Chapter Text
When Arther awoke, it was cold.
He stood on the bank of a lake, watching a boat sink.
That’s odd, He thought, I don’t think there was a boat there before.
Merlin could explain.
Where was Merlin?
He turned, scanning the bank until his eyes rested on a figure at the bank. Through the fog, he made out Merlin- but his shoulders were slumped, his head hanging. He started towards him.
“Merlin, you big sook, what are you doing?” Merlin didn’t answer, didn’t even react. The nerve.
“Merlin, answer me!” He was only a few steps away, and Merlin hadn’t even given an acknowledgement that he’d heard him. Normally, he’d have snapped back at him by now… Was something really wrong?
“Merlin, are you alright?” He reached out to grab his shoulder, frowning. “You’re-”
His hand passed right through.
He stumbled back, staring. Tentatively, he reached out again, but his fingers slid through Merlin’s arm without any resistance at all. Merlin just shivered, pulling his jacket around him.
“Merlin? Are you a hallucination? A spell…?” He stepped forward, looking at Merlin’s face, but nothing looked strange- apart from the look of complete devastation on Merlin’s face. His eyes didn’t follow Arthur, as if he didn’t see him. He followed the younger man’s eyeline, to the almost-sunken boat.
Oh, He realised, a funeral. Only, who would Merlin be mourning alone on a bank?
He wracked his brain, trying to remember how he got here. There had been an ache in his muscles and a stabbing pain in his side, and he’d been so tired but he’d been warm, nestled in Merlin’s arms… on this very bank. The pain and weariness had faded, he’d gotten so, so cold and darkness set in…
No.
He turned and ran into the water, splashing and wading towards the boat. The water felt thick but he didn’t feel wet, he noted distantly. When it was too deep to wade, he kicked off and began swimming to the boat. He grabbed onto the side, pulling himself up and staring into the boat as it filled with water.
Shining silver armour, a waterlogged red cape…
And his own pale face, slipping under the water.
- - -
The first week must be the hardest, he thought to himself. When he’d wandered back into Camelot, no-one saw him. The familiar streets of his own kingdom, full of people, but not one person looked at him. He stomped through the streets, yelling and shoving, but he couldn’t move anything and not one person reacted. He’d thought that would be the worst bit, but no- it could always get worse.
His knights soberly gathered tight in the throne room, muttering, looking as if their armor was twice as heavy as usual. They didn’t see him.
Gaius stayed up late into the night treating victims of the battle alone. Merlin hadn’t returned. Arthur had to leave, not able to face the harsher injuries.
Gwen, staying stalwart in the throne room as she stood alone, trying to pull together the pieces; Then Gwen, collapsing against the door to their room as soon as it shut and clamping her hand over her mouth to muffle her sobs. Her handmaids rushed to her, and all Arthur could do was grieve for her as she slept alone, her crown abandoned at the foot of their bed. His hand passed through her as well as he automatically reached to comfort her.
Arthur spent the next few days (and nights- he was never tired) drifting through the city and surrounding forests, shoving things and people as he went just in case. He’d begun to figure out the rules of his new reality: inanimate objects like boxes, trees and carts were solid for him. Anything living, whether human, animal or otherwise? He phased right through.
The kingdom seemed to go back to normalcy very quickly. He supposed they needed to keep going, but a part of him hurt. The only ones he’d seen acting anything out of the norm were, surprisingly, a group of druids he stumbled across in a forest. They were quiet, all of them seemingly unsure of everything they were doing. They looked lost- Arthur almost felt bad.
He spent a few weeks doing nothing. He sat in the palace, he stared out windows, he stood in the square, doing nothing but wallowing in his own self-pity. He deserved it, at least- mourning his life, and then mourning the people suffering in grief for him. Except Merlin, who he hadn’t seen since his ‘death’.
His death was still so weird to think about. He didn’t feel dead, yet he was. He’d even stood beside Gwen at his own royal funeral, with nothing but his old cloak on the pyre.
He felt a quick spark of anger at Merlin, then, for sending him and his armor down into watery depths rather than bringing him back to Camelot for his friends, people and wife. The feeling died quickly, though, when he remembered the pure anguish in Merlin’s eyes on the bank.
The man would have had his reasons.
He was worried about Merlin anyway. All he’d heard of him was Gwen and Gaius talking in hushed voices, about how they’d been unable to reach him, and if he wanted to be found he would be, blah blah.
Months later, Camelot had almost healed. The weather got warmer, though Arthur never felt it, and he’d set into a steady routine. He checked in on everyone in the palace in the morning, seeing all their morning routines; he’d never put that much thought into the servant’s preparations until he was awake to witness them. He found a new respect for them as they strove to keep the palace running behind the scenes, giving the grieving queen no reason to stress.
His heart swelled with emotion every time he looked at Gwen, a mix of so many he couldn’t name even a few. She’d been so strong for her kingdom, so strong but so alone in her status. He couldn’t even make himself be mad when she stopped looking at his portrait as much. She deserved to move on, he thought.
He set himself a new area to patrol around the kingdom and forest each day, in a desperate attempt to give himself normalcy and a route to follow. He had to walk, but found himself enjoying it after some time. The first time he tried to mount a horse, he fell right through the creature and lay on the ground groaning for a good few minutes. It was also the first time he was glad no-one could see him.
If he had time to spare, he stopped by the knight’s barracks and training grounds. He couldn’t pick up a sword- everything was immovable- but he practiced form and ran laps with them. He had no idea if his fitness would degrade when he was dead, but it couldn’t hurt, and gave him some sense of comradery.
At night, he avoided the palace- the dinners, dances, the jovial attitude he couldn't be a part of, that’s the bit that still hurt even after half a year. Instead, he’d wander the grounds and stargaze. He’d never had much time for looking at the stars. Now, he supposed, he had all the time in the world- just as well, they were beautiful.
He spent a lot of time thinking, lying in the grass and staring at the sky. He’d never had much time for thinking either. He thought about what he’d do with the rest of his not-quite-life.
If he continued like this, he had to face the certainty that all he knew would wither and die; he never followed that thread of thought. He wasn’t ready yet, he reasoned.
He thought about Gwen. He had loved her, and sometimes he was pained when he saw the way she began sitting closer to Sir Leon. She deserved it, he reminded himself. She deserved more. Their marriage had been somewhat of obligation- he needed a wife, she was his friend anyway, they weren’t not attracted to each other. He loved her enough to let her go- except he was already gone.
He thought about Merlin. Wherever his mind went, it always came back to sharp cheekbones, untamable black hair, signature neckerchiefs. He replayed almost every moment they’d spent together in his mind, realising more and more as he thought. The gold flashes in his eyes weren’t just a result of lighting and Arthur’s own sub-par eyesight. He was fairly sure Merlin didn’t even know where the tavern was. The old man’s eyes had been familiar for a reason. He’d spent an inordinate amount of time having ‘silent’ arguments with Mordred.
Of course he only noticed all of this now that he had an eternity to think.
That wasn’t the only part he kept thinking about. No-one, including himself, had seen or heard from Merlin since his death. Some days he was sick with worry, staring into the forest as if he’d appear, other days it was only a passing thought as he stared at the stars. But it was always there. Merlin, Merlin, Merlin.
Merlin had been on his mind every day since he’d met. He couldn’t bear to be without the man in his life, even now he found himself still expecting to turn and find Merlin stupidly grinning at him.
Well. Apparently he was never as stupid as Arthur thought.
- - -
Three years later, Arthur was almost dying from the monotony.
His routine had faded in its lustre. The patrols still helped, he checked in on people. He found with a growing confusion that he hadn’t aged a bit.
Merlin was still nowhere to be seen.
He watched Gwen and Leon’s wedding, and cheered for them though they couldn’t hear it. He liked to think that they knew his approval because of it. She looked gorgeous, and they both looked happier than they’d been since his death.
He’d found a new hardest bit- watching Gaius age. Ever since Merlin had left, he’d seemed to age faster and grow wearier every day. He’d taken on new apprentices, some nice girl and her no-nonsense brother. He watched them learn, feeling a sense of pride in his kingdom as they cared for Gaius and for the public.
Camelot seemed to be fine. It was adapting.
- - -
Gaius died on a warm summer’s day, surrounded by his friends in the castle. It was the first real loss for Arthur as he stayed stagnant, ten years on.
They laid him to rest in the square, in a beautiful ceremony Arthur watched from the side. He thought he saw a familiar figure watching from the back, but when he made his way over the man was already gone.
He held out hope that that had been Merlin, in some way, shape or form.
There was a small spark of hope for him, in Gaius’ death, which he felt guilty about. That hope made him stay long after the fire had burned out, flitting between Gaius’ deathbed and his pyre, hoping to whatever made him stay that Gaius would appear. That he finally wouldn’t be alone in this half-existence.
It was only when the sun rose and the castle started up again that he slumped away, accepting that Gaius wouldn’t be staying as he did.
- - -
Alright, He admitted it- Gwen and Leon’s children were way more adorable than Gwen and his would have been.
Two adorable boys and a sweet baby girl running around the palace, giving it life once more. They brought so much joy. He often followed them around, wondering if this could have been his life, running after children as they laughed. He’d vowed long ago that no matter what happened he would have been an involved, happy parent- nothing like his father.
Sometimes, when he walked with Gwen as she and they strolled around the grounds, he thought the oldest boy looked at him. He’d see Arthur for a moment, before disregarding him as children do when he vanished.
He always wondered what connection was there, his only theory being that they held the same title and would wear the same crown.
Or that Gwen and Leon had named him Arthur. He would have cried about that when he heard it, if he still could.
As the boy grew older, he no longer noticed Arthur at all.
- - -
Another ‘hardest bit’: sitting at the foot of the bed as Gwen kissed her children and husband goodbye. She died on a clear spring day, with a smile on her face, love surrounding her. She deserved that. She only shivered when he tried to hold her hand, so he recoiled and simply watched.
He grieved with them, though he hadn’t spoken to her for twenty years, and at her funeral bowed to Leon as he stood with their children. He knew he couldn’t see him. But it felt like the right thing to do.
When he turned, that same familiar figure stood on the other side of the square, wiping his eyes. Arthur started towards him, but he lost him in the winding streets of the city.
It had to be Merlin, he prayed to himself, please let him be here. Let him come back.
He didn’t wait as long by the pyre before bitter disappointment set in, and he roamed away.
- - -
Leon passed on a crisp Autumn day, King Arthur the Second being crowned soon after. There was a strange bittersweetness in watching the two ceremonies, hearing ‘King Arthur’ again after all these years.
Almost thirty years.
King Arthur the Second was fair but far more impulsive. War soon set in, and Arthur only felt more and more helpless as he watched knights come and go, and even an invasion attempt on Camelot. Of course they pulled through.
Arthur the Second married, had kids, then passed, and for Arthur the First? That meant beginning watching the long line of successors to the Camelot Throne.
Arthur kept up his patrols. He ran with the knights; he wasn’t getting slower, but he wasn’t getting faster either.
He wandered around the palace, but he barely recognised any faces. He stared at the stars and thought of those he’d lost. Even Merlin must be dead by now, and he never even saw him again.
His heart ached strangely at the thought of Merlin, different to the pain for the others, but he pushed it away.
Patrols. Observe. Learn the names, talk to the stars, think of his past, grieve.
Patrols, learn the names, talk to the stars, grieve.
Patrols, talk to the stars.
Talk to the stars, grieve.
Talk to the stars.
Patrols.
Grieve.
- - -
One hundred and forty three years later, Camelot was invaded.
It felt like a blur, a rush of screams and clangs of metal and crashing of wood and stone. Even now, Arthur instinctively ducked out the way, moving to shove at whoever was running past but he hit no-one. He couldn’t fight any of the attackers, couldn’t stop any blows, couldn’t put out the fires or help his people as they were slaughtered.
He stumbled into an alley to try and escape the hellscape, only to be greeted with a lurching boy grasping at the spear through his stomach. Arthur himself lurched when the attacker wrenched the spear away, and the boy’s insides went with it. Bloody flesh and pulsing organs landed at his feet, and he wished he could still throw up. It had been too long since he’d seen violence like this.
It was as if the sky rained fire, the wind itself was screaming in pain, the castle rasped and cracked like it was dying. The ground seemed to sway under his feet, there was nowhere safe to look- everywhere was red, with blood, with fire, with Camelot capes lying splattered in mud.
Arthur ran, thinking of any way he could do something, anything, to save this kingdom, all he had left of those he’d loved-
There was a horrible groan and screech, Arthur spun around in horror just in time to see the Knight’s barracks collapse. His legs failed and he sat down hard, staring at the flaming wreckage that had been perfectly maintained from his childhood. He’d spent so many hours there, dead and alive- running, sword fighting, talking with his knights, beating Merlin to a pulp.
All gone.
The grass burned, right along with his past.
He barely looked up when fire burst out of a window in the castle, echoing with the screams of Queen and King whoever.
He looked to his castle, numb as the orange light of fire glowed through more and more windows. The stones blackened, the roofs collapsed, he could hear the grating of wooden beams collapsing.
The grass fire reached him, but he felt no burning. He was still cold.
It was a dark winter’s day when Camelot fell.
- - -
Arthur sat in the wreckage for a long while. It was like he was back to his first few weeks of death, mourning everything and unable to do a thing. But now it was far worse.
He stumbled through the wreckage, walking over piles of ash and glowing charcoal he was too light to disturb or break, looking for… he didn’t know. A survivor? Someone barely hanging on? What could he do if he found one, watch and give a comfort they couldn’t feel? Simply make them colder as they die?
He found corpses. Burned skeletons in the barracks and castle, the descendants of his Guenivere. Pale bodies with their eyes open, unseeing- not just of him. From some, blood still dripped.
He could see where the victors had taken their prizes of war- ransacked houses with open doors, cut hands and heads. There were empty chests piled in the town square; along with, horribly, four bodies in royal regalia. He could only look for a few seconds before turning and walking quickly away.
He saw all four children had Leon’s eyes.
He found his way up onto one of the standing walls, blankly surveying the damage. The formerly grand Camelot was lit only by dying fires. It looked, well, like how he felt. Grim, depressing, empty, dejected, eradicated, the list goes on.
He sat on the edge of the wall, staring upwards, but it was cloudy. There were no stars.
He looked back down despondently as the moon peeked through the clouds, casting a cold light on the city, when he saw it.
Movement.
A figure, miniscule where he was, cloak pulled tight against the freezing air. They moved swiftly through the desecrated streets.
Arthur scrambled off the wall, sprinting with renewed energy to where he saw the figure hurrying. Was this a survivor? Would Camelot live on? Or, worse, was this someone looking for any leftover loot? Arthur felt rage strike him at that thought. He had no idea what he’d do, but he would not let someone take what was left of his kingdom. Even if he had to resort to spending the rest of his afterlife trying to find a way to develop a solid body.
There.
The figure rushed ahead of him, Arthur turned sharply to keep up and raced to catch up. They were moving unnaturally fast, but when they came to an abrupt stop Arthur barreled right through them. They violently shivered, clutching at their cloak. His- Arthur determined from the flat chest and broad shoulders- face was shadowed by the cloak hood, most of the light coming from behind him.
He looked up, and Arthur realised where they were. The pile of chests was stained with drying royal blood, but he couldn’t make himself look at the bodies.
He heard quiet muttering behind him, and turned just in time to see a red cloth fly into the figure’s hands and shed itself of mud.
A magic user.
They were rarer nowadays. Uther’s efforts had turned out to have an effect down the line- the small numbers dwindled faster, until all Arthur knew about was concentrated communities living isolated by choice. Camelot hadn’t even been sure if they were all still alive and there was no way to find them. Many magical beasts, too, had suffered. No dragons, he hadn’t seen a Griffin in years, and he wasn’t even sure if modern Camelot citizens knew what a Manticore was.
Well. When they were alive.
The magic user draped the red cloth over the bodies and quietly murmured. A swirl of fire appeared in the man’s hands. Arthur found himself mesmerised as he lifted his hands, letting the fire spin and twist as it settled on the wood of the chests and began burning.
A makeshift funeral pyre… this may be the one living magic user who was a friend of Camelot.
Arthur’s heart swelled in gratitude and he knew he would cry if tears could appear. He drew himself together and stood next to the stranger, bowing his head for the dead heirs to the throne.
After a few seconds, he heard the rustling of fabric and the man pulled back his hood to bow.
Arthur’s world stopped.
Black hair, only slightly longer but just as unruly. High cheekbones lit starkly in the orange firelight. Gorgeous blue eyes, flashing bright gold as the fire jumped and burned brighter than should be possible.
One hundred and forty three years later.
As if he hadn’t aged a day.
Merlin.