Chapter 12: Back in Time
(Past)
"Merlin, there's – something I want to say to you," the king murmured, then panted shallowly, fumbling to grasp Merlin's hand. "Thank you. And-"
The spell roared to life around Merlin without warning. Magic squeezed and reshaped him like dough, punching the breath from his lungs and relocating the bile in his stomach to the back of his throat.
I didn't get to say goodbye - I meant to say goodbye. I meant to say…
And then came the fire.
Merlin snatched at Arthur, panicked. The king – his friend – was going to slip away. He was still dying from losing too much blood to his injury at Mordred's hand, never mind that the magic had taken Morgana's life to heal the wound.
He was going to lose his friend forever. It was happening, and the world spun dizzily and his arms dropped with the weight of exhaustion and the pull of the magic, and he sobbed a futile resistance to inevitable failure.
"Arthur – no!"
The king's dying grip firmed, impossibly, as gravity dragged Merlin away from Arthur, rather than the other way around.
"Merlin! Steady, I've got you!"
Nerveless fingers plucked at Arthur's shirt and jacket – no chainmail, no scarlet, no blood.
Merlin barely registered the absence of fine wrinkles and scar, so focused was he on that terrible wound between Arthur's ribs. Fumbling for the source of lifeblood, and not finding it.
Hurry up, hurry up, you've got to-
"Arthur!" he gasped desperately. I'm supposed to protect you, but I left you to do it on my own, and then-
"Breathe, Merlin," he was advised in a sarcastic, faintly defensive tone that was different than the older king used. "And don't vomit on me, whatever you do."
Annoyed. And concerned.
Merlin's body tightened into stillness, knees drawn up and hands fisted in Arthur's clothing – not chainmail – craning upwards to the king's eyes and expression.
Oh. Home. The past, his own time…
"It's you," he blurted. He felt his eyes filling with tears, and couldn't control them away, couldn't hide and deny awkward emotion. "Arthur," he managed. "I'm back."
"Yeah, I can see that for myself, thanks." Arthur shifted, and Merlin clung, and at least the king didn't drop him to the stone floor, no matter what he always said about the proper positions of kings and their manservants.
No, please – you were dying, you were slipping, and…
Wildly he searched the underground chamber – no furniture, no wreckage. No Morgana. Just dried leaves and dirt and ash on the stone floor, some old wooden dishes kicked out of the way and abandoned.
"Are you all right?" Arthur added, retreating from Merlin's distress into dispassionate evaluation and control of the situation. "You were with Morgana, weren't you? Did she hurt you?"
A sob burst out of Merlin's throat involuntarily.
The nathair – the echo of the fomorroh – she'd stabbed him, but not really, and drugged him. And Mordred had killed Arthur and dragged his lifeless body down the steps and dumped him and now he was back with his Arthur – but he'd have to wait ten years to know how the king would fare after what Merlin had done attempting to save him. And now there was this – there was something – between him and Arthur and it was old and he was used to it, but not anymore. It hurt and he didn't know how to grasp it to move it, to remove it.
Those walls, that he hid behind, that protected him from the repercussions of the law and the pain of Arthur realizing how he'd lied… but now he knew that Arthur could forgive. Arthur would forgive.
"She," he stammered. "She… no, I'm… not hurt. She – she tried – oh, Arthur…"
"I'm gonna kill her," Arthur growled to himself. "Come on, Merlin, sit up and breathe, and calm down. You're safe – it's only us here." He pulled and Merlin's body rocked forward to remain upright on its own.
"No," he heard himself say. "You won't kill her. I – I… It's over – she's been defeated, she's gone… Or at least, she will be…" Was that what Arthur told him he'd said? He couldn't now remember. "You were with – my older self, right? He told you, what happened? Morgana's spell?"
"That she'd switched you and your older self," Arthur said. The set of his jaw told Merlin, he wasn't happy, but he was covering his reactions and suppressing how he felt in order to deal with the situation's needs instead of his own. "You went to the future and your older self came back for a week."
"Yeah," Merlin said, feeling disoriented. It had been barely short of wonderful to see the man his friend, his king, became. Everything he'd believed could happen, would happen, he'd seen. And more.
But – what had Arthur seen of him?
"Was – was he – was I… ah," he tried, unable to funnel the desperate flood of thought and emotion into coherent sentences.
"I suppose it is good to know that you'll continue to be a pain in my ass for ten years," Arthur said sardonically. He wasn't meeting Merlin's eyes, but his hand lingered on Merlin's shoulder, as Merlin shoved himself closer to lean on the wall.
And the older king had acted like they were close – trusted, respected… teased, included. The way Gwaine talked… it would all work out, somehow. That was good to know.
"It's the middle of the night," Arthur said, shifting to rise. "There's food if you're hungry, and water. But… morning will come fast, I'm afraid, and then…"
"I'm fine," Merlin said, letting himself slump back against the wall, letting limbs sprawl in the detritus of the stone floor and not caring.
He watched Arthur crouch between a low cookfire on the floor and a taller brazier-stand, packing or unpacking or searching for something, he didn't know what, and Arthur said nothing about his claim being false or misleading.
I'm fine.
I'd forgotten how he used to lie about that…
His eyelids were heavy, and relaxation pulled the rest of his body toward oblivion, and every second that ticked by brought more and more of him back. This was his life. This was his time. This was his Arthur.
Banked firelight flickered dim and cherry over stone walls and floor, over the hunched figure of his king, cross-legged by the fire and staring into its depths, the blue of his eyes lost in subtle reflected flame.
He looked tired. Drawn. Unshaven in a way that reminded Merlin of the golden beard that he'd one day wear unself-consciously.
And he wasn't going to lie anymore.
"Arthur," he said, his voice rasping thickly in his throat, from nerves and from overuse and from his currently mostly-prone position.
The king shifted only his gaze, to connect to Merlin's.
He breathed once, and said, "I have magic."
The universe was expanding inside his chest, and it didn't leave room for breathing and his heart had taken up residence in his throat, pounding out through his ears.
And he'd been steeling himself for Arthur's reaction for years. A hundred different moments when it could have happened, Arthur could have seen, could have guessed, could have asked… Disbelief, sarcasm, anger, cold betrayal, rejection…
Knowing now that Arthur eventually accepted, allowed, valued, sought the magic alleviated his trepidation only slightly. But confidence in the future wasn't why he said it. He wasn't willing to risk anything else on his mistakes and his lack of trust in the truth.
But his young king didn't so much as flinch. His eyes were steady – watchful, patient… wary? Waiting.
Not surprised. Not offended, not shocked, not angry.
"All my life," Merlin continued, taking courage without examining the reasons for Arthur's present calm. "Before I can remember. My mother… I came to Camelot, to Gaius. He was going to teach me-"
Arthur straightened, just enough to arrest Merlin's confession.
"No," he corrected himself. "Not like that. Teach me to control, to hide, to… to choose, and not just react. Not just reach for what I wanted, but… principles, standards, ideals. Purpose."
Something like recognition crossed Arthur's face, and the barriers between them thinned. Merlin had thought this before, felt this before – the similarities between their circumstances. Arthur with his royal and external obligation and authority, and Merlin with his magical and internal responsibility and power.
And maybe something like that was occurring to Arthur for the first time, too.
"What are you going to do?" Arthur said, watching.
Merlin didn't know what he meant. "Sleep, I guess? You said it was night – you don't mean to try to leave, now?"
"No, I mean…" Arthur was impatient, but trying to hide it. "Tomorrow. The next day. The next week. What are you going to do?"
"I suppose… whatever you tell me to." Whether it was to leave, to take himself into exile; whether it was to confine himself to quarters or a dungeon cell until Arthur decided. Until he judged.
The king snorted, and Merlin heard, But you never do what I tell you to.
This time I will. Even if it was only to prove his intentions to his king and friend – he had no desire to influence the rule of Camelot… except in this small matter of the one law, the one capital crime that he was guilty of.
"Why are you telling me all of this now?" Arthur said. Just slightly guarded, enough for Merlin to know.
It wasn't true that Arthur was calm, he was simply controlling his reaction, burying it deep for the time being. Because he genuinely cared about Merlin's state of mind in this moment – because he was wary of provoking him, now that he knew Merlin was a sorcerer – or because he recognized that Merlin now possessed information about the future that might be useful, that might be vital?
Merlin sucked in a swift, involuntary breath. Oh, it was going to be a long time til they achieved what he'd glimpsed of the older king's relationship with his sorcerer. But it was also going to be worth the patience… again.
"I wanted to tell you," he said honestly. He'd said something similar to Morgana – and in ten years, she'd hear it. She just wouldn't listen… "All that you fought to make of Camelot, all you wanted for the people… I want that too – and I can help."
Arthur looked away, moving his head like he wanted to shake it in denial. Merlin couldn't help. Magic was banned.
I was afraid. Not of being caught and killed, not anymore – but of discovery and rejection. Now he wasn't afraid anymore, because in the end, he wouldn't be alone.
"I'm so tired," Merlin said, his stomach twisting inside him and squeezing the words out – but it was nothing like the dark magic of the nathair. "I'm tired of lying, and I hate it every time. I'm tired of making decisions on my own, and they're the wrong ones. And you're a good king, Arthur, and a good friend, and you have the right to know. You have the right to decide, what to do with me, and with magic, and I'm sorry I hurt you, I'm sorry I deceived you…"
It wasn't the relief he felt when he spoke to Morgana, with the magic and the poison coursing his veins. Maybe because he knew he was hurting the person he spoke to – not simply defending himself.
"I'm sorry you felt you had to," Arthur returned, studiously neutral. But there was fire in his eyes, too.
I never betrayed you, not really, he thought. Only it was a betrayal of sorts, wasn't it? Making the king's decisions for him, time after time; keeping the truth and relevant information silent in order to act alone – whether Arthur would sanction the action or the result, even if no magic was used or referenced at all.
"I never meant to betray you," Merlin said instead. "Only to… save your life, sometimes. And defend against the magic that attacked you, and us, and Camelot."
Arthur huffed a sardonic chuckle. "I would have believed that, last week. I thought I knew you. I would have defended you if anyone accused you and said, Merlin's been lying to you, sire."
He breathed, and breathed, and the agony in his chest didn't kill him… and Arthur didn't look away, like he always did when they talked like this because he was uncomfortable admitting that he had feelings, after the way he was raised. He was uncomfortable being reminded that other people had feelings, too, and Merlin knew this, he understood this about his king and his friend, but… this time Arthur didn't look away. He didn't push himself to his feet to stalk up the stairs and leave the underground chamber.
"I understand why you did," Arthur admitted in a low voice – and somehow that hurt more. Arthur was blaming himself for Merlin's lies. "But now-"
"I swear," he said swiftly. "I swear to you. Nothing but the truth, from now on. Anything you want to know – anything you need to know…"
"That rather assumes our continued association," Arthur pointed out with a sarcasm that served to relax Merlin a little. This was their way; they weren't strangers. "But how can I… allow for magic to be used this week, to gain my goal, even if it's impossible to achieve without it… and still condemn it in my subjects? I can't make excuses like, well we were past Camelot's borders at the time. I shouldn't even make you an exception to the law because of… because of what I know about you. But I can't say, the law remains unchanged so for your own safety you're banished…"
Merlin's heart lurched. It couldn't sink because of his prone position, but… was this another mistake?
But what right had he to judge when Arthur was ready to hear the truth and deal the judgment impartially? He had no right… but since he was the one in possession of the information, there was no other choice than he should decide. Gwaine had said, You weren't wrong to keep the secret til he was ready to listen. Aithusa had said, You can't lose this, because it isn't a dream.
Arthur had said, Be yourself, mistakes and all…
His place was in Camelot, no question. Any banishment would therefore be temporary, and he'd been patient for years already in Arthur's service – he could wait a while longer out of it, if that's what the king decided.
"Neither can I rescind the Ban," Arthur added, fire-blue gaze boring into Merlin's soul. "You've seen the evil it's capable of. I can't simply free it and allow it and hope for the best."
"There were laws in place, before," Merlin ventured. "Gaius – Geoffrey – maybe your council would know."
"And if I had someone I trusted, to advise my ignorance…" Arthur paused, as if he expected Merlin to mock the admission.
He didn't. He couldn't. No one regretted Arthur's ignorance on matters of magic more than Merlin; the Ban had dangerously hindered his own education also. How many times had he and Gaius scrambled to discover answers to a magical threat, try something they'd never seen or tested before and hope for the best – and people died for the delay.
Arthur's face twisted when Merlin didn't say anything. "But how… how do I trust you?"
It sounded a genuine question, a low plea for an answer that would fix everything. Except there wasn't one.
I don't know.
I promise, you can trust me from now on!
It'll take some time, but…
"My mother didn't tell me much about my father," Merlin ventured, shifting to a less uncomfortable position on the stone floor. "Then I found out, Gaius knew a lot more."
"Gaius knew your father?" Arthur said, surprised.
"That's why my mother sent me to Gaius," Merlin said, letting his eyes drop away from Arthur's. "I was angry. I thought, he had no right to keep those things from me. I thought, he should have told me… And maybe he should've – but he didn't, he had to wait and choose the right time. And I… realized, that he was doing what he thought was best for me. Even if I disagreed with him."
I still trusted him.
He hoped Arthur would understand…
"My father didn't tell me much about my mother," the king said. "I still don't know the full truth. And maybe he kept secrets from me for my own good, but maybe… maybe it was because he felt guilty about what happened. He was ashamed of his actions, maybe. And I don't know if I had a right to that information, exactly, but…"
Merlin swallowed with difficulty. Because there were secrets between them for those reasons, also.
"I swear to you," he whispered, "on the love of my mother and the grave of my father. I will never lie to you again. Never mislead you or keep things from you or refuse to answer, or come in any way between you and your responsibility to make choices and to rule. I will be whatever you need me to be. Whenever you need it, and as long as you need it."
Astonishment or something like it drew Arthur up straight in his slouch over crossed legs. Merlin felt tears welling involuntarily, and blinked them away.
"It's late," Arthur said only. "Get some sleep – it'll be a long way home."
Home. Was his home still the same as Arthur's home? He didn't imagine they could ever go back to the way things had been, last week – but it didn't mean he was wholly displaced, either. He still had a destiny, and Arthur still had a destiny – it was just going to look different from now on, for both of them.
He said haltingly, "I know I don't deserve…"
To be treated with kindness and consideration and patience? To hope that friendship could survive without beginning all over with new and greater obstacles?
To have seen the end of the path, while Arthur stood at this crossroads to make the choice blind.
"Honestly? I'm not sure yet what you deserve, Merlin. I'm going to need some time…"
Well, they had ten years for sure.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
(Future)
Merlin clung to the stone of the floor, fractured and gritty and strewn with half-remembered rubble.
The chamber spun and tilted around him, corners dark and indistinct no matter how he blinked; now the flagstones shoved insistently upward, now they fell away beneath him. His insides lurched and sloshed like the fish he'd eaten had traveled through time as well and were alive again, confused and frightened and trying to escape, but found no outlet.
Arthur whispered, "Merlin."
The king was a smear of red on the ground. Crimson tunic, gold-embroidered and impressive even when impractical – but the blood was fresh again, after ten years of nightmares, still drooling down the stairs. Arthur lay motionless in a crimson pool, and his eyes burned, consuming every last spark of energy in his failing body.
Merlin, his lips formed without sound. And it wasn't a plea for help or a second salvation, it was all for Merlin. You came home. Are you all right.
He tried to crawl closer, unsteady but never uncertain. His elbow buckled and pain flared in his shoulder and he narrowly avoided cracking his head on the stone.
Arthur didn't so much as flinch when Merlin pawed his way over his body, bruised knees shuffling into the king's chainmail, but his muscles moved to breathe. His heart labored to achieve his pulse, and Merlin had never loved it more.
His fingertips found the rent in the chainmail, the tear in the fabric of the king's gambeson – Arthur's own sword, dragon-breathed so of course it would penetrate…
"He disarmed you?" Merlin mumbled hoarsely. His head turned on his neck – the room tilted and the floor lifted Mordred's body up for his scrutiny. No movement of breathing, no beat of blood at all, anymore. He hadn't been sure, til now.
But it was as if Arthur didn't hear him.
"You came back. You made it. You're here."
Merlin swallowed the lump that lifted in his throat on the rise of his own doubts, on the illogical fear of the future – all unknown, now. Because the memory was close and strong, his own reaction to pulling Arthur backward, moments through time til he breathed again… til the magic chose to give him life, again.
You came back…
"Of course I came back," he tried to say lightly, but his throat was too tight, and he sounded hoarse and anxious.
The magic still lingering wild and free in the chamber was, out of all that he'd ever sensed or encountered, the most sentient. It was distracting; it was dizzying, but the last time this magic had saved Arthur, he'd been poisoned with magic and venom from the Questing Beast – the actual scratch from even a massive claw not truly serious, on its own. Had Gaius even stitched it? He remembered very little blood on the bandages.
Through the broken mail and torn fabric, Merlin's fingers discovered the flesh and bone beneath sealed and whole and unscarred - but Arthur had lost too much blood. So much blood, still saturating the gambeson and smearing under the links of the armor.
Merlin tore at the laces of the vambrace on Arthur's right forearm, the king resistant and uncooperative from weakness.
"Now you know," Arthur whispered, as Merlin shoved his own sleeve up toward his elbow.
Hadn't he just had Gaius' knife in his hand? He'd laid it down somewhere here… There weren't any shards of clay or glass left large enough – Merlin claimed Arthur's own sword, lying bloodied next to his hip. He hadn't so much as touched it for weeks, knowing what it was about to do in the wrong hands. Knowing he had to let it happen.
"Know what?" he mumbled, twisting his hand to bring his wrist to the blade.
"What I did." Arthur was focused on Merlin's face, absolutely inattentive to his choice to carve into that scar again – and then position the edge to open its twin among the veins and sinews of Arthur's forearm. "Didn't tell you."
Merlin huffed, feeling tears or sweat trickle down the side of his face. He lowered the sword the few inches to the floor, and slid his fingers around the muscle below his king's elbow, up under Arthur's sleeve.
"Min dreor sy thin dreor."
Simple enough. Though it had never worked for Alice, or for anyone else who'd tried it. And it never worked for Merlin, on anyone but Arthur. They'd never discussed why.
Blood slipped a bit between their skin, mingling, and he used his left hand to wrap Arthur's fingers around his own forearm, before relaxing into a slump over his knees. That was it; Arthur's life was saved. It was all over but the waiting.
He couldn't actually feel the blood flowing out of his vein and into Arthur's body, but he knew it was happening. My blood is your blood…
"Now you know what I didn't tell you, either," he said.
Agony flashed in his king's eyes, a look and a thought hidden but familiar, and now he understood it.
"I'm sorry," Arthur whispered.
"Me, too. But I'll forgive your mistakes if you forgive mine," Merlin said, giving his friend a tired half-smile of amusement.
It hurt when Arthur was truly sorry, because the king had a way of regretting things like he thought he should have been able to keep it from happening, do it differently, and it was clear he counted it a failure. Arthur's perceived failures hurt Merlin, because it felt to him like he ought to have been able to council him more wisely, to see the pitfall coming, and help his king avoid it.
Arthur choked a bit, moisture shining in his eyes. "Doesn't even begin to compare. You left Camelot, came here on your own… to defend us. To protect us, all of us. What I did, to you…"
"Stop," Merlin ordered, because he could, sometimes, and Arthur would. "What you did resulted in – minor injuries for one man who doesn't even blame you. And then you listened to me and trusted me… What I did, got you killed. Arthur."
The king shook his head, letting it wobble feebly on the stone floor. "You saved my life. I attacked you."
"Arthur." Merlin leaned forward, capturing his friend's reluctant gaze. "Please. Now we can finally move past this. It's over. I forgive you and you forgive me, and nothing needs to change."
Craning his head momentarily, Arthur glimpsed Mordred's body, lying motionless in its own puddle of blood, and his fingers tightened briefly around Merlin's arm. "Brought peace at last… Where's Morgana?"
"Gone," Merlin said.
Arthur looked at him.
"I mean," he tried to explain, "evidently her life was taken to restore yours. When that happens – when it happened before – there is no body left behind."
Arthur contemplated that, his eyes roving the chamber. "My mother…"
"I don't know," Merlin said. "I'm not sure. It's not the sort of magic I want to practice til I'm familiar with it."
Arthur hummed brief acknowledgement and agreement in the back of his throat. "So you… traded her life for mine. I'm alive because-"
"No," Merlin said. The chamber was still about him, but he felt trembly and unsteady, so he shifted off his knees, crossing his legs in front of him to support his slouch. His outstretched arm linked with Arthur's in a comrade's clasp as his heart passed life into his friend's body, and it rose and fell just slightly with Arthur's breathing. "No. I offered mine, my life. The magic chose to take Morgana's instead."
Arthur studied his face a moment, then shifted his scrutiny to the ceiling of the chamber above them, content to lie still with his right arm stretched over his chest to hang on to Merlin's arm. "Magic itself decided. That I should live, and she should… not."
"Maybe," Merlin offered, feeling an echo of what Arthur felt, even after all these years of battling Morgana's criminal plots and ambushes. "Maybe we're not done yet. Maybe destiny isn't finished with us, yet. We don't know…"
A huff of sardonic laughter rocked Arthur's body. "Now we don't know…"
Above them at the top of the stair, the door banged open explosively – Arthur's grip tightened at the same time as Merlin's – but it was Gwaine, lunging through and pulling himself to a sharp halt to see them.
"Oh, Merlin!" he exclaimed. "You're back!"
He took two steps down, skipping a stair each time, then bent to jump off the side, the rest of the way to the floor – making way for Leon, who blocked Percival in the doorway, dread written in the lines of his face.
"Merlin," he said, calmly anguished. "They took Arthur, and it looked like – he looked like-"
Like he was dead. It had been ten years since Merlin had seen Mordred drag Arthur's body down the stairs here tonight, but it was the stuff of frequent nightmares. Probably he would never forget that sight.
Gwaine bent to check Mordred's body. Arthur turned his head on the floor to meet Leon's eyes for reassurance.
"Is he all right?" Percival asked, because he would never shove Leon out of the way to see for himself. "Merlin's got him – is he all right, then?"
Leon moved forward, taking the stair slowly; his eyes missed nothing. Gwaine abandoned Mordred to crouch at Merlin's side.
"Welcome back," he said, reaching to shift their linked forearms enough to check for the magic he probably suspected. Too much blood on the floor beneath Arthur's body – and Merlin had done this before.
"Thanks," he said tiredly.
Leon reached them and took a knee next to Arthur. "Sire?"
"I believe I'll be fine," the king told him, mouth pulling fractionally sideways in an almost-smile.
Percival remained at the top of the stair, leaning out the doorway to monitor the rest of the action above-ground. Exhaustion pulled at Merlin as if every part of him suddenly weighed twice as much, but he never quite forgot the worry of leaving this chamber when the magic had pulled him back to his own time, ten years and ten minutes ago.
"Are we still fighting?" he croaked upward at Percival. "Who came with us? Is anyone hurt? Have we lost-"
"Brendan's pretty badly hurt," Gwaine replied, settling back on his haunches – and that in itself was an answer to Merlin's first question. "Declan was down but moving, last I saw. But we've got Rose and Mari, too…"
Merlin sighed in relief, and lifted his off hand to try to rub some blurriness from his eyes. The two sisters who lived near the border weren't fighters, they were healers, but damn good. He still wasn't sure which one had saved his life the time Mordred tried to cut his throat – each demurred the praise to her sister, and Gwaine claimed not to be able to tell them apart. He'd been unconscious at the time himself, however…
"What about any of Morgana's people?" Arthur asked. He lifted his head – winced – then determinedly rocked the rest of his upper body to a sitting position.
"Are you sure you should-" Leon began, alarmed.
Merlin only kept his grip tight on Arthur's arm. Their relative positions didn't matter to the spell – and it was good that the king was starting to feel stronger.
"We've got two captured, and one surrendered," Percival answered from the top of the stairs. "Where's Morgana?"
Gwaine twisted to search the chamber, as if he might've missed noticing her, somehow.
"She's gone," Merlin said.
"You've been telling us that for years, my friend," Gwaine reminded him. "What exactly does that mean? She left? She escaped? She-"
"She doesn't exist anymore," Merlin said, focused on the side of Arthur's wrist next to his, to avoid Gwaine's intuitive gaze. Fine golden hairs, and his darker ones, and the hint of blood between. The subtle draw of magic linking them for a moment, and forever.
"No body?" Leon said, and there was something Merlin couldn't identify in his voice – disappointment? skepticism?
"We take Merlin's word for it," Arthur said.
Slightly disorienting, after a week of remembering how his friend, his king, had resisted belief. Had questioned – then scoffed…
"I told you," he said to Arthur, his words feeling slow and thick. "I told you twice. Once in this room – and once in Gaius' room."
"Yes, you did."
"This week," he went on. "After this week, I had to say it."
"I know."
"I had to tell you. Everything you wanted to know. Not because… I knew you had to forgive me, because… I saw you. I saw what you were, what you could be, and I… was I standing in the way of you becoming that, by lying to you? I couldn't. I couldn't…"
"Merlin, listen. Look at me."
It was a chore to lift his head, and then the shapes and colors of his vision swam, except for Arthur's eyes – with those fine wrinkles that deepened when he laughed, when he smiled, when he squinted into the distance from their vantage point on the ramparts – or just some windy hilltop.
"I saw you too," he said, giving Merlin a lopsided smile. "I never met anyone like you – fearless and determined and disrespectful and patient and honest and magic. And then I realized, I had met someone like you. That first day, remember? Morris and that wooden target. I saw who you became – and I wanted to deserve that man's respect. And loyalty… dammit, Merlin, if your loyalty hasn't always made me a little bit ashamed of myself-"
"And me," Gwaine said, utterly serious.
Leon echoed, "And me."
"I didn't mean to-" Merlin started.
"Shut up," Arthur said fondly. "Just… that's all behind us now. We're past it. We've done it. And now we can… start something new."
Merlin tried to hold his gaze, wanted to agree, wanted to say something profound or meaningful or cheeky, even – but Arthur was moving, swaying, shifting.
Gwaine swore, looming over him, curling an arm tight behind Merlin's neck. "Let go – Merlin, let go! That's enough!"
"How long has it been?" he heard Leon say.
Felt Arthur try to shake him off, and tightened his grip.
"Maybe the ritual-"
"Merlin," Arthur said. A plea, an order, a joke.
He opened his hand, and his whole arm was cold, in the absence of Arthur's touch. His whole body was cold – shaking, shivering uncontrollably. "S-sorry," he managed. "I believe I'll be fine..."
Gwaine echoed him sardonically, propping him up. "I'll carve that into the lid of your crypt, shall I? He said he would be fine."
"I'm not dying today," Merlin mumbled, content to lean, and close his eyes. "Just… give me a minute…"
"I gave orders for the men to set up camp in one of the untouched buildings," Percival said from far away. "Whenever you feel like moving, sire…"
"Let's go now," Arthur said. "If he's going to fall asleep…"
Gwaine shifted, nudging Merlin up. "Come on. Up we go."
Leon was assisting Arthur, who was moving slow and stiff; Arthur glanced back to make sure of Merlin as he slid his sword into its rightful place at his hip.
"It felt like this the first time," Merlin said without meaning to, as Gwaine lifted and steadied him. It made all the difference to have friends who would support and take care of him – and now he had nothing to worry for, did he? The ritual was done. The week out-of-time endured twice, and discarded.
"You're not going to throw up, are you?" Percival said seriously, as they reached the top of the stair and followed Leon and Arthur out.
"Anyone could take one look at you and vomit," Gwaine teased him. "Heaven knows what Gefera sees in you…"
"It's the muscles," Percival said, straight-faced.
"No, it's not." Merlin put out one hand; Percival grasped and squeezed it. We don't have to talk about it. We'll probably talk about it. It might even be funny, soon…
Outside, it was black night. Several fires burned at far distances; closer there were torch-bearing knights. Voices calling – settling-
"I think we should arrange their dead in that chamber, and then seal it," Arthur was saying to somebody. "Declan can do that – or Dusty, where's she?"
"She was with the woman who surrendered…"
"Merlin!"
That was her. He'd heard her voice for the first time several times now; he turned to face her rush as she flung herself into his arms, squeezing his neck and pressing her cheek against his.
Dusty. Oh. I missed you – I met you…
But his shoulders wouldn't take her weight or the strength of her worry and gladness and greeting. The dull ache flared and he stumbled, his arms slipping til he gripped handfuls of her tunic at the sides of her waist.
"Be careful!" Gwaine exclaimed ungraciously, keeping a hand on Merlin's back like he expected him to topple over any minute now.
"What happened?" Dusty exclaimed, anxious again.
"Are you all right?" he said to her, by way of answer. "I remember what happened in Camelot – it was an Inylfe-ascirian, wasn't it?"
She made an unhappy sound. "And you didn't tell us! And you didn't say that you sneaked off alone, and Morgana captured you, and – what did she do to you, that witch?"
Alice would never have let her come if she wasn't fully healed and at sufficient strength. And Dusty wasn't yet a match for the experienced healer.
"I'm sorry for that," Merlin said, glancing at Arthur, who was waiting. Percival appropriated one of the torches from a passing knight; Merlin didn't see who it was.
"Let's go," Gwaine suggested. "Camp, and blankets – and grass, if we're lucky. Percival, you told them to choose a place with grass, didn't you?"
"Are you badly hurt?" Dusty said to Merlin, slipping under his arm and snugging her body against his side for additional support.
"Morgana didn't have me," Merlin reminded her, amused. "That was my younger self."
"Yes, but-"
"We hounded him," Arthur said softly, falling into step – but keeping his eyes focused on where Percival turned to lead them.
"The white towers of the king's citadel," Merlin murmured whimsically. "Always a better memory than the white teeth of the king's hounds…"
Dusty missed a step.
Gwaine glanced at her past Merlin with a mischievous grin – the very one Tareth wore on occasion, and Merlin had seen twice flash across Taira's face. "Do you remember now?"
"Remember what?" Arthur asked.
"Ten years ago," Gwaine said. "We caught a man selling a jacket-"
"Your blue velvet jacket," Arthur said suddenly, twisting to look at Merlin. "If you knew you were going back, why didn't you wear something-"
"I meant to change my clothes," Merlin protested. "And shave, but I honestly miscalculated-"
"Miscalculated!" Arthur exclaimed.
"You meant to shave before you came," Dusty said. "Oh… oh."
"You remember now," Gwaine guessed. "I remembered you when you showed up in Camelot two years later. You had some choice words for those of us who were searching the woods for a fugitive, you cheeky brat."
"That was you?" Dusty said to him – and then to Merlin, softly intense, "That was you?"
Merlin shook his head. "Gwaine. Why didn't you say?"
Gwaine shrugged. "I didn't have to, did I? You two worked it all out yourselves. Eventually. Destiny, you know."
Arthur cocked his head as they moved forward. "So when did you two actually meet?"
"When…" Dusty started. "Ah…"
"Yes," Merlin said.
"Good thing Morgana's gone, innit?" Gwaine said. "Merlin, my friend, don't you ever mess about with time magic again."
"I swear," Merlin said. On my mother's love and my father's grave – a memorial Arthur had helped him erect with his own hands, years ago after Merlin had told him that secret story.
"Here we are," Leon said. "Camp."
It was an open courtyard about half the size of the citadel's forecourt in Camelot. Grassy, and the fallen rubble sparse and overgrown. Three central bonfires were burning, and the air was pleasantly on the edge between cool and warm.
And if he told Arthur, my shoulder hurts, he wouldn't be required – wouldn't be allowed – he wouldn't even have to say that, would he?
One by one, the members of their company stopped to greet and praise and cheer their king, and Arthur – tired as he was and probably still bruised under the chainmail, though the one horrific injury was healed – had time and patience for them all.
I would die for you, Your Majesty, Merlin thought.
Arthur turned to be sure he was included in the greetings and congratulations, even if most of them had no idea Merlin hadn't just tested new magic for some reason, that week. His expression said, Don't you dare.
The heat of the fires pressed warmly against the skin of his face, as he lowered himself to the grass and leaned against the same chunk of stone that Arthur did, the curve of carving or crashing separating them but slightly.
He left himself drift a bit, aware of every breath the king took beside him.
We'll have to get the armor repaired, and the gambeson sewed and the blood washed, he thought, before Gwen and the children… Daeg will see to it. One more thing…
Across the way, he glimpsed Brendan, sitting up and drinking from a bowl held by Rose – or was it Mari? They were hard to tell, from a distance and in the dark and through the distorting of fire-heated air. Declan was just beside him, elbows on his knees and head in his hands; as Merlin watched, he looked up to scowl at Mari – or Rose – and snarl out something uncooperative.
"I am so… glad to be home," Merlin said aloud.
Arthur gave him a glance of amusement over his shoulder. "We're still two or three days from Camelot. And you've never liked this place."
"I know," Merlin said. It doesn't matter. My place is with you, not in Camelot if you're not.
Somewhere between the fires, someone set up Merlin's wic-stone. Magic that could be felt by all users present – magic that warmed and relaxed even the knights who couldn't feel it, with a subconscious sense of safety. Someone almost in the shadows to the side jerked to attention, and Merlin was nearly certain he recognized the woman who'd brought him break and water in Morgana's imprisonment. Ten years ago. Was it she who'd surrendered? Tomorrow he'd find out, and about the two captured.
For now, he'd rest in the knowledge that his friends would take care of him, and everything else.
"It was brilliant magic," Dusty's voice said, and Merlin blinked his eyes open as she settled in on his other side, a steaming bowl of stew in either hand.
"Rabbit," Merlin said, "with leeks and sorrel and carrot?"
"What? That one's for His Majesty," Dusty told him, leaning across to carefully hand Arthur his stew.
"I don't care what it is," Arthur admitted, bringing the bowl immediately to his lips. "I'm starving."
"You say that so often, but I don't think you really know-" Merlin began.
"He hasn't been eating," Dusty confided. "He's been worried."
"Oh," Merlin said, disconcerted. "I should say sorry?"
"Not again," Arthur grumbled, sipping a tentative mouthful from the side of the bowl.
"At least it's not fish," Merlin told him.
Arthur grinned. "Or crow?"
"You've eaten crow?" Dusty exclaimed – intrigued or disgusted.
"And rat," Merlin murmured. "This is much better – thank you."
She made an I'll-pretend-to-believe-you noise, leaning forward, and Merlin steadied his bowl on his knee before meeting her in a kiss that was quiet and smooth and relieved. He held her mouth with his for a restful eternity, before she briefly touched her tongue to his lower lip, and settled back again, eyes bright and satisfied.
Arthur affected not to notice, eating the stew hungrily but with tentative care for its elevated temperature.
"I missed you too," Merlin said, and she cuddled carefully up to his arm, laying a scarf-covered head on his shoulder, above the healing bite-wounds.
"Was it meant to be?" she said. "If we didn't even know it?"
"Especially if we didn't know it," Merlin said. Maybe we glimpsed it and strove for it without understanding, but only believing…
Arthur freed a hand to touch his knee briefly. Now we can start something new.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
(Past)
Merlin jolted to wakefulness so suddenly he was disoriented. The stone of the chamber all around, the smell of magic in the air – wild, burnt, used, dissipating… His magic, though, was all that was left. Not hers.
Or… hers hadn't been used here yet. Not for ten years.
Morning sunlight stretched down the stone staircase, spilling down each step with shy golden light, unsure of its welcome underground.
A close footfall disturbed the rubbish of the cracked flagstone floor, and he flinched – but it was just Arthur bending over him. His Arthur, no beard no wrinkles no scar, looking tired still and hesitant. But his hand didn't draw back from its touch on Merlin's shirtfront, just over his heart.
"Morning," he said. "You slept well?"
You didn't, Merlin didn't offer his assumption. How long til they could just say things to each other again without second-guessing how the words would sound in each other's ears? He admitted, "I needed to."
Arthur paused, then ducked his head away, and – was that a smile threatening the far corner of his mouth? "There's only fish for breakfast. But you – ah, your older self, said something about yellow-lily…"
"Oh, sure," Merlin said, rolling to get an elbow under him so he could sit up, and finding bruises he didn't remember receiving. He stifled a groan. "I'll… show you where."
"We'll have to take some with us," Arthur said, moving back to give Merlin room to rise. "It's nearly a week back to Camelot, under the mountains and past Daelbeth."
Merlin paused, on one knee with the other foot planted. And how did older-Arthur come so fast to besiege Morgana and her people on the Isle?
"I… I have a lot of questions," Arthur stated, his words lordly but his manner unsure. And that was Merlins' fault.
"I'll tell you anything." Everything, whatever it took for Arthur to achieve that confident calm of his older self. Come to think of it, though, Gwen probably had a lot to do with that… and children.
Merlin tripped on the stair, and turned – startling Arthur, who blinked up at him.
"I promised not to lie or keep anything from you that you needed to know," he said breathlessly. "But – about the future-"
"Don't tell me," Arthur said immediately. "As long as I know, Morgana will meet justice eventually – everything else… I think I'd rather just deal with it when it happens."
Confessing the truth about his past lies was going to be hard enough, Merlin realized, and nodded. But hesitated himself, a step ahead of Arthur as the sunlight crept over the walls. "Arthur? It was good, what I saw."
Even if the king didn't completely trust a sorcerer's opinion of good.
Arthur set his jaw, but met Merlin's eyes. "It was – it was good, what I saw, too."
And yet, a flash of pain that Merlin recognized, passed swiftly behind his king's eyes. Don't tell me, either, he thought. It's all right. I forgive you… mistakes and all. He turned to plod resolutely upward, unable to risk watching Arthur's expression when he said, "You know, I would die for you, Your Majesty."
Arthur snorted. "Don't you dare."
Not for ten more years, at least. And for decades longer, if they could manage it.
A/N: Thanks to everyone who favorited and followed and especially those who commented! Thank you for your enthusiasm and your patience, especially with this late last chapter…
I want to spend some time with some original fiction at the beginning of this new year, so I'm thinking of uploading some previously-published scenes with a whump-centric focus under a new story heading.
If that goes well, I might find the courage and inspiration and fortitude to attempt expanding on the "Psych Ops" oneshot I recently posted under "Something Completely Different"… but no promises.
Happy reading and writing!