Archive of Our Own

Winter is the busiest time of year for the Court Physician of Camelot, which means it is often the busiest time for Merlin, as well. With the cold weather either driving patients to Gaius’s chambers or Gaius to their homes, Merlin is left to perform his sidelined duties. Most nights after attending Arthur, he treks through the frost-covered woods in search of the increased amount of herbs Gaius needs.

Tonight is one such night. Arthur is tucked away in his chambers, Gaius had nearly passed out after returning from a patient’s home, and Merlin’s hands grow numb from the cold. He grabs another plant, careful not to cut his fingers, and throws them in the basket, sighing. Just a few more and he can go home and hopefully catch a few hours of sleep.

Merlin reaches for the next bushel when a rustling of leaves grabs his attention. He freezes, eyes darting around the dark forest. The movement continues, and his magic rises to the surface, knowing he can defend himself freely if need be. More movement, yet what emerges is not an animal, or mercenary, or magical beast, but a small child. Merlin frowns and drops his guard.

“Hello? I won’t hurt you. Are you lost?”

They smile. “I thought I was, but perhaps I am right where I’m meant to be.”

The child is young, can’t be over ten, and tan. They stare at him unblinking; Merlin is unsure if out of fear or wonder. He begins to tilt his head in question when they say, “Hello, Emrys.”

Goddamnit. He can’t have one quiet night, can he? “Are you a druid?” he asks instead of returning the greeting.

The child smiles and rolls up their sleeve to reveal the identifying tattoo. “They have told me many stories of you, of the great things you will accomplish.”

“It’s not safe for you here. You need to leave.” Merlin really can’t take another lecture on fate right now.

“It will soon be safe for all when the Once and Future King restores magic to the land with Emrys by his side.”

“Yes, I’m working on that. Now please go.”

“Does the King yet know of your destiny together?”’

“No, and if he did, he’d kill me,” Merlin spits out, trying to end this interaction, but the child rears back to glare at him.

“King Arthur would do no such thing. He cannot kill-”

“The half which truly makes him whole, yes. A dragon told me that one already.” He rolls his eyes, wondering if all magical creatures sit down for monthly meetings to discuss him behind his back.

“Not just that. The King is wise; why would he attempt to kill something that cannot be killed?”

Merlin bristles at the fierceness in the druid’s eyes, and the casual way they referred to him as ‘something.’ He scoffs almost unkindly. “You underestimate Arthur. He’s a fierce warrior, especially when he’s angry. I may be powerful, but I bleed the same as any man.”

“You do not understand. The King could not kill you even with an army of five kingdoms. He cannot kill you, for you are Emrys, The Immortal One.”

Merlin’s breath leaves him. What had they said? He misheard, surely, misunderstood. “No…no. That’s ridiculous. I’m not immortal. No one has ever mentioned that before.”

The child comes close and touches his cheeks, and all Merlin can see is the zeal in their slight golden eyes. “It is the truth. It is just as much part of the prophecy as your magic. The Once and Future King will rise again from Avalon, and you will wait for his return.”

A laugh comes from him unwittingly. “No. No, you’re wrong. That’s impossible. I’ve been close to death before! Many times, in fact! What would make you say something like that?” He feels his voice getting higher and breaths shorter and yet can’t control either one.

“You can bleed and suffer the same as any mortal, yes, but what would be fatal for one man would only inconvenience you. Or do you not remember the Dorocha? Any other would have been dead the second they were struck.” Merlin wants to ask how they know about that, how they know any of this, but they look at him with such pity that he cannot move. “You cannot refuse your destiny, Emrys. It is written into the fabric of the earth.”

Merlin barely sees the face in front of him now, can’t feel the hands on his cheeks or the grass beneath him. The world goes blurry and blurrier as his breathing increases. Did the druid leave? He hears them speaking from miles away. When did they get miles away? Has immortality warped his sense of time, of direction, of any sense that makes him human? Is he human, with an ordeal such as death removed from him?

He does not know. He knows much more and much less than he did two minutes ago. What a cruel play of fate, to have a child simply stumble upon him and strip him of his humanity. He wants to cry, scream, throw himself off the nearest cliff to prove that he can, but he can’t. The world blurs and blurs until it is gone, and all he can do is let it.

He wakes to birds chirping and a gentle breeze on his face. He sighs and rubs his eyes, sitting up slowly. Why is he in the forest? Had something attacked? Is Arthur in trouble? He swivels around, looking for anything familiar-

“Emrys. You wake.”

His stomach drops. He looks over to the druid child, crouched beside him and expressionless. The reminder of his newly-discovered immortality hits him in the chest like an arrow - an arrow that would not kill him.

“You’re still here? You should get back. Does anyone know where you are?” He wants to look at them no longer. Maybe if they leave, he will be able to forget again.

“I have communicated with my clan. They know I am with Emrys. You seemed to be in a state of panic, so I put you to sleep while I stood vigil over you.”

Merlin blinks the sleep out of his eyes and looks around. The first rays of sunlight peak through the horizon, a far cry from the pitch blackness he left the castle in. “Fie. I need to go. Arthur’s going to kill me.”

“The King cannot-”

“I know,” he snaps, then sighs. “I know. You’ve made that clear.” He knows it is unfair to blame the druid for his circumstances, but really, couldn’t they have let him live in blissful ignorance, like every other creature of magic apparently has?

The child stares at him for a moment more, and Merlin feels they know the entirety of his soul. “I believe I was brought here for a reason. It is time you accept your role, Emrys. Denial will serve you no purpose towards destiny.”

“Right. Destiny.” He spits the word out, almost cursing it, as destiny has cursed him- cursed him with knowledge, with responsibility, and now, with life. He shakes his head. “Can you find your way back to your home safely?”

“I will manage.”

“Great. I need to go.” Perhaps he should assure the child’s safe return. Perhaps he would have in another instance. He can’t seem to care now. He picks up the medicine bag, straightens his wrinkled clothes, and walks toward Camelot without another glance.

His return to the castle is a quiet one. He walks in a haze, almost floating from how absent his mind is. The guards pay no mind to his approach, and he waltzes right to the physician’s chambers without a word from anyone.

“Merlin!” He hears Gaius shout as soon as he opens the door. “Where in gods’ name have you been? I surely know herb-picking did not take you until sunrise. Arthur is probably interrogating every tavern keeper in town trying to find you, and I had half a mind to join him.”

“Sorry to worry you,” he mumbles, setting down the medicine bag and grabbing an apple from the table. He moves to leave, but Gaius shoots a hand out to catch him.

“An explanation would be appreciated.”

“Nothing happened. I was out collecting, and I fell asleep. I suppose I’m quite exhausted between you and Arthur. It won’t happen again.” He gently shakes off Gaius’ hand and heads for the door. “I should attend to the King before he bans alcohol consumption across Camelot.”

He leaves Gaius alone in their chambers, off to find Arthur in a no-doubt sour mood. He probably slept in late since Merlin was not there to wake him. He probably thinks Merlin was simply slacking and irresponsible. He will probably spend his whole life, his whole unbelievably short life, thinking Merlin a fool, with no idea of the weight he carries. Merlin, he already knows, will spend his neverending life regretting that.

He makes it to The King’s quarters, and- yes, empty as expected. Well, Merlin’s certainly not going to tavern-hop with him; he might as well get a start on his chores and maybe lessen Arthur’s wrath when he returns. He sighs and gathers the sheets from the bed, resigning himself to a hectic day and pointedly not thinking about the druid child’s words. He will not think about holding all his friends’ hands as they die, or slowly wasting away but never perishing, or Arthur-

“Where the hell have you been?”

Merlin drops the sheets in fright as Arthur bursts through the door. He looks a mess, hair sticking up and shirt hastily thrown on. Even so, the sight of him freezes every bone in Merlin’s body. The Once and Future King will rise again from Avalon, and you will wait for his return, the druid had said. How long is he to wait? A hundred years? A thousand? Will Arthur rise again and die again, and Merlin wait again? Will he watch his friend die over and over, with only the promise of seeing him again to sustain him? That is all he can picture as he stares at the King of Camelot with wide eyes.

Arthur seems to interpret his silence as him thinking of an excuse, and he scowls. “You left hastily last night, and I let it go because I knew you were needed with Gaius. And then I wake to George informing me you didn’t show up to fetch my breakfast, so here he is! I go check with Gaius, and oh, he has no idea where you are either. I really haven’t the time to drag you back from the tavern in the middle of the week; gods’ Merlin, how are you this irresponsible?”

He forces himself to speak. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” He tears his eyes away with great effort and picks up the dropped sheets. Merlin feels Arthur’s mood shift at his easy surrender, feels his eyes narrow and follow his movements. This attention would usually signal panic in him, or at least make him flustered, but he won’t let his mind focus beyond the task in front of him. He might collapse otherwise.

“Well, I see you’ve already started laundry. You can polish mine and the knights’ armor today to make up for lost time,” Arthur says, still watching.

“Sure,” he responds. Not like he has to worry about such a thing as time. He has all the time in the world.

Arthur stares at him for a moment more before shaking his head and turning to leave. “Just get it done before training tomorrow. I’ll see you for dinner.” The door shuts behind him.

Merlin lets out a shaky breath as soon as Arthur leaves. He wants to follow him, to never lay his eyes off of him, to treasure every fleeting moment they have left. He wants to never look at him again, to avoid the inevitability of losing him. Because no matter how many times he’s saved Arthur’s life, how many threats he’s stopped and will stop in the future, he will lose him. He will lose him and be forced to keep living until he forgets that Arthur ever existed.

He gathers the sheets into a basket and keeps moving.

The rest of the day passes in a haze. He’s sure he eats, does his chores, says hi to Gwen and the knights, but it’s as if he isn’t there for any of it, like his body is piloting an empty vessel. He can barely hear anything over the mantra echoing in his head - Emrys, the Immortal One. Emrys, the Immortal One. Emrys, the Immortal One.

The next day finds Merlin at training with the knights. Arthur had asked him to polish their armour, and he supposes he did, as the King hasn’t yelled at him over it. He supposes he brought Arthur his breakfast, dressed him, and accompanied him down to the training grounds, for he sits to the side now and watches, mind drifting and drifting to the prophecy, mantra still echoing. Emrys, the Immortal One.

“Merlin!” Arthur shouts from the field, interrupting the chant in his head. “I need a target. Come and be useful for once.”

Merlin sighs, not wanting to move, not wanting to look at Arthur and think of losing him, but he can’t deny the King without raising suspicion. Maybe it will do him some good, to move his body and break out from the haze he’s been stuck in since yesterday. He picks himself up from the ground and walks towards the knights, trying to quiet his thoughts.

“Took you long enough,” Arthur quips as he approaches, small grin on his face. Merlin does not meet his eye and picks up the wooden shield that has never done him any good. He raises it in time with Arthur raising his sword.

They’ve fallen into a rhythm of sorts over the years. Merlin has gotten better at predicting strikes, and Arthur at preparing them. Arthur has started calling out the direction before he swings so Merlin can prepare to block it. Merlin knows it’s the King’s good-natured attempt for him to have some sort of formal training, even if he is useless with a sword.

“Down,” Arthur says. Merlin moves the shield down. Arthur strikes.

“Left.” Merlin moves. Arthur strikes.

The routine is monotonous by this point, with more muscle memory than anything. It allows Merlin’s mind to drift, the opposite of what he wanted to happen. He imagines all tasks will become just as monotonous, eventually; how could they not, after eternity? Will he wake up and sleep endlessly and purely out of habit? Will he become nothing but a compilation of second natures? He is terrified of becoming nothing but routine. He is working off muscle memory, and he can’t anymore.

“Up.” Merlin doesn’t move. Yet still, Arthur strikes.

The blade strikes him directly on the collarbone. He lets out a cry of pain and staggers to a knee. Arthur was attacking with blunt force and not aiming to pierce, so there’s probably no open wound, but gods, does it still hurt. He can see the king standing over him, frozen.

“Hey! Hey, you alright, mate?” Gwaine is at his side suddenly, gripping his uninjured shoulder and sitting him upright.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, and though his collarbone is on fire, he actually means it.

“Let’s get you to Gaius, eh?” Gwaine pulls him to his feet. When he stands, he is face to face with Arthur.

“Why did you just stand there? Why didn’t you block?”

Merlin freezes, partially from the pain but primarily because he knows he cannot give an answer that Arthur will be happy with. What is there to say?

Gwaine jumps in before he has to think of one. “Are you serious? You strike your servant, and you blame him for taking it? Come off it, Princess.” The knight wraps Merlin’s arm around him as he speaks, and Merlin leans into the support.

Arthur steps in front of them. “I called out the strike, and he stood there. Didn’t even raise his shield. He’s taken blows a handful of times, but never just-”

“I’m right here, you know,” he snaps, still leaning on Gwaine but bristling at Arthur’s outright ignoring him.

The king’s eyes snap to him. “Oh, I’m aware. Did you-”

“I’m taking him to Gaius while you calm your ego down. Come on, mate.” Gwaine starts them both towards the physician’s quarters. Arthur doesn’t follow, at least not immediately.

“What happened?” Gaius exclaims as Gwaine bursts through the door with Merlin in tow.

“Arthur not looking where his royal arse is swinging,” Gwaine grumbles, depositing Merlin onto the bed. Gaius is already examining him, poking and prodding at his shoulder.

Merlin swats Gaius’s hand off. “I’m fine. I just missed a blow during training. It caught me off guard more than anything.”

“Well, no matter the cause, you have a bruised collarbone, so sit still.” The physician presses something cold to his bruise, to which Merlin winces.

He is distracted from the pain by Arthur charging through the door, eyes narrow. “Are you injured?”

Merlin is too taken aback by the intrusion, so Gaius answers. “He has a moderate bruise, Sire, but he’ll be fine with no strenuous activity.”

Arthur nods. “Thank you, Gaius.” He turns to Merlin. “Why did you just stand there?”

“Alright, enough.” Gwaine stands to be face to face with the king. “Stop interrogating him because your pride can’t take a hit. He’s a servant, shouldn’t even be near a weapon, and yet you-”

“Gwaine, stop,” Merlin says, steel in his voice, making both knights listen. “It was my fault. I didn’t sleep well, so I reacted too slowly. That’s all. So lay off, both of you.”

Gwaine and Arthur both look like they want to argue, but between Merlin and Gaius’ glares, they think better of it. Merlin watches Arthur shake off the concern and shift into king mode, turning to Gaius. “Can he attend me for dinner?”

“He should be able to perform normal duties so long as he takes it easy.”

Arthur looks at him for a long, terrifying moment. Merlin is about to speak until the king suddenly mumbles, “Don’t be late,” and walks out of the chambers.

They all watch him walk out. The tension in Merlin’s shoulders releases as soon as he leaves, and he sinks into himself unwittingly.

Gwaine pats Merlin’s arm. “Get some rest. If Arthur is still a prick at dinner, I’ll knock his arse down in training, see how he likes it.” He winks and walks out.

As soon as the door shuts again, Gaius shoots him a look so inquisitive his eyebrow leaves his forehead. “So what really happened?”

“Why does no one but Gwaine believe me? Is it that hard to believe that the King, famously trained to kill since birth, got a hit on me?”

Gaius sighs. “No, it is not. I just wanted to be sure you weren’t up to anything. Arthur seemed awfully suspicious of something.”

“I’m not up to anything besides being tired of used as a training dummy.” He stands from the patient cot and towards his room, unable to take any more questions.

Merlin sprawls out on his bed, wincing as his bruise makes contact with the hard bedframe. It stings, still digging into wood from the way he’s lying on his stomach. He could flip over to his back and relieve the pressure, but he stays put. At the very least, the pain distracts him from the pit that’s swirled in his stomach since yesterday. The pain grounds him in whatever humanity he still retains. If a bruised collarbone is what it takes to exist as more than an amalgamation of patterns, so be it.

His injury heals relatively quickly, much to Merlin’s annoyance. Not suspiciously quickly - Gaius’s remedies were a far more reasonable explanation than any supernatural intervention - but it still irked him to no end. Of course he be unable to die and have a live-in physician.

A few days after training find Merlin and Arthur in the royal chambers, Merlin tidying the room after bringing Arthur his dinner. They move about in silence, as they often do in the evenings, but it’s tense and clumsy rather than the familiar, comfortable stillness Merlin is used to. He keeps his head down as he straightens up, hoping the King will dismiss him early.

“How are you healing up?” Arthur breaks the silence to ask. To his credit, he has been easy on Merlin since the incident; he’d been exempt from target practice in the days following. He knows Arthur’s guilt has been eating him even through his suspicion, and Merlin wishes to ease it, to reassure him, but he’s stayed silent, wanting to avoid further questions.

“Back to perfect health,” he replies as he makes down the bed.

“I’d hardly describe any part of you as ‘perfect,’ Merlin.”

“Very funny, Sire,” Merlin says, not looking away from his task. Arthur does not respond, as he’s one to do lately- start a conversation and then fall silent. It’s as if he’s observing Merlin, testing him somehow; whatever the test is, Merlin is scared to find out. They fall back to the uneasy silence, Arthur eating and Merlin fidgeting through his chores.

“You know,” Arthur breaks the silence again, though the unease in Merlin remains, “you’ve actually been a near-perfect servant, recently. Performing your duties on time, calling me ‘Sire,’ suspiciously low on insults. Did your little bender the other night finally whip you into shape?”

He blinks, lost. “What are you - oh, right,” he says, remembering Arthur thinks he was in the tavern the night of the prophecy. “Yes, I guess it did.”

He’s facing away from the King, but he still feels the scrutiny of his gaze, the very intentional nonchalance of his question. Arthur falls silent again, no doubt marking another strike against him in this impromptu trial.

“Have you finished your dinner?” Merlin asks, walking towards the table and desperate for a distraction.

Arthur narrows his eyes, and for a moment looks like he’s going to question him further, but he merely nods, pushing his almost-empty plate away. “There’s some grapes left, if you’d like them. I know they’re your favorite.”

Merlin looks down at the tray. The meat and cheese are nearly gone, while the fruit is left almost untouched. Usually Merlin would stay, chat for awhile, maybe finish off the grapes until he dresses Arthur down for bed. He doesn’t see much of a point in that, now. His body will survive whether or not he eats, and Arthur will die whether or not he protects him.

He stacks Arthur’s plates and cups onto the tray to take down to the kitchen. Some of the grapes squish under the pressure of the other dishes. “Do you require anything else?”

Arthur stares at him for a long moment. Whatever test the King created, Merlin knows he has failed. Finally, he shakes his head. “No. You may go.”

Merlin does.

Another week passes in which Merlin exists mostly in silence. Gaius has noticed his distance, as well, and maybe even the knights, but their attempts to coax answers out of him go as well as Arthur’s. Merlin wakes, eats, performs his duties, sleeps, without hardly a word to anyone. The first break of monotony occurs when Arthur demands a patrol outing, with no mind to the biting weather outside. Merlin complains as he packs their bags, saying they’ll catch their death in the cold, and it almost feels normal, until his mind starts to wander and suddenly he’s questioning if hypothermia would permanently incapacitate him or if his magic would find some unholy way to puppet his frozen body. He utters no more complaints.

They ride for several hours, all shivering as Merlin knew they would, and finally stop to rest after an uneventful afternoon. Merlin fidgets with anxiety as they settle in, around too many people for too long.

“We should get some firewood before it gets dark,” he says, and starts to head off from the campsite they’ve made.

Arthur stands. “Great. I’ll accompany you.”

Merlin tries not to roll his eyes. He desperately wants a moment to himself, but of course Arthur won’t let that happen, and of course he can’t refuse the King without reason. He only waits for a moment and then walks into the forest without a word. He hears Arthur follow him.

They both trek the path silently, occasionally grabbing a log until Arthur sighs. “Not even a comment about me doing a servant’s work? You really are in a mood.”

Merlin bites his cheek and picks up a branch. “Yes, I’m in a mood not to freeze over.”

“You’re a real arse when something’s bothering you, you know.”

“And you’re a real arse when nothing’s bothering you; aren’t we a great pair.”

Merlin startles and almost drops the firewood when Arthur grabs his arm. The King looks straight into his eyes in a way that makes Merlin’s stomach flip. “I’m serious. You’ve been off for weeks, since that night you were at the tavern until sunrise. If you were actually ever there.”

Merlin freezes, and he stares speechless. Looking at Arthur, he sees the triumph in his expression, and he knows Arthur expected such a reaction. Is this another one of his tests? “What?”

“Come on, Merlin, I’m not an idiot. You never even said that’s where you were, you just let me assume. I know you’re a better liar than you let on.” Arthur drops his hand and steps back. “What I don’t know is why you feel you can’t be honest with me.”

His eyes scrunch up at the words. How much longer can he look at the King and deflect, though it’s been so easy for him before? “I don’t-”

“I’ve trusted you with so much, with political and personal matters. And you can’t even tell me when you’re upset.” Much as Arthur wields indifference like a shield, Merlin knows him. Merlin hears the hurt in his voice, sees the silent plea in his eyes to return his hard-earned trust.

That makes lying to him even harder.

He breathes. “Arthur, I-”

A hand clasps over his mouth. He looks to Arthur to roll his eyes, half-annoyed and half-relieved, but the King holds a finger over his own mouth and glances around them.

“We’re being followed,” he whispers, close enough to Merlin’s face that he feels his breath.

“The knights?” Merlin whispers back.

Arthur only shakes his head. Merlin has no idea how he knows it’s not the knights, but he realizes now is not the time to interrogate him. Arthur’s hand releases and slowly goes towards his sword. Merlin crouches, ready to flee or cast a spell at any moment.

He steps back, but his balance is shoddy and he stumbles, dropping all the firewood to the ground. That is all it takes as a group of men charges out of the trees, swords at the ready.

“Fie,” Arthur mumbles. He pulls his own sword out and shoves Merlin behind him. “Stay back.”

Merlin rolls his eyes but keeps focus on the men. He scans the crowd- six attackers, all dressed in descript clothing, all wielding shoddy weapons. Mercenaries, then. Typical. Not trained warriors, though, so Arthur can take them easily.

They are already on the king, fighting with no discernable form but flinging themselves into attack. Arthur quickly counters them, stepping carefully around their messy footwork and blocking their strikes. They ignore Merlin for the most part, which he’s learned to appreciate rather than be offended by, as it helps him stay covert. A gust of wind, and one is knocked off balance. A rogue tree stump, and one crushes his foot. The mercenaries have little skill to begin with and even less so when luck is not on their side.

However, there are still several men to one. Arthur can defend himself fine, but that leaves little room for offense, and even the greatest warrior cannot win on defense alone.

That’s what Merlin is for. He’s immortal, why not make use of it?

Running on instinct, he grabs a discarded firewood branch and swings it around, feeling the weight. Not the finest of weapons, but he doesn’t quite need it to be. He just needs distraction.

“Oi! Over here, you pigs!”

Two of the four men not already incapacitated turn towards him. He gives them a cheeky smile and swings the branch again, now for show. “That the best you got? Surely it doesn’t take the lot of you to defeat two men collecting firewood?”

“Shut up, Merlin!” Arthur yells around his sword, still engaged with the other two men. “Go hide behind a bush!”

“Come on, I’m just a mere servant, surely it’d only take one of you to dispose of me rather quickly! Or do you need all four of you to combat the big, bad knight?”

“Gareth, take care of this gnat,” one of the distracted men says to the other. They stalk towards him, and Merlin dashes, confident that Arthur can handle two amateur mercenaries on his own. The wind whips at his face as he runs, adrenaline pumping through his body, and he can’t help it, Merlin laughs. He laughs at the absurdity of chasing bandits away with a tree branch and running for his life that he cannot lose and a child telling him he is to live forever. He laughs, and he keeps running, and it’s slightly out of fear but mostly of elation.

He hears the heavy footsteps of the mercenaries behind him, and they’re gaining on him. He won’t be able to outrun them or lose them; he doesn’t want to get too far from Arthur, anyway. He stops running, not turning around, simply listening as the footsteps get closer and closer and -

He whips around with the branch and bludgeons the mercenary on the head as soon as he gets close. Gareth, he presumes, crumbles from the blow, and Merlin laughs again. He can be quite dangerous even without his magic when he’s unconcerned with dying. He hears the footsteps of the other man, and Merlin raises his impromptu weapon at the ready.

The remaining mercenary catches up finally, sword in hand, and Merlin grins still. He looks around and sees Gareth crumpled on the ground and snarls. Merlin reels back for another blow, unconcerned, but his opponent anticipates him this time, and he strikes the branch with his sword, knocking it out of his hand.

“Oh, you’ll pay for that in particular,” he says, stalking towards Merlin with a glint in his eyes. “Got a mouth on you but no sword, aye?” He reels back with a hard punch to Merlin’s face. Before he can even register the pain, the man pulls back again and kicks him in the stomach, plummeting him to the ground.

The mercenary towers above him, and his sword catches the setting sun as he pulls it back to strike. The light hurts Merlin’s eyes and a hot pain is clawing through his body. Merlin could knock the man away with one word, but he simply stares up at the blade positioned to stab him, almost as if to challenge it to try, to finish it, go ahead and-

A loud clang rings out, and instead of a sword stabbing through his gut, Arthur is there, stabbing his own sword through the man before he gets the chance. He crumples next to Gareth, dead.

Merlin blinks. His eyes burn from the glare, and he stumbles a bit as he stands from where he was knocked prone. His heart beats rapidly, adjusting from the anticipation of being run through. Arthur, supposedly having taken the other two out as Merlin knew he could, stares at him wordlessly. Merlin ignores him.

He’s breathing heavily, cheeks flushed and ears ringing, as his adrenaline wears off. How long since he has felt this way, anxious and exhilarated and scared? Since the threat of danger meant something? Since-

A hand slaps his cheek, in the same place the punch landed moments ago. Merlin looks up offended at Arthur, whose arm is extended and face is red.

“What the hell was that? Do you have any idea how reckless that was?”

His exhilaration morphs into irritation. “Yeah, and it worked. You mock me for cowering; I was just trying something different.” He stalks back to where he dropped the firewood and picks it back up, ringing still in his ears.

He hears Arthur’s footsteps behind him. “I had it handled. What if your little stunt hadn’t worked, hm? Would you have liked to be responsible for the death of the King?”

“At the moment, I very much would.”

“Would you take me seriously for once? You put us both in danger, yourself especially, and you still won’t-”

Merlin jerks around and shoves the firewood into Arthur’s arms, who takes it instinctively. “A simple ‘thank you’ would have done just fine. Hurry up, I’m sure the knights are getting cold.” He picks up his pace back to camp, leaving the King and his questions behind. He focuses on his rushing heartbeat, and how this is the most mortal he’s felt since he heard the prophecy.

The rest of patrol is uneventful, and Arthur makes no more attempts to coax answers out of him. They return to Camelot, and Merlin returns to his routine of sleeping and waking without a word, though when he feels himself slipping too much into monotony, he presses his fingers into the spot where Arthur struck his collarbone that is now healed over. He clutches a hand over where the mercenary kicked his stomach, and where the sword should have run him through. His heart has not beat as fast since.

He sits in the armory near the end of another monotonous day, with a slow heartbeat and pace as he polishes. The armory has a certain chill at nightfall, one that seeps through your clothing and into your bones. Merlin shivers for the thousandth time that evening. Immortal or not, he wouldn’t mind a winter coat.

He’s been polishing Artuhr’s helmet for the past twenty minutes, though it’s been spotless for the past ten. He stares at his warped reflection in the metal as he scrubs and finally feels satisfied with the job. He sets the helmet down next to the armor and goes to fetch Excalibur, his last polishing task of the day.

The sword's metal gleams even before he starts, as Arthur insists on its upkeep. Merlin scoffs as he begins to scrub. Arthur loves the damned sword, and no doubt only out of pure vanity, never mind the fact that it could slay immortal armies -

Merlin freezes. The armory grows intensely silent, with no sound of cloth moving back and forth. The hairs on his arms stand from something other than the cold. Excalibur can slay immortal armies. Merlin had seen it himself, had dealt the blows himself, watched as Cenred’s men had exploded into nothing. Did that mean-?

He holds the blade upright and gazes into the silver and gold. Take me up, cast me away. He remembers Freya’s arm handing him the sword after he’d tossed it into the lake years before. Remembers the joy he felt of seeing her so briefly, the dull pain when she was gone again. Remembers one day everyone he loves will be gone. Gaius and Gwaine and his mother and Gwen and Arthur and everyone he’s ever known. They will all be gone. Everyone but him.

Unless…

Merlin drops the sword abruptly as if it’s burned him. He sits, hands and breath shaking, vision blurring with tears. His mother would break if she ever knew what he was thinking. He could never do that to her, never let her know of such things, and who’s to say it would even work? Maybe he would simply stitch back together, come back without a scratch, and he would have to live forever with the shame of his utter cowardice-

But he has to know. He realizes, on the floor of the freezing armory with tear-stained cheeks, that he has to know. Otherwise, he will spend eternity wondering, a fate to which he will not resign himself.

He stands and makes his way towards the crisp night, Excalibur discarded behind him.

Merlin used to feel guilt over constantly sneaking out of the castle at night, about how easy it was for him. He finds it hard to care these days when there is so much guilt to his name already. Perhaps Arthur hiring shoddy guards is one thing he cannot be blamed for.

He slips away with ease, once again wishing for a coat as the cold breeze knocks into him. Finally, he reaches the clearing and yells, “O drakon, e male so ftengometta tesd'hup'anankes!”

And he waits.

Sometimes Kilgharrah is there in moments, and sometimes it takes him nearly an hour. Merlin hopes the dragon is close; he’s itching for answers, and perhaps more than that, simply someone to talk to, to confess what he is, what he’s destined to become.

How many times had he been called Emrys, with no indication of its meaning? Kilgharrah had told him of his Druidic title and the prophecy surrounding it. He had a habit of keeping information hidden from Merlin until it suited him. Did the dragon ever plan to tell him? Was he expected to figure it out as years and years and years went by? A bitterness bites at him alongside the cold night air.

Just as he’s about to sit and settle into the cold, he hears the distinctive flap of dragon wings, and the already harsh breeze picks up and whips at his face. He sees Kilgharrah’s shadow swoop over the trees, and he breathes deeply. Kilgharrah lands in front of him, and Merlin steels himself.

“Young warlock. There has been a shift in the air as of late. For what purpose have-”

“I’m immortal.” He has no patience for useless platitudes.

Kilgharrah reels his head back slowly, expression unchanging. “I see.”

“Did you know?” he says, more of a demand than a question.

“I have heard many different prophecies that speak of your-”

“Did you know?” he asks again. He does not allow the Dragonlord tongue to seep into his words, but he demands an answer all the same.

The dragon sighs. “Yes, I knew. You are Emrys, meant to guide-”

“The Once and Future King, yes, I know. You conveniently left out the waiting for his return part in the near decade I’ve known you.”

Kilgharrah scoffs, an action that should invoke fear coming from a dragon but only infuriates Merlin. “You were a child when we first spoke. You were not ready to bear such information. You would have become more reckless than you already were, with no chance of protecting the King.”

“I had a right to know!” He feels the same as when Gaius revealed his father’s identity, exposing the secrecy and deceit. Fate had stripped him of autonomy, and now those closes to him stripped him further, all under the guise of protection. The bitter bite increases and lodges in his throat.

“Perhaps you did. That does not change your circumstance, however. You are immortal all the same.”

A spark of anger burns in his chest again. His pulse rushes, almost as it did when at the mercy of the mercenary’s sword. “Why would you care if I protect Arthur when it doesn’t matter? I can protect him to my fullest ability; I have done so. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because he will die either way, and I will be left with nothing. The prophecy means nothing!”

“Young warlock-”

“Don’t.”

Merlin bites his cheek and shifts his weight, nerves shot. He knows why he ran out of the city in the middle of night, and it wasn’t just to yell at a dragon.

He releases a shaky breath. “Arthur’s sword. The one you forged. It can kill the living dead.” His eyes narrow. “Could it kill me?”

Kilgharrah steps back with an expression Merlin has never seen on him. “What type of foolish ask is that?”

“I’m just asking a question.”

“One I shall not justify with a response.”

He huffs, patience lost. “Answer me.” His voice growls with the ancient powers of his ancestors, a voice he has not dared use in some time. Kilgharrah’s eyes narrow, but he bows his head all the same, no choice but to comply.

“Yes. A dragon-forged blade would kill you. While it would not have the same effect as those made immortal by dark magic, one strike would be fatal, bleeding out your blood and your magic until you perished.”

Merlin does not know how a dragon can look sad, but that is all Kilgharrah looks at the moment. Perhaps he should feel guilty for forcing the truth out of him, but guilt is a far, foreign feeling to him now.

The two are back to silence. “Thank you for answering me,” he finally mumbles.

Another scoff. “Do not pretend as though I had any choice.”

“Well, I had no choice either.” His anger is gone, deep fatigue seeping into his bones. He aches for the luxury of free will that he has never been granted.

“Merlin.” He looks up at Kilgharrah saying his name, his true name, no prophetic title or epithet. “You carry light where you go. Not because of your destiny, but because of your heart. The world would be darker without you in it.”

Merlin finds it hard to speak, though he won’t examine why. He clears his throat and looks down. “You are dismissed.”

Kilgharrah looks at him for a moment more before he takes off into the night without another word. The breeze picks back up, sending a flurry of needle-like stabs into his cold skin. The wind soon subsides, and his pulse calms.

And Merlin is alone.

“Where have you been?”

“Chores.” Merlin throws his bag down as he enters their chambers and ignores the glare he knows Gaius is giving him. He was hoping the man would be asleep when he returned, but by the tension in his shoulders, he was probably up worried waiting for him. A stab of guilt threatens to rise again. He pushes it down.

“This late?”

“Had to polish Arthur’s things after his dinner. Is there broth left?”

Gaius sighs and hands him a bowl that is no doubt cold by now. No matter. Does he even need to eat anymore? He doesn’t need to do much nowadays. His stomach growls at the site of food, though, so he sits and picks up his spoon.

He feels his mentor’s gaze as he eats. Merlin won’t give in, not this time. Telling Kilgharrah made everything real. He will not make this any more real than it already is.

Plus, his mind whispers, you don’t want anyone who could try and stop you.

“Has something happened with Arthur?” Gaius asks.

He snaps up. “What? No. Why would something have happened with Arthur?”

“It’s usually Arthur with you when you’re in a mood. So what is it, then?”

“Am I not allowed to be in a mood?”

“Of course you are. I just-”

“Great, then.” Merlin pushes the half-eaten broth away and stands. “I need to sleep; early morning tomorrow.” He climbs the stairs to his room and shuts the door before Gaius can object.

There are several distant lights from the lower town out the window; otherwise, the room is dark. He sits on the bed but doesn’t lie down; does he really need to sleep? Could he sit here for days and months and years, unmoving, letting dust and cobwebs collect around him, and never lose consciousness?

He sits and thinks of Kilgharrah’s words, what he forced the dragon to tell him. He thinks of Excalibur, still lying discarded in the armory. He thinks of Arthur, who he knows he could never leave. Who will eventually leave him first.

He does not sleep for hours, until the lights have faded into total darkness.

Merlin wakes early the next morning, despite his late night. He goes to Arthur’s chamber with breakfast, prepared to pull him out of bed, but when he arrives, the King is up and fully dressed, looking up at his entrance.

“Are the horses ready?”

“For what?”

“For patrol, Merlin.”

“I didn’t know we were going on patrol! You have to tell me these things for me to do my job, you know!”

“We’re going on patrol. Get the horses ready.” Arthur gives him an obnoxious smile and goes to get his riding gloves. Merlin glares but heads out the door anyway, towards the stables.

Half an hour later, riding bags are packed and ready, and he hears hustling. The King joins him out front of the stables, with the Knights not far behind him. He turns to greet them, and a gleam of metal hitting the sun causes him to squint. He opens his eyes, and there is Arthur. In his hand, as it is for every patrol, rests his sword. Rests Excalibur.

Merlin shouldn’t be shocked; Arthur carries his sword most places outside the castle. He was just polishing the damned thing last night. Something, though, about seeing it in front of him after Kilgharrah confirmed his suspicions, knocks the breath from him. It catches in the sunlight still, the gold reflecting straight into Merlin’s eyes. He squints once more. This time, he opens his eyes, and the glint is gone, and Arthur is looking at him like he has two heads.

“Are you hungover right now?”

“What? No!”

“You’re acting like Gwaine the morning after a Yule feast.”

Gwaine smiles at his mention. “I don’t think Merlin can hold enough alcohol to be that hungover.”

“I’m not hungover, clotpole,” Merlin says. Arthur has sheathed Excalibur, and the fog is clearing. “Just a bit of a headache.”

He can tell Arthur is unsatisfied with the answer. The King has kept a close eye on him still; he seems unsatisfied with every answer Merlin gives lately. Merlin knows it’s out of worry, and he wishes he could be touched by his concern, but right now he just wants to go unnoticed.

Thankfully, Arthur says nothing and goes to mount his horse, the knights doing the same. Merlin follows, riding beside the King, his eyes glued to the sheath for the whole ride.

They stop to rest after several boring hours. Clouds have gathered since the morning, and Arthur has not unsheathed his sword again, so Merlin breathes evenly as he sits and snacks on the dried meat from his pack. Rain begins to fall gently through the trees, dotting his jacket and trousers.

The knights settle in to rest their legs for a moment, Gwaine giving him a smile as he passes. Merlin smiles back, briefly, but says nothing. The meat is salty and dry and he could use some water, but he keeps snacking, more to have something to do than to satisfy any hunger. Or maybe it’s for show; maybe he’s parading around like someone who will die if they do not sustain their body. Maybe he’s deceived everyone into thinking he’s human, and he will stand over their dying bodies and watch as the realization of his deception hits them, that he was never like them, and he will smile and shrug and move on until -

“How’s that headache of yours?”

He’s startled out of his thoughts by Arthur plopping down beside him, his own travel pack in hand. Merlin blinks, but manages a small “fine” and takes another bite of meat. He doesn’t want to face Arthur’s scrutiny right now, doesn’t want to be asked questions he cannot answer and given a disappointed and distrusting look. But Arthur has never cared about what Merlin wants, and doesn’t even know what he wants, because Merlin has not told him, so Merlin sits and awaits his questioning.

The king, though, asks no question, raises no scrutiny at Merlin’s dismissive answer, and instead reaches into his pack. He pulls out not jerky or nuts but a bundle of grapes and extends them to Merlin. It’s so unexpected and frustratingly endearing that Merlin can’t help it, he laughs. Arthur’s mouth flicks up a bit at the sound, and his arm remains extended. And whether it’s to keep up appearances of his humanity, or just because it’s nice to see Arthur smile at him again, Merlin takes the grapes and pops one in his mouth.

“Don’t let Gwaine see that we have these. He’d throw a fit about the privilege of nobles,” Arthur says as he snacks on a handful of his own.

“I’m as common as they come, so he’d need a new argument.”

“I keep telling you that being the King’s servant is itself a privilege.”

“Yes, I count my blessings every day I’m lucky enough to wash your socks.”

Arthur punches his arm with the hand not holding the grapes. The last time Arthur touched him, it was a slap on the cheek as reprimand for his stunt with the mercenaries. They haven’t touched normally, haven’t talked normally, in weeks, since when Merlin still thought of himself as human. The sheer normalcy of Arthur teasing him and punching him startles him into a genuine smile. His shoulders relax a bit, and his stomach grumbles. He eats another grape.

“Is there a reason you keep dragging us on these useless patrols in the freezing cold? Or are we just collateral in the quest to cure your boredom?” he asks, leaning into the normalcy. The rain is picking up, and his jacket will be soaked through soon.

“Are the people of Camelot only to feel safe when the weather suits you? Really, Merlin, this is why you aren’t the King.”

“Yes, I’m sure the Kingdom is much safer after today. That rabbit Percival shot, thank the gods it didn’t make it to the lower town, there’d be a massacre.”

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur quips, looking over at him with an easy grin that makes Merlin’s heart ache. It’s a grin so beautiful that he forgets about druids and prophecies and swords for the slightest moment, and just focuses on the way Arthur’s eyes crinkle in the corner and how his hair is beginning to stick to his forehead from the rain. He can allow himself that much.

"There are other benefits to these patrols, though," the King continues, his smile easing but still remaining. "We could all use some time away from the city. Me, the knights, even you need a break from washing my socks, privilege though it is."

"You're too kind, Sire. I don't know what I'd do without your generosity. Enjoy some time off, perhaps." He doesn't realize it until now, but he's missed this easy teasing with Arthur, something that used to define their relationship but has lately been so glaringly absent. It provides a rush of adrenaline in him now that turns his mouth upwards into a smile, and he looks at Arthur with a light heart, awaiting his response.

"Please, Merlin. You wouldn't last a day not in my service. Would probably manage to off yourself a day in, with how helpless you are."

It's a half-formed jab, nothing more, but Merlin's smile plummets. A deep nausea coils in his stomach, seizing whatever stillness had found him in this conversation and crushing it. Every fear that had momentarily abated rushes back at the reminder. Arthur smiles still, not realizing how his words have struck. Merlin's eyes unconsciously fall to the King's sheath.

“Merlin?” he hears Arthur ask beside him. “What is it?”

“Hm? Nothing, I’m fine,” he says, because it’s a more reasonable answer than I forgot about my destiny for five minutes but you just reminded me that I will watch you and everyone I love die and the only way to stop it is the sword currently resting at your hip. He does not raise his eyes to meet Arthur’s gaze. Is this his fate for the rest of time, to have a fleeting moment of peace, only for it to be ripped from him at the slightest reminder? The grapes go sour in his stomach, and whatever appetite he had found is lost. He reaches for his waterskin, only to find it empty when he goes to sip.

“I need to fill these,” he mumbles, standing abruptly. He’s still not looking at Arthur, he can’t bear another reminder, but he feels the king’s eyes follow him. He’s undoubtedly felt Merlin’s mood shift, he’s been so damn perceptive lately, all his questions and trials and concern that Merlin wishes he could feel touched by.

“For goodness’ sake, sit down. We’ll go fill up in a moment. It’ll be a trek down to the bank with the rain.”

“Yes, well, I’m thirsty now, and I’m not waiting around on you noble folk.”

“Really? You’re not just running from me again?” The king’s voice is icy, like the cold raindrops falling more and more steadily. It’s enough to make Merlin turn and face him, his nausea flaring stronger than before. His gentle smile from earlier is gone, and it’s back to that scrutinizing frown, the only way he’s looked at Merlin for weeks now.

“Arthur-”

“What is it going to take for you to be truthful with me?” He asks, and Merlin really, really wishes he knew the answer. Arthur looks at him with eyes that beg him for honesty, just like he did in his chambers, and in the woods, and a hundred moments in between. And just like every other time, Merlin denies him.

“I’m just going to fill these. I’ll be back.” He turns towards the direction of the bank, and he cannot muster any relief when Arthur does not follow.

Rain falls, and falls, and falls. Merlin’s clothes are fully soaked through now, and he shivers at the coldness it adds to the already freezing weather. He trudges through an increasing amount of mud down to the bank, and Arthur was probably right to tell him to wait, but he needed to be anywhere other than where the King was.

He doesn’t run, but his boots slide on the slick ground anyway, and he almost stumbles several times over. It’s hard to see in front of him through the downpour, and at this point he could just raise his waterskin and let the raindrops fill it, but he’s less concerned with quenching his thirst and more with getting away. He keeps moving towards the river.

Jagged rocks litter the ground as he approaches. The current rushes heavy and loud, but Merlin draws nearer. The bank in front of him is shallow, easily traversible. A little down the way, the water deepens and the current slams into craggy rocks. What good will caution do him? He approaches the crashing waves and crouches down with the waterskins. Rain pelts him and he can't hear his own thoughts over the waves he guides into the leather pouch. At least he can't focus enough to think about Arthur.

The first skin fills, and Merlin caps it and reaches for the second. As he leans to grab it, an exceptionally strong wave collides with a rock and splashes his entire body. He coughs, startled, and in his shock drops the waterskin. It plunges into the river and sweeps away quickly until it is gone.

Merlin balks. There's no reason to; he has a full container next to him, and the knights have plenty. It's goddamn storming, he could simply raise his head and open his mouth. Nothing is lost with this waterskin. He can let it float away, share water with Arthur for the rest of the trip, and head back to camp for shelter. That would be the practical thing to do.

Merlin tosses the full skin aside and runs alongside the current, looking for a glimpse of dark leather. The river flows so fast it might be yards away now. Still he runs. He runs as he did from the mercenaries, but there is no elation to be found from the danger, only a sick, congealing desperation that sticks to him like the rain. All he can feel is desperation, and he runs and his foot slips in the mud and he does not catch himself.

His slip sends him pummeling into the river, much like the waterskin.

Merlin's survival instincts kick in as his body plunges into cold water. He gasps for breath and flails around for something to hold onto. He manages to grasp one of the rocks jutting out of the stream and pull his head above water. The waterskin is forgotten, but his desperation holds on as tightly as he holds the rock.

The tide rushes past him furiously. The river isn’t particularly deep, but it’s fast and he could no doubt be swept away if not careful. He could mumble a single spell and lift himself out to safety. If he really strained, he could probably pull himself out with his strength alone. He’s not helpless. Despite this, he makes no move to free himself from the violent rush of the current. He grips the rock and lets the river water lash his torso and the rainwater pelt his face. He fights for every breath, trying not to swallow water every time he opens his mouth. Merlin wonders if this is what it is to drown, if he even has the ability to. He remembers the weight of Arthur’s cold body when he saved him from such a fate, when he dragged him out of Avalon-

Merlin freezes. The world around him does not, rain pours and pours and tries its best to fill his lungs, but he freezes. Avalon. The whole reason Arthur almost drowned, mere months into Merlin’s time in Camelot, was that Sofia and Aulfric could not bear to live mortal lives. Mortal lives that the Sidhe had cursed them with. He laughs, and water engulfs his mouth and chokes him, and he doesn’t care. The Sidhe can rid creatures of their immortality. He would beg, threaten, invoke the name of Emrys from legend for them to grant him such a fate.

"Merlin! How long does it take to collect some water? Or are you having a temper tantrum in the middle of a thunderstorm?"

Arthur. He hears his voice down the bank. If he finds Merlin like this, there's no telling what he'll do, what he'll think, and it's a hard thing to concern himself with when all he wants is to drag himself up and demand death. He wants to drown, not in a shallow river but in Avalon, the one place where magic would not sink its claws into his deteriorating body and force breath back into him. Arthur can't get in the way of that. He tries for the first time to pull himself out of the water; his arms strain and he still fights to breathe, but he manages to haul his torso up onto the rock. He's one step closer to freedom -

"Merlin!"

Arthur's voice startles him, it's much closer this time, how did he get so close so quickly, and his grip loosens. His torso plunges back into the water. He cannot regain his hold fast enough, and his head plunges as well. It slams into the rock with a sickening crack. Even near underwater, Merlin feels his eyes water as an ice-cold shock overtakes his body. He's nauseous, he's dizzy, he's drowning, he's immortal, he doesn't want to be. He's losing consciousness and there is a heavy grip around his shoulders. He's out of the water, he's moving not of his own will, and he's thinking of Avalon. He's unconscious.

The trek back to Camelot is a blur. Many of his days pass as a blur lately, but Merlin slips in and out of awareness so rapidly that one second, he is being dragged up a hill and the next, he is slung over a horse. He still feels the rainfall.

He pieces together that they've made it back to the city and Arthur is carrying him, no doubt to the physician's chambers.

“Gaius!” They burst through the door, Merlin slung around Arthur.

“Sire?”

“He’s injured.”

“Put him down here.” He is deposited onto the cot and feels something cool against his forehead. “What happened?”

"Slipped on a rock and almost drowned, the clumsy oaf," Arthur grumbles.

“I need to assess the damage. Would you fetch me some water, Sire?”

Merlin doesn’t hear a response other than the door closing, so he assumes Arthur has gone. A cloth once again swipes his head, and he feels Gaius above him.

“My boy, can you hear me?”

“Mm.”

“Well, that’s a start. Can you tell me what really happened?”

Merlin’s eyes squint but he doesn’t respond; he wants to sink into the heavy pain running through his body and stay there until he is numb and cannot feel time pass around him. If he sits here long enough, he may feel relief for just a bit, before Gaius or his magic inevitably forces him back to the surface.

The door slams open, and if Merlin’s eyelids weren’t ten tons heavy, he would have seen Arthur burst through with a bucket of water. The cool cloth still rests on him, and he wants to turn away from it, away from the comfort, but he has not the strength to resist it. He wants to stand from the bed and walk straight into Avalon, but his head spins too much to move his legs.

“Is he awake? Can he hear us?”

“I can’t tell how aware he is, but he seems to be in and out of consciousness.”

“Merlin, wake up or I’m putting you in the stocks for a week.”

“Thank you, Sire, I’m sure that will help.”

He wishes he could tell them that he's fine, no need to worry, that he will live against all odds and against his own will. But he can’t.

“You’re exhausted, I’m sure. You should rest,” Gaius says.

“I’m fine.” And that was just like Arthur, to be stubborn at the most inconvenient times.

“I know you’re worried, but you can do nothing for him here. Please, get some sleep, and you can check on him first thing tomorrow.”

“Great. He’s leaving me to fend for myself for the night. How typical of him.”

Neither of them speak after that, and Merlin hears the slam of the door and a sigh from Gaius. The cloth lifts from his forehead and is replaced by a stroke of Gaius's hand, pushing his hair back. The comfort is enough to push Merlin back into darkness.

When Merlin wakes again, he lies not on a patient cot but in his own bed, a single blanket draped over him. He has no idea how much time has passed; it is dark outside his window and he still hears rainfall. He breathes in and it aches, as if Nimueh had shot a fireball at his chest and Morgause had bound him with magical chains all at once. "Oh," he says, and he hears movement when he speaks, Gaius shooting upright from the chair he'd been lounging in.

“Merlin! You’re awake.”

“I see that.” He starts to sit up when a dizziness assaults his head, pushing him back.

Gaius eases him back down on the bed. “Easy now. You have a concussion; you need to avoid exertion for a few days at least. I’ll get you some water.”

Merlin sits there, feeling strongly like he might vomit everywhere. Gaius hands him a cup and he drinks heavily.

“You frightened all of us, you know. Arthur has been beside himself with worry. Not that he’d say.”

“Mm. Sorry to worry you.” He hands the now-empty cup back, and his hands shake only a little.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

He huffs. “Arthur didn’t?”

“He told me you almost drowned because you slipped on a rock. I suspect there's a bit more to the story than that."

He bites his cheek. "That's pretty much it, actually. I was going to fill the waterskins, and I tripped and fell in the river." And I might have found a way to die.

Even if the river had consumed him to where he was more water than blood, even if the rock had cracked open his skull, destiny called him to live. Unless destiny can be unwilled. He sees the glistening of Avalon's water in his mind and longs for it as a child longs for their mother.

“You have to be more careful.”

“What for?” he snaps. He decided at the bank caution was of no use to him.

Gaius looks at him, surprised by his tone. “What for? Did you forget where you are? You could have died!”

“But I didn’t!” He’s yelling now, and his chest aches and he knows he should stop himself, but the words keep coming, they spill out of him like bile and he doesn’t choke them down. “I didn’t, and I won’t! You could shoot an arrow through my chest and I wouldn’t die, I’d just bleed out for a bit, and then heal over in time for dinner!”

“What on earth are you-”

“Do you know what Emrys means, Gaius? It means immortal.” He says it, and it feels real and violent, worse than the child telling him, than him telling Kilgharrah. “I’m immortal.”

“What - how do you-”

“A druid told me.” He can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. “A child. Not Kilgharrah or Iseldir or anyone who seems to know my destiny better than I do. A child who stumbled upon me in the woods and told me not to worry because Arthur couldn’t kill me if he tried.”

An eerie silence rests between them. “Merlin. How long have you known about this?”

“Couple of weeks.”

“Hm. You’ve sustained quite a few injuries in that time.” The confusion in Gaius's voice is gone, replaced with a soft speculation that is never a good sign. “When you fell in training, Arthur seemed suspicious that you missed on purpose. And now, with these incidents on patrol…you’ve always been reckless, but not to the point of abandon.”

Merlin freezes, a cold fear cutting through the heat of the fire in his head. “What does that-”

“My boy, even if you are immortal, you are not invincible. You know that, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

“So why do you insist on putting yourself in danger?”

He scoffs. “What does it matter? I’ll always come back. I’ll keep coming back, because destiny willed it so! I have no say in any matter of my life. I don’t even have a say in how I die. I don’t get to die at all. Gods, why can’t I die?”

Merlin’s whole body shakes. He looks up, and Gaius is shaking, too. No, it’s not just him; the entire room is shaking with magic, emanating from his chest and overflowing into Gaius, the floors, the shelves. His breath shudders with his magic, a panic rising that he cannot stop. The dizziness returns tenfold, but this time he stands despite it. He needs out, out of this room and this castle and this fate.

He knows the way out.

Merlin stumbles down the stairs that are still shaking from his magic. His head assaults him with dizziness and his ears ring, but he slows not. He makes a beeline for the door- he needs out. In his rush, he almost misses the glint of gold in the corner of his eye. He whips around to see Arthur, fast asleep in Gaius’s chair. Was he waiting on Merlin to wake? He still wears his chainmail, and Excalibur lays across his lap. At the sight of it, a terrible thought strikes him, as violently as the rock struck his head.

He has a plan, but it is not a guarantee. He needs a guarantee.

“Inbringe cume mec,” he whispers. The sword flies from Arthur’s lap and into his waiting hand. Its weight feels perfect in his grasp, like it was crafted just for him. He breathes deeply, once, twice, in a futile attempt to stop the shaking around him. He runs out the door, and does not see Arthur begin to stir behind him as he does.

Merlin’s head spins. His head spins and his stomach twists and the winter rain burns his skin. The metal of the sword his hand is wrapped around should add to the biting cold, but it is his only source of warmth, more than the jacket he did not bother to grab would have provided. The trees of the forest taunt him as he runs through them; maybe it’s the concussion speaking, or the desperation, but Merlin swears they part to create a perfectly clear path for him. He runs, and does not thank them. He needs out.

The wind grows colder and colder as he sprints, and Merlin knows he reaches closer. The lights of fireflies burn brightly through the storm, and magic congeals in the air like a thick fog. Through the blanket of magic, he approaches a pristine body of water, unnaturally blue and still, even in the midst of the rain. Despite his desperate state, Merlin can’t help but find it beautiful.

“No mortal is meant to gaze upon the shores of Avalon,” a voice calls at his approach. He sees no figure but a single blue light flickering near him. Merlin almost smiles.

“But I’m not mortal, am I?”

A pause, and then the light morphs into the familiar form of a Sidhe. “Emrys,” it whispers, gazing at him.

“That is my name. It is my title, and it is my destiny. To be the Immortal One.” He spits out the title like a curse.

He sees more and more blue lights dancing across the lake. “Why do you call upon us?” The same Sidhe snarls.

“You once banished two of your own from Avalon and forced them to live mortal lives.” He thinks of Aulfric’s anger at such a fate, how desperately he clung to the hope of seeing Avalon again.

“They could not be allowed to return after the betrayal of their kind.”

“I wish to be granted the same fate.”

A chorus of hisses erupt around him. Dozens of blue lights draw closer, as if to be a threat, and Merlin laughs. There is no serious threat they can pose to him now, besides denying him.

“Whyever would you ask such a thing?”

“Why would I?” He snarls back at the Sidhe. “So much has been asked of me. My entire life was dictated before I was ever born. I believed myself human, to be able to live and breathe and die. And you ask me why?”

“You are not a being as simple as a Sidhe, Emrys. You are something far more ancient, far more powerful. There is no place we could banish you that could separate you from your magic; it is inherent within you.”

“Then what is the point?” He yells, making his concussed head dizzy with pain, but he doesn’t care. “What is the point of any of it? I’ve been told, over and over, how I must protect Arthur. All I have ever known since I’ve arrived in Camelot is keeping Arthur alive. But no matter what I do, he will fall eventually. And I will wait for him, for what? A decade? A century? A millennium? Everything I’ve been fighting to prevent is inevitable. So I ask again. Grant me the same fate.”

“And again I tell you, what you ask is impossible.” The elder flies close to his face, and for the first time Merlin clearly sees its wings, its claws, its fangs. It eyes him up and down and smirks. “Although, it seems you may already have the answers you seek.” A swarm of fairies dive towards him and surround his right hand, where he holds Excalibur in a desperate grip.

“You already know of this blade’s power. You know what it can do with one strike. So why do you come to us, pleading, when you hold the answer in your hand?”

The Sidhe that have gathered form a blue aura around the sword. It glows as it did when it caught the early Camelot sun, after he learned from Kilgharrah what it could do. Though there is no sun to catch now, though he grips it in the middle of a night rainstorm, the glow is just as blinding.

“You came to us because you seek someone else to impose your end. How funny, how you complain about what has been dictated for you, and now you wish to be absolved of this choice. You know that no other can wield this blade.”

They’re right. He knew, since the thought crossed his mind in the armory, that it would have to be him to take a blade to his own chest. The only person he could ask, or rather force, is Arthur, and Merlin could never do that to him. He would be content to die here, alone, and let his friends believe he disappeared suddenly, or fell in a tragic accident. He could never let them know that to save himself from a life without them, he subjected them to the same fate.

Merlin lifts Excalibur in front of him; the Sidhe follow his movement, still covering the blade. His arms ache still and his head spins. The adrenaline is clearing and he can feel every ailment in his body. How cruel, to be less than human yet still forced to feel the pain of humanity. He wonders if Excalibur will hurt before it kills him, or if he will be too relieved to even notice.

Eventually his humanity will fade, he knows. He will forget everyone he’s ever known. He will wake and sleep and wake and sleep, or maybe he won’t. Maybe he will become like the Fisher King, unmoving but undying, forced to watch the world around him rot. Maybe even his second natures will be taken from him.

He gazes into the blue light of the blade, and in it he sees himself in the present, and in ten years, and a hundred years and a thousand years. He looks the same in each image, his body unchanging, save his eyes which show his age clearly. Even if he manages to find people after his loved ones die, those people will soon follow, as will the next ones, and the next, and the next. Every person he will ever meet is walking dust. This is the only way.

“Folge min bebod,” he begins to chant, slow and quiet at first, almost ashamed. Excalibur lifts from his hands, enveloped by the Sidhe and his own magic, and he chants again, emboldened this time. “Astyre.” He feels his eyes, his veins burning with power, guiding the sword closer. Thunder strikes above him and he feels the raindrops hitting his cheeks grow - did he cause that? No matter, he won’t be around to find out, he lets the rain fall and soak his clothes and he chants and chants and wills the blade to strike -

“Merlin!”

His focus shatters at the sound of his name, and the Sidhe that have gathered hiss and scatter. He feels the spell dissipate as Excalibur falls to the ground with a clang. He clamors for it, desperate, he was so close, so close, just one strike and he’ll be free, he grabs the sword again and resumes his chanting, he’s so close -

“Merlin, goddamnit, stop!”

The cry rings out again, and this time he looks up to see its source, to see who would dare stop him, and Arthur Pedragon is running towards him for the second time that day, arm outstretched. His hair sticks to his face from the pouring rain and his chainmail must be tons heavy and soaked.

“Arthur, what-” he balks, why is he here, he shouldn’t be here, he should be safe in Camelot, none the wiser to Merlin’s actions.

“A servant runs off with the King’s sword, I’m honor-bound to pursue him. You’re quite an easy person to track, you know,” Arthur says, no longer yelling, but there’s a frantic energy to him, not looking Merlin in the eyes but focused on Excalibur, which Merlin has resumed his white-knuckle grip on.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, willing Arthur to just turn around so he can die in peace.

“Yes, well, neither should you. You should be on bedrest. I’m only here to get you back.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. His adrenaline is wearing off, the Sidhe have dissipated, and his magic has calmed. His body aches and his head pounds. And now he’s supposed to push Arthur away? “Arthur, please-”

“No, Merlin, whatever you’re about to say, no.” The King steps closer, eyes still on the sword, stance cautious as if he’s approaching a wild animal. “I’m done taking your deflections as answers. I’ve been doing that for weeks and now I’m chasing you through the forest after you nearly drowned. Let’s just go home, and we’ll work it out. Whatever this is, we’ll work it out.”

Merlin, for the first time this evening, feels his eyes spilling over with tears, flowing as heavily as the raindrops. How he wishes that were true, that they could work it out, that he could go home with Arthur and talk it through and move on like he never learned of his fate. He wishes he could go on protecting Arthur with the foolish notion that it mattered. He could sit in Arthur’s chambers and eat grapes and laugh and simply enjoy his company, without thinking of how little time they have.

Not little time, no time. If Merlin gets his way, they have no time left, this is it. This meeting now is even more than they should get. He was prepared to never see Arthur again, to leave him to find his body or to not and wonder why he’d do such a thing, to allow his secrets and his magic and his love to die with him. And now here Arthur stands in front of him, pleading and desperate, and gods, what is he doing? Another wave of nausesa rushes through him.

He can feel his pulse through the hand gripping Excalibur. It feels as if the sword is beating, not his heart, anticipating his strike, disappointed he has not already run himself through the chest. Could he stand in front of his King and watch the panic in his eyes as life leaves him? Does he want that to be the last thing he sees? His adrenaline drains and drains and his horror grows and grows.

“Merlin, please,” Arthur says. He’s never sounded so desperate. Merlin could never deny him anything.

He drops the sword.

Arthur moves as soon as he does, darting to kick Excalibur away and out of his reach. Merlin wants to laugh, tease him for fretting like a mother hen, but he’s breathing heavily and suddenly it’s hard to move. It’s as if his body is once again submerged in water, and he feels every ache that the adrenaline had pushed away. Arthur stares at him now, ready for any sudden movements, but Merlin could not reach for the sword again even if he wanted to. And gods, he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t even want to look at it, he wants it as far away from him as possible.

“Don’t - I’m fine,” he mumbles to Arthur, who clearly does not believe him. No surprise - it was a weak protest, and he feels as if he could pass out at any moment. The nausea moves from his stomach to his throat, and he collapses to the muddy ground to dry heave. There’s nothing in his stomach to purge, but he tries anyway, tries to expel every dark thought and fear still coiling deep in him. He chokes on the empty air.

Arthur, now, moves towards him, and Merlin stays facing the ground. He doesn’t want to look at him and see the shock and bewilderment there. Who knows how much the King even understands the situation? He can’t face him, vulnerable as he is. He dry heaves again. Arthur puts a tentative hand on his back, as if he’s afraid the contact will cause Merlin to bolt. Instead, it tires him. His head spins and he remembers Gaius’s warning about his concussion. His eyes begin to close, and as he slips into unconsciousness, he swears he feels Arthur’s arms envelope him.

He wakes slowly, gently, to the sound of soft rustling. There’s something warm draped over him, and his clothes are dry. He notices all of this first, and then the pain lingering in his head. With the pain comes recollection. He feels not the soft cot underneath him, but the rocky ground of the lakeshore, heavy rainfall pelting his body. He hears his pleas to the Sidhe, pleas that they denied. He sees Arthur behind his closed eyelids, panic clear on his face. If he wakes fully, that means facing everyone, confronting what he very clearly tried to do. He’s strong, the most powerful sorcerer to walk the earth, but not strong enough for that. His eyes stay shut.

“Merlin?”

Gaius must’ve felt him wake. Of course he did; what made Merlin think he could hide from him? Hide from Arthur? From everyone and everything for the rest of his eternal life? His bone-deep exhaustion comes from the concussion, yes, but also from the shadow he’s made of himself recently; it’s exhausting to shut himself away, to add to the heavy pile of secrets he already keeps. He feels Gaius’s eyes on him, and he could ignore them. He could lay still here until he slips back into unconsciousness and never speak a word to anyone. He could continue on as he has, brush off everyone’s concern, until the weight of his secrets inevitably drives him right back to the lake with Excalibur in his hand. He’s tired of deflecting and dodging and making new excuses. He can’t hide anymore.

He opens his eyes.

Gaius is looking at him as expected, but he has never seen such anguish on the man’s face. His mouth is drawn tight, and where his brows are usually shot up in exasperation, they now rest low on his forehead. Merlin has become accustomed to Gaius’s frustration, his gentle chiding, even his anger. He is not prepared for Gaius’s sorrow.

“Gaius…” he begins, but his words fail him and he falls silent. What is there to say? Sorry I ran off in a desperate attempt to off myself; I’m the only one that could have done it, that’s why I didn’t ask you. Arthur came after me and might have seen me enchanting his own sword to kill me, but it seems he still brought me back to Camelot, so that’s a good sign, right?

Gaius’s words also seem to fail him, for he doesn’t speak as he pulls Merlin into an embrace. His body aches at the movement, but he allows himself to rest in his mentor’s arms. They hold him tight, tighter than one would expect from an old man; Merlin can feel the desperation in the bony fingers digging into his shoulders.

Shame douses any fight left in him. He curls into himself, and Gaius lets go. A wave of nausea crashes into his stomach, and suddenly he cannot bear to look anywhere but the floor.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I know, my boy.”

“I didn’t-” He stops, not even knowing what he wants to deny. It would be a lie no matter what.

“In all your reckless stunts, I’ve never feared for you as I did tonight. Even knowing you cannot die.”

Hearing someone he loves say the words aloud sends a shudder through his body. He grips the sheet that covers him with both hands and breathes out. “No, I can’t.”

“And that is what this is all about, isn’t it?” Gaius gives him that knowing look now, a look Merlin can feel even facing the floor.

There’s no use in lying now, not with all his secrets laid bare. “I went to Kilgharrah after I found out,” he begins, focusing intently on the way his knuckles grow white from his tight grip on the sheet. “He already knew. Didn’t find that an important part of the prophecy to tell me, I suppose.” He pauses, hoping Gaius will interrupt with questions, but no question comes. Gaius waits him out. He sighs. “I went to see if a blade that could kill the undead could also kill me.”

It takes Gaius a moment to register the implication of his words; there is a beat of silence before Merlin hears his sharp intake of breath. “Merlin-”

“I wasn’t planning anything!” He cuts Gaius off, unable to face his reprimand. “Or, I wasn’t at the time. I just had to know. It would’ve killed me, the not knowing. Well, it wouldn’t have killed me,” he laughs almost desperately, “but Excalibur would have.”

“And what did you hope to accomplish in running away like you did, with Excalibur in your hand?”

Merlin bites the inside of his cheek. The panic he felt when his magic exploded threatens to rise again; he forces it down like bile. “I wasn’t really thinking. I just felt desperate. I keep imagining you, and my mother, and…and Arthur,” he chokes out his name, “all gone. Everyone will be gone someday, except for me. How is that fair?”

Merlin does not realize he’s crying until he tastes salty tears dripping down his face. The thought of picking up Excalibur again fills him with dread, but he still sees the vision of himself in the blade, with a young face and old eyes, alone. Alone, alone, alone, his thoughts scream, and yet he’s already been alone for weeks. He’s pushed away Arthur and Gaius and anyone who could have sat with him through the spiralling of his mind. Was he truly content to lose them before he needed to?

“Oh, my boy, it is not,” Gaius says. “The things that have been put upon you are not at all fair. It is no wonder you have been struggling; I do not know of anyone who could bear such a weight.”

Merlin sighs. Even the affirmation that yes, this is not fair, and yes, it is a weight to bear, calms him a bit. How long he’s waited, far longer than learning of his immortality, for someone to tell him things are unfair. He pulls Gaius into another hug, breathing calmly into the man’s shoulder, and lets the last of his tears fall.

“Arthur will want to know you’re awake,” Gaius says as they pull away again.

He squeezes his eyes shut. “Can you wait to fetch him? Just for a bit. I can’t…I can’t face him yet.”

“You can’t hide from him forever.”

“I can technically do anything forever.” He gives Gaius a smile that’s more of a grimace, and Gaius gives him only an eyebrow in return. His smile falls. “I know I can’t. I just…I don’t know how much he saw. Or heard. I don’t know what I’d say to him.”

“Arthur was fretting over you quite some time before this happened. I think at least part of the truth is in order.”

He knows Gaius is right. He thinks of when they spoke on patrol, before he’d panicked and ruined it, and how it was the lightest he had felt in weeks. He thinks of the disappointment in Arthur’s gaze when Merlin shut down again. He thinks of every attempted conversation, every so-called “trial” that Merlin knows was Arthur’s way of reaching out. What could Merlin possibly tell him besides the truth?

He takes a deep breath, allowing the decision to finalize in his mind. “I know. He deserves to know.” He gives another wry smile. “Besides, it’s not like he can execute me, right?” He laughs, and it feels good, he thinks, to make light of the very thing that has been plaguing him for weeks. To talk about it with someone he loves. It strips it of its power; no longer is it a dark, unknowable thing that haunts only him. They can share in it. Gaius can know and can sit with Merlin when the burden feels to heavy to bear and can laugh with him when that is all there is to do.

His mentor, at the joke, only sighs. “This newfound humor is going to grow old quite quickly, my boy.”

“Unlike me. I’m going to grow old quite slowly.”

Gaius laughs too now, and the sound eases Merlin’s mind, just a bit.

Gaius sends a messenger to the King’s chambers, as he’s forbidden Merlin from leaving his room for several days (Merlin suspects it’s more the man’s desire to keep an eye on him than his physical health). It’s a good thing; Merlin knows he couldn’t get himself to Arthur’s door without turning around in fear. Conversely, it resigns him to lay still on his bed and await his fate.

He’s been staring at the same page of his spell book for twenty minutes when he hears a commotion from downstairs. His instincts throw the book to the ground and sit him up straight. He just manages to reset himself before Arthur walks through the door. He’s dressed in his plain white tunic, and he has not a weapon on him.

They stare at each other.

Arthur shifts on his feet, the most discomfort he allows himself to show. “You’re alive, then.”

He relaxes ever-so-slightly at Arthur’s voice, how normal this feels, even manages a small smile. “Seems so.”

“Despite your best efforts.”

The smile disappears, along with any ease he’d gained since the King entered. “Well-”

“Are you out of your mind? What kind of foolish, idiotic scheme-” Arthur’s shifting turns to pacing, and his voice raises to a level Gaius can no doubt hear from downstairs. Merlin longs to reach for him even in his rage, but he’s too far to reach from the bed. He’s not even sure the contact would be welcome, not like this, and not when he created the distance in the first place.

“You weren’t supposed to- nobody was supposed to-” he cuts himself off, feeling the insufficiency of his words as he says them. There’s no ample explanation, really, not even if he confessed every secret he’d kept since they’d met. There are no words he could say to justify his actions or the panicked way Arthur had called his name at the lake.

“What were you trying to do, Merlin?” Arthur stops pacing and glues his eyes to the floor. Gods, he can’t even look at him. Arthur always looks at Merlin when reprimanding him. It usually drives Merlin mad how he holds his glare until he’s done yelling. Arthur is too ashamed of him to do even that.

“It’s a long story. I want to tell you. I do,” he says more to himself. But he says no more.

“Can you be honest with me just this once? Can you give me something? You keep putting yourself in danger, and the next thing I know, you run off with my sword, and you’re-”

Arthur cuts himself off and runs a hand over his mouth. He still won’t look at him. Merlin is about to speak, offer him another empty reassurance, when the King says, “Your eyes glowed.”

The reassurance dies in his throat at Arthur’s words, and his mouth runs dry. He gasps, “What?” with a shaky breath, unsure what else to say.

“You were shouting when I found you. Some words I didn’t understand. And your eyes glowed.”

Merlin knew this was inevitable; the magical nature of his stunt was undeniable, even to Arthur. Nevertheless, no foreknowledge could prepare him for Arthur proclaiming his biggest secret out into the world. All he can do is gape.

Arthur notices his silence and sighs. “You don’t- I won’t force the truth out of you. Not right now, at least; you look on death’s door. Just- does this have to do with how you’ve been acting?”

He bites his cheek. “A bit, yes. Probably not in the way you’re thinking.”

Arthur glances at him and, despite his insistence, clearly wants him to say more. He looks down again, and Merlin catches a redness in his eyes he did not see before. He’s exuded a frantic energy since he entered, an energy Arthur rarely lets himself show, even to Merlin. As the King still avoids his gaze, it hits Merlin all at once. Arthur is not ashamed or angry with him. Arthur is vulnerable, and he is scared.

Fie.

Arthur, still frantic, continues, none the wiser to his internal battle. “Merlin, whatever this is, we can-”

“I’m immortal.” The words spill out of him, out of shame and desperation and brutal honesty.

Arthur pauses. “You’re - what?”

“Immortal. Can’t die. Going to live forever.”

The King blinks, understandably taken aback. “That…wow. Okay.”

Merlin smiles, just a bit. “There is a lot to tell you.”

“Yes, it seems so.”

They sit in silence now, Merlin unsure of where to go from here and Arthur no doubt digesting everything. He sees the wheels turning in the King’s head, piecing everything together similar to how Gaius did. The shame hits him all over again, how it took stealing Arthur’s sword and attempting to stab himself with it before he was honest. He’s certain Arthur realizes the same thing. Surely this newfound honesty counts for something, right?

Arthur, now, looks at him head-on, and the weight of his gaze takes him aback. “Merlin, this may be selfish of me, but I’m the King, so I’m allowed to be a bit selfish. I can’t…you can’t go. I can’t lose you.”

The intensity of the statement stuns him, but still, he shakes his head, insistent. “You won’t lose me, Arthur.” Because I will lose you.

Arthur eyes him, and seems to know exactly what he’s thinking. He sits in the chair beside Merlin’s bed and never once averts his gaze. “You haven’t lost me yet. I’m still here.” Arthur grabs his hand and holds it tight, desperate. “You, though, you were almost gone.”

Merlin looks at the hand in his. It’s warm and calloused and sturdy; Merlin could float away if not for the king grounding him like a kite string. He sees Arthur next to him, Arthur who just said he can’t lose him, and Merlin breathes out and feels real. He’s real, he has breath in his body, he has a heart beating obnoxiously fast and a stomach in knots. He has cheeks beginning to blush and a mouth creeping up into a smile. No matter what any prophecy says, this is nothing if not human.

“You won’t lose me,” he says again, and this time, he means it.

The King bears a smile that mirrors his own, and he flicks Merlin’s arm with his free hand. “Go to sleep, you still look horrendous.”

“You don’t want to…” he trails off, unsure what is most prominent. Talk? Force all my secrets out of me? Figure out whatever is possessing you to hold my hand and me to let you?

Arthur lets out a small laugh, gentle and warm. “We have time, Merlin.”

And yes, they do. They have all the time in the world; there is no need to figure everything out right now. Merlin can explain everything to Arthur and spare no detail; he can tell him of the prophecies, he can show him his magic. But not right now.

He lays his head back, giving Arthur a look that questions if he plans on moving any time soon. He sits back in his own chair, clearly staying put for the time being. Merlin accepts this answer, and he closes his eyes, Arthur’s hand still clutched in his.

Merlin wakes at the first light of dawn peaking through his window. He blinks, already steeling himself to get up and fetch the King’s breakfast, when he feels a presence at his side. He looks over with sleep-weary eyes to see the King himself, still slumped in a chair, mouth open and snoring slightly. Still holding Merlin’s hand.

He smiles to himself, relishing in the warmth from Arthur’s palm. His thumb unconsciously rubs back and forth, and he treasures every callous and line he brushes across. To think he almost gave this up out of fear. That he nearly threw his whole life away instead of treasuring the time he has. He almost never got to see such warmth in Arthur’s eyes, almost never got to hold his hand, almost never got the promise of telling him everything. And here he is, mere hours later, with all of those things. His fear of the future still lingers, but it’s a dull hum now, quieted by the excitement for tomorrow.

His eyelids begin to droop again, and Merlin lets them; he doesn’t think the King will mind about his breakfast, given the circumstances. He’ll allow himself to fall back asleep, to stay in this state of peace for a little longer.

He has time.