PART FOUR - DARKNESS

All the rooms of the castle except this one, says someone, and suddenly darkness,
 suddenly only darkness.

When Arthur steps out from the pub with Gaius, the rain has stopped and the stars are peeking out between rags of cloud. He feels relaxed after a couple of beers and more than ready to go home and sleep. He walks Gaius to the corner of the pub where they stop to say good night. The old man lives in the flat above his shop and they can see the door from where they are standing.

"See you tomorrow, then," Arthur is saying when the woman appears out of nowhere.

She is middle-aged and small; her face is in shadow as she stands with her back to the window. Inside, there is the sound of glass breaking on the floor and a surge of laughing and cheering. The woman does not seem to notice. She is staring up at Arthur's face.

"So," she says, and there is an unmistakable, smug smile in her voice, "we meet again."

She lifts her hand and utters words in a language Arthur does not understand, and then there is silence and darkness.

xxx

It is still dark when Arthur opens his eyes - a darkness that is damp and compact without so much as a sliver or shimmer of light. He stands still for a while, trying to get a sense of where he is. When he stretches out a hand, his fingers meet only air, but something about this place feels familiar. As if he has been here before. Cautiously he moves forward, step by step with his hand stretched out in front of him. There is a cavernous feel to the place and the floor is uneven. When his fingertips touch a cold, rough wall, the wall blinks to life around him as if he just flipped a switch. As if it was only waiting for his touch.

He surrounded by luminous images, like hundreds of small film screens all showing a different film. Some of them are clear, some hazy, but all of them very familiar.

"Unbelievable," Arthur says out loud.

So we meet again, the woman had said before she had lifted her hand and cursed him, and they have indeed met before.

"Unbelievable," Arthur repeats. "She even used the same curse."

With some refinement though, he reflects, because he is not physically hurt this time.

Last time.

Insane. This whole thing is insane, Arthur thinks and rubs his head. Because there was a last time, in another life - a life that Arthur remembers and the woman must too. One person after another from Arthur's previous life has appeared in this one, but until now he has never met anyone else who seems to remember. When he finally meets another person who does, it has to be someone who cursed him? Arthur shakes his head and laughs a little, because there is nothing else he can do.

Or is there?

He is better prepared this time - he knows what the curse does. It will make him re-live his worst memories until there is no joy left, no hope, no will to live. Arthur has no idea how curses work, but perhaps it is possible to fight it. And if it's not? Then there is no hope for me.

Last time, Merlin had been present when Arthur was cursed, and Merlin had used his own magic to save him. In this life, Arthur barely knows anything at all about Merlin, and certainly not whether or not he has magic. Gaius is Arthur's only hope. Gaius saw what happened, and if he contacts Merlin... But that is not much of a hope. Gaius has never given any hints about remembering, and even if he does remember, even if he does ask for Merlin's help and Merlin proves to have magic, there is no guarantee that Merlin would want to use that magic to save Arthur. Not if he remembers.

No, the chance is slim. There are far too many ifs and buts. Arthur is on his own; Merlin will not come to the rescue this time. And since there is no way out of this strange cave except through the maze of Arthur's own memories, he might as well get on with it and improvise along the way. Nothing is gained by waiting.

Arthur studies the images around him and makes a face, resigned to his task. I will start with one of the least awful memories. Decision made, Arthur takes a deep breath and steps inside the image.

xxx

"What are you doing?"

Arthur is standing in the doorway to Morgana's room, thunderstruck. Her chest of drawers has been emptied, the wardrobe door is open, and there is a suitcase on her bed. By the door near Arthur's feet is her rucksack, stuffed full to bursting point.

"What does it look like?" Morgana says.

She does not even turn around, just folds a couple of blouses and places them in the suitcase. She is right, of course - it is obvious what she is doing, and Arthur's first reaction is a panicked, selfish one. What about me? What am I going to do? Don't leave me here!

"Do you really have to?" he asks.

He hates his voice for wobbling and knows that this question is nearly as stupid as the previous one. This time, Morgana turns around to face him. Her mouth is hard and she does not meet his eyes, quite. Her gaze hovers somewhere around his eyebrows.

"Don't be ridiculous, Arthur," she says in clipped tones. "You know that Dad and I don't see eye to eye on anything, and I really mean anything. If I stay here, I won't... I'm going to... you know what he is like. I need to go where I can breathe, where I can be me. Where I don't feel useless all the time, and wrong, and unnatural."

Arthur swallows. He knows exactly what she is talking about because he feels much the same, but he is sixteen years old and will have to stay with their father for another two years, and he does not know what to do without his sister. Together, they have an ally at least. But with Morgana gone...

"I'm of age," she says a little defiantly, as if she knows what he is thinking. "I can go wherever I want to go and do whatever I want to do." She pauses and laughs, a joyless little thing of a laugh. "God, Arthur, listen to me. I really do need to leave. Staying here makes me sound like a bad song."

She comes up to him and hugs him then, hard, and Arthur bites the inside of his cheeks not to cry from anger and self-pity, or from empathy with her, chews the edges of his tongue until the tears in his eyes are from pain. Morgana smells like her citrus shower gel and Arthur is going to miss her so much he does not even want to think about it.

"It feels like I should try to talk you out of it," he murmurs into her hair. "But I do know Dad. I'm pretty sure I'll do the same thing you are doing when I turn eighteen."

Morgana pulls away and looks at him. The expression in her eyes is a mixture of pity and disdain, Arthur thinks - and maybe a hint of jealousy.

"No, you won't," she says. "You are his crown prince, you will do what you have to do because... well, I don't know why, but you will. Because you are you, I suppose. And sometimes I admire you for it, for your... your perseverance. Sometimes I envy you just a little, because you belong. But I have no place here. There is no room for me. Uther wants me to - to - he wants me not to be what I am, Arthur. He wants me not to have magic. Oh, god, that is so Uther, it's so utterly unreasonable. I mean, what could I possibly do about it even if I wanted to? I can't chop off my magic or exorcise it."

Like he wants me not to be gay, Arthur thinks, but then maybe he is not gay and it is just a phase; people like to say that about teenagers. That things are just a phase. And perhaps they are right, because there are girls he likes, too, and perhaps the crush on boys, the getting hard from looking at the back of Percy's neck in class stuff, will just go away. He gets hard thinking about Elena's breasts, too, so maybe that is not a totally unrealistic hope.

"Where will you go?" he asks helplessly.

"I'm not telling you," Morgana replies with her back to him as she closes the suitcase and locks it. "Actually I'm not sure where I'll go, but I wouldn't tell you even if I knew, because if Uther asks, you won't be able to keep your mouth shut."

Arthur notices that she has stopped saying Dad and calls their father by name. She wants to distance herself from him, from them. He does not want her to categorise him with Uther; he is her brother and he wants to go on being her brother. The one she talks to.

"I would too!" He sounds like he is five years old, but he knows she is right. "Morgana," he says and catches her arm as she pushes past him through the door. "Just... just let me know you're okay, yeah?"

Her mouth does a weird twisty thing and he realises she is trying not to cry. She just nods, as if her voice fails her.

And that is that. Arthur hears the front door shut, hears a car door slam - it's a cab, he sees it as he runs to the living room window. Then he is alone in the house, alone with his father with no ally to turn to, no one to throw pillows at or wrestle for the remote or have long breakfasts with on Sundays.

He walks slowly back to his room where he throws himself on the bed and lies there for hours, watching the light wander across the ceiling.

xxx

Perhaps I should have tried to stop her, Arthur thinks now, but he knows he could not have. Nothing could have persuaded her to stay, and he can only hope she is happier where she is, wherever that is. He gets the occasional email from her, and he writes to her every week, as he has done from the first email he received, just responding to the sender address without knowing where she is. She hardly ever replies or comments on anything he says. Don't worry about me, I'm fine. Take care of yourself. That is usually her entire message, but at least he knows she is alive.

He has failed her, he realises with a sick stab of guilt. He let her leave and never tried to find her, thinking she did not want to be found. But what is it like for her, knowing that her brother never even made an effort?

Arthur remembers another day with Morgana and Uther in the car. It is summer, warm; they are driving along a narrow road somewhere in the countryside. Arthur is six and Morgana eight. Arthur is in the back seat with the window open. He sticks his hand through it and laughs half frightened, half delighted, at the strong wind. It catches his hand and presses it backwards, as if an invisible giant has taken hold of it. He spreads his fingers and feels the chill of the wind against his palm, the rush of it between his fingers.

"I don't need to wash my hands before we eat," he declares to his father and sister. "I'm all wind-washed now!"

Morgana opens the window on her side and sticks her head out. Her hair flies wildly around her like something alive. When Uther sees her in the rear mirror, he pulls over and stops.

"Are you both insane?" he says, opening the driver side door angrily and getting out. "You could get yourself killed! Don't ever let me see you do that again, Morgana."

She puts her tongue out at her father and he clenches his teeth, jaw muscle jumping under the skin. It looks like he would like to slap her but just pushes her inside and closes the window with jerky movements. Morgana looks at Arthur and grins, but Arthur closes the window on his side and curls in his seat, ducking his head. He hates it when Uther is angry with him. He will do anything to make that look in Uther's eyes go away. Anything.

xxx

If I get out of this alive, Arthur thinks, I have to find Morgana. It's been six years since she left. And sixteen since that day in the car, when he had thought he would do anything if it could only make Uther not be angry with him. That feeling has persisted. Arthur's instinct is always to apologise to Uther, even if he knows that he is right and Uther is wrong. He needs to learn to quench that impulse more consistently and stand up for himself.

As the Crown Prince of Camelot, it had been harder to resist, bound by duty and honour as he had been. I'm a coward, Arthur thinks, in this life and before.

xxx

Arthur walks along the corridor leading to the king's chambers. His steps are determined, his shoulders braced. Outside the familiar, heavy oak door he stops, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. What he has to say is neither enjoyable nor easy, but he has to say it nonetheless.

There is no answer from within. Arthur frowns and knocks again.

"Come," Uther says, and Arthur pushes the door open.

Uther is at his table with a goblet of wine by his side and a quill in his hand, looking up with a furrow between his eyebrows. Arthur inhales in preparation to speak but Uther waves an impatient, dismissive hand. "We will not discuss this any further, Arthur. I will not agree to negotiations and that is that."

"If you would just hear me out," Arthur says, trying hard not to sound pleading. "You have nothing to lose by hearing me out. Please, Father. I think you should listen."

Sometimes, Uther is so consumed by living up to his own image of a hard but just king that he ironically forgets about justice, about fairness and wisdom, and only the hardness remains.

Now, Uther's eyes darken. "So I do not listen? My son is telling me I should listen? Well, Arthur, let me reveal something to you: your problem is the opposite. You listen too much - to everyone, everywhere, always. This not necessarily a virtue."

"Collecting information gives me a better foundation for my decisions," Arthur replies stiffly.

Uther puts the quill down on the table, slowly and deliberately, and leans back in his chair. "Oh, this is getting better and better. Now you are saying that my decisions are uninformed. That I am."

"No, I did not mean - "

"Age and experience, Arthur, age and experience. That has to count for something even in your world, does it not? But perhaps it is not possible to truly appreciate something you have not yet achieved." Uther picks up the quill. "My decision stands, and as I have told you repeatedly, I will not discuss this further. Perhaps you would do well to show a little more humility."

Arthur bites back his protest. "Yes, Father. I apologise, and I wish you a good night."

xxx

"Weak," Arthur whispers to himself where he stands in the odd gallery of his own memories. "I was weak then; I am weak now. Useless."

The old patterns repeat themselves so relentlessly. Perhaps there is no way out this time either.

xxx

Arthur had been seventeen when he had begun to remember. At first he had thought he was insane, but he was not hearing voices telling him what to do or imagining himself to be King Arthur now. It was simply memories like any other, except they happened to be from another life.

They were very clear and detailed. He remembered emotions, sensations, light, sounds, textures, smells. Clothes. Politics. Places. Food.

And people.

One after another they had turned up in his current life, the people who had meant most to him in Camelot. Uther and Morgana had already been there; they were his family now as they had been then. Gaius had been there too, as a friend of Uther's.

At university, Arthur had met Guinevere.

xxx

Arthur loves being at uni. He studies when he has to and not so much when he doesn't, he makes friends and plays football and goes clubbing, but sometimes he feels much older than nineteen. The other students don't care much about the consequences of what they do or think too much about the future. They have sex and get drunk and have fun, but Arthur is looking for something. He is not sure what it is, only that he has not found it. Something. He has had a girlfriend and two boyfriends - none of those relationships lasted because they missed whatever it was, too. Now he is single and not looking for commitment, hardly even for sex. Sometimes he feels ancient. He is nineteen years old and has the experience of a whole lifetime. Of course he feels different from his fellow students.

He meets Gwen when she comes into Gaius's shop. She is every bit as pretty as she had been then and just as kind, and Arthur knows from the moment he sees her that he will love her. He does, and their relationship is gentle and easy and fun, but there is more glow than fire. Whatever it is Arthur is looking for is not to be found here, either.

The day Arthur comes back to his room to find Gwen waiting for him at the door, they have been a couple for nearly two years. As soon as he sees her he knows what is coming. He knows it from the look on her face, her demeanour, her posture. She follows him into the room quietly and does not want to sit. She is so very sorry, she says, but it just isn't working between them.

"I do love you, Arthur, you know that, but sometimes it feels like you are more of a... friend." Her fingers are playing with an elastic hair ribbon, twisting and pulling it until it nearly snaps. She seems unaware of doing it. "Oh god, it sounds awful when I say it like that. I don't mean...well, I do, but..."

Arthur ought to be upset, he thinks. He ought to feel hurt or betrayed or at least feel something, something more acute than this dull acceptance. But there is no pain or hurt or betrayal involved because Gwen is right; it is not working between them. Even the sex is slightly awkward, as if they really are just good friends who try having sex to see what it would be like. So no, Arthur is not hurt. All he feels is a kind of tired sadness.

"I'm not what you need," Gwen says in a small voice. "I feel bad about not being able to give you what you need. Maybe if I'd been a bloke..."

He hugs her then, just holds her without saying anything. It would have been no different if she had been a bloke. The problem is not her gender; the problem is not Gwen. They breathe together for a minute.

"Perhaps we tried to be something we're not," Arthur says gently when he can't take the silence any longer. "Please don't apologise. You have done absolutely nothing wrong. This is no one's fault. I think we are better as friends, and you know I love you too. You do know that, don't you?"

There are tears in her eyelashes when she pulls back and looks up at him, but she bites her lip and smiles as she nods. "I'd like for us to be friends."

Arthur leans down and kisses her softly on the mouth one last time.

When Gwen leaves there is an emptiness in his chest, in his head and in his room. It is not the emptiness of something missing but the kind of calm, quiet emptiness that follows on a decision, when it is final but the next step has not been taken. The pause in between. Arthur does not know what the next step is.

No, the problem here is not Gwen or her gender. Arthur has had the same problem with everyone he has tried to love, because they all share the same flaw: they are not Merlin.

xxx

Of all the people Arthur failed, he failed Merlin the worst.

Merlin appears in his dreams at night - Merlin the sorcerer towering over him, accusing and dangerous, or Merlin as he was when he first arrived in Camelot - a boy with dimples and innocent eyes, much too cheeky for his own good. Brave, loyal Merlin who sometimes showed such unexpected glimpses of wisdom.

Arthur's great mistake had been to let himself get scared - of Merlin, of Merlin's magic, and most of all of himself. He can't bear to think about it. The distance between them. The loneliness of them both. They had gone under.

xxx

Arthur has been helping Gaius at the bookshop for years, whenever Gaius needs him. Sometimes there are months between his days at the shop, sometimes - typically at the beginning of the term - he works a day or two a week. Apparently there is a second student helping this year, but his days have not coincided with Arthur's yet.

It is a clear, crisp autumn day and Arthur is in a good mood as he walks from the tube stop to the shop. Twice on the way he gets smiled at by strangers, and concludes that he must be smiling to himself.

The doorbell tinkles when he enters, but Gaius is nowhere to be seen. Over by the psychology shelf two girls are giggling hysterically, and a tall boy browsing the nearby philosophy section is glancing at them, his mouth twitching. Arthur begins to make his way towards the back of the shop when a dark head pops out from behind a bookshelf.

"Can I help you?"

The world slows to a halt around him, and for a moment Arthur honestly believes he is going to pass out. He stands there to the sound of those giggling girls and just stares, because the boy in front of him is Merlin. Arthur is rooted to the spot and can't think of a single thing to say, not even a "hello" which would probably be appropriate. Merlin's eyebrows shoot up, and he is about to say something when Gaius appears.

"Oh, Arthur, you're here," the old man says. "Excellent. This is Merlin."

Arthur is surprised that he gets any work at all done that day. His only focus is Merlin; everything else is a blur. Merlin looks the same - tall, gangly, blue-eyed and pale with a few freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose. The dimples are the same; the mop of black hair, the silly ears and the long fingers. Arthur wants to talk to Merlin like he did when they were still close, refer to all their old memories, the good ones - do you remember the stable cat you named Archimedes? Do you remember that time when Gwaine was so drunk he tried to snog the broom? Do you remember?

And perhaps Merlin does, because he is cautious and not overly friendly. He talks to Arthur only when the situation demands it and does not spend a minute more than necessary in his company.

So the days go by and they are still no more than acquaintances. They go to the cinema once; they go for a coffee sometimes on a break. Arthur does not want to push it. He looks at Merlin's hands holding the coffee mug and remembers them handling a sword, remembers them holding a blue, crackling ball of magic. He looks at Merlin's pretty mouth and remembers a kiss. He wants to be close and does not know how.

xxx

What a coward Arthur had been back then. He had loved Merlin, he had wanted him, and Merlin had wanted him back. But Arthur had refused to put himself in that position, did not want to risk anyone knowing. God, that kiss, that one kiss they had shared - the sweetness of it, and the agony. Arthur had wanted it so badly and for so long, and when it had happened at last, it had frightened him with its intensity. He had been terrified by his own emotions because they had threatened to consume him, and he could not let himself be consumed. There were his duties to consider; his country and his people. He could not let one person - one man! - be everything to him. If he let his love for Merlin bloom, it would ruin him.

And so he had pushed Merlin aside, only to wake up one day and find Merlin gone.

xxx

It is harder going now. The memories are getting darker; the space smaller and more oppressive. Arthur's shoulders are aching as if he is carrying something heavy, as if he is wearing armour. Even if he was not physically harmed by the curse, there is still a dull, throbbing pain in his chest. He presses a hand to his sternum, clenches his teeth and stumbles half-blind through the gallery of his failures and his guilt, his mistakes and his bad conscience, of all the things that he did wrong and all the times he did not listen.

xxx

Arthur knocks gently on his father's door. It's late in the evening but the door is ajar and Uther's lamp is still lit. When there is no answer, Arthur sticks his head around the door and opens his mouth to speak, but stops himself. Uther is sitting on the bed with his back to the door, his shoulders hunched and his body turned just enough for Arthur to see what it is he is holding in his hand.

"I missed you today," Uther murmurs, making Arthur jump. "I wish you had been there to talk to. With you, everything was so much easier."

He is talking to Ygraine's photograph, the framed one from his bedside table; his voice thick with tears as his thumb caresses the glass. Arthur backs away slowly, retreating down the corridor careful not to make a sound. It feels like being punched, knowing.

Knowing that Uther still, after all these years, misses Ygraine so painfully. That he still wishes he could talk to her. And that it is Arthur's fault that things are the way they are.

Dad would have been so much better off without me. He would have been happy still, if it had not been for me.

It is ridiculous and over-dramatic to think that way; Arthur knows this. He did not kill his mother. He was just born. But the fact remains: if it had not been for Arthur, Ygraine would still be here. He caused her death simply by existing, and made his father a deeply unhappy man. There is nothing he can do. Nothing.

xxx

Arthur's steps are slowing, the weight on his shoulders growing heavier. He is responsible for his mother's death, and back in Camelot, he had failed to save his father's. Uther bleeding in his arms on the floor is an image that will never go away. He remembers every thread in the weave of Uther's linen shirt, the round dark stains from his own tears. And later Uther's pale, lifeless face on the pillow. The certainty that he would die. Arthur had taken desperate measures that time and had paid for it, paid for it with his father's life.

xxx

Sometimes Arthur dreams about killing the unicorn. The beautiful creature comes dancing into the clearing, shimmering in the light, and he shoots it. The heavy thud when it falls makes him wince. Then come the dry wells and ruined crops, the starving people. And Arthur is the cause of it all - he, who should have protected his people and provided for them.

xxx

Arthur is staggering, unable to walk upright, and still pressing a hand to his sternum to ease the pain. He is almost there, he can feel it. The Door is calling to him. Somewhere deep inside he still harbours the hope that Merlin will come, that Merlin still has magic and will reach him in time. But he knows better than to expect it, and he does not deserve to be saved. Merlin, Morgana... the people he failed and betrayed. They will be better off without him.

He is so exhausted he trips and falls, landing on all fours. When he looks up he sees a scene he will never be able to forget. This is the worst memory of them all: the Druid camp.

It never leaves him alone. It does not matter that he once asked forgiveness for what he had done, and received it - that does not change the actual fact of what he did that day, what he caused to happen. It is of no matter that he was young and wanted desperately to prove himself to his father and his men - the fact remains: he killed innocent people to prove himself worthy of the throne one day. He wanted to show his men that he could lead them, that he could give difficult orders and stand with the best of them. There is no justification for what he did. There never has been. What is worse, he knew it to be wrong from the beginning; knew that the order from his father had been given in blind hate and without reason. The Druids caused no harm, no disturbance. They lived their lives quietly and peacefully according to their ancient faith, performing their rituals and everyday tasks, and never imposed their magic on other people unless they were asked to. But Arthur raided the camp on his father's orders, anxious to live up to expectations and show everyone that he was a capable commander of men.

He had much to learn.

xxx

Arthur stands with his men looking out over the valley where the Druid camp lies peacefully in the morning light. Here and there smoke rises from breakfast fires and the smell of cooking reaches his nose. This is wrong, he knows it is wrong, and yet it must be done.

Arthur gives the order.

"Spare the lives of women and children!" he roars as the men burst forth, but his words are lost in the clamour.

He will never forget what he sees that day, will never again underestimate the cruelty of men. Once the killing begins, there is no stopping it. Arthur continues to shout his orders about women and children, but some of his men are too far gone in their bloodlust to listen. The attack is already completely out of hand.

Arthur remembers it as a blur of faded red and blue, the dyes favoured by the Druids for their tents and cloaks. He remembers the red stained deeper red by their blood; he remembers the screams. Tents are ripped open, swords and daggers cut and stab through fabric and flesh. Pots and bowls are overturned and their contents spilled on the ground, and the tents are set on fire. He remembers how the dry washing on a line catches fire and burns brightly, the flames floating in the air like a magic trick. The stench of fire is thick in his nostrils. Burning straw, wool, flesh; hot metal and charred leather. Water splashed over hot stone.

The whole camp is destroyed. Men, women and children - not a single one is left alive.

In the black, livid desert of smoking ashes and burnt, twisted bodies, Arthur squats next to the small, charred body of a child. Tears rise in his eyes, bile in his throat. When he gingerly lifts one of the tiny hands, it comes apart in his fingers. Shocked, he falls backwards but quickly gets to his feet, staggering off to vomit behind a rock. Over and over he wipes his chalky palm on his breeches, rubs it until the skin is raw, shuddering from head to toe and gagging again at the feel of human bones in his hand.

The men are quiet as they ride back. They have sobered up after their frenzy and many of them are ashamed. Leon is there beside Arthur; Leon who would rather die than hurt a child. Arthur saw him try to stop the others back at the camp, saw him try to make them see sense, but they were beyond listening. Tears have made meandering little paths in the soot on Leon's face. Arthur's heart is beating hard, choking him. He does not want to look at Leon, cannot bear to meet his eyes.

They never talk about it afterwards. No one mentions the raid on the Druid camp until Arthur and his knights come across the sanctuary by mistake; no one would have mentioned it if Elyan's water skin had not been empty. But when Elyan drinks from the well and the ghost of the Druid boy haunts him, Arthur knows he must return and ask forgiveness. If that is what the Druids demand, Arthur will give them his life. There is no choice in the matter. Justice can never be done. This is as close as they will come.

Arthur is glad to have Merlin with him when he rides back, glad that Merlin gets to hear his confession and his plea for forgiveness. He wants Merlin to know what sort of man Arthur was, but also what sort of man he has become. He wants Merlin to hear what happened that day, what Arthur did and what he failed to do; he wants Merlin to know how much he hates himself for it. He finds great comfort in Merlin's company that day.

But that was before Arthur knew who Merlin was. What Merlin was.

xxx

To this day, Arthur can't abide the smell of burning. Sometimes he wakes up with the stench of the Druid camp in his nostrils and his day is ruined; sometimes he walks past a garden where someone is peacefully burning leaves, and he claps a hand over his nose and mouth to fight the instant nausea. To him this is the stench of horror, of death and of lost control, when he sees disaster coming and is unable to stop it. A symbol of everything that went wrong.

xxx

He had expected to be at the Door. Last time he had to find his way through the maze of his memories, the Druid camp had been the last one. The Door is near, he can sense it, but there is one more, bleak memory to re-live before he is there. Something that, back then, had yet to happen.

xxx

"Has anyone seen Merlin this morning?" Arthur asks Sir Leon. "He was not present for the Council."

It turns out that no one has seen Merlin since yesterday.

"Shall I go find him, Sire?" Sir Leon asks.

"I will do it myself," Arthur says.

It is unusual for him to go to Merlin's chambers. They have grown apart and these days Arthur feels like an intruder when he does, as if it is too personal, too intimate, to be in the chamber where Merlin sleeps, looking at his unmade bed, his scattered clothes and the unwashed soup bowls.

Merlin does not tend to Arthur any more. After revealing his magic, he was relieved of all his servant's duties.

"I don't mind doing it, Arthur," he had said and laughed. "Not now that I can use my magic to get it done!"

But Arthur had thought it bad use of the great resource that Merlin's magic was, and that it was time for Merlin to be acknowledged as the king's advisor. It had not brought them closer.

Arthur climbs the steps to Merlin's chambers and knocks on the door.

"Merlin! Are you awake? Were you at the tavern yesterday?"

Not a sound is heard from the other side of the door, and Arthur knocks again.

"Merlin! I'll have you put in the stocks for defying your king."

It is an old, feeble joke between them, both of them knowing that Merlin only follows the orders he wants to follow, and the stocks will not hold him unless he chooses to let them.

When there is still no reply, Arthur pushes the door open. The chambers are empty. Merlin must be out on some errand.

They lead separate lives these days. Merlin usually attends Council and any Round Table gatherings where he is needed, but otherwise they do not see much of each other. Merlin occasionally takes a meal with Arthur and Guinevere, which Arthur knows Guinevere enjoys, but Arthur is always uneasy on these occasions. He sits watching them both, the two people he loves most in the world, and sees the choices he could have made and the one he did make. He watches Merlin's fingers hold a spoon or peel an apple, and wonder what they would feel like under his own clothes, on his skin. And he looks at Guinevere and is ashamed.

When Merlin does not appear at Council the next morning or the morning after and no one seems to know anything of his whereabouts, Arthur sends out a search party. They return with nothing, and Arthur sends two of his knights to Ealdor. They come back without news of Merlin.

Arthur thinks of Merlin every minute of every day, as if Merlin has moved in permanently in Arthur's mind.

He never returns.

xxx

The Door is even more forbidding than Arthur remembered. He must tilt his head back to be able to see it all; the two black, heavy door halves, the panels on either side and the one above. The Door is sinister but promises freedom and peace: if he can only make it open for him to step through, he will be relieved of his pain. Once he steps through, all his guilt will be erased.

All of a sudden, Arthur can hear the sea. He remembers Merlin on the rock shore, how they had sat facing each other under the watchful eyes of Anhora. The crashing waves, the poison in the cup, the pale light touching the rim of the chalice and glinting in Merlin's eyes... Merlin, so ready to die for Arthur. But the poison had not been Merlin's to drink, and Arthur had taken it.

He had been so close to death then, and he is so close now. If he can find that shore, with the sound of the waves and the sea birds crying, then he will be free. If he can only open the Door, he will find the sea on the other side of it.

Not yet, a voice inside him says. Not yet.

And Arthur waits. Despite the odds, despite the pain that bends his back like that of an old man, he waits.

The sea is calling him.