A/N: I'm back with a new Merlin fic! This one was part of the After Camlann Big Bang fic fest on livejournal and has some really beautiful art to accompany it which I cannot link to here because this website is dumb sometimes. So if you'd like to check out the art, this same story is cross-posted to my AO3 account clotpolesonly, same title and whatnot, so you take a look there.

"You can probably skip most of this unit," Gwen said, leaning close conspiratorially despite the fact that they were the only ones left in the library. "Honestly, there were maybe three questions from it on the last exam. It's the next unit that you really need to pay attention to. That one's short but it's tricky." She smiled at him, tapping her pencil's eraser on the table. "Shouldn't take you long to pick up on, though. At least, you didn't seem to have any trouble with it the last time you learned it."

"That's reassuring," Merlin said with only the slightest hint of sarcasm. He snapped the book closed and leaned his chair back on its hind legs, rubbing at his tired eyes. "I'd have even less trouble if I didn't have to learn it all again. Five months of schoolwork: gone!"

"Well, technically the work is all still done," Gwen said. "You've already turned in all the assignments and the teachers said you don't have to do them again."

"That doesn't help me on exams if I don't remember doing any of it in the first place," Merlin grumbled, letting the front legs of his chair crash back onto the floor. "Losing your memory is bad enough without losing half your A level prep along with it."

"You'll catch up," Gwen said encouragingly. "No one blames you for being a bit behind! The situation isn't exactly something that's in your control. You'll be fine, though. I know you will."

Merlin gave her a weak smile. "Thanks for doing all this," he said, waving a hand at the array of books and papers spread out across the library table—all of Gwen's biology notes from the last five months, necessary because Merlin's own notes were useless chicken scratch at the best of times and they both knew it. "I know it's a hassle."

"You could never be a hassle, Merlin," she said, chiding. "But I do think that's enough for one day. You're only a week out of hospital and you shouldn't strain yourself."

"The doctors gave me a clean bill of health," he reminded her as he started stuffing papers back into his bag anyway. "I'm perfectly fine. Except for the whole 'not remembering anything past November' thing, of course."

"And they really don't have any idea what caused it?"

Merlin stood up and hefted his bag. "No, not really. They're assuming it's some sort of fugue state resulting from repression of a traumatic event," he said with a roll of his eyes, "but they don't sound very convinced when they say that, and if there was a traumatic event, then I certainly don't remember it."

"You don't remember much of anything," Gwen reminded him, shouldering her bag as well and leading the way out.

Merlin shrugged and followed her out. He didn't mention the scars on his chest that certainly hadn't been there when last he remembered. There were a number of marks on his skin that he'd never seen before, but all of them were long since healed. He hadn't been missing for more than a few hours before he'd been found, so the doctors hadn't asked anything about them and Merlin hadn't volunteered the information. Those marks could have come from any number of things, really. They were no reason to worry.

"What have the police turned up?" Gwen asked.

"Nothing," Merlin said with a sigh. "When they found me, I was alone and uninjured. I think they've given up on finding any real hint of foul play. There's no evidence of anything at all."

"They really ought to keep looking," Gwen said with a frown, "especially if the doctors think—"

The door at the far end of the corridor burst open and a gaggle of rowdy boys spilled in from outside, whooping and laughing, all still in their football kits and tromping dirt in with them. Arthur was the last in, chatting with Percy, the grass-stained ball tucked under his arm. The smile dropped off his face when he caught sight of Merlin and Gwen down the hallway. He looked away quickly and Merlin's stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch.

"You still haven't talked to him?" Gwen asked with an odd mixture of sympathy and exasperation.

"Why would I?"

"Because he's your best friend and this is stupid!"

"No, he was my best friend," Merlin corrected her, his eyes on Arthur as he and his teammates headed for the locker room. "Not anymore."

"But you don't even know why," Gwen said. "Losing your best friend is one thing, but how can you stand not even knowing how it happened? I can't stand not knowing, and I wasn't even a part of it."

"Just leave it, Gwen," Merlin snapped. "According to you lot, we haven't had anything to do with each other in two months. If he doesn't want to associate with me anymore, then that's fine and I won't make him. Does it even matter why?"

"Of course it matters." Gwen looked at him for a long moment and then sighed. "You'll have to talk to him eventually," she said, her curls bouncing around her face as she shook her head. "You can't go on like this forever. You two were too close for that."

"I've got to get something from my locker," Merlin said, pulling his backpack around to fiddle with the front pocket to avoid meeting her eye. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

Gwen squeezed his arm and gave him a sad smile that he didn't return. Then she left him alone, heading for the end of the corridor and the carpark beyond. Merlin went the other way, digging the little slip of paper with his locker combination out of his pocket—apparently he had changed it sometime in the last five months. Lucky he had told Gwen the new combo or they would have had to cut the lock off to get inside. If only he had told her everything else, like what had happened between him and Arthur.

The halls were empty this late on a Tuesday afternoon and Merlin's footsteps echoed off the linoleum floors. It was a lonely sound, or maybe Merlin was just projecting. It wasn't that he didn't have a support system—he had his mother, of course, and plenty of people had come to see him when he'd first been in hospital—but none of that seemed to matter in the face of all that he had lost.

He was missing five months of his life, all of it just gone as if someone had scooped a chunk of his brain out with a melon-baller and left behind a gaping hole in its place. He felt like he had been transported into the future, and everything was the same and yet different all at once, just enough to be jarring. His locker had a new lock and there was a pencil case in it that he didn't remember buying. He had no idea what was going on in any of his classes. He didn't even know his own skin anymore.

And Arthur hated him.

That was the worst of it. He had woken up in an open field just outside the city with no idea how he'd gotten there, been taken to a hospital, been poked and prodded and interrogated by doctors and police alike, and he had looked at all the cards on his bedside table and all the signatures in the visitors log and wondered why none of them were from his best friend. Three days in hospital and sixteen people had come to see him, but not the boy who had been by his side nearly every day for the last seven years, and no one could tell him why. Not his mother, not Gwen, not even Morgana.

All anyone could say was that one day two months ago, he and Arthur had stopped talking. Just like that, with no explanation to anyone. And now even Merlin had no idea what had happened. The only person who knew was Arthur, and he wanted nothing to do with Merlin anymore.

The locker room door banged open and Merlin jumped. The football team, no longer in uniform, filed out and headed for the exit. A few of them stopped to greet Merlin as they passed with smiles and nods and the occasional slap on the back. Arthur didn't so much as glance in his direction, even as he passed within arm's reach. Gwaine gave Merlin an apologetic but also rather pitying look, thumbing over his shoulder at Arthur and shrugging as if to say "what can you do?"

A flare of anger caught Merlin by surprise, hotter and brighter and more vivid than anything he had felt in the last week and a half. He slammed the door to his locker shut with a resounding clang and called out, "Arthur!"

The whole team stopped, stunned. According to Gwen, his and Arthur's fallout had been big news around the school. They had been inseparable since the day they arrived, everyone knew that, and their sudden split had fueled the rumor mill for weeks because neither of them would confirm the cause. Even Arthur's footie mates were invested in the drama and every one of them was staring now, looking between them with obvious interest. One look from their captain sent them scurrying out the door, though, and Merlin and Arthur were left alone in the empty hallway.

Arthur didn't say anything, didn't even turn to face him properly, and Merlin had a very strong urge to punch a wall. He just barely resisted the violent impulse, instead saying, "What the hell happened to us?"

"I don't have time for this," Arthur mumbled, and he turned to leave.

"Don't you dare," Merlin said, dropping his bag and stalking toward him. "Don't you dare walk away without giving me any sort of explanation. You owe me that much, at least."

"I don't owe you anything!" Arthur snapped. "Not after—" He stopped short.

"After what?" Merlin demanded. "After what, Arthur? What could possibly have happened to destroy us like this?"

Arthur sneered at him, a cold, haughty look that Merlin hadn't seen on his face in years. "Can you really think of nothing?"

Merlin raised his arms wide and then let them fall, at a loss. "I don't remember anything," he said. "That's sort of the problem."

Arthur let out a bitter laugh. "Oh no, the problem is much older than that."

Merlin stared. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"See, it doesn't even occur to you!" Arthur burst out, throwing down his pack as well so that he could jab a finger at Merlin. "It doesn't even cross your mind that you could have done—could still be doing—something that might upset me."

It hit Merlin all at once and he stumbled back, that sick feeling coming back tenfold. Arthur nodded, a tight-lipped smile on his face now.

"Ah," he said, a mockery of dawning comprehension. "Now you get it."

"How—" Merlin tried to ask, but his voice came out as a croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. "How did you find out?"

"You certainly didn't tell me," Arthur said bitterly.

"How could I?" Merlin shot back, feeling off-balance and more vulnerable than he could ever remembering feeling, even when he had stood alone and panicked in a place he'd never seen before with five months of his life gone—even when he had begun to suspect that the memory loss wasn't of natural causes at all. "It's not exactly something that you just blurt out to people, not unless you're hoping to get arrested."

"No, but it's certainly something you should tell your—" Arthur stopped abruptly and rubbed a hand over his face. "Look," he said. "I've already had this argument and I'm—"

"Well, I haven't!"

"—I am not up for having it again," Arthur said, more forcefully this time, as he turned his back on Merlin.

"Wait!" Merlin called out, not sure now if he was angry or desperate and rushing to grab Arthur by the arm. The harsh way that Arthur jerked out of his hold, as if he couldn't bear for Merlin to touch him anymore, made Merlin throw his hands up in the air in frustration. "Please, just—how can we fix this if we don't talk about it?"

"We've tried talking about it," Arthur said, incredulous. "Don't you think we tried? But you can't just fix this, Merlin. You lied to me for our entire— And you never saw fit to trust me with something so important—"

"Something so illegal, you mean," Merlin hissed. "Something that could get me killed."

"Jesus Christ, Merlin, that you would even think that I would—"

"I never said that you—"

"And to think I had to find out by overhearing you and Mordred, of all people, chatting about your favorite grimoire shop," Arthur scoffed. "As if that's a safe topic to discuss on school grounds where bloody anyone could overhear."

That gave Merlin pause as the hole in his mind twinged like an old wound. "Wait, Mordred?" he asked. Merlin hadn't even known that Mordred had magic. In fact, he couldn't remember ever having spoken to Mordred at all, he wasn't even in their year. He shook his head, straining to remember something, anything. "And I don't have a grimoire. I've never had anything like that."

"Apparently you do now," Arthur said. "Don't ask me where it is or how you got it, because you didn't see fit to inform me." He turned to leave again, but Merlin hardly noticed.

A burst of pain in Merlin's temple wrenched a cry from his lips and the hallway tilted alarmingly around him, or maybe he was the one tilting. His vision greyed around the edges, blurring, and his ears suddenly felt like they'd been stuffed with cotton. He vaguely heard Arthur say his name before his vision was overcome entirely.

An ancient book, the ornate cover dusty and tattered, was placed gently in Merlin's outstretched hands. He could feel the thrum of magic against his palms, unlike anything he had ever felt before. He traced his fingers over the embossed title with something close to reverence. The shapes of the symbols were unfamiliar but, if he looked hard, he felt like they almost made sense.

He looked up at the man in front of him and shook his head, saying, "I couldn't possibly take this."

The man was tall and slim, his curly blond hair tucked behind his ears. His smile reached all the way to his slanted eyes.

"We want you to have it," he said.

Merlin looked down at the book again, marveling. "But why?" he asked. "Alvarr, this is a beautiful artefact. It's got to be valuable! You can't just give it away to some random kid."

Alvarr chuckled. "Trust me, Merlin, you're far from random." He put a hand on the book's cover and Merlin felt the magic in it spike. Alvarr nodded, as if he knew exactly what Merlin had sensed. "No, you're very special. And I wouldn't give this tome to anyone else."

"Why?" Merlin asked again.

"Honestly?" Alvarr shrugged. "It's of no use to anyone else."

Merlin frowned, confused.

Alvarr gestured behind him and Merlin looked over the rows of long linoleum tables on their rickety legs. There were a smattering of other kids his age there, many of them studying other books with indecipherable titles, others chatting with older men and women. In the back of the large room there were bursts of light, things moving independently, people with their hands raised before them and eyes glowing bright. Merlin couldn't help but smile at the sight, as he had done every time he'd been blessed with it.

"This grimoire is powerful," Alvarr said, drawing his attention back. "More powerful than the average sorcerer can handle." He tapped it. "This wouldn't do me a damn bit of good, nor any of them back there. But you. You're special, Merlin."

Merlin stood taller, clutching the precious book against his chest. "You really think I could manage it?" he asked, breathless.

"I think you can achieve anything you put your mind to." Alvarr winked. "If you just stick with us."

The school hallway returned just as abruptly as it had disappeared, one moment gone and the next there again, but it was more of a shock to see it all from a new angle. Merlin was no longer standing in the middle of the corridor, but rather sitting with his back pressed against the wall. Arthur was crouched down beside him with a hand on his shoulder but his eyes were sweeping the hall, almost like he was keeping watch.

Arthur glanced back, saw that Merlin was looking at him, and he let out a gusty sigh of relief.

"Merlin!" he said. "What the hell just happened?"

The loudness of Arthur's voice and its proximity were like jackhammers and Merlin's head throbbed. He gasped, reaching up as if he could somehow hold his skull together with his hands. Arthur tried to pull them away.

"Merlin?" he asked, more quietly this time but with more concern. "Merlin, what is it? Should I call a doctor? They said you were fine, but if—"

Merlin shook his head, which only made it worse. "No," he gasped out. "No, can't tell them. Can't tell them anything."

"Why? Merlin, why can't you tell them? What's going on?"

"I don't know!" Merlin shouted, shoving Arthur away with all his might and sending him sprawling across the dirty floor. "I don't fucking know what's going on! I don't know anything! I don't know what just happened, or how I got in that bloody field, or where these fucking scars came from, or—or Mordred, or grimoires, or why someone would take my memories away from me! I just don't know, I don't—"

Merlin's outburst caught up with him, his head protesting fiercely enough that he wondered if he might be sick. He curled in on himself, pulling his knees to his chest and hiding his face in them so that Arthur wouldn't see the tears in his eyes. It wasn't that Arthur hadn't seen him cry before, but things were different now. They weren't friends anymore. They weren't anything, and fuck if that didn't make everything ten times worse.

Arthur tried to put a hand on his shoulder but Merlin flinched away. He didn't try again, but he didn't leave either. Merlin wasn't sure if he was relieved or angry that he was still there, but he didn't have the energy to spare for expressing either emotion at the moment, so he just focused on getting his breathing under control and forcing the tears to stop before they got out of hand.

After what seemed like an eternity, Arthur cleared his throat. Twice. Merlin almost managed a laugh—that was such an Arthur thing, a nervous tick he'd had for as long as Merlin had known him—but he just ended up with a sort of hiccoughy sob.

"Scars?" was what Arthur finally came out with.

Merlin stiffened; he hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't meant to say any of it, really, but he was just so damn tired of not saying anything at all, and he was hurting and scared and it was Arthur, his best friend. Arthur, who was kneeling in front of him now, hair askew and dust on his jacket and that crease between his eyebrows that only ever showed up when he was really worried.

Merlin sniffed and wiped his wet face with his jacket sleeve. "'S nothing," he mumbled.

"Nothing doesn't leave scars."

"It's fine, they're all healed," Merlin insisted. Then he shifted, pulling his own jacket tighter around his middle, the back of his hand brushing over the largest of the mysterious injuries. "I just…don't know how I got them, is all."

Arthur's hands curled into fists where they rested on his knees. He looked like he wanted to reach out, but he didn't. Instead he bit his lip and looked around again, up and down the corridor, before leaning in closer.

"You said…you said someone took your memories."

Merlin bit back a curse. He definitely hadn't meant to say that bit out loud. He had barely even acknowledged the suspicion to himself, let alone admitted it to someone else, not even his mother. But he had said it now, and Arthur was looking at him like it mattered, like he still cared, like they hadn't apparently spent the last two months at each other's throats. Merlin rubbed at his eyes, gritty and hot from crying.

"I don't know," he said for what felt like the millionth time. "It's just…the doctors don't really know what caused the amnesia. They keep saying things, but it's so obvious that they're just guessing, and I can't help but feel like this isn't…natural. I think it was—"

He stopped, the word perched on his tongue and stuck there. In all this time, all the shouting and arguing about it, they had yet to actually say the word. It felt like the sound of it might shatter the fragile truce that had Arthur still here with him, like it would send him running, and Merlin didn't think he could bear that.

Arthur took the dive for him. He put a hand on Merlin's knee and said, "You think it was magic?"

Merlin's heart skipped a beat and he couldn't stop himself from scanning their surroundings to make sure that no one was around, that no one had overheard. When he had reassured himself that they were completely alone, he nodded. He rubbed at his forehead—at least the headache was starting to subside and he didn't feel like his brain was going to melt out of his ears anymore, so that was something.

"It's just a feeling," he said. "But my feelings are usually pretty reliable where this stuff is concerned."

Arthur looked at him, his face inscrutable. There had been a time—a very recent time, as far as Merlin could remember—when Arthur had been an open book to him, when he could read every thought that went through his head with a single glance, but it seemed that sometime in the last five months, Arthur had learned to modulate his expressions better. Merlin saw it, though, when Arthur noticed that he still had his hand on Merlin's knee. Arthur snatched it off like he'd been burned and stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets instead. Merlin tried not to feel too stung.

"But who would do that?" Arthur asked, not acknowledging his strange reaction. "And why?"

Merlin shrugged, unwilling to say it even one more time. He let his head fall back against the wall with a clunk. After a long moment of quiet broken only by the sound of Arthur's fidgeting, he felt the warmth along his shoulder that meant Arthur had sat down beside him against the wall. It was a position they'd taken up too many times to count over the course of their friendship and the familiarity of it was a comfort, even if the distance between them was palpable.

"Your eyes were glowing," Arthur said. His voice was almost a whisper, but the damning words seemed to echo off the lockers anyway.

"When?" Merlin asked, confused.

"Earlier," he said. "When you—" He made a vague, swirling sort of gesture in the air. "I don't know what you did."

"I didn't do anything."

"Then what was it?" Arthur asked. "The gold eyes is a sign of magic being performed, everyone knows that."

Merlin shook his head. "I wasn't doing anything," he protested. "But I did see something."

"See something?" Arthur repeated, frowning. "What, like a vision?"

"No, not exactly." Merlin rubbed his right thumb over his left palm, feeling the phantom tingle of a magic he didn't remember encountering. Or maybe he did. "I think it was a memory."