Chapter Text
Arthur knew what dying felt like.
He knew the way pain eroded a body and threatened to dismantle it from the inside.
The number of times he’d been stabbed, poisoned, and broken was enough for the feeling to practically engrave itself into his skin.
Thus, not realizing when a simple cough turned deadly and his veins began to burn would have been impossible.
If anything, that awareness made him an expert— not in dying, per se, but in enduring the pain.
Arthur had spent a lifetime mastering that particular skill.
He had confidence in that truth.
The only one who could possibly challenge him was Merlin.
The number of heart attacks Arthur had suffered over the years, thanks to the warlock, could fill an entire book.
Leon counted too, in his own way.
Arthur had never learned the details, but the knight was the only man alive who could describe what resurrection felt like.
Arthur felt proud of himself for not being jealous.
For knowing that he wouldn’t share that same fate.
That his death would be permanent, not just a temporary lapse in consciousness.
In fact, he was… fine with it.
Not happy, but content that he had tried his best.
Not even Merlin’s tearful expression could shake that resolve.
Could give him false hope that he’d live to see another day.
Arthur was realistic like that.
He let out a bitter laugh at the thought.
He was the one dying, yet Merlin was the one breaking apart.
Arthur had never thought he’d see the day when Merlin couldn’t stand the thought of him being gone.
He’d always imagined it the other way around.
The irony made him smile softly.
He reached up, brushing Merlin’s cheek with a trembling hand, trying to ease the warlock’s pain.
“Thank you for everything,” he said honestly, voice hoarse.
He hated seeing Merlin sob and clutch at him like that, but he couldn’t pass up the chance to finally say what he’d been holding in—to tell him how much he appreciated him.
It simply wouldn’t do for Merlin to think Arthur hated him as he lay dying.
Arthur would never forgive himself if that misunderstanding lasted.
Yes, he had been furious at Merlin for lying to him, for betraying his trust—but hating him? That was impossible.
No matter how hard he tried.
Merlin just… meant too much to him for that.
That was why Arthur wanted his goodbye to be peaceful—to give him a soft smile even as his coughs worsened and the edges of his vision darkened.
He couldn’t manage a proper hug, but hoped his words were enough.
And by the way Merlin held him, they were.
Arthur didn’t mind the suffocating embrace as he chuckled weakly.
He was dying in his best friend’s arms. He couldn’t have asked for anything else.
His only regret was not being able to be there for Merlin once he was gone.
But even that didn’t stop the small smile that lingered as he died anyway.
Arthur hadn’t expected a second chance.
He hadn’t even felt he deserved one.
After all, Mordred had never hidden how much retribution he thought Arthur’s betrayal warranted.
Morgana hadn’t either. Her words had been sharp and grief-stricken, but never false.
Arthur had brought her nothing but pain.
To her, his death was justice—a way to finally find peace.
Her own death had brought him no comfort. If anything, it deepened his guilt.
Arthur felt nothing but shame as Merlin buried her.
Morgana’s last words echoed endlessly in his mind, their weight too heavy to forget.
That guilt only worsened once the Great Dragon confirmed they were running out of time.
Nothing Merlin said or did could change the truth:
Arthur had brought nothing but suffering to those he loved.
Not even his death would make things easier for them.
At best, it would offer momentary relief—proof that they no longer had to carry his burdens.
Despite the ache that realization caused, Arthur had accepted it.
Approved of it, even.
Which was why opening his eyes again was so shocking.
He shouldn’t have been able to.
His breath hitched, chest tightening.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
He should have been sent to Avalon—or wherever heaven was meant to be.
Not… alive.
Not staring at a ceiling.
His heartbeat quickened. Something twisted in him as air filled his lungs again.
Seeing a ceiling—especially one so familiar—shouldn’t have been possible.
He swallowed hard and looked down at himself, dazed.
He expected to see the blood-soaked armor he’d died in, but instead… he saw a nightshirt.
Its soft fabric tugged at his memory.
And his body—
Arthur winced, pressing a hand to his chest.
The pain was different now.
If death had been an all-consuming void, this was raw and aching.
Not the agony of a wound, but the soreness of overworked muscles.
No blood. No stabbing pain.
Just the dull ache he knew all too well from hours of training.
He tilted his head, scanning the room—trying to make sense of it, one detail at a time.
More and more familiar shapes tugged at him.
At first, he thought it might be one of Camelot’s guest chambers, judging by the ceiling and ornate pottery.
But then his gaze fell on the curtains.
Old, yes—but well-kept.
And there, along the edge, a crooked cross-stitch.
Arthur’s breath caught.
He would recognize that failed embroidery anywhere.
Morgana had made it years ago, after accidentally cutting the curtain with a dinner knife.
She’d been so apologetic, she tried to fix it herself—poorly.
He’d refused to replace them.
They’d been a small reminder of their childhood.
And the floor… strewn with half-thrown weapons from one of his drunken escapades.
Arthur shivered, almost feeling the hangover.
Just as he suspected—this was his old room.
The one he’d abandoned when he became king.
A king couldn’t remain in a prince’s chambers—an ancient rule he’d reluctantly obeyed.
But now… he was here again.
And his body hurt not from dying, but from training.
He looked down, trembling.
“What the hell,” he whispered, “is going on?”
Why wasn’t he dead?
In the end, it didn’t take long for Arthur to realize what had happened.
In fact, it took almost nothing at all.
He only had to wait for a servant to bring him breakfast. Asking a simple question would tell him everything he needed to know.
If it were Merlin who appeared, all the better.
And if not—well, that would still give him a clue.
Sure enough, when a much younger-looking Morris walked in with a tray, Arthur had his answer. He didn’t even have to ask.
That face—those unlined features—said it all.
Somehow, impossibly, Arthur had traveled back in time.
The realization hit him like a blow. He was so stunned he couldn’t even thank the servant properly. He just stared blankly as Morris set the tray on the table.
Because… how?
How did that even happen?
Why him, of all people, when others were far more deserving?
Why wasn’t Merlin beside him?
Why was Morris the one tending to him instead?
Exactly what was going on here—?!
He groaned, raking a hand through his hair. No matter how he tried to piece it together, it didn’t make sense. Arthur wasn’t supposed to be allowed back at all—
A sharp clatter made him pause. Morris startled at the sound of a fork hitting the floor.
Arthur blinked. That was strange.
He didn’t remember servants reacting like that. Especially not Morris—he had always been steady, rarely startled by anything. Most servants weren’t, really. If anything, they used to tease recruits for it.
Arthur frowned.
If Morris was this jumpy… just how far back had he gone?
He waited for the servant to retrieve the fork.
“Morris,” he called, his voice light, almost teasing. His smile faltered when the man froze mid-motion.
He hadn’t expected that.
“What day is it?” Arthur asked softly, trying to sound casual—as if he were merely hungover and unsure whether it was Wednesday yet.
He kept his tone gentle, nonthreatening. Or at least, he tried. Judging by the way Morris swallowed hard, he wasn’t very convincing.
The servant hesitated, then wordlessly pointed toward the window.
“I-It’s the an-anniversary of the purge, sire.”
All color drained from Arthur’s face. Whatever remained of his smile vanished.
... What?
The words echoed in his mind.
He’d landed today?
If that was true, then—
He swallowed hard.
Today was the day Thomas James Collins was executed.
The day his best friend came to Camelot.
Arthur forced a strained smile, offering Morris—his manservant, for now—a nod of thanks. It felt wrong to use that title for anyone but Merlin.
“Thank you, Morris,” he said quietly, hoping the gratitude carried through despite the weight in his chest.
Because of all the days to wake up in... it had to be the worst one.
The day Merlin’s life would begin to unravel.
Arthur’s heart twisted. Why couldn’t he have gone back just one day earlier?
Without realizing it, his expression turned into a grimace.
If he had, he might have saved a life, might have stopped the events that led to Mary Collins’s death.
And instead—
Morris went pale as parchment, stammering incoherently.
Arthur blinked. “M-Morris?” He started, frowning. “Is everything all right—?”
He stopped. He’d seen that look somewhere before...
Ah.
Cold understanding hit him.
It was the look of a servant who believed he’d offended a noble—the kind of fear that made a man shake for days.
Was Morris reacting like that because he thought Arthur might send him to the stocks—or worse—simply over a grimace?
And behaving as if that fear was normal?
Arthur winced.
Oh, gods.
He gave the servant another glance. Morris seemed to pale further, his words tumbling out in a panic.
Clearly, Arthur had underestimated just how much of a piece of work he’d been before Merlin.
This was going to be a bigger problem than he thought.
(Why couldn’t he deal with one mess at a time? He was still internally screaming over not being dead.)
Seeing Morris so terrified shouldn’t have bothered him.
Arthur shouldn’t have cared.
He’d spent half his life perfecting indifference.
But he did care.
He hated that people saw him as a tyrant.
He’d done everything in his power as king to ensure his citizens never looked at him that way—to make them feel safe, not afraid.
He remembered once using Morris for target practice. It wasn’t surprising that the man had trauma, but this level of fear?
It was unbearable.
That wasn’t normal.
Surely, everyone else didn’t have it this bad... right?
(He hoped not.)
They did.
And it was worse.
Arthur couldn’t even describe the hollow ache of realizing that.
Wherever he went, fear followed.
Servants kept their heads bowed low, never daring a glance in his direction.
Sorcerers he’d helped hunt down under Uther’s command looked ready to flee from his shadow.
Guards stood too stiffly, as if being noticed meant punishment.
Nobles watched him with smug approval while everyone around them flinched.
Even Morris refused to walk within three paces of him, stammering every time Arthur so much as turned his head.
The flowers in the courtyard looked neglected, the castle walls cracked and half-repaired.
Gone was the warmth and laughter of Camelot—it had been replaced by a heavy, choking silence.
And the knights...
Arthur’s eyes widened.
They weren’t laughing together; they were mocking others. Cruel, mean-spirited laughter.
Three squires he’d once knighted looked like shadows of themselves. Peasants bore bruises. Stable hands and chambermaids avoided eye contact.
Even the cook—his cook—stiffened when he entered. The woman handed him his favorite snack with a trembling, forced smile.
His horse let him touch her but seemed confused by the gentle nuzzle.
And the townsfolk… they stared at him like they were waiting for bad news.
Their whispers grew so loud he thought he’d be sick.
This wasn’t his Camelot. Not the one Merlin had helped him build.
It was a twisted reflection—cold, lifeless.
He barely kept from retching, only because he knew Morris would blame himself for it. The image of the servant begging for mercy made him nauseous all over again.
(That was the worst part somehow.
He wondered what Merlin had done to change all this—to turn a kingdom of fear into one of joy.
He already owed the man a thousand apologies. Knowing that Merlin had been the reason people were happy didn’t make the guilt any lighter.)
Things didn’t exactly go badly after that.
But they didn’t go well, either.
Training, once a comfort, now felt like a punishment.
Arthur knew he wasn’t perfect—Merlin reminded him often enough—but he’d thought he’d at least been decent in the practice yard.
Apparently not.
One congratulatory pat on the shoulder made Morris faint.
He could already hear Merlin’s sarcastic, “Nice going, clotpole.” Gwen would’ve been gentler about it.
And oh.
He missed her terribly. Gods, he hoped she was safe. He barely remembered her as a servant—only as a queen, her back no longer bent from endless work.
Everything here was wrong.
He wasn’t moving on instinct anymore but calculating every word, every gesture. Pretending to be his old, callous self felt impossible.
And when he realized he’d been even worse than he remembered—when he saw how his knights flinched at his voice and his squires mistook a smile for a threat—his stomach turned.
A simple “thank you” made two trainees throw a servant to the ground. Arthur had to bite back the urge to shout.
To help.
To stop it.
When one of his old noble friends casually remarked that he “missed Arthur’s ruthlessness,” it took everything in him not to vomit right there.
By the time he was alone, Arthur had no words left.
He just turned his anger on the practice dummies.
Straw flew. Wood splintered.
He knew it wasn’t fair to the squires who’d have to fix them, but he couldn’t stop.
This was the only outlet he had.
The only way to keep from screaming.
(Arthur wouldn’t be able to grieve anywhere else.)
Once he woke up, hours later, Morris still looked pale.
Arthur felt bad about it, but he knew he couldn’t just let Morris shirk his duties.
Thankfully, the servant seemed to know it too.
He even appeared more willing to be near him—if barely.
Arthur was grateful enough that he didn’t have to argue about it.
If Morris wasn’t completely traumatized, there was still hope to fix things.
Thus, he didn’t mind the stilted behavior.
Merlin wasn’t exactly the best example of a servant, so Arthur wanted to know exactly how bad being alone with him really was.
It would serve as both a reminder and a way to make notes.
Arthur couldn’t afford to let even a single detail slide.
It didn’t take long for him to have an answer.
Terrible.
That was the only way he could describe it.
Being alone with him at night seemed to make things even worse for Morris.
The servant did everything properly, but he lacked any spark or confidence.
He brought Arthur his bath, but the water was cold—nowhere near the right temperature.
He delivered his clothing in silence, terrified to even look at him directly.
Trying to ask how he was only led to a quiet plea to be dismissed. The relief on his face when Arthur agreed made his chest tighten.
Arthur couldn’t help but feel bad all over again.
After that, he left for a walk.
Not because he wanted to remap the castle, but because the air in his room felt suffocating.
It felt like there was nothing good there anymore.
Staying would only make him spiral further.
He hadn’t expected much from the walk—perhaps an encounter with Morgana, if he was lucky. Maybe just a glimpse, to see if he still remembered how she looked before...
Well. Before everything.
It wasn’t about absolving his guilt. He just wanted to understand how blind he’d been to her suffering.
Wanted to know what kind of brother he should have been.
So he wandered, ignoring the chatter below as people feasted.
He didn’t blame them. They didn’t know the truth.
Not like his father did—
Arthur froze.
Uther hadn’t noticed him. The man stood overlooking the crowd, humming a tune Arthur didn’t recognize.
Arthur’s breath quickened.
He knew he’d never escape the memories of his father’s ghost—Uther had done too much damage for that—but seeing him in the flesh again, this soon…
He swallowed.
The old king looked younger. Stronger. That regal air that had faded in his final years was back in full force.
It should have made Arthur happy to see him alive like this.
It didn’t.
All he felt was dread.
Because…
Uther was smiling.
Not at the music or the abundance of the feast.
No.
He was smiling at the pyre that even the citizens tried not to look at—a feeble attempt at respect for the dead.
Arthur hadn’t been able to go near that particular “celebration” without feeling nauseated.
Not without thinking that Mary Collins’ threat had more merit than he’d ever wanted to admit.
But Uther... he looked proud.
Proud of the demonizing of a person.
Happy that he’d sent someone who was simply growing vegetables in his garden to his death.
Beaming at the twentieth anniversary of the slaughter of innocents.
Of innocents he had condemned to death because of his own lies.
(Merlin hadn’t had it in him to keep covering up that particular lie.
The warlock had spent hours forcing Arthur to face every secret he’d ever kept from him.
At the time, the only thing Arthur had felt was horror. He’d been too numb for anything else.)
Arthur covered his face, swallowing hard to keep from being sick.
His father didn’t notice, still humming with that delicate, satisfied smile.
By the time he turned around, Arthur was already gone.
This wasn’t a good idea.
In fact, it was a terrible one.
Arthur knew it the moment he knocked out the guards stationed at the dungeon entrance and began his descent into the cave.
He knew this was a betrayal of his knightly oaths.
But the nightmare wasn’t ending, and he was desperate.
He needed to understand why he’d been sent back.
He needed to know how to protect everyone this time.
And more importantly, how to keep Uther away from them.
Merlin hadn’t told him much about the Great Dragon, just the basics: why he’d tried to destroy Camelot and why he’d saved it later.
Arthur doubted he’d want to talk to a Pendragon—especially the son of the man who’d imprisoned him—but if the dragon cared half as much about his precious prophecy as Merlin claimed, he’d at least listen.
That was the only assurance Merlin had given him.
So Arthur swallowed and started down the stairs.
They were slick with moisture, and he had to brace against the walls to keep from slipping.
The cave was far larger than he thought.
Cold air rushed at him from every direction, biting through his clothes.
His jacket suddenly felt painfully inadequate.
It was a wonder Merlin hadn’t frozen to death coming down here in those threadbare things he called clothes.
A normal person would have died of hypothermia.
Arthur shook his head and grunted. He couldn’t let that distract him now.
“Great Dragon!” He called out.
He didn’t feel particularly worthy of saying the creature’s title—but he knew the dragon would probably appreciate the respect.
“It’s me, Arthur Pendragon. I need to talk to you!”
And, if possible, smack you where you stand.
…Well, if that were humanly possible. The Great Dragon was the size of a house.
Arthur would settle for a well-worded berating, if nothing else.
The beast had ruined Merlin’s life.
And his, indirectly.
(Was it petty to blame a dragon for your own death? Yes. Very much so. But Arthur felt justified in being furious on Merlin’s behalf, for the emotional wreckage the creature had caused him. And, by extension, Arthur himself.)
It took five minutes—Arthur counted each one between coughs—before the dragon finally stirred and descended from above.
His massive wings curled close as he landed, golden eyes gleaming with lazy curiosity.
Despite his undeniable majesty, the dragon’s tired gold didn’t compare to the vibrant honey in Merlin’s eyes.
Arthur wondered whether that glow faded with age—or with cynicism.
“...Young prince,” the creature began, a brow raised. “What a surprise. I wasn’t expecting you for a while.”
A while?
Arthur blinked. What was that even supposed to mean?
He frowned, then thought better of it. Merlin had said the dragon was as evasive as a snake when it came to answers.
Pressing too much never worked.
“I suppose you know why I’m here,” Arthur demanded.
If he didn’t, nobody would.
He couldn’t exactly ask Gaius without being declared mad. Morgause was out of the question, too.
The dragon pursed his lips. “What makes you think that?” He asked, tone deliberately challenging.
Arthur raised a brow of his own—maybe not as intimidating as Gaius’s, but close enough.
“You’re a magic-sensing dragon,” he said flatly.
The dragon blinked, surprised he knew that.
(Thanks for the tip, Merlin.)
“You’re bound to know.”
Especially since the creature always seemed to know everything that happened inside the castle anyway. Merlin had complained about that more than once.
The dragon tilted his head. “...You’re not from here, are you?”
Did he mean timeline or kingdom? If it was the first—well.
“Yes,” Arthur said honestly.
No point pretending otherwise.
The dragon’s eyes widened—then he laughed.
“How amusing. I knew magic favored you,” he said, eyes glinting. “But to think it would bring you back so easily…”
Rage boiled in Arthur’s chest, even as the words flustered him.
Could this damn lizard not imply things like that?
He hadn’t come for commentary on Merlin’s affection.
He came for answers.
“How am I here?” He pressed, irritation sharp in his voice.
He was starting to understand why Merlin hated dealing with him.
The dragon shrugged. “I know many things, but this spell isn’t among them. You’ll have to find that answer yourself.”
Arthur squinted.
So—if he’d understood that right—Merlin had brought him back without meaning to?
His eyes widened.
Exactly how powerful was his warlock?
He already knew Merlin could summon storms, but if he could manipulate time too…
“Emrys awakened without issue then?” The dragon interrupted, watching him with a knowing gleam.
Arthur froze.
Emrys.
Morgana had called Merlin that once. And Merlin had mentioned being “the most powerful warlock to walk the earth.”
That meant—
He scowled. “No thanks to you.”
Arthur remembered what the second thing on his to-do list had been once he found the beast.
“Do you have any idea how much suffering you caused Merlin with your schemes?”
The dragon had nearly destroyed Camelot for the sake of his own freedom, costing countless lives in the process.
He’d turned Morgana against Arthur.
He’d made a child into an adult who felt betrayal was his only option
He’d made Merlin’s entire life revolve around Arthur.
The dragon merely shrugged. “It was for the greater good.”
Greater good?
Arthur felt a vein throb at his temple.
Oh, he’d show him what greater good was—
“Aren’t you the same, young king?” The dragon interrupted, voice smooth and sharp. “Having an all-powerful warlock devoted to you and your cause—felt good, didn’t it?”
Arthur froze.
… Stop.
“You blame me for destroying your warlock,” the dragon continued, drawing closer with a faint smirk, “but aren’t you being a tad hypocritical?”
Arthur shivered at the glint in the creature’s eyes.
“Even now,” the dragon murmured, “what you want is Emrys.”
Shut up.
“Am I wrong?”
Arthur’s jaw tightened, teeth grinding. His hands shook with the effort not to lash out.
“There’s nothing stopping me from contacting him again, you know,” the dragon said lazily, stepping back with a yawn. “Even now, he still listens to my call.”
He unfurled his tail, looking upward as if to mock him further.
“Do try your best, though.”
And with that, the Great Dragon curled back up and went to sleep—massive wings draped over the rock like a mountain coming to rest.
Arthur wanted nothing more than to strangle him.
The only reason he didn’t try was because he knew he’d just break his own hand.
He glared up at the creature.
Very well.
If Merlin was destined to need the beast, Arthur would make sure he never had to.
He would do anything to ensure his best friend never became a hollow shell of himself again.
He swore it.