Author's Notes:
First off - a big thank you to my amazing artist ceearrchua who inspired the story. You can find her work on tumblr under ceearrchua. tumblr dotcom / Merlin Reverse BB (I've added spaces so will show it on ff.n)
1) Many thanks to an amazing beta - gwylliondream who gave me lots of great advice and didn't complain about all the comma errors!
2) The Merlin of Arthurian legend had him going crazy and living in the forest at one point. I thought I'd explore that. Many thanks to jelazakazone for helping me out with the plot.
Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC version of Merlin; They and Shine do. I am very respectfully borrowing them with no intent to profit. No money has changed hands. No copyright infringement is intended.
Outside, the forest was full of sound.
Merlin….
It wasn't real, though. He knew it couldn't be real.
It was only winter's wood, a slow creak of branches and the rustle of oak leaves, movement in the wind. It wasn't speaking his name. It wasn't.
Merlin….
But he moved further back into the cave, just in case - and waited for the madness to pass.
As he stood there, shivering, he could see whispers skittering across the entrance, crawling up the rock wall, dangling over his head and then slithering down to coil around his throat; they were choking, cloying and fierce, ever tightening. Then from behind him, the groans started, twisted and desolate, clawing at him, icy-fingered demons that left bruises behind, purple and yellow and vomit-green.
Worse still were the desperate cries for help that seemed to come from all directions and each time there was the flood of iron as he bit into his mouth, hoping the pain would make them stop, make it stop.
Merlin….
In some small part of what was left of him, Merlin knew that nothing was there. The bruises were of his own making, punishment for everything he'd done. And whatever he thought closed his throat, the simple truth was that it was his hand and nothing else that tightened across his neck.
He'd gone mad and he knew it. It didn't help that the crystals showed him again and again visions of his failures, a thousand turning points that could have brought a new golden age to Camelot.
Instead, fear had led him further and further into the abyss. To this moment. Failure, failure and hopeless regret. Sliding down, head in his hands, he just wanted it to stop. But he knew he'd have to ride it out, as he had so many times before.
Moments of clarity and madness, they pulled apart what life he could have had and kept him imprisoned. A captive of his own making.
So alone, so alone.
He'd run out of tears by the time his mind settled. In the distance, he could hear the movement of branches, but it was just the wind and nothing more, just the ordinary noise of autumn leaves and wood. No grief-stricken accusations, no shrill cry for blood, no demands for retribution. No beloved king's voice calling his name.
Even the crystals were silent.
He dreaded it more than the madness. Clarity was its own poison, more insidious since he couldn't deny what had happened, only accept the burden.
In the months since Arthur's death, he remembered few moments like this. When he'd stumbled into the cave that first horrible night, seeking some kind of penance or a way to bring Arthur back, he'd begged for guidance among the crystals. But there were only the images of what had happened, of Mordred's blade sliding into Arthur, wet blood spilling out. His king collapsing, of Merlin revealing his magic and the fear in Arthur's eyes. The race to reach Avalon before it was too late.
And it was too late. Although the dragon promised him that Arthur would return some day, it didn't matter. He tried over and over to bring Arthur back. Pouring everything he had of magic into the wound, desperately hoping to heal him, his throat growing hoarse with effort, he ignored all else.
But it wasn't enough, not nearly enough. And when it was clear that Arthur was dead, that Merlin had failed, he was just numb.
He'd fled after that.
So sure there was still a way to reverse the horror of it, to bring Arthur back from the abyss, he set out, looking for the druids and the Cup of Life they held - surely he could have traded Arthur's life for his own. But it was to no avail. They had vanished into the forests and endless searching yielded no trace of them. Even the dragons had disappeared.
When he realized that there was nothing more he could do, that he could not right the wrongs he had done, he stopped eating, stopped drinking. So many times he'd vowed to die at Arthur's side, and in some small way if he could cease to exist, it would have been a fitting end.
If only it had ended.
In the weeks that followed, he'd found out why the druids called him Emrys. It did indeed mean something after all - immortality, the ultimate punishment for what he'd done.
No wonder he'd gone mad with it.
Now, it didn't matter. He ate or not; he sang or shrieked or not; he begged for release or not. It didn't matter.
He was utterly alone.
But also he knew he couldn't carry on as he had, couldn't be so self-indulgent as to let mere madness stand in his way. He had obligations to Arthur's legacy. Something must have remained of Camelot; perhaps Gwen still ruled there, surrounded by knights clad in blood-red wool.
He wasn't sure they would want a liar, a sorcerer crazed with regret, someone so powerless that he couldn't even protect their rightful king, not after Camlann. But he owed it to Arthur to try.
Even that was a failure.
By the time he'd got to Camelot, he knew it was already too late. The citadel stood scarred and silent and the surrounding town all but deserted.
There was a scatter of guards on the battlements, wearing Lot's colours. Apparently the warlord had taken advantage of the chaos, waiting until Morgana's forces failed and Camelot's knights were too weak to fight off yet another predator.
There was no sign of Gwen but he didn't dare ask anyone.
Careful to avoid being spotted, he made his way up to Gaius's rooms but his mentor wasn't there. Inside, nothing remained. The furniture was gone, all of Gaius's bottles and potions as well. The herbs and rare plants had been ground into dust on the floor and rubbish scattered about. A few books, pages torn, were tossed into corners, but everything else had vanished.
Choking back the pain - knowing that Gaius would not have left willingly, he climbed the stairs to his own room.
More trash and broken glass, the smell of stale urine in the air, but it was empty.
Too much, it was almost too much. The madness began to gather in, voices in his head full of accusation, but he forced it back. There would be time enough later for recriminations.
Kneeling down, he pulled up the loose board and shoved his hand into the space where his treasures had been hidden. At least there, he'd had some luck. His magic book and Ygraine's sigil that Arthur had given him so long ago and the Sidhe's staff were all there.
Shoving the smaller things into his bag, he stood up and gave a final glance around the room. In the far corner, there was another half-torn book, discarded, but Merlin couldn't bear to leave it to Lot's vultures. He scooped it up, not even looking at the cover, and put it into his satchel.
There was a noise just outside the door and Merlin stilled, listening intently as footsteps quieted. He wasn't sure if anyone had noticed him coming in, but he had to be careful. He didn't think Lot would be kind if he knew Merlin were there.
Waiting a few moments, he looked out through the door cracks, hoping to see if it was clear enough for him to leave. The room beyond looked empty and he began to relax.
And then there was an eye staring back at him.
Startled, he didn't even think, just reacted. Lightning quick, pulling the door open, he yanked the girl inside and shut it again.
Luckily, it wasn't one of Lot's ilk. Instead, it was a chambermaid that he'd been friends with, a lifetime ago.
She stumbled back, terror in her eyes, one hand raised as if to fight him off, the other still trapped in his grip. "Let me go! Let me…."
As her voice grew louder, struggling hard, Merlin pulled her close, wrapped one hand over her mouth. He said, "Quiet, Drysi, please." That just seemed to make her more frantic. But he didn't let go, he just waited until she stopped screaming and stood there breathing hard against his palm. "I won't hurt you."
At that, she nodded once. Merlin said, "I'm going to take my hand away and let you go. Will you promise to stay quiet? At least until you've heard me out?"
A little shudder and she nodded a second time.
Taking a deep breath while watching for any sign that she'd start screaming again, he released her and stepped back. "I won't hurt you."
Drysi didn't look like she believed him; she kept glancing at the door and back at him as if trying to figure out a way to escape. But Merlin was blocking her and she must have known it.
"I need to know what happened here. Where's Gaius? Where's Gwen? Are there any knights still fighting against Lot?" When she didn't say anything, just stood there trembling, he said gently, "I promise I won't hurt you."
That seemed to unlock something in her. "Everything you say is a lie."
It was like a stab to the gut and yet the worst part was that Merlin couldn't disagree with her. Everything he'd done in Camelot had been based on lies and it led to disaster.
"Is that what you sorcerers do? Lie and cheat and play with people's lives? Destroy everything that is good and right?" She must have seen something in his face because she grew bolder. "You let our king die. You're a sorcerer with enough power to pull lightning from the sky and still you let him die. And my Ralf died with him."
He'd thought that he couldn't feel more pain, that his world was already torn to shreds and each part bleeding agony and yet her words only made things worse. He'd gone to their wedding, just six months ago and wished them good fortune, drank to their health and future happiness. They'd both laughed and babbled to him about their cottage and how they wanted to fill it with children and now her husband was dead. All those dreams turned to ash.
Even through her tears, she looked at him with absolute loathing. "So don't make promises you have no intention of keeping. If you had just used your powers for good, none of this would have happened and Ralf would still be alive and the king, too."
"I'm sorry about Ralf. I didn't know."
Her face wet with grief, her eyes hardened as she stared at him. "Did you think it entertaining? To lie so well, fool everyone into thinking you're this sweet clumsy boy when all you really are… is evil?"
He wanted to tell her how truly sorry he was, how much he wanted to change the past and make it right somehow, but he knew it wouldn't be enough, never enough.
He could only leave and hope to fix what he could, perhaps regather Camelot's forces and take back the citadel, leave something of Arthur's legacy to those who deserved better than this. But for that, he needed information.
"Drysi, where's Gaius?"
She laughed, an ugly sound, watching him closely as if knowing the news would tear him to pieces. "Dead. Couldn't take the shame of knowing what you were."
Guilt and pain struck so deep it was a wonder he could see. The shadows were clawing at him, madness whispering of how he'd left Gaius behind, thinking that he'd be safe. He remembered how the old man had smiled, knowing that Merlin was trying to protect him and yet such an indulgent look, both fond and worried and it was the last time he'd seen him.
If Merlin had returned right after Arthur died, he knew he could have shielded Gaius at least. Instead, the futile journey to find a way to bring Arthur back only left his mentor vulnerable and Gaius died because of it.
Merlin's choices doomed them all.
She waved one hand toward the window, watching his face as it crumpled at the news. Drysi said flatly, "He's buried in the woods along with so many others who died trying to defend Camelot. My Ralf, the knights, all gone."
It took a moment for Merlin to think. Behind him, the walls were crawling with regret; shadows and blurred faces clogging the air and he couldn't, he couldn't even think and yet he had to, for Arthur's sake.
"And Gwen? The queen?"
Another laugh, savage and triumphant. "Out of your reach. She's alive, but I won't tell you where. She deserves some peace after what happened." Drysi stepped forward, eyes glittering with hate. "And don't even think about trying to find her. She'd soon as slit your throat after what you'd done."
Of course she would. Why would Gwen believe him? His choices had killed Arthur. And yet some small part of him protested that at least Drysi should know the truth. "I tried to save him. I tried so hard."
"Not what I heard." Contemptuous, her face as filled with loathing as ever he'd seen, she said, "It doesn't matter. I don't believe you. I will never believe you again."
He couldn't stop, even knowing that the promise was broken before he said it, even knowing that he was lying to himself as much as her. "I will try to right this. Drysi, I will try to make it better."
She shook her head. "Unless you can bring them back from the dead, don't waste your time, sorcerer. It's already too late."
He let her go, of course. How could he not - when all she'd done was tell him the truth?
Still, he lingered, waiting for the warning bell to sound, waiting for her to exact revenge for what he'd done, waiting for her to turn him over to Lot's men. In a way, he wanted punishment. He'd failed them and yet he lived and lived and lived and everyone else had suffered for it.
He didn't remember much after that. The madness, much as he tried to avoid it, came back with a vengeance. Faces accusing him, a pile of red cloth, the bright blood colour of Pendragon's knights, caught under his hand. Whispers and cries of 'Merlin, Merlin' hiding in dark corners. Something heavy shoved into him. He pushed it away and it stopped moving. Everywhere was the dull sheen of unpolished armour and the smell of dank refuse and the sound of rocks falling.
When he woke, he was back in his cave. His clothes, torn and bloody, were almost rags, but as he looked around, he could see the Sidhe's staff and his bag and beyond that, a largish bundle of red wool bound up with twine.
For a moment, he thought it might be someone sleeping there, all huddled into the cloth for warmth - he'd have welcomed the company no matter who it was - but it was too small by half.
Struggling to move, his body aching as if he'd been beaten, he walked, well mostly crawled, over to where the bundle lay. Unknotting the twine took so much effort that he almost gave up, but finally it came apart.
It was a knight's cloak, Camelot's with its gold-threaded emblem fouled, and the hem shredded. One long tear near the front was encrusted with dried blood but it was intact enough to use. It smelt horribly; someone had pissed on it, but Merlin could clean that easily enough. A rare find and welcome for the nearing winter.
But inside the bundle was something else, something he'd almost forgotten in the days since Arthur's death. It was the king's armour, his third best set. Merlin remembered how they'd fought over him having to clean it; Arthur insisted that all the dents be repaired and set to gleaming and Merlin had refused. After all, with two other sets, what need did Arthur have for a third, especially when cleaning it would only lead to it getting rusty again before he'd even use it? But in the end, he'd promised to do it once they returned from Camlann and Arthur laughed, knowing that Merlin was lying through his teeth. It had been a good day, that day. The last of them.
And there it was, a link to a past that all but destroyed him.
He didn't even know how it had got there, although in his insanity, he must have scoured the armoury for it, and the cloak, too. An effort that only made him hurt more to look at it.
With a sweep of his hand and as much magic as he could summon, he threw the armour across the cave, listening with satisfaction as it smashed, clanking, into the darkness beyond. Out of sight, out of mind.
Merlin almost sent the cloak after it, but he needed warmth for the coming winter and it was too valuable to discard.
In the end, he bowed to necessity. He cleaned it, repaired what he could. He thought to unpick the gold thread on the crest and sell it; it would bring in enough money for a tunic and perhaps a sharper axe, but in the end, he couldn't. He couldn't. Instead, he turned the cloak inside out and ignored the symbol of Camelot ever-present against his heart.
The madness pulled him down again and when he came out of it, he knew he had to do something. It was no life to live, as live he must. He'd have to cure himself somehow. He thought there might be some inkling of a spell or some words of wisdom that Gaius might have scrawled into his magic book and that hope led to scrambling into his bag, untouched since his return from Camelot.
But as he upended the satchel, more than just his book and Arthur's sigil tumbled out. The other book, the one he'd almost forgotten he'd taken from Camelot, lay there, the pages fluttering, daring him to read.
No, no, no.
It was The Art of Necromancy.
Scrambling back, he stared down at it in shock. It was of dark magic, a thing forbidden under any circumstances. The raising of the dead had dire consequences and the manipulation of their mind a horror that only sorcerers bent on destruction would enjoy.
As he watched, the pages seemed to move, taunting him, the words written there blurring into Arthur's face.
No.
Even he wasn't so far gone that he'd bring Arthur back, not like that.
As he raised his hand, ready to send the book into oblivion, he hesitated.
Beside him, behind him, all around, the crystals were singing. Arthur was caught in their depths, looking solemn and empty, a smile that didn't reach his eyes as he stared back at Merlin. A thousand facets reflecting the visions and everywhere Merlin looked, that smile.
It was like nothing he'd seen before. Each time the crystals had shown him the past, painful as it was, it had been something Merlin remembered. But this felt odd; Arthur never gazed at him like that, even the final moments when he knew at last about his magic.
It had to be false - or a new form of madness to torment him.
And yet he couldn't bear for it to stop. That beloved face made him realize just how alone he was. The smile, counterfeit or otherwise, was still Arthur's and he missed him, so very much.
With his throat clogging with tears, he turned away and stumbled out into the forest. The book remained behind.
There was anger in the wind. The rattling of branches and the leaves hissing turmoil, a perfect reflection of how Merlin's heart was breaking. He'd thought it was destroyed ages ago and yet it kept shattering all over again.
He couldn't do it. It was dark magic and it wouldn't be Arthur anyway. Just as Lancelot had fooled them for so long with his warm smiles and noble demeanour, any attempt to use necromancy would not bring Arthur back. Lancelot under Morgana's thrall, a puppet to bring down the kingdom and it had been all a lie, a terrible lie.
But Lance looked the same and acted the same when he returned. Merlin remembered how difficult it had been to see the differences and only at the end, in those final moments after he'd died a second time, did the real Lancelot come through. He remembered, too, thinking that if he'd just talked to Lance before he'd killed himself, things might have turned out differently.
No, he didn't like that his mind was playing tricks again, that he was thinking perhaps he could bring back Arthur and this time make things right - just as Lance had been once Merlin used his magic.
No, it couldn't be. It couldn't. It would only end badly.
He had to finish this now, before he gave in to his loneliness and did something unforgivable. Pushing himself up, he walked back into the cave, intent on destroying the book.
The crystals were waiting for him: more scenes of Arthur cloaked in red, of smiles and Merlin laughing, of magic growing as Ygraine's sigil is thrown into the Pool of Nemhain, of a man rising up out of the water, dark blond and powerful-looking and Merlin walking toward him.
Chants and delight and a heart lifted when Arthur looked at him with those guileless blue eyes.
Merlin was well and truly lost.
He tried to fight it, though, oh how hard he tried. He knew dealing with the dead would only bring heartbreak and several times he'd found himself holding the necromancy book, shaking with a desperate longing to find courage enough to destroy it.
But it was already too late. He'd known he was a coward when he hadn't told Arthur the truth about his magic years ago. He'd never been afraid for his own life, but to be turned away, rejected, was more than he could bear.
That choice had brought them all ruin and utter destruction.
This time, though, he knew better. He knew what he'd have to do.
Yes, he'd bring Arthur back but not as the king… just a man. Keep him close, teach him how to live simply and perhaps once he was sure that this Arthur was harmless, he'd find Gwen, return him to his rightful place. Perhaps then, the promises the Great Dragon made all those years ago would come true, a golden age where Albion was united and magic accepted.
He wanted to believe that with all his heart. It gave him purpose again. It gave him hope again. If ignoring the small voice in the back of his mind clamouring for the book's destruction was the price, then so be it.
Yet it wasn't as easy as all that. He needed to prepare in mundane ways and magical ones. He knew that Arthur would not be happy in the cave. It wasn't the most comfortable place to live in and Merlin had only stayed because, if truth be told, he felt he didn't deserve anything more.
Then there was clothing and food. Nothing he owned would fit Arthur and even those were mostly rags. Food was hit or miss; he'd learned to eat whatever he could scrounge and even that was pitifully meagre. He'd have to find more reliable resources. But at least it gave him something to focus on.
He was trying to ignore the rest of it. Preparing to bring someone back from the dead left him feeling soiled, as if he'd sullied a sacred trust. It didn't help that the rituals were fraught with potential disaster. A single word spoken wrongly could have dire consequences. He'd had nightmares about it: a man ravaging the countryside, the wails of women calling for their loved ones, pet dogs torn apart. He kept thinking about Morgana and Lancelot and how, in the end, he'd not been able to save either of them.
But with each passing day, he grew more eager to see Arthur again, even if it was not the man he'd once known. The loneliness gnawed at him, left him empty and wanting and he looked forward to a smile, a voice, anything to keep away the demons.
Finally, a hut found and prepared, a store of food, a few stolen clothes and Merlin was ready. For good or ill, Merlin was ready.
