Good grief, would you look at that? It's Christmas Eve! Someone hold me, I'm overrun by christmas feels. Sadly, instead of writing the promised fluffy-mushy-christmas-fic, I wrote this. Not my best chapter, but I hope you will forgive me. No real warnings; not angst, but not happy!cracky!stuff either.
Lots of thanks for the response to last chapter - you're all awesome! Therefore, this is your christmas present.
Summary: In which Merlin returns after years of self-imposed exile, and is greeted by a Camelot where everything is different yet nothing has changed.
Camelot is bathed in the last sunlight of the day, making the light veneer of snow sparkle and the white towers seem to glow. Merlin allows himself to stop and drink in the sight, before hurrying along.
It's still early enough for the guards to allow him entrance without questioning, which he is more than glad for (he doesn't really feel like knocking out some poor guards). Camelot is a buzz of activity; its citizens running around in the streets, preparing for the yuletide, foreign salesmen trying to sell their goods…
It's achingly familiar. The city hasn't changed – the bakery is new, built over the ashes of the last one, and the inhabitants of the many houses has changed, but Camelot itself remains what it always has been. He sees a few familiar faces (but even those faces are wrong) but no one recognizes Merlin (he doesn't know if he should be relieved or disheartened).
"There is no place for magic here," a voice calls out, and Merlin grimaces. Ah; there's the Camelot he remembers. He sneaks a glance towards the source of the call, and sees a guard steering a young woman towards the gates.
"Please," Merlin hears her plead as they near him, "I'm no sorceress, I – I only wish to buy some food from the market – "
The guard scoffs impatiently and tugs less than gently at her arm. Merlin responds by less than gently making said guard fall over in the muddy snow.
"Oi," the guard splutters as he climbs to his feet, pointing a finger at Merlin, "I saw that, sorcerer!"
"Well I bloody well hope you did," Merlin replies. "I wasn't exactly subtle."
"May I ask what you're doing here, sorcerer?" the guard asks, surprisingly calmly. The woman's eyes dart between them, and in an unspoken agreement, she quietly slips away towards the gates.
"Oh, you have such lovely manners," Merlin says, plastering on his biggest and most obnoxious smile. "I'm glad to see the young men of Camelot are such a respectable bunch."
"Indeed," the guard says, "but while you will not be killed for your magic, your kind certainly isn't welcome here."
Merlin tuts. "I'm sure there are more polite ways to dismiss someone, young man."
The guard has yet to raise his sword at him, opting to merely keep his hand at the sword hilt, "That's enough. I will gladly escort you to the gates, if you may?"
"Oh, will you now? That's very kind of you, good sir, but I'm afraid I'll have to decline. Now, if you'll excuse me; I've got business to attend to."
"I insist," the guard says through gritted teeth, blocking Merlin's path.
Merlin huffs out a leering laugh and leans closer to the guard. "Nah. I've got no business down at the gates."
"This is your last warning, sorcerer; leave or I will – "
"What? Drag me to your king? Then by all means, I've intended to seek an audience with that prat, anyway."
The poor guard shifts uneasily (Merlin wonders if he should knock him out, just to spare him the obvious confusion) and his eyes dart to the sides, looking for reinforcements. "I – I don't – "
"Well, you're supposed to do your duty, now aren't you?" Merlin prods mildly. "And here you have a bloody sorcerer, not only disturbing the peace but alas, also assaulting one of Camelot's finest guards! Grievous offences, these, you better alert that king of yours."
"The king is hardly informed of every petty crime, you will be taken to the dungeons, not – "
"Ah, the dungeons! Please tell me you've at least upgraded those – it's embarrassingly easy to break out of those bloody rat holes."
The guard grips his arm. "You've wasted enough time already; since you're not leaving, you will be coming with me."
"You're absolutely right, my friend," Merlin agrees readily, and (with the help of a healthy dose of magic) forcefully steers them both towards the great hall. The guard yelps and digs his heels into the ground (again, Merlin feels pity for the man since there are more than a few gawking on-lookers), which is highly ineffective.
Entering the castle steals his breath away once more; every nook and corner of the castle brings yet another memory, every floor he has walked and…. For pity's sake, this was his home. His feet carry him to the great hall and, sparing no thought to the guards trying to stop him, he (very politely), knocks at the big door before entering.
"Begging your pardon," Merlin says smoothly as every gaze in the room turns towards him, "but I seek an audience with the king."
There are some muffled thuds and curses from the guards behind him, but otherwise it's deadly quiet.
"Leave us."
The king's grave voice (Merlin's slightly disappointed in the lack of surprise on his face) silences all objections and, as one, the court members and knights stand up and scurry away from the room. Finally the room is empty except for the king and the warlock, and only when the doors are closed does Merlin release his hold over the guards at the other side.
"So," Merlin starts and strolls closer to the table, pretending to not see how the king's knuckles turn white as he grips the armrests. "I see you kept the Round Table."
"It's rather well-known by now," he replies dryly, "I'm quite sure there'd be public riots if I had it removed."
Merlin hums noncommittally and slumps down in a chair a few seats away from the king. "You have a bigger chair," he remarks wryly, "Doesn't that sort of ruin the notion that everyone is equal at this table?"
"Ah, well; it's a rather old-fashioned idea, don't you think?"
"Old-fashioned," the warlock echoes and laughs bitterly. They fall back into the safety of silence, each taking their time to study the other's features. The lines in the king's face have grown deeper, the light of youth in his eyes duller, and the hair has turned to silver, but the face still remains familiar and loved. Something (the same old stab of pain) twists his guts and he finds himself longing for the days of his own youth, more fiercely than he has in years.
"You look well for your age," the king says scathingly, and Merlin shrugs (immortality's a bitch, he wants to say).
"I can't say the same for you. You've aged a lot since I last saw you."
"I've aged properly, sorcerer."
"Really?" Merlin snaps, "Really, sire? If anything's old-fashioned these days, it's that bloody magic-is-evil agenda. For god's sake, what are you doing?"
"I'm not executing any magic-users, am I?"
"All in good time, sire. Fear and prejudice is something that grows, and you're certainly feeding the flames to another Purge."
"Why did you leave?"
The question throws him off-course, leaving him blinking in the wake of the abrupt change of subject. "Don't tell me this is you throwing a temper tantrum, you absolute – "
"I asked you a question."
"I think we both know the answer. I would have returned if – "
"What? The news of Camelot's Queen dying didn't reach your ears? Or did her death just not have enough importance for you, the oh-so-mighty Emrys?"
"We both know that's not – "
He slams his hands against the table, the loud bang echoing through the hall, his voice rising; "You were her closest advisor, her best friend since – well, since forever. And you just… left. You weren't here when she died, and you weren't at her funeral. Just what kind of friend are you, Merlin? Where were you?"
"Gwen knew where I was," Merlin replies quietly, feeling his own temper stirring at being interrupted.
His response is greeted by a sharp, humourless laugh. "Oh, forgive me, what an incredibly stupid question. You were away, waiting. Waiting, waiting, always waiting."
"It's my duty, as well as my destiny."
"Destiny," the king hollers and shoots away from the table to pace (always pacing around, these bloody royals). "I am sick and tired of hearing about some bloody destiny. I swear, there are so many times I've wanted to shake some sense into you –your destiny is dead, Merlin! Dead!"
"Do you think I don't know that?" Merlin shoots back, voice sharp as a whip and magic angrily tingling under his skin.
"Well, sometimes I wonder!" the king of Camelot snarls before leaning his weight against one of the empty chairs, breathing deeply, before continuing in a softer voice; "He's dead. We were still here. We needed you here."
"You're a good king, lad," Merlin sighs and stands up (it seems like he's always giving pep-talks to downtrodden royals). "And you're more than capable of running this kingdom, and you have dozens of trusted advisors. You didn't truly need me here."
"She did," Loholt replies, but the fire in his voice has died down.
"So that's what these laws against magic are about? That a sorcerer had the nerve to leave the kingdom? Loholt, do you truly think your mother would want you to reinforce that particular ban?"
"You shouldn't have told her," Loholt replies, squirming away from the subject of magic. "You shouldn't have told her that my father would come back. She… for god's sake, she spent over forty years waiting for her love to return to her. And you – you're still waiting after sixty years, and you couldn't even be bothered to be here when mother died."
"It's not like I left in the dead of night without saying goodbye," Merlin points out gently, resisting the urge to squeeze Loholt's shoulder (or, gods forbid, give him a hug). "I left with Gwen's blessing, and I still kept in contact."
"We needed you here," Loholt repeats, "but you were busy searching for a long dead king."
The king strides out from the great hall, leaving Merlin wondering whether he will be arrested at sight or not. With a small shrug he takes the familiar servant passage away from there, slinking towards the kitchens in order to steal a pitcher of mulled wine.
oOoOo
Merlin doesn't bother knocking (he never has – why bother starting now?), and simply slips into the king's chambers. Loholt is standing by the window, staring out at the courtyard, and the sight is so Arthur that Merlin wants to turn around and never return. Overlooking the darker skin and too old appearance, Loholt resembles his father in both looks and posture.
"Don't start another Purge, little princeling," Merlin murmurs as he comes to stand beside his king (who isn't truly his king). "Nothing good comes out of it."
Loholt keeps his gaze fixed at the darkening world outside. "I'm hardly a prince anymore."
"No," Merlin agrees mildly and fills the two goblets with mulled wine, "I suppose you're not."
"Damn it, Merlin," Loholt sighs as he lets his forehead thud gentle against the cold glass (Merlin half expects him to blow on the glass and write down names – like the little boy he knew used to do). "You just couldn't let anything remain simple, could you?"
"So I've been told. Making people's lives difficult is an unfortunate hobby of mine."
"Why are you here, Merlin?"
Merlin shrugs. "Since your laws forbidding magic-users to enter is obviously a temper tantrum, someone has to drag your royal arse in line. Don't think you're too old for me to pull you over my knee, boy."
That drags a startled chuckle from Loholt, if nothing else. "I've missed you, uncle," he says wearily, and it's not fair to see the boy he saw grow up look like this; an old man with shoulders straining against the weight of a kingdom, grown cold and tired.
"For what it's worth, I am sorry, Loholt."
The king's lips twitch into a bitter smile. "Yes. But you don't regret leaving."
A part of Merlin longs to explain himself; how it tore at him to see everyone grow older while he remained young, how awful it was to see old friends leave him one by one, to see the Round Table be filled by new faces and be surrounded by memories. How much he had loved to help raising Arthur's son, and how much he loved Gwen and Loholt as his family in all but blood, how sirs Leon and Percival were wonderful friends… And how terrified he was to see them all fade away. How petrified he is at the thought of being forced to remain on this earth, cursed to a long and lonely existence of waiting for his king.
"No," he finally says. "But I'm sorry nonetheless."
Loholt accepts the outstretched goblet and raises it in a mockery of a toast, "Happy yule, uncle," he murmurs and watches the snowflakes twirling outside.
Merlin clinks his own goblet against the king's, taking his time to study his profile and knowing that sooner or later Loholt will fade in his memory, become a blurred face in a mass of faces, and by the time Arthur returns, Merlin will only remember Loholt out of duty to his dead king. Recall the distant notion that oh, by the way Arthur, you had a son; sorry, don't really remember him.
But for now… For now, Merlin can treasure the memory of the young prince who listened to his stories and laughed at his jokes and fell asleep in his arms, and who was the closest thing to a son Merlin will ever have.
"Happy yule, indeed," Merlin replies softly, and feels every year of his too-long life pressing down on him.
Merry Christmas, guys!
And I mean - come on. Today is an anniversary for Arthur's death, so... No happy fic. Also, I'm incredibly grateful that I wasn't watching Merlin back in 2012 - who the hell airs a series final like that on christmas eve?
Anyways; I hope you all have a great christmas - reviews, of course, equal christmas presents! :)