Fic: Where Legends Lie - Part 6
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7
It was when he was standing beside Gwen at the feast, discussing how drunk they thought the knights were going to get this time around, that he noticed it. Arthur was looking at him. Not at Gwen, who was standing beside him with her skin glowing in the firelight, and not at his father, or at the other knights, but at Merlin.
It was a tiny thing, he thought later, something that really shouldn’t have driven as hard into his heart as it did. But he could feel Arthur’s eyes on him in that moment and for a second all he could see was himself - not as he was now, but as he’d been ten years earlier and a thousand years forward in time, sitting in the centre of his tiny wooden bed with his blanket pulled up around his chin and the book balanced on his knees. He’d needed a dictionary beside him then, because there were still some words that he didn’t quite understand. He would pause every so often in his reading, sliding a thumb between the pages and flipping through the dictionary in search of each new word. That book had helped him to read, it had helped him to grow, and it had been there with him in almost every moment of his childhood, whether it was when he was sitting at the kitchen table with his dinner going cold because he was too busy reading to eat it, or sprinting across the long grass of his backyard with Will, sticks held aloft like swords, because Will had liked the battle parts of the book when Merlin had read them out to him.
He was destroying his own story, he realised now, watching Gwen’s face as she looked around the room. It wasn’t the story he belonged within, but it had shaped his life as completely and as surely as if it was.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he said suddenly. Gwen looked back at him in confusion.
“What?” she asked, but Merlin didn’t answer. Arthur was still looking at him, his gaze firm on Merlin’s face, and Merlin knew that look. He’d seen it whenever Arthur was with his knights, and he could see it whenever Arthur looked down at Camelot as they returned to it after a day of hunting or a week of patrols. It was a little bit loving, a little bit proud, and it was the look that Merlin had always dreamed that a man would give him. But it couldn’t be Arthur. He wasn’t supposed to be real enough in this world for Arthur to look at him like that. He wasn’t meant to be here.
Merlin set the jug he’d been holding down onto the edge of the table, his hands unsteady as he pulled them back. He had to leave, and he still didn’t know how to get back. He didn’t know where to go, but he couldn’t stay - he was ruining everything, and he should have known from the very first moment that he set foot in Camelot that this would happen, because if there was one thing that he could always trust himself to do, it was to interfere.
He could feel the beginnings of panic swirling inside his chest, pounding through his veins and making it impossible to think, because for the first time in the many months he’d been here, he could feel how deeply, unwaveringly wrong it was that he’d come here at all. Merlin looked around the room, inhaling deeply. He could see Gwaine, sitting over with Leon and Percival and Lancelot with his hand curled around a flagon of mead and a grin spread wide across his face. He looked happy, the sort of happy that stemmed from finding the place you belonged. Merlin wasn’t Gwaine’s only friend anymore, he had the knights and he had Arthur, his lord and his leader. Merlin knew about the deep bond that existed between knights, he’d read of it often enough. He knew that Gwaine wasn’t running away from his destiny anymore. He had been, back when he was dancing through taverns and towns with his horse and his sword and nothing else to hold to his name.
But Gwaine had grown up, or at least realised that there was something that he could be that was better than a man who spent all his time fighting in taverns. He was a knight now - and perhaps he wasn’t as strong or as wise as he’d one day be, but he was on that path, and Merlin was so, so proud of him for getting there.
He walked towards the door of the hall, flashing a grin at Gwaine as he passed the knights by. He could see Gaius at the table closest to the door, the old man’s face relaxed as he ate. Gaius was one of a handful of people who knew what Merlin could do, and he had accepted Merlin in spite of that. He’d looked after him, he’d tried his best to find a way to get him home, and he was as close to a father as Merlin was ever going to get. Gaius had remained in Camelot for Merlin, even when Alice was fleeing the city. He’d risked his life for Merlin and he’d protected him throughout Merlin’s time in Camelot, and Merlin loved him for that.
He couldn’t stay for Gaius, though. Gaius was a part of the legend, even if he wasn’t mentioned within it. He’d looked after Arthur when the prince was sick and he’d been there throughout every moment of Arthur’s childhood, making sure that Arthur was well enough and strong enough to survive. He wasn’t the centre of the story, but he was there at its edges, and Merlin had to leave him behind.
Merlin slid quietly out of the door, standing in the passageway for a long moment with his eyes fixed on the stone floor beneath his feet. He didn’t want to look back at the main table, because he didn’t want to know if Arthur had noticed him leave. He couldn’t be the one that Arthur looked for when he entered the room. He couldn’t be the one that Arthur loved. But even so, he didn’t want to see Arthur with his knights around him, smiling at his father with that crooked smile he had, the firelight gleaming through his hair and washing gold across his face. He didn’t want his last memory of Arthur to be one of Arthur without him. He knew what Arthur would be like without him, because he’d read it a hundred times over. He would be a king without Merlin, and he would be magnificent.
He walked back to Gaius’ chambers, then, the knowledge of what he needed to do weighing heavy in his chest. He didn’t know how he’d do it - whether he’d try to find his own way back to Ealdor, or whether he’d go to the Ealdor in this time. He’d heard about it; it was a tiny village somewhere on the edge of Cendred’s old kingdom, and if he found it he could stay there until - Merlin cut off that thought before he could finish it, because he didn’t know how long he’d have to stay there if he couldn’t find a way back to his Ealdor. He didn’t want to live out his life as a farmer, unable to see his mother, Will, Arthur, or any of the knights ever again.
He’d find a way back to his time, he told himself. Gaius didn’t own all of the spellbooks in the world; there would be one in some other kingdom that he could find and use to get back. That’s what he’d do, he realised, climbing the steps to his room and pushing the door open. He’d find the right spell, even if it took him all the years of his life to do so, and even if it meant that he was old and grey by the time he pushed his way back through into his own world.
Merlin pulled his backpack out from underneath his bed, stuffing his clothes and his laptop and his ipod inside. He was rushing, now, trying to outrace his own thoughts, because if he stopped to think about his decision then he’d never find it within himself to leave. But it was harder than he’d thought it would be to remember which of his belongings was his, and which he hadn’t had before he’d come to Camelot. The neckerchief that Gwen had given him months ago was mixed up with the ones he’d brought from Ealdor and he could barely tell which was which. His trainers looked strange when he pulled them up from beneath the floorboards, because he’d been wearing the faded brown boots that Gaius had given him for so long that he couldn’t remember what it felt like to wear anything else.
He was finished packing before the feast was over. Tugging the zipper on his backpack closed, he stared once more around the room, remembering how it had felt to sleep in it that very first night. He’d changed since then. He’d grown up, he’d fallen in love, he’d seen men fight and fall, he’d learnt what it truly was to have magic and what it meant to use it for something important - to save people’s lives and to hold Camelot together.
It hurt to think that this was the end. That this - this world, that he’d been dreaming of since he was tiny and that he’d felt so at home within - wasn’t his to have. But he’d known that all along.
He pulled the bag onto his back, yanking on the straps to tighten them and then walked out of the door of the room, letting it bang shut behind him as he made his way through Gaius’ chambers.
“Aren’t you going to say goodbye?”
Merlin jumped, whipping his head around to see Gaius in the corner of the room, standing near his workbench with his eyebrow raised.
“Gaius,” Merlin started, feeling the beginnings of guilt stirring through his stomach. “How did you know?”
“I’ve been around long enough to tell when you’re planning something, Merlin,” he said. Merlin gave him a small smile, feeling something cracking in the hard layer he’d pushed over the top of his feelings to keep them from bursting out and stopping him.
“I have to go, Gaius,” he said, the words sounding almost like a plea as they crossed his lips. “I -“ He stopped, pulling the bag off his back and reaching into it for the book. Gaius deserved an explanation. It was the least that Merlin could give him.
“I know what’s going to happen,” he said, holding the book up for Gaius to see. “It’s all written here, Gaius - Arthur’s life, and all about the knights, and Gwen, and Morgana, and I’m changing all that by being here.” He was changing that by being close to Arthur.
“Everyone is so certain that I belong here, Gaius,” he finished. “But I can’t. It isn’t my destiny.”
Gaius looked from Merlin’s face down to the book in his hands and back again, his face thoughtful.
“Not everything that is written comes to pass, Merlin,” he said quietly. “Not everything that has been written is true.”
Merlin stared at him, his fingers tightening on the book’s cover. “This is true,” he said, holding it up. “I know it is, Gaius. All of the characters are here. It’s all the same.” He reached down and picked up his backpack from where it lay, pushing the book back into it to avoid looking at Gaius, because he hadn’t wanted to do this. He needed to leave, but he didn’t want to say goodbye. It seemed too final if he did that.
“I think that you’re wrong, Merlin,” Gaius said, but Merlin recognised his tone, because he’d heard it before, on every occasion when Merlin had tried to use his magic to fix something. He knew what it meant - that Gaius wouldn’t stop him from leaving. The old man understood Merlin’s belief in the book, even if he didn’t share it. Gaius never stopped him, even when he thought whatever plan Merlin had concocted was dangerous, or foolhardy. He wasn’t the type of person who prevented things from happening, he just tried to fix them after they had. He would fix this, if Merlin decided to leave. He’d pick up all of the pieces that Merlin left, when he tore himself out of the life he’d created for himself in Camelot, because that had always been what the old man was good at.
Merlin looked up at him then, his throat burning with emotion. Gaius looked so old, standing there in his familiar old robes, his skin riddled with lines, his face almost blank as he looked back at Merlin. It was, Merlin realised, the look of a man who knew that he’d outlived everyone he’d ever loved, because he knew best of all that where Merlin was planning to go, he couldn’t ever follow.
There was silence for a moment while they looked at each other, and Merlin wondered whether he couldn’t just stay like this, forever on the edge of leaving but never quite gone, because it was easier than seeing Gaius’ face fall as Merlin turned away.
But this time, Gaius was the first one to break the silence.
“Good luck, my boy,” he said, stepping towards Merlin and wrapping an arm around him. Merlin hugged him back, a press of warmth that didn’t quite last for long enough, and then he swung his arm through the strap of his backpack and turned away.
The castle was quiet as he left it, looming silent and cold behind him as he wandered down towards the gate. He didn’t recognise the guards slumbering beneath it, but their uniforms were bright in the twilight.
The stables were dark as he walked past them. He listened to the soft snuffling sounds of the animals within and wondered whether he should take his horse. But he didn’t - it wasn’t really his horse, it was Arthur’s, and Merlin wanted to leave Camelot the way he’d arrived, with his feet thudding hard against the stone and the straps of his backpack digging hard into his shoulders.
He walked with his eyes fixed firmly on the ground beneath his feet and his chest aching with each step. It was only when he’d passed through the final gate and he felt grass soft beneath his feet that he paused and turned to look back.
He could still see the town despite the growing darkness, spread out behind him, the castle tiny and grey within its walls. It looked so small, so insignificant, and Merlin felt as though he could see all of time in the wide lands around it. Camelot was afloat in the centuries, half-buried, so that only the tiniest of pieces remained. There would be no round table in a thousand years’ time, no memory of Gaius or of the townsfolk who Merlin saw, each and every day. Arthur would remain, yes, but that was because Arthur was extraordinary, and the life he led was destined to be greater than he knew.
But there were no great destinies for the people he ruled over, or for the knights he fought beside and those who followed him and died for him without once stopping to question whether it was fair. People like Gwen’s father and people like the sorcerers Uther had killed - those people were gone, their names forgotten, their lives cut short before they could be anything more than they were. Merlin wanted - he wanted so much to find them, to cast out through the years with his magic, again and again, until he knew every single person who had fallen beneath Uther’s rule, until his body was emptied of magic and his mind was filled with faces.
Merlin didn’t know how long he stood there, his eyes fixed on the town, watching as it sank slowly into the darkness, until he couldn’t see anything but the trees around him and the grass beneath his feet and the wide black arc of the sky.
He didn’t move far that night, setting down his bag a little way back from the road not long after nightfall and using his magic to light a campfire. He sat down close beside it, feeling the heat of it on his face as he dug through his bag for food. He hadn’t spent the night outside of Camelot by himself for a long time. It had always been him and Arthur, or him and Gwaine, and Merlin found that the forest seemed a lot lonelier when he didn’t have anyone sitting close beside him.
Merlin picked up a stick and poked it into the fire, watching the end slowly blacken with heat. He wasn’t going to think about Arthur. He wasn’t going to think about any of it, because it would just tear at that little part of his chest that had been full up with love until that afternoon, until that moment when Merlin had realised that he couldn’t stay.
He looked down as he felt a pain in his hand, and he realised that he’d been clenching his fingers tight around the rough length of the stick. He loosened his hand and threw it into the fire, watching it burn in the smoky yellow flames. It was gone far too quickly, until all Merlin could see of it was a few crumbling black pieces, glowing red at the edges, and even those were soon lost to the flames.
“Sorry,” he said quietly, but he didn’t really know who he was apologising to.
Merlin woke before dawn to the familiar thud-thud of wings above the canopy. He rolled onto his back beneath his thin blanket, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and staring up through the trees. Of course the dragon would try and stop this, he thought. The dragon thought that Merlin’s destiny was the only thing that mattered. It thought that Merlin’s place was here, even though Merlin knew that it wasn’t. Merlin knew that the world of Camelot with him in it was not the right world, and if that was his destiny then he’d just have to leave it behind.
He watched as the dragon found a gap between the trees and swooped low into the clearing, landing beside the low remains of the fire and peering down at him with a solemn expression on its scaly face.
“Warlock,” it said, its voice echoing loudly above Merlin. “There is nothing to be gained from trying to run from your destiny.”
Merlin pulled his legs free of his blanket and got to his feet. “It’s Arthur’s destiny, not mine,” he said loudly, staring up at it. The dragon blinked down at him.
“You cannot pull one from the other, young warlock,” it said. “You yourself have seen to that.”
“What do you mean?” Merlin asked, frowning. “I haven’t done anything.”
“It is not what you have done, Merlin, but how you feel.” The dragon lowered its neck and dropped down into a crouch, inviting Merlin to climb onto its back. “Come, and you will see.”
Merlin hesitated for a moment, staring from the remains of the campfire to the dragon and back again. He shouldn’t listen to it; he should turn and walk away along the road and forget that the dragon had talked to him at all, but he was curious and it couldn’t hurt to have one last fly, surely. Arthur didn’t even know the dragon was still alive, so it couldn’t interfere too much with his life.
He picked up his bag and his blanket from the grass and walked towards the dragon, putting his foot against its leg and stepping up onto its back as carefully as he could. It always felt strange doing this, because the dragon wasn’t some horse, or donkey, but a talking, intelligent being.
They took off rapidly, so that Merlin was left clinging desperately to the dragon’s scaly hide so that he didn’t slide off. They didn’t go as far as he’d expected, though, simply pushing hard up into the air and circling around so that Merlin could see Camelot spread out below him to his right.
Merlin gasped. The castle had smoke billowing from one side - thick, dark columns that curled through the air and obscured the view. There was some sort of a fight going on inside the walls of the town, and Merlin could see flashes of red - knights, he thought - striking out at a far larger force of darker clothed figures.
“What’s happening?” he cried to the dragon, his voice faint over the roar of the wind.
A sorcerer, the dragon replied, only this time its voice was loud in Merlin’s mind. From the kingdom of Mercia. He attacked Camelot in the night with his men.
Merlin gaped down at the town as they circled once more over it, panic surging inside his chest. There were dark figures everywhere, hundreds of them spread over the lower town, and the red figures were getting fewer and fewer as they fell beneath the onslaught.
But Arthur’s knights are the best in the land, he thought.
Those forces are of magic, the dragon said. They live while the sorcerer does.
Merlin shook his head. Camelot will survive this, he thought fiercely. He couldn’t interfere anymore, he’d made his decision. Arthur would survive without him there, he knew. It was written that way.
The dragon was circling lower now, its claws grazing the thin upper branches of the trees as it sought out the clearing. Perhaps, it said. Perhaps not. All things can change, young warlock. It touched down heavily on the grass and Merlin slid off its back, feeling his knees wobble slightly at the feel of firm ground beneath his feet. He looked behind him when he’d regained his balance, but the dragon was already taking off again, its wings beating hard as it rose above the trees.
“Wait!” Merlin called, but it didn’t stop.
Merlin stood still until the thud of wing beats had faded into the distance, then he walked slowly back over to the remains of the campfire, the image of Camelot burning still fierce within his mind. They would win this, Merlin thought. Arthur’s story was still following the lines of the legend, Merlin was sure it was, and that meant that they couldn’t lose today.
But it was magic that they were fighting against, and Merlin didn’t know how they’d stand a chance without magic of their own. Gaius could try to help, Merlin supposed, but the old man didn’t have the power needed to destroy another sorcerer. He kicked a foot against the ground, frustrated. It would be so much easier to turn away if he knew how they were going to defeat the enemy.
He tugged his bag more firmly onto his shoulders and walked out through the trees towards the road, his thoughts tumbling fast and uncertain through his mind. He couldn’t stay, he told himself firmly. There were going to be many more battles like this that Arthur and his knights would have to win on their own. But Merlin didn’t know how to turn away when his friends and his home were in danger, because that was what Camelot was to him now, even if he was choosing to leave it behind. He’d lived here long enough to come to love its sand-coloured walls and its quiet stone passageways and the way it seemed both centuries old and brand new, all at once. He loved the things he’d done inside it. He loved the people that he’d met there. He couldn’t stay, but he couldn’t leave, either.
He’d only just stepped onto the path, still unsure of which way he would turn, when there was a fierce roar from off to his right. Merlin froze, his heart beating painfully hard within his chest, because he knew that roar. It was Arthur’s. It was the sound he made when he was angry and determined and fighting as hard as he could to survive.
“Arthur!” he shouted and he was running before the word had left his lips, his arms pumping hard, his neckerchief skewed to one side, his feet pressing hard into the dirt, with some tiny part of his mind praying that he wouldn’t fall, not this time, because he’d never been this far away when Arthur needed him.
He heard the familiar hum of magic as he dodged through the trees, branches whipping at his face. It was a low sound, building slowly as Merlin ran, like a countdown that he had to beat. A memory drifted through the edge of his mind, of how he’d run like this in PE at school, of how he’d never beat the timer.
He ducked beneath a low-slung branch and stopped short as the forest gave way to a clearing, gaping wide and sunlit around him. There was Arthur, his sword held strong and sure in his hand, his golden face fierce as he advanced towards the far end of it. He was moving fast, almost charging, though Merlin couldn’t see what he was moving towards.
The hum was loud now, almost deafening, and Merlin stepped forward, his hand outstretched, calling his magic to him even as he searched for the sorcerer in the shadows beneath the trees. But he couldn’t see the man; Arthur was almost at the edge of the clearing, showing no signs of stopping. Merlin stepped forward once more and suddenly he could see, as clearly as if he’d walked out of a mist. He could see the sorcerer, dark-haired and tall, standing opposite Arthur. Merlin let his magic flow out towards the man, but it was too late. He could feel the man’s power surging through his chest as the sorcerer channelled it out from his body and across the clearing, a stream of red light that hit Arthur full on and he crumpled, even as the light faded and the sorcerer fell beneath Merlin’s magic.
“Arthur!” Merlin shouted, running to where the prince lay and falling to his knees beside him. He cupped a hand to the side of his face, but Arthur didn’t respond, and there was no pulse beneath the pale golden skin of his throat. Merlin shook him, his fingers hooked in the links of Arthur’s chainmail, pushing his magic into Arthur’s body with the same soft words he’d heard the crystal cave man speak.
“Arthur,” he whispered, once the spell was finished and all the gold had seeped beneath Arthur’s skin. But the man didn’t move, he didn’t wake up, and that scared Merlin more than anything, because that spell was all he had to give Arthur and it seemed almost as though - as though Arthur was dead. He couldn’t be, though, because that wasn’t the way things were supposed to go. Arthur Pendragon died a king, not a prince. Arthur Pendragon did not die in the arms of a boy named Merlin Emrys. It wasn’t written that way. It was wrong.
All things can change, the dragon had said. But it hadn’t been talking about this.
Merlin pushed at his magic again, desperate now, his eyes closed so that he couldn’t see Arthur’s face blank and pale before him.
“Come on, Arthur,” he whispered, the words sinking deep into his mind like a litany, come on Arthur, come Arthur, come on. He could feel his eyes burning, as though he’d walled the sea in behind them and it was trying to seep free. His throat was aching with a grief he wasn’t going to let himself feel, not while there was still a chance that Arthur would get up, but even so, the middle of his chest felt like it was slowly pounding its way out of his body, tearing through his skin and ripping apart.
He was forcing his magic now, he could feel it tugging at his veins like it didn’t want to leave his body, and he could sense it bleeding out into the air around him and into the dirt pressed hard beneath his knees, because he’d given all that he could to Arthur and the man’s body wouldn’t take any more.
“You’re not dead,” he said, tugging Arthur closer to him, but his voice sounded hollow and weak in the silence of the clearing.
He looked around the clearing and there was the sorcerer, lying face down on the ground, and Merlin could feel it, suddenly, a fierce rage pumping through his veins. He had never wanted anyone dead more than he did in that moment, even as he saw the life leaking thick and red out of the man. He wanted to channel his magic through the sorcerer’s body, to bring him back to life just so that the man could feel all that Merlin was feeling, and then watch him die again while he was wrapped in Merlin’s grief, while he could feel Merlin’s sorrow in every fibre of his being.
But Merlin had no control over his magic, not now, not when he had Arthur’s body in his arms and the prince’s face turned up towards his own. He hadn’t seen this. He hadn’t known that it was possible for this to happen and he was shaking with it; he couldn’t understand. His thoughts were screaming at him, he could feel tears burning tracks down his face, dripping onto Arthur’s armour and onto Merlin’s sleeves and fuck, he couldn’t. There was no way that his body could hold that much pain. It was like someone had driven a knife into his chest, only he couldn’t yank it out because it was buried too deep inside him. He couldn’t find its edges.
He stared down into Arthur’s face. The prince looked almost the same as he did all those mornings when Merlin walked into his room before the man was up, and didn’t prod him awake, instead simply wandering around the room and adjusting things until Arthur shifted upwards through his dreams and surfaced slowly from them. But Arthur wasn’t asleep, this time.
He shifted slightly, holding the prince closer to him, and felt a tiny surge of surprise when he felt his knees press harder against the ground. The earth was still there. It was still there and the trees were still arching overhead and through them he could see the sky, wide and dark with smoke and there was too much world for him, now. There was so much of it, and so much of time. He could feel each second passing, and Arthur would be forgotten, because there was no room in history for a golden-haired boy who slipped out of the world before he could press himself into its memory.
He screamed, then, and there was power in that scream, he could feel his magic punching out of his body, burning his throat, like it wanted to set the trees alight. There was nothing anymore - not the hard press of the ground beneath his knees, nor the feel of the cold night air drying the salty tracks of his tears, nor the quiet sound of the forest - quiet because there was no one but Merlin alive within it. Those things all vanished. Merlin couldn’t feel the world anymore. There was no world anymore. There was nothing but Merlin and his magic and Arthur’s body heavy in his hands, the prince’s chainmail making tiny dents against Merlin’s forearms, his blonde hair still matted with mud and his face still damp with sweat.
Merlin was still screaming, or perhaps he’d already stopped. It was impossible to tell, because his magic was roaring louder than Merlin had ever heard it, and Merlin wondered for a brief second whether he could lose himself in it, whether it could consume him completely until there was no Merlin, and there was no Arthur, and there was nothing but the light and the heat and the power of it flowing outwards from this spot. This magic was fiery - it could burn forests, and flatten castles, and dry up oceans, because there was a raw edge to it that Merlin had never felt before. He let it free, then, until there was a sea of gold before him, and Merlin could feel it all - he could feel it stretching all the way to the edge of the world, and further - beyond that, into the darkness, which was not darkness at all but light, because the magic was bursting through it, lighting up the skies and the planets and the stars.
He could feel it twisting through his chest, rooted there, pulling at his grief and his longing to reverse all this, to go home so that he could be with his mother and Will and know that Arthur would still be alive. Alive, and laughing at Merlin, his elbow bumping against Merlin’s side as they walked along, and it didn’t matter if Arthur married Gwen, Merlin didn’t care, he just needed Arthur to be alive again.
And then there was a noise like the end of the world, a huge, ground-shaking roar, and the clearing was suddenly filled with yellow light. Merlin looked up and saw the world in front of him - not this world, with its forests and dirt and castles, but the grey concrete world of Ealdor.
But he was still in the clearing, his knees were still pressed into the dirt. It was as though he’d ripped something open between this place and Ealdor. He could see the roads and the grey sidewalk and the low, flat lines of the buildings, as different from Camelot as it was possible to be. Camelot was all sand-coloured arches and light and strong walls, all tree-lined roads and buttresses wide open to the sky, not huddling beneath it as these buildings were, like they wanted to crawl back into the earth they were built upon.
And Merlin knew that these were the buildings that he had grown up within, but he couldn’t bring himself to see them as part of his home. It was like staring at himself in a mirror at the end of a hallway, and knowing who it was that he was looking at, but at the same time unsure of how anyone so distant and dark and strange could possibly be himself.
He could see the edge of a street, hear the odd, unfamiliar rumble of traffic as it passed by out of view, and then, just as the golden light was beginning to fade and the grey buildings were drifting out of focus, a man stumbled through the gap and slid to his knees before Merlin.
“Move,” he said, dragging Arthur’s body out of Merlin’s arms and laying it flat on the ground. “Merlin, look at me. You need to get rid of this.” He pointed at Arthur’s armour, and Merlin pulled up the last of his magic and laid his hand on Arthur’s chest, sending the metal crumbling away in the seconds before he slipped into unconsciousness.
“Merlin, wake up.”
Merlin opened his eyes slowly, his insides feeling like they had been sucked through a vacuum cleaner. He raised a hand to his head, trying to sooth the dull ache there, and then sat bolt upright as he remembered what had happened.
“Arthur,” he cried, staring around the clearing, but a hand pushed hard against his shoulder, keeping him from standing. Merlin tried to prise it off, looking over at its owner, and -
“Will?”
“That’d be me, yes.” Will eyed him warily, as though he was afraid Merlin would faint, or punch him across the face, or both.
“What are you -“ Merlin broke off, remembering Arthur. “Where’s Arthur?”
“The bloke with the chainmail?” Will nodded off to Merlin’s right, and Merlin looked over to see Arthur lying with his eyes closed, his shirt torn open and mud streaked across his face. He jumped to his feet, tearing away from Will’s hand from his shoulder and dropping down beside the prince. Arthur was breathing steadily and Merlin could feel his heart beating firmly within his chest when he placed a hand over it. Arthur was alive. He was alive, he was breathing. Merlin wrapped his arms around the prince and tugged him half into his lap, his fingers running over Arthur’s face and stroking through his hair, because Merlin had thought that he was dead - he had been dead - and Merlin wasn’t ever going to let go of him again.
“He’s fine,” Will said, staring from Merlin to Arthur and back again with curiosity written clear across his face. “You must have pumped a tonne of magic into him though, mate, his skin only stopped glowing five minutes ago.”
Merlin looked over at Will and grinned, the relief floating through his chest making him feel almost giddy.
“How the hell did you get here, Will?”
Will frowned, his eyes still fixed on Arthur’s face. “Haven’t the faintest. All I know is that one minute I’m walking down South Street in Ealdor, wondering whether I’ve got time to stop in at The Green Dragon before my lunchbreak ends, and the next I see you sitting here in this forest with him in your arms.” He looked around the forest, as though he was only just realising that he was still in it. “And you better be able to get me back, Merlin, because I’m going to get fired if I miss one more shift.”
Merlin blinked at him, trying to understand. “You mean it was because of my magic?” He frowned. He’d pushed out with his magic and somehow he’d managed to find the spell that Gaius had been searching for since he’d first arrived in Camelot. Only he hadn’t used it to get back, but rather to pull Will through. He’d found the one person he knew who could help Arthur - even though that person was a thousand years away - and he’d dragged him into the world of Camelot.
Will nodded. “I wouldn’t go trying to heal people before casting that spell, though. You were almost worse off than him when I got to you,” he said, waving a hand at Arthur. “Who is he, anyway?”
Merlin looked down at the prince with a smile, his fingers still tangled in Arthur’s golden hair. “He’s Arthur Pendragon,” he said quietly. “The once and future king.”
Will stared at Merlin for a full three seconds, his eyes wide.
“You mean he’s-“
“Yes, Will.”
“He’s the bloke you -“
“Yes, Will.”
“Are you two -“
“Yes, Will.” Merlin blinked. “Wait, what?” But Will was already grinning wickedly.
“Nice one, Merlin.”
Arthur gave a groan and shifted slightly in Merlin’s lap, and Merlin glanced down at him in alarm. The prince’s eyes were still closed, but Merlin could tell that he was coming to.
“He’s waking up,” Will said cheerfully, and Merlin looked over at him.
“Will, go wait behind a tree,” he said. Will’s face fell. “Please? I can’t explain how you’re here yet. He doesn’t know -“ Merlin broke off. Arthur didn’t know anything - not about where Merlin was from, nor about his magic, nor about his life before Camelot. Will stared at him for a long moment and then nodded, getting to his feet and walking over towards the edge of the clearing.
“But Merlin?” he called. Merlin looked up at him, standing across the clearing in his jeans and tshirt, his hands muddy and his expression understanding. “You should tell him.”
Arthur woke slowly, his eyelids fluttering and his fingers scrabbling at the dirt. Merlin was used to Arthur waking from unconsciousness, but this time was different, because he’d never been so close to death before. He caught Arthur’s hands tight within his own and held them, making sure that the prince knew that he wasn’t in battle anymore, that he didn’t have to reach for his sword or roll to avoid a blow as soon as he opened his eyes.
“Merlin?” Arthur said, pulling a hand free of Merlin’s grasp and raising it to the side of his head. “What happened? Why are you here?” Merlin frowned. He’d forgotten that he’d been meaning to leave, that Gaius would have told Arthur that Merlin was gone.
“I was in the forest,” he said, deciding that the truth was the best thing that he could give Arthur right now. “I heard you yelling and I came to help.”
“Merlin, you couldn’t help a knight find his way out of his armour, let alone - who on earth are you?” Arthur stared over Merlin’s shoulder and Merlin winced, turning to look. Will was standing behind them, peering down at Arthur with a curious expression on his face.
“I told you to stay out of sight,” Merlin whispered fiercely, then turned quickly back to Arthur. “He’s nobody, sire.” Will made an indignant noise. “All right, he’s Will. A friend.”
Arthur stared at him for a long moment, face unreadable. “From Ealdor?” he asked at last. Merlin nodded. “Merlin, what in the name of the gods is he wearing?”
“Oi, watch it, mate,” Will said. “We can’t all afford poncy crowns like yours.” Arthur blinked at him, trying to work out whether he’d been insulted. Merlin got to his feet, grabbed Will’s arm and pulled him over to the edge of the clearing, away from Arthur.
“Will, listen to me,” he said, releasing his grip on Will’s arm. “You have to be careful what you say. Arthur doesn’t know about his future, or about my magic, and he doesn’t know where you’re - where we’re from. And Uther Pendragon is still around, so please keep your mouth shut when we get back to Camelot,” he finished. Will stopped rubbing his arm and frowned at him.
“Isn’t Uther the one we always used to get the Mason’s bulldog to play when we were acting out your book?”
Merlin nodded and was gratified to see the man looking a little unnerved. Merlin glanced back over his shoulder to see that Arthur was sitting up, staring over at them with an annoyed expression on his face.
“Come on,” he said to Will, and they walked back towards the prince together.
“I still don’t understand, Merlin,” Arthur said sharply as they walked beneath the gates of the castle, Arthur walking half-supported by Merlin and Will, even though he’d insisted that he was fine.
Merlin sighed. “Will wanted me to go back to Ealdor,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead as he spoke. “I told Gaius I would be gone for a few days and I went to meet him, and then this morning I heard you yelling and we found you in the forest with the sorcerer.” He heard Will give a snort from Arthur’s other side.
“Gaius said that you weren’t coming back,” Arthur said, his voice quiet. Merlin looked at him then, in time to see the edge of an expression drift off the man’s face, one that Merlin didn’t recognise. He was about to ask what was wrong, but at that moment they walked out into the courtyard and Merlin forgot everything else but the sight of the castle, standing battered and dark above them.
They looked up at it, mouths open. There were chunks of stonework missing from around the top of the battlements, and most of the east wall looked as though a mountain of soot had been upended over it. The courtyard ahead of them was similarly dark. Merlin could see the knights, sweaty and red-caped, and he spotted Gwaine and Leon and Percival and Lancelot, and he felt a deep, pulsing wave of relief sweep through his chest to see that they were alright.
He saw Uther, too, standing beside one of the fallen stones and talking to a group of knights, his face grim, and Merlin realised that it was one of those days when Uther was in control of himself and of the people around him. The king broke off when he saw Arthur and Merlin had seen enough of relief to be able to recognise it, fleeting though it was, as it passed across the man's face.
Arthur seemed to tense up beside Merlin when he saw his father. He shot Merlin an odd, almost panicked look, but Merlin didn't question him about it, because Uther had already dismissed the knights and was striding towards them.
“What happened, Arthur?” he said as soon as he reached them, his hands clenching into tights fists within his leather gloves as he saw that Arthur was leaning heavily on Merlin.
Arthur related the story, as he knew it, to his father, his voice low and rough with the strain of it. Will had only been able to get Arthur alive again, and Merlin's magic seemed only to have reversed whatever it was that the sorcerer did. It hadn't eliminated the exhaustion that Arthur felt from battling half the night and then chasing a man through the forest.
He answered Uther's questions with a quiet determination, however, and Merlin was torn between loving Arthur for being so unfailingly strong and hating Uther for making him feel as though he had to be that way.
“Very well,” Uther said after Arthur had finished recounting the events of the forest. “Well done, Arthur. Make sure that he sees Gaius,” he added to Merlin. Merlin bowed his head in agreement.
There was a noise from the far side of the courtyard as another stone from high up on the castle wall fell down into the square and Uther's attention was drawn away from them once more.
“He's lovely,” Will commented as Uther walked away. “Really wonderful. What a top fellow.” Merlin glared at him, but Arthur was still looking towards his father and he didn't seem to have heard.
“Alright,” Will said. “I'll shut up. Are we going to leave soon?” Arthur looked up at that, his eyes fixed on Merlin's face as he listened for Merlin's answer.
“We need to find Gaius,” Merlin said, and helped Arthur over to the stairs.
They ran into Gaius on the first floor of the castle, where he was binding the leg of an old peasant lady Merlin recognised from the markets. She'd sold him a length of fabric once, when Arthur had wanted the knees of his favourite training breeches resewn.
“Gaius,” Merlin said, and Gaius looked around.
“I thought you had left,” he said with surprise, and then he raised an eyebrow as he took in Will, who was standing beside Merlin and staring down at Gaius' medicines with interest. He was still dressed in jeans, though he wasn't attracting as much attention as Merlin had when he'd first arrived because all of the people they passed were preoccupied with clearing up the mess that the enchanted army had left behind.
“I came back,” Merlin said. “Arthur's been injured.”
Gaius looked at the prince and nodded. “Take him up to his chambers,” he said. “I will come up immediately.”
“No,” Arthur said firmly. “Finish with the people here first, they’re worse off than I am.”
“Arthur-“ Merlin started, but Arthur simply shook his head, and Merlin knew that he wouldn’t be dissuaded.
Merlin turned to Will. “Stay with Gaius,” he said. “You can explain what's happened to him, he knows about where we’re - I mean, he knows about everything. But don't interfere.” He looked pointedly down at the medicines, and Will sighed.
“Where's the fun in that?” he said, but Merlin knew that he'd do as Merlin asked.
Part 7