Archive of Our Own

Laundry. Pillow-fluffing. Back-scrubbing. Discreet eye-rolling. Creative name-calling.

Learning about swords and heraldry and the best ways to get soup and capon grease (and blood) out of chainmail and studded leather.

Learning to masturbate quickly and quietly and keep his hands, if not his eyes, to himself.

Lying—so much lying, he cannot fathom why he is still so awkward at it—as well as betraying his own kind. Matchmaking. Murder.

Falling in love with the days when the worst he endures is Gaius' nagging or Arthur's pre-breakfast temper.

Becoming an old man before his time—literally, on numerous occasions—and losing good people well before theirs.

Talking to puddles, ponds, whole bloody lakes. Boat theft. Funerary wildflower arrangements.

More murder. (Morgana's is the worst, because it feels like it has been forever looming, that first failed attempt—when she was largely blameless—tormenting him as much as the latter ones, when she was not.)

Clinging for dear life to the shivering-hot, sour-smelling deadweight of infinitely precious flesh and bone and heart that is Arthur Pendragon, the Once and Future King, so he will not slip and fall off Kilgharrah's back.

Dragon-riding. Wouldn't do to forget that one. (Also: speaking with dragons; arguing with dragons; failing to comprehend the fickleness and fallibility of dragons until it is too late, despite being an actual Dragonlord.)

Clinging for dear life to the cooling, sour-smelling deadweight of infinitely precious flesh and bone and heart that is Arthur Pendragon so he will not slip and fall beyond the Veil. Rocking him. Holding him. Not calling him names, for once. Letting him know that he is not alone, that he is absolutely worth each and every tear.

Failing, in the end, at the one thing he knows he was born to do.

Then: Screaming at dragons, corpses, swords, this cursed lake. More tears. More boat theft—one last, petty coda to the monstrous list of his crimes—and funerary wildflower arrangements.

Living, still.

Sleeping. Waking. Waiting. Walking despite the ache in his bones. Feeling despite the emptiness of his hands. Wanting despite the impossibility of having.

Magic, still. (Despite what his father had told him in the Crystal Cave and all that had happened at Camlann, he'd thought his power would diminish after Arthur's passing, that it would be burnt up in his rage, or doused by his grief. That, without Arthur, there could be no Emrys—no such thing as a one-sided coin. But a body still wants a fire on a cold night, especially in the damp chill beside a lake, and the flames still come when called, merrily obeying no matter how wet or meager the fuel.)

Watching people come and go but never knowing them, thus never having to say goodbye. Clever. Lonely.

Talking to puddles, ponds, this hallowed lake. Boat building. Scattering wildflower seeds.

Hunting, not in Arthur's memory—and certainly not just to prove to said memory that he can—but because the occasional rabbit or snipe adds welcome variety to a diet of fish and wild plants.

Then, when he goes off eating altogether and grows weary of marking time as humans do, spending time as a willow tree. (It is more stressful at first than he'd imagined, what with the constant chatter of information coming in from the soil, from the water and the wind—not to mention all the birds and insects and fungi—but once he gets used to it he finds it soothing. Like this, being immortal isn't such a burden. He can just exist, and the earth will take care of him. He needn't toil, needn't hide or try and explain his familiar face to every new generation that comes to the shores of Avalon.)

Witnessing the things that some men do, hidden beneath his branches.

Learning that a willow tree can be aroused same as a man, but the sensation is very different (not to mention the outcome—sap surging, catkins bursting out all over, every living thing in the area fully aware of the state of him, which he dearly hopes was not the case when he had lived in the palace).

Becoming a young man again, well after his time.

Talking to the people who come to the lake. Boat rentals. Guided fishing trips and wildflower walks. Storytelling—not lying, storytelling—around a campfire, lit without the aid of magic, except on especially damp nights, or when only the children are watching.

Learning that there is no limit to his loneliness, that it is an ever-expanding cavern in his soul that no amount of honest work or new acquaintances can fill.

Falling in love with the days when the worst he endures are rude tourists, stale sandwiches, and rough weather.

Falling overboard in a storm. Being pulled down, down—far deeper than he thought possible, for the lake has diminished through the years—until his lungs are screaming and he can see nothing but stars dancing on the backs of his eyelids. (Camelot's night sky, glimpsed from a tower window. Live sparks coalescing into the Pendragon crest. Eyes meeting across the embers of a campfire. A shimmer of bubbles in the water.)

Coming to on a muddy bank, coughing and sputtering, sun-dazzled eyes blind to the face of the person hovering, pawing at him, saying, "Merlin, let me…Merlin, Merlin! Roll over, you idiot, we need to get the water out of your lungs. What were you even doing out in such a storm, and what on earth are you wearing?! This color—dear god, I've seen bonfires that were subtler—if it is fish you're after, they'll spot you from miles off, you'll never catch anything…"

Clinging for dear life to the wet, sun-warmed, dank-smelling live weight of flesh and bone and heart that is Arthur Pendragon, once and always beloved.

Because he can.

Because he doesn't want to slip and fall back into the loneliness.

Because he cannot die, but Arthur never knew that—still doesn't—which means he has returned just for Merlin, thinking he needed saving. (Which he did, after a fashion. He is now fully prepared to admit that there are worse things than death.)

Then: Man-handling, face-grabbing, kissing—oh god, the kissing, sloppier and more glorious than any fantasy, dragging Arthur down into the reeds, feeling as if he might start bursting out all over in catkins.

(Though it seems, given Arthur's eager response, that the kissing is not entirely unexpected.)