It's a huge congress with both magical and non-magical attendees, and Arthur's invited to the talks. What started as a series of documentaries on the history of magic in the UK, based on the footage discovered in the Vault, has triggered changes Arthur had not anticipated.

Arthur thinks of his father and feels a pang of guilt. But then he reminds himself that Uther is most probably propped up on pillows in his room, busy watching TV, not caring about anything real. He wonders if Uther can recognise his son on the news, sitting at the table with magic users, participating in the creation of history just like Uther did years ago. It feels like he's mocking his father, but hell, Arthur won't allow anyone to dictate what he should or shouldn't do.

During the banquet after the debates he tries to navigate through the crowds. People are congratulatory, even though Arthur's sure they haven't seen a minute of the documentaries or taken time to listen to what Arthur has had to say during the talks.

"Great speech. This is a move in the right direction, Arthur," says a dark-haired man Arthur doesn't remember meeting. "A very brave one." He shakes Arthur's hand and Arthur nods, mumbling his 'thank yous.' "I remember when I was…" the man continues, but Arthur isn't listening—he's looking around, trying to see if the only magical person he cares about has arrived at the talks. He knows Emrys got an invitation. He made sure of it himself. Over the last three years he's tried not to disturb Em's life in any way. He's tried not to even think of Em. But in reality, he's desperate to see him.

Another person congratulates him and Arthur cringes a little. He doesn't feel like the documentaries are an accomplishment. It's just a small drop in a large bucket. Most of the time he's got no idea what he's doing. He can't see the future of Camelot Media, either. He doesn't have any great long-term goals or clear vision of where the company will be in the next few years. He doesn't feel that he's influencing people's views or changing the world. He keeps doing what he can to make decent TV, that's it. He tries not to judge, not to be narrow-sighted. And yes, he does try to think through his every decision to eliminate possible bad consequences, but most of the time he's just following his instincts.

It eats up all his energy though. He wouldn't say he's happy or that he's unhappy; he's just pushing forward—the wash, rinse and repeat of days and the short oblivion of nights.

"Hello Arthur," a velvety voice—one he remembers from another life, a life that he's keeping closed off—cuts through his thoughts. He turns around.

"Mordred." Sometime during these last few years he's grown up to be a man. He's still attractive though. He's got the same long waves of dark hair framing his pale face and the same striking blue eyes piercing from underneath long eyelashes.

"I just wanted to… well, congratulate, yes," Mordred says. "And talk to you, actually. And apologise."

"For what?" Arthur asks, every word sounding like an ice cube falling into a glass.

"For judging you back then. I didn't think you had it in you to stand up to your father. To start all this." He motions around them. "You've proved me wrong."

Arthur takes a sip of wine from the glass Mordred has passed to him from a waiter and looks the other way. He refuses to let Mordred see that he still can't talk to Mordred without thinking of Em, even after all the time that has gone by.

"It's crazy how much in love with him I was back then," Mordred says, as if he were reading Arthur's thoughts.

Arthur looks back at Mordred—at that cold, expressionless face—and tries to understand. "I guess we both were," he offers. Of all the things in the world, he never thought he'd be standing with Mordred, drinking wine and reminiscing about loving Em.

Mordred places his hand on Arthur's wrist—his fingers are cold and unpleasantly damp. "I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry."

Arthur takes a breath, drinks the last of his wine, and places the empty glass on a nearby table. Mordred watches Arthur's moves like a predator. It makes him self-conscious.

"So, what's your opinion on the talks? Are you satisfied with the course of events?" Arthur asks. He wants to know the real motive behind Mordred's sudden friendliness.

"No," Mordred says.

"Why? Isn't it what you wanted? The magical people are going to have their rights now."

"You know why. We were about to start."

Arthur takes a sharp intake of breath. "The revolution." He's heard rumours about ultra-radical fractions in magical community, about Mordred's involvement in it, but no one has confirmed it, until now. "Why would you think I wouldn't support it?"

"Your father—" Morded starts.

"I'm not my father. I believe we can make this work. This is what this congress is for."

Mordred looks at him as if he's being ridiculous. "It only makes things worse."

"How so?"

"Because the way you do it, it takes time. It takes ages. And some of us don't, or won't, wait for slow change. I am not going to wait!" Mordred says. "Don't you see? I had it all planned. I had people and resources. We were going to take over and give the magical ones their proper place—as the rulers, Arthur, more than equals."

The room is floating a bit and Arthur's stomach is getting quivery. He should have eaten something instead of drinking on empty stomach.

"You've messed it all up," Mordred continues. "Some of us would like to do things your way now, and I can't afford to have a split in the magical community. I am truly sorry, Arthur. Perhaps in another time and in other circumstances we could have been friends. But I won't allow you to take everything from me for the second time."

Before Arthur can respond, Mordred's gone—a lean form retreating to the exit. His clammy touch lingers on Arthur's skin.

xxx

He feels it first in his toes. They start to tingle and then go numb. Then his palms begin to itch, and when he looks down at them he's suddenly dizzy. He needs to lie down, right now, so he does, vaguely registering people watching him with astonishment as he first sits down and then lies on his side next to the table with the tartlets and the fruit, its long white tablecloth tickling his neck.

Heavy wool threads are wrapped all around him. He's bound tight and doesn't understand how something so light can be so heavy. Is it soaked? But wouldn't he feel wet then? He tries to push the wool from his eyes and nose but it only tangles more, entering his mouth, tying his tongue, invading his nostrils. How funny, he chuckles. He'll suffocate without anyone knowing someone wrapped him up in this white wool.

The strings of wool tighten more and he gives up on breathing. It's actually quite nice in here—warm and cosy and safe, aside from the not breathing part. If this is dying, he likes it. Why not? He hasn't felt relaxed for so long now. He really wants to sleep. He knows he can sleep in this soft, woolly world.

But then someone sets the wool on fire. He is burning alive! Why would anyone do this? He tries to unwrap himself from the layers of fabric. To run away. But the fire seems to be coming from the inside, as if his body was the source of it. He's screaming, but no one will hear underneath all that fabric! Hot tears start to flow down his cheeks.

"Arthur," says a familiar voice. An impossible voice. The long repressed memories rush to the surface with a pang of sorrow so sharp Arthur wants to double over even while he's burning. Someone's unwrapping the wool, putting out the fire. He feels a light touch on his wrist which sends a gentle, cool current up his body, and he wonders if there exists something like memory of the flesh, if maybe he's got it imprinted in his bones and muscles. His body relaxes under that touch. The burn in his insides eases, and the animalistic fear wanes. With it comes the acceptance of whatever fate awaits him.

"Arthur, please open your eyes," the voice insists, and Arthur complies, dreading the view, but knowing that he must, because he needs to see for himself.

He meets the dark blue—the colour that haunts his dreams—and then the blue changes to gold and fades until there's nothing but cool white all around him.

xxx

When he wakes up, probably hours later, or maybe minutes, he's in a hotel bedroom—minimalistic greys and elegant dark reds surrounding him in a soulless comfort. It's dark outside, but Arthur can't tell the hour. He grunts, trying to get up and feeling as if the world's worst hangover has hit his whole body.

Gonna be sick, he thinks and moans, pulling himself to an upright position. A strong hand stills him.

"Here," Leon says and holds out a silver ice bucket for Arthur to be sick into.

Arthur slumps back on the bed, his head pounding, flesh shivery, hands shaking when he covers his eyes with the back of his palm.

"What happened?" he mumbles, cringing from the smell of his breath. "Could you bring me some water?"

Leon hands him a glass—he must have had it ready to go.

"Fuck, Arthur, this is exactly what I kept telling you would happen!" Leon says angrily. "I knew Mordred was a threat to you. I told you not to expose yourself like that! We were prepared in case he'd use magic, but we hadn't foreseen that he'd try to poison you of all things."

Is that what that was? A poison? Arthur should be scared. He should be angry. He should be throwing a tantrum right now, demanding explanations and immediate actions. But he can't bring himself to care. He just wants to be left in peace to relive the earlier vision of blue eyes, of Em coming to his rescue, the imaginary scene his brain supplied while short-circuiting from whatever magical poison was in the wine Mordred had handed to him.

There's the clicking of dishes down the hall, and the rhythmic tick-tack of the wall clock in the other room. Arthur brings his hand to brush the hair out of his eyes—when did it grow so long again?—and stops mid-motion at the sudden glimpse of gold. He holds his palm in front of his eyes. The outline of shimmering gold is unmistakable.

"My God," he says. "It was real."

"What was?" Leon asks.

"I have to go." Arthur sits up, all the pillows and heavy duvet falling in a plush avalanche onto the floor. He stifles a groan when a new wave of nausea hits him. His head is still pounding with headache. The carpet is definitely moving under his feet and there's no way to tell up from down.

"Emrys said you have to sleep, and that he'll talk to you as soon as you feel better," Leon tells him, not moving to help. "You will be okay," he adds.

Resigned, Arthur crawls back to the bed and tries to focus on one piece of furniture at a time.

"So it was him," he says. He isn't sure if he dares to believe it just yet.

"Yes, it was him," Leon confirms, getting up. "Thank God, otherwise you wouldn't have made it. The ER guys were useless. But he rushed in, placed his hands on your chest and did some hocus pocus, and then you were breathing again. Do you know what they say about him?"

"No, what?" Arthur's lids feel heavy. It's a struggle to keep his eyes open so he lets them fall shut.

"That he's the greatest sorcerer that ever walked the earth."

Arthur opens his eyes with effort, and scowls at Leon. "My Em?"

"Yes, your Em. And by the way? Nice of you to keep your relationship secret from your best mate."

Arthur wants to say something, to explain, but Leon waves him off. "I figured it out back then and could've said something myself. Let's just call it even, huh?" He turns the lights off on his way out of the room.

Arthur doesn't argue, just closes his eyes and concentrates on inhaling and exhaling.

xxx

It's hours later when Arthur finally gets back home. He exits the lift, heading to his door, when he spots Em sitting on the step right outside his apartment.

He looks so different. Firmer, stronger. His hair is short again and he's filled out. His thin figure has changed into a still-slender but nicely muscled one. His face is sharper, not a trace of roundness left from his teenage years. After all, he's twenty-one now.

He looks the same though. Same small smile in the corner of his mouth, same elegant long fingers.

Em notices Arthur, startles, and stands up slowly, rubbing his hands on his jeans as if he's uncertain of what he's doing here.

Arthur's heart is so loud right now he's sure Em can hear it.

"Hi," Em says. His voice is something Arthur's missed so much.

"Hi."

They stand opposite each other, awkward and fidgeting.

"You're okay," Em says, like he's not sure if it's really true.

Looking at Em, Arthur is many things, but he doesn't know if okay is one of them. "Are you back?" Arthur finally asks.

Em nods, but with a slow move of his head as though hesitant. "I've been back in London for a while now, yeah. I was going to contact you, but..." And after a pause, "There's a real revolution coming up."

"So I've heard." Arthur says.

"Mordred wanted to eliminate you to ensure the safety of his plans to overtake the country."

That much Arthur knows. "I would've joined you, you know?" he says. "I'll always be on your side, Em, I will support you. But not like this. Not in a revolution. And Mordred—"

"I'll take care of Mordred." It sounds like a line from a bad movie, but a very real shiver runs down Arthur's spine at the tone of Em's voice—full of sad, angry determination. Arthur wonders how hard it must be for Em to be disappointed yet again with someone whom he might have loved once.

Again, they stand in silence that brings back bad memories.

Em sits back on the floor and doesn't look at Arthur when he starts to talk. "'It's either me or him' he'd said. Mordred. I was so careful to not let him see what you were to me then, to feign this indifference, to leave you there like I didn't really care. But he saw it anyway. Of course he saw it." Em laughs humourlessly. "He's bloody brilliant. Always has been perceptive, sharp. Nothing gets past him." Em lets out a heavy sigh. "Not that it took much to see how crazy about you I was. You were all I could bloody think about." Em smiles ruefully.

"'Choose,' he'd said. But there wasn't any choice there because he'd come after you in the blink of an eye if I chose you. He'd warned me about it, and I knew well what he was capable of. What he still is, apparently."

"I had no idea," Arthur whispers. He isn't sure if he wants to punch Em right now, or just bang his own head on the wall hard, because he should've suspected this.

"I know. That was kind of the whole point. You—not knowing." Em smiles nervously, shifts on the stairs and looks Arthur in the eye. There's remorse there, and something else Arthur can't quite decipher. "I'd give up everything if it meant I could keep you safe, Arthur. Alive," Em says. "I'd lay down all I knew, all I believed in, fuck, I'd abjure my magic if it would keep you safe."

Em looks down again, picking at the cuticles on his fingers. "And then, after Freya, I realised it didn't matter whether I was with him or not because… there would always be accidents and casualties if I was close to you. And your father—I can't believe it, but I actually agreed with him then. I thought that maybe if I stayed away from all this," he makes a vague gesture with his hand, "from you, then maybe it'd be okay. That maybe if I were with someone else for a change, just, you know, someone who'd not be so tangled up in this shit—"

"Gwaine," Arhur supplies.

"Gwaine." Em nods. "But it was cheating. And so unfair to him. As if he was my emergency exit."

"So you're not…?" Arthur asks, ashamed that all he can think about at this moment is if Em is available, and if there's a chance for them still.

"Gods, no. Not since that summer you came to Bristol."

"I'm sorry." Arthur really feels sorry. He doesn't even want to start on what he's sorry for.

"Yeah." Em sighs. "And you?"

For a moment he doesn't understand. "What?"

"I've read that famous interview about your coming out. So, is there? A special someone?"

So Em's read about him, kept tabs on him, Arthur thinks. He smiles, just a little bit.

"No," he says. "Not that I haven't tried. But no. No one after you."

Arthur sits next to Em. He can feel the familiar heat of Em's body next to his, the gentle current of magic tingling where their thighs almost meet. Em squints at him again, smile turning up the corners of his lips.

Arthur makes the move, because it's his forgiveness after all. He reaches to Em's lap and takes Em's hand in his, wanting him to know that he understands now, and that he's never stopped loving him. Because this is what it is in the end. It's still love.

Em's fingers twitch as if he's not been expecting this. And there's a moment of hesitation, dread creeping up on Arthur, because maybe he's misunderstood? Maybe that's not what Em's here for? Maybe it's too late, they've blown their chance—there's no entering the same river twice and all that? But then Em returns the squeeze. It's gentle, but it's there, unmistakable. They sit together for a while, Arthur listening to his own heartbeat, still rapid in his chest, wondering if Em can feel the pulse of it in his fingers.

"What now?" Arthur finally asks, his grip on Em's hand still firm because he's never ever letting Em go again.

"I thought we could go for a coffee? Start over?" Em says, and smiles broadly. "And then—we've got this revolution to tame."

Sun shines through the hall's window, lightening everything in a soft yellow glow, making Em look as if he's made of gold. And Arthur thinks that this is it—this is his magical boy, his only salvation.

The knot he's had in his chest for so long, since forever now, suddenly eases. He's able to breathe again. He can feel Em's magic wrapping itself around him like a gentle caress and he smiles, too.

THE END