Archive of Our Own

When Arthur returns to the land of the living, it's a very different world than he remembers. He struggles in the middle of the lake, a strange not quite darkness surrounding him. Thankfully, it doesn't take him long to find a bit of water where he can stand. Unfortunately, his heavy, metal-clad feet sink straight through the soft ground below him, making walking, crawling really, the rest of the way to the shore absolutely exhausting. As soon as he reaches firm enough ground, he collapses on his back, heaving for air. He doesn't know how long he lays there, watching the moon in a sky that's not quite right, but he knows something is missing. Surely someone should be coming to greet him now? He tries to remember what led him to be abandoned in the middle of the lake until, suddenly, the fuzzy memories sharpen all at once.

Cahalan.

Merlin.

Magic.

Death.

He died. He was dead. Merlin, the sorcerer, held him in his arms as he took his last breath. Yet Arthur's mind catches on the magic, tries to reconcile it with what he has learned, with what Merlin didn't have the time to tell him. He struggles to place his feelings and doesn't quite know what to make of them. He has questions. He needs answers. However, Merlin is not here, leaving Arthur alone to piece together his thoughts and to wonder why he is here instead. He is dead, or at least had been. Arthur is certain of the fact, which creates the question of why he is no longer so. It must be magic, there is no other explanation, and there is only one sorcerer, the same one who's absence plagues him, that Arthur can even fathom attempting to bring him back. Yet time stretches on and the grating absence persists, a distinct lack of Merlin, of anyone, in sight, and the wrongness of it makes him frown.

He finally levers himself up to his elbows, swiveling his head to find any source of familiarity only to notice with shock that the water he had dragged himself from is also nowhere to be found. In its place lies a short but vibrant layer of green grass, one that seems as if it had been growing for centuries and not seconds. He frowns yet again at the sudden change before jumping as a war horn abruptly blares into the night around him. Scrambling to his feet, he whirls, hand pawing at his hip for Excalibur only to find empty air instead, and looks around frantically for the source of the noise, panic pounding in his blood. It comes again a moment later but is slightly different and, this time, he manages to identify the source. There is an oddly lined, thick path a short ways away from where he collapsed and a contraption he's never seen before, several of them actually, hurtle past each other at dizzying speeds on top of it. He watches the strange devices, in a variety of shapes and colors, for several minutes before finally determining that they mean him no harm, never once turning to point his way. At least as long as he stays out of their way in turn.

However, there are lanterns, brighter too than he's ever seen, hoisted high in the sky just beyond the speeding machines, and where there is light, there are people, so he goes, wandering towards the lights, stumbling as the grass beneath his feet becomes unyielding as rock. The speeding objects become noisier as he approaches and now he can make out the hard metal coating of their exterior. To his surprise people sit within their interior and he has a moment of heart wrenching terror before he realizes that the people do not seem to be distressed. Most of them seem almost bored as the apparatuses transport them far faster than any carriage would be able. Is this magic, Arthur wonders, to harness such powerful mechanisms for the whim of what must be the common man, given how prevalent they seem to be? He cannot tell, everything is far too unfamiliar, the clothes people wear, the nature of what seems to be a road they rumble over, even the construction of the buildings he can make out on the other side. Has he wandered into another kingdom?

He waits for one of the few lulls in activity to dart across as quickly as he dares only to encounter more of the hard tack beneath his feet. He slows as he reaches the other side, flinching as one of the machines cuts far too close to his back for comfort. It continues on without him however, utterly unbothered, following the dark outlined path further into the night. He forces himself to turn away as it disappears, back to the lights he had seen, and finds himself looking at what appears to be a town, buildings stretching tall before him, crowding the space in a neat orderly sense. It is reminiscent of the way the lower town kept themselves but cleaner, straighter.

There are understandably few souls out in the open on a night like this, with clouds strafing across the moon and swallowing its light by turns, but Arthur does find one man, watching as he enters into a smaller lone building, set apart from the rest as a yellow-orange light pours out from within, too steady to be mere firelight. He is walking before he has truly made a decision, not that he finds a better plan once he realizes it, and a bell chimes as he pushes open the strange clear barrier as the man before him had done, pivoting his head from corner to corner to get his bearings.

The space he enters is large and cozy, strange smells infect every inch and those same strange lanterns hang from the ceiling, bathing the wood paneling of the walls and floor in warm, soft light. There are tables to his left, not so dissimilar to those in Camelot that he cannot tell what they are but unfamiliar enough that it makes him pause. The wood that might not be wood is glossy, catching the light of the lantern and streaking it across the surface as Arthur moves, a falsity in its construction. Only a few people sit at them, enamored with the thin, rectangular metal boxes that are placed in front of their faces, bathing them in a white glow. He is startled out of his observation by the sound of a woman calling out to him.

“Excuse me, sir, can I help you?” She's young, his junior by many years, but of working age and seems rather settled in her role, a bored, no-nonsense air about her person. Her accent is strange too, like everything else since he has come back to life; the way she emphasizes the sounds of her letters is softer and longer than Arthur expects, but he is still able to decipher most of their meaning, actively choosing not to question why when he knows deep down he shouldn’t be able to do so. The man he followed stands at the other end of a long counter, similar to that of a tavern bar, and his focus is consumed by another light emitting metal rectangle, this one about the size of his palm. Arthur frowns in concern at how enamored everyone seems with the lights; it’s unnatural and a shiver runs up his spine.

“Hey!” The girl snaps impatiently, catching Arthur’s attention once more. “Are you going to order anything or not?”

Arthur blinks at her, a little put off by the sudden hostility, but approaches her counter nonetheless; he has to start somewhere in his search for Merlin. She wears an oddly shaped scrap of cloth, flaunting both green and white lines, over high quality fabrics underneath and Arthur pauses to consider she may hold rank herself. After a fraught moment he decides no, no noble would conduct themselves in her manner nor would they bother standing behind a tavern bar. Even Gwaine, as much as he denounced his noble roots, had held some amount of decorum. No, this woman, with her sharp eyes and quick tongue is far more reminiscent of Merlin’s utter irreverence for anything to do with rank and class. It is clear she does not know who he is, or perhaps, like Merlin, simply does not care, no deference in her dead-eyed stare, and Arthur hesitates, trying to weigh the benefit and danger of revealing himself; he still does not know exactly where he is nor if it would endear or scorn him in the eyes of the woman tapping her fingers impatiently. She arches an eyebrow as he dithers, annoyance growing by the minute.

“Are you ordering or are you loitering? Because you can leave if it’s the latter.” She prompts snidely.

He furrows his brow yet again, reprimand on the tip of his tongue, but Merlin had always told him to be more polite to the common man, and he has seen firsthand how little some farmers care about rank so he makes his decision. “I apologize,” he says instead. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

She sighs, rubbing the bridge of her nose, before straightening and finally addressing him with a little respect. “I’m sorry, we don’t have anyone on shift who knows anything but English. Can I put you down for a coffee and you can doctor it yourself?”

Arthur blinks at her. “Coffee?” He sounds the word out slowly. He doesn’t know what she means by English, or why the staff only seems trained so specifically if it is expected to encounter other variations, but whatever he’s being offered seems like the more pressing word to understand. Her brief politeness immediately fades, evaporating like morning dew under the sun, and she fixes him with an outright glare sharp enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

“Look, dude.” She says with obvious irritation. “It’s like four in the morning and I had to leave at two just to open on time; I am not awake enough for whatever this is.” She gestures sweepingly over the whole of him and Arthur looks down, struggling to understand the problem. “Just tell me what you want and be done with it.”

He is saved from having to answer by the sharp maternal reprimand from further back in the shop. “Betty!”

“What?!” The girl snaps, twisting her neck to speak over her shoulder as a slightly older woman swans her way out two swinging doors. “He won’t tell me what he wants, he’s dragged half a fucking lake in with him, and he claims to not know what coffee is! What do you want me to do?”

Arthur's gaze travels further to the ground and he winces at the puddle of water he has indeed soaked the floor of the establishment with. Perhaps a small piece of the girl’s ire is warranted. The older woman is assessing him as he looks back up, sweeping curious silver eyes slowly down his person and narrowing them almost imperceptibly. Arthur shuffles slightly under the scrutiny, feeling newly embarrassed for his unintentional rudeness. The woman smiles after a moment, though Arthur is hesitant to place its origin, and makes a shooing motion at the girl.

"Why don't you go clean out the blender. I'll take his order." She offers and the girl frowns hesitating.

"Are you sure?" She asks skeptically before narrowing her eyes in suspicion. "You're certain you know how to work the register?"

The woman grumbles good-naturedly, shouldering her way to the counter as the girl reluctantly relinquishes her position. "I'm not hopeless I'll have you know." She grouses.

The girl scowls harshly in response, "The last thing we need is the whole system to freeze right before the morning rush." She snaps and Arthur frowns, thoroughly displeased by her senseless rudeness to everyone. Even Merlin had known how to direct his temper to veer around his friends, a trait he had bullied into Arthur with passive aggressive persistence.

Thankfully, it seems the woman has had enough of being badgered by the poor attitude as well as it only takes a single raised eyebrow for the girl to relent, looking away in shame and huffing out a breath in a bid to release her lingering agitation. She cuts Arthur another crude once over, frowning in doubt again and lingering by the counter until the woman is forced to start another attempt to usher her away.

“Oh go on, strong, blonde, and clueless is my favorite. Let me handle him.” She bids with a wave of her hands, managing to draw a wry snort from the angry girl who finally turns and stomps her way to a counter along the wall. Arthur flushes with both humiliation and outrage at having been insulted but the woman turns back to him with a kind, conspiratorial smile and he reminds himself that he needs someone to point him on the right path to Merlin. Swallowing down the second reprimand on the tip of his tongue with effort, he smiles hesitantly back, trying to gather himself up enough to ask what he needs to.

“I apologize, sweetheart, her new baby’s keeping her up. Makes her a little more grouchy than normal.” The woman whispers to him with a wink and Arthur blinks, thrown off the question he is gearing up to ask by the random insert. He understands the words, but not the excuse beneath them. Children are a mystery of nurses, mothers, and closed chambers, not a thing he has ever been expected to understand. Not that he and Guinevere had yet had the chance to attempt to do so. The ache the thought produces is as sudden as it is surprising and he considers what she must think of the circumstances, of how the council must have borne down on her when she was left with the throne. At least the round table would have supported her as much as they were able; of that, he is certain.

He wonders if he will see her again, what she will think of his return.

He wonders if she is waiting at all.

“Fuck you too, Merida!” The girl snaps back from further behind the counter, jarring him temporarily back to the present as she holds up her middle finger to her fellow maiden.

The woman raises an eyebrow again, this time towards Arthur as if to say see?, and the expression is so reminiscent of Gaius that any festering anger Arthur is holding dissipates like fine mist, the homesick ache growing even more and sinking him immediately back into his memories. Gaius is the one person he has his doubts on managing to meet once again. It is clear time has passed, 5 years? maybe so far even as 20, as mind-boggling as the thought is, and the elderly healer had already been slowing down before Arthur’s affair with death. It is highly likely the man has finally taken a permanent rest though Arthur hopes he is wrong, if only so he can say thank you for all that Gaius has done for Camelot, particularly in light of Merlin’s revealed talents.

The woman does not respond to the gesture, leaving Arthur again in the dark as to the obvious hidden language in their culture, and instead smiles at him warmly, completely unbothered. "Now then you look like an interesting sort, what’s your name, love?”

With a minute shake of his head, he reorients himself, steadying his balance from the way the world threatens to upend under his feet in sheer protest as he totters the line between memory and reality, familiar and strange. He has manners; he can be charming, irregardless of Merlin’s claims to the contrary. He should use those assets to take control of the situation, to bring this overwhelming reality to heel. There will be no progress in continuing to allow himself to get pulled around with only a half understanding of their words and gestures; he needs allies. Choosing to ignore the girl in the back who doesn’t seem inclined to give him any amount of grace, he focuses his attention on the much more amicable woman, splitting his face with a smile that has never failed to make the maids in the castle blush as he passes them. It seems to do the trick here as well as the woman leans in, eyes sparkling with amusement.

“My name is Arthur, My Lady.” The woman's smile widens, her eyes slanting just the barest amount flirtatiously, but there is no recognition of the name, not that he truly expects there would be. He is far from the only Arthur to walk the earth.

"Aren't you a charmer." She coos, endeared by the proper address. "Well then Arthur, how can I help you this morning?"

He takes the chance for what it is, eager to make progress on his self-assigned quest. It is becoming increasingly obvious that he is far from home, lost and aimless. Finding Merlin has to be paramount to all else; surely he will better understand the things Arthur cannot make sense of.

"I'm looking for someone, somewhat tall, dark hair, blue eyes, rather thin, answers to the name Merlin." He rattles off eagerly, maybe a touch too earnest, and hears a derisive snort from the girl in the back. He looks up to her in confusion but she does not turn around, leaving him to wonder again at all the odd workings of this kingdom.

"That’s sweet,” The woman at the counter comments warmly, drawing Arthur’s attention back to her and the knowing sparkle in her eye. “The Merlin to your Arthur is it?”

Arthur doesn’t know what that means, what the woman is implying, but, thankfully, she doesn’t press further, Arthur’s silence apparently confirmation enough.

"Are you to meet him here?" She asks instead and Arthur is forced to pause once more.

Is he meant to meet Merlin here?

There would be no reason to assume as such. He had woken up alone and lost and had wandered into the first building that looked like it might house some sort of life within its walls. He doesn't even know if Merlin is in the same kingdom, let alone would coincidentally wander into the same shop. In hindsight, it makes his prior question rather presumptuous, to have believed that, out of all the people in the five kingdoms, this one woman might have the information that will lead Arthur home.

Yet...

There is something in his gut, some small instinct in his head that tells him to stay, that assures him this is where he is meant to be. He gives the woman a nod as he does not trust his voice not to betray his doubt.

"Well, I'm afraid no one named Merlin has placed an order so far." She says apologetically and Arthur's heart sinks. "However, you are more than welcome to sit at a table and wait for a bit. I would offer you at least a water but well... it seems you might have had enough already."

Arthur's lips twitch in amusement at the joke and he gives her a shallow bow in gratitude. "Thank you." She seems even more charmed by the display, eyes crinkling at the corners.

"I'll be sure to point your soulmate in your direction when he arrives." The woman promises him as he turns to take her up on her offer. "In the meantime, you let me know if you decide want anything, alright?"

Arthur freezes, every muscle going tense as his face flushes at the sentimental phrase. "Soulmate?" He is ashamed to hear the squeak in his voice. "No--that's not--he's not--we're not--" He sputters

"Oh, you don't need to explain sweetheart, the nicknames say plenty." She gives him a wink as she makes her way over to the back counter, where the ruder girl is still refusing to look at him. He stands there, flapping his lips in shock, for a moment before actively choosing to sort through the bewildering accusation at a table. There is something in him that curls in satisfaction at the title, something he does not consider too deeply.

He does not move fast enough not to hear the whispered argument in the back of the bar however, does not turn quickly enough not see the defensive expression on the woman's face. "I think it's cute." She justifies.

"It's childish!" The girl snaps back.

The woman only sighs, "Oh leave them alone; let them have their fun. Everyone gets so spun up about propriety. I don't see any harm in using them; they're nothing more than old stories afterall. If things like this is how the next generation keeps them alive? All the better."

Once again, Arthur is left with far more questions than he has answers, his head swimming with recognition of something deeply unsettling about his current reality. There is a conversation between the spoken words in this kingdom, a knowledge he is expected to have but is lacking and he doesn't know how to bridge the gap. It is inherently dangerous to show too much of his hand, to reveal that he is too naive of the customs of these people. It marks him as an outsider, targets him as vulnerable to manipulation, and yet, if he does not find a guide soon, he thinks his mind might just burst as it tries to read into every confusing conversation. He feels as if he would understand, could piece it together, if he simply figures out a single fact.

Why did she seem so familiar with Merlin?

She had not said his name with surprise nor questioned its association with Arthur himself. Yet there had been more to it when she said it, a tone that implied Arthur had said something more by calling him as such, and what did that mean? What could Merlin possibly have done to have made his name epithet. Arthur tilts his head in consideration; well, there were quite a few things that he can imagine Merlin doing to make a lasting impact.

The problem is that none of them should be associated with Arthur.

He does not know how long he sits, mulling over the conundrum and trying not to fall prey to the anxiety that is closing in on him. He does not think about what will happen if Merlin does not show, if he has been truly abandoned to his fate. He has no familiarity with his surroundings, people or place. No direction, no map, and no idea where to start looking for either. He would be just as well off walking blindly into the woods and hoping for the best as he would to sit here until they finally have no choice but to turn him away.

Arthur hears him before he sees him, gentle tenor branded onto his brain after years upon years spent attached at the hip, recognizable even if he speaks with that same odd lilting accent as the rest of them. His head jerks up on instinct, sweeping his eyes across the span of the shop eagerly, until they land on familiar outline of a rather lanky man with a mop of black hair atop his head. Merlin doesn’t look all that different from the day they last saw each other, blue eyes that same vibrant shade as he turns away from the woman at the counter and ears still prominently poking out from the side of his head, yet he is undeniably changed. He wears clothes similar to the odd trappings of the people around him and there is a flash of metal in the middle of his lip, one he catches idly with his teeth as his wary eyes, older in some unnamable fashion, sweep around the room as if similarly searching.

He bears an easy confidence that is unfamiliar to Arthur, secure in his place in the world, and Arthur can’t help but think it suits him. His form is more filled out than he used to be, a healthy amount of fat padding his hips and the underside of his arms. Arthur would be tempted to tease him for it in retaliation for how many quips Merlin had made about adding holes to his belt back in the castle if not for the way the high-quality pants he wears hang off his hips, just barely showing a stripe of skin between the soft shirt bunched up on his toned belly. It's scandalous and Arthur finds he can't look away, enraptured by the display just as much as all the small details he can find on Merlin's person about the way he has lived in Arthur's absence. He observes the man for several breathless moments, drinking in all that is familiar and unfamiliar about him, until Merlin’s gaze finally lands on his. There is a weightless moment, one where recognition does not strike across the oceanic pools of ink and Merlin simply stares and stares...

and stares some more.

Arthur does not know what to do with himself in the meantime. Is he meant to go and greet the man? How long has it truly been since he was alive? Does Merlin even remember him?

The last question creates a sour sort of doubt, the one that aches like a fresh wound when uncovered and Arthur frowns, idly rubbing his chest. He realizes now that he had been certain, of all the things he could rely on, that Merlin would be waiting eagerly to see him again. To have that questioned now, feels a bit like he has fallen down the castle well and can’t seem to find his way back out. The moment is broken as the woman at the counter calls out a series of words Arthur doesn’t understand, a string of pure gibberish that seems to have no comparable translation to Britannic. Merlin approaches her in a rush, startled out of his intense focus, and brandishes a beaming smile at the woman that makes Arthur frown some more. He is forced to consider that Merlin and the woman do indeed know each other with how amiably they converse. It would not be unreasonable for Merlin to have found someone to settle down with, but the thought lands strangely, souring in Arthur’s chest before he can name why. He tells himself it is only because the woman had been so friendly with him earlier, and he is offended on Merlin’s behalf.

Yet, as Arthur continues to watch, it doesn't quite seem as familiar as Arthur had first assumed, Merlin makes no effort to linger near her after retrieving a cup of some sort from her hands and she does not bat her eyes at him the way she had with Arthur. If anything she seems amused, a knowing glint in her eye. She says something before either of them turn away and Merlin's head jerks, a swift startled movement. When she gestures in Arthur's direction, he braces himself in time for Merlin to throw a wide-eyed glance at him. Something ghosts across the edge of his senses, prodding gently, familiar but not and he stiffens. Whatever it finds within him delights it and it curls around him excitedly, trying to burrow under his skin, deep into the core of him. He flinches, despite being somehow certain it means him no harm, and it immediately retreats, though tendrils linger on him, cloying and sticky. He turns instinctively to the path of its recession and finds Merlin staring at him once again with no small amount of wonder.

Right, the magic.

He had forgotten about that fact, too absorbed in piecing together the foreign surroundings. He had forgotten the piece of knowledge that had flipped his entire world for a day before he died, the one that had forced him to question everything he had ever learned or thought he had known. He doesn't know how he had missed it now, finally pinpointing the presence that had followed him without fail during his reign. At some point he had dismissed it as his mother's spirit watching over him, now it is clear it was nothing of the sort. This is a conversation he and Merlin desperately need to have but he can't bring himself to be cross when Merlin's shock is giving way to a painful sort of desperation that he clearly tries to bite back.

Merlin turns back to the woman, who has oddly frozen in place, an uncertain look to her face as she furrows her brow. They exchange a few more words, the woman managing to shake off whatever has concerned her and smiling before moving to collect several jugs of some sort and take them further back behind the counter. She casts another last look at Arthur with curiosity as she goes, and Arthur can see the way Merlin braces himself, spine locking, shoulders hitching, as he turns fully in Arthur’s direction. Yet, it’s his eyes that truly make the breath catch in Arthur’s throat, the crystal fragile thread of hope in his pupils.

There is no hiding the way his nails dig into the cup clutched tight in his grasp nor the way his steps are stiff and controlled as if he has to manually move each limb by hand just to arrive at Arthur’s table. It’s concerning but Arthur doesn’t want to unpack the reasons there might be for it. Already this world is too unsteady, he doesn’t know what he will do if Merlin is wholly foreign too. It seems simultaneously like seconds and hours before Merlin arrives within two arms lengths of him, standing tall but clearly wary. The hope is still there, painful in a way that makes Arthur ache terribly, but it is tightly contained as Merlin opens his mouth to greet him.

Arthur’s not sure what Merlin intends to lead with but he’s relatively sure it’s not the slightly hostile, “Who are you?” that comes out, not with the way Merlin’s lips press down immediately afterward, as if just as surprised by them as Arthur.

He sticks by the words though, a stormy emotion deep set in his eyes as what must be a hard learned wariness gains the upper hand in the battle against his desperate hope. Arthur smirks, unable to resist the urge to be playful now that he has his manservant by his side once more.

"Really, Merlin, is this any way to greet your King?" He teases the man. "You would think dying would earn me at least a little respect from you."

Merlin’s eyes dilate, lips parting just barely as he sucks in a sharp gasp of air.

“Oh gods, it is you.” His voice sounds thin, reedy to the point of faintness, but there is no time for Arthur to worry for his servant's health before Merlin is quite literally launching himself into Arthur’s arms, sniffling like a damsel and completely ignoring the liquid that has splashed mercilessly to the ground in his wake. Something bright and wonderous flares to life as they make contact, spiraling into the air between them. It feels like coming home after a long, tiring patrol, briefly warming Arthur from head to toe before retreating to the back of his awareness as he focuses on trying to find some way to calm Merlin.

He attempts the only way he really knows how, “Don’t be such a girl, Merlin.” awkwardly patting the man’s back.

If anything, it only makes Merlin cry harder.

Some part of him, the one that had fretted as he sat at this table alone for however long, eases at the recognition that he was missed, dearly if the deepness of the sounds Merlin is making is any indication. They sound as if they have been dredged up from the very center of his core, buried within the heart of his soul. It feels as if he bears witness to a long overdue release of pent-up emotion, of relief and frustration in equal measure, and Arthur is left unequipped to help or hinder it, without even the knowledge of which he ought to be doing. His body twitches with the urge to create some distance, to pull up the barriers that have seldom failed to protect his delicate heart, but he can’t find it in him to be that cruel, not when Merlin is weeping on top of him.

They are gathering some attention now, people turning to stare at the sound of Merlin’s muffled cries, wailed into the unforgiving plate of his armor, with either concern or annoyance. Several more have gone pale, including the woman behind the bar, murmuring to each other and themselves. Those that don’t immediately share their reaction are still quick to take note of it, the girl urgently trying to question her fellow barmaid; all of their stances are becoming increasingly wary, a herd of deer poised to take flight. Arthur thinks he hears the word ‘Emrys’ more than once; it is familiar but he can’t place it, not with his skin prickling at the new unfamiliar attention. He tightens his tentative touch on Merlin as a few begin to desperately fiddle with the smaller, palm-size metal rectangles, remaining wary and uncertain as he physically shields Merlin from the strangers staring at them. Who are they to think they have the right to watch Merlin’s pain so unabashedly?

Thankfully, the release of emotion doesn’t last for too much longer; Merlin’s cries quiet until he can pull back up without gasping for air. He runs the heel of his hand across his eyes and nose as he pulls away, a flush of embarrassment finally making an appearance.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles thickly, seeming not to notice as his spilled drink reconstructs itself in his hand. The blatant magic makes Arthur tense but Merlin continues talking, too wrapped up in his relief to take heed.

“I just—it’s just been a while and I started to think—“ he cuts himself off with a sharp shake of his head, Adam’s apple bobbing in a rough swallow before focusing on Arthur once more.

“That doesn’t matter now. You’re here.” His eyes sparkle with undisguised joy, sweeping up and down Arthur's body repeatedly as if he still can’t convince himself to believe what is right in front of him. After a moment, he makes the decision to slide into the seat opposite of Arthur’s, cupping his hand around the drink and cradling it close.

“Have you missed me that much?” Arthur continues to tease only for his smile to slip at the way Merlin’s shoulders slump, eyes growing worn and weary. It is now that he notices how worn his manservant looks, not because of obvious injury or bags under his eyes, but for the way his posture tends to bow as if trying to shoulder the weight of the world itself.

“More than you will ever know.” Merlin says solemnly and at once Arthur realizes the mistake he has made upon awakening, the question that he should have paid vastly more attention to.

“Merlin,” he says firmly, pulse already drumming out a warning. “How long has it been since I was alive?”

Because now that he truly thinks, if the lake he emerged from was the one Merlin had desperately tried to ferry him towards in his last moments, it must be in Camelot. Yet a kingdom, Arthur’s kingdom, cannot have changed this drastically in any meager amount of time. Merlin looks at him and the pity Arthur sees there makes him want to run, to avoid having the truth crash onto him. Maybe his prior estimate was too graceful but surely it hasn’t been too long. Would 30 years be enough to make the world unrecognizable?

“It’s been more than 2000 years since you died, Sire.” Merlin says without mercy and Arthur’s entire world crashes around his ears with all the cacophony and swaying of incomprehension.

“That’s not possible.” Arthur distantly hears himself deny. “You are still here; it cannot have been that long.”

Merlin grimaces, an apology written in his still puffy eyes.

“The Druids call me Emrys.” He says quietly, and a memory of Morgana hissing the name in hatred and triumph finally sparks through Arthur’s mind. “It means immortal and that is what I am, apparently, eternal.”

The words are said with no arrogance, no bravado, a mere statement of fact carrying a weary resignation, as if Merlin has fought against the title until his strength gave out and there was nothing left to do but accept his fate. It’s this, more than anything else, that convinces Arthur of their truth.

Suddenly, there is a flash of light and Arthur jumps, blinking around for the source as his heart hammers, caught off-guard while he was lost in his attempt to digest the implications of Merlin's words. Merlin's reaction is swift and angry, his head jerks up, meeting eyes with a young woman in the corner of the shop who pales immediately. As if just noticing their audience for the first time, Merlin sweeps his gaze around the space, stopping on the multiple odd-metal rectangles held strangely in people's grasp, as if to ward Arthur and Merlin off.

In the span of a second, something heavy, powerful, sweeps through the air. The lights flicker madly and there is a shrieking of sound behind the counter that sends both barmaids scrambling as Merlin's eyes bleed a horrible gold. The girl screams, dropping her rectangle as it crackles with targeted lightning and there are similar shouts as several more rectangles around the room do the same. Arthur realizes Merlin has just released a spell despite no words passing his lips and Arthur shivers, breath shortening with the instinct to flee. Several of the rectangles retreat, message delivered loud and clear, and a few brave souls make a break for the doorway, not wanting to be in range of the sorcerer's ire. Merlin allows them to leave, turning back to Arthur and flinching at the fear he must find on the king's face.

He ducks his head and shoulders, doing his best to look small, and Arthur wonders how such an act ever fooled him in the slightest. Yet, he can recognize the sweep of a carefully controlled strike rather than an all-out swing that disregards the fallout. None of the people in the shop are harmed, nor are they cornered. It is clear that any one of them is able to leave whenever they chose. He might not understand the intent of Merlin's action, but Merlin has achieved it and not a single inch more, a precision blow to warn without harming. Using the realization as a means to steady his heart, Arthur gathers himself and consciously makes the choice to remain seated, to not shy away from Merlin's presence. Intentionally or not, it seems like Merlin is the only familiar face he will find in this strange new world; he cannot afford to alienate him so swiftly.

Not that Arthur truly wants to if he honestly evaluates himself.

It appears to have the intent he is hoping for as Merlin rallies back to full height, though Arthur can almost feel the way he tucks that enormous power back close to his skin in apology. They don't address it, now is not the time nor place; Arthur still has to wrap his head around the sheer amount of time between his lives, around the notion that he has been reborn in the first place. That is an arduous task in and of itself; he does not need to add wrestling with how he feels about Merlin and his magic on top of it so soon.

He licks his lips, marshalling his mind once more, "So you have been here... waiting?" He asks and Merlin nods, slumping just a little at the memory.

The position makes him look old, despite the lack of wrinkles on his skin, his eyes are weighed with both knowledge and scars of a life that has dragged on perhaps a bit too long. Arthur unexpectedly finds his heart aching for the man, able to reconcile the expression to knights that have been in one too many battles, that have seen sights and been forced to act in a way that haunts the rest of their lives. There is no foolproof way to avoid regret, a longer life just means more chances to create it, and Arthur has a sinking feeling that Merlin was already steeped in it long before Arthur died, let alone how many he must have stumbled upon in the endless journey afterward.

"I'm glad you're here." Arthur says quietly, and, again, there is that spark of pure relief and joy in Merlin's gaze that make his insides pleasantly warm and soft. He knows that Merlin would have felt the same whether it had been an hour or a century between his disappearance, that Merlin would have missed him just as fiercely regardless of the time between.

It’s a feeling Arthur knows well.

It is a humbling notion, to be deemed worthy of such devotion, and Arthur finds himself smiling back, the expression growing wider as Merlin's own stretches the length of his face in turn. Eventually though, the continued attention from those that remain in the shop seems to catch back up to Merlin, his smile fades at the edges and he starts shifting his weight in agitation, throwing quick, wary glances over those that point and whisper quietly from other tables. He thins his lips unhappily before turning to Arthur again and entreating, “Look, I’m sure you still have plenty of questions, but they are ones I would rather answer alone. Will you allow me to take you to my house?”

Arthur has never heard a better idea from the man. Getting out of this gawking crowd sounds like an incredible plan, so much so that he completely brushes past the implication that Merlin owns a dwelling of his own.

“Please.” He is not ashamed of the slight begging tone of the word; it is too much, too much to learn, too much to accept, too much to be wary of. He wants everything to calm down, to give him a moment to breathe before he does something unsightly like throw up.

Or cry.

With a relieved breath, Merlin moves to stand up, reaching out a hand before he hesitates, chewing on his lip.

“I can telepo—,” he stops, reconsidering the word and Arthur’s ability to understand it before visibly choosing to use simpler terms. “I can magically transport us back…” he offers, trailing off as he waits for Arthur’s reaction. As much as Arthur desperately wants to get away, he recoils from the thought of encasing his entire body in magic. The inclination must show on his face because Merlin’s responding smile is understanding if not a touch sorrowful.

“It’s okay. Why don’t we call a taxi then? It’s not magic—” He cuts himself off again before scrunching his nose as his eyes slide to some unimportant space next to Arthur's right ear. There is a pause as his mind whirls over some conundrum before he speaks again.

“Well, it’s less magical,” he pauses again, before reaching into his skin-tight trousers and impossibly pulling out his own little metal box. There is a moment or two of silence as his nimble fingers fly across the smooth surface until his expression smooths. He slips the box back into his trousers somehow before addressing Arthur once again, much more certain. “I found a transport that doesn’t use magic, but you’ll have to trust me. Alright?”

His face is open and earnest, aware of the monumental ask he is placing in Arthur's hands and willing Uther's son to give him at least one more chance.

And, despite the howl of betrayal somewhere in his heart, despite the hissing whisper of fear in his head, he finds that he does. He does still trust Merlin as he thinks he always will.

With that revelation in mind, he stands, following Merlin’s lead as they weave their way back to the door. Anyone in their path is quick to move away, though Merlin still seems agitated by the increase of whispers it causes.

Stepping back into the night is a relief in more ways than one. It feels less like the world is closing in on him when he can see the sky clearly, even if it may lack the stars to comfort him. They do not go far and at first Arthur is confused at the way Merlin pauses at the edge, slipping the box back out of his trousers and fiddling with it once more. It is a bit off-putting to be somewhat ignored but Arthur busies himself by observing his surroundings instead, feeling a bit braver now that he has Merlin by his side once more. There are more of the contraptions and more people out and about now, something like the dawn looking like it might be making its way over the horizon. Those who pass by them eye his state of dress oddly, but there is no comment as they continue on their way, not unless they stop and take in the way some of the people from the shop have crowded in the clear doorway, continuing to stare with wide-eyed emotion.

It is because he is so hyper-attuned to the attention, unnerved by a reaction he does not know the origin of, that he notices the second Merlin shifts and manages to catch a glimpse of the hidden pouch sewn into the cloth at Merlin’s hip as the box disappears again. His eyes find Arthur’s almost immediately, daring to shift a half a step closer as if lured in by Arthur’s warmth. It is not an unfounded thought; Merlin had always tended to run cold and Arthur hot, though that may very well be chalked up to differences in available nutrition.

“It will be here in a few minutes.” Merlin explains. “There will not be a driver, but it is not guided by magic. I promise.”

Arthur doesn’t know what that means, how that can be true, but he knows what Merlin looks like when he’s lying, or at least he used to, and this is not one of those times. There is no guile, no posturing, no skittering nervousness that Arthur now knows how to read. He is steady and sure and does not flinch when Arthur looks him in the eye. So Arthur only nods, appeased, and braces himself for whatever impossible thing will appear.

True to Merlin’s word, one of the speeding contraptions from before comes to a halt right in front of them only a minute or two later and Arthur shivers as he notices the distinct lack of humanity inside. Merlin’s face is apologetic when Arthur looks over, regretful but unyielding.

“It is not magic.” He reassures again, “Though it may seem to be. Unfortunately, this is our best option. There aren’t any drivers out this early and my house is too far to walk to. It would take us days to try.”

Still he does not force, does not bully Arthur toward the outline of where the entrance to the contraption’s gaping maw will be. He waits patiently for Arthur to make his choice, willing to follow whatever it may be. Arthur might yet have insisted on the trek; it is hardly the first time he has crossed such distances, but his muscles still ache fiercely from pulling himself through the mud and his armor weighs heavy on his frame, only adding to the growing ache of overwhelm between his temples.

It is this feeling that makes his decision more than anything else, taking a breath and releasing it only to realize he does not know how to open the gateway in front of him. There is no latch he can see, no gap to gain grip of. Merlin continues to stand quietly, refusing to pressure Arthur in any manner, and Arthur is eventually forced to shift, clearing his throat stiffly, “How do you…Is it just like a carriage?”

Merlin blinks, staring, for only a second before mercifully seeming to understand the issue. He immediately moves forward and unlatches the door with a soft sound, an indentation on the metal popping out to meet his hand. Pulling it open to its limit, he stands behind it as if holding open a chamber door for Arthur to walk through. When Arthur still can’t bring himself to move, he hesitates, licking his lips and bracing his spine again.

“Would you like me to go first?” He offers. Arthur nods once, sharp, it’s all he’s willing to admit, the only amount of cowardice he will show. He is not comforted by the way Merlin takes a shaky breath in response, though the origin of it is soon cleared as he requests, “Follow me?” Small and gently shaken, as if he is not sure of the answer, as if Arthur would do anything else.

Still, he wastes no more time folding himself through the opening and disappearing into the dark interior of the contraption. When he turns back around, the lingering lamplight of the shop behind them catches his eyes, making them glitter like sapphires though the rest of him is incased in shadow. He looks out at Arthur anxiously as if he is scared of the separation.

As if he stands on the precipice of losing everything in the world all at once.

It should be frightening, like a predator lurking in the shadows, but all Arthur can see is the weeping vulnerability of a guardian terrified to lose its charge. It only makes him want to hurry, to step back into the safety of Merlin’s presence, the world outside the contraption now nothing but unfamiliar and oppressive. He is not as graceful as he imagines himself to be. The solid plates of his armor are not made for crouching and curling, and the breastplate digs mercilessly into his clavicle and thigh at once. When he tries to straighten enough to alleviate the ache, he promptly smacks his head against the frame. Merlin smiles ruefully, amused and pitying, and reaches forward to give Arthur something better to grasp as he eases himself in.

His arm, though still wry and thin as Arthur remembers it being, is steady no matter the weight Arthur leans on it and it strikes Arthur that it has always been so whether Arthur acknowledged the strength hidden within or not. Eventually, he tugs himself forward enough to collapse in a clang of metal, releasing Merlin's arm to settle himself properly into his side of the cushion. It is simultaneously smoother and softer than any carriage he has traveled in, another strange smell infecting the small space they have shoved themselves in, different than that of the shop they have just left, sharper, leather-like. The encasing of metal around him is suffocatingly complete, a dark barrier with only small areas of light, four dim sparkles on the ceiling and one larger metal-and-glass panel positioned beyond the cushions in front of him. It is only the open door beside him that grants him any air but Merlin leans over, stretching across his lap, close enough that Arthur can feel the subtle heat banked in his veins, and closes that off too.

At once Arthur's spine prickles with alarm, breath shortening in the perceived enclosure, unsure if he is grateful or frightened to be so entirely cut off from the strange world he is being forced to acknowledge. Merlin's weight over him is calming, an immediate reassurance that he is not alone; that is, until he hears the zip of fast-moving cloth right next to his ear. He flinches just before Merlin leans back, a metal trinket grasped in his hand attached to a long string of coarse woven cloth, and lashes out on instinct, halting Merlin's movements in a single precise strike.

“You mean to bind me to it?!” He asks sharply and Merlin pauses, hand loose in the grip Arthur has caught it in.

“It’s for safety.” He offers no additional explanation, though Arthur suspects any attempt would only become impossibly convoluted.

He had said trust me.

And Arthur had already decided he would.

So, he takes a breath and lets go, sitting stiffly as Merlin continues on and pulls the slick strap across his torso, securing it with a click beside his hip. The fact that his arms are not restrained, able to easily slip through the gaps, is relieving just as is Merlin's immediate action to do the same to himself. It is confirmation, at least, that Arthur hasn’t been fooled.

Initial lurch of motion is not what upsets him the most. That much is familiar enough; horses jerk a carriage forward in much the same way. The smoothness that follows is worse, as is the physical evidence that no one sits in the driver’s seat.Yet it’s the way they continue to gain speed, far, far beyond what is reasonable, that sends Arthur’s pulse climbing with every increase in acceleration. He keeps a close eye on Merlin for any escalation of fear but finds none, his manservant is nervous but the glances he keeps casting at Arthur make it seem more like he is concerned about the king and not the contraption they have strapped themselves into. Eventually, however, after one too many jerks and stops, his hand finds a vise-like grip around Merlin’s wrist that has been conveniently resting within easy grabbing distance. Neither of them comments on it and Merlin makes no move to pull away even as Arthur squeezes repeatedly, his pulse soft and calm beneath Arthur’s fingertips.

The world continues to whip by at dizzying speeds, other contraptions speeding past them, faster still than the one they reside in. It is mesmerizing and horrifying in equal measure, to be moving at a pace that causes lights to leave trails in his sight, moved too quickly for his eyes to process properly. He has to turn away before too long, the swirling glances of unfamiliar terrain agitating his anxiety too harshly, and turns his focus inward, to what he can control. Normally, Merlin is the talkative one between the two of them, able to fill silence as easily as a bucket fills at a well, but it seems he has learned some amount of quiet in the unfathomable time he has spent alive, content to merely sit and act like he isn't constantly sneaking glances in Arthur's direction. It makes Arthur ache in ways he doesn't understand, and he takes it upon himself to prod the man into chatter.

"They seemed to know you." He starts. Merlin blinks at him quickly, furrowing his eyebrows as his mouth frowns. "In the shop just now." Arthur clarifies.

Arthur can tell the moment he understands by the way he stiffens, an uncomfortable round to his spine as he curls away.

"They don't." He says curtly, an almost sour bite to the words. "They only think they do."

Arthur watches him for a moment, looks at the way he scowls, the way he refuses to turn the look on Arthur, allowing the cushion in front of him to absorb his ire. "They seemed to know enough to call us soulmates based on name alone." He pokes again.

To his utter amusement, Merlin blushes a rather bright red.

"She said that to you too?!" His voices cracks at the end, morbidly embarrassed, and at once Arthur is again a young Prince in Camelot, the one who couldn't resist picking on his gangly, disgrace of a manservant.

"What nonsense have you been spreading over the years? About us?" His tone holds a familiar edge of playful banter, that falters when Merlin flinches imperceptibly. Before Arthur can question, he shakes the movement off.

"Nothing that wasn't true." He says softly before abruptly scowling, clearly remembering something upsetting. "Or at least I tried to, several of them don't believe me or don't bother to ask. I mean potatoes really?! Or that bit about Mordred being your child, I swear--"

Arthur doesn’t question it as Merlin carries on for a minute or two, venting some long festering grievance, can’t, not with the overwhelming amount of information he’s already trying to make sense of. Maybe one day there will be room to hear the legends that surround him and his reign, but, right now, the very concept threatens to drown him completely, sink him so far down he’d never find air again, that his very mind would crack from the strain. Instead, he focuses on the bit Merlin is not rambling about, the one he is likely intentionally avoiding. "Why soulmates though?”

Merlin stops, beginning to wring his hands together as he hesitates. "Soulmates are a physical concept now." He says, slowly parsing out his words. "There was a King several centuries ago, long after your reign, who lost himself to solitude, heartbroken and alone. Unable to trust any who claimed to match his heart, he enacted a powerful spell, one that could not be reversed with any amount of ease and brought the very concept of soulmates to life."

Arthur blinks at him, trying to digest the concept.

"Everyone has one and..." Merlin pauses, choosing his words carefully once more. "The legend of Emrys and the Once and Future King is very special to those who know it, particularly the Druids. It is a legend of hope, of triumph, of salvation. A legend that promises light even if the world turns black with darkness." His eyes find Arthur's again and there is that same world-weary weight pressing down in their depths. "Many believe that the two must be fated to be so intertwined, to house so much power between them. 'Two sides of the same coin' so to speak. So, their names, our names, have become the very definition of soul bound." His gaze falls away. "They simply assume it must be so." He shrugs.

Arthur's mouth turns down as doubt creeps in. The Druids should have no reason to worship him, not like they do Merlin. Even now he flinches away from Magic’s touch. How could he have possibly been a savior to them? "Why? I haven't done anything to deserve such faith."

Merlin's face snaps back over, newly fierce. "Arthur, you have done plenty." He defends hotly. "You have no idea the impact you have had on the world. You liberated the entire Kingdom of Camelot from fear, from persecution."

Arthur blinks at him, a bit startled. "I didn't do any of that." He argues. "I did not overturn the ban; I did not free the Druids."

"No, but you stopped the witch hunts, you did not chase down every shadow that whispered of enchantment, you did not harm those who did not deserve it." Merlin softens. "You fought for equality, you listened and judged fairly, you trained knights who would do the same, you chose a Queen not for her rank but for her heart. It mattered. More than you will ever know."

The thought comes swift but sure; that it is not simply legend that has kept him alive, preserved him in memory, but Merlin himself. Merlin who, based on the aching fondness in his smile and the unmistakable pride in his eyes, must have repeated Arthur’s name to anyone who bothered to listen, until the world itself learned to remember his king. The humility the revelation brings is just as vast as the swath of time that has apparently passed and Arthur grows quiet in the face of it, picking it over with delicate fingers to identify the emotion it leaves behind.

They stay that way until the contraption they sit in finally putters to a stop, wobbling over an uneven pebbled road. The sound of Merlin’s door popping open startles Arthur back to the present, watching as he begins to exit the way they came in, restraint already missing somehow. He makes it all the way out before turning around and meeting Arthur’s blank gaze. Arthur arches an eyebrow in demand.

Merlin insisted he be bound to the cushion; it is therefore Merlin’s responsibility to free him.

As if realizing this crucial fact, Merlin dips back in, stretching over the seats in a slightly undignified manner to reach over to Arthur’s hip once more. The same click as before sounds out and the stretched cloth retreats, smacking harshly against the plates of Arthur’s armor as the seat behind him seems to devour it.

“Sorry,” Merlin murmurs with a wince, “Stay there, I’ll open the door from the other side.”

With that, he scrambles back out of his side of the transport, shutting the door with a snap. The trapped feeling immediately returns, now without Merlin to ground him, and Arthur sits stiffly, eyeing the front of the contraption where he had seen movement of some sort. He waits for it to decide, in whatever unknowable way it decides things, to whisk him away from the safety of Merlin’s watchful eye.

Deep down, he knows it would never come to that. The power he felt in the shop is surely more than enough to tear one of these transports apart with barely a flick of Merlin’s fingers. But Arthur has been hunted by magic too long, has been beset by assassin after assassin for too many years, to trust anything he doesn’t understand. After what seems like an unreasonable amount of time, Arthur jumps as the door next to him is wrenched open, exposing the chill of the early morning air once more. Merlin stands dutifully on the other side, looking like he too is recovering from having Arthur out of his sight, even if only for a few seconds.

Merlin’s shoulders loosen when he finds Arthur exactly where he left him, exhaling deeply before pushing the door to the max its hinges will allow. He holds out his hand once more and Arthur does not hesitate to take it, eager to be back out into the free air, safe from the impossible machinations of the contraption behind him. Merlin shuts the door with the same snap as soon as he is fully free, slipping the metal box out of his hidden trouser pouch and tapping sharply at the surface with one finger. There is a high pitched noise, almost cheerful in a way, and Arthur flinches as the transport moves, slowly crunching over the small stones underneath it as it turns to head back the way it came. He watches as it disappears into the dark, a shiver running up his arms at the unnaturalness of the spectacle.

“My house is this way.” Merlin’s voice brings him back to his surroundings, now noticing the distinct lack of visible shelter. For a moment he ponders if Merlin has found some branch to huddle under and called it a home; it seems like something he might do. However, Merlin merely moves to slip into the depths of the forest beside them, confident and familiar, and there’s nothing Arthur can do other than follow. The night is still dark, dawn yet hours away, but Merlin does not seem perturbed, perfectly at ease picking his way under branches and over roots, even as the moon loses sight of them underneath the foliage.

Arthur keeps his eyes trained on the man’s back, feeling absurdly as if the forest will spit him right back out if he dares to look away, and slowly they adjust to the meager light they are allowed. It is not as welcome as he had originally thought, not when he swears he catches sight of a tree root slithering back from their path. He ignores it — what else can he do? — and trudges forward, praying the path is not much longer.

His wish is granted as Merlin finally comes to a halt, though Arthur’s skepticism remains, as do the trees surrounding them. He has yet to see walls of any sort. Merlin shifts anxiously from foot to foot but squares his shoulders as Arthur catches up to him.

“There is a barrier here.” He holds out his hand in explanation, and Arthur startles as the air shimmers under his fingertips. “It will not harm you. It is only meant to keep out things with ill intent,” Merlin reassures calmly, though his lips dip apologetically. “But we must go through it. There is no other way.”

Irritation blooms under his skin, born less from anger than from exhaustion and mental overwhelm. Time and time again, Merlin has asked for trust, and Arthur feels himself wearing thin despite his agreement to give it. Surely there must be an end soon, somewhere he will be safe enough to process everything that has happened to him.

Merlin seems to sense his fatigue and bows his head, rounding his shoulders slightly. “This is the last hurdle, I swear it. My house is just beyond. Nothing will trouble you past that point. I will make sure of it.”

With a huff, Arthur folds. One last leap of faith. One last step into the unknown. Merlin has given his word.

He accepts Merlin’s other outstretched hand, allowing the warlock to lead him forward and trying not to think too hard about the way Merlin’s body seems to be devoured by the air. Arthur closes his eyes, dragging in a breath as Merlin’s face, encouraging and certain, disappears into nothing, allowing the continued tug on his hand to be his only guide.

He forces his legs to follow, feeling as if he is turning the wheels of a drawbridge instead, having to throw his entire weight, along with the tattered remains of his courage and will, into the motion. Magic swallows him, pouring down his nose and throat, whistling through his ears. He tries to jerk away, but Merlin holds him steady and pulls him forward still.

It is not painful. In another circumstance, it might have even been warm, comforting, but Arthur’s skin itches with the memories of hissed curses and burns with the echo of fireballs too close for comfort.

It is over as quickly as it had begun, and his next breath is a gasp of relief. He opens his eyes in surprise as the air comes noticeably cleaner than before, almost sweet. Merlin is watching him as he does so, their hands still firmly clasped together. He dares to step close, free hand twitching at his side as if he wants to check Arthur over but fears he may not have the right.

“Okay?” he asks gently, eyes flickering over Arthur’s face for any hint of discomfort or falsehood.

Arthur gives him a sharp nod, drawing in a new, steady breath. “No more.”

It is not a question.

Merlin relaxes and nods in agreement. “No more. My house is right here.”

Arthur’s knees nearly give out under the wave of relief that hits him when he sees an actual building behind Merlin’s pointing hand. It is not much, at least from the outside, but it suits Merlin’s humble tastes: a small, homey cottage with a thatched roof and a well-worn wooden door that looks as if a single storm might tear it from its hinges. Merlin releases him and makes his way down the soft grassy path that leads to the door. Arthur trudges after him, feet feeling increasingly leaden and unresponsive. Armor is not meant for long treks through the woods. It is meant for the flash and fury of battle, when a man’s blood sings too loudly to hear the aches of his body.

So focused is he on the weary click of his bones that he nearly misses the massive creature off to the side of the house. Merlin doesn’t even glance at it, and it doesn’t so much as stir from its place, but Arthur still freezes. It is almost the size of half the house, if not more, and its hide glitters in the moonlight, a sea of unblemished white. Arthur cannot tell the extent of its form. The most he can make out is what looks to be a large wing laid over its flank and what might be the tip of a horn around the curve of its shoulder. The curl of its slumber obscures all else, but the longer he watches, the more certain he is that it has not moved an inch, not even to breathe.

After another fraught moment of frozen terror, Arthur’s blood seeps back into his body, allowing him to continue on. He hurries after Merlin, picking up his feet a bit better, only to stumble as his foot nearly catches on the hand-placed stone steps in his distraction. He hops forward, flailing his arms to keep his balance and jerking his head up in betrayal at the soft snicker that creeps along the edge of his hearing. Merlin is holding the edge of the front door, watching him with sparkling eyes, and Arthur’s chest warms despite his outrage at being laughed at.

“I suppose we should get you out of that,” he states fondly, smiling wider under the force of Arthur’s glare as he pulls the door open until it creaks in protest. Arthur grumbles half-heartedly as he passes the man, but he cannot deny that the thought of shedding the steel resting on his shoulders is nearly euphoric.

True to Merlin’s word, there is no final barrier to the entrance of his home, but there is magic all the same. Arthur can feel it along the walls even if he could not see the evidence of it for himself; the house is much bigger on the inside than the outside. Yet, as if acknowledging his discomfort, the presence sticks to the sides of the room, watchful and welcoming but not intrusive. It is probably something Merlin has done for him, but in his exhaustion, Arthur cannot bring himself to worry about its bite. He is simply glad it has formed boundaries, unlike the barrier earlier.

The first room Arthur enters is wide and high-ceilinged, grand despite the few scattered things left about. The shape of it resembles a castle more than the cottage he had seen from the front, lined with smooth gray stone and old, quiet strength. It sets the tone at once: this is no simple home. It is a fortress Merlin has built to protect his peace, and Arthur cannot help but feel grateful that he will be allowed to take refuge somewhere so well guarded.

There is a quiet click of the outside world being shut away before Merlin circles around to his front, raising his hands before halting, eyes hesitantly flickering to Arthur’s face for permission. “May I?”

Arthur nods, remembering at the last minute to seem kingly and not too eager, though there is no one here but Merlin to witness it and the warlock seems too busy trying to hold himself together to care.

“Please,” he allows.

Merlin’s hands shake as they make contact with the first plate of armor, stroking over it almost reverently. He makes a small wounded noise as a hand slips to Arthur’s side — where Mordred stabbed him, Arthur realizes — but encounters chainmail instead of skin. It seems to fuel him into a slow kind of frenzy, determined to untangle Arthur from the labyrinth of protection that hadn’t mattered at all when death came for him.

Arthur finds that he is much more patient than he thought himself capable of, unwilling to berate Merlin for his clumsiness when the man is actively fighting off tears. It is reasonable, he tells himself, to expect Merlin to be out of practice after two thousand years. The true length of time has yet to hit him, still too unfathomable for his mind to wrap around what it means, for him let alone for Merlin, who has apparently been waiting. But Arthur understands the number, at least. Just as he understands that a knight who does not practice loses his skill with a blade. So he stands and waits and lets Merlin sniffle his way through the tightly laced bindings of his armor, and does not say a word about the inconvenience.

This, too, seems like something Merlin desperately needs.

Eventually, the first plate falls and Merlin catches it with a wet squawk, clearly having forgotten how heavy the armor truly is. Arthur smirks as he grunts, managing to properly brace it in his arms as he searches for a suitable place to set it down. In the end, he seems to decide one patch of floor is as good as the rest, lowering it down part of the way but still unable to dull the clang it makes. He then moves onto working loose the rest of the plates, each falling more quickly than the last as rusted instincts shake off their dust. Arthur’s gorget is the last to leave, attached to his cloak, allowing Arthur to give a soft sigh and a grateful roll of his shoulders, and Merlin wraps it carefully around itself before placing it on top of the metal pile.

He kneels for Arthur’s boots next, slipping off the metal covering with far more efficiency than he started with. It is only then that he moves for Arthur’s chainmail and that’s where the real problems begin. It starts well enough, Merlin remembers to bunch up the hem of it, lifting it up the length of Arthur’s torso. His fingers linger over the fatal injury, but there is little to find through the cloth still covering it, and eventually Merlin forces himself onward. It is once Merlin reaches Arthur’s shoulders that muscle memory seems to fail him. Though Arthur obligingly raises his arms, Merlin neglects to stretch the hole for his head and it snags, excruciatingly, on the small hairs of his neck.

Arthur is unable to stifle his yelp, not that he put much effort into trying, and barks out a reprimand. “Merlin!”

Merlin freezes, partly in confusion and partly in horror, leaning in as he tries to identify the issue. Arthur’s arms are caught, halfway tangled in the rest of the chainmail, and his exhausted muscles begin composing a list of grievances as he starts to wiggle.

“You’ve caught my hair!” He snaps in irritation. “I can’t believ—“ he starts to lay into the man only to yelp again as Merlin tugs “Ow! Stop pulling!”

“Then stop moving!” Merlin snaps back, familiarly waspish. They struggle with each other, Merlin trying desperately to liberate him while Arthur does his best to shake the caught links free. It only serves to tangle him deeper, additional links finding small hairs to latch onto and Arthur’s eyes begin to smart with each small shift.

“I’m trying to—!“

“Would you just—!“

He’s about to tell Merlin off entirely when a rush of warmth snaps forward quicker than a crossbow bolt and he is abruptly free, sliding smoothly out of the remaining bunch of links. He snaps back straight, running hands down his body to straighten his clothes. All the while he glares at both Merlin, innocently straight-faced as if he hadn’t resorted to magic to fix his own mistake, and the pile of bloodthirsty, or rather hair-hungry, metal in his arms. Arthur huffs through his nose as he gives one last sharp tug to the edge of his tunic only to soften as Merlin’s gaze is drawn to his side for yet a third time.

It is painfully obvious how much the injury has haunted Merlin, if he is so reactive to it even two thousand years later, but Arthur supposes he can understand. It had taken him weeks not to hold his breath every time Merlin stumbled after his recovery from the Morteus flower.

Even back then his heart had known Merlin was indispensable.

Yet here, Merlin merely hovers, hands occupied and spine braced to prevent himself from demanding more of Arthur. Therefore, Arthur takes it upon himself to draw up his tunic and expose his skin to the light.

A soft noise spills from Merlin’s lips, seemingly entirely involuntary, and Arthur looks down, surprised to see that there is indeed a scar, pink but not tender. It is shiny enough to flare in the unnatural light of the room, almost seeming to turn gold if the angle is just right. The jingle of the chains brings his attention back up to see that Merlin has shifted forward unconsciously, fingers burying themselves in the mail he still holds, as if that alone might prevent them from reaching for Arthur inappropriately.

When his eyes finally drag themselves to Arthur’s face instead, Arthur only dips his chin in permission.

Arthur stands firm through the resulting clatter as Merlin tries not to simply dump the chainmail while also trying to be rid of it as quickly as possible. As soon as he has managed it, though Arthur has to force himself not to wince at the tangle he leaves it in, Merlin scrambles over, wasting no time in starting a gentle but purposeful prodding of the colored flesh, occasionally glancing up at Arthur for any signs of discomfort.

When he ultimately pulls away, it is as if some frantic piece of him has finally settled, the swallow of his throat rough but his shoulders slumped in relief.

“Sorry,” he says as he steps back, taking a breath that sounds like it has been scraped raw against a bramble bush. “I just—I just needed to—” He takes in another, steadier breath to stop the stutter. “Thank you.”

Arthur nods, glad to see that the proof of his vitality seems to have helped Merlin, before turning his attention back to his surroundings. There is a large spiraling staircase directly in front of him, partially obscured by Merlin’s body. Beyond it the room splits in several directions, a few hallways and some scattered doors along the wall, the most immediate of which is directly to Arthur’s right.

Merlin clears his throat, having managed to recompose himself in the time Arthur had looked away from him. He scratches the side of his face in a nervous habit, looking both hesitantly proud and faintly worried to introduce Arthur to what he calls home. “Well, welcome to my home. Do you want me to give you a tour?”

As much as Arthur wants to take him up on the offer, to explore the sprawling expanse he can see before him, he finds that the thought does not appeal to him at the moment, muscles threatening mutiny at the mere thought of walking anywhere that isn’t the direction of a bed. There are many, many rooms to explore, and more words he ought to share between them, questions that still have not been answered, but utter exhaustion pins him where he is.

Though he has only been awake for a short while, he is utterly spent both physically and emotionally. There has been too much change to adjust to, too many emotions to make sense of, and too much mud to trudge through just to make it back to dry land. His eyes burn with the desire to drop shut and he aches for somewhere safe and familiar to rest. Merlin takes note of something in his expression and softens, moving to guide him down the hall to the left instead.

“Never mind, that can wait. Tomorrow’s not going anywhere.” He says as if he has had to convince himself of the phrase many times over. “Allow me to show you where your room is.”

Arthur musters up the remnants of his energy and trudges after him only vaguely taking in the way the hall changes in style and texture. Decorations line the walls though Arthur can’t make heads or tails of their origins. Most of them are shapes, runes maybe, or scenery of some sort. None of them depict people or at least not as the sole focus, not anyone or anything that would indicate attachment of any sort. It only draws more attention to the fact that no one has stepped out to greet them, to assist Merlin with either his care of Arthur nor the entrance to his home. Arthur heavily suspects this is because there is no one; Merlin was never the type to rely on others to assist him, even for fair pay. However, it makes the halls seem eerie, quiet in a way Camelot was physically unable to be.

Lonely; even if Arthur is simultaneously grateful not to have to meet anyone other than Merlin at present.

They pass several mismatched doors, though most of them are wooden, each displaying its own carving at the center that likely corresponds to its contents. It is easy to imagine getting lost as they take several turns, and Arthur wouldn’t put it past the presence in the walls, Merlin’s magic, to shift them around as desired.

He winces as Merlin turns toward the base of a staircase, unsure if his flagging muscles will bear him all the way up. Any trepidation he has, though, is quickly drowned out as he takes in the sight of it, quietly touched and instinctively eased. It is resplendent in a way the entrance was not, wealth and grandeur on full display in vibrant golds and reds, Pendragon red, to be exact. It boldly accents the wall it approaches, where Camelot’s heraldry hangs proud and centered, and Arthur pauses to appreciate the splendor of it, noting the high-quality fabric meticulously woven together to form its image.

Everything has been kept with care, the colors guiding him up the curve and toward the second floor, where Arthur would wager more pieces of Camelot have been preserved. He is proven correct as he hauls himself up the last step, Merlin keeping a wary eye on him the entire way, ready to leap forward in support the second Arthur’s knees give way. If Arthur does not turn around, he can almost imagine he is back in Camelot again: the stone hallway achingly familiar, all the way to the grand double doors of his chambers at the end. Merlin heads directly for them, squaring his shoulders and reaching out to grasp the handles, only to pause at the last minute.

Arthur frowns as he seems to brace himself for some reason, but he pushes open the door before Arthur can get close enough to question him and Arthur’s breath immediately halts in his chest. It’s his room. The doors had indicated as much, but the fact still catches him brutally by the throat. It shouldn’t be as shocking as it is, but it’s his room. Amidst all the unfamiliar, unnerving sights he has seen tonight, it nearly chokes him up to see something so soul-wrenchingly familiar. A place that he knows better than the scars painted on his skin.

Merlin lingers at the doors, watching as Arthur walks through the threshold and takes in the room with a hushed, awed stillness. The nervous edge to his stance has returned, waiting on Arthur’s judgement of his preservation efforts.

“I kept it as close as I could remember.” He explains in the silence. “Those are your actual sheets. I didn't manage to get all of it, but I made sure I had the sheets at least.”

There's another story in the words, but Arthur doesn't chase it, not tonight. He also files away his suspicion about their care for a later conversation. He is certain that there was some magic use involved in the fact that they still look as vibrant as Arthur remembers; cloth was simply never meant to last millennia through natural means alone. However, he is grateful to know that they are his, that, impossibly, something familiar has been locked in time along with him. Not that Merlin is entirely unfamiliar, but, even now, Arthur can admit there are nuances to his words, to his silence, to even the way he carries himself that Arthur does not yet know how to read.

He is different, but not enough to be a stranger.

“I apologize, if I had known you would be coming today I would have washed them all again.” Merlin continues.

Arthur sweeps his eyes over the room critically, breathing out as he finds Merlin is correct. Everything is exactly as it should be and relief is nearly a living creature on his spine.

Well, almost everything.

His gaze inevitably stops on an odd little setup next to the window. A small desk is adorned with two chairs and supports two goblets on its surface. In the one chair rests a full suit of armor, one hand on the pommel of a sword driven deep into the floor and the other lounging casually on the table as if just about to reach for its glass. Arthur can recognize his practice armor from the well-worn pock marks from various weapons in various spars. The other chair is pushed back, as if disturbed and its goblet is much more crooked, as if recently left by the party that attended it.

Merlin flushes so brightly Arthur would wager it reaches from the top of his head to the tip of his tail when he follows Arthur’s curious gaze. There’s a definite squeak as he rushes forward and scrambles to scoop up the glasses from their resting spots, jostling the fingers of the suit in his haste. He refuses to meet Arthur’s eye as he scampers back out the door to deposit it elsewhere and the door clicks shut in his wake, leaving Arthur alone with his thoughts for the second time tonight. He closes his eyes in the silence of it. It is the first time he truly feels like he can afford to, here amongst the familiar trappings of his kingdom, a small pocket of mercy from the unrelenting reality outside his walls.

It takes longer than he expects for Merlin to return, but he has not moved in the meantime, simply standing and breathing, exhaustion clawing at him deeper and deeper as his mind swims with the hurricane of thoughts he is trying to ignore. He does not have the energy to pick through them, to understand anything more than what he has accomplished since his crawl from the lake. When the door finally does creak back open, it is to reveal Merlin with a set of familiar clothes folded neatly in his arms,

“Allow me to assist as you dress for bed, Sire.” He offers and, just for a moment, Arthur can believe that nothing has changed. He can ignore the odd clothes Merlin wears as some new commoner fashion. He can tune out the glint of metal in Merlin’s lip as a trick of the light. He can forget the horrifying secret Merlin neglected to tell him. Tossing the weight of impossibility aside he can imagine, for this one last night, that this is simply a normal bed time routine between king and manservant, that his only worry is his lords trying to shimmy out of their taxes for the season.

The doors to his chambers are shut; nothing else exists outside of this small sphere of influence.

Everything is exactly as it should be.

It is what he desperately needs right now, and he clings to it with a white knuckle grip.

He tilts his chin in a way he knows Merlin hates, just to catch the small smile that twitches on his lips. "I should hope so."

Merlin correctly interprets the invitation for what it is and the two of them move towards the privacy screen along the wall. Shifting the clothes to his arm, Merlin's fingers come up to unlace the strings of his tunic and the buckle of his belt before allowing Arthur to step behind the screen and shed them. He maintains his presence behind the screen, holding out Arthur's night clothes for him to take as Arthur tosses the discarded ones over the top of the barrier. The soft slide of his preferred white night shirt is a comfort like no other, as is the loose fit of his night trousers and he rounds the edge of the screen a softer man than when he walked in. He nods once more to Merlin, a silent gratitude, and issues a last order before he allows sleep to claim him.

"You are dismissed for the night after I have been situated in bed." He moves past Merlin's slight bow and finally in the direction of the bed in the center of the room, skin practically buzzing in gleeful anticipation. Merlin still manages to outpace him, long, slender stride eating up the ground in order to part Arthur's covers so the king can climb inside. At once the mattress traps him, his entire body going limp on top of it. It's all he can do to keep his eyes open enough to see Merlin tuck the covers around him, something soft and fond in the depths of his eyes that makes Arthur feel gooey and warm in return. They fall shut soon after, mind giving up its struggle to make sense of his circumstances, and causing the world to go fuzzy at the edges.

Merlin continues to putter about; the sounds of soft scraping, the bloom of flame, the crackle of wood, and the shifting of cloth all creating an unintentional lullaby that accompanies Arthur as he drifts further and further from reality. It’s only once Arthur’s on the cusp of true unconsciousness that he feels it, a feather-light touch of a hand on his cheek. It isn’t enough to stir him, not when he intimately knows the voice that accompanies it.

“Thank you for coming back to me.” Merlin whispers, clearly having thought Arthur well beyond reach of the quiet words. “This time I’ll keep you safe, I swear it.”

He leaves soon after but a rolling rumble in the room remains, watchful and determined though it maintains the distance Arthur is comfortable with, lingering just at the edge of perception. It lounges in the space like an ethereal guardian, not unlike what Arthur might imagine dragon guarding its hoard would act. Yet Arthur can’t bring himself to be afraid, if anything it feels familiar, if not stronger, making his chambers, replica though they may be, feel that last step towards a true sense of home. His awareness fades quickly within its vigilant embrace and he gladly gives in to the call of slumber, certain that he will wake once more with the dawn.