides. We could teach him to harness his abilities.”

“This doesn’t seem like a peace talk,” Arthur says hotly, and grabs Excalibur. “You want Merlin, for your own greed and your own—”

“You misunderstand,” Stormfeather says, his voice cutting through Arthur’s. “We want his magic, yes, but his magic in Albion will do no good. It will wither and die, and he will die with it, or—and this is the worst possibility—his endless frustration and grief will turn him dark, and he will use his powers for the purpose of evil. It has happened before, has it not, Arthur Pendragon?”

(The thought of Morgana aches as much as it always has, and Arthur trembles. He can still picture her, dying in front of him—the sword that cut her down, and Merlin’s bitter regret, the quiet mourning they’d shared even as Arthur was quickly dying, too. She used to be so, so good, and then, she wasn’t.) 

“Not Merlin,” he says.

“You do not know what he has done,” Stormfeather tells him. 

Arthur tightens his grasp on Excalibur. “I know him.”

“Whatever part of him is human will only get him so far.” Stormfeather hums, and lets his hand fall free of the tree, finally. “You’ve moved slowly, King, and your strategy is sound. We will make peace with you, if you will let us.”

“You’re asking the impossible,” Arthur says, and breathes in, breathes out. He trusts Merlin, but he has not talked to him in centuries—and, in his lifetime, he never really knew Merlin. He catches Freya’s eye, and relaxes at the sight of her. Her trust in Merlin, like his, is unwavering. Merlin has led him here, with her.

(He may never have known about Merlin’s deeds, but he has always known about Merlin’s heart.)

“You are renegotiating on a prophecy created a long time ago,” Freya says, her voice low. She is more ethereal than ever, especially in the dark of the forest. Her eyes shine a muted gold, and her expression is calm. “Fate cannot be avoided. Emrys was made to bring magic to Albion, and Arthur Pendragon is the king who will have his magic thrive. He can’t do one without the other.”

Stormfeather shakes his head at them, like an old man watching two children negotiate. Arthur feels his chest burn at the very impertinence of being treated like an unknowing child. He has watched and waited for a long time, and they will learn to take him seriously.

“We will return to the court tomorrow,” he says curtly, and takes Freya’s hand.

“You will not be granted a meeting,” Stormfeather says, more amused than anything else. “But have it your way, Pendragon. Your loyalty suits you, even if it betrays your naivety.”

“It’s not naive to recognise what is right,” Arthur bites out, “and to stand by it. I hope you’ll learn that, Stormfeather.”

He walks away, guided by the light of the Sidhe citadel. When they’ve left Stormfeather far behind them, Freya wordlessly takes over, and guides them back to the lake. 

Arthur falls to his knees beside it, and closes his eyes. The water is as cool to his touch as it always has been, and Avalon falls away before his eyes.

~*~

He has missed too long, Arthur thinks, the shock first settling into him when he sees a white-haired man, sitting by a fire. He has waited too long, and he has missed too many years—

But then Merlin sweeps in, young as ever, his face painted red and orange by the firelight, and crouches next to the elderly man.

“You’re back,” he croaks.

Merlin smiles, but it’s a smile tainted by heartache and sorrow—Arthur has learnt to recognise it well, in the days that have passed. Merlin presses a quick kiss to that white hair, and stands up.

“I always come back,” he says, so neutral that it has to be hiding something. “One day, you’ll stop being surprised by it.”

“You’ll be going back to that Cave,” says the elderly man—Ari? It must be, Arthur thinks, and slowly starts to recognise the eyes, the jaw. Maybe he has missed too many years—missed nearly a lifetime, as it is. 

“I expect so,” Merlin says. “But not for a while. Have you eaten?”

“I’m not hungry,” Ari mumbles, but Merlin putters around with his bag anyway, and takes out a large piece of white bread. He unwraps it carefully, and starts looking around for some butter. Ari just watches him, faintly bemused.

“You’ve to eat,” Merlin insists. “I can start some broth, if that’s what you need. Dip the bread in it, so it’s easier—”

“Merlin,” Ari says, strictly. Arthur lets out a tiny puff of air, and remembers Merlin’s motherly concern at the end of Arthur’s own life. But then he also remembers Merlin’s desperate tears, the cries of mourning, and the years of helpless grief.

(Merlin has lost. Is it any wonder he is not willing to do it again?)

At Ari’s voice, Merlin’s shoulders sag. “I want to help.”

“I’m an old man,” Ari says, and lays a hand on Merlin’s own when Merlin comes to sit by him again. “And you’ve taken care of me for most of my life. You’ve taught me a bit of magic, and you’ve made me very content. It’s enough, Merlin. You’ve done enough. You can’t hold off death.”

Merlin sits very quietly. Arthur crouches by his side. “I’m sorry, Merlin,” he murmurs, and wishes he could hold his friend, at the very least. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’ve had a lifetime with you,” Ari continues, and gently squeezes Merlin’s hand. “And you’ll have more lifetimes to spend with someone else. Try not to be alone, Merlin. Try not to spend a life waiting for Arthur.”

Arthur startles, and looks up at Ari. Neither he nor Merlin seem surprised by the turn of conversation, though, and Arthur distantly wonders how many conversations about him he’s missed. He’s not sure if he wants to have heard them, or if it’s better not to.

“You’re not—” Merlin says, haltingly, and frowns. “I’m always waiting, Ari, but that’s not—he’s my king, but you’re—”

“It’s easier, these days,” Ari interrupts, and smiles briefly. “You used to look at me, when I was younger, like you were trying to find someone else’s face in mine. I didn’t understand until you finally told me about him, and I realised your heart was long lost to a dead man. But now I’m old and weary, and Arthur will always be young to you. And now I know you, and you know me, and I know that you stayed with me for me. I’m more glad for it than you know, Merlin. And I don’t even mind.”

Merlin is quiet for a moment. “I’m not trying to replace him. I never was—I just. I was alone.” His voice is croaky, and he doesn’t quite look Ari in the face. 

“You don’t have to be,” Ari murmurs, and Arthur’s heart breaks at the look on Merlin’s face.

“You won’t be,” Arthur promises, and wishes he could run a hand through Merlin’s hair. But instead, he sits with Merlin and Ari, and tries to cut through the veil of Avalon in a way he hasn’t tried since Gwen’s death. “You’re not alone, Merlin. I’m here. I’m here, won’t you see? I’m here.”

Merlin doesn’t see. Arthur doesn’t let that stop him from being there, anyway.

~*~

Slowly, a new rhythm settles into Arthur’s life.

(He remembers his first days in Avalon. He understands Freya’s hesitance and her mysterious allure, and he understands his own grief, when he watches Merlin bury Ari. Merlin’s eyes sparkle gold, and white flowers cover Ari’s simple grave. And Arthur remembers, distinctly, the heartache and the loss, and remembers how it felt like to watch, for years at a time, the people he loved.

He understands, when Merlin refuses to leave Ari’s grave for a week, until the townspeople peel him away.)

There is little for Arthur to do in Avalon but try and talk to the Sidhe. Whenever he manages to find one of the court members—and they’re very good at disappearing, so it’s not easy—they refuse to talk to him, or make snide comments about Arthur’s understanding of magic and of Avalon. 

He talks to some of the other Sidhe sometimes, but they are wary of him and Freya, and he has little success. They live by the way of their court, and most of them have never left Avalon, and so can’t understand Arthur’s problem anyway. He is the odd one out, and Arthur isn’t used to being on the outside.

Freya is better at it, and he tries not to think too hard about that.

The other time, he watches Merlin, intent on making sure the time doesn’t pass by. He doesn’t want Merlin to be alone, even if Merlin doesn’t know that someone else is there. Mostly, Merlin stays in the town, and that, at least, gives him a measure of human contact each day.

Arthur is slightly bemused to find that Ari and Merlin had been pretending that Ari was the old and wise sorcerer, in the town, and that Merlin was the apprentice. Now, Merlin is pretending to age slowly, and he’s been amusing himself by telling the children about Arthur and the knights. 

(Arthur especially likes the stories. He thinks most of them are true, if a bit embellished, and sometimes Merlin slips in the accomplishments of the powerful warlock, Myrddin Emrys, in the stories, and makes the knights look bad. The children always laugh, and Arthur imagines slapping the back Merlin’s head and calling him out. He imagines Merlin smiling up at him, no remorse whatsoever in his expression.)

But he can tell, these days, that Merlin is restless. That Merlin is lonely, in a town where no one knows his true character. To these people, Arthur Pendragon is a story—an old man’s invention, at worst, a long-deceased legend, at best. 

And Ari’s expectations come true. Ten years after his death, Merlin murmurs a spell, and lets the flowers overgrow Ari’s well-kept grave. Then Merlin walks out of the town, and never comes back.

Chapter Text

The court is as dark as it always has been. Arthur is determined not to let the Sidhe intimidate him, this time. He has spent months in the citadel, leaving Merlin’s side to deal with Avalon and its Court.

“Once again, you stand before us,” the first Sidhe says. Arthur has, by now, wrangled a name from her, too; Frostwing. Then there’s Moss by her side, and two Sidhe that Arthur still has no names for. They’re very particular about it. “Why do you keep insisting on seeing us, King? Have you not realised we’ve no interest in your prophecy?”

“I think you do not,” Arthur says, “And I also think you are wrong. We can find a deal that benefits both of our people.”

“Or we can take our magic, and break this cycle,” Moss says darkly. She flutters her wings at him in anger. “You are this close to destroying our patience. We’ve been kind to you, Arthur King, and we have let you dwell in Avalon without any issues. Any peace we offer you is on our terms.”

“In fact,” Frostwing says, “The only reason we allowed you to return is to make sure you are aware of this. This court will take Emrys soon, and thereafter, return you to Albion and close the portals.”

Freya steps forward in alarm. “Taking him?” she says. “You can’t—the magical sources in Albion are dying, they need him. If Merlin’s not there, Albion will be without magic at all—”

“There is one more source that you’ve refused to mention to us,” Stormfeather interrupts. “If magic is fated to die in Albion, that is not our problem. Avalon will be rich in it, and when we have Emrys, we will have regained all the magic that is rightfully ours.”

“He won’t help you,” Arthur says, his heart pounding. “Even if you can take him, Merlin is stubborn. He’ll find a way to tear you apart, if he must, just to get to me. You must know that, surely.”

Moss says, “If he knows what is good for him, he will cooperate. We will teach him, and he will be in Avalon, from whence he was once called forth.”

“Teach him,” Arthur says, and frowns. “Teach him to—do what? Keep the magic alive? Because he already has all the magic, so that’s not the problem. Is that something he could do, Freya?”

“Yes,” Freya says, quietly. “I suspect Merlin can do anything he likes with the world, if he wants.”

“So he really does need to be in Albion,” Arthur realises, and feels like an idiot for not putting it together earlier. Merlin has things he needs to do on Albion—most notably, learning to control his magic, and using it for the good of Albion. And Arthur is needed in Avalon, so he can make peace with the Sidhe, who would rather tear Albion apart than give up their own magic.

“Not if the cycle is gone,” Stormfeather says.

“It can’t be done,” Freya bites, fiercer than ever. She steps forward, and opens her hands. A glowing ball of gold lies in her palms, and Arthur smells the sweet lake water, suddenly, hears the birds chirping in the trees. “I understand the connection to Albion. I feel it. I will protect it. It cannot be broken.”

“If we need to,” Frostwing tells her, her tone heavy, “we will break you, too, Lady of the Lake.”

Arthur lays a hand on her arm. “Are you certain?” he asks, under his breath. “The connection can’t be broken, at all? This is something you know?”

“I know,” Freya tells him, her eyes dark. “The gates may be breaking, but the connection remains.”

“Then I trust you,” Arthur decides, and lets go of her. “We will wait them out, and when they fail, we will come again. And then, they’ll have no choice but to agree.”

~*~

Arthur has barely ever watched with as much anxiety as he does, then.

There is very little that happens, at first. With Merlin back at the Crystal Cave, it’s as much as it always has been. Merlin is alone, and Merlin creates tiny butterflies to keep him company, and Arthur’s heart throbs for him as much as it always has.

He has no idea what hold the Sidhe could have over Merlin. What he doesn’t realise is that the Sidhe are very capable of crossing the threshold that Freya can’t.

It’s been three days when the elderly man appears in the cave. His white beard goes down to his chest, and he leans on a walking stick. Arthur recognises, despite himself, the angular features of Stormfeather’s face, and inhales sharply at the realisation.

Merlin looks up, and for a moment, Arthur feels as if their worlds are meeting more than they have since Arthur’s death.

“Please,” Stormfeather croaks, when he catches sight of Merlin, and reaches out a hand. “Please, young man, you must help. My son, he’s dying—please, you must help!”

Merlin’s eyes sharpen. “Where?” he asks, and rises from where he was sitting. “What happened?”

“He just fell down,” Stormfeather cries out, and Merlin goes.

(Arthur has always admired this about Merlin, even when they were only prince and manservant. There is no one he knows who is as helpful as Merlin, as trusting and kind, and he regrets all the time he’d scoffed at Merlin’s gentle heart.

It is Merlin’s greatest asset, and Arthur fears it may also be his downfall.)

“Merlin, don’t!” Arthur yells, but he is not heard. If Stormfeather can tell, he doesn’t show it; his unnatural eyes are intent on Merlin, following his every move, until Merlin is close enough to touch.

Stormfeather’s hand closes around Merlin’s wrist, and Merlin cries out in pain. His eyes glow gold, but Stormfeather’s glow an eerie blue, and he forces Merlin on his knees. Merlin hiccups in pain, trying to loosen his wrist from Stormfeather’s hold, but Stormfeather’s staff—transformed from the cane—holds him in place.

“Sidhe,” Merlin says, weakly, at the sight of him. Arthur isn’t sure how much Merlin knows of the Sidhe, or of Avalon. “Why are you here?”

“For you,” Stormfeather says, and cups Merlin’s face almost gently. The desire in his face makes Arthur sick, and if Stormfeather returns, if he harms Merlin—Stormfeather will not be part of his peace, Arthur decides right there and then. He will not have an alliance as long as Stormfeather is in the court. “For your magic. It calls me, don’t you hear it, it knows me—”

Merlin pushes at the staff, and Stormfeather’s magic fails him. Merlin’s eyes glow gold, and the staff dies out, and shrivels up to nothing. Stormfeather’s appearance changes, and he turns to the blue-skinned figure Arthur has learnt to recognise.

“It’s my magic,” Merlin tells him darkly, and forces Stormfeather on his knees with a wordless spell. “Did you think you could surprise me, Sidhe? Did you think you could overpower me?”

“You know nothing of your power,” Stormfeather bites.

“I know more than you think,” Merlin says, and thunder rises in the distance, dark and ominous. “I am magic. And you are the creature who craves it, who wants to be what they can never have enough of. I have destroyed your kind before, and I can do it again.”

Stormfeather grins. “If you think you can,” he says, and disappears.

Merlin twirls around, but then he gasps for breath. Arthur doesn’t know where Stormfeather is, and what he is doing, but it seems to have some effect on Merlin, anyway; he falls to the ground, pushing against his chest. His eyes are still glowing, and he lets out a sob.

The magic, Arthur realises, with sudden dread. Merlin is magic, and Stormfeather uses magic. And Merlin is powerful, but he has not learnt to control the last of his abilities—the magic that lies dormant, the magic that Stormfeather is, currently, taking control of.

Merlin cries, and twists in the grass. “It’s too much,” he cries out, and arches his back. “I can feel—everything, I can feel everything—”

“You can take this world, and make of it what you will,” Stormfeather says, appearing again above Merlin, his teeth flashed. “But you have no control, and you belong to the court of Avalon. Don’t you want to see where your king sleeps?”

“Arthur,” Merlin cries out, and Arthur drops to his knees next to him. “Arthur, Arthur—”

“I am here,” Arthur tells him, and runs a hand over Merlin’s cheek. Neither of them feel the touch.

Stormfeather’s eyes glow, and the ground opens up below them. Arthur takes a step back in reflex, even though he can’t fall, ghost as he is. Where only grass was, first, now there is a shimmering lake. Under the water, Arthur thinks he can make out the Sidhe’s citadel.

“Have you not waited long enough?” Stormfeather says, oddly kind. “We can take you to Avalon, and we can change both the worlds. Magic has no place here, but in Avalon, you can rule, if you so desire.”

“No,” Merlin gasps, and reaches with his hand to the lake. “It’s not—I follow only one king.”

“He is a king of Albion,” Stormfeather tells him, as if teaching a lesson to a child. 

“He is my king,” Merlin says, “and one day, you will let him come back to me. It’s what I was promised, and I’ll wait, no matter how long. I will always wait.”

Stormfeather snarls at him, the peace broken. “You’re a fool.”

Merlin cries out again, the tears falling down his cheeks and into the lake below him. He still glows, and shouts out something in a language Arthur doesn’t understand. Stormfeather’s struggling, too, his arms trembling as he keeps the lake in place and has a hold on Merlin’s magic, as well.

Arthur watches, anxiously, waiting for Merlin to regain control.

“No,” Stormfeather yells, and Merlin goes limp. For a moment, Arthur fears the worst, and thinks he’ll see Merlin dragged under—but whatever Stormfeather is planning comes to no fruition, even before Arthur realises it.

A white dragon lands on the lake, and blasts fire at the Sidhe. She crawls over Merlin, one wing misformed, and bares her teeth at Stormfeather. 

“Leave,” she hisses, and breathes over the lake. Stormfeather’s illusions crack apart, and Stormfeather disappears. The dragon curls down around the still figure, and uses her snout to push at Merlin’s face.

Arthur can only watch, his eyes wide, as Merlin blinks, and then runs his fingers over the dragon’s wing.

“Aithusa,” he mutters, weakly, as if he can’t quite believe it, himself. “Aithusa, you came.”

And Merlin falls back, unconscious.

~*~

Merlin’s face is pale, and even though he’s been youthful for all his life, this is one of the only times he’s looked quite as young. The white dragon, Aithusa, sits opposite him. Her scales glint in the cave, and she is mythical and ageless, despite the malformed wing.

“I wasn’t sure,” Merlin says, sitting opposite her. He’s huddled under a blanket, but he still trembles. Arthur wants to kill Stormfeather for it. 

“You called for me,” Aithusa says, and peers at Merlin carefully. “You are a Dragonlord. I cannot resist your call.”

A Dragonlord. A new piece of information falls into place, after centuries. Arthur barely remembers Balinor’s face, at this point, but he remembers Merlin’s sobs. At the time, he’d believed it was Merlin’s shock at having a man die in his arms.

It had been his father. And that is why the dragon had disappeared afterwards. That is why he had come back, when he had carried Arthur to the lake. He can’t believe he hasn’t thought about it earlier.

(This explains so much, and Arthur regrets that he hadn’t known it, at the time. Merlin’s grief hadn’t started at Arthur’s death, and he forgets it, sometimes. Forgets that Merlin has never lived an easy life, no matter how Arthur remembers their years in Camelot.

Merlin has never had the chance for happiness without reservations.)

“I didn’t make it a command,” Merlin says, defensively. “I asked. But I didn’t—I haven’t seen you in centuries.”

“Camlann,” Aithusa says, and inclines her head. “I didn’t think you would want to see me.”

“Well, I did kill Morgana,” Merlin murmurs, humourlessly. He doesn’t meet Aithusa’s gaze. “And I know you loved her dearly. You were too young to understand the darkness of her magic.”

Aithusa bristles. “The only magic she ever used on me was healing magic.”

“She tortured me,” Merlin says, and well, that’s new information, too. “She wanted to see the end of me, and of Arthur. And she did, in the end, I suppose.”

“You’ve killed, too.”

Merlin nods, his face blank. “No one is entirely good, Aithusa. Nor entirely bad. But I did not mean for you to fall in her hands. Morgana may have loved you, but she was guided by hatred. And I may have hatched you, but I shouldn’t have let you go with Kilgharrah.”

Aithusa looks thoughtful. “I don’t remember much of him. He was grumpy, I think.”

“That he was,” Merlin confirms, and leans forward. “Why did you come, Aithusa? And where have you been? If I’d heard of you—”

“You are the last Dragonlord,” Aithusa says, and leans forward on her feet. Her tail swooshes lightly, and hits the glowing crystals. “And you are the last true warlock, too. The druids are disappearing. Magic is dying out. And I’ve never held anything against you, Merlin. We are the remnant of a dying age. We are the last magical creatures in this world. We are kin.”

Merlin swallows. Nods. Huddles closer into his blanket. “Stay?” he asks, his voice deceptively light.

“I will stay,” Aithusa says.

~*~

Freya paces the woods, twiddling with her fingers. 

“Calm down,” Arthur tells her. “They have tried to take Merlin, and they failed. There’s a—” he stumbles over the word—”dragon now, to protect him, and he knows what to expect. And they won’t even try to close the portals without him.”

“I know that,” Freya snaps, and sighs. “I’m sorry. I’m just concerned.”

“I can see that,” Arthur says. “I just don’t understand why.”

Freya bites her lower lip, and sits next to him. “One day,” she says, “The Sidhe will have to send you back to Albion. You understand that, right? If you do make this peace, and you and Merlin will be in your world, and the magic will be returned to the land.”

“Merlin will need to figure out how to do that, first,” Arthur says, because by now, he’s pretty certain that there’s something that Merlin needs to learn. 

“I’m sorry,” Freya says, and rests her head on her knees. She is oddly childlike, not at all the woman Arthur has learnt to respect and love like a sister. She stares at the trees, her gaze faraway, and not at all in Avalon.

Arthur waits a moment, and then rests his arm on her shoulders and huddles closer to her. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for. Do you understand me, Freya? You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I have been here for so many years,” Freya whispers, and falls against Arthur, “and all this time, I’ve known I would never see him again. But you will, and then I’ll be alone. And I don’t want to be alone. In the end, it’ll be you and him, and I’ll always be the Lady of the Lake.”

Arthur presses a kiss against her hair. “There’s still a lot to do before it comes to that,” he says, and doesn’t know what else to say. For years, the only consolation he’s had is the knowledge he will have to return to Albion eventually, even if he’s impatient for the day to arrive.

And she’s right. Freya will stay here, and Arthur hasn’t even considered how alone she will be, in a magical realm under a lake, with only the Sidhe for company. Not her enemies, truly, but not her friends. She will be alone.

Arthur’s heart breaks for her. 

Freya swallows heavily. “What do we do now?” she asks. “They’ve tried to take Merlin, and they’ve failed.”

“We make them wait,” Arthur says, resolutely, and does not let go of Freya.

~*~

Of course, Arthur has come to understand the Sidhe, as much as he can understand them at all. They are prideful and haughty, like kings of old; they speak in riddles and always assume it means that Arthur won’t understand.

He wouldn’t have, once upon a time. But he’s learnt, too.

In Avalon, he has learnt things about existence that he never would’ve imagined. His life, and Merlin’s life, are both part of a promise and a prophecy; a sign of magic in balance, and the start of a union between Sidhe and men. Merlin is magic and Arthur is a man created from magic, and together, they will unite the land (and, as things stand, two realms, apparently). 

When the Sidhe mentioned another source of magic, they meant one besides Merlin, who is the pinnacle of magic as it ought to be, and has no like in either Avalon or Albion. This makes Merlin Arthur’s rarest possession, in as far as Merlin can be called Arthur’s; and it means that the other source of magic might be dangerous, because he’s not sure that he wants the Sidhe to get their hands on it.

On the other hand, they seemed to think Arthur knows what the source is. He wonders if it’s the Crystal Cave, or something else entirely. All he knows is that without Merlin, magic in Albion is surely doomed; and if the cycle is broken, magic in Avalon will fade, too.

What he doesn’t yet know is what that would mean.

~*~

“So I’m really the last dragon?” Aithusa asks. Her eyes glint in the dark of the night, and her tail swooshes gently past the fire Merlin has going in the woods. If he’s afraid of bandits or any other dangers, he doesn’t show it; then again, Merlin hasn’t had reason to be afraid of anything in a long time.

(Anything, but the passing of time and the loss of his friends.)

“As far as I know,” Merlin says, and shrugs a little apologetically. It looks odd, because he’s lying in the damp grass, and he has to raise his head to even look at Aithusa. “I haven’t really been looking for them, to be honest. It’s what Kilgharrah told me, anyway. Maybe there’s still some wyverns. I’ve heard old wives’ tales of serpents in the north, but I’m not… I need to be here.”

“Why?” Aithusa asks, and Arthur’s always so glad when someone else is with Merlin, because they can ask the questions Arthur longs to.

“I’m just…” Merlin says, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You remember Arthur?”

Aithusa’s eyelids close a fraction. “Morgana’s brother. The golden king.”

“I’m waiting for him,” Merlin tells her, and Arthur’s heart skips a beat. “He’s going to be waking up, and I don’t know when, but it’ll be at the lake. And the Cave is—you feel it, don’t you? Magic.”

Aithusa sniffs. “Only now because of you. The magic is dormant. Dying. Your presence alone keeps it alive.”

Merlin starts up, his eyes wide. The fire reflects in them, and Arthur frowns at him. He hadn’t known the Cave’s magic was leaving, but he’s not actually that surprised to hear, considering the Sidhe’s continued mutterings about the fading of magic. It turns out that Merlin isn’t quite on the same level of understanding.

“What do you mean, dying?” he exclaims. “It’s the birthplace of magic! It’s…” He stops, and pales. “It’s dying.”

“Magic is dying in this world,” Aithusa says, slightly more gently, and nuzzles Merlin’s belly with her large head. Merlin grabs hold of her head, and strokes her white scales. “It has been since I was born. It was before, even. It will not completely leave—there will be traces, and those you will feel. But it is not magic.”

Merlin closes his eyes. “I knew it was dying,” he says, and sounds hoarse. “I thought—Kilgharrah always told me Arthur would bring back the golden age of magic. And I would be by his side for it. And Arthur’s dead, and all because I was too weak—and Gaius lied, anyone, anyone would’ve been better than me—”

He catches on a sob, and Aithusa raises his head to bump it gently against Merlin’s. 

“There is still you,” she says. “And me. Magic calls to magic.”

And that last bit of the puzzle slips into place, too. It’s not the Cave that is the remaining source of magic—it’s Aithusa. It’s the living, breathing things in Albion that are what still lives of magic, because everything else is fading. Dragons live for a long time, and Merlin… There's no saying how long Merlin will live.

All that is left, now, is the Dragon and her Dragonlord, weeping as the dusk of magic settles.

~*~

It takes a long time.

(In hindsight, this doesn’t surprise Arthur. He knows the Sidhe are tenacious, and he knows they will never succeed. Freya is on edge, but she’s not as good at hiding it as Arthur is.)

The days continue; the cycle remains. Arthur doesn’t return to the citadel, because the Sidhe know what he has to offer. It’s a waiting game, and Arthur isn’t confident that they will ever come to him; however, it’s no use going back to them. Their plan will fail, and when they finally accept it, they will have no choice but to go back to Arthur.

He’s planning on that. He wants them on their knees, and he wants them to accept what he can bring them; a compromise. He can promise them their old deal; and it must include both him and Merlin back in Albion. He can taste his return, sweet and tangible on his lips, but it means to wait for the Sidhe to surrender.

Merlin must bring back magic in Albion somehow, and this is something Merlin doesn’t know yet. Arthur has no idea how he’ll go about it, but all his promises will be null until his friend comes into his full potential. 

And so, the decades pass, and Merlin returns to a world inhabited.

~*~

It starts with a large house in a remote area. Arthur has no idea how Merlin has the coin for what can basically pass as a modest castle, but apparently he does. It comes with large grounds and there’s a cave nearby, a non-magical one, this time, where Aithusa settles.

If nothing else, Merlin’s return to civilised life impresses upon Arthur how much life has changed since he last lived it. Even in the town Merlin lived for a time with Ari, things were odd, but there was always a trace of the known. Now, even that hint of familiarity is snuffed out as they enter the fifteenth century, and Arthur learns he’s been dead for six hundred years.

(It doesn’t quite feel that long. Freya tells him, “Time moves differently here, Arthur, when will you learn?” at him when he mentions that, and he wisely shuts up about it, although it still bothers him a bit.)

He may not have felt the passing of time like that, but Merlin has. Merlin, who still sits silently by the fire most days, even when Aithusa nudges him into talking, as if he’s forgotten quite how to be around other people. Merlin, who has spent the better part of six hundred years sitting in a cave, waiting for Arthur.

But it gets better. Merlin is supposed to be around people; even in Camelot, Merlin was the life of the castle. Arthur knows who, more than anyone, bound together Arthur and his knights and even Gwen, in a way. It has always been Merlin, who talks easily and smiles broadly and should never, ever have been left alone.

He has Aithusa, now, and Arthur learns to love her even though he knows what she was to Morgana, and what she did to his men, once upon a time. He loves her for Merlin’s sake, and how she brings him back to light, and how she convinces him that he cannot wait in a dying cave.

So Merlin returns to life, and he wears clothes that look grossly uncomfortable and better on him than they have any right to. He smiles again, and he has a dozen servants for the upkeep on his castle despite looking like he wants to die when he hires their services, and he goes into town and makes friends with the old women and the eager writers.

Of course, because it’s Merlin, heartbreak always follows.

~*~

“They want to see you,” Freya says, her voice oddly solemn as she finds Arthur sitting next to his lake. “They are here—and they offered up their names. To you.”

Arthur doesn’t need to be told a second time. His hand still lingers over the lake, and if he touches it, he will return to Merlin’s debate with Aithusa about the proper ways of using fire spells. 

But as much as Albion is Arthur’s world—as much as Merlin is—there are things to do in Avalon. He has waited for this for nearly fifty years, and finally, the Sidhe are caving.

He feels oddly unprepared.

“Here?” he asks, and coughs into his hand when his voice comes out strangled. “I mean, they came here? I expected a summons, not—a visit.”

“So you did expect us, then,” comes Stormfeather’s familiar voice. He walks with his stick, and he looks as elderly as ever, but an ill pallor sticks to his face. Something unhealthy, and something that won’t leave him.

“I did,” Arthur says, and straightens himself. Even by a magic lake in Avalon, he must be a king. Freya falls into place besides him, her face neutral and eternally youthful. Arthur wonders, suddenly, what the Sidhe make of her. The Sidhe live a long time, but surely even six hundred years can’t be considered a short time.

“You are wise, then,” another Sidhe says—Moss, Arthur thinks, if he recognises her name correctly. “We offer you our names, Arthur King. Mine is Moss, for you to use; and you have already been gifted Stormfeather’s.”

The remaining three Sidhe by Moss’ side slide forward. “Frostwing.”

“Canopy.”

“Sunlit.”

“I do not want your names,” Arthur says, harshly. “You know what I want, and you have refused me.”

“And yet you still have need of us,” Stormfeather says. 

Arthur eyes him darkly. “Need of the Court of Avalon,” he says, “Yes, I do. Need of you, Stormfeather? No, I do not think so. A king does not deal with those who harm their people; and Merlin is mine, before he is anyone else’s. You have tried to harm him, and for that, I will not forgive you.”

“That was a unanimous decision,” Sunlit interrupts, her voice hard. “The Court needed a way, and it believed to have found one. Emrys in Avalon—”

“—would not have solved anything,” Freya says. “But you see that now, don’t you?”

“We have,” says Frostwing, very carefully, as she walks forward to Arthur with her blue palms turned upwards as a sign of peace, “realised that Emrys cannot be removed from Albion, yes. And we have come to the conclusion that our own magic will be harmed, if it is not returned to Albion.”

“Merlin will not do a single thing without my word,” Arthur says, and realises it’s true. Merlin may be able to change the very laws of the universe, if he wanted to—but he won’t, not unless he has Arthur. And he is willing to wait for a very, very long time. His heart swells, and he wants nothing more than to put his hand on that lake and pray he hasn’t missed anything more than several hours in Albion. But he can’t, not yet, so he continues, “The cycle must continue, and the prophecy must be fulfilled. When I return, a golden age will begin in Albion; magic will return, and Merlin will make it so. But he will only do it if I ask.”

Canopy tilts his head at Arthur. “And what do you propose then, Once and Future King?”

“I will compromise with you,” Arthur says. “Merlin is still learning, and until he is done, he has no magic to awaken. But he will, one day, and it will be the day of my return. You know when that must be, don’t you?”

“A prophecy was left for us, too,” Frostwing says, and seems annoyed by that, more than anything else. “We know when you are to return, Arthur King. But we will see if we are ready to do as you ask, when the time comes—for now, you have only made promises that your sorcerer can’t keep. He is magic, but he has no knowledge, and no control. What can he learn in Albion but a decayed art of men far lesser than him?”

“We’ll figure that out,” Arthur promises. “And this time, we can do it together. But I will not deal with you unless Stormfeather relinquishes his place in your Court, for the injury he would have dealt Merlin.”

“You don’t know what you ask!” Moss says. “It is unheard of to resign from the Court—”

“I don’t care,” Arthur bites out, and thinks of Merlin, crying on the ground in the Cave, and Stormfeather’s spell pressing on him. Merlin has powers he doesn’t understand, and Stormfeather had used it to his advantage. It had hurt, and Arthur wants to kill him for it.

He can’t, but he’ll settle for this. There can be no trust between him and Stormfeather.

“Your ignorance in the Sidhe matters shows, Arthur King,” says Canopy, staring at him.

Through it all, Stormfeather remains silent. Arthur looks back at him, and feels Freya’s fingers settle comfortably on his elbow, invisible to the Sidhe Court. The eldest of Sidhe shows no discomfort; shows no emotion at all, and Arthur does not back down.

He is the King of Camelot. If there is anything Uther taught him, it is to show no weakness.

“We will return later,” Frostwing says eventually, and steps back. “If that is your demand, you will have little to bargain for later, Arthur King. That is something you must be aware of.”

“I was born to heal the cycle between your world and mine,” Arthur says. “And I will do it, and I will ask of you whatever I want.”

The Sidhe disappear back where they came from, and Arthur breathes out. Freya grabs his hand, and squeezes it tightly.

“I’m not sure that was the right decision,” she says lightly, and maybe she’s right. It’s not what they talked about doing, whenever they wanted to sit around and talk about the Sidhe. There had been a vague sort of plan, and Arthur isn’t following it. The sight of Stormfeather just reminds him of what they’d tried to do, and he’d known that if this plan is to succeed, he will have to learn to trust the Sidhe.

This will have to be the first step. He can only hope he hasn’t destroyed any chance they have at succeeding.

“Neither am I,” he says, and bites his lower lip.

Chapter Text

“Ah, my friend,” is how the tall, gangly man greets Merlin when the door opens. He steers Merlin inside, an arm around the shoulder; oddly familiar, and Merlin doesn’t seem bothered by his presence.

“Thomas,” Merlin says wryly, and allows himself to be led. His hair is shorter than it has been in years, but still far longer than it ever was in Camelot; it curls around his ears, and it frames his angular face. It makes him look more refined, which is probably a good thing, since Merlin has been living like nobility.

(Arthur wants to scoff at the thought, but Merlin has picked up some things about nobility throughout the years, and besides, it’s better than seeing Merlin being a servant for someone else. No, let Merlin be a lord. It’s what he deserves, and more.)

“I’ve been writing down everything,” Thomas says, excitedly, and leads them to what looks like a study. Merlin sits down, clearly familiar with the setting, and Arthur wonders how often he has come by. He thinks of Ari, and a surge of jealousy pools in his belly before he can kill it.

“So you’re still intent on creating a story?” Merlin asks, and leans forward. Age has not touched him, but like this, Arthur wonders how it is that not everyone knows about Merlin’s immortality. There is too much depth in his expression, and too much grief in his eyes.

“It’ll be wonderful,” Thomas exclaims, and takes a seat on the other side of the desk. “The age of Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table—isn’t that a tale all of us want to hear? The old nobility, and the tragic death…”

“You do keep coming back to that,” Merlin says, deceptively lightly. “You’ve changed about everything I’ve told you, but you’re still intent on including Arthur’s death? You don’t think… Arthur remaining alive would have made for a better tale? A more fitting end?”

Thomas waves away Merlin’s concerns. “It's a tragedy,” he says. “The central motif of everything you’ve told me. Everything done for the good of England, and all for nought, for the hero dies at the end, betrayed by Mordred the son—”

“Mordred wasn’t his son,” Merlin says, but Thomas talks over him.

“—and the knowledge that he died to unite England, and to create everlasting peace—and to pay for it with death! No, it is not a happy story, but it would not be complete without Arthur’s ending. That is why things can change, my dear friend, but Arthur’s death must remain. It is what the tale leads to, in the end. It could not be any different.”

Merlin swallows heavily. “I see.”

“I will call it Le Morte d’Arthur,” Thomas says, and either doesn’t notice Merlin’s pain or ignores it. “The French are so good at tragedy, after all. You are a great historian, but you’ve no sense for story telling, I can tell. This Once and Future King will be loved by all of England, I can feel it.”

“I hope so,” Merlin says, and now, at least, he smiles. And this is how Arthur meets Thomas Malory, and learns that Merlin has made do with a name that lives on, even if Arthur hasn’t.

~*~

“Do you think they’ll accept?” Freya asks. She plays with her dress—Morgana’s dress, Arthur reminds himself—as they stroll along the forest. It took Arthur a long time to dare to come here, but he walks by himself often, these days. It’s a nice way to clear his mind, and the canopy hides the unearthly sky.

Arthur sighs heavily. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But they’ve let us wait for longer, in the past. I demanded a heavy price, but I can’t turn back on it now. And I don’t trust Stormfeather.”

“I don’t trust any of them,” Freya remarks, and Arthur huffs out a laugh.

“We probably ought not to,” Arthur says, and fondly pats her head. “You’re my only advisor, and you’re the one who has lasted the longest. I won’t trust anyone in that Court but you.”

Freya jostles her elbow against him, the way a knight would’ve, long ago. “I’ve kept you safe this long, Arthur,” she says, and smiles gently at him. “Your fate is tied to mine, and I have no intention of leaving this prophecy unfulfilled.”

Even if it means losing him, Arthur knows. “We have to wait,” he says.

“I’m aware,” Freya says dryly. “That doesn’t mean I like it, Arthur.”

He looks back to where the Sidhe citadel sits. It is invisible to them, right now, too far away for even the light to make it through the trees. Arthur slowly nods. “Neither do I.”

~*~

One ought to beware servant girls, Arthur reflects wryly, and tries not to seethe too much at the way that Joan receives Merlin’s ready smiles. She is efficient, and kind, and runs Merlin’s castle with far too much interference from Merlin, considering he knows nothing about running a household.

This is despite the fact Merlin has owned the castle for several decades already. He remains in the shadows, and ages himself to fool the townspeople, and then disappears for a few years to come back with a young face, and start it all over again. The first time, Merlin had spent his years mostly with Aithusa, and kept to himself and stayed in touch with a handful of people.

It had been a good life, Arthur thinks, although he can’t be sure of Merlin’s own opinion. But Le Morte d’Arthur had picked up, published in the whole of England, and it had bolstered Merlin’s spirits, somewhat. He’d had friends and acquaintances and hobbies, and Aithusa had been all he needed.

In this second life—well. There is Joan, and she returns Merlin’s quiet wits, and wakes up a part of him that’s been lost since Ari.

(For all intents and purposes, she is far beneath Merlin’s station. But that doesn’t mean Arthur hasn’t come to realise how Merlin falls in love; quick, and eager, and with a heart that should know better. As if he’s never lost at all.)

Nothing happens, for a long time. Joan is golden-haired and fair, and she clearly cares for Merlin; or if not Merlin, the way that Merlin cares for his staff, and the kind way that he treats everyone, even strangers. And Merlin is careful, if not heedful. He doesn’t talk as fast and freely as he used to, and he’s reticent and quiet when he’s not with Aithusa.

But he falls, nonetheless. And Arthur is left to watch Merlin’s eyes flutter as he kisses her, and hear his ragged breathing when she tumbles him into his bed. Arthur never stays to watch for longer, of course. But he knows, and it’s not as if they are hiding.

They don’t know Arthur is watching.

~*~

It can be nice to be interrupted from endless watching. Arthur is torn between wanting to touch every part of Merlin’s life, to watch from every nook of Merlin’s home, and between wanting to remain to himself, and let Merlin be; let Merlin be nothing to him, and let everything that ever was important fade.

(It’s not a life. He has tried to convince himself, but this is not a life. This is negotiations, and watching Merlin. But he is not part of life, and he ought not to forget that anymore.)

Only Frostwing comes back, and Arthur tries not to jump up at her arrival. She seems less stately, when she isn’t surrounded by the other members of the Court. Her face isn’t kind, but it’s less sharp, and Arthur wonders if he is growing used to the Sidhe in the way he never thought he would.

“Arthur King,” she says, and inclines her head as a sign of respect. More out of automatic response than anything else, Arthur does the same; he hasn’t been a King for centuries, and Camelot is nothing but a bedtime story now, but the Sidhe seem to see him as this, more than anything else.

“Frostwing,” he says, and she crooks her lips. 

“We have debated your request,” she says, and raises her eyebrows. “Is your protector not here? The Lady of the Lake?”

“My friend, you mean,” Arthur says sharply, and to her credit, Frostwing seems vaguely abashed. He continues, “She is not here right now, but I’ll assume she’ll be back soon. If you want to wait for her—”

“—I think, Arthur King,” Frostwing interrupts, “that we have been waiting long enough. Don’t you?”

Arthur senses a trap, and doesn’t know how to avoid falling into it. Frostwing stares at him, her blue eyes glowing unnaturally, and Arthur takes a deep breath. “I let you have all the time you needed,” he says, neutrally.

“And not once, you came to us,” she says slowly. “Fifty years since you made your request. A long time, for a mortal man.”

“Not for one long dead,” Arthur responds.

“A long time for one who is waiting so desperately to return.”

Arthur tilts his head slightly. “Some things are worth waiting for,” he says, “and some things take time to do right. This is your world, Frostwing, and not mine, as you keep reminding me.”

“We have made a decision,” Frostwing says, suddenly, but the change in subject doesn’t catch Arthur off guard. He has spent years with councilmen trying to rattle him, and he is more mature than ever. He knows how this game is played, even in Avalon. 

So all he does is nod, slowly. “I see. And what is the decision?”

“Stormfeather will not be part of the…” She takes a moment to taste the words on her lips, “Negotiations. You have come to know us, Arthur King, but we have come to know you, too. Emrys is a subject on which you will not budge, and we respect your loyalty. In honour of that loyalty, we have recognised that Stormfeather’s presence will… be too antagonising for any productive outcome.”

“I am glad,” is all Arthur says. 

Frostwing eyes him, sharp. “And the Court will be four Sidhe, for you.”

“I have a Court of only two, currently,” Arthur returns, and smiles. “I think it’s more than fair, don’t you?”

“In a way,” Frostwing says, and huffs out a breath. It may be a form of laughter, but Arthur can’t tell. “We would ask you and the Lady of the Lake to return to the citadel tomorrow. You will be given chambers and proper attire. If you are to be a guest in Avalon, Arthur King, there will be no more forests for you.”

Arthur’s heart restricts. The strange forest has been his haven for centuries, and to lose it so suddenly is harder than he would’ve thought. But he asked for this, in a way, and finally, the Sidhe are giving in to his demands. They are delivering, and Arthur has asked for enough from them. 

But the lake. The years he will miss, languishing in the Sidhe’s citadel.

“Is there a way,” he asks, hesitantly, “to bring a part of the lake? A way to preserve my sight in my own world? A bowl, perhaps, or a—”

“We have our own ways of accessing Albion,” says Frostwing, and thaws a bit. “They will be made available to you. If you are to make us promises, Emrys will need to be watched carefully. We do not take his powers lightly.”

The sour taste in Arthur’s mouth doesn’t entirely leave, but at least he feels like he can breathe a little more easily again. This is both a chance and a prison; the Sidhe will fully control all his actions now. They will see, and they will know, and Arthur will be at their mercy.

(There is no other way to make peace. If they are to trust him, maybe he ought to try and trust them, a little bit. Just until he knows for sure.)

“We will be there tomorrow,” he says.

~*~

“The Sidhe are tricksters,” Freya says, and doesn’t even pretend not to hold Arthur’s hand as they leave the forest for the last time. Behind them, the lake glimmers in iridescent colours, and Arthur ignores the voice in his head—in his heart, more probably—that tells him to return, pour his hands full of water and watch over Merlin for several more centuries.

“We will be on our guard,” Arthur says. “We are guests. This makes it official.”

“And the Sidhe so rarely get guests,” Freya says dryly.

Arthur shrugs. “They are bound by rules. Besides, our prophecy is the only way they will get what they want, now. They’ve exhausted all their other options. They have nothing to gain by betraying us, and that’s what I’m counting on, right now.”

“You are such a king, sometimes,” Freya says, and squeezes his hand.

“There’s no other thing I know how to be.”

“I know.”

Arthur straightens his shoulders, and goes for a more cheery voice. “They’re finally doing what we want them to do, Freya, and that is to listen. It’s slow, and it’s hard work, and I couldn’t have done it without you by my side. But it’s happening, and that is what we ought to focus on.”

“I can’t believe you’re intent on outwaiting the Sidhe,” Freya says, and shakes her head in exasperation. 

“It’s working, isn’t it?” he says, and grins, bumping Freya’s shoulder. She laughs, and leans into him. They work together well, and Arthur presses a quick kiss against her forehead before he takes her by the shoulders.

“What is it?” she asks, and raises her eyebrows.

“These talks will be important,” he tells her, and looks at her intently. “We’ve to show that we are doing all we can, Freya. That we are willing to work on this, as long as they are. So I want you to keep Excalibur with you. Until the moment I return to Albion, it should be held by you.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, tilting her head. 

Arthur shrugs. “It’s a weapon, and I don’t mean to go into this armed,” he says. “Will you do it, Freya? Will you hold onto my sword, and not return it to me until I am back in our world?”

“I will,” she sighs, but she seems honoured as he hands over Excalibur, her fingers tracing the cold metal reverently. It disappears on her person, the magic masking it, and Arthur misses the weight of it at once. But it should be hers in Avalon, and his in Albion. Here, Arthur means to only stand for peace.

And like that, then they walk into the citadel.

~*~

Merlin is sitting cross-legged by the cave. Not the Crystal Cave, the one he’d left behind him decades ago; but Aithusa’s cave, near his estate, with the dragon having wrapped herself around Merlin as much as she can.

Arthur frowns, at the sight of him; the lacklustre expression, and the paleness of his face. He can’t have been gone too long—he recognises Merlin’s clothes. It’s winter, though, and the snow plasters Merlin’s hair across his face. If Merlin is cold, he doesn’t show it; he just sits, and bows over a small bundle in his arms.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Merlin says, suddenly. His voice is hollower than Arthur has ever heard it, and concern spikes in his chest.

Aithusa is silent for a moment, and then her tail brushes across Merlin’s cheek. “But you must.”

“I can’t,” Merlin chokes out, and bows his head forward again. “I need to—not even for Arthur, I can’t, I thought that was the worst I was ever going to feel—but this, I can’t… Never again, Aithusa. Never again. I think I’ve lost the ability.”

“To love?” Aithusa scoffs. “I don’t think you can. I think you have loved more than ever, and now you have lost, you have gone mad. But even this grief will fade.”

“Fade?” Merlin repeats, and looks up. His cheeks are red now, and his eyes are bluer than ever in their anger. “Fade? It doesn’t fade, Aithusa, it never does. I remember Arthur, still, and I can still see his face, and still count the freckles on his face, if I wanted—I can hear him laughing, if I try, and every time I think about it, my heart breaks. I’m in agony, I’m always in agony, and it hasn’t faded a day in my life. And you think this will fade? When I can’t even forget Arthur?”

“Arthur was destined,” Aithusa says. “You think I didn’t grieve for Morgana?”

“Morgana wasn’t your daughter,” Merlin returns, hotly, and Arthur sinks to his knees next to Merlin.

“Don’t tell me,” Arthur says, and wishes Merlin could hear him, just this once. The bundle in Merlin’s arm is clear, now—a tiny head peaks out of the cloth, soft black hairs visible above a deadly pale face. “Don’t tell me you had—”

“She’s dead,” Merlin croaks out, all his anger gone. “Aithusa, she’s dead, and it’s my fault, and Joan’s my fault, too, and I never should’ve—I didn’t think I could have a daughter, and if I hadn’t been this stupid—”

“You couldn’t have known,” Aithusa says gently, and wraps herself around Merlin more tightly. “But you do need to bury them. They cannot sit here another day.”

“I can’t do this,” Merlin says. “I’m not—they deserve better. They deserve to live, and I’m—why am I still here, then? Why couldn’t I have been under the lake with Arthur, and sleep until he’s needed? I don’t understand—I don’t understand, Aithusa, there should be a reason.”

“Maybe you need to find it, then,” Aithusa says. “But bury them first, Merlin. Give them what they ought to have, if not what they deserve.”

Merlin’s shoulders hang. He presses his face against the tiny bundle, and Arthur’s heart constricts in pain. A tiny little daughter, all Merlin’s, and she’s not here. He wonders what happened—and mostly, he wishes he could wish himself into Albion, just so Merlin wouldn’t be alone.

“I haven’t even named her,” Merlin murmurs, nearly incomprehensible. “I haven’t—and Joan didn’t even have the chance. God. I’m not—I’m never doing this again. I promise, never again.”

“I’m so sorry,” Arthur says, and sits as close to Merlin as he can. 

At the end of a day, there are two graves on the estate. The snow gently covers the headstones, which appeared as if by magic. Joan Ambrosius, reads the first one, and Arthur kneels by the second one. Merlin isn’t here, but is inside, warmed by the fire—and Arthur is almost afraid to see him, right now, and so he doesn’t.

Guinevere Ambrosius, reads the second gravestone, and Arthur weeps despite himself.

~*~

Arthur sits in silence.

For a moment, he’d thought everything was going their way. After centuries of enduring the Sidhe’s disdain for him, and for Freya, and after centuries of playing the long game, his patience has won out. 

Canopy is by his side, watching as Arthur’s hands still drip from the pool. It glimmers, as the entire hall does—an entire chamber devoted to the portal to Albion, just as impressive as the lake Arthur has spent many lifetimes at. There are shallow stairs into the pool, and Arthur distantly wonders if that is how they cross; if the Sidhe submerge themselves and dive into the deep, and come out on the other side of the Lake.

He is finally here, and finally, there is a measure of trust. But it won’t be of any use if Merlin loses himself before Arthur can finally get to him.

“He’s such an idiot,” Arthur says to himself quietly, and feels his heart ache for Merlin, and for Merlin’s lost child. He has seen Merlin fall in love, but he has never imagined Merlin with a daughter—a tiny little baby cradled in his arms, and now he has seen it, he knows that Merlin would be good at that.

(And he will never have her. Somehow, Arthur knows that much.)

“He has much to learn,” Canopy says, his voice echoing in the hall. “Too much, perhaps.”

“He can do it,” Arthur snaps, because no one is allowed to doubt Merlin—not after what Merlin has already survived. 

Canopy only raises his eyebrows, unperturbed. “If you say so, Arthur King. Now that you have seen the Portal, you must come with me. The Court is ready for the first negotiations. The Lady of the Lake is already with them.”

Arthur wants to protest, and wants to put his hands back in that pool and find Merlin again, and break through the veil that keeps them apart so he can hold him. Arthur knows the grief of not having children, although it’s a pain he hasn’t thought about in centuries. He had always wanted a little boy or girl of his own, but he’d never been granted one.

(Perhaps a blessing in disguise, judged by Merlin’s red-rimmed eyes and ill-concealed agony. Arthur doesn’t want to know what he would’ve felt if he’d been forced to watch his own children die, while he was stuck in Avalon. Gwen’s death had been hard enough.

Arthur can’t imagine what it must be like, and that’s part of the fear. He remembers Merlin after Ari, and this—this is much, much worse.)

But there is no time to grieve. Arthur gets to his feet and follows Canopy up to the Court. Nothing has changed, since he was here last. He hadn’t expected it to, but so much has changed since then that it still feels off-putting. 

Freya is already there. She sits in one of the chairs in the circle, stilted, with her hands crossed over one another. At Arthur’s entrance, she sends him a fleeting smile, but there’s no doubt that she’s nervous. As is Arthur, but when he takes the seat on Freya’s left, he tries for his most charming smile.

“Well, then,” he says, to the four Sidhe in their own seats. Despite the circle, they’ve made their sides clear; there are several chairs empty between the Sidhe and Arthur and Freya.

“Once and Future King,” says Frostwing, and inclines her head to him. “Lady of the Lake. This will be the most important treaty you have ever been part of, Arthur King, or you ever will be part of. This is what you were born for—to fulfil a prophecy made by the Court of Avalon of many years ago. Are you ready to start?”

“I am ready,” Arthur says, and feels his heart beat loudly in his chest. “For the rebirth of magic.”

Moss’ smile is feral, but approving. Arthur is getting better and better at reading the Sidhe, which will be important in the years to come. Because it will take years, he can tell; they will not give up much, and not easily. They know their boundaries, but they don’t trust Arthur, even if they can’t betray him outright.

He just hopes Merlin can last alone, long enough. Hopes that Aithusa’s presence will keep Merlin from becoming worse than he has ever been—a hermit, with no regard for his own health but what is needed to keep him alive. 

“Then the treaty will start,” Sunlit says, and so it does.

~*~

The lake glimmers in the pale winter sun, and when Merlin breathes, Arthur sees a tiny cloud come from his lips. Merlin is lean, and clearly not at his full strength; his breathing is a bit uneven, and when he falls to his knees, it is unintentionally clumsy.

“I’m not sure what to do,” Merlin says quietly, and dips his bare hand in the lake. He shivers, and Arthur doesn’t know what he is doing here. 

“Come on, Merlin,” Arthur says gently, because it’s been two years of Merlin sitting in his cold estate, having dismissed all his servants. The castle could be cleaned by magic, but Arthur hasn’t seen Merlin use a single spell since his daughter’s death, and Merlin just sits there, not moving an inch. “You know what you need to do. You need to live, you moron.”

“Please,” Merlin says, his voice breaking. His fingers tremble in the water, and Arthur’s not so sure that it’s from the cold. “Arthur. Please, if you’re there…”

“Merlin,” Arthur murmurs, and presses his eyes closed.

“Arthur, please,” Merlin repeats, and bows his head against the water. “I need you. Haven’t I waited long enough?”

Arthur wishes he could feel the water sloshing through his pants, and that he could splash down and pull Merlin close to him. The want catches in his chest, desperate and needy, and he still can’t touch Merlin. 

It’s not fair. It’s never been fair—not to Arthur, who has to face the grief of those he loves most, and not to Merlin, who has been left alone to bear the centuries. Arthur wants to scream at the lack of progress, and wants to be back, he wants to be in Albion—

(Or, perhaps, he wants to be back with Merlin, who deserves more than this, and Arthur can never be entirely sure why he is still trying so hard, if not so he can finally see Merlin again and punch him in the arm and tell him to be kinder to himself—)

“You have,” Arthur whispers, his voice rough. 

“I don’t know,” Merlin says, and runs his fingers through the water. It ripples, and the sight of the water actually rippling has become so unfamiliar to Arthur that it startles him. Merlin’s own thoughts seem to have gone elsewhere. “I don’t… Arthur?”

“I’m here,” Arthur says, uselessly. 

“Is that you?” Merlin asks, and frowns. He wades through the water, looking around. “Arthur?”

“I’m here, I’ve always been here,” Arthur repeats, and pulls at his hair. It never gets any easier to hear Merlin say his name. “Merlin—”

Merlin stands still, right in front of him. He looks straight at Arthur, and bites his lower lip. It makes him look far too young, and far too confused for such a powerful man. “I think,” Merlin says slowly, “that you’re there. Either that, or I’m going insane. I might be going insane. Am I going insane?”

“You’ve been a halfwit since the day I met you,” Arthur says, “but in this case, I have to admit that you’re actually right. If you would care to see me, that is.”

“I’m clearly going insane,” Merlin declares, but puts two fingers in the water, and then his eyes shine that glowing gold. The water swirls, and Arthur feels a tingle in his spine. Merlin straightens himself, surprised, and says, “Or I’m not, and there is definitely something here. Are you a Sidhe?”

“If I were, you should be running away,” Arthur snaps at him. 

Merlin inhales deeply, and runs both palms over the smooth, gentle surface of the Lake. “You’re not,” he murmurs. “You are… Arthur. I can—that’s a portal, but it’s not—I’ve never known this was here. Arthur?”

“Yes, you moron,” Arthur says. “You’ve had it right for several minutes now, so what are you doing?”

His eyes still shine gold. This Merlin is not the same as he was in Camelot—his spells are more powerful, and his magic more instinctive. Arthur hasn’t seen him use it this naturally in a long time, and despite the situation, it’s a bit of a relief to see Merlin returning to his natural abilities.

“Sidhe portal,” Merlin murmurs. “Hang on, I’m just—”

The Lake shudders, and then droplets slowly start to rise. Arthur twists around, trying to see until where it goes, but it’s the whole lake. Merlin breathes slowly, clearly mastering a new use of magic as he goes along, as the droplets rise higher and higher.

Until Arthur recognises it. Merlin is creating, entirely with the sweet water from the lake of Avalon, a copy of the Sidhe citadel. The droplets linger in the air, and Arthur gapes at it. 

“How are you doing this?” he demands, even though Merlin can’t hear him. Instead, he watches as Merlin tightens his lips, and frowns at the otherworldly creation.

“I’ve never seen the other side,” Merlin says weakly. “I’m not— someone is opening this rift, and it’s not—Arthur, is that you? Freya?”

“Listen to me,” Arthur pleads. If Merlin can see, then why can he still not hear?

Something in Merlin’s expression shifts, and he tilts his face. He stares at the Lake, raises his hand, and snarls, “ Ċīnaþ,” as the golden glow overtakes all the blue of his eyes. He inhales sharply, and Arthur watches mutely as the Lake starts splitting itself apart. Water slushes over the shore, crashing against trees, and the wood groans against the sudden attack.

Not that Merlin seems bothered. He keeps up his relentless spell, moving forward even as he sends the waves away from him, and suddenly stands on the muddy ground that once belonged to the Lake. The water keeps parting, even beyond Arthur to the lonely island in the distance, as the Lake rises and falls with Merlin’s magic.

“What are you trying to find?” Arthur tries to reason with him, to no avail. If Merlin hears him, he shows no sign of it, and that means he doesn’t.

Merlin strides forward, his golden eyes focused. “I can feel you,” Merlin murmurs, and snaps his head back. “There.”

Arthur cranes his head back. For a moment, he doesn’t see it, but then—the lake. Inside the Lake. Arthur’s lake, the one has used to watch Merlin for centuries now. It sits still, without rippling and unbendable. Not even Merlin’s spell has shaken it, and Arthur watches as Merlin strides over and falls to his knees on the bank of it.

“I don’t think it works,” Arthur supplies, but his throat feels dry. “I suppose—it’s a gate, isn’t it? And if I can see you, then you may be able to see… me.”

“What are you?” Merlin whispers, and drops down his hands in the still water. His hand doesn’t disturb it, either, and Merlin draws back, frowning. “You’re not… here. This isn’t—the right realm. You’re not actually part of this world.”

“But it’s a gate,” Arthur insists, even though he’s not sure—the one he’s using right now is a gate, the Sidhe’s personal portal for moving to Albion and back, but the lake he’s been using may not be nearly as powerful. It may be the reason Merlin is sensing him, or sensing something, but still, it’s not enough.

It’s not nearly enough.

“Avalon,” Merlin says, and closes his eyes. “Arthur.”

“Listen to me, Merlin,” Arthur says, and drops next to Merlin. He grabs his shoulders, and passes right through, but if he hovers in the right place, he can imagine that he’s holding onto his dearest friend in the world. “I don’t care what it takes, but you will learn what you need. You will pass through these realms, and you will find me, and together, we’ll make sure Albion and Avalon survive. But I need you to start searching for the right answers. That is an order, Merlin. The first one I give you, as my Court Sorcerer.”

Merlin’s lashes flutter, and he opens his eyes again. He looks just past Arthur, to the island still beyond them. “If you can hear me, Arthur,” he murmurs, his words so quiet they couldn’t have been heard by anyone but them, “I promise you this: I’ll figure it out. I don’t care what I have to do, because I don’t have anything to lose anymore—I won’t be distracted. You’re not coming back to me, so I’m coming back for you, because you promised me something, Arthur Pendragon. And I’m not letting you out of your promise so easily.”

He rises again, and brushes off his pants. The waves of the Lake still hover at the border of the lake, and Merlin quietly walks towards the shore again. When he’s on dry land, the spell drops, and all the water comes flooding back.

He doesn’t look back.

Chapter Text

When Arthur imagined how long the talks with the Sidhe would take, he’d pictured several years passing. Of course, the Sidhe had made him wait for a long time, even by their own measures, but they’re stubborn. He’d expected them to make more headway once the first agreement had been drawn, and for them to agree in—oh, no more than ten years, surely? Even for the Sidhe, that seemed reasonably.

It’s not reasonable, apparently.

Arthur has lost all sense of time, and the only guideline he has is Merlin. These days, it’s easier to track him. Merlin travels a lot, and meets many people to talk to. Merlin finds historians, and monks, and nuns, and merchants, and poets, all to see what they know of the Sidhe, or the faeries, or anything pertaining to magic and different realms, and when he’s really desperate, the true tale of King Arthur.

He’s sort of shot himself in the foot, there. Malory’s version of events has become very popular, and Arthur grins every time Merlin rolls his eyes at the mention of Mordred, Arthur’s bastard son. Even if the story is pretty grim, and he probably shouldn’t be laughing at Merlin’s quest.

(It’s a little funny, though.)

So while Merlin searches for forgotten spells and ancient magic in a world that has lost most of its traces of such things, Arthur negotiates with the Sidhe. 

They don’t want to base their only hope on Merlin; Arthur argues that, in line with the prophecy, Merlin pretty much is their last hope. They say that Merlin ought to be in Avalon, at least some of the time; Arthur tells them that Merlin’s place is in Albion for a reason. The Sidhe point out Merlin is nowhere near his full potential of power, and might not be enough; Arthur informs them that if they try to steal Aithusa, Merlin will surely come into his full power just to lay waste to all of Avalon.

Every time one point has been thoroughly discussed and debated, and Arthur thinks it can be finally put to rest, one of the Sidhe Court reignites the conversation. Arthur understands why they are so precise, now, and why their names matter so much. Every point of detail is important, and every word has power when it comes to magic.

Emrys, Arthur learns for the first time in his life, means immortal. And the Sidhe don’t necessarily crave immortality for themselves, but they are intent on making sure that the magic will live forever, without the need for any more prophecies. If they control Merlin in that situation, they never have to worry for their magic again.

But Merlin isn’t theirs. He’s Arthur’s. 

This is the most important thing, and really the reason they cannot agree on anything. Merlin’s magic is his own, and Merlin is Arthur’s, and it doesn’t matter who caused Merlin’s birth and planted the magic to be born as a person—the prophecy was made, at the dawn of time, and they are to live it out and return magic to its full strength.

And Arthur won’t give up Merlin, not even a bit of him. Not even a hair on his head. It doesn’t matter if they wouldn’t have existed if not for Avalon—Avalon created them to save Albion, because saving Albion will save Avalon. Arthur means to go back, and he will have Merlin by his side.

And so the years continue.

~*~

Merlin has moved east, over the years, to the city of London. Arthur likes it, the bumbling noise and the loud shouts of merchants. Cities never really change, even if London has grown far beyond anything Camelot could ever claim to be.

Then again, Camelot fell, so many lifetimes ago. Arthur vaguely tries to recall the last Prince of Camelot, Galahad’s son who came to Merlin for aid, and finds that he can’t even recall the colour of his hair, nor anything else about him. Just that he saved many of his people, and then was lost to the edges of time.

Did he ever have children? Did they have children of their own, and their children again, and so on, until they had descendants to walk London’s market place? They are all children of people who were alive in Arthur’s time, and there are so many of them. Their language has changed, and their clothes, and their ideals.

But they still have cities, and they still have Merlin.

Currently, one particular publisher, red-headed and freckled, has hold of Merlin. He’s selling all kinds of stories, because the art of printing has grown far beyond a single man, and Arthur never thought he’d see so many books in one single place. Merlin loves them, though, he knows, loves the books. Merlin especially loves the comedies, and snorts at the jokes in them, and sounds exactly the same as he did eight hundred centuries ago.

And Arthur longs for him just as much, even if he’s grown used to the feeling by now.

“That’s a special one,” the publisher says, with an accent Arthur can’t really place. “Fairy tales and the like, you know. Very popular with women and children. You’ve got a wife, sir?”

“No,” Merlin says, and offers an insincere smile. Arthur knows he’s not lying, because Merlin once said he wouldn’t be distracted again, and he hasn’t been. Apart from the occasional man or woman to warm his bed, Merlin’s barely come close to anyone in centuries. And even that occasional partner is kicked out very quickly.

Arthur knows he’s the jealous type, but he wishes Merlin would start making friends again, if not anything else. As long as he has Aithusa, Merlin is never really alone; but he’s apart from the white dragon more often than not, and even Aithusa can’t always steer off Merlin’s more melancholy moods.

“Children?” the publisher tries, frowning.

“Not those, either,” Merlin answers. Even if baby Guinevere had lived, she would not have lived nearly this long. The thought doesn’t make it any easier, Arthur suspects. Merlin’s grief has faded, but he still doesn’t mention them.

(Arthur sometimes wonders if he’s punishing himself for their deaths. It’s not something he likes to dwell on.)

“They’re still very charming tales,” the red-headed publisher continues, perhaps worrying that he’s convinced Merlin that the stories might not be manly enough for him. As if anyone should be concerned about that—Merlin’s still a lean twig.

People don’t mess with Merlin, though. No one has ever dared, even when magic has faded into nothing but tall tales and mythology. Perhaps it’s his eyes.

“I would say so,” Merlin says, and peers at the back. “These titles aren’t familiar to me, actually. Are they from England?”

“They’re from up north, sir,” the publisher says eagerly. “Scotland, and the like. I don’t think they’ve seen them a lot here. You can tell from the language, but it’s still very understandable, sir. Written down in proper English, that is.”

“Magical myths in proper English,” Merlin says dryly. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy that. I’ll take it.”

He leaves the book on the counter for a moment, and when he goes to pay, Arthur leans over the volume. Merlin has been chasing every odd trail for true magic; Arthur wishes he’d learn to look inwards, for a change, because it might be much faster. Then again, it’s not as if he knows what, exactly, Merlin needs to learn to return magic.

(Unfortunately, neither do the Sidhe. For such a key part of the prophecy, the ancient Court had been very vague about it.)

It’s not hard to see why Merlin picked this book. He left it open on a page where faeries dance above a lake, their fangs visible even from a distance. There’s no mistaking the Sidhe, and Arthur runs his finger over the drawing. The text talks vaguely of stones in a ring, and the danger of accepting faerie’s deals, and the importance of names.

“I don’t think the Sidhe have gone to Albion in centuries,” Arthur mutters, and looks over to Merlin. “Sometimes I think that it’s odd that so many old stories are still remembered. But perhaps, nothing is ever really forgotten.”

Merlin pays, and walks out with the book resting between his ribs and his upper arm. London bustles past him, and Merlin looks out towards the streets.

“Maybe it’s time to go to Scotland,” he muses, and opens up the book again, standing still in a city that never does the same. 

“Maybe you should,” Arthur says, because at this point, he’s no idea what Merlin is even trying to find. Other portals, maybe? “For someone who’s been alive for so long, you’re awfully bad at travelling, Merlin. When I’m back, we’ll visit other places. I’m dragging you out of the house, whether you want to or not. It’ll be like old times, except there will be no Perilous Lands.”

Merlin doesn’t hear him, of course, so Arthur follows him until he no longer can.

~*~

“I think,” says Frostwing, “we ought to discuss whether Emrys is ever going to learn the full extent of what he can do without being told outright. None of our plans can go forward without his magic.”

“Merlin is on a journey of introspection,” Freya says sharply. “He will learn.”

“He’s proven to be very obtuse,” Moss observes, and her fingers tighten on the arm of her chair as she leans forward. “He has had centuries to learn, and the time of the return of the Once and Future King looms ever closer.”

Arthur stills. Freya looks at him, instinctively, but Arthur can’t look back. “It is?” he asks, and can’t help the creak in his voice, or the trembling of his body. 

Canopy shakes his head and sighs. “It always has,” he points out. “Magic is dying out in Albion. Emrys is forever, but nothing else tends to be. You have been saying that Emrys is learning for centuries, but what has he learnt?”

“I told you,” Arthur says. “He found the lake in Avalon, and he noticed the connection—”

“It’s not his attempt to find Avalon that concerns us, Arthur King,” Frostwing says sharply. “If need be, we can find Emrys and do that, ourselves. The portals aren’t as easy to find as they used to be, but they still exist. Our concern is that Emrys is endless magic, and if he doesn’t learn how to return it—”

“He will,” Freya says.

“So you keep saying,” Sunlit mutters.

Arthur interrupts. “Merlin has no idea what he is meant to do—he has to find the question first, before he can even find the answer. He has none of the knowledge that we have, of the ancient Court of Avalon, nor of the full extent of the prophecy. He is on the right path, and he is actively searching. That is all we can expect of him, at this point.”

Canopy sighs. “They do have a point,” he says, as if it pains him to say. “Emrys is ignorant of many things in Avalon. He knows he is magic, but he doesn’t understand the nuance of it. Perhaps if he were to learn, the answer wouldn’t be hard to find for him.”

“He is pure magic,” Sunlit says. “He should already understand—”

“Pure magic in a human form,” Freya argues. “You can’t say what that means, because it’s never been done before. Merlin is unique, and the path he’s been set on isn’t an easy one.”

“He will find it,” Arthur says, with more authority than he feels. It works, though, when all the Council sets their eyes on him. “Merlin was born for this. If the magic is failing him, he will find out what he needs to do and do it. But if we don’t know what it entails, precisely, then how can we expect Merlin to learn?”

“So you want us to find out how magic ought to return?” Canopy exclaims.

Freya rises. “We can,” she says, slowly. “The magic is still in Avalon, and it’s still fading so slowly here. It won’t die until Albion’s magic has disappeared, and the cycle is broken. But why is it dying in Albion, and not in Avalon? If we know what the difference is—”

“We have more sources of magic,” Frostwing says, and shakes her head. “It always has been different.”

“Then maybe we need to look at what used to be the same,” Arthur says, and frowns. “When did the magic start dying in Albion? What changed?”

“It is not up to us to do this,” Moss argues. “Emrys is the one who has to return the magic to Albion—”

“But if we do, we can help him,” Arthur says. “Someone can go up to him and tell him what he ought to do—”

“Emrys will never listen to the Sidhe,” Frostwing says, and shakes her head. “No, Arthur King. We can search, but Emrys will have to find his own answers. If he doesn’t find them soon, our treaty will amount to nothing.”

All those years of conversations, and of compromising, and of figuring out the Sidhe. Arthur feels the stab of betrayal in his chest, and rises to his feet.

“Haven’t you learned by now?” he asks, and crosses his arms. “We are all part of this prophecy—you are not the masters of it, and the Court of Avalon is not exempt from what its predecessors have decided. You are part of it, to save the magic of Albion, and to save the magic in Avalon from falling alongside it. You can’t decide not to play along—not if you want any of us to succeed. It’s time that you realised that you are not above this!”

“Come with me,” Frostwing says, suddenly, and gets to her feet. She strides towards the door, and then turns back, raising her eyebrows at Arthur. “The Court is dismissed for today. Arthur King, come with me.”

Arthur exchanges glances with Freya, but Frostwing has already passed the door. The other Sidhe look around uncertainly, and in the face of that, Arthur follows.

Frostwing has slowed her stride, but she doesn’t look at Arthur when he finally catches up with her. She’s just as tall as him, and her wings make her twice his height. Nonetheless, it’s about the first time that Arthur does not feel intimidated by her since he’s met her.

“What is it?” Arthur asks. Although he’s been in the citadel for many years now, and has learnt his way around the well-organised streets and the oddly-shaped buildings, it’s not often that a Sidhe invites him to walk around.

Most of his time is spent with Freya, and they have been wandering the foreign world together for a long time now. Their chambers are large, and their access to the portal to Albion is unlimited, and their way is free. But they are not part of Avalon, and Arthur has never forgotten it.

“We are aware of our role in your prophecy, Arthur King,” she says, and strides down the winding stairs. It leads them outside, and no one pays Arthur any attention. Frostwing leads, and finally turns to look at him. “Well? Will you not come?”

“Where are you taking me?” Arthur asks.

She smiles, secretively. “You think you have learnt so well, Arthur King. And you understand much now, that’s true. But you will never know magic as we do, nor as Emrys does. I think you ought to learn what you are saving.”

“Right,” Arthur says, and follows steadfastly. “And what does that mean, precisely?”

“It means that you have not seen magic in Avalon, yet,” says Frostwing, and gestures with her head to the forest. It’s not the direction Arthur and Freya had come from, once upon a time, but rather the way that Stormfeather had taken him. 

It’s a dark forest, and the trees loom over Arthur as they did then. They seem to respond to their presence, and arch towards them. At Frostwing’s touch, they bend away again and create a path for them to follow. Frostwing doesn’t say anything, and so neither does Arthur, and the magic presses on Arthur.

This is dark magic, he remembers. The magic that his father saw, and caused him to ban all of it. The magic that Merlin doesn’t use, and the magic that lured Morgana into darkness. He has to remember this is not all of it, but the weight of it on him makes him woozy, and he almost loses his footing. Then Frostwing grabs his hand, and helps him along, and Arthur can finally take a deep breath again.

“I don’t know what this is,” Arthur says, wheezing. “It’s so heavy, all the time—”

“It’s magic,” Frostwing says simply. “The potential for it.”

“It’s dark.”

“All potential is,” Frostwing tells him, and pulls him along. “It will be clearer in a minute. There is a break in the forest, and there your mind will be your own again.”

She takes them along several more trees, and if there is even a path still, Arthur can barely see it. But she is right; there is a clearing, suddenly, and it rains. Upwards. Arthur stares at it mutely, as the raindrops move up into the air from the ground. They come from the tiny blades of grass, shining on the ground. Frostwing is unperturbed, and sits on a log.

“I don’t think I ever will understand this place,” Arthur breathes, and sits on the ground opposite her, cross-legged. His pants become wet with the rain, but he figures it would’ve been that way whether the rain fell the normal way or not.

“This is one of the epicentres of magic,” Frostwing says, and runs her finger across the blade. The droplet runs up along her hand and then flies into the sky with its siblings. “Where the natural is unnatural, and no laws are fixed. We have many of these places, similar to the Crystal Cave in your Albion. This is where magic is strongest, and where our own realm is closest to Albion, in fact.”

That catches Arthur’s attention. “How do you mean?”

“It means, Arthur King,” she says, enunciating very clearly, “that your questions are good, but they lack understanding. We turned away Stormfeather from our Court, despite him being the oldest, because we saw your potential. We saw you chose magic, and you wanted to know it. You love Emrys, and you can’t love him without loving his magic—so without hesitation, you adapted. You changed.”

“I’m not—” Arthur stammers, but she holds up her hand.

“Your souls were created as counterparts,” she says. “It’s no matter. Most of us have to live our life alone, Arthur, but not you. You were created as one of two, entangled as people can only hope to be.”

“But I am alone,” Arthur says. “And so is Merlin.”

“But always going towards each other,” Frostwing counters. “Similarly to Avalon and Albion. These realms are always turning towards each other; they always have been. The cycle is so important because what is in Avalon, must also be in Albion. But the magic has remained in Avalon, and now cannot return to Albion. And you are asking why that is.”

“It seems important,” Arthur murmurs, and runs his finger past the blades of grass, too. The rain tickles the tip of his nose, until it moves up again. 

“This is magic,” Frostwing tells him. “Potential, and dark, only because of what people can choose to do with it. Magic itself is not a tool—it simply is, and in your realm, it is not. And it should be, before all of it is lost, and can never return. And you are the King who has been prophesied to do it.”

“It’s not a sword,” Arthur murmurs, and thinks back to the first time he was in the forest, when Stormfeather had come to talk to him. “Magic is not a tool. It just is. It just grows, like a tree, and it can be used, like wood, but it wasn’t made to be.”

Frostwing’s smile is gentle. “This is not something to be made, Arthur King,” she says. “It is something to be nurtured. And we cannot create from nothing. That is where Emrys comes in, I think—he is the seed from which a forest will grow.”

“I understand, I think,” Arthur says, and peers at the trees. “If this is a place that touches Albion, is there another portal here? I’ve never known how they were created.”

“There are no portals but ours,” Frostwing says. “Your lake was one, once, but then it faded, and now it is nothing more than a way to look into Albion. And so have all others gone, too. Only ours remains, now.”

Arthur blinks. “But it used to be? How do you keep it from becoming the same?”

“It responds to magic,” Frostwing explains. 

Arthur slowly nods, and looks back. The citadel can’t be seen from here; there are only the dark trees, and the wind that blows through them ominously. He’s glad that he is with Frostwing, suddenly.

“You know,” he says. “For a Sidhe, you are surprisingly straightforward.”

“For a King, you are surprisingly capable of learning,” she tells him, and smiles.

Chapter Text

“I think I like Scotland,” Merlin says, and peers down. “Maybe we should stay for a little longer. There’s more mountains for you to hide, and I’ve heard there’s been some accounts of creatures in one of the lakes. Maybe you can be friends.”

“Maybe,” Aithusa says, but the doubt in her voice is real. She flies a little lower as they near the mountain ranges, but there must still be a real chill. Merlin is shivering, even in his thickest coat. Arthur thinks of a day centuries past, when he’d been half-dead and on top of a dragon; he hadn’t paid any attention to Merlin, then, and he’s never seen him fly a dragon since.

It’s clearly not the first time he’s flown Aithusa, because when she reaches the ground, Merlin slides off easily. It looks right, though, to see him seated on one. Merlin’s a Dragonlord, no doubt, and he’s only grown into it. 

(Arthur wishes he’d lived a life in which Merlin would have been his Court Sorcerer in Camelot, and been free to practise his magic and ride dragons whenever suited him. That Merlin would’ve been a joy to behold, just as this one is.

That Merlin might have had more joy, though, instead of a destiny of waiting centuries for his king to finish treaties with creatures of another realm.)

“You might never know,” Merlin says, and sounds wistful. “There’s dozens of water creatures in my magic book that I’ve never seen. It could be any one of those. About everything on land tried to kill Arthur, once upon a time, but it’s rarely been water monsters.”

“Are you complaining, Merlin?” Arthur asks, and crosses his arms.

Aithusa says, “Are you complaining he was never attacked by a water monster?” in much the same tone, which gratifies Arthur a little bit. 

“No!” Merlin protests, and then amends, “I’m just saying it would’ve changed things up a little bit. And there’s so many creatures I never got to see.”

“Many of them have been gone for centuries,” Aithusa says, and looks around. “Including the Sidhe. Are you sure you need to be here?”

Merlin shrugs, and rummages in his bag. He has the book, still, with the drawing of the Sidhe inside. “Judging by the language, and the very, very few descriptions, it has to be somewhere near. We should probably find a village, though.”

“You should,” Aithusa corrects. “You’ll starve. I might hunt.”

“I can’t starve,” Merlin says, and shrugs. Arthur raises his eyebrows. Merlin’s immortal, but that doesn’t mean he has to check if he can die. “But fine, have it your way. Do you need any help? I might have a spell—”

“I’m a dragon,” Aithusa says in exasperation. 

“And getting on in age a bit,” Merlin says gently, and runs a hand over Aithusa’s scales. “I’m sorry. You know I’m just concerned.”

“I’m not Kilgharrah,” she says. “I won’t break my wing, and I won’t fail to carry you when you need me. I am over eight hundred years old, and hardly need a human to do my hunting for me.”

“I hatched you,” Merlin tells her, and smiles wryly, but he does take a step back. “And you are old.”

“Younger than you, still.”

“Most things are,” Merlin says. “And that's not the point. You can’t promise me you will always be alright, Aithusa, because I know you, and you know me. I’ve never had a thing end up alright in my life. Please.”

Aithusa gives in, and runs her snout against Merlin’s face. “I will be careful, if you are,” she says. 

“I promise,” Merlin says. “I’m not planning on being here more than a month.”

“That’s what you always say,” Aithusa complains, but pushes herself against Merlin one more time before she throws herself in the air again. Merlin watches her go, and Arthur next to him.

“Dragons,” Merlin mutters, and runs a hand over his face before he turns. Arthur supposes there must be a village nearby that Merlin wants to walk to. True to form, Merlin starts wandering rather purposefully into a direction, and walks for many miles.

It’s already nightfall when Merlin stops, and he’s still not encountered any other person. The landscape is rough and treacherous, and Merlin’s lost his footing more than once. Arthur would berate him if he thought Merlin could hear him; as it is, his heart isn’t in it. 

Merlin stops, and just sits down on a boulder. He murmurs a quiet spell into his cusped palm, and a butterfly flies out of it again. He smiles, broadly, and Arthur thinks of Merlin’s first stay in the Crystal Cave, and the tiny little butterfly he’d called Arthur.

(His heart aches. So many years, and so many of them spent alone.)

“You know,” Merlin says conversationally, as the butterfly circles Merlin’s head. “I lost my magic once. And I thought, back then, I might as well be dead. If I don’t have magic—I don’t know what I’d be, if I didn’t have my magic. But then I was reminded that you can’t just stop being what you are, and the first thing I did is to make one of you. I don’t know why that was. But I think you’re beautiful, and sometimes I end up doing this, just to make sure I still can.”

Merlin’s quiet for a moment, and the butterfly settles on his hand again. He continues, “And sometimes, I do it because you’re still as beautiful as you’ve always been, and there’s no other reason.”

“You’re such a girl, Merlin,” Arthur tells him, and scoots closer. “It’s just a butterfly.”

But he knows what Merlin means, when the butterfly takes to air again and flies around Arthur’s head. 

Merlin sleeps outside on the rocks, and doesn’t bother to use magic except for warmth. If he wanted to, he could’ve created an entire house, but Arthur has learnt a little bit about Merlin’s use of magic, too. He lives and breathes it, and sometimes he just doesn’t think about a use of it that’s not natural to him. Merlin has slept outside before, and so he accepts that possibility as a fact of life, and doesn’t do anything to make himself more comfortable.

(Magic is not a tool, Arthur reminds himself. Magic is a tree.)

When he wakes up, Merlin keeps walking. In the afternoon, the outskirts of a village become visible against the horizon. It’s another two hours before Merlin walks into it.

~*~

The village isn’t large, by any means, but both Merlin and Arthur have spent enough time in hamlets that it doesn’t perturb them. There’s a place for Merlin to stay, and a bath for him to wash, and a dozen questions for him to answer about who he is, and where he’s from, and did you walk here, why would you do that, where did you start sir?

Merlin smiles his broadest smile and avoids them as well as he can. He brings out the book, and tells them he’s exploring odd phenomena, and shows them the stone ring. The first few people he shows—those in the tiny pub, so Arthur had little hopes for them knowing some obscure stone ring in the first place—shrug, but one of them tells them that Merlin may have more luck with the farmer’s son, who apparently has a zest for taking hikes in the forest.

The farmer’s son, as it turns out, is a man in his mid-twenties, fair-haired and with eyes that remind Arthur of Lancelot. He looks solemn, but his smile cracks open when Merlin tells him what he’s there for.

“I know it,” he says, before Merlin has even shown him the picture, and he leans against his pitch fork. “That’s further in the forests. It’s not an easy walk, and it’ll take you the better part of the day, even without a guide.”

Merlin isn’t an idiot, no matter how often Arthur has accused him of being one, and he raises his eyebrows. “And you would be that guide, I assume, for the right price?” he asks, humour evident in his voice. It’s not as if Merlin is low on funds, and Arthur knows that Merlin has paid more for less in the past. 

(If there is one thing that Arthur has learnt about Merlin, it’s that beyond heartbreak, grief and loss, Merlin will always be so full of life. He is a man of curiosity and learning, unbending and endlessly aware of his present; not once has he been bowed down by the past, even in his years of hiding.

Merlin is a treasure whose value Arthur could never pay, but Merlin has always stayed loyal. And if there is a mystery to solve, Merlin will happily trot alongside its riveting ways until his questions have been answered. And this, Arthur knows, is why Merlin will eventually learn what he needs to know.)

The farmer’s son shrugs, and gestures to the sprawling village before them. “I would consider the right price a day out of this forest,” he says, “But if I’m abandoning my work for a handsome stranger, I can’t do it for nothing.”

Arthur sighs. “Once upon a time, Merlin,” he says, “I thought Gwaine was a lout for making his advances towards you. These days, it seems they’re all Gwaines, and none of them have his honour.”

Merlin’s eyebrow is still quirked, and the amusement hasn’t left his face. “I’m not here for that sort of payment,” he says, “but I’m sure we can figure something out. We can leave tomorrow morning, if it suits you?”

“I’m Joseph,” the fair-haired farmer’s son says, and in lieu of shaking his hand, he runs his arm over his brow. 

“Merlin,” Merlin says, and leaves again.

He returns early the next day, and Joseph is waiting for him. Together, they hike into the hilly forests, dark and full of birds’ song. It’s unlike any of the forests in Avalon, and Arthur feels more at home when Merlin makes his way through the trees in Scotland. Arthur is reminded of the forests near Camelot, the ones he and Merlin spent many a night in, curled around a fire together.

(If only he could return to those days, and take Merlin’s hand and tug him in the same bedroll. Merlin would’ve watched him quietly, not as skilled as he is these days, and Arthur would’ve never let go of him, afterwards.

But he cannot change the past, and they’ve lived so many years of the future now. There will be a chance, Arthur has decided. He will take Merlin into another forest, and ignore the world that has been built around them, and they will belong to each other as the Sidhe claim they do.)

It’s a long walk, and treacherous at times. Merlin doesn’t complain, used to far more hardship, even if it’s been awhile, and if he uses magic to avoid slipping on some of the rocks, Arthur can’t tell. Joseph climbs as if he’s done it every day of his life, and his surprised smile when Merlin keeps up is one that Arthur takes as a point of pride.

“It’s just through here,” Joseph says, after a relatively long day of silence. The sun burns above them when they step into a clearing, and Merlin inhales sharply.

The ring of stones lies before them, as promised. Arthur tags along, and slowly runs his fingers over the rocks. He likes to think they would be smooth, if he could feel them. They do remind him of Avalon, even if he can’t tell why—a part of him is also reminded of the druids’ rings, and he wonders if Merlin thinks of the same.

“Why here?” Merlin asks, and slowly walks around them. “They used to be everywhere, but they’ve remained untouched in so few places.”

Joseph shrugs. “Not many who come here,” he says. “It used to be a place of worship, my grandfather used to tell me, in the olden days. The faeries used to come through, and they would make dark deals for the mortals’ names.”

A portal of the Sidhe. Arthur bites his lower lip, and looks at Merlin. Merlin is still walking, and his eyes flash gold.

“Not any longer,” Merlin murmurs, and drops to his knees, right next to Arthur. “I can’t feel anything here.”

Joseph crouches, and his hands hover above the rock, but then his expression changes, and he takes it back. “We’re a Christian family,” he says fiercely, “And we have been for a long time. But there’s no sense in poking at old religions.”

“A superstition that might’ve saved many lives,” Merlin says wryly, and gets to his feet. “I just don’t get it. I could feel the lake, but only that one time, and if there was power there, it should’ve been here before. The Sidhe had so many portals, and they’ve all died. Why? All these places of power, like the Cave, and they’ve all just disappeared over the years—”

Merlin stands still. Joseph blinks at him. “The Sidhe?”

“The faeries,” Merlin says, patiently, and runs his fingers over the stones. “Bemeldaþ.”

The stones light up for a moment; not at the same time, but one stone before the other, forming a circle. But the glow dies out soon, and Merlin makes a frustrated noise.

Joseph has his mouth opened. “They’re here?” he whispers faintly.

“No, they’re not, which is the problem,” Merlin says, and sighs. “There’s an answer here, something I’ve been missing—there was a lake within the lake, and it had no powers, but it was like this. As if…”

“As if they’re gone?” Joseph asks, more bravely than Arthur expected of him, and sits next to the stones with Merlin. “They must have. Many years ago.”

“The same way that magic has been leaving,” Merlin says slowly, and bites his lower lip. “The Crystal Cave was dying—Aithusa told me, and I’ve been so slow. The portals are going out, the magic is going, and why? The Sidhe don’t care for this plane, I know they don’t, but why leave one portal in place, if that’s the case? Why did I feel them once, and never before that? The portals are connected to the magic, aren’t they?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Joseph says, and his eyes track Merlin diligently. “I suppose if the faeries are involved, and they have disappeared—they are magic, I suppose?”

“Not inherently,” Merlin says, as if he doesn’t realise how odd it is for a mere farmer’s boy to be talking about faeries and magic as if it’s an everyday subject. Arthur snorts. 

“No need to confuse the locals, Merlin,” he says. “I’ve been in Avalon for what’s coming very close to a millenium, and I’ve barely any idea what you’re doing here.”

Merlin stands, suddenly. “I have a theory,” he says, and gestures at Joseph to stand, too. “Stay away from the stones, Joseph. I might be breaking a few laws of nature, but I suppose it’s been a while since I’ve done that.”

Arthur stays where he is. Merlin’s magic, powerful as it is, has never been enough to reach Arthur, and he wants the best view. Joseph is a tall man, but behind Merlin he almost seems to cower, and Arthur wonders how much he suspects of Merlin’s knowledge.

Certainly, he isn’t expecting this. Merlin raises his hands, and wordlessly, his eyes glow gold. The wind picks up, and howls through the trees. Several birds fly away, and the rabbits in the bushes flee. Only Merlin doesn’t move, and the stones shimmer again.

“Show me Arthur,” Merlin demands. Arthur stands very, very still, and the grass inside the stones falls away to show the Sidhe’s citadel. Arthur has watched it for enough years to know it; he can pinpoint precisely where he is currently sitting, inside those walls, where his hands will be resting inside a ripple-less lake and his eyes will be vacant.

“You can’t reach it from here, Merlin,” Arthur says, but his voice is thick. He has no idea if Merlin can, but he has had hope too long; there is a prophecy for a reason. If he could step over the stones and reach Merlin now, he thinks he would, even though he knows he should really create that union between Albion and Avalon before he does.

(But God, he would. He would damn every single person on this world, but he would, if he could only fall in Merlin’s arms today.)

“Your power is gone,” Merlin concludes, and he sounds strained. “You are a mirror only, but even mirrors can be used to see. Show me Arthur!”

Nothing changes, and Merlin breathes heavily. He holds Avalon’s gate in place for several more seconds, but then his arm falls down, and with it, the image. The stones lie on the grass again, ordinary and in place, and Merlin falls to his knees, breathing hard. The perspiration on his forehead is all because of the magic, even when the six-hour-long hike hadn’t made him sweat.

“What was that?” Joseph demands, but he helps Merlin up from the ground.

“The portals are broken,” Merlin says, gritting his teeth, “And it’s not—it’s affecting the magic. Can’t you feel it? This place used to be ripe with it, bloom with it, thrive on it, and it’s all gone. So why does our magic come from Avalon? It shouldn’t be that way, should it?”

“The portals,” Arthur mutters. “It’s something to do… with the portals?”

Merlin clearly seems to think so. He paces, gripping his own hair in thoughts, and continues, “I’ve to see if it’s this way with all portals, but I can’t sense them anymore. There used to be so many, but I’ve always used the Lake of Avalon, and even that’s not enough anymore, it seems. Or not all of it, anyway—I felt something, I know I did, and… are there several portals in the Lake, maybe? But why?”

Joseph stares at Merlin as if he’s gone insane. “Are you sure you’re alright?” he ventures carefully.

Merlin twirls back. “No,” he says. “I’m really not. But there’s a prattish king who’s relying on me, the way he always does, and I’ve a feeling he’s not going to come back until I figure it out. Because if the portals are all going away, what’s he going to come through?”

Arthur’s heart turns to ice.

“Nothing?” Joseph asks, and raises his eyebrows. “So… this is real, then. The faeries are real, and the—magic is real?”

“For now,” Merlin says wryly, and clasps Joseph on his back. “But I’ve an idea, and I know exactly where to go to test it. I just need a dragon, a Sidhe staff, and far more luck than I’ve had in several centuries.”

~*~

Freya is really quite beautiful. Her long, dark hair flows down her shoulders, and her pale skin pairs nicely with Morgana’s old dress. Arthur hasn’t paid attention to her in years, because he’s grown used to her presence, and her beauty has faded to familiarity in the way that Merlin’s own fey looks have never really managed to do.

She isn’t one of the Sidhe, who also have become long familiar to Arthur, but she walks like them, now. Walks as if she should be flying, half of the time, and her hair bops up and down with her movements.

“—Moss is being more reasonable, too,” she continues, and her smile is a little bit wicked. Arthur wonders if Merlin ever knew her this well, and thinks that he probably never had the chance. “Merlin is on a trail, and they’re only ever quicker to agree with us.”

“You’re doing very well in the Court,” Arthur says. 

Freya smiles, bashful but pleased. “Only because you’re baiting them so well,” she says. “You’ve made them wait, and they know you won’t give into their demands out of sheer exasperation. You are a very patient man, Arthur.”

“And we work very well together,” he says, and his heart aches. “Freya, we need to talk.”

She blinks at him, and Arthur gently pulls her into his own rooms. They’ve just come back from one of the Council meetings, and one of the better sessions. She is right, because the Sidhe are certainly warming to them; Freya doesn’t even need to sit beside Arthur anymore. She sits with Canopy, most of the time, who has become a somewhat unlikely ally to Freya, the same way that Frostwing has become one to Arthur.

Arthur does what he does for a reason. In the start of the negotiations, he tried to take as much power as he could in a foreign land, and he considers it more luck than skill that the Sidhe agreed. Freya has been his right-hand woman for as long as he’s been here, and it must be over eight hundred years already, so she has learnt to do it very well. Arthur puts down his bait, and Freya makes sure the Sidhe edge ever closer.

She understands magic. She has it running in her veins, and in a way, that sets her apart from Arthur in the same way the Sidhe are.

(She has always called it his world, and not our world. From the very beginning.)

Arthur’s chambers are fitting for a king, although humble enough for a man who has spent centuries in a forest. The table is diamond glass, and it glitters as Freya leans on it, taking her seat.

“What is it?” she asks, and frowns. “Merlin is doing well, isn’t he?”

“As well as Merlin ever is,” Arthur says, honestly. Merlin is with Aithusa, as far as he knows, and is on search for more Sidhe portals to test his hypothesis. “I wasn’t going to talk about Merlin.”

Freya’s lips tilt. “That’s a first, then.”

“Do kindly shut up,” Arthur tells her, and Freya snickers, but sits back. “We’re progressing very well, and Merlin is finally aware that something is wrong. I think Merlin has the right idea about how things are, and although I’m not entirely sure why the portals are affecting the magic—”

“—It’s a cycle, again, I’ve explained a dozen times, Arthur—”

“—Never mind the theory,” Arthur says in exasperation, “I want to talk about you.”

Freya’s expression falls shut. “Me?” she repeats.

“We both know that the time is coming that the prophecy must be fulfilled,” Arthur tells her. “Merlin will do something, and the gods be praised if he does the right thing, for once, and the talks with the Sidhe will be concluded. Magic will return to both Albion and Avalon, the cycle will be restored, and I will return to Albion.”

“And all's well that ends well,” Freya says.

“And you will be here,” Arthur finishes.

Freya purses her lips, and stares down at her hands. Her nails have always been too short, and there’s always mud under them, Arthur has noticed. It is the one thing that sets her apart from being a lady, even though she would’ve deserved the title ten times over. She is a Lady of the Lake, more than any Lady of Camelot.

(Gwen would have liked her, Arthur thinks to himself, again. In another world, perhaps Freya would’ve married Merlin, and they wouldn’t have had to run away. Merlin and Freya would be there, and Arthur and Gwen with them in a castle, and they would’ve been wonderful friends, all of them.

Arthur isn’t sure if it would’ve stopped his longing for Merlin. He can’t remember if he always did, now, or if there was a time Merlin was only ever a friend. But he loved Gwen, and Merlin loved Freya, once.

It was never meant to be.)

“And I will be here,” Freya repeats, quietly. “As we always knew I would be.”

“I know,” Arthur says. “And I know I can’t do anything about it. But I am your king, and I am your friend, and I have let down enough people in a lifetime. I mean to make sure you are not one of them.”

“Arthur,” Freya says, and smiles. She leans over the table to take his hands, and she squeezes gently. “You’ve never let anyone down. Not Gwen, not Merlin, not your knights. And not me.”

“I always thought Merlin sent me to you because it would save me,” Arthur says, and takes a deep breath. “He doesn’t know, of course, that I am awake. That I have seen what I have, and that I am waiting for him as much as he is for me. I don’t think he is aware of the gift he gave, when he sent you and me to Avalon. He gave me a sister.”

Freya takes a deep breath. “That’s Merlin.”

“And you deserved him,” Arthur tells her, and keeps hold of her hands even when she tries to draw back. “I don’t say that lightly. Very few people have deserved Merlin, and I don’t begrudge him any company he has held, even in the grief it has given him. But you, Freya, are the only one who has wholeheartedly deserved him, far more than I ever could.”

“Arthur…”

“No. I am going to make sure you will be content, after I am gone,” Arthur tells her, resolutely. He has already thought out a plan, after carefully asking Frostwing some well-disguised questions. He has no idea how much time he has left, and that is something he celebrates as well as grieves for. This is not a life, but it is something he will have to leave behind.

The shimmering lakes of magic, and the dark woods that whisper. The Sidhe’s careful games, and Freya’s kind guidance.

Freya’s eyes are dark, on his. “What are you doing?”

“I am going to make sure you will be part of the Court of Avalon.”

Chapter Text

There once was a time that Arthur thought that a hundred years would be a lot. A hundred years is more than a man’s life. Uther wasn’t older than sixty when he died, and Arthur sometimes has trouble remembering his face, but he always thinks about his father’s stern voice, his clipped commands, and the way he seemed so old and frail, towards the end.

(He remembers the end, because Uther was always strong. But then he was old, and broken, and sixty years was a lifetime, once.)

Arthur has a hundred years of plotting, planning. He is currently working out a plan with the Sidhe about their access to Albion— restricted, he argues, and absolute, is what the Court says, knowing that it will have to fall somewhere in the middle—as well as figuring out how to best make Freya secretly be initiated into the Court before any Sidhe can object, and scheming makes time go fast. Merlin has become the same way, he thinks. A hundred years is nothing, in the grand scheme of things, until suddenly, time has a way of catching up with you.

Time catches up with Aithusa.

She has always been white, but even so, she does look pale. Arthur can’t place where they are, for a moment, until he recognises the Crystal Cave. It doesn’t look the same as it did centuries ago. The forest has changed around it, and the little river Merlin used to bathe in has dried out.

Merlin has outlived nature, and he still doesn’t look a day over thirty as he cries over Aithusa.

“Come on,” he says, and mutters several healing spells. Over the years, he’s learnt a great many of them, and he doesn’t even need the words anymore. He still enunciates them, though, as if speaking more clearly will put more magic in his words. “Come on, Aithusa.”

She puffs out some smoke. Her whole head is in Merlin’s lap, and it turns his trousers black, but Merlin just runs his hands over her nostrils. She lifts up her head and blinks at him. “I’m nine hundred years old,” she reminds him, and manages to make it sound like a lecture. “I’ve never left your side, Merlin. Not once.”

Aithusa has been Merlin’s longest companion, Arthur realises. Sometimes it’s odd to realise that he has only ever spent ten years with Merlin; those years are the most important he’s had, and he thinks the same goes for Merlin. But even so, it’s hard to weigh up against Aithusa, who has been a constant friend for—four hundred years? It must be closer to five, Arthur thinks, and tries to remember, but all history feels so far away that it could even be six, for all he knows. Seven? No, it can’t be so long ago.

And time is different in Avalon. The years must have been even longer for Merlin.

Merlin is crying. Sobbing, unapologetically, and Arthur thinks that Merlin has never had time to let composure get in the way of his grief. He admires him for that, even if his heart breaks. 

“You’re not Kilgharrah,” Merlin says, and kisses the spikes on her forehead. “You have been much more. A good omen. And a truer friend.”

“You have been a worthy Dragonlord,” Aithusa says. “But I am in pain, and it’s not so easily fixed as a broken wing.”

“I’ll find a spell,” Merlin tells her, and his face is determined, even if red and blotchy. He can’t save her, Arthur realises. For all of Merlin’s power, he has never been able to save anyone. It’s the one thing he’s never managed.

Aithusa pushes him away with her snout. “A dragon’s magic is as good as yours,” she tells him. “There’s nothing, Merlin. Please.”

Merlin leans forward. “I will be all alone,” he pleads.

“Arthur will come back soon,” Aithusa says. “You have more magic than you realise, Merlin. It shines like a sun in a dark world. You just have to find the right spell, and Arthur will be found.”

The birds sing, and Aithusa’s white scales glimmer in the gentle sunshine. Merlin presses himself against her, even though it can’t feel pleasant. Arthur has seen him do this many times, though, before and after a flight, and in their moments of shared grief.

“Or he will be lost,” Merlin whispers, his lips against Aithusa’s neck. “And it will be my fault, again.”

“No one else can do it, but you.”

Merlin closes his eyes. “Gaius said something similar to me,” he murmurs, and lets go of her. His eyes are still red-rimmed, but he is a bit calmer as he strokes her. Aithusa lets him, as appreciative of the touch as she always has been.

“Dragonlord,” she says, and her breath wheezes. She huffs out another breath of smoke, and Merlin’s gaze softens.

“Aithusa,” he says. “You have been a faithful companion. I have one last command for you.”

Aithusa sighs, and burrows her face in Merlin’s lap. “Please.”

Merlin’s words are guttural, and Arthur has never learnt to understand his languages—not the language of magic, nor the language of dragons. Merlin doesn’t bother with either of them, most of the time, and Aithusa has never needed to rely on Merlin’s commands to do his will. Moreover, Merlin has never wanted command of anything or anyone, least of all his friends.

“Die in peace,” Merlin says, and repeats the words.

Aithusa’s eyes slowly close again, and Merlin trembles. He holds her, and cries out, loudly. A surge of magic rises, a blast of blind power, and the birds cease their song and fly away.

The last Dragonlord holds his white dragon, and grieves once again.

~*~

The peace treaty is a full book, by now.

It can’t be anything else, of course. It’s Arthur’s life work, or, as things stand, it’s more accurate to say it’s his death’s work. The details took twice as much time as the standard rules, and many of them are contingent on the manner of magic’s return to Albion, which the Sidhe nor Arthur still can’t quite know.

If Merlin’s to be believed, it’s the portals. But how he is going to put them back remains to be seen, and it’s mostly Sunlit who keeps up her endless complaints of Merlin’s method. The rest of the Court is more willing to believe that Merlin will pull through now that he has found something to put his energy into.

It’s prophesied, after all.

But then it is done. All the rules have been discussed, all safeguards are in place. Arthur can’t quite believe that it’s done. They have discussed every detail, and it has been agreed upon.

“Well, then,” Frostwing says, and shares a meaningful look with Arthur when she puts down the last dot. The last thing to discuss had been the future of their realms, and a contingency in the event that the magic shouldn’t last.

A new prophecy can be written, is what Freya had said. Merlin’s energy is pure magic, and as long as Merlin has hold of it, not something that can die. Besides, if Merlin puts things right, the magic should return, and the cycle will continue.

But if not, this Court will follow the steps of their predecessors. A new King can be fashioned, and a new source of Magic can be used to create a warlock, and they can be bound together. They will not quite be Arthur and Merlin, but…

They might be.

Even this discussion had taken five years, and they are five years in which Arthur has spent his efforts in following Merlin (still continuing his search for portals; he has found sixty-seven by now, and all dormant, and none responding to whatever Merlin is trying to do to them), getting this treaty done (which is now completed, even if Arthur had to stare down Canopy in order to do it), and finding out how to make Freya a part of the Court of Avalon without the Court’s objections.

“When are we supposed to return the Once and Future King?” Moss asks slowly, and the frown on her face is telling.

“We aren’t,” Frostwing says, and eyes Arthur. “As far as we know, that is.”

“Merlin hasn’t figured out the working portal yet,” Arthur says. Merlin has been by the Lake of Avalon four times, but his magic hadn’t worked on the stones in Scotland, and neither had it worked on this portal in the Lake. He’s not quite sure what Merlin is trying to do, except making the portals work, and so he has no idea what’s going wrong, either.

“You don’t understand, Arthur King,” Canopy says, and raises his eyebrows meaningfully. “We can go through the portal ourselves, but they are not meant for mortals. Freya has managed several times, in service of Emrys, but it’s not supposed to be possible.”

Arthur stares at him. “Why are the portals there, then? If they’re not for us to pass through?”

“The portals are naturally occurring phenomenons,” says Moss. “They were not created by us, simply maintained. We are creatures of magic—the same magic, presumably, allowed the Lady of the Lake to pass as far as she could. Or if not hers, than Excalibur’s; a dragon’s magic is a magic of its own kind, and we’re not entirely sure how it would interact with Avalon’s magic. But you are not magic.”

“Born from magic,” Frostwing reminds him gently, “But not in possession of any of your own. And that, Arthur King, is why it would be impossible to have you leave through the portal of your own accord.”

“So it must be Merlin,” Arthur says slowly. 

“We expect so,” Frostwing says, and then hesitates.

“What is it?” Arthur demands. His friendship with Frostwing is an uncertain thing, but he’s relied on the truth of it. He is reminded of Merlin, suddenly, and reels with it—the endless lies that Merlin told him, despite the fact that Arthur has no one more loyal to him.

He calms himself. Frostwing has been as kind to him as she can be, given their respective positions. She sighs, and gestures to the citadel outside. “The only portal we can still use,” she says, her voice coloured with exhaustion, “is inside the Lake. It is one of several, but if he wants to use it, he will need to… dive for it.”

“He’s lifted all the water from the Lake before,” Arthur says. “I don’t see why he can’t do it again.”

“He might,” Moss says, as if he’s made this exact point before.

Freya is the one who looks pained, this time. “It’s not going to be an easy spell for him, Arthur,” she reminds him gently. “It has been nine hundred years, and he hasn’t figured it out yet. He needs to find it, and he needs to learn it, and Merlin’s magic is…”

“Irrational, during emotional moments,” Canopy finishes. 

“He can do it,” Arthur insists. “Merlin is magic, it’s not his fault.”

The Court of Avalon is silent, and Arthur feels angry on Merlin’s behalf. What Merlin has done with his powers—it’s beyond incredible, and nothing that Arthur ever knew could be done. And Merlin has done it all without knowing anything of what was expected of him, and without anyone to guide him. Merlin has been alone for all of it, without ever blaming Arthur for it.

Merlin breathes magic, and he does it in a world that has all but forgotten it exists. He has spent years varying between living it and hiding it, and he has never been explained what he is waiting for, exactly—has never been told anything useful, and nothing that might give him hope except the word of a dying dragon who has betrayed him more often than most, nine hundred years ago.

If anything, Merlin is more skilled than they give him credit for. They’ve expected Merlin to solve it, and he will—he just needs time. That is all, and it is something Arthur is willing to give him, even if no one else is.

He storms out, suddenly done with the Sidhe. He wants Merlin, more fiercely than ever, even if it is only to sit beside him. 

They let him be.

~*~

“I was not expecting to see you here,” Stormfeather says.

Arthur looks up from his log; he’d been cutting tiny little spears from the twigs, even though most of them break even before Arthur’s third stroke. He hasn’t seen Stormfeather since he had him taken off the Court, centuries ago; Stormfeather was already elderly, but he looks positively ancient now.

“Stormfeather,” Arthur says coolly, and drops his twigs. 

“Oh, chin up, would you?” Stormfeather explains, and comes to sit down next to him. “Who taught you the way in the forest? I thought the dark magic would put you off.”

“Frostwing,” Arthur says, and shrugs. It’s not that he comes here regularly, but it’s the only place he feels that he might understand magic, sometimes. The entire world is bathed in it, and it plays with his senses so clearly that he can feel it thrumming on his skin.

He isn’t magic, so the reminder can be nice.

“And Emrys?” Stormfeather asks, and guffaws at Arthur’s expression. “I haven’t travelled over to Albion since I left the Court of Avalon, Pendragon. Portals are hard to find these days. Besides, Frostwing would’ve bitten my head off for endangering the union she so desperately needed with you.”

Arthur’s face does something complicated. “I wasn’t aware that is how that went.”

“No one wanted you to be aware of anything,” Stormfeather says, and picks up the little twigs Arthur had been playing with. “Ah, always a soldier, aren’t you? Making tiny little spears? I have to apologise to you, Arthur Pendragon.”

“You do?” 

Stormfeather’s smile is crooked. “I thought you were a fool in love, and unused to magic. Seeing your sorcerer do anything, I thought, was impressive to you. But you’ve come this far, and you have adjusted to Avalon. I’m not sure, still, how Emrys is planning on bringing back the magic, but I’ve been told that he is trying to use the portals.”

“I’m not sure you should know that,” Arthur says.

“I used to be on the Court of Avalon,” Stormfeather says, waving away Arthur’s concerns. “I have eyes and ears everywhere, and an old Sidhe’s no danger to you. And the portals—that’s a good plan, you do know. If he can find out what’s wrong with them, that is.”

“A lack of magic, supposedly,” Arthur says tiredly. “Or rather, I’ve been told that it’s some sort of cycle, too.”

Stormfeather shrugs. “Of course it is. How can magic be expected to stream into Albion if the portals are broken? It must be falling between whatever gaps the portals have left.”

“Gaps?” Arthur asks, and blinks. “Why would there be gaps?”

“There are always gaps between things,” Stormfeather says, and wags his finger wisely. “You can’t tell me you haven’t considered that.”

“But it’s a portal,” Arthur argues. “It’s one way to the next.”

“And there’s a space between,” Stormfeather tells him. “Tiny, insignificant—but the magic is dying very slowly, isn’t it? Slowly dripping away? I did talk about this with Frostwing, you know—well, I suppose we talked about a great many things, those days. If Emrys corrects the portals, I’m sure all the magic will stream right where it’s supposed to. Has he ever used the main portal?”

“No,” Arthur says slowly, and tries to understand what Stormfeather is saying. “I’ve been told he will have trouble doing so, because of the—water.”

Stormfeather shakes his head. “He might, at that,” he says wisely. “Not good with water, your kind. Better hold his breath for a long time. It’s a shame we’ve lost so many of the portals. The one we have now wasn’t always the main portal, you know, but great stones get noticed so easily. I suppose he will have to come through this one, now, or he will never understand what needs to change. Or does he?”

“No, not yet,” Arthur says, and narrows his eyes. “What do you mean, great stones?”

“The one we’re sitting at right now,” Stormfeather says. “Oh dear, they really didn’t tell you much about the portals, did they?”

It had taken them three years to explain all the portals to Arthur, and by the end of it, his head had ached. He’d remembered many of them, enough to know that Merlin hasn’t found nearly all of them yet. So many gates, the Sidhe had had—and all of them died out but the one by the Lake, which is why they are unused now.

“All the portals are small,” Arthur remembers out loud, trying to think back on the explanations. “So when you say great stones, I’m not sure what you mean. To avoid detection by the humans in Albion, is what Canopy told me—”

“Canopy is young,” Stormfeather grumbles, and sits up. “Some portals have been out of use for a long time—before they started losing powers of their own, even, because we couldn’t use them. A long time ago, our most powerful gateway to Albion was a large one, near several great stones. But they turned into a place of worship for other gods, and we could not use it any longer. That portal would have been easier to use for Emrys—its power is innate, although it must have faded now.”

“The Great Stones of Nemeton,” Arthur breathes out. “Stonehenge.”

“It will be as powerless as any of the other portals,” Stormfeather points out. “This place is still alive, still as close to Albion as one can get, but not used for travelling, these days. The dark forest hasn’t been used to travelling to the Great Stones for a long time.”

“I’m not sure it will be quite that powerless,” Arthur says. “It was used for portals other than those to Avalon. I once saw my father there, after his death. With the help of magic, but Merlin knows the powers of the Great Stones of Nemeton. It may have faded, but if it truly was that great a portal, would he not be able to sense that it was, once? Far better than the small ones? And if the magic still lingers here, then he might sense that, won’t he?”

Stormfeather looks far more solemn than Arthur has ever seen him. It looks odd, on his wrinkled face. “It may well be,” he says. “If magic in Albion hasn’t faded as much as you think it has, and if it still lingers between the cracks of Albion and Avalon… well, if anyone were to harness it, I suppose it would be Emrys.”

“He won’t know to go there,” Arthur says, because if even the Sidhe have forgotten that Stonehenge used to be a faerie ring, he certainly can’t expect Merlin to know. “He sensed the portal in the Lake once, but only once, and couldn’t find it. If he senses something at the Stones of Nemeton, he will know for certain.”

“You seem to have a lot of faith in what seems to be a small chance,” Stormfeather says, amused.

“No, it makes sense,” Arthur insists. “Magic is fading, and the portals are dying—but you haven’t used this one in a long time, have you? So how would you know it’s truly gone? ”

His heart is beating loudly. Of course, Stormfeather has a point. Still, he thinks this may be an answer they have been looking for; no one has used the Great Stones of Nemeton properly, and he remembers the place well. As far as he knows, Merlin hasn’t been back there, but it still stands. None of the other faerie rings have had a smidge of power, as far as Arthur can tell, but if any would have, it’s the Stones.

“You have to tell him,” Arthur says, suddenly. “You have to go back to Merlin and tell him to go to the Stones.”

Stormfeather snorts loudly, and pricks Arthur’s arm with one of the twigs. “You think he will welcome me?” he says. “Emrys is our one hope on the return of magic, but the Sidhe and he, they’re not friends. We’ve not helped him a day in his life. Even if he were to believe me, there’s still rules in place. This is the one mystery he has to figure out on his own.”

(Once, Arthur would’ve agreed to that. He has asked Frostwing before, why they wouldn’t go up to Albion and explain to Merlin what is going on. They could, Frostwing had told him, but it isn’t part of the prophecy, and they don’t want to tamper with anything that is beyond them. They don’t, and they haven’t, and Arthur has accepted their reluctance is that, for now.

But Arthur has made peace. He has found common ground with the Sidhe and seized it, and all that is left to do is for Merlin to find him. And why not? Haven’t they waited long enough?)

“Someone must tell him,” he insists, his heart beating loudly in his chest. 

Stormfeather’s elderly face smiles down kindly at him. “They won’t,” he says, and Arthur balls his fists. 

“So I have to wait?” he asks bitterly, and picks up a handful of twigs again. His work is done, or it nearly is, anyway; he still has to find a way to leave Freya in the Court, and he still has no idea how to convince them that she has deserved that place. 

“As your Emrys does,” Stormfeather says, and stands up again. “I think I should leave you here, Arthur Pendragon. I’ve obviously given you much to think about, and, in my experience, there is no better place to think than here.”

Arthur doesn’t say his goodbyes as Stormfeather slowly gets up and leaves. He has a sense that he will never see this Sidhe again, and isn’t sure how to feel about it. Stormfeather has clearly changed his opinion, but Arthur can never truly forget Merlin’s sobs as Stormfeather attacked his magic and attempted to drag him to Avalon.

In the end, Stormfeather is one of the Sidhe. Arthur will have to take that as an explanation, when Stormfeather stumbles back into the woods and disappears from Arthur’s sight.

But, at least, Stormfeather has proven himself useful one last time.

Chapter Text

Merlin has long moved out of his manors and given up his servants. Most of the time, he sleeps below the stars or seeks comfort in a cave of his own design. Merlin’s magic influences his environment to a degree where it’s become second nature for him, and in his long search for more portals, he has become accustomed to a nomadic lifestyle.

Now, though, he owns a house in London. Arthur likes it, and it’s small and cosy and reminds him of the home that used to be Gwen’s, when he first fell into her favour. Merlin is more at ease when he knows every nook and cranny of the place he belongs to, and he sleeps in the oddest corners of the place when he’s there.

But then comes a war, and Merlin is soon put to work.

It’s not the work of war, because Merlin has never fought in a war that wasn’t Arthur’s; but Merlin, all too struck by the senseless horror of what is happening in Europe, loses his sight of the faerie rings and finds his own work to be in the lives of a great many people. He enchants crops, when there are too few workers to harvest, to last a little longer. He puts spells on medicine to make it more potent, and to give a better chance to the soldiers dying overseas.

(“Where are you, Arthur,” he murmurs more than once, and Arthur always wants to tell him, I’m here, I’m so nearly done, but truth to be told, he’s not sure he wants to come back into a world that is being destroyed so thoughtlessly. He has no idea how he could ever put that right, if even Merlin, with powers that can bend reality, can’t.)

Merlin doesn’t have Aithusa to remind him to take care of himself, anymore, and so Arthur grows restless as he watches Merlin lose himself in the war, running himself ragged to protect the people from a distance. 

And Arthur would be upset that Merlin’s losing sight of his aim, but then again, he’s not sure he can blame him. Merlin still cares, after nearly a thousand years, and Arthur thinks he might have been worse off if he’d lost that ability, now. 

So he lets Merlin be, and works on his own project, before the time comes to leave Avalon.

~*~

“Joining the Court?” Frostwing asks, and her wings flutter behind her. 

Frostwing has made a point of visiting Arthur, so they are sitting in his chamber as they do regularly. Most of the time, they don’t have to speak, and just share time; they have little in common, but it’s become sort of familiar anyway. Arthur likes that he can just think, while she sits there, and presumably does the same.

“Yes,” Arthur asks. “I was just wondering what the qualifications were. As it were.”

She raises a single eyebrow at him, and it reminds him of Gaius, suddenly. No one turns such a disbelieving expression on him anymore, not even Freya. “You’ve asked me before how I joined the Court.”

“And now I am showing further interest,” Arthur says, and raises his eyebrows, as if to say, see how that works? Frostwing doesn’t take the bait.

“I know what you are trying to do, you know,” she says, and smiles. Her teeth all show, and Arthur has long learned not to be perturbed by the Sidhe’s feral smiles. “Freya is quite good friends with Canopy, by now. And Canopy and I have known each other for a long time.”

Arthur sighs. “And?”

“You are trying to make sure she will be taken care of,” Frostwing says. “It’s commendable, but I hadn’t expected anything else, knowing your character. But the Court of Avalon is for Sidhe, Arthur King, and not for lost lovers of Emrys, no matter what it has seemed like to you, the past few centuries.”

“I disagree,” Arthur tells her.

“It’s not your realm,” Frostwing says, and shakes her head. “You have had a place of honour for a long time, and there is peace between Avalon and Albion. It’s thanks to you, Arthur, that this has been possible. But you are not our King, even if you were created by our Court.”

“It’s not my realm,” Arthur agrees easily. “But it is Freya’s. And she should have a say in it.”

Frostwing exhales loudly, and stands up. “She is not Sidhe.”

“She isn’t quite human anymore, either,” Arthur argues. He’s not even sure he agrees with his own point, but he knows that Frostwing will. Freya is as human as they come, but she’s also immortal, as far as Arthur is aware, and she’s long resigned herself to Avalon as her home. 

“To be a Sidhe,” Frostwing says, “is more than to live in Avalon. She has to breathe magic, be magic. She is a sorceress, but she cannot pass the portal. She has never been granted anyone’s name, and so she doesn’t hold a mortal life in her hands to do with as she pleases. These things have to be done before she can be on the Court, because she is not a Sidhe without having taken a name.”

Arthur leans forward. “What does it mean?” he asks. “To be given a name?”

“A name holds power over a thing, Arthur King,” Frostwing says. “I know your name, but you never gave it to me. Our names were given to you, but you do not have power over them, because you do not have magic.”

“And to Freya?” Arthur asks, frowning.

“Just to you,” she tells him. “Freya was there, but the offering was yours. These are tricky things, and they need to be done right. To have someone’s name is to have a say in their fate, and to have a certain—power, over their life. It’s a way to draw magic from them.”

“So it’s malicious.”

Frostwing looks frustrated. “No,” she says. “It can be, but it’s not. Our children, Arthur King, are given names, and that means their parents have power over them. This is considered a gift, because parents can shape their children’s futures, and they will do it rightly. To take a name is to take a soul, but to have your soul in another’s hand does not need to be an evil thing. Not if you trust the one who holds it.”

“But you can misuse it?” Arthur asks.

“The Sidhe have taken the names of mortals, and used their energies and promises for their own magic,” Frostwing explains. “Sometimes, they take too much, and many mortals fear the retribution of their own gods. But it’s nothing more than a link, and a shared energy. Because they are in Albion, and the Sidhe are in Avalon, the link passes through the realms. It creates more power.”

“But the Sidhe haven’t done that in centuries.”

“Travelling to Albion is dangerous, these days,” Frostwing says dryly. “The mortals might not fear their gods as much, these days, but magic is dying out. Even if we were to take their names, it might not be enough. And the only portal we have is ours, and we do not allow that many Sidhe through, for their own safety and ours.”

“So,” Arthur says slowly, and eyes Frostwing solemnly, “Freya cannot join the Court because she cannot pass through the portal, and therefore never take anyone’s name to give her more power?”

“She would be an unique addition to the Court,” Frostwing admits. “We are long-lived, but not even we are immortal. She may well earn her place on it in several thousand more years, when this Court has passed and another has taken our place. I would have granted her a place, and I know that Canopy would be in favour, too. But Moss and Sunlit would not agree, because Freya does not have a single name to bind her to Albion.”

“I see,” Arthur says slowly. “And you do? All of you? Despite not having been there for a long time?”

“Not anymore, but it’s a rite of passage as much as it is anything else, Arthur King.”

“And a dead name has no power?”

“Not anymore,” she tells him, and grins. “Have I satisfied your curiosity? The Lady of the Lake will have a place in Avalon, never fear. She just will not be on the Court.”

Arthur isn’t sure he can accept that, but a plan is slowly forming in his head. He’ll need more information, and he’ll need to have a bit of patience, but that is something he has plenty of.

“For now,” is all he says.

~*~

One war passes, but the unrest remains. Merlin has taken up a position as a doctor of medicine in London, and it’s put him back in society’s eyes. He has more of a balance than he has ever had before, and Arthur can see that he enjoys it, despite the horrors he’s seen. Merlin likes to take care of the lost soldiers, and when they are recuperating and need a story, Merlin tells them about the Knights of the Round Table and King Arthur, who will return one day.

(He has bookshelves full of debates about King Arthur, and several copies of Thomas Malory’s version, the one that Merlin himself inspired. It’s a bit of a hobby, and between them sit books about mythology and faeries, and several geographical books in which Merlin has been drawing, making sure to remember where the portals are. An ordinary onlooker would think Dr Merlin Emerson has an array of interests that don’t necessarily have anything in common; they would be wrong.)

During the week, Merlin is in his practise and uses his magic surreptitiously to improve his medicine and, if there’s a particularly nasty case he can’t let go of, do a bit of a miracle. He doesn’t do it too often, too worried about getting caught, Arthur thinks, but Merlin livens up now that he can assist in a practical way, without having to sneak and hide.

It’s more the sort of thing he did in Camelot. And Arthur enjoys watching him do this, even if Merlin only goes out on the weekends to find the faerie rings. He’s got a particular knack for it now, but he still hasn’t found out about Stonehenge, and Arthur grows more and more confident that Stonehenge is where Merlin will find his answers.

Merlin goes to the lake two times, after that first war. He narrows his eyes at it and shouts, throwing stones at the Lake and tries to find the portal, but if he senses it, he can’t quite seem to put his finger on it, still. Arthur has no idea if the portal that has remained has the innate sort of magic that the Great Stones of Nemeton did, but he doesn’t think it does. He tried asking Frostwing, once, but she hadn’t known, either, which Arthur mostly takes as a no.

Then a second war comes, and Merlin is once again thrown into it. This time, he stays in London and ages himself, so that he won’t be sent overseas. He heals, though, with more fervour than he has in a long time, and spends his weekends taking care of street children and starving widows.

(Arthur would be a rubbish king if he blamed Merlin for it. It has been a thousand years, though, a thousand years in Avalon, and the Sidhe are getting nervous about the lack of magic. But these things take time, and Arthur didn’t hold it against Merlin for the first few hundred years, when Merlin was still hiding himself away.

Merlin is brave, and strong, and he is helping these people when Arthur can’t. So, no, Arthur only loves him all the more for it. But he wishes he could be there to embrace Merlin when the losses tally up so high, and wishes someone other than Merlin could make these sacrifices, for once.)

This war is won, too, even if the cost is too high. Merlin stays an old man, and it’s easier for him to hide, that way, and go unnoticed. Arthur stays with him, even when everyone else leaves, and Merlin buys a little house in a village near the Lake of Avalon, this time, and moves out of London again.

He stays there as a doctor, too, in a small community, badly touched by war. Many sons and husbands have died, and Merlin creates sleeping pills for those who came back, and for the women who have lost more than they ever wanted to give.

And there he stays, and goes back to his search.

~*~

“I called you all here today,” says Arthur, on top of the tower, “to make sure I’m doing this right.”

The Court of Avalon is sharing looks, and Arthur isn’t unaware that they don’t know what this is about. Their union is steadfast, these days, and Arthur has even become closer to Canopy, Freya’s friend. Arthur isn’t worried about his relation with Avalon, but he is worried about Freya.

“To do what right?” Moss is the one to ask, and has a dark spot forming between her brows. 

“Freya’s initiation in the Court,” Arthur says. Next to him, Freya stands stock still, her long hair blowing in the wind.

They are on top of the tower, mostly because Arthur knows that the Sidhe care about the effect of things. It’s a statement, of sorts, to be standing above the chambers they created their alliance in. They can look out over the sprawling citadel of Avalon, and towards the dark forests with the magic source, where the rain is once again going upwards, and in the other direction, the lake Arthur spent his first few centuries near.

They can see all of Avalon, and they are here for all Avalon to see. Just the way Arthur means to do it.

“Arthur King, we’ve talked about this,” Frostwing says wearily. “As much as we appreciate the Lady of the Lake, she cannot cross the portals and take the name of a mortal.”

Arthur nods slowly. “A good point,” he says. “Then again, neither can you, can you?”

Sunlit takes a step forward, haltingly. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been keeping your own secrets,” Arthur says, and clicks his tongue. “I can’t say we’re beyond that, but I’d hoped that you wouldn’t make things so difficult. I spend more time at the portal than anyone else, and I’ve not seen anyone go through since Stormfeather. No one has gone through, have they?”

“It is dangerous for us, now,” Moss says, but all of the Court is tense. Canopy is staring far away, and Frostwing has her wings pointed downwards and refuses to look at Arthur.

“It’s not any more dangerous than it has ever been,” Arthur says, shaking his head. Freya takes his hand, behind him, and Arthur squeezes it gently. He continues, “Merlin sensed the portal once—only once. And this portal does not have any innate magic of its own—not more so than some of the other portals that died. So why is this one special? The magic, you told me. It lasts because of the magic. But I could see through the portal that used to be in the lake, so even if it cannot be used to pass through, it can be used to see. It didn’t prove that you could still use it, and you haven’t, in so long.”

“When did you figure this out?” Frostwing asks quietly.

“To your credit, not that long ago,” Arthur says. “Not until Stormfeather told me about the innate magic of the Stones of Nemeton, and I started to wonder why some portals would remain open, and some wouldn’t. This one lasted the longest, didn’t it? Right up until Merlin sensed it, and then he couldn’t again, later. It had lost its power. You can’t leave Avalon. This portal is closed, too.”

“It is,” Canopy says slowly.

“But if Emrys finds a way to open it, that won’t be an issue any longer,” Sunlit argues. “He will open the gates, and the Sidhe will be free to roam Albion again. A new Court will eventually form, and they will be people who can leave.”

“But currently, no one can leave,” Arthur says easily. “So if someone found a way to take someone’s name, they would still qualify, wouldn’t they? The only person in Avalon who has a link with someone from Albion.”

“Maybe,” Moss says, begrudgingly. “But it can’t be done.”

“Despite the belief to the contrary,” Arthur says, “I am a mortal man, born from a human father and a mother. The magic may have affected my lifespan, but I am here, and one day, I will die. And I’ve not given my name to any of you.”

“You’re forgetting one detail, Arthur King,” Frostwing says, tilting her head. “You’re not currently in Albion.”

“But I will be,” Arthur says, and looks at Freya.

She has a kind face, but she has never looked more devious than in that moment. Her smile is crooked, and she hasn’t ever looked as sincerely thankful. “Will you give me your name?” she asks. It’s no more complicated than that, even if Arthur used to think it would be.

But in the end, it’s just a question. One only he can answer.

“I offer you my name,” he says gravely, “so that it will be in your keeping. My name is Arthur Pendragon, the Once and Future King, and it belongs to you.”

He doesn’t feel any different. Freya breathes in deeply, and he can’t quite tell if she feels anything at all, or if it is just relief—she isn’t Sidhe in that way, after all, but she is magic, and Arthur has no idea if she can even use his name for any power.

But it is supposed to be a symbiotic relationship, even if Arthur can’t quite tell, and he trusts no one more than Freya, barring Merlin. And even if neither of them feel anything, it might be enough to convince the Court.

It must be enough to convince the Court.

“What do you say?” Frostwing asks, and turns to Moss, Sunlit and Canopy. She smiles wanly, and raises her hand towards Freya. “We have an immortal sorceress, the only one currently bound to the name of a mortal who will return to Albion. Do you accept this new addition to the Court of Avalon?”

“Yes,” says Canopy, the first to respond, and he looks more amused than anything, now the shock has passed. “The Lady of the Lake will join the Court of Avalon.”

“Yes,” Sunlit says, and then they all look at Moss. She shuffles, and then lets out a slow, long-suffering breath.

“You’ve tricked us as well as any Sidhe would,” she says begrudgingly, and says, “Yes, I accept.”

“As do I,” Frostwing says, and steps forward to take Freya’s other hand. Her left one slips away from Arthur’s grasp, and then she stands between Frostwing and Canopy, and is left to look at Arthur from the other side. “Welcome, Freya, Lady of the Lake. You are part of the Court of Avalon, in the sight of all its people. I hope you will make us proud.”

“I plan to,” Freya says, and locks eyes with Arthur. She inclines his head towards him, and Arthur smiles.

She has already made him proud, even if she doesn’t know it.

~*~

Merlin sits on the grass, leaning back as he regards the Stones of Nemeton dutifully.

Arthur has no idea how he ended up here; no one has told Merlin, but perhaps Stormfeather was right in the end. The Sidhe can’t access their own portals anymore, but Merlin was always prophesied to figure this out, even without Arthur’s help.

And so he sits there, and watches it. There’s a group of school children, half of them bored, half of them eagerly looking up at the Stones. They run between the tourists, touching the Stones, and making games out of running around it. No one really stops them, and Arthur doesn’t know if security is supposed to, but he rather likes it like this.

“I’m an idiot, Aithusa,” Merlin murmurs, and leans back fully. He’s shifted back to his young self, maybe to make the journey easier on himself, but he’s still wearing his old man’s clothes, and they look odd on his lean body. With him, he has his Sidhe staff. “You told me, didn’t you? Power that remains. It lingers, even in the Cave, even if it’s fading. But magic calls to magic, and traces remain.”

Arthur barely remembers that, and he is surprised Merlin does. But then, Merlin has an excellent memory. He’s not sure it’s the immortality or just one of Merlin’s odd quirks, but it comes in handy, sometimes. 

“So you can feel it, then?” Arthur asks, settling himself down next to Merlin. “There is still a trace?”

“Who would’ve thought the Great Stones of Nemeton were a faerie portal?” Merlin mutters to himself, and runs a hand over his face. “It’s really rather flashy. Then again, what else to expect from a race that insists on being blue-skinned and winged?”

“And that’s coming from a man whose eyes regularly glow gold,” Arthur retorts.

“Right,” Merlin says, and gets to his feet. He raises his staff, the gnarly wood that is over a thousand years old and yet has been preserved as if by magic, and closes his eyes. The wind picks up again, and the children cry in joy in the distance. Merlin ignores it all, standing far enough away not to be noticed, and breathes loudly.

The Stones start to glow, similarly to the faerie ring in Scotland, now over a hundred and fifty years ago. Arthur watches them, half in sheer joy and half in horror, because it’s one thing to see pebbles on the stone glow. This time, massive stones, four metres long, sprawl above the heads of the guides and visitors, and people start yelling. The children run in earnest, now, all to stand at a safe distance to watch.

There must be over fifty people, Arthur thinks, quickly counting heads. A quiet day, but after this, he doubts there will be any more. They’ve already whipped out their mobile phones, and the Stones start to rise, and it’s all recorded.

Merlin isn’t bothered by any of this, standing safely on the other side. His eyes are still closed, and his hair, curling around his ears, whips around his cheekbones. Arthur wants to kiss him for this, but instead, he watches as Merlin burrows deep into the faded magic of Stonehenge, and brings it back to life.

Magic calls to magic, he’d said. And finally, Merlin digs deep enough to find the remainder of whatever magic has been left from an aeon ago, and Arthur finally learns what Merlin has been trying to do for over a century.

The magic calls. There is a trace, and here, Merlin has found it; Arthur can see the gold sparking like fire, and thunder roars above them, having come from nowhere. The white clouds have become darker than grey, and it rumbles in the distance.

“I can feel you,” Merlin says, and he opens his eyes. They shine a pure, lightning gold, and Arthur doesn’t think Merlin can even see what he is doing, but can only see the magic. “Avalon, reborn.”

The lightning strikes, three times in a row, right in the middle of the Stones. A child cries out, in the distance, and cries, but everyone else is silent. If they believe in magic or not—and more than likely, they do not, in this twenty-first century—their entire belief systems must now be challenged by what they see. 

And one man is trudging towards them. He must have seen Merlin, and Arthur grimaces. Merlin stands stock still, his entire focus on Stonehenge. “Fulfieldee, Avalon,” Merlin whispers, and in the middle of the Stones, an image shimmers. Avalon, and Arthur wants to reach out and touch it.

Merlin gasps, and falls to one knee. The image disappears, but Arthur can feel it now—can feel that something is changed, and glances towards the Stones again.

“Come on, Merlin,” he says, desperately. “You’ve been working towards this. It’s the last bit, I promise. Come on, you idiot, you can do it!”

“Arthur,” Merlin cries out, and reaches his hand upwards again. It’s not the sky that rumbles, this time, but the image of Avalon, and its golden light pulses. The Stones glitter, and the universe shifts, and the image disappears.

Arthur exhales sharply, and has to hold onto everything he is to stay in Albion. He feels the pull of Avalon, as if someone is grabbing hold of him and yanking, and Arthur has to fixate on Merlin’s ragged breathing to stay. 

“You did it,” he says, in wonder, and falls to his knees next to Merlin as he watches the sky clear out and the Stones return to normal. A beam of sunlight illuminates the spot where Avalon had stood, for only a moment, and tiny flowers are growing from one Stone to the next. “It’s a ring again. You completed the faerie ring.”

Merlin sags to the ground, and breathes hard. “I think,” he says, and blinks up at the sky, “I may have changed the position of our universe. A tiny bit. But only because it was out of place, so you really can’t blame me for that, Arthur. I fixed it. I fixed it.”

“I’m not blaming you for anything, you moron,” Arthur tells him, and is only a bit disappointed that Merlin still doesn’t hear him. The portal is open, he thinks, he felt it, but he still hasn’t gone through. “Won’t you come and get me?”

Merlin stays on the ground, until a shadow looms above him. The man from earlier peers down at him, grabbing hold of his cap as if it will save him. “Did you see that?” he asks, his eyes large.

“Did I see that?” Merlin exclaims, aggravated. “I did that!”

“I saw,” the man murmurs, and takes a step back. “Who are you?”

“My name is Merlin,” Merlin says, and struggles to sit up. His blouse is stained green, and Merlin grins like a madman. “And you can tell them all that King Arthur’s coming back.”

The man peers at him, clearly uncertain whether to take him for his word or not. To be fair, Merlin’s hair is full of grass, and his grin touches on maniacal, so Arthur can’t blame him. Merlin deserves a bit of undiluted happiness, though. 

“Like the sorcerer?” the man asks, eventually.

Merlin raises his eyebrows. “Exactly like the sorcerer,” he says, and nods towards the group of people still standing on the side of Stonehenge, wary to come any closer. They’ve not spotted Merlin yet, and even if they did, they would not believe what he had done. “Like Arthur’s Merlin.”

Arthur’s Merlin. He likes the sound of that.

“Come and get me,” Arthur repeats. “That’s a command from your king, Merlin.”

Merlin beams, and strides away from Stonehenge, and leaves a very confused crowd behind.

~*~

When Arthur comes to, his hand still in the tower’s lake in Avalon, Freya swings around his neck. “He’s done it!” she cheers, and presses a kiss to Arthur’s cheek. “You were right! We could all feel it, the portal opening! It’s there, it’s really there, and it’s open!”

“Has anyone tried to go through?” Arthur asks, and hugs Freya. The rest of the Court of Avalon stands behind her, all smiling, all tense for what must come next. One portal has been opened, and one instance of the universe fixed, but not yet any permanent solution. For that, Merlin will have to fix all the portals.

It’s fortunate that Arthur has been forced to learn where most of them are.

“Not yet,” Frostwing says, and takes Arthur’s arm as she gently unfolds him from Freya. “But we think we know where Emrys will go next.”

“The Lake,” Arthur says, because he’s realised the same thing. Merlin may have fixed one portal, but he has only done it for one reason, and one reason only: Arthur. Arthur isn’t entirely sure if he can leave through another portal than he came in through, if he even really came here through a portal, but Merlin will certainly be trying to find him at the Lake.

And Arthur will be there. By the gods, Arthur will be there.

“Arthur,” Freya says, and peers at him with her dark eyes. She’s crying, and she purses her lips, only to hug him again. “He’s coming for you.”

“We will be there when the portal is opened,” Canopy says, unexpectedly gentle, and Arthur slowly nods. 

It is odd. Arthur finds himself looking back at this portal, the shimmering, ripple-less lake in the Tower, and breathes hard when the door closes on it. They take the stairs down, all walking slowly, surrounding Arthur like a guard of honour, the way his Knights of the Round Table would have, a thousand years ago.

Arthur passes everything, and finds that he will miss it, in a way. His quiet moments with Frostwing, and his chambers next to Freya’s. A thousand years of making peace with Avalon, and he has it. Merlin is filling a prophecy that is older than several civilizations, and Arthur is walking towards him, finally.

The Sidhe have gathered in the citadel, and it is a quiet sort of affair. They incline their heads at Arthur, and some of them bow—Arthur passes them, and feels his breath stuck in his throat as they leave the citadel, and enter the forest.

His and Freya’s forest, in his mind. It’s not a long walk to the lake. It shimmers the same way it always did, and Arthur thinks they must’ve beaten Merlin here, or else it’s the time difference again.

They stand before it, and Arthur as the first one, with his hands on the lake. The image of Merlin does not come, but mostly because Arthur is still focusing on Avalon. Freya sits next to him, and takes a shuddering breath.

“Time works differently here,” she reminds him again, and smiles. “It won’t be long now. What are you going to say to him?”

“I’ve no idea,” Arthur realises, and his mouth goes dry. He’s had so long to think of Merlin, but he’s forgotten to consider their reunion—when he’d thought about being in Albion, all he’d thought about was Merlin’s home, wherever it was situated at that particular moment, and getting to hear Merlin’s jokes and hold his smile. He hadn’t imagined this moment, maybe because the distance to it was too painful.

But now it is here, and he has no idea what he will say to Merlin.

“Just say hello,” Frostwing says, and her wings flutter a bit.

“Or kiss him on the mouth,” Sunlit suggests dryly.

Freya elbows him gently. “It’s really up to you,” he says. “But if you can, I would like you to thank him from me. For everything he has done, and everything he is still doing.”

“I will,” Arthur promises, and takes hold of her face to kiss her forehead. “I swear, Freya. I will be making it up to him every day of the rest of my life.”

“That might take a while,” Frostwing says, and smiles. “I’m not sure what Avalon has done to your lifespan, but I don’t think you’ll be ageing normally in any way whatsoever. You’ve got your years, Arthur King. Use them wisely.”

Arthur nods, dryly, and opens his mouth to speak, but then the lake starts to ripple. Arthur stares at it, uncomprehending, until the golden light comes from down under the water.

“Go,” Freya says, and Arthur falls into the water.

Chapter Text

This is Arthur: 

A thousand years old, and a King born to make peace, and to unite. He is born of magic, but is entirely human, and he has had his heart broken a thousand times. He has learnt to swim in the Lake of Avalon, and he has died, and made it his home.

And now, he falls through the water, and realises he cannot breathe any longer.

He struggles, coming to full consciousness, and struggles. His armour weighs him down, and Arthur panics. There is a golden sun above him, and he tries to swim towards it, but he feels held down. Below him is Avalon, and above him is Albion, and Arthur lets out a shuddering breath.

The bubbles rise to the surface—a surface he can’t manage to break, no matter how hard he works his legs. He desperately kicks, and the water makes his movements sluggish, and Arthur can feel himself being pulled down again.

A face appears.

Arthur is a King born, and with him, another creature was made to guide, and to help, and to love.

Merlin’s hair swims around his face, and Arthur has a moment to spare to think of how beautiful he is, even here. The light breaks behind him, as if Merlin wears a halo, and Arthur reaches for him.

Merlin’s hand grasps his, and he pulls.

They break the surface, and Arthur coughs loudly. “Come on, I have you,” Merlin says, desperately, and yanks at him. Arthur’s cloak, Camelot red, weighs him down, and he stumbles in the water when they come closer to the shore. The lake loses depth quickly, and then Arthur stands there, up to his thighs in water and Merlin holding onto his shoulders.

“Merlin,” Arthur coughs, and wheezes to find more breath.

“Are you alright?” Merlin demands, and brushes Arthur’s locks out of his face. Merlin’s face is pale, his lips pink with effort. The halo has disappeared, but Arthur still can’t help looking at him.

He was drowning, and Merlin might be better than air.

“I’m fine,” he says slowly, and grabs hold of Merlin’s arms, lest he let go of him. “Did you—the portal. Did it work? You had to—I didn’t see, I’m not entirely sure what happened—”

“Neither am I,” Merlin says, and offers him a fleeting smile. God, he hasn’t had that smile aimed at him in a thousand years. “Come on, to the shore. I’m afraid you’re going to fall over, and I’d rather not jump in there again today.”

“Why didn’t you do the trick,” Arthur asks, and he really doesn’t want to be talking about this, necessarily, but there’s so much he needs to say, so much he wants to ask, that it seems simplest to stick to the questions that aren’t important at all. He gestures to the lake, behind him. “Parting the Lake, seeing the portal. The—lake within the Lake. That’s where I came from.”

Merlin frowns, and forces Arthur to sit on the shore. He doesn’t mind; his legs feel like jelly, and his lungs are still aching. He’ll let Merlin do this, if only because he thinks he needs Merlin’s closeness, too.

“You saw that?” he asks.

“Merlin, I saw everything,” Arthur says in exasperation. “I wasn’t exactly sleeping, you know. I’ve watched. Camelot, and you, mostly.”

“You were watching,” Merlin says, very, very slowly. He sits down next to Arthur, close enough that Arthur can feel his warmth. They’re both drenched, and Arthur shivers; he should change clothes, probably. When he can get up to put in the effort.

“And I’m sorry,” Arthur adds. “For everything you’ve had to do alone. For everyone you’ve lost, and when you’ve had to grieve by yourself. For so many things, Merlin, I’m sorry. But you were never alone, not truly. I never would have let you.”

Merlin nods, and looks away. His eyes are wet, and Arthur takes the opportunity to let his arm swing around Merlin’s shoulders. Merlin falls into him, taking a heaving breath, and then starts to weep in earnest against Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur lets him, fully engulfing him in the hug. The armour can’t be comfortable, and Arthur shifts several times to keep Merlin in his arms, but the relief that overcomes him is too great for Arthur to do anything about it. His own tears are quiet, but Merlin surely feels them falling on his shoulders.

They sit on the shore for a very, very long time.

~*~

“I can’t believe,” Merlin says, as he stirs the beans in his pot, “that you’ve been back two hours, and you’re already giving me orders.”

“You’ve had enough days off,” Arthur says, and peers into the pan. It doesn’t smell particularly appetising, but they don’t have take-away in the small village, and Merlin hasn’t stocked up on food. Arthur will force Merlin to take him to an actual restaurant tomorrow, he thinks, but for today, all he wants is to explore Merlin’s house and Merlin himself.

“A thousand years,” Merlin says, and whacks Arthur with the wooden spatula. “A thousand years, you’ve left me alone, and you’re calling them days off? They were all in your service, my lord, and I’ve just corrected a great big rift in the universe to get you back, and you start telling me I need to do it more?”

“Well, the alliance I’ve created with the Sidhe depends on it,” Arthur says.

Merlin turns to him. “We haven’t all lived a thousand years with the ability to stalk each other,” Merlin says, and mutters to himself, “the gods know that it may have made it easier, though.”

“I’ll explain later,” Arthur says, and leans close to Merlin again. Merlin hasn’t pushed him away, and Arthur revels too much in the feel of Merlin’s wiry body against him. “Can you explain to me how you figured out the portals needed to be fixed? And how you did it? It’s been driving me mad, figuring out how to return magic to Albion.”

“Well, I’m not sure I understand,” Merlin says, and whisks the beans. “It just—there was still magic pouring out, right? I’m not sure you would understand, but it’s—something you can sense. And there wasn’t that much of that anymore, but at Stonehenge—the Great Stones of Nemeton—”

“I know that,” Arthur interrupts. “I saw you do what you did. Arthur’s Merlin, you said?”

Merlin colours red. “I thought I was going to have to explain everything to you,” he mutters. “I’ve bought history books and I’ve made some notes to correct them, or to explain what else was going on at the time. All these books, including The Internet for Dummies, because I thought you’d need them.”

“Well, I might,” Arthur concedes. “And it’s a kind gesture. Now, explain.”

“Right,” Merlin says, and smiles tightly. “I didn’t sense anything at the other gateways, but I could sort of tease them and get the picture of Avalon, right? I didn’t feel them, but they’d used to have this connection, and I couldn’t see how to get it back to working. I didn’t know what was wrong, and then I sort of happened upon Stonehenge by accident, really. It’s just, I saw a picture of it, and it’s round, right? And if you look at it with the faerie rings in mind, it’s not that off, it’s just that I hadn’t considered it would be one. But then I thought about the last time we were there, and it was just a portal to another place, wasn’t it? It seemed possible.”

“I thought the same,” Arthur confesses, and grins. “I’ve been considering the Stones of Nemeton as the last piece of the puzzle for many years, Merlin. You’ve been a bit slow, don’t you think?”

Merlin huffs, but he’s still smiling. “I could just feel it,” he says, and his expression fades. “And suddenly I thought, well, the magic is just stuck, right? So what if I just shift it—and I did, and it all clicked into place. I’m not sure, but I think—Albion and Avalon somehow were pulled away, like they were drifting apart, and then all the portals started shifting, and the fewer portals there were, the more trouble magic had coming through. So Stonehenge helped me figure out how to get them back together. That’s about it, isn’t it?”

“I think so,” Arthur says. “And all we’ve got to do is to fix the remainders of the portals, and magic should flow again.”

Merlin nods slowly. “Do you think more sorcerers will be born, if the magic’s back?” he asks thoughtfully. “It’d be nice, I suppose. And that video of Stonehenge is already going viral. They might be looking for me, if that man comes forward.”

“We’ll deal with things as they come,” Arthur says. “Together.”

“Together,” Merlin repeats, and turns around. “I was afraid, you know. That I’d made it all up in my head. That I’d never see you again.”

“I never would’ve left you,” Arthur insists. “Even if you hadn’t figured out how to fix the portals, I would’ve found a way.”

“Why?” Merlin demands. Behind him, the beans sizzle on the stove, and neither of them pay any attention to it.

“Why?” Arthur asks. “Because it’s you, Merlin. I’ve watched Gwen die, and I’ve watched as the last of my knights were gone, and I was there when Galahad’s son came to you as Camelot fell. And then the world changed, and you were still there, always there. And you deserved none of that pain, Merlin, none of it. And I will spend the rest of my life repaying you, if you want me to.”

Merlin swallows heavily. Arthur wants to touch him, trace his face, but he keeps still. He has had a thousand years to consider this, and Merlin doesn’t know. 

(Doesn’t he know? Arthur thinks he should, because he can feel himself bursting with it—can’t stop it, even if he wanted to. Merlin is his, and always has been, and Arthur wants to remind him of it, wants to claim him and kiss him and never let go.)

“I would do it a thousand times more,” Merlin says, his voice creaky, “to have you for a single day.”

“You will have me for the rest of your life, Merlin,” Arthur tells him, and can’t tell who moves first. They’re already pressed so close together, it’s easy to melt into one being, and kiss him. Merlin is warm against him, and real, and he can hear him and feel him. Merlin’s tears are hot as they fall on Arthur’s cheek, and Arthur turns them around so they fall against the wall.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers, and kisses him again, and again, and again.

The beans burn behind them, but they don’t care.

~*~

The mist lies on the Lake of Avalon like a blanket, and Arthur has to peer in the distance.

“Are you sure?” Merlin asks, sounding oddly sceptical. Even after Arthur’s many stories of Avalon, and the reluctant friendship with the Sidhe, and even Freya’s addition to the Court of Avalon, he’s not fond of the blue-skinned Sidhe. Arthur can’t fully blame him, but at least Merlin ought to know that they are allies.

Merlin will always follow his king. Arthur means to give him good reason to, even if Merlin doesn’t require it.

“They’ll be here,” he says, and he is right; they appear in the mist, the four of them. Arthur tries to spot Freya, and his heart falls at her absence.

They weren’t sure if Arthur’s name would be enough to give her powers to travel to Albion. It seems it wasn’t, and she really is stuck in Avalon. But she has a good place, and she will be happy, Arthur hopes.

Even if she will never talk to him again.

“Well met, Arthur King,” Frostwing says, and in the mists of Albion, the blue of her skin is paler than ever. She smiles at them, and Merlin takes Arthur’s hand.

“Hello, Frostwing,” Arthur says, and inclines his head towards the other Sidhe. “Sunlit. Moss. Hello, Canopy. How is Freya doing?”

“She is well,” Frostwing says, and winks at him. “We take care of our own, as I promised.”

“Freya,” Merlin says, and frowns. “She couldn’t come? Through the portal?”

Just as he says it, the water parts behind them. Frostwing smiles, and extends a hand towards the water. An arm reaches out from the split waves, and it raises a sword. Excalibur glitters in the light, and Arthur inhales sharply.

“Not all the way, no,” Canopy says, and Arthur ignores him as he makes his way towards that one arm, fighting to come through to Albion. He falls to his knees in the water, and takes Excalibur from her. He grabs Freya’s hand, one last time, and kisses her palm.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and he has no idea if she can hear him. But she will know what it means. Slowly, Freya disappears under the water again, but Arthur remains seated, uncaring of the cold water clinging to his skin. 

Freya has given him his sword one last time. He takes a moment, and awkwardly gets back up. Merlin frowns at the water, and tugs at Arthur when he’s walked back. His expression is unreadable, but Arthur doesn’t doubt that Merlin is thinking of Freya, too. He’s lost enough people to this lake.

“Human beings tend not to be able to come through,” Frostwing says politely, and gestures towards Arthur. “Certain exceptions being made, of course.”

“I think I yanked him through it, mostly,” Merlin says dryly, and Arthur pinches his hand. Merlin sends him a dark look, but takes the hint, and lets go. Arthur steps forward, the bottom hem of his trousers darkening in the water. 

“Merlin could, couldn’t he?” he asks. “Being all magic? And he could take me with him, I presume?”

“If you ever wanted to, yes,” Canopy says, and raises his eyebrows. “But we’re not sure what it would do to the magic. And you’re still needed here, I think.”

“Arthur,” Merlin murmurs, and Arthur reaches for him. Merlin steps forward, too, his chin jutted forward as he eyes the Sidhe. “I’m not planning on leaving.”

They don’t have to. But Arthur likes to keep his options open, and it’s nice to have it confirmed. There’s no saying what will come next, and Arthur isn’t planning on leaving Albion for a long, long while. 

(But his life is long, and Merlin’s may be even longer. No need to rule out anything.)

“I wanted to thank you for your hospitality,” Arthur says formally. “And that I am glad we managed to come to an agreement. If you ever have need of me, you will know where to find me, I presume.”

“Oh, we’re keeping a close eye on you,” Sunlit says.

“But not that close,” Moss adds, and wrinkles his nose. Arthur smiles, and feels Merlin brush up against him protectively. 

“Thank you,” Merlin says eventually, and his hand clasps Arthur’s wrist. “For keeping him safe, when I could not.”

Frostwing bows before Merlin, deep enough that her forehead dips into the water. The other Sidhe follow, and Merlin starts into silence. Arthur runs a quick hand over his arm, forcing him to stay still. They are being too tactile, maybe, but Arthur has been a thousand years without Merlin, so he doesn’t think anyone will blame him.

“You are Emrys,” Frostwing says, “and you have saved magic. My lord, we have protected your king for you gladly. I hope we will have peace.”

Merlin is quiet for a moment, and he glances at Arthur. Arthur nods imperceptibly, and Merlin licks his lips. “We have peace,” he says, and the Sidhe rise again.

“We may meet again, Arthur King,” Frostwing says, eyeing Arthur knowingly. If she has guessed at Arthur’s long-term ideas, she doesn’t say anything else. They’ve played enough games, so he wouldn’t be surprised; he doesn’t mean to surprise her, really. He will leave this up to Merlin, in the end, when it comes. But they still have a great many years before it comes to that. “Until then, I wish you all the happiness in the world.”

“And I you, Frostwing,” Arthur says, and bows, too. When he looks up again, the Sidhe are gone, and only Merlin remains, pressed against him.

“They seem… nice,” Merlin says, and makes a face.

Arthur laughs, and kisses him.

~*~

“By the way,” Merlin whispers, in the dead of night, his body pressed against Arthur’s in the narrow bed, “Gwen told me to say hi. And to tell you that you’ve taken a very long time to wake up, sleepyhead.”

Arthur smiles at the memory of his wife, one of his dearest friends, and presses a kiss against Merlin’s hair. “I’m here now, aren’t I?” he says, and burrows himself deeper into the warmth of the bed. “And all yours, Merlin. I promise you. All yours.”

Merlin is quiet. “I’m not the only person you’ve loved. And you aren’t mine. It feels odd, because you were certainly the first.”

“You’re thinking too much,” Arthur whispers, and it’s very easy to fall asleep. But Merlin needs him, and so he holds Merlin as he cries again, and waits until Merlin dreams for his own sleep to come.

~*~

It’s slow, but the magic is coming back with every portal Merlin repairs.

They are travelling all over Albion, and Arthur is adamant to make a trip out of it. Merlin has never bothered with journeys, always too eager to get to his destination, but Arthur has forced him to slow down and appreciate the scenery of the world they’re saving.

(He likes to watch Merlin drive, his face all scrunched up as he navigates the roads and breaks the speeding limit, and feel the wind blow past his face. This is better than a horse, no matter how much he loved Llamrei, and the company makes it only better.)

Merlin is silent, thoughtful, sitting by the edge of a faerie ring he has just repaired. It normally takes an effort from him—they’re not all as easy to shift into place as Stonehenge, Arthur has let himself be told—but he isn’t usually this despondent afterwards, tracing the pebbles on the ground.

“I could make it all fall away, you know,” Merlin says, out of nowhere. “The veil between Avalon and Albion. I’ve learnt how to do it. If you wanted me to.”

He sounds doubtful, and Arthur sits down next to him. The grass is wet, because it rained only yesterday, and it smells like new life. It clings to Merlin, when Arthur leans down his head against Merlin’s shoulder. His sorcerer wordlessly lets Arthur fall against him, and shifts to accommodate him.

The way he always does.

“Why do you think I would?” Arthur asks quietly.

Merlin shrugs carefully, so as not to jostle Arthur’s head. “You were there for a thousand years,” he says. “And you miss Freya.”

“You’ve missed Freya.”

“Yes, but I’ve also not seen her since the day she died,” Merlin says, and wryly adds, “If we don’t count seeing her in bodies of water, that is.”

“If we don’t count seeing her in bodies of water, I don’t think I’ve technically met her.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says in exasperation. “You know what I mean. I’m concerned that… Albion doesn’t feel like home to you anymore. That it’s not enough.”

“That you are not enough, you mean,” Arthur corrects, and lifts his head. He takes hold of Merlin’s face, forcing them to look each other in the eye. Merlin has jutted his chin forward, but he is breathing hard, and Arthur gently kisses him on the lips. “Merlin, I would’ve come back to any world you would have made, if you wanted to be in it.”

Merlin trembles. “I could be happy,” he murmurs, “just having the magic returned to the land. I didn’t think—I didn’t dare—I thought you would come back, Arthur, and I’d have my king back. My friend. I didn’t believe—this. I still wake up, and I think it’s wrong, and I’ve just convinced myself that I do have everything I’ve ever wanted to have. And it feels—like you will slip from my grasp.”

Arthur gently folds his own fingers over Merlin’s. “I am holding on very, very tightly,” he says, “And I’m certainly stronger than your bony little fingers are, Merlin. You’re used to being alone, but I made a promise, whether you heard it or not. I will not leave you.”

Merlin bites on his lower lip, and then smiles up at Arthur. It’s a fragile thing, that smile, but Arthur will take it. He can’t expect Merlin to leave a thousand years of solitude behind after so short a time, but all Arthur can do is be here. And so he will.

“Never again,” Merlin says, as much a promise as Arthur’s own words.

“Now,” Arthur says, and hoists Merlin up with him. “I can’t show you around Avalon, but aren’t we close to the Crystal Cave, if I remember correctly? You’ve spent several centuries there—I’d like to see it in person. Perhaps we’ll meet a butterfly with the same name as me.”

Merlin runs his hand over his face. “Sometimes I forget you’ve been invading my privacy for a millenium,” he says wearily, “But you never will let that slide, will you?”

“Oh, don’t be a moron, Merlin,” Arthur says. “There’s no prouder creature than a butterfly who bears the name of the Once and Future King. And they really are quite beautiful.”

Merlin’s eyes flash gold, and he blows in his palm. A solitary butterfly comes flying out, and sits on Arthur’s nose. Its wings are painted red and gold, and after a second it flies up again in the sky.

“I’m glad you’ve learnt to appreciate my many talents,” Merlin says dryly.

“It’s just the one,” Arthur says. “Come on, then. Take me to the Crystal Cave, you hermit.”

And so Merlin does, because he’s never yet refused an order from his king. 

~*~

It’s not far away, indeed, and the hike isn’t the same as it would have been a thousand years ago, but the forest still stands, albeit smaller than it used to be. There’s a children’s farm a few kilometres away, and there’s several hiking trails, but he and Merlin leave the path to find that the Crystal Cave is still unbothered.

“The magic is back,” Merlin says, in delight, and runs his hand over the familiar stones. The brook he used to bathe in is long gone, but the Cave itself hasn’t changed. Arthur eyes the place where Aithusa died, once, but there’s nothing but wild flowers that now chart the spot.

(Merlin doesn’t seem bothered by the tragedy he’s lived in this place, and strolls inside as if he still owns the place. Arthur huffs in amusement and follows him. It takes a few seconds for him to adjust to the dark, and even then it’s hard to make out more than dark grey silhouettes. 

“I can’t believe you’ve lived here for so long,” Arthur says, and grabs Merlin’s arm to guide him. “Really, Merlin, you thought a normal bed was too good for you?”

“Shut up,” Merlin says, and in the blink of an eye, a blue ball glows above their heads. Arthur blinks at the sudden light, but has a far better view of the Cave once he settles. Nothing remains of Merlin’s century-long habitat, and no one else has touched the Cave. 

(Arthur can’t feel the magic, but he knows it must be there.)

“Don’t tell me to shut up, Merlin,” he says. “I’m your king.”

“No, really, shut up,” Merlin says, and strides forwards. Arthur is still holding his arm, so he’s forced forwards. He lets go when Merlin falls to his knees and runs his hands over one of the stone walls, his eyes narrow. “Do you feel that?”

“Do you want me to shut up, or tell you that I feel nothing?” Arthur asks.

Merlin stands up and whirls around in one fluid movement, and grasps Arthur’s hands. He closes his eyes, but it’s clear what he’s doing—he’s sharing his senses, for a moment. Arthur gasps as the sense of magic crashes into him, deep and powerful and ancient, and something in the Cave is screaming with desire to be found. 

It only takes a second, and then Merlin lets go, and the overwhelming sense of magic is gone. “You understand?” Merlin says.

“You live like that?” Arthur demands. “You feel that, always?”

“You don’t?” Merlin retorts, and runs his fingers over the wall again. “Something powerful is here, and it’s not a portal. The Cave has never had one.”

“Well, magic is returning,” Arthur says. “It was the birthplace of magic, didn’t you say that? Perhaps this is one of the sources it’s now coming back from.”

Merlin slowly nods, and stretches out his hand. Wordlessly, the wall cracks apart, one neat line dividing one part from the other. Merlin leans down and takes hold of—a stone.

Arthur blinks. It’s not a stone. It’s oval, and red, and it was clearly hidden very well inside the Cave.

“It’s a dragon egg,” Merlin whispers, and turns big eyes on Arthur. He inhales deeply, as if to calm himself down, and stares down at the oval-shaped form in his hands. It is an egg, and Arthur carefully touches the shell. It’s thick and feels like a rock, but the texture almost looks like the scale of a dragon.

“So,” Arthur says. “A new dragon for a new age.”

“I don’t know…” Merlin murmurs, and carefully sets down the egg before him. In the blue hue of Merlin’s magic light, the egg almost looks purple, but it would probably be a deep red if Arthur were to put it out in the sun. Camelot red. “Should I hatch it?”

Arthur takes Merlin’s hand. Merlin’s breathing is heavy, his eyes fixed on the egg before them. “Do you want to do it now?”

“I want… yes,” Merlin says, and looks up at Arthur, his eyes liquid-y in the light. There’s an expression of joy on Merlin’s face that Arthur has barely ever been privy to, and this time he sees all of Merlin; his servant, his sorcerer, his Dragonlord. This is a joy that belongs to the very depths of Merlin’s being. “I want to hatch it.”

“Well, then,” Arthur says, and steps back. “You want to return magic, Merlin? Here’s to the first dragon of the world.”

“And that’s all right?” Merlin asks, still looking at him intently. And Arthur believes that Merlin wouldn’t do it if Arthur asked, believes that Merlin would step away and leave this little egg buried in the Cave. He believes that Merlin would listen to Arthur about the fate of this egg, the way he didn’t listen to Aithusa.

And that would be wrong.

“You’ve saved me, Merlin,” Arthur says, solemnly. Merlin’s hand is warm, when he takes it, like a dragon’s fire. “And now, we save magic. So call your dragon, and believe it when magic returns to fill every corner of this land. We have worked a thousand years for it. Do you trust me?”

“I trust you,” Merlin says, more an automatic response than anything else.

“Good,” Arthur says, and takes a step back. “Let’s go and save magic, then.”