Under the Wild Oak [4/4]
Part Three
The storm has finally begun, and it is terrible. Rain falls in sheets, icy torrents too thick to see through properly. The road has turned to mud under his feet, slick and dangerous, and his every step is uncertain now, blind and precarious and tentative in a way the traveller has never felt before.
He searches desperately for shelter, has for some time now, but he finds none. The clouds hang in the sky like heavy dark wool, and the rain floods out whatever sunlight manages to shine through, waters it down and washes it away until there’s nothing left. The few times lightning flashes through the sky, white and forking, it shows nothing but the same flat landscape, the same distant cluster of trees that the traveller suspects is where the road is taking him.
His clothes are sodden and weighty on his frame, pulling at his limbs and slowing every movement he makes. Every motion, be it stepping forward or wiping futilely at his eyes to clear them, is exhausting, draining beyond belief, and he feels this sense of tired like an ache deep in the core of his bones. It clouds his judgment, this weariness, and on the next step, he thinks he is sure before he really is, puts his weight down in the wrong place and has a second to feel his foot sliding in the mud before he is tumbling to the ground.
He lands awkwardly, half on his back and half on his side, one leg twisted under him. Mud squelches under his fingers and around his ears, soaks up into his clothing even as the rain pounds down in razor-sharp droplets to rinse it away. His back aches and his hand throbs a bit where he had tried in vain to brace his weight as he landed, but it is nothing compared to the pain in his leg. That feels like it has been sliced open, exposed, and the entire length of his shin feels like it’s burning where it presses into the mud, where the weight of his body on it drives it into the sharp rocks embedded in the path.
Sitting up is a long process, difficult with his injuries placed the way they are, and twisting his leg around to look at it takes even longer. It is slow and immensely painful, the worst kind of torture, and the traveller can taste blood from where he has bitten through his lip in efforts to keep himself from screaming. When he finally has it tilted up in front of him, the traveller can see that his leg is sliced open, his shin covered in thick gashes down the side from the rocks it scraped against. It’s covered in sludgy brown mud now, but as that washes away, he can see blood welling up from the cuts, deep crimson for an instant before it, too, is rinsed off by the rainwater.
The rain stings something awful where it hits the open flesh of his leg, and the traveller’s eyes sting with tears at the pain. He is helpless but to lie there, jaw clenched and leg throbbing, truly, involuntarily stationary for the first time since he can remember.
It has been two days since Arthur died (and Merlin’s finally reached the point where he can think that, can accept that Arthur is gone and not coming back, but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less, dead dead dead, each time like a knife to the gut and never getting better).
Merlin guesses he has been occupied, but he couldn’t really say with what. He remembers Morgana, crying for what he thinks is the first time since he’s met her, and he remembers Uther, expression broken open and deeply, indescribably sorrowful and still only a fraction of what Merlin feels. Or guesses he feels, or should feel, as he’s slipped into a state of numbness that hasn’t quite worn off yet. That numbness, it’s probably why everything after Arthur not-waking feels fuzzy and dulled, almost as though he hadn’t really experienced it, or had watched someone else experience it for him.
He still hasn’t decided if this is a good thing, if he wants to be feeling everything full-scale yet or not.
Merlin knows that he slept on Gwen and Morgana’s couch yesterday, neither of them wanting him to be alone for the first night. And he knows that he needs to go home today, that walking back into their house without Arthur will probably be the stone that shatters his inexplicable detachment, that brings him crashing back to the reality of his situation, that breaks him.
He’s dreading it as much as he wants it, wants to be back near things that Arthur touched and that smell like Arthur, things that give him some semblance of a connection to what he’s lost.
So it is now two days after Arthur died, and Merlin is standing on his own front stoop, reaching for his doorknob with shaking hands. The handle is cold against his skin, bare because he hadn’t thought to grab gloves the last time he was here, two days ago when he was rushing and stalling at once. Merlin twists it, hears the bolt snick back and feels the door give, pushing open into the foyer.
The brownstone looks untouched when Merlin steps inside. Arthur’s keys are lying on the table in the foyer, the junk table that’s also covered with one of Merlin’s periodicals and a knocked-down pile of last week’s bills. When Merlin closes the door, both of their coats are hanging on the wall behind it, dangling from hooks that Arthur had nailed in just after they moved here, already tired of waiting to go upstairs before stripping off his heavy winter gear.
The kitchen is the same, looking like nothing has changed. Arthur’s mug is still on the counter where he left it, and Merlin’s is still shattered on the floor in the middle of a sticky brown stain where he never remembered to clean. The sink is still filled with dishes from dinner four nights ago, or lunch two days ago, or tea last Tuesday; Merlin can’t remember which, and he can’t help but think it doesn’t matter when they’re from, only what they are, remnants of something that Merlin won’t ever have back.
He doesn’t bother with cleaning now, knows that he won’t be able to stomach until at least tomorrow the idea of undoing something Arthur’s done in this house. That will come eventually, but he can’t, not tonight.
It’s some time before he reaches their bedroom, although Merlin couldn’t say how long he had walked around, relearning this house that was theirs and is now just his and that feels foreign and dangerously unknown for that change. Merlin hesitates again at the closed bedroom door, bracing himself for what he knows will be the most difficult part of all of this, then grabs and turns the knob.
Like the rest of the house, the bedroom looks the same as when he last left it. Stepping inside, he can see that Arthur’s paperback novel is still on his bedside table, along with the glass of water he had been drinking the other night. The sheets are still rumpled and mussed, wrinkled with the impressions of sleep, the blankets over top shoved haphazardly aside like someone just got out of bed. Merlin sees his clothes shoved over in the corner (he never did do anything with them), sees Arthur’s neatly placed in the hamper, and that’s when the numbness finally shatters.
Oddly enough, it gives way not to depression, but to serious, sudden anger. Merlin lashes out at the first thing he finds, the lamp Arthur used to leave on for him at night. His hand flies out, catching the lamp and knocking it back against the wall with a crash. Merlin kicks at the bed and it shakes, the old wooden frame groaning, and it’s not enough. He kicks again, again, until his foot is sore and his toes are throbbing and the bed has shifted at least six inches off the wall. It’s doing nothing, and he realises this, realises that it’s a meaningless action, but it’s still something to do, a force that he’s applying to create change, and that’s more than he could do for Arthur. He kicks out again once more, more desperate than angry this time, and as his foot connects with the wood, he feels something slip from his coat pocket.
When he looks down to see what it was, as he’d honestly forgot there was anything in his pocket, he finds the small box Arthur had given him in the hospital. Merlin picks it up and turns, sits heavily on the now-crooked bed and feels himself sink into the mattress a bit. The box rests beside him innocently, and when Merlin opens it, the pen’s dragon clip glints up at him, red eyes flashing almost reassuringly.
Merlin picks up the open box and pulls out the pen, and when he does, he notices something he’d missed before. On the bottom of the pen, the place usually covered by the cap when Arthur wrote with it, is another dragon. This one is far simpler: a small, golden silhouette of a dragon in flight, wings unfurled and tail snaking out behind it. It’s the part of the Pendragon family crest that Arthur had always loved best. Merlin can remember Arthur’s college notes and essays filled with doodles of this dragon, some half-arsed and some actually quite good, and he smiles a tiny bit in spite of himself.
Looking at the dragon, something in him calms slightly. He’s in a room that smells like Arthur, holding something that Arthur used so often it was like an extension of himself, and Merlin feels a miniscule part of the tension threatening to overwhelm him loosen, responding almost instinctively to Arthur even now.
The thing is, Merlin doesn’t want ever to lose that, that connection to Arthur even when Arthur is very much not here. It’s been a constant in his life for so long, and Merlin is terrified of living without it, wants it permanently linked to him, inked and writ into every fibre of his very skin.
And that’s an idea, actually. Merlin remembers an article Arthur had shown him back in college, something he found in one of his many just-browsing trips to the university library, about early cultures using tattoos as a thread, a visible tie, between the living and the dead. That’s exactly what Merlin wants, something he won’t have to worry about losing, something he won’t have to check for everyday to make sure it hasn’t vanished. He could wait for it, yes, could get something done professionally. But part of Merlin, a large part, is spurred by a sense of immediacy, an urgent notion of needing to do this now, now before he loses his resolve, now before any more of Arthur and their connection slips away.
He uncaps the pen, feels the ridges of the dragon’s back dig into his fingers as he unscrews the top, and stares at the nib. It is delicately, wickedly curved, coming to a golden point in the centre that is sharp like a blade, like a snake’s fang. He presses it to the skin on the inside of his left wrist, just to test, and hisses in a breath when even that light pressure pierces the surface and draws blood. Merlin sets his mouth in a firm line, knowing that this will hurt and needing the pain. He presses harder, hard enough that a drop of ink slips out and under his skin when he tilts the pen just right.
It takes him a while, individually and imperfectly inserting each drop of ink. It burns as it goes in, the ink spreading like liquid fire, like the best kind of antiseptic, cleansing even as it stains him irrevocably. By the end of it, he’s crying again, shoulders heaving in shuddering, gasping breaths as much from the pain of what he’s doing as from finally letting himself be overwhelmed by Arthur’s death, by all the implications that come with it.
When he’s done, Merlin’s wrist is a bloody mess, red and black swirled muddy across his skin. He stumbles to the bathroom and wipes it away, the gentle pressure of the washcloth still enough to make his arm throb in pain. Marked on his skin is a small, misshapen dragon. It’s by no means a perfect replica of the one Arthur loved, but it’s enough for Merlin, his tangible connection.
He falls asleep that night purely from exhaustion, face pressed into Arthur’s pillow and Arthur’s dragon on his wrist cradled close.
***
The funeral is held on Monday, giving Merlin the rest of the weekend to begin adjusting to a house that feels too big, undeniably shifted.
Merlin has little experience with funerals. The only one he remembers took place when he was eight, when a boy in his class, Matthew Something-or-other, died in a nasty car crash. The whole village had been there, crammed into the church and later clustered close together in the cemetery as they watched the boy’s parents spread his ashes around the base of a tree that Merlin recalls him mum explaining to him, voice whisper-soft in the crowd, was meant to symbolize Matthew’s life. It was a last connection for his parents, she had said, and Merlin hadn’t understood it then. He thinks he does now.
Arthur’s funeral isn’t like Matthew’s; it’s a traditional burial, for one. It’s also a small affair, just close friends and family, and Merlin is grateful for that. They hold it at the Pendragons’ country manor, the one Uther built for Igraine and used only as a summer retreat. Arthur used to tell Merlin stories about holidays with his father here, exploring the house that was theirs without feeling like it, always changing and growing, mysterious in that way young boys always find exciting new places to be.
Standing here now, looking across the grounds that Arthur used to play on, the lake he used to swim in, Merlin wonders if Arthur ever saw his family’s manor like this, frozen over and cold with frost. It’s a beautiful view, the subtle hills of the grounds capped and glistening with snow, the surface of the lake gleaming icy in the sun.
They’re by the lake now, actually. Arthur had apparently asked Uther during his visit that last day about being buried next to Igraine near the water. It’s more of a pond, really, but it’s the part of the property that Igraine had fallen in love with, and that Arthur had loved best of all, and it makes sense to lay him to rest here.
Most of the funeral goes by in a blur for Merlin. He’s still a wreck from all of this, still scrambling to get himself back in control, and the glances of pity he keeps getting are doing nothing to help. He spends most of the time trying to block things out, focusing instead on what he thinks Arthur would have liked about these surroundings: the chill wind blowing around his face, the steamy clouds of breath everyone is exhaling, the way Merlin’s ears are flushing red from cold.
The one part of the funeral Merlin does focus on is Morgana’s speech, even though it’s a bit too on-the-spot, too unpractised to be properly called that. If anything, it’s a reflection, and it’s one Merlin knows will help him from his experience with Morgana and advice.
Like the rest of them, Morgana is wrapped in a heavy black coat, a green scarf wound round her neck; unlike the rest of them, she maintains her natural grace even under the pressures of frigidity and mourning. She stands tall and elegant next to the hole in the ground that will be Arthur’s grave, and when she speaks, her voice is clear and strong, contemplative, but still easily heard over the wind.
“Not many people go through life without the fear of death. But then, Arthur was never ‘many people’. He’s always been special -- in more ways than one, I used to tell him, and probably more often than he really deserved.” She breaks off, laughing softly to herself before picking back up again. “In all seriousness, though, Arthur was always one to do what other people couldn’t, be it because he was foolishly brave, foolishly lucky, or just plain foolish. And toward the end of his life, he managed to find that peace with death and the thought of dying that most of us never really learn.
“In the last few weeks, Arthur and I did a lot of talking, and there were times where hearing him speak so openly and casually about his death made me want to hit him -- I’m sure many of you know exactly how that felt when it came to talking with Arthur. The things he said made it seem at first like he was giving up, which bothered me because it was never like the Arthur I knew growing up. But I realised, after a lot of thinking about what we had discussed, that Arthur never once said, ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ He never told me that he was too afraid, or in too much pain, or any of the excuses he could very well have made. What he always said was simply, ‘I’m ready.’
“And I think that’s what it comes down to. Arthur loved every single person standing here fiercely, and he was never completely all right with the idea of leaving us. But he also understood, in one of his rare moments of wisdom, that part of life is the leaving and the growth that creates. Even if he just found it in one of his thousands of books, he understood it, which is something I think few people ever do, and he reached peace with it. He reached a point where he was ready to live or die, comfortable doing either, and because of that, he passed as he did everything else: with dignity and bravery. I only hope the rest of us can be so lucky.”
Merlin’s head is echoing with things, flashes of Arthur looking at him, tired and impatient and ready. He can hear Arthur’s voice, all you’ll never lose me, and Morgana saying that Arthur didn’t want to leave, but acknowledged the inevitable. The dragon on his wrist throbs again when his shirt shifts against it, and Merlin finally gets it, he understands.
Morgana looks once into the hole, and Merlin can see that she’s crying again, subtly; he can’t blame her, wouldn’t ever, because he is, too. She walks back to stand next to him, and he grabs her hand, squeezes it and says, “Thank you.”
The rain has finally cleared up, although it feels like it took days to do so, and the traveller is still stationary. His leg aches dully, fading in and out, another cycle for him to live. He winces every time he looks at the gashes, sees them red and filthy, caked with dried blood and dirt from lying on the sodden earth for so long. He tried to stand once, only to have his leg buckle out from under him on the first half-hearted step, sending him crashing, head spinning with pain, to the ground.
He hasn’t tried to move since.
In all honesty, the traveller thinks he may die here, passive and alone, and the thought frightens him -- not enough to make him actually do anything, though.
“Finish it.”
The traveller whips his head around, twists his torso as he sits to face the man behind him. It’s the same man from all the times before, brown peacoat and stupid scarf and everything, and oh, the traveller is done. He has had it with this man, this man and his confusing, meaningless orders, this man who changed his routine and led to the storm and his dissatisfaction and his pain.
Adrenaline rushes through him, enough to let him stand, and he hobbles shakily over to the man, who is still standing there, calm as the sky just before dawn. And the traveller begins to shout, all of his confusion and frustration and rage pouring out, one long stream of who are you and what do you want from me and stop, please, just leave me alone.
At the last, something in the man’s face falls, flinches as though he’s been struck, and the traveller feels some guilt. He remembers the early visits, when all he wanted was to please this man, this randomly appearing man with his compassionate eyes and illogical dress. And something in him twinges with remorse, a sense of wrongness, at the thought of ever putting that expression on this man’s face.
The traveller repeats himself, voice shaking, “Please, just tell me what you want.”
The man looks at him, blinks and says, “Finish it.”
The traveller clenches his jaw in anger, in frustrated desperation at this man who is not cooperating, and says, “I don’t know how. You haven’t told me how.”
“Wait. When you’re ready, you will.” The man says this like it’s supposed to make sense, and it doesn’t, only makes the traveller sob in frustration, exhaustion, and pain before falling to his knees. The traveller can feel his shoulders shaking, heaving, and he knows he must look a mess to this man, but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t, only wants to be told how to help the man or to be left alone.
A light touch to his shoulder makes the traveller look up, and what he sees astounds him. The man is gone -- more like changed, really, because it’s still the same man, and the traveller can see that easily in his eyes, the kind lines on his face. But his clothes have changed drastically; he’s dressed in full armour now, shining and silver, and he wears a red cloak that shimmers like velvet over it. At his waist is buckled a magnificent, jewel-handled sword, and on his head is a crown, a simple circle of elegant gold. His face doesn’t look as thin, and his posture is different, dignity overstated to the point of being regal, rather than the quiet form the man usually employs.
He is painfully beautiful, and it almost hurts the traveller to look at him, to sully this glorious figure, this king, by taking the hand he’s being offered. But the king smiles, warm and affectionate, and the traveller can’t help but do as he wishes, so he grasps the king’s hand and feels himself being pulled smoothly, strongly to his feet.
The king says, voice both self-assured and reassuring, “Wait, and you’ll understand.”
And the traveller wants to believe him, he does, but it, this waiting, hurts so much. The king seems to read this on his face, and his smile softens as he reaches a hand out to rest against the traveller’s shoulder, comforting.
As soon as the king touches him, the traveller gasps. His head is whirling with images of this king and the man, one and the same and alive. He sees the king swinging his sword in a tournament, sees him dressed in rich silks and velvets at a feast, face open with laughter and excitement both times; and he sees the king falling into a lake, blood running from a wound in his head, light fading from his eyes and face looking only peaceful. He sees the man running through a park or a glen, dappled with sunlight and shade and smiling brilliantly, and then the man is lying still and pale and fragile on a bed. And oh, it hurts to see them -- him -- like this, hurts like nothing has before, but remembering the peace, the near-contentment on both of their faces as they lay dying, the traveller knows.
The king was right: he understands.
When the traveller’s vision fades back in, when his mind clears, the king is gone. The man is back in his place, peacoat and all, and seeing him has never felt so necessary. The traveller smiles, cries because he can’t not, not when he finally gets it, and chokes out, “I’m going to die.”
The man smiles at him, proud and pleased, and brings a hand up to cup the traveller’s face. He leans in, and when he kisses the traveller, it tastes of eternity, of failed quests and broken promises and pain, and also of perfection, of acceptance, of finally getting it right.
When the man pulls back, the traveller lets him go even though he doesn’t really want to, and the man smiles again. He says, “Wait, and you’ll see. Together, we will live forever.”
The traveller nods, whispers, “Okay.” The man points at a clump of trees seemingly just over the hill, and the traveller takes one more moment to look at him, knowing it will be the last time, before he starts walking. His leg throbs on every step, but he welcomes the pain, welcomes the ache and the reminder of all that he has done, what he is here to do.
Hours later, after the funeral, after Arthur’s coffin has been lowered and sealed into the ground, after Merlin has stumbled back into his house, exhausted and drained, he finds Arthur’s book and opens it. The page he flips to is titled Chapter Twelve and then is blank. Merlin thinks of Matthew’s parents and their tree, creating a link, and he remembers Arthur pressing the pen into his hands and saying, ordering, Finish it. And as hard as this will be, as hard as anything will always be without Arthur, Merlin knows that now, he can.
He picks up the fountain pen, feels it heavy and solid in his hands. The dragon gleams as if in anticipation, excitement, and Merlin begins to write.
The traveller has already been walking for miles . . .
When the traveller reaches the clearing, he is exhausted, trembling, every nerve in his leg screaming at him after walking on it for long. His breath comes in great, pained gasps, his entire being aches, and when he finally breaks through the trees and back to the sight of flat, green grass and the sky overhead, it is all he can do to not collapse.
He doesn’t, though. The instant he sets foot in the clearing, he can feel its power, and it reinvigorates him. Magic, ancient and terrible and alive, seems to bleed into him, spreading slowly up his body like water up a strip of paper. It leaves him energized, and it takes away his pain, soothing relaxed muscles and miraculously healing the puckered gashes in his leg. He stands straight for the first time in days, and when he steps forward, it is with confidence and no dragging limp.
The grass under his feet is textured differently than the earth path he just walked on, cushy and soft. It smells spring-sweet where his feet bend and crunch it, and stepping through it is a joy.
At the centre of the clearing, the reason he’s crushing these tender shoots of grass under his feet, is a massive oak tree. Or rather, it is a husk of what was once a massive oak tree. Its trunk is withered and thin, bark looking papery and grey even from the edge of the field. Its branches extend uselessly up into the sky, and while some are speckled with small clusters of leaves, most of them are empty and bare. Its roots weave around it, diving in and out of each other and the ground in a way that looks confused, irrational, incapable of sustaining life.
The traveller is walking faster now, feeling this tree like it’s calling to him, and he is helpless to resist it. The tree’s magic sings like something frail, something fallen and ill, in his blood, and he shudders at the thought of something so great being diminished to this.
He reaches the soil ring that surrounds the base of the tree, and he doesn’t hesitate. This is what he has come to do, the purpose he has only just discovered, and he is more than glad to finally, finally end his journey. Without waiting, he reaches out and touches the bark of the trunk, caresses it like he would a lover’s skin and feels some of it break off, thin and powdery against his fingers. He hears a groan, almost like a dying sigh, and backs away when he sees that the trunk is splitting along its largest groove. It reveals a dark hollow, dangerously and excitingly unexplored, and the traveller feels a thrill run through him as he steps into it.
The tree closes shut around him, irreversibly sealing him inside. And with a burst of light, a sudden rush of energy, the tree grows out again. Its trunk thickens, bark colouring to a rich, deep brown; leaves sprout from its branches, thick and full and richly-dotted with large acorns; its roots unwind themselves, pushing back into the ground and spreading out further, lengthening to cover a long-forgot marble marker, to more completely conceal a glinting golden cup.
The traveller passes, and the tree flourishes.
The lake on the Pendragons’ family home is cold, frozen-over. Its surface glistens with ice, and the grasses on its banks are withered and silvered from frost. Chill breezes blow across it and over the surrounding landscape, stirring and lifting the freshly-fallen snow on the ground in a playful indicator of the seasonal change to come.
Merlin notices this as he walks by the lakeshore, snow crunching loudly under his boot-soles with every step. His breath steams out in front of him, and his nose stings with cold as another gust of wind blows, whipping his scarf around wildly. He kneels when he reaches his destination, a spot on the slight, rounded hill overlooking the lake. Snow seeps, wet and frigid, into his jeans where his knees rest, into his gloves where he brushes his hands over the ground to reveal a smooth marble placard. He stares at it for a bit, traces his fingers over the letters of the name carved in it, ARTHUR PENDRAGON, bold and striking and strangely elegant like Arthur himself.
Above the marker, Merlin digs a small hole. He pulls an acorn, plump and brown and heavy, from his coat pocket and drops it into the hollow he’s made, than scoops the pushed-aside dirt and ice back over it, packing it in.
“Goodbye, Arthur,” he whispers, and finally feels ready to let go.
The storm has finally begun, and it is terrible. Rain falls in sheets, icy torrents too thick to see through properly. The road has turned to mud under his feet, slick and dangerous, and his every step is uncertain now, blind and precarious and tentative in a way the traveller has never felt before.
He searches desperately for shelter, has for some time now, but he finds none. The clouds hang in the sky like heavy dark wool, and the rain floods out whatever sunlight manages to shine through, waters it down and washes it away until there’s nothing left. The few times lightning flashes through the sky, white and forking, it shows nothing but the same flat landscape, the same distant cluster of trees that the traveller suspects is where the road is taking him.
His clothes are sodden and weighty on his frame, pulling at his limbs and slowing every movement he makes. Every motion, be it stepping forward or wiping futilely at his eyes to clear them, is exhausting, draining beyond belief, and he feels this sense of tired like an ache deep in the core of his bones. It clouds his judgment, this weariness, and on the next step, he thinks he is sure before he really is, puts his weight down in the wrong place and has a second to feel his foot sliding in the mud before he is tumbling to the ground.
He lands awkwardly, half on his back and half on his side, one leg twisted under him. Mud squelches under his fingers and around his ears, soaks up into his clothing even as the rain pounds down in razor-sharp droplets to rinse it away. His back aches and his hand throbs a bit where he had tried in vain to brace his weight as he landed, but it is nothing compared to the pain in his leg. That feels like it has been sliced open, exposed, and the entire length of his shin feels like it’s burning where it presses into the mud, where the weight of his body on it drives it into the sharp rocks embedded in the path.
Sitting up is a long process, difficult with his injuries placed the way they are, and twisting his leg around to look at it takes even longer. It is slow and immensely painful, the worst kind of torture, and the traveller can taste blood from where he has bitten through his lip in efforts to keep himself from screaming. When he finally has it tilted up in front of him, the traveller can see that his leg is sliced open, his shin covered in thick gashes down the side from the rocks it scraped against. It’s covered in sludgy brown mud now, but as that washes away, he can see blood welling up from the cuts, deep crimson for an instant before it, too, is rinsed off by the rainwater.
The rain stings something awful where it hits the open flesh of his leg, and the traveller’s eyes sting with tears at the pain. He is helpless but to lie there, jaw clenched and leg throbbing, truly, involuntarily stationary for the first time since he can remember.
It has been two days since Arthur died (and Merlin’s finally reached the point where he can think that, can accept that Arthur is gone and not coming back, but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less, dead dead dead, each time like a knife to the gut and never getting better).
Merlin guesses he has been occupied, but he couldn’t really say with what. He remembers Morgana, crying for what he thinks is the first time since he’s met her, and he remembers Uther, expression broken open and deeply, indescribably sorrowful and still only a fraction of what Merlin feels. Or guesses he feels, or should feel, as he’s slipped into a state of numbness that hasn’t quite worn off yet. That numbness, it’s probably why everything after Arthur not-waking feels fuzzy and dulled, almost as though he hadn’t really experienced it, or had watched someone else experience it for him.
He still hasn’t decided if this is a good thing, if he wants to be feeling everything full-scale yet or not.
Merlin knows that he slept on Gwen and Morgana’s couch yesterday, neither of them wanting him to be alone for the first night. And he knows that he needs to go home today, that walking back into their house without Arthur will probably be the stone that shatters his inexplicable detachment, that brings him crashing back to the reality of his situation, that breaks him.
He’s dreading it as much as he wants it, wants to be back near things that Arthur touched and that smell like Arthur, things that give him some semblance of a connection to what he’s lost.
So it is now two days after Arthur died, and Merlin is standing on his own front stoop, reaching for his doorknob with shaking hands. The handle is cold against his skin, bare because he hadn’t thought to grab gloves the last time he was here, two days ago when he was rushing and stalling at once. Merlin twists it, hears the bolt snick back and feels the door give, pushing open into the foyer.
The brownstone looks untouched when Merlin steps inside. Arthur’s keys are lying on the table in the foyer, the junk table that’s also covered with one of Merlin’s periodicals and a knocked-down pile of last week’s bills. When Merlin closes the door, both of their coats are hanging on the wall behind it, dangling from hooks that Arthur had nailed in just after they moved here, already tired of waiting to go upstairs before stripping off his heavy winter gear.
The kitchen is the same, looking like nothing has changed. Arthur’s mug is still on the counter where he left it, and Merlin’s is still shattered on the floor in the middle of a sticky brown stain where he never remembered to clean. The sink is still filled with dishes from dinner four nights ago, or lunch two days ago, or tea last Tuesday; Merlin can’t remember which, and he can’t help but think it doesn’t matter when they’re from, only what they are, remnants of something that Merlin won’t ever have back.
He doesn’t bother with cleaning now, knows that he won’t be able to stomach until at least tomorrow the idea of undoing something Arthur’s done in this house. That will come eventually, but he can’t, not tonight.
It’s some time before he reaches their bedroom, although Merlin couldn’t say how long he had walked around, relearning this house that was theirs and is now just his and that feels foreign and dangerously unknown for that change. Merlin hesitates again at the closed bedroom door, bracing himself for what he knows will be the most difficult part of all of this, then grabs and turns the knob.
Like the rest of the house, the bedroom looks the same as when he last left it. Stepping inside, he can see that Arthur’s paperback novel is still on his bedside table, along with the glass of water he had been drinking the other night. The sheets are still rumpled and mussed, wrinkled with the impressions of sleep, the blankets over top shoved haphazardly aside like someone just got out of bed. Merlin sees his clothes shoved over in the corner (he never did do anything with them), sees Arthur’s neatly placed in the hamper, and that’s when the numbness finally shatters.
Oddly enough, it gives way not to depression, but to serious, sudden anger. Merlin lashes out at the first thing he finds, the lamp Arthur used to leave on for him at night. His hand flies out, catching the lamp and knocking it back against the wall with a crash. Merlin kicks at the bed and it shakes, the old wooden frame groaning, and it’s not enough. He kicks again, again, until his foot is sore and his toes are throbbing and the bed has shifted at least six inches off the wall. It’s doing nothing, and he realises this, realises that it’s a meaningless action, but it’s still something to do, a force that he’s applying to create change, and that’s more than he could do for Arthur. He kicks out again once more, more desperate than angry this time, and as his foot connects with the wood, he feels something slip from his coat pocket.
When he looks down to see what it was, as he’d honestly forgot there was anything in his pocket, he finds the small box Arthur had given him in the hospital. Merlin picks it up and turns, sits heavily on the now-crooked bed and feels himself sink into the mattress a bit. The box rests beside him innocently, and when Merlin opens it, the pen’s dragon clip glints up at him, red eyes flashing almost reassuringly.
Merlin picks up the open box and pulls out the pen, and when he does, he notices something he’d missed before. On the bottom of the pen, the place usually covered by the cap when Arthur wrote with it, is another dragon. This one is far simpler: a small, golden silhouette of a dragon in flight, wings unfurled and tail snaking out behind it. It’s the part of the Pendragon family crest that Arthur had always loved best. Merlin can remember Arthur’s college notes and essays filled with doodles of this dragon, some half-arsed and some actually quite good, and he smiles a tiny bit in spite of himself.
Looking at the dragon, something in him calms slightly. He’s in a room that smells like Arthur, holding something that Arthur used so often it was like an extension of himself, and Merlin feels a miniscule part of the tension threatening to overwhelm him loosen, responding almost instinctively to Arthur even now.
The thing is, Merlin doesn’t want ever to lose that, that connection to Arthur even when Arthur is very much not here. It’s been a constant in his life for so long, and Merlin is terrified of living without it, wants it permanently linked to him, inked and writ into every fibre of his very skin.
And that’s an idea, actually. Merlin remembers an article Arthur had shown him back in college, something he found in one of his many just-browsing trips to the university library, about early cultures using tattoos as a thread, a visible tie, between the living and the dead. That’s exactly what Merlin wants, something he won’t have to worry about losing, something he won’t have to check for everyday to make sure it hasn’t vanished. He could wait for it, yes, could get something done professionally. But part of Merlin, a large part, is spurred by a sense of immediacy, an urgent notion of needing to do this now, now before he loses his resolve, now before any more of Arthur and their connection slips away.
He uncaps the pen, feels the ridges of the dragon’s back dig into his fingers as he unscrews the top, and stares at the nib. It is delicately, wickedly curved, coming to a golden point in the centre that is sharp like a blade, like a snake’s fang. He presses it to the skin on the inside of his left wrist, just to test, and hisses in a breath when even that light pressure pierces the surface and draws blood. Merlin sets his mouth in a firm line, knowing that this will hurt and needing the pain. He presses harder, hard enough that a drop of ink slips out and under his skin when he tilts the pen just right.
It takes him a while, individually and imperfectly inserting each drop of ink. It burns as it goes in, the ink spreading like liquid fire, like the best kind of antiseptic, cleansing even as it stains him irrevocably. By the end of it, he’s crying again, shoulders heaving in shuddering, gasping breaths as much from the pain of what he’s doing as from finally letting himself be overwhelmed by Arthur’s death, by all the implications that come with it.
When he’s done, Merlin’s wrist is a bloody mess, red and black swirled muddy across his skin. He stumbles to the bathroom and wipes it away, the gentle pressure of the washcloth still enough to make his arm throb in pain. Marked on his skin is a small, misshapen dragon. It’s by no means a perfect replica of the one Arthur loved, but it’s enough for Merlin, his tangible connection.
He falls asleep that night purely from exhaustion, face pressed into Arthur’s pillow and Arthur’s dragon on his wrist cradled close.
***
The funeral is held on Monday, giving Merlin the rest of the weekend to begin adjusting to a house that feels too big, undeniably shifted.
Merlin has little experience with funerals. The only one he remembers took place when he was eight, when a boy in his class, Matthew Something-or-other, died in a nasty car crash. The whole village had been there, crammed into the church and later clustered close together in the cemetery as they watched the boy’s parents spread his ashes around the base of a tree that Merlin recalls him mum explaining to him, voice whisper-soft in the crowd, was meant to symbolize Matthew’s life. It was a last connection for his parents, she had said, and Merlin hadn’t understood it then. He thinks he does now.
Arthur’s funeral isn’t like Matthew’s; it’s a traditional burial, for one. It’s also a small affair, just close friends and family, and Merlin is grateful for that. They hold it at the Pendragons’ country manor, the one Uther built for Igraine and used only as a summer retreat. Arthur used to tell Merlin stories about holidays with his father here, exploring the house that was theirs without feeling like it, always changing and growing, mysterious in that way young boys always find exciting new places to be.
Standing here now, looking across the grounds that Arthur used to play on, the lake he used to swim in, Merlin wonders if Arthur ever saw his family’s manor like this, frozen over and cold with frost. It’s a beautiful view, the subtle hills of the grounds capped and glistening with snow, the surface of the lake gleaming icy in the sun.
They’re by the lake now, actually. Arthur had apparently asked Uther during his visit that last day about being buried next to Igraine near the water. It’s more of a pond, really, but it’s the part of the property that Igraine had fallen in love with, and that Arthur had loved best of all, and it makes sense to lay him to rest here.
Most of the funeral goes by in a blur for Merlin. He’s still a wreck from all of this, still scrambling to get himself back in control, and the glances of pity he keeps getting are doing nothing to help. He spends most of the time trying to block things out, focusing instead on what he thinks Arthur would have liked about these surroundings: the chill wind blowing around his face, the steamy clouds of breath everyone is exhaling, the way Merlin’s ears are flushing red from cold.
The one part of the funeral Merlin does focus on is Morgana’s speech, even though it’s a bit too on-the-spot, too unpractised to be properly called that. If anything, it’s a reflection, and it’s one Merlin knows will help him from his experience with Morgana and advice.
Like the rest of them, Morgana is wrapped in a heavy black coat, a green scarf wound round her neck; unlike the rest of them, she maintains her natural grace even under the pressures of frigidity and mourning. She stands tall and elegant next to the hole in the ground that will be Arthur’s grave, and when she speaks, her voice is clear and strong, contemplative, but still easily heard over the wind.
“Not many people go through life without the fear of death. But then, Arthur was never ‘many people’. He’s always been special -- in more ways than one, I used to tell him, and probably more often than he really deserved.” She breaks off, laughing softly to herself before picking back up again. “In all seriousness, though, Arthur was always one to do what other people couldn’t, be it because he was foolishly brave, foolishly lucky, or just plain foolish. And toward the end of his life, he managed to find that peace with death and the thought of dying that most of us never really learn.
“In the last few weeks, Arthur and I did a lot of talking, and there were times where hearing him speak so openly and casually about his death made me want to hit him -- I’m sure many of you know exactly how that felt when it came to talking with Arthur. The things he said made it seem at first like he was giving up, which bothered me because it was never like the Arthur I knew growing up. But I realised, after a lot of thinking about what we had discussed, that Arthur never once said, ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ He never told me that he was too afraid, or in too much pain, or any of the excuses he could very well have made. What he always said was simply, ‘I’m ready.’
“And I think that’s what it comes down to. Arthur loved every single person standing here fiercely, and he was never completely all right with the idea of leaving us. But he also understood, in one of his rare moments of wisdom, that part of life is the leaving and the growth that creates. Even if he just found it in one of his thousands of books, he understood it, which is something I think few people ever do, and he reached peace with it. He reached a point where he was ready to live or die, comfortable doing either, and because of that, he passed as he did everything else: with dignity and bravery. I only hope the rest of us can be so lucky.”
Merlin’s head is echoing with things, flashes of Arthur looking at him, tired and impatient and ready. He can hear Arthur’s voice, all you’ll never lose me, and Morgana saying that Arthur didn’t want to leave, but acknowledged the inevitable. The dragon on his wrist throbs again when his shirt shifts against it, and Merlin finally gets it, he understands.
Morgana looks once into the hole, and Merlin can see that she’s crying again, subtly; he can’t blame her, wouldn’t ever, because he is, too. She walks back to stand next to him, and he grabs her hand, squeezes it and says, “Thank you.”
The rain has finally cleared up, although it feels like it took days to do so, and the traveller is still stationary. His leg aches dully, fading in and out, another cycle for him to live. He winces every time he looks at the gashes, sees them red and filthy, caked with dried blood and dirt from lying on the sodden earth for so long. He tried to stand once, only to have his leg buckle out from under him on the first half-hearted step, sending him crashing, head spinning with pain, to the ground.
He hasn’t tried to move since.
In all honesty, the traveller thinks he may die here, passive and alone, and the thought frightens him -- not enough to make him actually do anything, though.
“Finish it.”
The traveller whips his head around, twists his torso as he sits to face the man behind him. It’s the same man from all the times before, brown peacoat and stupid scarf and everything, and oh, the traveller is done. He has had it with this man, this man and his confusing, meaningless orders, this man who changed his routine and led to the storm and his dissatisfaction and his pain.
Adrenaline rushes through him, enough to let him stand, and he hobbles shakily over to the man, who is still standing there, calm as the sky just before dawn. And the traveller begins to shout, all of his confusion and frustration and rage pouring out, one long stream of who are you and what do you want from me and stop, please, just leave me alone.
At the last, something in the man’s face falls, flinches as though he’s been struck, and the traveller feels some guilt. He remembers the early visits, when all he wanted was to please this man, this randomly appearing man with his compassionate eyes and illogical dress. And something in him twinges with remorse, a sense of wrongness, at the thought of ever putting that expression on this man’s face.
The traveller repeats himself, voice shaking, “Please, just tell me what you want.”
The man looks at him, blinks and says, “Finish it.”
The traveller clenches his jaw in anger, in frustrated desperation at this man who is not cooperating, and says, “I don’t know how. You haven’t told me how.”
“Wait. When you’re ready, you will.” The man says this like it’s supposed to make sense, and it doesn’t, only makes the traveller sob in frustration, exhaustion, and pain before falling to his knees. The traveller can feel his shoulders shaking, heaving, and he knows he must look a mess to this man, but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t, only wants to be told how to help the man or to be left alone.
A light touch to his shoulder makes the traveller look up, and what he sees astounds him. The man is gone -- more like changed, really, because it’s still the same man, and the traveller can see that easily in his eyes, the kind lines on his face. But his clothes have changed drastically; he’s dressed in full armour now, shining and silver, and he wears a red cloak that shimmers like velvet over it. At his waist is buckled a magnificent, jewel-handled sword, and on his head is a crown, a simple circle of elegant gold. His face doesn’t look as thin, and his posture is different, dignity overstated to the point of being regal, rather than the quiet form the man usually employs.
He is painfully beautiful, and it almost hurts the traveller to look at him, to sully this glorious figure, this king, by taking the hand he’s being offered. But the king smiles, warm and affectionate, and the traveller can’t help but do as he wishes, so he grasps the king’s hand and feels himself being pulled smoothly, strongly to his feet.
The king says, voice both self-assured and reassuring, “Wait, and you’ll understand.”
And the traveller wants to believe him, he does, but it, this waiting, hurts so much. The king seems to read this on his face, and his smile softens as he reaches a hand out to rest against the traveller’s shoulder, comforting.
As soon as the king touches him, the traveller gasps. His head is whirling with images of this king and the man, one and the same and alive. He sees the king swinging his sword in a tournament, sees him dressed in rich silks and velvets at a feast, face open with laughter and excitement both times; and he sees the king falling into a lake, blood running from a wound in his head, light fading from his eyes and face looking only peaceful. He sees the man running through a park or a glen, dappled with sunlight and shade and smiling brilliantly, and then the man is lying still and pale and fragile on a bed. And oh, it hurts to see them -- him -- like this, hurts like nothing has before, but remembering the peace, the near-contentment on both of their faces as they lay dying, the traveller knows.
The king was right: he understands.
When the traveller’s vision fades back in, when his mind clears, the king is gone. The man is back in his place, peacoat and all, and seeing him has never felt so necessary. The traveller smiles, cries because he can’t not, not when he finally gets it, and chokes out, “I’m going to die.”
The man smiles at him, proud and pleased, and brings a hand up to cup the traveller’s face. He leans in, and when he kisses the traveller, it tastes of eternity, of failed quests and broken promises and pain, and also of perfection, of acceptance, of finally getting it right.
When the man pulls back, the traveller lets him go even though he doesn’t really want to, and the man smiles again. He says, “Wait, and you’ll see. Together, we will live forever.”
The traveller nods, whispers, “Okay.” The man points at a clump of trees seemingly just over the hill, and the traveller takes one more moment to look at him, knowing it will be the last time, before he starts walking. His leg throbs on every step, but he welcomes the pain, welcomes the ache and the reminder of all that he has done, what he is here to do.
Hours later, after the funeral, after Arthur’s coffin has been lowered and sealed into the ground, after Merlin has stumbled back into his house, exhausted and drained, he finds Arthur’s book and opens it. The page he flips to is titled Chapter Twelve and then is blank. Merlin thinks of Matthew’s parents and their tree, creating a link, and he remembers Arthur pressing the pen into his hands and saying, ordering, Finish it. And as hard as this will be, as hard as anything will always be without Arthur, Merlin knows that now, he can.
He picks up the fountain pen, feels it heavy and solid in his hands. The dragon gleams as if in anticipation, excitement, and Merlin begins to write.
The traveller has already been walking for miles . . .
When the traveller reaches the clearing, he is exhausted, trembling, every nerve in his leg screaming at him after walking on it for long. His breath comes in great, pained gasps, his entire being aches, and when he finally breaks through the trees and back to the sight of flat, green grass and the sky overhead, it is all he can do to not collapse.
He doesn’t, though. The instant he sets foot in the clearing, he can feel its power, and it reinvigorates him. Magic, ancient and terrible and alive, seems to bleed into him, spreading slowly up his body like water up a strip of paper. It leaves him energized, and it takes away his pain, soothing relaxed muscles and miraculously healing the puckered gashes in his leg. He stands straight for the first time in days, and when he steps forward, it is with confidence and no dragging limp.
The grass under his feet is textured differently than the earth path he just walked on, cushy and soft. It smells spring-sweet where his feet bend and crunch it, and stepping through it is a joy.
At the centre of the clearing, the reason he’s crushing these tender shoots of grass under his feet, is a massive oak tree. Or rather, it is a husk of what was once a massive oak tree. Its trunk is withered and thin, bark looking papery and grey even from the edge of the field. Its branches extend uselessly up into the sky, and while some are speckled with small clusters of leaves, most of them are empty and bare. Its roots weave around it, diving in and out of each other and the ground in a way that looks confused, irrational, incapable of sustaining life.
The traveller is walking faster now, feeling this tree like it’s calling to him, and he is helpless to resist it. The tree’s magic sings like something frail, something fallen and ill, in his blood, and he shudders at the thought of something so great being diminished to this.
He reaches the soil ring that surrounds the base of the tree, and he doesn’t hesitate. This is what he has come to do, the purpose he has only just discovered, and he is more than glad to finally, finally end his journey. Without waiting, he reaches out and touches the bark of the trunk, caresses it like he would a lover’s skin and feels some of it break off, thin and powdery against his fingers. He hears a groan, almost like a dying sigh, and backs away when he sees that the trunk is splitting along its largest groove. It reveals a dark hollow, dangerously and excitingly unexplored, and the traveller feels a thrill run through him as he steps into it.
The tree closes shut around him, irreversibly sealing him inside. And with a burst of light, a sudden rush of energy, the tree grows out again. Its trunk thickens, bark colouring to a rich, deep brown; leaves sprout from its branches, thick and full and richly-dotted with large acorns; its roots unwind themselves, pushing back into the ground and spreading out further, lengthening to cover a long-forgot marble marker, to more completely conceal a glinting golden cup.
The traveller passes, and the tree flourishes.
The lake on the Pendragons’ family home is cold, frozen-over. Its surface glistens with ice, and the grasses on its banks are withered and silvered from frost. Chill breezes blow across it and over the surrounding landscape, stirring and lifting the freshly-fallen snow on the ground in a playful indicator of the seasonal change to come.
Merlin notices this as he walks by the lakeshore, snow crunching loudly under his boot-soles with every step. His breath steams out in front of him, and his nose stings with cold as another gust of wind blows, whipping his scarf around wildly. He kneels when he reaches his destination, a spot on the slight, rounded hill overlooking the lake. Snow seeps, wet and frigid, into his jeans where his knees rest, into his gloves where he brushes his hands over the ground to reveal a smooth marble placard. He stares at it for a bit, traces his fingers over the letters of the name carved in it, ARTHUR PENDRAGON, bold and striking and strangely elegant like Arthur himself.
Above the marker, Merlin digs a small hole. He pulls an acorn, plump and brown and heavy, from his coat pocket and drops it into the hollow he’s made, than scoops the pushed-aside dirt and ice back over it, packing it in.
“Goodbye, Arthur,” he whispers, and finally feels ready to let go.