Arthur thinks the most disturbing part of the whole mess is the way all the other Arthurs keep looking at Merlin.
Bad enough to be caught by a witch's spell and for Merlin to be caught up with him. Bad enough to bounce through what seems like an endless stream of . . . dreams? Nightmares? Merlin insists on calling them "possibilities," but whatever these alternate Camelots are, Arthur just wants to go home.
Preferably before someone manages to steal Merlin.
Because things change between each . . . possibility, lots of things. Camelot might be at war with the Saxons, the Romans, the Sidhe, the Normans, or their own people. The faces of his knights might be younger or older or totally unrecognizable.
But of Merlin, two things are always true:
1. He's some kind of wizard.
2. And he's gone.
Not always dead, but always . . . gone.
And these other Arthurs often don't even look like him, but there's always something in their eyes - some spark of recognition, some piece of himself calling out across the distance between them - and he thinks the same must be true of Merlin somehow, because each time they unceremoniously appear in another throne room, Arthur doesn't even have time to introduce his servant before the other king is standing, hope and incredulity warring in his eyes as he asks, "Merlin?"
Arthur's not quite sure how he managed to end up with the only Merlin without magic in this endless stretch of possibilities, but it's a relief that he did, because obviously his Merlin is the superior Merlin. His Merlin isn't taking apprentices that will leave him trapped him in mysterious caves. HisMerlin isn't running off to go live with the Sidhe. His Merlin isn't storming off in a huff because Arthur won't let him kill some knight destined to bring doom to them all.
It's possible that he says as much in a rant to Merlin in the guest room they've been given in their Camelot-of-the-week. A slightly modified rant, because he can't let Merlin be getting too high an opinion of himself.
"Right," Merlin says, nodding firmly, even if he does look a little paler than usual. "I will definitely not be doing any of those things." He hesitates in his work of straightening Arthur's bed. "Hypothetically, though, if we end up somewhere where there's a magical Merlin that hasn't run off yet, what would you do?"
Breathe a sigh of relief that at least that king wouldn't be trying to poach you, Arthur thinks but most definitely doesn't say. And another sigh of relief that you running off is apparently not inevitable.
But that's far too much like feelings, so he shrugs carelessly and waves a hand. "What would there be to do? This isn't our Camelot. As long as he wasn't breaking the rules of his own kingdom, it wouldn't be any of my business." His mouth twists a little at the words - sorcery corrupts, and that's dangerous - but realistically speaking, they're probably not going to make it home unless they find a magical Merlin that's willing to help, and it's not like it would be the first time he's made an exception.
" . . . Are we still bound by Camelot's rules? Since we're not technically in Camelot?"
Arthur narrows his eyes a little. "Since when have you cared about the rules anyway?"
"Ah. Um. Another hypothetical for you, sire! If I was maybe a little more like those other Merlins than previously thought . . . "
Arthur's heart drops. "You're leaving?"
Everyone leaves, he thinks dully, but he'd really thought - Merlin had always said -
Merlin fidgets with the blankets. "The, um. Other thing."
Relief is really not the appropriate reaction to finding out that your manservant has magic, but it is, at least, better than the alternative.
