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Merlin had only been missing for just under a fortnight when it arrived, which wasn't unusual for him, especially once he took his place at council. Nowadays, though, he would usually tell someone where he was going, or leave a note. Only rarely did he neglect to say something, and that was often when there was an emergency.
But still, it did happen. So really, there shouldn't have been any real cause for concern just yet.
But then the coffin arrived.
A sickening feeling nestled itself in Arthur's gut as it was carried into the throne room, six men in unison marching steadily before the king. Looking closer, it was obvious that they were all under a strong enchantment. Though they moved efficiently, they all wore different clothes; some poor, some fine. They stood stock still beneath the weight of the coffin, despite having carried it a great length. Their eyes, staring straight ahead, were glossed over in a daze.
"What–" Arthur paused, swallowed. "What is the meaning of this?"
They didn't speak, simply stood apart, like soldiers, and lowered the coffin to the ground. After pausing for a moment, those on the left side turned and lifted the lid, allowing the other three to receive and hold it steady on the far end.
Arthur just stared.
In the coffin was a body, dressed in Merlin's clothes. From his old, worn boots with his woolen socks to his neckerchief, which laid crumpled at the top, blood staining his upper half entirely.
There was no head.
Commotion blurred around him and council members gasped and screamed. Gossip and rumor erupted in the court room all at once, all whilst Arthur didn't blink, didn't breathe.
The knights surged forward to arrest those who had delivered it, but they appeared to break free of their enchantment the moment they were touched, collapsing back into the arms of fit men. Most took their prisoners from the room but Gwaine lowered his to the floor before hovering over the body with shaking hands.
The moment Gwaine obstructed Arthur's view of where Merlin's neck was severed clean, he snapped out of it, drawing in a gasp and feeling Gwen's frightened hands on him for the first time. He gripped her hand where it rested on his shoulder and took half a step forward.
"Gwaine!" he warned. "Don't."
Gwaine drew his hand back reluctantly, eyes wide with panic as he crumpled onto the floor beside the coffin. Percival dropped down to his aid.
"Everyone! Out!" Arthur announced, gesturing to the doors.
Painfully slow, people filed out of the hall, looking over their shoulder at the gruesome sight. Maids hastily tried to finish cleaning up the vomit, from those who could not hold their stomach, but were ushered out by the round table knights, clearing the way for a private viewing.
Eventually, only Gaius and the knights remained with the king and queen. And the body.
Arthur stared again, breathing becoming difficult as he approached the coffin. Gwaine and Elyan were crying. Gwen was stifling sobs on her knees by the throne.
"Gaius?" Arthur asked, surprised that his voice still worked. "Can you confirm that this is him?"
Gaius bowed and moved to examine the body, prodding around for a moment before giving a grave nod. Then his frame began to tremble, and Leon helped him into a chair.
Arthur swallowed, feeling like he might choke.
"It would seem," he said evenly, despite his heart pounding painfully in his chest, "that someone has discovered a way to work around Merlin's adversity to death." His voice cracked on the last word, and he had to look away and bite his lip to retain composure. "I'm sorry Gaius, but do you know how long we have? To heal him?"
Gaius shook his head. "Merlin is a unique case, sire." He paused to catch his breath. "According to legend . . . he should recover from anything . . . but I do not know what ill effects this will have on him, when he is revived."
Arthur hummed, nodded and turned as though to pace. He stopped, however, and looked up at the colorful lights shining in through the stained glass.
"Sire?"
"There's little we can do," Arthur admitted, his distress at the situation beginning to seep through as his frame shook. "The only course of action is to find and retrieve Merlin's head . . ." An unsteady breath left him, the phrase feeling odd on his tongue. Regardless, he turned and faced his closest advisors. "We begin the investigation at once."
Merlin's coffin spurred a war between the kingdoms. Those who aligned themselves with Camelot understood how valued a treasure was stolen from them, and how vulnerable a state it left the kingdom in. Those who opposed them, however, desperately fought alongside King Lot and Morgana's other forces. To keep Emrys away from his king could severely disadvantage the strides towards peace Camelot had been making, undoing years' worth of reform, reparations, and recovery.
Months went by as the location of Merlin's head was scouted out, countless ticks and crosses on maps that were evident of the intense scouring Arthur's people performed. Druids alongside knights, the Catha and the rogues. All who valued Albion were on the hunt for Emrys's skull.
At last, after laying siege to a fortress in the far north, dry, brittle wind making their battle stiff and painful, a vault was uncovered, which took over twenty mages and focuses and rituals to force open.
Inside was a dense, iron box, chained shut thrice over with several bolts and locks.
They needn't open it to know what was inside, so, their energy spent, resources exhausted, the party returned home with their prize.
Arthur was presented the box by one of his new, young knights. Sir Mordred, curly headed and meek, bowed his head as he held the iron box aloft.
The king motioned forth for his magic council to remove the bindings, and the chains fell away one by one, into a snake-like pile on the floor. Then, Arthur slowly undid the latch, and pulled open the front face of the box.
Merlin, save from some few specs of red about the base of his neck, appeared almost alive. His eyes were wide, eyebrows raised, and his mouth was slightly parted open. The fool had but a look of meager surprise, trusting as he was. But his gaze was vacant, glossy but unfocused.
Arthur stared at him as he pondered how to move forward. Shall he return him to his body? Will Gaius need to perform a surgery of sorts to initiate the process? Was this too violent a death to come back from?
But, before he could answer any of these questions, Merlin's eyes moved . Ever so slightly, they shifted, to meet Arthur's.
"The body. Now." he commanded.
Several knights rushed from the room, to retrieve the coffin from where it had been sealed away for safe keeping. Others made a wall with their bodies, to keep prying eyes away from Merlin's head, slowly ushering anyone outside their close inner circle out the doors.
The coffin was set down hastily on the floor with an echoing thunk and the lid torn open. The body was hoisted out and propped up on the nearest seat, as Arthur turned the box around, facing the opening towards his queen.
Gwen took a moment, her hand over her mouth to stifle a sob – or a gag, she wasn't sure which might have escaped her first if she hadn't warded them off – and then slipped on a pair of silk gloves. Gently, she snaked her hand beneath Merlin's jaw, fingers supporting the back of his head and thumbs gripping onto his cheeks. It was heavier than she imagined a head being, without its body, but she could bare the weight.
Gwaine held Merlin's shoulder against the chair, Gaius sitting on the opposite side in case he was needed, watching closely as Guinevere aligned Merlin's head above his torso. Lips pressed into a thin line as she focused, she lowered him until the two gnarly seams met.
She held her hands there for a moment, then, with a nod from Gaius, she let go.
At first, nothing happened.
Then, Merlin's eyes widened even further and he worked his jaw in a circular motion, mouth gaping wide but no sound escaping. There was a clicking in the back of his throat, his body trembled, and then he took a painful gasp of air.
Gaius began hovering over him in an instant, Merlin choking and dry heaving in his seat. He wasn't even conscious, he was barely even alive.
Eventually, Gaius claimed he was stable enough to be moved, having gone limp and silent. Arthur resisted the temptation to check his pulse or his breathing as he lifted him into his arms. He needn't know how many times Merlin might die through the healing process.
Once was already too much.
Two days later was the first time Merlin was truly awake. He stared out at his old room, looking lost. Occasionally he'd swallow, and that clicking noise in the back of his throat would squeeze painfully out of him. He left his mouth hanging open, breathing coming in and out as wheezes.
Gaius tried to administer a pain reliever, but Merlin just grimaced and turned his head away, breath nearly getting caught by the movement.
Arthur wasn't sure if he had died of thirst in the night or if Merlin's magic was forcing him to continue healing in a forward momentum. Either way, a week in, he tried to talk, but instead ended up ripping a horrid sounding cough from his lungs. His hands reached weakly, trembling, and it was the first anyone had seen him move below the neck. Gwen helped him sit up and he gulped down air loudly, tears gathering in the corner of his eyes.
The following day, he accepted the food they offered him, throat flexing awkwardly as he swallowed. He seemed to fall back into a daze midway through, until he was too out of it to continue. Gaius brought him water, but he promptly choked, so he prescribed nothing but thick liquids for the foreseeable future.
At long last, Merlin seemed to be fully coherent, a weak hand tentatively running its fingers along the scar that stretched about his throat. He paused, pressed just below his Adam's apple, and struggled to swallow his saliva.
"How are you feeling?"
Merlin startled and looked at Arthur with wide eyes, the king having been silently watching him from the bedside seat. He opened his mouth to speak, but a crackling sounds was all that escaped and he cut himself off with a grimace, massaging his neck more effectively.
Arthur had the decency to look guilty, and he offered Merlin a cup of thick sludge that smelled of honey. When Merlin composed himself enough to drink from it, Arthur set a sheet of parchment and some charcoal down on his lap. "Here," he said, adding a sturdy book for him to brace on.
Instead of answering Arthur's question, Merlin scrawled out his own: What happened?
Arthur stared back at him, shocked, and looked away nervously. "Morgana," was all he said at first, chewing on his lip as he thought about how to explain. "She killed you. Managed to keep you dead."
Merlin frowned at him, some concoction of confusion and fear written on his face.
"She had you decapitated, then locked your head in an iron chest. I suppose you need all your vital pieces to come back." Arthur let out a bitter laugh. "Gaius believes that keeping the heart from the brain is what did it."
Merlin looked down in thought, pondering the implications of this technicality regarding his immortality.
Suddenly his neck burned fiercely, heat radiating down into his chest and causing his heart to clench. He let out a short gasp as a force like lightning surged through his brain before time seemed to be sapped away from him.
Arthur's hand landed on his shoulder, and he realized it was a memory. The last he had been conscious.
Jumping into action, he reached for the book again, hastily scribbling a question with unsteady fingers.
How long?
Arthur bit his lip.
Merlin pointedly stared him down.
The king sighed, looking past Merlin and out his tiny window. "It's been nearly eight months now, since you went missing."
A cool drip of dread slunk down into Merlin's stomach and he felt lightheaded. Arthur squeezed his shoulder, and he could feel the king's eyes on him again but he daren't look up.
Arthur huffed. "Had a war over you, you know?"
That had been the wrong thing to say.
Merlin's hand flew out and landed flat on Arthur's chest, shoving him out of the way as he turned and vomited. His already aching throat burned like he'd swallowed coals and he struggled to breathe past them. His stomach rolled and he dry heaved, eyes tearing as he sucked in horrid sounding gasps.
"Easy." Arthur's voice came back to him.
"Sit him back up."
Merlin's eyes found Gaius, who was hurrying into the room, a blurry figure in the doorway.
"Done making a mess?"
Merlin might have laughed at the joke, if he wasn't still reeling from the lost time and struggling to breathe. He rested a hand on his heart and felt it rabbiting in his chest as he began to feel the time passed.
Gaius stepped between Arthur and the bed, and rubbed circles into Merlin's back as he made sure to hold him in a good posture for breathing.
Merlin had died many times, likely more than he realized with how many years he spent unawares. But this had been the longest he had ever spent just gone. Wars were waged over his absence and he couldn't help but try to remember the names and faces of the new, young knights and wonder which had been fatalities, which had soldiered home different , all on his behalf. How many civilians were caught in the crossfire? How many permanent graves were dug for the sake of his temporary demise?
". . . than just you. I wouldn't be so self centered." Arthur's voice faded into his thoughts and he tried to focus on them, hear them properly. "Really you were just a declaration of war, nothing special. A mighty good symbol of victory though." The joking tone soothed him unexpectedly, and he tried to ease back into his pillows, but Gaius was still holding him firmly. "We put up a good front without your help, mind you." Arthur's voice was shaking, betraying him, but Merlin let it be. He could pretend for a moment.
"Here, my boy." Gaius lifted a cup to his lips, it was filled with a warm, grey liquid that sloshed thickly in the cup. "It's just water with starch," he explained. "And honey, for your throat."
Merlin's hand held the cup over Gaius's fingers as they both brought it to his lips. He could still feel the sting of vomit, so he was grateful to wash it down, able to focus on his physical ailments rather than the gaping hole in his memories.
Gaius eventually took the cup and retreated, leaving Arthur looking guilt stricken at his bedside. He placed a hand on Merlin's shoulder and thought for a moment, before deciding to keep things brief for the time being. "Get some rest."
Merlin nodded, sinking into his pillows.
Merlin recovered slower than usual, after being resurrected. Often there were some lingering ailments from his cause of death; a stab wound would leave his muscles tight and aching for weeks, a blast of dark magic would leave him disoriented for a week or so, and poisonings might leave him with lingering symptoms as his magic flushed it out of his system. Apparently though, having one's head severed from his shoulders for months left him struggling to remember how to move his limbs, work his tongue.
Gaius theorized it may be the manner of death, the length in which he had remained dead, or perhaps a combination of the two. Merlin didn't really care what had caused it. He had to be walked around his room in short spurts of practice either way. To make matters worse, he could hardly even complain about it, seeing as each time he tried to speak, only a strained croak would come out. He'd resolved himself to muteness a week in, not wanting to aggravate his throat with pitiful attempts at speech that would just prolong the healing process.
Once he had his feet under him, he tailed Arthur around the castle, just as a companion. He'd not received any work seeing as he still had to pause before he ascended any stairs and think hard on it if he wanted to try anything intricate with his hands. More than once, Arthur had caught him with a steadying hand before he face planted, being far more clumsy than he was typically.
Then, was the first day that Merlin followed his king to the knight's practice. The fresh air would be good for him, Gaius had said. He needed to relax.
But Merlin was far from relaxed upon meeting him.
Mordred.
"He's the one who recovered you from Morgana," Arthur had explained, the boy bowing low to Merlin upon their meeting. "He aided us in a raid of one of her northern fortresses when he was indentured to her, and has been knighted ever since."
For the first time since he'd been found, Merlin was glad he couldn't talk. He didn't think he could muster up the words to say what he felt in that moment anyway. So instead, he stared intently back at Mordred, who appeared to sense his apprehension and looked up through his lashes. They held each other's gaze for a long moment, until Arthur cleared his throat.
"You'll have to excuse him," he explained to his new knight. "He's not yet recovered fully. I'm sure you two will have plenty to talk about once he is healed."
Mordred didn't spare the king so much as a glance. "Indeed."
No one would let him see it.
He'd written a request to Gaius and had been denied. He'd mimed out his curiosity to Arthur, who had promptly turned away with a shake of his head, claiming to not know what he was getting at. The knights all insisted they didn't know where it was kept. Gwen warned it wasn't a good idea.
Mordred though, Mordred humored him.
He'd taken him down to the crypt, so soft spoken and meek that one might think that neither of them spoke. Mordred had always been a boy of few words, preferring to lie in wait and live through action.
It terrified Merlin, made him harder to read.
And yet, he was the only one willing to lead him to the coffin, his supposed resting place for over half a year.
The knight waited by the entrance to give Merlin privacy, acting as guard in case of interruption. Merlin lit the torches in the crypt with a flash of his eyes, and stared down at the imposing thing. It laid with its lid shut neatly, the iron box that his head was kept in placed in the center.
He picked it up, rotating it in his hands, the cold iron making his magic ripple away from it and numbing his fingers. It felt claustrophobic, just laying his eyes upon the thing, so he set it down by his feet and carried on.
Peering over his shoulder to be sure that Mordred wasn't spying, he gently lifted the lid of the coffin, wincing at the creak that whined loudly in the thick silence of the crypt. The inside was lined with a fine linen, a dark stain soaked around where the shoulders might lay. He reached in and tapped it with two fingers, to test if it were dry. The fabric was stiff, with a crackling give to it.
Checking once more, Merlin found himself crawling into the coffin, slowly convincing his lost limbs to situate themselves down the center, the base of his neck lying over the dark spot able to feel the difference in texture.
He took a deep breath and slowly released it, blowing out through his mouth until his lungs were completely empty. Suddenly the position felt incredibly familiar.
Gasping, he sat up straight, mind reeling and heart pounding in his chest. How long had he laid there? It felt like seconds, but what if it were hours? Days? Years? He sunk down the side of the coffin and sat on the floor, hand on his chest as he tried to control himself.
One moment he had been startled from behind and the next he had woken up, dazed and in pain, unable to ask for help or get answers to his questions .
"You alright?"
Merlin jumped at the voice, finding Mordred standing a few feet away.
"Merlin?"
"Guah," he coughed, sweat beading on his brow. If Mordred was still waiting by the entrance, he must have only been laying there for the few moments it had felt like. He knew he had, logically, but the age in his friends' faces and the seasons having seemingly taken a step back; they frightened him.
Feeling Mordred still waiting for an answer, he nodded, sagging further onto the floor. He just sat there, the young knight watching him, breathing.
He didn't often dwell on his immortality, but the gaping hole in his life was haunting, even as he recovered. He would live a thousand of their lifetimes. It was difficult to fathom. He was so young, almost the same age as Arthur, now, but this point in history would one day be his distant past. How small a fraction of his life would his time in Arthur's service become? And he'd gone and missed a sizable chunk of that precious time, leaving the kingdom vulnerable and his king alone.
He glanced up at Mordred, a shuddering breath blowing out of him. In his time away, even, Arthur's doom had joined his council.
"I know why you look at me like that."
Merlin grew a shade paler but did not break his wide eyed stare.
Mordred sighed. "I'm a druid. I've heard similar tales that you have. They tried to keep it from me when I was younger but . . . I eventually found out my destiny.
"I remember, what you tried to do to me. I held onto that for so long and then – suddenly it made sense. You knew then, didn't you; what I'm meant to do?"
Minutely, Merlin nodded.
Mordred turned, then slid down the coffin beside Merlin on the floor. "I don't want that. It's why I left Camelot. But when your king found me again, the only thing I could think to do was help him. What greater way to defy my fate than to aid the man I'm meant to destroy? I knew I had to find you, though.
"I'm not a fool, Emrys. I know how stubborn the hand of destiny can be. I don't know how. I don't know why. But one day, I will intend to kill Arthur."
Merlin swallowed. "I know," he said, voice strained and shaking. It was the first thing he'd managed to say in full since waking up and he wished he'd choked on it.
"I want you to know that you have my blessing, to do your duty when the time comes."
Eyes glistening with sorrow, Merlin nodded. "I–" He stopped, cleared his throat to try again. "I'm so-rry."
A sad smile crept onto Mordred's young face then, and Merlin couldn't help but feel the honor in the knight's eyes was misplaced. Merlin appeared like a disciple before him, but he was just a man, really.
Slowly, Mordred climbed to his feet, then held out his hand to help Merlin up. "Until then," he said.
Merlin steadied himself, then looked at Mordred, seeing past the visions and the prophecies for the first time in years and finding a cursed boy, burdened with a fate unimaginable. He understood the feeling. It was similar, afterall, to the weight that Merlin shouldered each day.
With a sharp, determined nod, Merlin answered, clasping the boy's hand more firmly, he promised, "Until then."