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Death is a curious thing; it has two faces.
People fear it, sometimes more, sometimes less, sometimes secretly and sometimes plainly for all to see; the point is that you fear it, all your life and up until the moment your life flickers out like a candle.
But when it covers you like a blanket, touches you and tells you oh there you are and welcome back, it feels mostly like relief, home and forgiveness. So you give into it, and you rest.
It’s the sudden, painful thump of his heart that has Merlin startling awake. The soft murmur of lowered voices somewhere near him soothes his disoriented senses, and the glow of the nearby fire grounds him to the moment. He blinks at the dark expanse of night sky above him but doesn’t move otherwise – soon notices that he can’t move because he has been bundled up tightly in a knight’s cloak, so tight in fact that his blood flow has grown sluggish, tingling under his skin unpleasantly as it struggles to move.
It’s not that, something dutifully reminds him. You just died.
Merlin stares unseeingly at the stars. His blood starts slowly picking up speed, thinning out a bit as it moves and warms up more.
Right.
He died.
The ghost ripple of pain somewhere under his ribcage reminds him of the wayward arrow that had gone straight through him, the tip protruding obscenely from his back as he had listed to the side. He remembers the burning pain, the struggle for air, and the poison – poison, of course the arrows would have poison because nothing ever came easy to him – and Arthur’s panicked face from across the clearing right before he’d gone under, just before the first touch of death’s fingers had whispered against him.
I’ve failed, he remembers thinking. That, and I’m sorry, because somehow he had regretted having to leave so early, never being able to see Arthur become great and dazzling and amazing. More than he already was, in any case. After all that he had done it would have been a nice reward to get, to see Arthur become what he was supposed to be. Of course, death was a worthy reward in its own right. Eternal rest didn’t sound too bad.
Except. Well. He wasn’t dead, obviously.
The realization that follows, the sudden knowledge – I’m not dead, oh god, I’m not dead – and the dread that nearly consumes him dislodges the dry sob from his throat where he hadn’t even realized it had been building.
The soft murmur around him cuts off abruptly like under a strong swing of a sword.
When he dry heaves a second time, back arching off the ground in the wake of everything crashing down on him, there’s a sudden rustle of clothing and the sound of gravel ground under boot and Arthur’s there, disbelief, misery and relief battling in his expression as his hands flutter uselessly over Merlin’s face.
“You are alive!”
“Arthur—“ Merlin rasps, struggling against the cape helplessly. “Arthur—“
There’s a flurry of movement and Merlin has to shut his eyes against it as the world around him spins wildly out of focus. His stomach lurches painfully, but now he is on his back again, free of extra fabric and able to fucking breathe.
“I can’t,” Merlin tries to sit up, the gasps wrenching out of his raw throat, “I can’t, I can’t—“
“Merlin,” Arthur commands, taking him by the shoulders and pushing him back down. “Merlin, don’t, you’ll reopen the wound.”
Merlin laughs in his face, unhappy and hurting, shrugging him off as his fingers scramble to skirt the injury. He splays his hand wide over it, reaching, grasping, pulling, and from the flinch he can tell Arthur has seen his eyes burn gold.
He doesn’t even give a fuck anymore.
The pain under his ribs subsides and disappears, and Merlin sits up again, this time without being interrupted. The whole camp is eerily silent as Merlin catches his breath, sobbing and gasping and hyperventilating because – because –
Because he isn’t dead.
He can’t die.
He can’t fucking die.
The weight of the thought crashes into him all at once, crushes him under the utter desperation and before he knows it he’s crying, clawing at the dirt under his palms like it would somehow make things okay again. Like the earth would take back the gift – the curse – it has given.
Tentative hands reach out to grip his shoulders and Merlin leans into them, gives in to the familiar touch and allows himself to be pulled closer. He buries his head into the crook of Arthur’s neck, muffling his cries against the grimy skin, taking in the sharp smell of blood, sweat and burned flesh.
Oh god, he can’t even be burned on the pyre anymore, can he? Or yes, he can – and then he can come back to life just to be burned again.
Perfect, just bloody perfect. The hysterical hitching laugh bubbles up his throat unbidden.
“Merlin,” Arthur says quietly, running his hands up and down Merlin’s back to soothe him. He sounds uncomfortable, out of his element. “You are alright now. You are safe. It’s alright.”
The sound Merlin makes at that scares him to the bones. He’s not the only one spooked – nobody moves or says anything, and the hush is broken only by Merlin’s erratic breathing, and the stillness by Arthur’s uncertain hands on his back.
“Nothing is alright, Arthur,” Merlin laughs and leans back just enough to catch Arthur’s eyes. They are unreadable, the battle of emotions behind them – fear, relief, betrayal, hurt, confusion, doubt, worry, and much much more – making it impossible to predict his reactions. “Nothing is alright.”
Arthur frowns. “What are you on about? You are alive, Merlin, that’s plenty to—”
“Exactly,” Merlin empathizes. His tremors are being absorbed by Arthur’s palms, sucked off of his skin, leaving him cold and empty and not much else besides. “I’m alive, and I’m not supposed to be, Arthur. I died. I died.”
“You seem plenty alive to me.”
“No, you don’t understand, I—“ he hiccups against the words, screwing his eyes shut for a moment before opening them again. His eyes focus somewhere behind Arthur’s shoulders, and he can see the wary, careful expressions on the knights’ faces. Gwaine is hovering a few steps behind Arthur’s back, one arm hanging in the air in an aborted attempt to reach out. Behind him there’s Gaius, sitting still by the fire with his ancient, knowing eyes boring straight into Merlin’s own.
He looks so sad, and Merlin doesn’t look away from him when he continues. “I can’t die. I’m not physically able to die. I… I just can’t.”
The unbearable loneliness that follows his words almost chokes him.
“So. You are immortal then.”
Merlin doesn’t look away from the flames when Arthur sits down next to him on the log. After he had calmed enough for Arthur to let him go, after Gaius had checked his wounds and hugged him tightly without saying a word, after he had been sat down by the fire with a bowl of stew and a wineskin, most of the knights had been giving him a wide breadth.
There are some who dare to come closer than others, like Gwaine, who often loiters nearby like he maybe wants to talk, then seems to think better of it and retreats, only to return again a little later like he can’t help himself; there’s Leon who looks at him with a frown but doesn’t seem inclined to approach him, keeping his distance but still being near enough to make it look like he’s protecting him; there’s Percival, who keeps glancing at him neutrally every now and then and looks so absurdly unsurprised and unshaken that Merlin thinks he may have known all along.
Still, nobody has yet to find the courage to actually talk to him. Arthur is the first, unsurprisingly, and now that he has Merlin can see the others straying closer, trying to look like they aren’t listening in when it’s painfully obvious that that is exactly what they are doing.
Arthur nudges him in the side to get his attention.
“Yeah, apparently I am,” Merlin answers belatedly, sounding hollow.
“And you have magic.”
Merlin shrugs, scuffing his boots into the dirt. He chances a glance at Arthur’s face, but can’t read anything on it. “I thought you would be angrier, really.”
“Oh, I am,” Arthur assures him conversationally. “But you went and caused a scene, and that sort of took the wind out of my sails for the moment.”
“Ah,” Merlin gives him a little nod of understanding, feeling detached. Everything feels detached.
“Look at the bright sight,” Arthur says, and if the words themselves aren’t a dead giveaway (since when has Arthur ever looked at things from the bright side), his light tone certainly betrays everything well enough. Arthur is a mess. There are a dozen different hurts piled up under the surface, beginning with the memory of the fear upon Merlin’s death and building up to the topmost one that is basically clawing the words out into the air between them; why didn’t you ever tell me?
“Which is?” Merlin prompts anyway, a feeble attempt at normalcy. He can appreciate Arthur’s efforts, at least.
“You can’t actually be executed, now. It would probably be a horrible waste of firewood to even try, given the evidence.”
Merlin gives him a flat look, but doesn’t say the words curled waiting on his tongue. Do you really think that will stop your father?
Arthur seems to read them on his face anyway, and something hardens behind his eyes. He turns to look away, also at the flames, and his fists press tensely against his thighs. “I wouldn’t let him. I won’t.”
Merlin shrugs. He genuinely thinks Arthur will not have much say, if it comes down to it. If he had, his kingdom would already be so very different.
They sit side by side quietly for a long while, and Merlin is content to let the moment fade. He remembers having thought about what he would do in a situation where Arthur (never mind everyone else) found out about his magic. He remembers speeches, some long, some short and more to the point – reassurances and explanations, apologies and vows. He remembers thinking he could face Arthur standing, like they were equals, finally; getting the recognition for his deeds that he knows he deserves.
Now, though? Now, it all seems so very irrelevant. A moment in time that to him seems now so horrifyingly short. Hardly of any importance, in comparison. He can see in his mind’s eye his own life, the one that he had had planned to an extent with pinpoints dotting the way all the way to his ultimate death. Now it just feels like his plan has been cut cleanly in half and extended, letting the rest of it continue to unknown eternities. What was his life is now just a period in his life, and it feels odd to think of what it will become once his one focal point, his one great destiny – Arthur – has been taken away.
No, it’s not odd to think about it. It’s impossible.
Arthur clears his throat, suddenly, looking once more distinctly uncomfortable as he shifts his weight to look at Merlin from the corner of his eyes. “Would you show me?”
“Show you what?” Merlin asks, fighting to bring himself back to this life, to this period. It may only be a period in his life now, but to him, it’s still the most important one.
“Your m—“ Arthur starts but cuts off in the middle, shaking his head as if to reorganize his thoughts. “Show me everything.”
Merlin doesn’t answer, but his eyes flash gold – and goodness, doesn’t that feel wrong with so many spectators staring at them avidly – and his magic reaches for the fire. It curls around the heat familiarly like a cat, and soon the smoke and the sparks are dancing. He loves playing with fire, taming something so temperamental, but this time it isn’t only a game – the sparks shape and draw out his whole story.
In the flames that he sees reflected in the eyes of those watching, he slowly starts to see understanding.
He sleeps in Arthur’s tent that night, just like all the other nights before. It’s a testament to how much trust Arthur still places in him, even now. Even after everything. Merlin supposes it might have something to do with the fact that, for a moment, Arthur had truly believed him dead. Merlin is no stranger to the inexplicable, compulsive need to make sure that those who have visited Death’s doors have truly returned. Arthur has been knocking on those very doors himself quite a few unfortunate times.
Merlin listens to his even breathing in the dark and tries to sleep. His dreams elude him though, dancing in and out of his consciousness, slippery like eel. For one reason or the other, his body remains tense, and it twitches every now and then as if to spite him, to keep him awake. It’s infuriating, making him a little bit mad and a great bit anxious.
There’s a slight shuffle of fabric against fabric to his right and Merlin opens his eyes hastily, only to find Arthur staring right back at him from the darkness.
Merlin barely dares to breathe.
Arthur lifts his hand up, slowly, as if to calm a skittish animal, and reaches across the space between them to bring his fingers lingering inches from Merlin’s face. Then, with slow deliberateness, he touches the tips of his fingers to Merlin’s cheek.
The fingers come away wet.
Merlin blinks rapidly and makes an aborted movement to swipe at his eyes with the back of his hand, surprised to find that there are tears there to begin with. When had he started crying?
“Merlin,” Arthur whispers and slides closer, slipping from under his blankets and crowding into Merlin’s personal space, settling until he’s flush against Merlin’s side. Merlin doesn’t flinch away when one of the man’s arms drapes around his waist and pulls him closer, two dark blue eyes staring intently into his own.
“I will come back, you know.”
“What?” Merlin whispers past the contraction in his throat, the sound of the syllables wet and clogged.
“After I’ve died. I will find a way to come back, as many times as you need me to. You don’t have to live alone forever.”
And it breaks something in Merlin, the long-endured pain of always having to be alone in his secrets, in his deeds, and now in his future as well, breaks it and smashes it until all that is left behind is the silvery sheen of powder and dust.
He shudders once, and with a silent cry buries his face into Arthur’s neck and holds on. Arthur never lets him go, his fingers curling gently into the hair behind Merlin’s ears.
They stay silent until dawn breaks.
When Arthur dies, Merlin cries because the pain of losing him is worse than he had ever dared to imagine.
When Arthur dies, Merlin feels the tendrils of fear curl around his heart when he thinks of his empty future.
When Arthur dies, Merlin holds on to the words spoken like a promise on that quiet, faraway night, because they are the only salvation his mind will ever get.
Eternity twists and curls before him, a high-walled and unbreakable path, and he can find no way out.
When Arthur is reborn, Merlin stops in his tracks on his way from the living room to the kitchen like he has hit an invisible wall. He sways on his heels a few moments, dizzy, until his heart gives its last thump and stops.
In that moment of utter quiet, the short break between this life and the next, Merlin listens to his soft cries echoing from the other side of the planet and thinks, I’ll be back soon.
Arthur stops crying a moment before the world fades.
When Merlin is reborn, Arthur is three years old and doesn’t understand the tug in his heart that makes everything ache with a sweet, long-awaited longing, a recognition and realization of sorts, a certain vague sense of knowledge. Despite everything he doesn’t know what it is or what it means, but he can feel its importance.
It’s a bit like turning on his heels to look back the way he has come, knowing the depth and width of all the steps he has taken and retracing them back until he returns home.
When they meet, neither remembers. They never will.
But eternity bows down before them, and they will always, always love.