Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Are you sure about this Cymru?"

"....no. But what choice do we have?"

"You're telling me that you dragged me out to the woods. At midnight . Sent me on a series of very difficult quests, which I had to hide from Gaius and Arthur, to get magical ingredients. For a spell that might not even work?!"

"Calm yourself Emrys. It may work. I am not certain, that is all."

"Why should I go along with this?"

"I had a premonition. I saw it, as you say. And again, what choice do we have? Albion could very well fall if we do nothing. Arthur is in a very precarious position now-"

"And insists on worsening it. Yes, I know . Very well then Cymru."

Chapter Text

Coffee after meetings had become commonplace during the 1970s. England and France had been trying to get along better since the expansion of the EU put them in close quarters more frequently. America, on top of the world, was still reeling from civil movement after civil movement and grasping for moments of respite. Canada, in a similar boat to America, wanted to reconnect with others, away from politics and revolution. Somehow, these coffee breaks continued for nearly 50 years. There were ups and downs, obviously, but on the whole, it worked out well for them. Today, they were trying a smaller coffee shop in Berlin. Prussia had taken France there a few months ago, and he had loved it. It was cozy, tucked away from the busy streets, but still near the bustle of urban life. 

The meeting they had just concluded was long and rather irritating, focused on Russia and the various crises he had caused, and what NATO would do about it. Not much had been concluded, although they had officially decided they would do something sometime. There was still continued support for Ukraine, and an increase in military posturing to try and dissuade Russia and China.

England sniffed as America complained, rather loudly, about the agreement reached. Still young, still idealistic.

“We need to be doing more! You all agree with me, don’t you?” America glanced around the table, “This is absolutely unacceptable! War shouldn’t be a thing anymore!”

“First of all, this talk of ‘no war’ is awfully hypocritical, Alfred.” France smirked, “Besides. We have our own problems. We can only do so much for poor Catherine.”

“Why don’t we talk about something else?” Canada interjected, “Get our minds off things. It's been stressful for all of us recently.”

America gulped his coffee and frowned, “Oh fine. I mean. This is just what’s going on, y’know?”

France glanced at England, raising an eyebrow. England snorted into his tea.

“As one last thought, I’m surprised it took this long for another war to break out.” England narrowed his eyes toward France, “Anyway, Why don’t we talk about those birds you saw, Alfred? From last month.”

Alfred nodded and dove into the new topic. The tension dropped as he chattered about a new chickadee nest near his D.C. apartment. Eventually, Canada interjected, and the two were off, bantering about which singing birds they preferred. France and England were roped into the conversation soon thereafter. The tension slowly eased as the four of them found solace and escape in their discussion.

It was almost normal. They could forget about their burdens and their duties. England sipped his tea, cursing as he realized it had become cold in his distraction. He murmured a spell to reheat it. He sipped it again, spitting it out almost immediately as pain lanced through his stomach. France grabbed his shoulder, holding him so he didn’t faceplant the table or spill his tea.

“Are you alright?” Canada and America moved to help, but England waved them off.

“I’m fine. I’ve had worse.” He leaned back in his seat, “Don’t worry lads.”

Canada frowned and pulled up his newsfeed, “Is it the King? The economy? Your government?”

“Did the Germans finally poison you to get back at you for the forties?” America joked. His voice cracked at the end of his sentence, and his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

England took a deep breath, “No. I’m not sure. There isn’t anything at ho-”

France grabbed him again as he contorted with pain. “Arthur. Are you sure nothing is wrong?”

France was still holding his shoulder as the café spun out of focus. England fell forward, trying to stabilize himself. But the table, the entire café, was gone. He was falling through nothing. Nausea welled in his stomach. The only thing he felt was France’s hand on his shoulder. 

Then the ground was rushing toward his face and he landed on his stomach. France fell right beside him, groaning. England trembled as he pushed himself to sit, nausea throbbing through his body. It was too much, and he vomited.

“ Uggh ! Angleterre!” France scrambled up, “These were brand new shoes! Have the decency to retch on your other side and not on me!”

England coughed in answer, and laid on his back, staring up at the canopy of oak and ash trees as they slowly came into focus.

“ These are the ones meant to help us? They’re practically useless. They speak gibberish.”

Chapter Text

England and France turned toward the voice. Two figures stepped out of the shadows, dressed in loose-fitting tunics and cloaks. One was clearly in his early twenties, while the other was at most 16. The elder had dark hair and bright eyes while the younger was more mousy in appearance, with tousled hair and darker eyes.

“ Here, let me help you up. ” The younger one stepped forward. “ We can explain everything, I promise.”

England frowned. “ Cymru.” He pushed himself up, swaying on his feet, “ I neither need nor want your help.”

The older one stepped forward, “ Who are you? How do you know him?”

“I am who I am.” England turned away from the pair, sparing them one last glance, “And who I know is my own business.”

France was quick to England’s side, as he stumbled over the uneven ground. Just as they reached the edge of the clearing, the younger called after them.

“You won’t get very far. You don’t know where you are.”

England stilled, not turning, “ I know where I am, Cymru. You of all people should know not to presume.”

England and France left the clearing. Neither looked back, England was striding with as much confidence as his shaky legs would allow, and France was hovering by his side to prevent his falling. If they had looked back, perhaps they would have noticed the despair and frustration that settled heavy over Cymru and his companion. As it was, they moved deeper into the woods, away from the twining hands of fate.

“What do we do?” Merlin paced across the clearing, “They’re gone. They were our only hope!”

“Relax, Emrys.” Cymru sat against a tree, tracking Merlin’s movement, “They will be back.”

“How can you be sure? For all we know they’ll be killed! Or.. Or captured!”

“You are needed at Camelot.” Cymru stood, “I will ensure they cooperate with us. However long that takes.”

“We don’t have very long, Cymru.” Merlin wrung his hands, “They don’t fit in. They can barely speak. If we aren’t careful they’ll be killed and our advantage will be lost.”

“Do not worry.” Cymru rested a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, “I will bring them to you alive. Go back to Camelot.”

The further they walked, the stronger England’s steps were. The nausea was replaced with a growing sense of disorientation. Still, he carried on, heading away from Wales. As dusk fell, he began looking for a place to rest and France gathered firewood. Just as the last twinges of twilight faded, England stopped on the bank of a creek. Quietly they built the fire and settled down to rest.

“Where are we going, Angleterre?”

“I’m not sure. Nothing is familiar.”

France poked at the fire, watching the sparks float in the air, “We have no food. We have no shelter. You don’t know where you are, and no one is speaking English. Or French, which is really their greatest crime.”

“I’m glad you’ve caught on to our situation,” England snorted.

“What did they want?” France glanced across the fire, “I wasn’t aware you still spoke Welsh.”

“I remember enough. Wales wanted us to go with him. Help him with something, I assume.” England took off his shoes, setting them by the fire to stay warm. “I don’t know what. Whoever he was with was surprised we knew him though.”

“Either way, Pays de Galles is looking awfully young. I do miss my youth,” France twirled his hair, “so fortunate of him.”

“Oh hush up,” England threw a stick toward France, “You look fine. You’re not even 30 by human standards.”

France ducked to avoid the projectile, “Oh you flatter me. I didn’t realize you–”

“It is odd though, you are right. Wales should be about 26 in appearance.”

They fell into silence again. England frowned at the fire, watching the dance of the flames. He mulled over the events of the past day, slowly piecing together a chain of events. The fire burnt down to embers, and the quiet sounds of the wood lulled them both to sleep.

England opened his eyes to screams. Earthen trench walls surrounded him, dead and wounded held up like some sick foundation in the mud. Gas was pouring over the top, a noxious fog. As his vision went black he saw Wales. He smiled and shouldered his rifle as the gas consumed him. Ypres . The screams continued, and England forced his eyes open. Another trench. Another battle. The darkness covered his eyes. Light returned slowly then. England was in a medical cot. Scotland was yelling on the other side of the tent. He pushed himself slowly to his feet, the pain of a thousand deaths and a thousand more weighing on his shoulders. He staggered outside, leaning heavily on the tentpoles. Scotland was dressed in uniform, but Wales wore a tunic and cape. Sorely out of place. 

Scotland turned to England, “I’m leaving! I’m sick of your bloody war! You do nothing but kill and destroy!”

England heard himself speak, “Fine! Leave! See what I care!”

Everything was hollow. “You need rest, brother.” Wales was leading him back inside. “You aren’t ready for the front.”

“If I don’t go, who will?” England sat on the cot. “There is no one coming to save me.”

“The Once and Future King.” Wales was staring at him, at his soul.

“If King Arthur were returning, he would have in 1348.” England scoffed, “Or 1455. Or 1803. Or 1914. Or 1939. Or any other day or time or era. There is no one.”

“Wake up, Albion. Wake up.”

Chapter Text

England woke with a start, the pre-dawn stillness still enveloping the creek hollow. France was still asleep across from him, and nothing looked out of the ordinary. Slowly, England shifted his weight and stood, walking to the creek to wash his face. His heart stilled and his shoulders eased down, the quiet of the woods and soft pre-dawn light soothing his worry. There was space to think now, for him to breathe and collect himself.

The underbrush across the creek rustled, and the stillness was broken. A burly man emerged from the woods. For a moment, both he and England stared at each other, stunned to stillness. The moment broke as he pulled out a dagger and ran toward England, yelling. England scrambled sideways, twisting away from the man's knife and rising to his feet. He sprinted back toward their camp, the bandit in hot pursuit. 

France was still asleep by the ashes, undisturbed by the shouting. England shook his shoulder, scanning his surroundings waiting for the bandit to emerge.

"Wha- Angleterre. What is-"

The man burst through the trees, still yelling.

"Fuck. Frosc. Sorry love."

France croaked, clearly upset as England's magic turned him into a frog. England slipped him into his pocket and began to stand, falling down as the bandit slammed the pummel of the knife into his head.

Merlin groaned. Ever since he'd gotten back to Camelot, he'd been run off his feet. Arthur wasn't any better, and it seemed his attempt to fix it was a failure. Gaius’ work was exhausting, but at least it was mostly mindless. 

“Oh, there you are!”

He jumped as Gwen’s voice called from behind him.

“Arthur’s been looking for you. Well, he’s been making other people look for you. But-”

“Gwen,” He hefted his basket of herbs, “can you please tell Arthur that I need to help Gaius today?”

“Ah no.” She wrung her hands, “Arthur has sort of terminated your work with Gaius.”

“WHAT?!”

“He said you were avoiding your duties and spending too much time in the tavern. And being gone these past two days was the last straw. I know Arthur’s been rather odd lately, but I’m sure you’ll be fine. I mean, I’m sure you’ll sort everything out with him.”

Merlin nodded, and hurried toward Arthur’s chambers, passing off his basket to Gwen.

“Please take this to Gaius. Tell him I’ll see him this evening. You’re welcome as well, if you aren’t too busy.”

~~-~~

Arthur was pacing. The curtains were drawn shut, and the fire was almost dead. 

“You called?”

“Ah. Merlin.” Arthur turned toward him, “You are aware of the challenges facing Camelot, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“And you are aware, Merlin, that I am King.”

“Yes.”

“And how am I, the King, supposed to rule if my chambers are a MESS!” Arthur slammed his hand down on his desk, knocking papers onto the floor.
“No idea, sire.” Merlin stepped away from the door, edging toward the empty fireplace.

Arthur nodded, “I am going to summon the court. While I am with them, you will clean. I expect my room to be spotless when I am back. Understood?”

“Yes.”

Arthur nodded again, and stormed out the door toward the throne room. Merlin slumped against the wall. Everything was falling apart. Cymru hadn’t contacted him since the spell was botched, and he had no idea about the two strangers. Arthur’s paranoia was constantly growing, and no sound council would convince him otherwise. 

Merlin hummed softly, whispering spells to clear out the dust and clean the room. When he got to the desk, he peered over the papers. Reports of raiders in the east and south, rumors of armies gathering in the north, sightings of Morganna across Albion. Arthur had scribbled notes in the margins, comparing the relative strength of Camelot and its neighbors. A few plans were sketched out to face the raiding in the east. 

As he riffled through the papers, reports from the outlying villages surfaced. These were empty of Arthur’s thoughts, buried under report after report of gathering armies and Morganna’s machinations. They were requests for aid, for food, for protection from bandits. Months old, some of them, and never addressed. They had been set aside in favor of poorly substantiated claims of magical and militaristic threats. 

Merlin frowned. There was no sign of magic in Arthur’s room, there was no mandrake, there were no curses or hexes hidden in Arthur’s things. But without magic, there was no reason for Arthur to hold the paranoia and fear that he did, especially coupled with his disregard for his own people. Arthur, before, would never set aside his own people to worry about unsubstantiated rumors. Perhaps nudging Arthur to focus on bandits would lead him back to his old self. It would at least get him out of his room longer than a few hours a week.

Cymru followed the bandit trail cautiously. He had found the makeshift camp the guests had made easily enough, and from there it hadn’t been difficult to track down where they were taken. The trees were very chatty on this side of the forest and happily told them what they saw. Still, it would be unwise to get himself caught; magic users, no matter how young they seemed, held a sizable bounty.

Dusk was falling as he found the bandit’s camp. It was well positioned, tucked in a shallow cave, easy to protect and easy to scatter from if need be. The bandits were sitting comfortably around a fire, seemingly unaware of their surroundings. A soft breeze alerted him to the guard standing outside the firelight. He hummed his appreciation, slipping through the shadows unseen, outside the bandit's line of sight. They had only one prisoner, the man who had addressed them. He was bound hand and foot and chained to a tree, and though silent watched his captors closely. The bandits paid him no mind.

Cymru slipped forward, until he was settled behind the tree which held the captor. "Hello," he whispered, "I did not expect to see you here."

The man's shoulders tightened, but he held no other reaction. After a pause he whispered back, "Are you particularly stupid? To waltz into a bandit's camp and address their prisoner? If I shouted, you would be caught, the same as I."

"And yet you do not." Cymru leaned against the tree, "I am offering to cut you free, so we may find your companion and resolve the problem for which you were summoned."

"My companion is not lost." He paused, waiting as the bandits shifted, before speaking again into the hum of the night, "If you set me free, will you explain what I am here for?"

"Yes." The answer was simple, easy. "Though I wonder how you know me, yet I don't know you."

"Answers can be arranged. I will stay a while longer here, I have a feeling it will prove useful. But please, take the frog in my left pocket" He turned slightly, and a small green frog slid out. Cymru reached for it quickly, before it could move further away, and held it tightly in his fist.

Before he could say anything more, the bandits stirred and moved toward their captor. Their jeering laughs didn't bode well for either of them, and Cymru silently begged the shadows to hold him close as he slipped away into the safety of the forest.