Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He sat on the beach, a meager picnic spread out around him. The ground was cold and fairly damp through the thin blanket he sat on. Every ten years, without fail, Merlin visited the Lake of Avalon, waiting for and grieving his king. It used to be every day, then it was every week, then every year, and now it’s every ten. He had slowly lost hope. Had he been lied to? Almost fifteen thousand years and not even a murmur from the lake. Not even a ripple. Through all the wonderful and terrible things Merlin has seen happen in the world, Arthur stayed dead. Merlin remained alone. 

When Camelot fell, he was sure his king would return. He stood vigil at the lake, a warm blanket held tightly in his arms (for his king would surely be cold and wet when he arose) for days turned weeks. The flame of hope that bloomed in his chest after years of waiting died slowly. On day 17, Camelot was well and truly fallen. It had never been the same after Arthur, though Gwen did a terrific job as queen. The kingdom flourished under her. After she died, no ruler had her passion or wisdom until… well until there was no more Camelot. 

After it fell, He couldn’t even bear to be around Albion anymore. He left. Traveled. Learned of the world. Other cultures. Other magic. He learned and he grew, but he was all alone. He used to make friends. He used to talk to people and get to know them and be a part of their lives. But he grew tired. He grew tired of loving people and having them ripped cruelly away. He made rules. Rules for how he could interact with the people and the world around him. He could start conversations, but nothing deep. He could listen to the problems and concerns of others but he couldn’t reciprocate. He could help and console those in need but could never let them see him cry.

But there were exceptions. During the first world war was one of the most notable. He had become a medic for the British army (to put his magic to use, helping as many people as he can even if he was rubbish at healing magic. Talk about on the job training) and met a man in the platoon he was serving with. His name was Liam. He reminded him so much of Gwaine that it nearly brought him to tears. They had fun. They joked and hung out between battles. Merlin nagged him about his hayfever and patching his blisters. Liam joked and flirted inappropriately, making Merlin laugh and roll his eyes. Then he got shot. 

They were stationed somewhere in France, he can’t remember where, exactly, anymore. Everything was going as usual for Merlin. He was sprinting around the battlefield, searching and listening for the frantic shout of “Medic! Goddamit, somebody get me a fucking medic!” He patched holes until he thought his hands would be red forever, tied tourniquets so tight he made himself wince, and pocketed enough dog tags that he jingled. 

He was called to action again, ripping the ID tag off the latest man even his magic couldn’t save, and taking off. He skidded to a stop, kneeling at the side of a soldier, focus solely on the holes in his torso, one of them bubbling, probably hit a lung. He ripped some gauze from his bag, putting heavy pressure on the wounds. He looked up when the man let out a loud groan and a “Fucking Christ!”

A sense of deja vu overtook him when he saw Liam, remembering his other friends he had to watch die. This time was no different. He did everything he could. He tried both medicinal and magical treatments, but nothing worked. He was left sitting uselessly as the light in his eyes faded, drowning in his own blood. 

He never got used to that feeling, watching a friend die. It’s one thing he’s sickeningly grateful for.

But today, he’s only thinking of one lost friend. Arthur. It is the anniversary of his death, ten years since the last time he was here. Last time, he had forgotten to bring the blanket he was currently sitting on. Twenty years ago, he forgot to bring food (he was never doing that again). This year, all he forgot was chapstick (it was cold and windy by the lake). He remedied the issue by bringing enough to drink, he wouldn’t feel his legs, let alone his lips. 

But he’s not quite there yet. His vision swims only a little, and he’s pretty sure he’s not even slurring yet (even if he was, there’s no one around to tell him otherwise). He’s worked his way down about a third of the bottle (his tolerance had improved significantly in fifteen thousand years) when he continues talking.

To whom, you may be asking, but Merlin doesn’t know either. At first it was Arthur, then the lake, and now… Now I think he’s just talking to be heard. By someone. Anyone. God, it’s been so long since he’s been heard . He can’t be heard. No one knows what this is like. How hard it is to be forced to keep going. Keep doing the same thing over and over again. How hard it is to live . Something has to change. Something needs to change. He needs to change. 

But what can he do? He’s a servant not just of Arthur or Camelot, but of destiny. Of prophecy and “the time of Albion’s greatest need.” He cannot abandon his wait. He cannot abandon his king . What would he even do? He’s done everything there is to do and nothing worth doing because he has failed . He failed his destiny, he failed himself, he failed his friends. He failed Arthur . He should have done better. He should have been better. If he could go back and do it again, he would do it better. If he could do it again, he would not fail . He would make sure of it. 

Unfortunately, there is no spell for going back like that. He can make a plate unshatter, he can de-age a mouse, all with time altering spells, but going back that far? Actually going back and not just regressing everything is impossible, as far as he knows. But… but then again, he thought his immortality was impossible once. He thought it impossible to die and come back. He thought it impossible to keep living when it was way past his time. Hell, he even thought it was impossible to fail. But he’s goddamn Emrys. He can do whatever the hell he wants. He is magic and magic is the world. He must at least try.

So there he was, a little more than half drunk on a beach in December, thinking and trying ways to time travel. 

It was almost too simple to come up with a plan. The execution, however, would be tricky and this is not a spell he can practice. This spell requires the balance of magic, the elements as well as life and death. This spell requires a sacrifice to make one in turn. He must kill himself. He must stand, face turned to the wind, half submerged in the lake, toes digging into the earth, with the fire of his dragonlord heart burning, and kill himself to be born into the world anew. 

But he cannot be hasty. No, things like this require preparation. He can right the wrongs he has done, but it will be so much simpler if he has some supplies. 

So, for the first time in centuries, he abandons his vigil. 

Chapter Text

After leaving the beach, he sobers himself up (he may be a criminal, but he’s not a monster) and drives to the nearest drugstore. He’s trying to think back on the many adventures of his past and most of what he remembers is a lot of blood and magic. The magic part, he’s got down, but the blood and injury would be better treated with modern science rather than potions (sorry, Gaius). 

He wanders the harshly lit aisles, leisure pushing along the trolley. He pushes in bottles of ibuprofen and tylenol with barely a glace. He throws in a few bottles of cold medicine and some antacids (the old food is bound to play hell with his modernized digestive tract). He also throws in two of the largest bottles of hand sanitizer he can find (a gallon, if you were wondering) and almost the whole shelf of three in one shampoo. He sweeps in at least three bottles of pepto, laughing to himself over how he thinks the knights would react to the color. He grabs a shitload of neosporin (he swears Arthur was less likely to not get a cut infected than he was to marry Celine Dion) and a few other things and proceeds to the checkout.

Ignoring the bewildered look of the teenaged cashier, he perused the magazines and other impulse-buy products they hoard at the front. He laughed at another cheesy headline about Harry and Megan and his eyes strayed to the sweets. God, how he’d miss chocolate when he went back. Now those old people ate way healthier and all organic, but they still died young. And without the pleasures of a Hostess mini powdered doughnut. 

Aw, fuck it , he thought. Might as well have some fun with this. He tossed the bag of doughnuts on the counter. “These too.”

-

With his silent proclamation that he was going to have fun, he needed a list. A list of things he didn’t want to live without. But first, he needed a way to carry all this with him without arousing suspicion. (Can you imagine him rolling into Camelot with a U-Haul chock full of futuristic things. Because now I can't stop picturing it.) 

Surprisingly or not, the idea for his solution came from a TV show. In the show, one of the boys had a backpack that could hold anything he put in there and described it as a sort of pocket dimension. Now, Merlin didn’t know much about other dimensions, but he knew a lot about Avalon and the veil. Contrary to popular belief, the veil is quite empty. There's a passing soul here, a deranged ghost there, but mostly, its empty space. It’s less of a resting place than a buffer between the mortal realm and Avalon. So if he could somehow tether an opening to the veil, he could pretty much use it as his personal storage facility (and he’s got the permits to prove it. Trust him, he’s a god). 

He spends the next week searching all his books for anything. Even multiple spells he could cobble together. In the end, it turned out to be three spells, all from different cultures, all in different languages. That’s where things get difficult. One spell for the price of three? Fine, no thang but a chicken wang. But trying to cobble together three separate and distinct languages? Give him another week, and maybe . 

So a week later, he had a sturdy leather messenger bag, a spell, and hope. Mixing Cheyenne, Afrikaans, and modern Mandarin was less challenging than expected, but even so, his first three tests set his flat on fire (at least he wouldn’t have to deal with this landlord ever again). But you know what they say, fourth time’s the charm. The bag glowed faintly before dimming again. Tentatively, Merlin reached his hand inside and felt… a cool breeze tickle his fingers. 

It worked!! Merlin couldn’t resist the temptation to do a little happy dance around his flat before continuing to prepare the bag. Looking inside the bag, there was a faint glow about the inside. Not light enough to be noticed from the outside, but glaringly obvious if it were to be searched or even if someone just wanted to borrow a quill (oh that’s one more thing he’ll have to relearn. Or maybe he can stock up enough bic ballpoints. Best thing about leaving for the past soon, he can wrack up enough credit card debt to make the banks themselves cry). To remedy this problem, he places a simple concealing spell. It must be held with runes, but those are easily burned into the inside  of the bag. Every now and again, he’ll have to refresh them, but that shouldn’t be a problem. He (very smartly, in his opinion) placed the opening to the veil at the very bottom so he will still be able to place things in it normally so no one will wonder why he carries an empty bag with him everywhere.

He tests the features of his new bag a few times, putting stuff in and pulling it out again, before packing the things he already bought from the drug store. When he’s done packing his small truckload of medical supplies, he tests it one more time, reaching in and calling for a bottle of pepto. When his hand emerges, the aforementioned bottle in tow, he smiles bright and genuine for the first time in what feels like centuries. He’s one step closer to Arthur.

And he’s waited this long, what's a few more days for some light (read: extremely heavy ) shopping? 

-

After taking the afternoon to search his memories and come up with a list he’s dubbed “Merlin’s Guide to Awesome Arthurian Times,” he’s (not at all) shocked and (only semi-) appalled to find out it’s more than three quarters food. But can you blame him? He spent more than enough lifetimes eating almost exclusively porridge and stew. The first time he had a beefy seven layer burrito, he swears he saw the other side of Avalon. 

But before pleasure must come work. His library has to be his most prized possession. Everywhere he’s gone, he spends more time than is probably healthy in their library, reading and learning. In the beginning, he would find books on ancient history and magic. Now all the “ancient history” is something he’s been able to see himself, and magic is all but forgotten in the eyes of man. But there are some wonderful stories and accounts of events. He would copy all the books he found interesting or maybe useful in the future and take them with him. In his time on earth, he’d amassed an impressively sized personal library. He had novels from Austin to Riordan. Textbooks from all different times and all different studies. Books of sorcery from every culture available. 

The upkeep of such an old collection was taxing at best (extremely difficult and useless at worst). Every so often, he had to re-copy the books when the pages were crumbling. Some books he read so often, he had an extra copy already on the shelf. And moving them was not an easy task. When the time came to move on from a city, he had one backpack and a library to move. The horse drawn cart worked wonderfly for this but the dust made the copies rot faster. Then when the automobile was invented and he could no longer get away with his horse, the cabs were just too small and the large trucks cost a small fortune. His problems were solved with the pickup truck. He could stack at least ten books on top of eachother and lay a tarp over the whole thing. It was genius if he did say so himself. Either way, this magic bag thing solves that issue with much less work than loading all his books took. So he started packing carefully, making a pile of books looking worse for wear that he would like to copy again before he leaves. 

He pulls out his book binding stuff and gets to work. He’s found that magically copying the text onto different paper then binding the books by hand makes them last a lot longer than if he were to just poof a new one into existence. He finishes two of four before he falls asleep, hand covered in glue and stuck to a sheet of paper by morning. When he wakes, he gets right back to work. After he’s finished and the books are ready for transport, he packs them and the things he got from the drugstore what feels like so long ago. He waffles a bit then throws in his heavy blanket from off his bed. He remembers how thin his blanket was in Giaus’s chambers.

With that done, he grabs his keys and starts out for the grocery store. It’s pretty empty at 2 pm on a random Tuesday so he doesn’t have to deal with very many strange looks as he peruses the aisles and snaps up a shitload of seemingly random products. The most notable and space consuming would be the energy drinks. He could count the times he’s gotten a full night's rest in Camelot on one hand. He was going to need caffeine. The rest of the list was similarly necessary. He found three packs of the large sriracha, canned whipped cream, large bags of the mini doughnuts, two-packs of tabasco, a two kilo tub of animal crackers, barbecue sauce, and so on and so forth until he, too, thinks he might be losing his mind.

As he’s heading for the world's longest checkout, he hears a bubbly voice behind him. “Collin!” she calls. 

He turns and finds Charlie, a girl he worked at the hospital in town with. She works in the IT department and he was finishing his residency (again. After his brief stint as a combat medic, he wanted to keep helping people and growing his understanding of the body, but the war was over, so he became a run of the mill doctor. He “retired” and redid med school about every forty five or fifty years. The human body doesn’t change but the treatments would improve drastically in just that short time. And everything after his first time was a piece of cake). She’s a computer genius but something happened in her home state of Kansas, U.S.A so she moved to “jolly ol’ England” as she’d say in her still remarkably terrible accent. She and everyone else in the hospital call him “Collin.” With the changing of the times, so too came the changing of the names. “Merlin” was no longer a normal name and he found too many people to his liking questioning the sanity of his mother.

“Hello, Charlie,” he said with a warm smile.

She smiled back and then her eyes landed on the cart and blew wide. “Woah,” she chirps. “Are you having a party or something?”

His smile widens as he assesses the small red-head, looking incredulous and amused. “Or something,” he responds.

“Oh,” she says, lightly hitting him on the arm, “me and Gilda are having a few people over to our flat for a Star Trek marathon. You should totally come!”

He chuckles a bit at her emphasis of “flat” and wishes a bit he could say yes. Charlie and her girlfriend have been good friends to him even when being kept at arm's length and he would miss them terribly. “I wish I could, really. But I have … plans.”

She laughs, looking down at his overflowing cart again. “I can see that,” she says, bright laughter only barely tinged with disappointment. “Next time,” she says (read: demands).

He smiles at her a little sadly. “Yeah, next time,” he promises. 

She looks at him a little confusedly then gives him a hug goodbye (and if he holds on a little tighter than he usually does, she doesn't comment) and flounces off deeper into the store. 

-

He has so many goddamn bags it’s not even funny. He doesn’t think he can get them all up to his flat. Maybe he’ll just bring the bag down here. Packing the bag on the street runs the risk of people seeing but with attention spans nowadays they would only actually see a boy putting some stuff in a bag. He doubts anyone would pay enough attention to go “Well by George! That seems like way too many items for that little satchel!!” And what would they do anyways? The average human doesn't think magic is real and the general populace has gotten very good at fooling themselves. That's how he made money a few decades ago. He would do some low level magic, call it a ‘trick’ or ‘illusion’ and bing bang boom, there's a couple hundred pounds for one hour of his time. 

Anyways, he runs up the stairs and grabs his bag, then runs straight back down. The shopping bags make it easier to pack since he doesn't have to place them in one at a time like he had to with the books. After he’s finally done packing, he checks his list one last time. Satisfied, he can finally ( finally! ) go back to the lake.

Chapter Text

He’s made the trip to and from the Lake of Avalon more times than he cares to count. But this time was different. This time wasn’t to wallow or to grieve. It wasn’t even to rage or to hope. It was for action . It’s been so long since he's been able to actually do something. His hands tremble on the wheel and he has to force himself to ease off the gas pedal at least five times. When he arrives, he again has to force himself to put the car in park before grabbing his bag and rushing out. 

He removes his shoes and socks (to be more connected to the earth) and places them in his bag (he’s not walking around the forest barefoot, thank you very much). He wades into the lake, waist deep, and closes his eyes. He focuses his magic and searches the lake for Excalibur. It isn’t difficult. It is of the strongest magic yet still alive (present company excluded). He reaches his hand out and calls upon the blade. The water churns as it rises into his hand. The hilt is tarnished, the pommel covered in lake gunk and seaweed, and the blade dulled from centuries under the sand. Yet it still looks better than he had expected. A quick spell has the gunk falling away, the blade sharpened and all together back to its former glory. It’s beautiful. It’s ready. 

He breathes in deeply, taking one last second to appreciate the modern day. Appreciate all he’s been through and how it’s led him to be the person he needs to be. He can’t wait to go back, to see his friends, his family, again, but he can only do so because of his past failings. In a way, he appreciates those, too.

“Ic wyrcð þis sacræf to þe, eala Wuldor,” he starts, magic bubbling up his throat. “To drēogan mine tearas and mǣnan mine sār.” He can feel the magic seeping through him from the world around. “On þā tīma lufan, ic flēo.” His voice grows with every word and he focuses on his king. His annoying, pratish, beautiful, brave king. “To gesecgan ūre tōmorrow.” He’s shouting now, taking the grip of Excalibur in both hands, leveling the tip at his own heart. “Mīn gāst, ic ālīef!” he screams, plunging the blade into his heart. 

It hurts more than he expected. The world seems to spin around him. All of his senses are overwhelming and shutting down at the same time. The sky is too bright, but the colors are dulled. He can hear only the deafening sound of the water softly lapping his hips. The sand is unpleasantly squishy as his toes go numb. The piercing pain also just a hollow thrum.

Then, the water is rushing up to meet him (or maybe it’s the other way around?) and the world goes black.

-

It was a normal day in Camelot for Arthur. He’d been rudely woken up by his useless servant (the man was way too cheerful first thing in the morning), eaten breakfast, and trained with the knights. He had just finished his lunch and was putting his coat on to meet with his father and Merlin was taking the dishes away. He was listing the chores for the day and trading insults with the other man. Merlin’s latest treasonous reply was cut short by a large crash that startled Arthur briefly into a fighting stance. The dishes and leftover food were strewn about the floor. The door stood ajar, blocking the prince’s view of the servant.

“ Mer lin!” he called angrily (seriously, the boy couldn't even take the dishes away without creating an even bigger mess?). He got no response. He huffed and marched to the door to confront the idiot. The idiot that was… nowhere to be found. “Merlin?” he called again, peeking his head out and looking up and down the hall. 

Ok now that’s weird. The boy was strange but this was way out of the scope of Normal Merlin Weirdness he put up with. Now he was starting to get seriously worried. Even at Merlin’s full speed in either direction, he wouldn’t have been able to get around one of the corners without Arthur seeing him. He looked down at the food still spilled on the floor. His boots had smashed through most of it. Merlin would have had to similarly walk through the mess but there was no sign of tracked food anywhere but his own path. 

“MERLIN!!”

-

The world is black when he wakes, but there's pain. An uncomfortable and stabby pain near his heart region. Ah , he thinks, must be the sword . And indeed as he feels around for his chest, his fingers hit a cold, hard, and very sharp piece of metal. It comes out easily enough and that’s one problem solved. Yay him!

Now for the problem of the missing light. Oh, right, he must have awoken in the lake. Not what he expected but certainly not unimagined. He just hopes there aren't any more unforeseen effects of this unknown spell. 

He flails a round in the water a bit, trying to get a sense of which way is up. Right above him, it seems, for it looks brighter than the rest of his surroundings. He swims to the surface, putting his experiences in China around 1938 to good use. He breaks the surface and almost sinks right back down at the shock of it. Everything is different. The forest is back, the road is gone, the trees and grass are greener, magic hums in the air. He almost hadn’t realized how much this place has changed. And, oh, how he missed it. He swims to the shore as fast as he can, thanking anyone who cares to listen that it worked. It worked !! He’s so happy he could cry. 

But he pushes that emotion away for now. He has to find Arthur. He has to tell him… Oh gods, what is he going to tell him? The truth obviously. He owes both Arthur and himself that much. But he isn’t exactly sure when he is. They could have known each other for years or maybe just a few days. Best to go with “the truth” for now and compensate when he learns the date. 

His trousers chafe uncomfortably as he emerges from the water. He grimaces and uses a quick spell to dry off, then pulls his socks and boots out from his bag, tugging them back on and strapping Excalibur to his belt. He dressed in clothes as close to those he used to wear in Camelot as possible (he even found a similar neckerchief), but they might still look strange to others. But seeing as they were a soft cotton-polly blend, he wasn’t giving them up for the itchy wool garments any time soon. 

Now, the problem of navigating. It has been… quite some time since he’s been in Camelot. He can’t quite remember the way back. He huffs a sigh. Magic it is then. He hadn’t wanted to use so much magic so early on, seeing as it’s… Well, it's Camelot. The kingdom who burns sorcerers at the stake for another approximately ten years. Even if he’s not afraid of dying anymore (he’d just come back anyways) he still did not want to burn (it was so far his least favorite way to die. He had an unfortunate incident in Salem a few years back. Best not to ask). Plus, he wanted to tell Arthur, not just go parading it about like a madman.

But desperate times call for desperate measures. It’s a very minor spell. He asks the earth for a little help to his destination. He can feel its magic leap forward willingly, stronger than when he’s ever called on it before (he can’t help but wonder how he missed the strength of the magical world the first time. Sure, he was in a constant state of fear and always in hiding, but this was hard to ignore). A squirrel then pops out of the bushes, staring at him quizzically before darting down a path. It stops just inside the forest and looks back at him, seemingly asking “Are you coming?”

Merlin smiles brightly and sends his thanks into the earth. The grass wraps lightly around his ankles in a sort of hug as a response. He chuckles fondly and follows the squirrel when he’s been released by the flora.

-

The squirrel doesn’t seem to know the path to Camelot, but instead the general direction. He keeps darting through bushes and half climbing trees, leaving Merlin to smash ungracefully through the underbrush, making quite a fuss. All sorts of animals from birds to deer flee from him at least a mile before he can even see them. The plants cower in fear from the squirrel guiding the path, for he chooses who gets stomped on. Where’s Google Maps when you need it?

Which is why he’s confused when he arrives in Camelot earlier than he expected (that squirrel must have known every single shortcut). It looked exactly the same. The high stone walls, the clamor of the market, even the creepy gargoyles were a sight for sore eyes. His new squirrel friend stopped and chittered at him when they reached the gates. He would go no further, he seemed to say. Merlin bent down and gave the critter a scratch under the chin and whispered his thanks to the creature. It chittered again and happily scampered back to the forest. 

He turns back to the gates, tears once again prickling the back of his eyes. He doesn't try very hard to stop them from coming as he takes in the city he once knew. It’s exactly the same. His feet carry him across familiar cobble stones on his usual path through the market. He arrives in the square and allows himself to just look . It’s been too long since he’s seen these steps. He came back to visit the fallen kingdom, once, but it was barely a ruin and more of a collection of stones. It was nothing compared to this. 

A voice interrupts his staring. “Merlin!”

“Gwen!” he yells, a bright smile tugging his lips. She looks fondly confused, cluing him in that he probably looks like a madman. He doesn’t care. He rushes toward his friend and sweeps her into a hug. 

She huffs in surprise when he grabs her around the middle, but still tentatively wraps her arms around him. It’s the best hug he’s had in centuries. “Are you alright?” a soft voice asks. It’s then he realizes he’s crying.

He pulls away slowly, wiping his eyes furiously. “No, yeah, I’m fine. It’s just…” He looks at her worried face once again. God, he missed her. “It’s good to see you, Gwen,” he finishes.

Gwen laughs, looking slightly baffled. “Well, it’s good to see you too, Merlin. We were worried sick after you just disappeared this afternoon. You should go speak with Arthur. Beg his forgiveness or at least explain where you’ve been. I swear, he’s going crazy,” she laughs fondly.

His brows knit together. Disappeared? He wonders but doesn't argue. He sweeps her into another quick hug and bounds up the stairs, leaving her laughing in the square. 

The inside of the castle is just as he remembers, as well. He bursts with joy as he takes the well known path to Arthur’s chambers. He arrives at the heavy wood door and takes a deep breath. This is it. He can do this. He would not cry before he could tell Arthur the truth. He holds on to these thoughts as he knocks on the door. They almost go flying right out of his head, though, when he hears his king again. Sure, he just said “Enter” but after 1500 years of silence, that one word is a balm. 

He opens the door slowly and steps inside, almost ignoring the figure by the desk. He takes in the room first, to prepare himself for seeing Arthur again. His chambers are filthy. There are clothes everywhere, his sword belt is thrown haphazardly on the table, pieces of armor are strewn about the floor like he had no help in removing it, and the bed clearly hasn’t been made. 

But, inevitably, his eyes were drawn to Arthur. He hadn’t looked up from whatever’s on his desk yet, giving Merlin precious seconds just to stare. When he does look up, his eyes blow wide before a scowl settles comfortably on his face. “ Mer lin.” Just the two syllables have a smile breaking on his face and tears blurring his vision (so much for not crying yet). “Where have you been ?” Arthur continues. His eyes rake up and down Merlin’s body, eyes narrowing further. “And what the hell happened to you?”

Merlin finally rips his eyes away from Arthur, looking down at his clothes. They were lightly torn and covered in both grass stains and leaves. “I, ah,” he starts, picking a twig from his shirt. “I was in the forest.” He looks back up at Arthur, unable to look away for long. “It seems I was not as careful as I would have liked.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Arthur replies. His brows knit more solidly together. 

Now it's Merlin’s turn to be confused. “What?”

“You look…” he makes a weird gesture at Merlin with his hands, “larger. I saw you yesterday and I know your shoulders weren’t that big. And your face-” he cuts himself off. He looks surprised at himself, but Merlin’s having the time of his life.

“You spend a lot of time looking at me, then?” he asks with a cheeky smile. 

Arthur huffs an offended breath. “No! I mean, well, yes, but not on purpose, I mean,” he’s beginning to flush around the ears and Merlin’s smile only grows. “I mean only that we spend a lot of time together, is all,” he huffs again, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

“Yes,” Merlin muses, smile and eyes softening. “I suppose we do.” They stand in silence, just looking at each other for another few beats before Merlin has to ruin it for himself (damn him and his commitment to honesty!!). “Sire,” he pauses, looking for the right words. All the help he gets from Arthur is a raised eyebrow. “Sire, your assessment of my… person is not unfounded.” 

Arthur’s brow creeps impossibly higher. “That so?”

“Yes.” He sits for another few seconds trying to decide how to word this. 

“C’mon, Merlin,” Arthur interrupts. “I’ve never known you to shy away from chatter. Out with it.”

Merlin huffs an annoyed breath. “If you’d stop being an impatient prat, maybe I would tell you sooner.” He scowls at Arthur as the other man rolls his eyes dramatically. Oh, how he’s missed him. He inhales a steadying breath and starts strongly. “Do you think of us as friends?”

Arthur’s face does this (objectively kind of funny) shocked expression. “Uh,” he says, as eloquent as a prince. “Where’s this coming from?” Of course. Well, Merlin currently knew him better than Arthur knew himself. Of course they were friends, you clotpole.

Merlin rolls his eyes slightly but continues sincerely. “I need you to remember we’re friends. That I can tell you almost anything.”

“Oh.. kay?” Arthur says confusedly.

“The last time I told you, you forgot until it was too late,” he says, eyes boring into the young prince, willing him to stay calm.

He blinks a few times, brain working in overdrive to figure out what Merlin’s trying to say. 

“And while I might not be the same person anymore,” he continues softly, looking away almost guiltily, “I’ve always been like this.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Arthur almost yells, confusion written in every line of his face.

“The same way you’ve always been royal, I’ve always been…” He trails off, taking a steadying breath. “I’ve always been magic.” The shocked and sort of strangled noise coming from Arthur isn’t surprising so he barrels right over it. “Do with me what you wish, Arthur, but just know I use it for you. Ever since my,” he chuckles a little at the memory, “second day in Camelot, I’ve only used it for you.” His eyes find Arthur’s once again and the prince looks uncertain. He’ll take uncertain. It’s much better than murderous. 

He readies himself once again for his other big reveal. “But I failed. I failed to protect you the first time and I’ve come back to right the wrongs I have caused and to save those I love from their cruel fates. I’ve been down this road, I’ve seen these stories, and so much more. I’ve mourned you longer than I’ve known you, Arthur Pendragon, and I will not make the same mistakes twice.”

He stands confident, the only sign of nerves his fingers worrying the hem of his shirt, and stares at his king as he takes in the new and earth-shattering information. 

“Surely, you,” Arthur stutters, “surely, you’re not serious. Tell me you’re not serious!” Ah, there’s the anger he was expecting. He won’t back down. He spent too long being a coward to not seize his chance. 

“I can’t tell you what is not true,” he says somewhat sympathetically. 

Arthur turns away from him, grabbing his head like it pained him. He paced a few times like that, stomping and breathing heavily. Then he stopped, glaring at Merlin once again with a bit of a hysterical edge. “You can’t be a sorcerer, Merlin,” he said finally. 

Merlin huffs again in annoyance. “And why not?” he asks testily.

“Because…” Arthur tries. “Because I would know!”

All his breath leaves his body as the prince unknowingly repeats one of the worst sentences Merlin’s ever heard in his life. His tears form anew, spilling over his lashes this time. He fights for breath as the death of his king, his best friend washes over him again. Days playing out in his head unbidden. Mistakes made, promises broken, friends killed. All his fault.

He comes back to the present (past? whatever) moment with a gasp when he feels a tentative hand rest on his shoulder. He looks up into Arthur’s wary blue eyes and wishes he knew what he was thinking.

“If any one of us has a right to freak out,” he says measuredly, “I think that would be me.”

Merlin huffs a wet laugh and wipes his eyes for the second time today. “Yeah, you’re right, I'm sorry. It’s just… You said the same thing. Before- before you…” He trails off.

Arthur’s hand tightens on his arm. A welcome weight in the sea of emotion. “Before I what?” he asks.

Oh, if only he’d asked anything else! But Merlin will not keep him in the dark again. He swallows the emotion and stares Arthur in the eye, trying to convey his utmost sincerity. “Before you died.” This close, he can see the other man’s nostrils flare when he takes in a surprised breath. “I guess,” he continues, “I just don’t know how to stop mourning you. I mean, you’re here, now. You’re alive, and will be for a long time if I have anything to say about it. But it’s hard to just… stop. It’s hard to give up something that’s been a significant part of me for centuries.”

“Cen-Centuries? As in hundreds of years?” His eyes are wide again, horrified. Merlin’s not sure if he’s horrified of him or for him, but he hasn’t let go of his shoulder yet. 

“Yes, Arthur. Hundreds. Fifteen to be exact.” To Arthur’s continued horrified look, he continues to ramble. “It hasn’t been all bad. The food is much better, for a start. I’ve seen more cultures, more people. Lived through some major historical events. Don’t recommend that, by the way. Not nearly as fun as it sounds. Did have some fun, though. Learned how to drive an automobile and how to juggle. There was this man in Japan who taught me to draw. A little girl from the cancer ward who taught me how to make a ‘cootie catcher.’ Oh, and you would not believe the inventions humans have come up with. The Television, the computer, penicillin, morphine, weed . God, I loved weed. Should have packed some, damn. But either way, it's amazing what people can do when given time.”

When he looks back at Arthur, he no longer looks horrified (he’s counting that as a win) and instead just looks confused. “I-” he stammers, “I don’t know what half those words mean.”

Merlin laughs brightly, drawing a smile from the prince. “Don’t worry, sire,” he says. “I’ll teach you. If you’ll let me?”

Arthur stares at him with a hard expression for an excruciatingly long time (probably only a few seconds but it felt like another fifteen thousand years) before nodding curtly. “A half decent servant is hard to come by,” he says teasingly.

Merlin giggles at that. “I was never a good servant,” he says.

“Well, at least some things never change,” he smiles.

They smile at each other before Arthur looks back down at his desk. Merlin takes the time to properly inspect his chambers. He mills around, picking up some clothes and throwing them in a pile before he gets antsy again and just wants to stare. At what, you may ask. At everything. The walls, the floors, the furniture, out the windows. 

That’s where he is when Arthur speaks again, sitting on the windowsill and watching the town bustle below. “So,” he says, “a sorcerer.”

He senses a trap somewhere but he’s committed to honesty. “Technically a warlock, but yeah. A sorcerer.”

Arthur nods again. Merlin can practically see his brain working. “You mentioned in your little speech,” he says haltingly, “something about your second day in Camelot.”

Merlin laughs. Of course that’s what he’s fixated on. “And what about it, sire ?” he says mockingly.

“You cheated, didn’t you?” Wow. Straight to the point. 

“With the mace?” he asks, chuckling. “Yeah, but can you blame me? You would have taken my head off!”

“I could never hurt you,” Arthur says sincerely. 

He laughs softly. “I like to think so, too, Arthur. But that first day, you would have taken my head off if I hadn’t stopped you.”

Arthur huffs but can’t argue. The silence stretches for a while longer before Arthur breaks it again. “You must be weary from traveling… fifteen hundred years. You should get some rest.”

“Thank you, Arthur,” he says with a smile.

“But,” the prince says, cutting off Merlin’s exit, “you will attend me in the morning. I don't care how long your vacation was, you better not be out of practice,” he threatens. 

Merlin just laughs it off with a “yes, sire” and goes to exit the room again. Before he can leave, though, he turns around one last time. “It’s good to be home,” he says, and gently closes the door.