Saturated with power, Ygraine's sigil seemed to be vibrating in his hand.
It was really the only thing Arthur had ever given him that had value, something the king clearly prized. All that history and the love he'd had for his mother imbued into a single piece of metal and yet he'd given it to Merlin.
At the time, Merlin assumed that once the Dorocha were defeated and Camelot saved, Arthur would have demanded its return. After all, he was just a servant and not important enough to keep a queen's sigil.
But Arthur never asked for it back.
Warmed by the gesture, in the months and years that followed, Merlin treasured it. A solid symbol of Arthur's regard and all the more precious since Arthur fell at Camlann.
It was also the talisman that would bring about Arthur's return.
He'd pressed enchantment after enchantment into the metal. The white magic, nature's magic, was thought to counteract the darkness that would inevitably rise from bringing back the dead. Of course, the book on necromancy was frustratingly unhelpful, pointing out the obvious pitfalls without any specific ways to avoid them. He'd ended up going with his instincts. Relying on a few obscure hints in his magic book, he sent love and longing into the medallion and hoped it would be enough.
Now, standing along the bank of the Pool of Nemhain, the sigil pressed hard against his palm, he looked out onto the unruffled waters. Around him, hills rose black and white, clouds capping the peaks. The snows had come early and it was bitterly cold but no ice formed on the lake and the air was still. No birds sang, no sound of deer running through the wood; not even the trees were moving.
The silence unnerved him but there was no time for recriminations. He'd prepared as best he could and standing there, unclothed, unadorned except for the scars he'd bought with blood and loss, shivering in the cold, he raised his arm, holding the sigil high.
As he began to chant, he flung the last remnant of Arthur's esteem into the water. "Mid þes sceatte, ic ðu áben, Arthur Pendragon. Cume fram begeondan wítescræfe. Aríse und eftáríse, min cyning."
Repeated it again and again. Three times for hope, three times for longing, three times for love.
Not knowing what to expect, he stepped back, watching as the water begin to bubble, rings of churning white that spread out and out until it seemed the whole lake was writhing.
From the depths, he could see movement, the shape of an arm, the roundness of a beloved head. There was a dark shadow starting to rise up out of the water, the shape and size of a man, powerful and tall.
After one breathless moment, at last Merlin could see him clearly.
It was Arthur.
He didn't look any different, the same well-honed body, the same piercing blue eyes, blond hair streaming wet as he walked slowly toward Merlin. It was as if Camlann never happened. Even the scars were gone.
It was Arthur and Merlin had brought him back from the dead. Here, walking toward him was a second chance to make things right and he'd be damned if he'd let it pass.
Heedless of the cold, Merlin let out a sob and ran into the lake.
Arthur never wavered, pushing through the water with indomitable will as if nothing mattered to him but reaching Merlin. When he was close enough to touch, close enough that Merlin could see how the cold had affected him - shaking limbs and a mouth shaded in blue, Arthur stopped. Bowing his head, he said, "My lord, I am yours to command."
Merlin was taken aback. Arthur would never say such a thing. But now was not the time to question him. It was clear he needed to warm up, and quickly.
Grabbing his hand, he pulled Arthur with him toward the shore, babbling about getting him into some dry clothes and wouldn't a fire be nice and how he was so glad to see him. He came willingly, silent and almost too compliant as if he were a child or a cowed slave.
It was disturbing to say the least. And Merlin only grew more uneasy when he started a fire with magic and Arthur didn't even bat an eye.
He towelled him off, wrestled him into breeches and a soft shirt and boots, slung the red cape over his shoulders and settled him by the fire. Merlin dressed quickly after that, shivering as he sat down next to Arthur.
In the days before Camlann, Arthur would have already begun ordering him around, but instead he just sat there, staring into the firelight.
Fighting off his deep worry at this new unknown, Merlin said softly, "Arthur, are you alright?"
He looked up, distant blue eyes staring at him. "My lord?"
Any other time it would have been funny. After all, Arthur loved to mock him, would come up with the most ridiculous accusations of incompetence and at times would even throw back Merlin's own inventive insults when he couldn't think of his own. This, however, was not ridicule, but genuine confusion. "Arthur, I'm not… I'm Merlin."
"Of course." Arthur bowed his head. "My apologies, my lord Merlin."
"No, just Merlin. I'm not a lord. Never have been. Never will be." He tried to send Arthur a smile, hoping to get one in return, but he just nodded and turned back toward the firelight. Holding back a sigh, eager for conversation and above all wanting to hear Arthur's voice again, Merlin said, "Are you happy to be back? I know I didn't ask you if you wanted to return but I thought…."
"Return from where?"
Perhaps that was a trap best avoided. Merlin wasn't sure how Arthur would react to the knowledge that he'd been brought back from the dead. He wasn't sure that he'd ever be able to explain it properly. Besides, Merlin didn't really want to see blame in Arthur's eyes; he could do that well enough all on his own.
"That's a long story." Arthur didn't even question the evasion, just nodded and sat there, accepting the reply. There was another long pause but Merlin had had enough of silence. "Do you remember anything?"
At last there was emotion in Arthur's voice, a kind of poisonous growl. "A sword flashing. Pain. Fear. Anger. Betrayal." When he saw Merlin staring at him with concern, he said flatly, decisively, "I've been trained to kill since birth."
That was such an odd thing to say and yet he had told Merlin that often enough over the years. Perhaps the true Arthur was coming back. After all, when Lance died, Merlin was able to reach him if only for a little while. He was sure he'd have more success with Arthur. "Do you remember anything else?"
"You. You crying." Then he looked away, into the fire. "Darkness. Blood, so much blood. Bodies everywhere, enemies that I'd killed. Enemies who deserved to die."
This from a man who always tried to do the right thing, who would rather bargain for peace than make war, who would give others chance after chance to make amends. But now he sounded more like Uther than the just and fair king Merlin followed. "We were at war, but sometimes it's better to try to make peace with them first."
"They were enemies." Arthur sounded cold as mountain snow, but then his face changed back into the impassive mask he'd worn when he rose from the lake. "I don't remember anything else."
It was looking more and more like Merlin had a challenge on his hands. He didn't know how much of Arthur was really in there, hiding just under the surface. It might be a rough winter, but at least now he had the chance to try to make amends, a chance to make things right again.
Putting on a smile, trying to look serene when he felt anything but, he said, "Arthur, I'm sure you will remember happier things soon enough. In the meantime, we'll go home and when you feel better, I'll teach you a few things about gathering herbs and farming. You said you always wanted to be a farmer." He held out his hand, waited until Arthur reached out and then pulled him to his feet. "Gwen thought it funny at the time."
"Who is Gwen?"
Putting the fire out with a single word, Merlin turned and tugging Arthur along, started toward their new home. It would appear that there was much to do in the coming months. It was not just teaching him about life and how to be a king again but reintroducing him to all those who survived. "She was someone you knew before. Maybe when you are better, I'll take you to meet her. She's very nice."
Arthur's voice was back to that flat, distant tone. "She's not an enemy."
"No, not an enemy." But somehow Merlin didn't think Arthur believed him.
Merlin had known of the charcoal-maker's hut for a while. He'd stumbled across it with Lance and later took Arthur there to meet 'Dragoon'. The last time he'd been there, there was no one living in it, the owner dead. With Agravaine chasing them, they couldn't stay long anyway and Merlin merely handed over the dead man's clothes for Arthur's use.
Arthur looked like a turnip-head in them; the memory still made him smile even now.
Absurdly, the things they had to leave behind were still there: rusty chainmail and a woollen cloak, mostly eaten by mice. It was a simple enough task to repair them. A little magic and they were almost as good as new. And with the set of armour he'd brought back in his last foray into Camelot, Arthur could be kitted out properly when the time came.
As for the cabin, it was small but adequate for their needs. More importantly, although it was fairly close to Camelot, it was deep enough in the forest to be unnoticed by most. And luckily for them, the garden in back, unkempt and in serious need of weeding come spring, was rich with herbs and medicinal plants. Even in winter, there were still some that Merlin could use to make tinctures or sell if need be.
Arthur didn't seem to care about any of it. All through their trek back, Merlin kept up a steady stream of information, peppering it with insults, hoping to spark some recognition. They'd always done that, traded barbs and jokes, sometimes descending into the ridiculous to make the other smile. But now there was no returned grin and certainly no jokes, absurd or otherwise.
It was enough to exhaust Merlin.
When they finally arrived, Merlin stumbled through the door, lighting the candles with a gesture, and then tugged Arthur inside.
Ordinarily, Arthur would be poking about, his innate curiosity getting the better of him. Now, he just sat down at the small table and waited for instruction.
Brushing at his forehead, a headache blossoming there, Merlin said, "I need firewood. Could you get some? It's around the back."
The old Arthur would have mocked him, reminding him that he was the king and Merlin the worst servant ever, said with a mischievous grin to ease the sting. But this Arthur just nodded and went to hunt for wood.
Merlin had to admit that it was a relief to have him gone.
All his hopes for a fully aware and remembering Arthur had been dashed. Now would come the hard work of helping him to rediscover his true self. Merlin just hoped that he would be strong enough and capable enough to do it.
At first, to hear Arthur breathing softly in the other bed was a comfort. The sounds of peaceful slumber was a reminder of all the nights they'd shared, danger and adventure and boredom, too, but always together, always sharing the pain and the joy. Two sides of the same coin.
Merlin had missed that more than he could say.
But in watching Arthur, the wonder and worry of it all was too much. Shattered, he fell, finally, into an uneasy sleep.
It was full of nightmares.
Once more, the horrors of Camlann assailed him: the screams of the dying, the smells of vomit and blood and gutted men, the feel of gore under his hands, the hot pulse of blood pouring out of Arthur and Merlin helpless to stop it. What use was magic if he couldn't save him? Magic and fury and utter desperation and he lived again the futility of it.
But as he dreamed, in one part of his mind, he was hearing other things, too, not just the screams of agony or the sound of swords clashing or the last gasps of dying men. Under it all, Arthur was pleading with him. Help me, help me, Merlin.
He hadn't said that in the final moments between them. Arthur had forgiven him his lies but never asked for help, only tried to berate Merlin as he always did until there was no more breath and he grew limp and silent while Merlin raged and fought and tried everything to bring him back.
Help me, Merlin. Help me.
Trapped in the nightmare, clothes soaked with Arthur's lifeblood, grief and disbelief throttling him, as the rest of the world seemed to quiet, Arthur's voice was only growing louder, more frantic.
Help me, help me, help me. You've got to listen.
Merlin knelt there, horrified, unsure of what to do. Then impossibly, there was movement and as he looked down, Arthur's lifeless body shivered for a moment and he opened his eyes, gazing up at him.
Before he could say anything, smile or rejoice or call him a prat for scaring him like that, quick as lightning, Arthur grabbed Merlin by his shirt, pulling him closer, shaking him. Eyes full of pain, he was mouthing words that seemed to echo across the battlefield.
Helpmehelpmehelpmehelphelp….
With that, Merlin jerked awake.
Heart racing, his throat tight with tears, he had to take a moment to breathe again. He could still feel Arthur's hands on him and the desperate pleas. It wasn't real, of course, simply a reaction to the day's events with all that worry and trepidation turning into nightmare.
Yet he couldn't ignore what he felt. It seemed so real.
Still shaking, he looked over at Arthur, half-expecting him to be awake. But he was sleeping soundly, limbs loose, messy hair and his nightshirt askew, a slight frown on his face. No muttering or pleas for help, just the slumber of an innocent.
Still Merlin couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something. When morning came, that feeling remained.
In the first few days after Arthur's return, Merlin was still exhausted. He had gruesome dreams every night, each time ending with Arthur pleading with him for help. If Merlin weren't already half-mad, it would have driven him into it. Apparently, guilt was still haunting him.
During the day, he ignored it, trying instead to help the reborn Arthur regain something of his past.
He started simply. Merlin showed him around, letting him get the lay of the land, reminding him of places to avoid for now; Lot's men were still patrolling the area and it would end badly if they were found out.
Most of the time, though, rather than leaving him behind, when he went to gather the rarer herbs he needed for tinctures, he took Arthur along. It was a way of making him comfortable with his environment and more importantly with Merlin.
At least it seemed to work. Arthur was calm, listening to everything Merlin said and nodding gravely each time. He still hadn't laughed, though, nor mocked him, as the old Arthur would have done when Merlin tripped over his own feet.
But they seemed to settle in. Arthur was getting better each day and the dullness in his eyes was slowly abating. He'd even smiled once or twice when Merlin grinned at him, although it seemed more an imitation than a true sign of warmth. But Merlin would take what he could get.
After the early snow, it was warming up a bit, the last days before the onset of true winter. Merlin had stocked a larder full of meat and herbs and grains, enough to last quite a while. But now, he thought it might be a good idea to take Arthur hunting with him before they were snowed in.
Unlike Merlin, the king had always enjoyed chasing after things; Arthur used to follow him often enough in the castle in the golden days before Camlann. Besides, hunting was in his blood. He was certainly good at it, too. He'd often come back to the citadel with game, gleefully triumphant about it when the rest of the party returned empty-handed.
Merlin still wished for those days, sometimes ached for them, even with Arthur beside him now. He wanted to be called idiot again and have Arthur ruffle his hair and mock him. But he knew that those days were gone. He could only hope that this new Arthur would eventually be his friend as his king once had been.
For their hunt, Merlin gathered a few weapons: a well-used sword, a cross-bow that the hut's owner must have used for his own hunting, a long knife for close defence and a shorter one for skinning animals. He wasn't sure if he should give them to Arthur just yet, but Arthur seemed to recognize what Merlin had. In the end, Arthur took the sword while Merlin made do with the rest.
Perhaps it was more like the old days than he'd realized - Merlin as pack-horse while Arthur walked eagerly ahead of him.
He had to admit that Arthur looked good with a sword in his hand again. He was swinging it properly, too, not like a novice, but someone who understood just how to use a weapon. Merlin thought to teach Arthur some basic stances, but it looked like at least some of his memories were coming back. It was a relief. The day promised to be a good one.
It also felt right to let him go on ahead a bit. He seemed so content and it lightened Merlin's heart to see it, enough that he could breathe at last.
Of course, he couldn't let the time pass in silence; he'd often talked when Arthur was hunting, much to the king's chagrin. Now, in keeping with old times, Merlin was rambling on about the unicorn and how Arthur hunted it down and everything turned into a mess after that - when did it not? - and he was just getting to the good part about the poison and drinking it when they spied the rabbits.
Merlin would have used stealth, the crossbow and a bit of magic to capture them, but Arthur had other ideas.
Sword swinging, he suddenly barrelled off toward the creatures. Of course, the rabbits hopped away, trying desperately to escape. But Arthur was fast, surprisingly so. He couldn't catch them, not when they were running to and fro, making sharp turns and burrowing under bushes, but he tried.
Watching him scurry after the rabbits, Merlin felt the joy of having Arthur back bubbling up inside of him. All the worry and nightmare exhaustion faded away. It was so good to see him energetic and carefree.
And when Arthur slipped and fell into the mud and snow, it was just too ridiculous. Merlin started laughing, couldn't stop laughing at his expression of surprise. He looked so much like the old Arthur that he felt a rush of affection warming him.
But Arthur's surprise morphed into confusion and then fury as he stood up. Brushing himself off, sending Merlin a fierce look, he grabbed his sword again and stalked off after the rabbits.
That was not a good sign. Realizing that his amusement at the situation may have been a mistake, wanting to apologize before things got worse, he called out after Arthur, but he ignored him.
Merlin didn't know what to do. He would have mocked the old Arthur and got him to smile after a while, once he saw the absurdity in it all, but he was unsure of how this Arthur would react. After all, there was no real history between them, only a few days of quiet talks and stories about Camelot and how it had been once. For all he knew, this new Arthur resented what Merlin had done by bringing him back, even hated him for it.
He couldn't let Arthur get on ahead, though. The forest was confusing enough to someone who knew its pathways; he would get lost without Merlin to guide him.
Hurrying to catch up, he said, "Arthur, let them go. It's not worth the trouble. I'm sure there are deer…."
The glare Arthur sent back was deadly, his face set, ferocious and fixed, the gleam in his eyes icy.
Merlin's next words died in his throat. He shivered at the sudden cold in the air.
The moment held, both of them staring at the other, Merlin growing more and more worried at the way Arthur wasn't saying anything, just watching him with those fierce eyes.
Then one of the rabbits bolted right in front of Arthur and he reacted, bringing his sword down in a swift chop. The creature went flying and came down hard, torn apart by the blade.
Before Merlin could say another word, Arthur was already there, hacking at the rabbit until the poor creature was little more than a churned mess of blood and bone.
Appalled and feeling sick at the sight, Merlin said, "Arthur, it's dead. Stop it."
Arthur rounded on him, sword pointing straight at his heart. He could see bits of gore on Arthur's cheek, but it was the way he was looking at him that made Merlin uneasy. Very carefully, he said, "Arthur, we needed that for dinner. Perhaps next time, one blow would do."
"You thought I couldn't catch it." His voice was cold as ice. With the sword steady in his hand and his eyes still wild with ferocity, he looked very dangerous. "That I wasn't good enough."
Merlin knew that he needed to calm him down before Arthur did something rash. The sword was worrying enough, but it was Arthur's state of mind that concerned him more. "No, that isn't true. I just thought it would be more trouble than it was worth. Rabbits don't have that much meat on them and…."
"You laughed at me." It looked as if Arthur didn't believe him, that he knew Merlin was just trying to placate him.
Ordinarily, he'd have told Arthur, the old Arthur, that of course he'd been laughing at him. He'd tell him that it was funny in a I-can't-believe-he-was-that-clumsy kind of way. He'd threaten to tell all the knights about it later. And they'd bicker and snap at each other until Merlin relented and then let the story slip out sometime during the next banquet.
But this man, this Arthur, would never understand. Treading very softly, Merlin said, "I didn't…I mean I did, but I didn't. Even when I was at Camelot, when Arthur slipped, I'd laugh. It's just a reaction to surprise, that's all. I didn't mean to make you unhappy."
"You are lying. You'd never laugh at your Arthur. He was a great king. You've told me so often enough. You can't stop talking about him." As Arthur spoke, his voice got louder, sharper. Then taking the sword, he plunged it into the ground and snarling, he said, "I'm not him, no matter how much you want me to be."
"Of course, you are." Merlin was horrified at the turn of events. He had no idea that talking about the king could go so horribly wrong. Reaching out, he tried to calm Arthur down but he was having none of it.
Jerking back, he frowned at Merlin for a brief moment and then turned and strode away.
"I'm not him."