AN: This story is everything I hate. Merlin's immortality is one of my least favorite parts of the show, because it's just such an awful and devastating thing to do to his character. So then my brain said, "How about we write a story about that?" And I TRIED to tell it no, because I typically won't even READ stories about an immortal Merlin, and I certainly don't read stories that acknowledge Merlin will have to live centuries without Arthur. But once the idea was there, it WOULDN'T GO AWAY, and it has been insistent enough to interfere with my other writing. And the only way I'm going to be able to get rid of it is to purge it out of my system. Once a story is written and posted, my brain will typically let go of it. And that's all I want - to go back to ignoring basically every single thought that went into this story, and focus on my other, happier stories that don't make me want to cry and punch things. (I did try to give it a hopeful ending, but it's still sad.)
I envisioned this as part of the To Kill a Nightmare universe, but there's nothing that directly ties it to those stories. It's completely stand-alone.
I don't usually post things the day after writing them. I usually spend a few days (or weeks) going back through, tweaking and polishing. But I want this thing gone. I only proofread it once, so let me know if you see anything I should fix.
Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin.
The diplomatic visit to Nemeth had gone well. There had been some unrest in Mithian's lands, and Arthur had assured her of Camelot's continued friendship and support, should she need an ally. He'd watched her son and daughter play on the floor as they'd held important state discussions, and couldn't keep from smiling as he thought about Gwen back home, her belly growing larger every day. How much would she have changed in the two weeks he'd been gone?
As a small child, he'd never been allowed to casually sit in on such discussions. He was either seated in a chair, sitting still like a perfect prince, or he was barred from the room entirely.
He decided, watching Mithian's children, that he wanted to be like her in that regard. He wanted his child present, seeing him rule a kingdom, seeing him have hard discussions and make hard decisions, before they were old enough to have the demands on their own shoulders. He wouldn't be distant, detached. He would be a father.
"Be careful," Merlin murmured warningly beside him, and Arthur sat up straighter on his horse, his focus pulled sharply back to the trail in front of him.
"Why?" he demanded. "Do you sense danger?"
"No, you just looked like you were about to hurt yourself from thinking too hard," Merlin said, and Arthur saw the mischievous smirk hiding behind his feigned worry.
"I'm the king, Merlin," he said pompously. "I have important things to think about."
Merlin snorted. "You were thinking about Gwen."
Arthur smiled and shrugged guiltily. There was no point denying it. Merlin could read him too well.
Suddenly Merlin stiffened, his head snapping to look over his shoulder.
"Arthur…"
The word was barely out of his mouth before Arthur had his sword drawn. His knights looked up quickly at the sound of ringing steel, and spotting the look on the sorcerer's face, they immediately grabbed their weapons as well.
Merlin had only given them a few seconds warning, but that warning was the difference between a battle and a slaughter. Arthur quickly realized the men pouring onto the road from either side were no mere bandits; they fought like soldiers. Mercenaries, undoubtedly in the employ of Mithian's enemies.
But even the skills of trained mercenaries didn't compare to Camelot's finest, and Arthur's men held their own, downing enemy after enemy as Merlin did his own work, alternatingly blasing men and throwing shields to protect the knights.
Arthur was focused on the man in front of him when he heard Merlin's panicked shout.
"Arthur!"
The king turned to see Merlin, eyes wide and golden, hand outstretched towards him, and - out of the corner of his eye - a flash of steel coming too fast for Arthur to stop.
Merlin's magic slid in, barely in time, and the mercenary's strike let out a loud metallic ring as it bounced off the shield.
Arthur's eyes were still on Merlin when it happened. He saw it all, a few seconds that seemed to take years, the battle around him fading into oblivion.
He saw Merlin's eyes widen in shock, then blink in confusion.
He followed Merlin's gaze down to his chest, where the tip of a sword protruded, then disappeared.
He watched Merlin take one stumbling step forward, then another, before he fell to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
The moment Merlin hit the ground, time started again, speeding by too quickly now, and Arthur couldn't move fast enough.
He raced to Merlin, hardly bothering to look at the mercenary with the bloody sword as he cut him down, then dropped to his knees, sliding to his friend's side.
"Merlin?" he asked, rolling the man over to his back and gathering him into his arms. And he felt a fleeting pang of relief when he saw those eyes moving, because it meant Merlin wasn't dead yet.
He wasn't dead. Yet.
But Arthur could feel the blood pouring from his back, soaking into Arthur's trousers, and he could see more blood blossoming on his chest, and he knew-
No. No no no no no.
But Arthur knew.
"You idiot," he choked out. "How many times have I told you that you can't protect me if you don't protect yourself first?"
Merlin's lips twitched into something like a smile. When he spoke, it was more breath than sound, hardly more than a couple of bloody gasps.
"It's been...an honor."
And as his face slackened, Arthur realized his final words to his friend had been an insult and criticism.
"No," he whispered, the horror sinking in. "No, Merlin…"
But Merlin's eyes were open and blue, his body limp. And the blood…
Arthur had seen countless men die in battle, but they'd been dressed in armor. It was so much worse without it. The blood was everywhere.
Merlin's blood was everywhere.
Straight through the heart, Galahad said. The knight had some training as a physician, but Arthur didn't need an expert's insight to tell him that.
He'd seen the tip of the sword come through Merlin's chest.
Gods. He was going to have to tell Guinevere. He was going to have to tell Gwaine.
He was going to have to tell Merlin's mother. He could send word, but he wouldn't do that. She would hear it from him.
When the battle was over, the wounded all treated (superficial wounds only, except for Merlin), Arthur found Merlin's bag and dug out a change of clothes. He changed him into a tunic that wasn't entirely clean, but wasn't soaked in blood. Then he did the same for himself, shuddering as he peeled the clothes, red and stiff and sticky, from his body.
Then there was nothing left to do but drape Merlin over the back of his horse, the gentle mare he loved and spoiled, and continue home.
Home. Camelot. Where his wife was, and his friends, and where, in only a few weeks, he would hold his child for the first time.
The child Merlin would never meet.
Arthur scrambled down from his horse and into the trees where he could vomit with dignity.
How could it ever be home again?
When they stopped for the night, he took Merlin's body down from the horse and laid it out on the ground. He knew it was an absolutely silly thing to do, but he simply couldn't leave him there. It looked uncomfortable.
He snorted at himself. What nonsense. It was a body. Bodies didn't get uncomfortable.
But nonsense or not, he laid Merlin down and tucked a blanket around him, and none of the knights were foolish enough to comment on it. He didn't lay out his own bedroll; there would be no sleeping for him that night. He could hardly fathom how he could ever sleep again. He sat beside the body, his eyes staring unseeingly at the darkness in front of him. He tried to think about nothing, but it was too easy for his memory to overtake that blank canvas and show him the scene over and over again. Merlin's shock. His confusion. The sword. The blood. The fall.
Shock. Confusion. Sword. Blood. Fall.
Shock. Confusion. Sword. Blood. Fall.
So he tried to think of something soothing instead, of Gwen's smile and the roundness of her belly, but all he could think of then was that they had waited years - years - for this child to come, and now Merlin was going to miss it.
So he tried to think of something boring and routine. His plans to improve the security of the citadel.
But he'd have to find a new sorcerer to enact some of those plans, because Merlin-
Then he tried to think about ideas for new training exercises for some of the knights. But that just turned his stomach, that he would think about something so mundane and insignificant when Merlin-
"Arthur?"
He jumped, startled, whipping his head around to peer through the still night. "Who's there?" he demanded, frowning at the unmoving shadows.
"Who do you think, you dollophead?" the voice croaked, and Arthur's blood ran cold.
A ghost? A spirit? Like the druid boy who had possessed Elyan, all those years ago?
No. Absolutely not. Merlin would not be a restless spirit. Merlin's soul would be at peace. He would-
"Arthur? What's wrong?" A pained gasp cut through the chaos of Arthur's thoughts, and his pulse raced as he finally looked down at the body next to him.
The body was moving.
The body was...trying to push itself upright, but grimacing at the effort. After a moment, Merlin's arms collapsed beneath him.
"What's wrong? What happened?" he demanded weakly. The moon was bright enough for Arthur to see his face clearly. He could see the way he clenched his jaw in pain, the way his eyes narrowed with concern at the alarm on Arthur's face.
He could see his chest, rising and falling. He could hear his breath, labored from pain and from the effort of trying to sit up.
Arthur stretched out a hand, ignoring how violently it shook, and rested it on Merlin's chest, right over the wound. He wanted to feel whether Merlin's heart beat. He needed to feel it.
And Merlin let out a pained cry that snapped Arthur out of his stupor. He jerked his hand back as Merlin swore violently, gasping for breath, his eyes watering against the pain.
"I guess that answers the question of what happened," he managed to get out a minute later. "Gods, Arthur, I know you're not a physician, but even you should know not to poke battle wounds! Why would you do that?"
He took another shaky breath, then turned his gaze back onto the king.
"Arthur, what is it? Why are you looking at me like that? Is it bad?"
Arthur cleared his breath and forced himself to talk.
To talk to Merlin. Who was alive.
"It was bad," he confirmed in a rough voice. "I didn't think…"
Merlin scrunched up his nose, understanding. "That bad, huh?" he reached down to pull up the hem of his tunic and see the wound for himself, but Arthur grabbed his wrist.
"Don't mess with it," he said. "How do you feel?"
"It hurts," Merlin answered immediately. "It hurts a lot."
Arthur nodded. "Do you have any potions for pain in your bag?"
Arthur fetched the bag and pulled out the potion Merlin requested, the strongest one he had. Arthur knew it was often used to ease the suffering of men with fatal wounds.
He tried not to think about that as he helped Merlin lift his head to drink down the foul concoction. His friend made a face at the taste, but within seconds, the potion had kicked in, and he relaxed into sleep.
It was strange how different sleep looked than death. Even in sleep, Merlin was animated, twitching and sighing and mumbling under his breath.
Gods. He was alive.
"Galahad," Arthur called out, just loud enough to carry to where the knight sat near the fire. He offered a quick thanks to whichever deity was responsible for that particular knight sitting watch right then.
"Sire?" Galahad called back, hurrying over to where Arthur sat. The king could see the tension on his face, and he knew the man was worried about him. All of his men were worried about him. They grieved for Merlin themselves, of course, but he saw in their eyes that they feared what this loss would do to their king.
"I need to know I'm not crazy," Arthur said softly. "Look at him and tell me what you see."
Galahad's concern intensified as he studied Arthur's face, and he knew the knight feared the same thing he did - that grief might be driving him a bit mad. Because what could there possibly be to see when looking at a dead body?
But then Galahad redirected his gaze to Merlin, and he let out a loud cry, stumbling backward.
"How?" he whispered, regaining his balance. "What happened?"
Arthur shook his head. "I have no idea. He just woke up."
"His magic, do you think?" the knight guessed, dropping to his knees to press his hand against Merlin's forehead.
"Unless you have another suggestion, that's what I would have to assume."
"No fever," Galahad murmured. He tugged Merlin's tunic up and inspected the wound. It wasn't healed by any stretch of the imagination, but it was closed. "I need to see his back, but I don't want to wake him," he mused, and Arthur snorted.
"I gave him some of that horrible yarrow stuff. Believe me, he's out cold for at least a few hours." He gently slid his hands under his friend, rolling him onto his side. Galahad confirmed the entry wound was in the same state as the exit wound; still very much a wound, but no longer bleeding.
"I guess I'd better bandage it," he murmured, his face a combination of awe and bafflement.
Arthur helped the man wind bandages around Merlin's torso, to keep out infection and to hopefully help prevent Merlin from reopening the injuries. He couldn't help the waves of relief as he felt the man's chest move under his hands, the deep breaths of sleep. More than once, as he helped tug a bandage into place, he felt the beat of his heart under his skin.
Alive. How could he be alive?
"Can you create a story of some sort?" Arthur asked quietly. "Some reason that we thought he was dead, but he wasn't?"
Galahad frowned. "Nothing that the men will believe."
"I don't care if they believe it. I just want an official story besides 'he came back from the dead.'"
He thought for a moment. "I can say the trauma prompted his magic to cause his body to shut down, sending it into a dormant, death-like state until his magic was able to heal him enough to bring him back."
Arthur's eyes lit up. It didn't just sound probable. It sounded possible.
"Do you think that might be what happened?"
"No," Galahad said bluntly. "He was dead, Arthur. You know that as well as I."
Arthur did know that. Knew it in the core of who he was. Knew it the moment he saw that sword tip sticking out of his friend's chest.
"But he's alive now," Galahad continued. "And it looks like he'll continue to be alive. Might I suggest you get some sleep as well, your majesty?"
Arthur nodded numbly. He might as well. There was no need to keep vigil over a body. No need to keep vigil over a dying patient.
He pulled out his bedroll and lay on his side, watching Merlin's chest rise and fall with his breath. And he matched his own breath to the rhythm until sleep overtook him.
Arthur woke knowing something was wrong, but not quite able to remember what.
He was lying on his bedroll in the woods, with knights and horses nearby. Nothing unusual about that.
The sun was bright in the sky, a light breeze blowing through the trees. Nothing unusual there, either.
A few knights murmured in low voices near the fire as they got started for the day. All normal.
Merlin slept nearby. Very nearby. Much closer than they would normally sleep. That was a little odd.
And he was pale. Arthur had seen him this pale before, more than once in the past, when he'd suffered injuries that caused frightening amounts of blood loss.
Blood...gods.
He swallowed back another round of vomit as the memory of his own bloodsoaked clothing came back, quickly followed by the events leading up to that. And the events following.
Merlin had died.
Merlin had come back.
Arthur glanced back to the campfire, and he noticed the knights gathered there kept sneaking curious glances his way. So Galahad had already spread the word of the sorcerer's survival. Good. That meant Arthur wouldn't have to try to explain it.
Pushing himself upright, he reached out and rested a hand on Merlin's arm, shaking him very slightly.
"Wake up, lazy. Everyone else is already up and about while you're sleeping in."
Merlin let out a complaining grunt that was so normal, Arthur couldn't keep from smiling. "Come on, Merlin. Up you get, you lazy daisy."
"My words," Merlin grunted, and Arthur's smile widened.
"Sire?"
He looked up to see Sir Leon approaching, a bowl in his hands and a combination of fear and joy in his eyes.
"Some of the soup from last night," he said quietly, his eyes fixed on Merlin's face, taking in the small movements, the signs of life. "I thought he might need some food."
"Ugh," Merlin muttered, opening one eye. "No food."
"Just a little bit of broth," Arthur insisted. You need your strength."
"Come on, Merlin," Leon urged, more gently. "You were stabbed, and you of all people know the body needs nourishment to heal."
Merlin's eyes both opened at that, his face suddenly more alert. "Is that what happened?" he asked, his brow furrowing. "I was stabbed?"
"You don't remember? Arthur asked, and Merlin shook his head. "Yes, you were stabbed." He thought about making a joke about how inconveniently timed it was, or about Merlin quitting the fight early to let everyone else do the work. But he couldn't even pretend to find anything humorous about the way Merlin had fallen to the ground the day before.
Merlin must have seen the truth in his friend's expression, because his face fell in pity. "I'm sorry I scared you, Arthur."
Arthur knew he should say something comforting, something along the lines of, "You just worry about getting better," or "You're safe now, and that's what counts."
But then he remembered that sword had gone through Merlin's chest because the idiot had been conjuring a shield to protect Arthur instead of watching his own back, and he felt a surge of anger.
"You can make it up to me by eating some damn soup," he said instead.
It took some effort, but eventually Arthur propped Merlin up and Leon fed him a few sips of broth, and then Merlin declared he would throw up if he had any more and they relented.
"What's the plan, Arthur?" Leon asked as they helped Merlin lie back down. "I don't think we can move him like this. Do you want us to make a stretcher, or are we going to wait it out? Or do you think he's well enough to ride with you?"
"No," Merlin spoke up. "No stretcher, and I'm certainly not riding with Arthur like some kind of invalid or child. My magic is fine, even if my body isn't. I'm more than capable of keeping myself in a saddle.
A snippy argument followed, and Arthur caught Leon fighting a grin that belied more amusement than was really appropriate for the situation.
But Arthur understood, because as he argued with Merlin, he felt something toxic purging itself out of his soul.
He might never have bickered with Merlin again. The space filled with sarcastic comments and petty insults would have been left empty, only to be filled with platitudes of sympathy and polite gestures of respect.
Merlin won, even though Arthur still thought it was a terrible plan. The king compromised by tying Merlin into the saddle so he couldn't fall off. Merlin insisted it was unnecessary, and Arthur pointed out that if his magic was perfectly fine, as he claimed, then the ropes would provide no obstacle to him freeing himself if he needed to.
They arrived back in Camelot early afternoon, and although Merlin used magic to discard the ropes himself - more to make a point than anything else, Arthur suspected - he nearly fell out of the saddle, and Arthur had to catch him and help him to the ground.
"Get a stretcher," he ordered Galahad in a low voice, and Merlin bristled.
"Don't you dare! You are not carrying me through the citadel on a stretcher!"
"You want me to carry you through the citadel without a stretcher instead?" Arthur asked, and when Merlin gave him a fierce glare in return, Arthur realized that was exactly what Merlin wanted.
"And you call me a stubborn prat," Arthur grumbled. If Merlin weren't so injured, he would throw him over his shoulder, because there really was no less dignified way to get from point A to point B than to be carried ass-in-the-air, head hanging helplessly toward the ground.
But he pulled Merlin's arm around his shoulder and slowly, bearing most of his weight, helped him to his quarters.
By the time they reached his door, Arthur was cursing himself for ever putting the man in a tower, no matter what Merlin said about the need for distance and privacy to practice his magic. He wasn't going to need to train for a week after this.
He helped Merlin to his bed, where the sorcerer immediately slumped down, whimpering in pain as his back made contact with the mattress.
"You probably ought to sleep on your side," Arthur recommended. "And you probably ought to take more pain medicine."
"Yes please," Merlin grunted.
"I think what you mean is, 'Arthur, your majesty, king of Camelot, will you please do my bidding and fetch a pain potion for me?'"
"I said please."
Arthur stiffened when he realized Merlin's words sounded weak, almost pleading, instead of exasperated or sarcastic. He moved quickly, digging out the potion. It was the last of it; he'd have to stop by and get more from the court physician before he came back.
"All right," he said after he helped Merlin drink it. "I need to go see Guinevere and clean up some, and then I'll be back."
Merlin huffed. "I don't need a nursemaid, Arthur. I can manage by myself."
For a moment, Arthur missed Gaius. He was the only person Merlin ever really allowed to take care of him. The old man had had a way of intimidating Merlin into staying in bed, taking his medicine, and following orders. Since his death, Merlin's stubborn independence had frustrated Arthur more than once.
"Merlin, you're going to let your friends take care of you, or I'm going to send for your mother. Which is it going to be?"
His friend glared at him before the medicine kicked in and his eyes drifted shut.
Guinevere greeted him with an awkward hug; Arthur couldn't quite fit his arms around her anymore. He kissed her lips and then kissed her belly, and then he stripped down and got in the tub and tried to scrub the past twenty-four hours off of his skin. The water turned red as the blood, which had remained caked on his legs and torso underneath his clothes, rinsed off of him.
"Whose blood is that?" Guinevere asked softly, and he looked up to see the worry in her eyes. Normally upon coming home from a trip like this, he'd tell her stories, filling her in on the official state conversations from the visit as well as the humorous anecdotes that traveling always provided.
But he'd been silent today, saying little beyond his initial greeting.
Gods, there was so much blood.
He didn't answer immediately, scrubbing harder, until Gwen pulled a chair closer and took the cloth from him.
She couldn't bend over enough to really help, but she was able to dip the cloth into the water and rub it over the back of his neck and shoulders, trying to help ease the tension from the muscles there.
"Merlin," Arthur finally said after several minutes of silence. "It's Merlin's blood."
Her hand stilled. "Is he…?"
"He'll be fine." He knew he'd have to tell her the rest eventually, that he couldn't keep something like this from her forever. But not today. He'd tell her once Merlin was up and around, his usual energetic, sarcastic self. Not while he was still too weak to stand, his skin too pale, his breath too labored.
He cleared his throat. "He was wounded, though. He'll need some help for a bit. And he's going to be difficult about it."
He heard the smile in Guienevere's voice when she answered, "He's a stubborn man with stubborn friends. He'll be taken care of." She stood, allowing the cloth to slide back into the tub. "I'll have a servant fetch some clean water for you. You can't really wash in that."
Gwen sat up with Merlin that night, insisting Arthur needed sleep after his trip. Arthur argued that she and the baby needed sleep more, and she'd snorted and said the baby had no idea what sleep was, and wasn't interested in letting her experience it either.
Arthur caved, but after she headed up to Merlin's tower, he didn't go to bed. Instead, he went to the library.
A disorganized collection sat in one corner of the room - everything they'd been able to find about Emrys. They'd been passively gathering books and scrolls about the prophecies for years, but neither he nor Merlin had ever felt compelled to sit down and read them all. Merlin had told him more than once that knowing a prophecy could cause as many problems as it solved, and Arthur had never been big on sitting down and studying anyway.
But now...now Merlin had come back from the dead.
And by dawn, Arthur knew why.
Merlin slept for three days, waking occasionally to grumble and complain, but quickly falling back into sleep. Arthur knew the pain was still significant because Merlin downed the potions without protest.
The third evening, Arthur was surprised to walk in and find Merlin sitting upright on the edge of his bed. But his initial pang of relief was quickly replaced by alarm when he spotted the look on Merlin's face.
The sorcerer had his shirt off, the bandages unwrapped and piled on the floor at his feet, and he was staring at the wound on his chest. He kept his face stoic, but a storm of emotions filled his eyes.
"What are you doing, Merlin?" Arthur asked lightly, stepping closer, but Merlin didn't look up.
"There was a mercenary behind you," he said in a numb voice. "I tried to warn you, but I knew you wouldn't be able to move in time to stop him. So I protected you, just like I always do. But then...I felt it. The pain. I felt it straight through me. And I looked down, and I saw it. And I saw the look on your face. You held me. You…" Merlin closed his eyes and took a shaky breath. "Why isn't the wound sutured?"
"What?" Arthur asked, his surprise at the question cutting through the horror of the memory.
"It's closed enough now, there's no point. From my magic, I'm sure. But a wound like this...it should have had sutures. Galahad is more than capable. He's done sutures on battle wounds hundreds of times. Why isn't it sutured, Arthur?"
Arthur licked his lips, his voice scratchy as he answered. "There was no point."
Merlin shook his head in disagreement. And he finally lifted his stare from his chest to meet Arthur's gaze head-on.
"You would never give up on me. Not unless I was already dead."
Arthur flinched back from the words, looking away despite himself.
"The wound - it went straight through my heart, didn't it?"
Arthur couldn't find his voice, so he nodded. And when Merlin spoke again, it came out small and childlike.
"Did I die, Arthur?"
Arthur blinked furiously, trying and failing to keep the moisture from leaking from his eyes. He forced himself to look up and meet Merlin's gaze, wide and incredulous and scared.
He didn't want to have this conversation. But he wouldn't leave Merlin alone with this. He wouldn't leave him alone to wonder. Leave him alone to try to understand.
"Yes, Merlin," he said roughly. "You died."
Merlin looked down then, staring at his knees in silence. Arthur watched his eyes as he tried to wrap his mind around the idea.
"Are you sure?" he asked finally, and Arthur let out a choked sound that in other circumstances might have been the start of a laugh.
"It was...hours, Merlin. You weren't breathing. Your heart wasn't beating. You…"
Your skin was cold to the touch. Your wound stopped bleeding. Your eyes were open, staring at something only the dead can see. You were still, in a way you've never been still in the twenty years I've known you.
Arthur couldn't say all of those things. So all he said was, "Yes. I'm sure."
Merlin nodded. Arthur could tell he'd expected that answer, even though he hadn't wanted it.
He stood there for several minutes as Merlin stared blankly ahead. He couldn't move closer, but he couldn't leave either. All he could do was stand and watch and wait. And once he knew what Merlin needed, he'd do everything in his power to make sure he had it.
Finally, Merlin broke the silence.
"I think I'd like to sleep again."
This time when Arthur handed him the potion, he knew Merlin wasn't taking it for the pain.
Gwaine returned from patrol that night, knocking gently on Merlin's door a couple of hours past dinnertime. Arthur stood and opened the door rather than calling out, fearful of waking his friend.
"I heard he was injured," Gwaine said in a hushed voice, following him inside.
"He was."
Gwaine eyed the chair set up next to the bed, the potions on the table. "Badly?"
"He'll live," the king answered shortly, sucking in a sharp breath as the truth of his words hit him.
Gwaine paused, stepping closer so he could see Merlin's face in the moonlight.
"I heard rumors," he said tentatively. "The men are talking-"
"Not tonight, Gwaine," Arthur interrupted, sounding more tired and less authoritative than he'd intended. "Just...not tonight." He could feel Gwaine's eyes on him, but for once the knight didn't argue.
"Get some rest. I'll sit with him."
It wasn't a selfless offer. Arthur understood the need to watch, to see firsthand that someone you loved still breathed, still sighed in their sleep, still coughed and fidgeted and lived. So he nodded, clapping Gwaine on the shoulder as he passed him, and made his way back to his own quarters.
When Arthur returned the next morning, Gwaine told him Merlin had woken twice, but hadn't said much other than asking for more medicine and, the second time, asking for Arthur. The king felt a stab of guilt for not being there; after last night's revelation, he shouldn't have abandoned him. So he kicked Gwaine out and reclaimed the chair, determined to stay until Merlin woke again.
When he did wake, he didn't speak. Arthur just looked over and found his friend lying with his eyes open, studying the ceiling with dread.
"'Morning, Merlin," he said softly.
"'Morning," he answered back. Nothing more than an acknowledgment Merlin was awake, and an acknowledgment that Arthur knew that. But after a few minutes, Merlin spoke again in that small and scared voice.
"I don't think I can die, Arthur."
Arthur swallowed. "I've done some reading while you've been out. Those prophecies that we've been letting collect dust in the library."
Merlin's eyes fell closed in defeat. "Do they say I'm immortal?"
Arthur bit his lip hard enough to draw blood as he tried to gather his nerve, then answered. "Yes, Merlin. They do."
He lapsed into silence again, and Arthur let him, patiently waiting for his friend to process the impossible.
"Did I ever tell you why you survived the bite from the questing beast?" Merlin asked eventually, and Arthur frowned in confusion.
"No," he said slowly. "I thought it was some kind of special tincture from Gaius?"
The ghost of a smile crossed Merlin's face. "That's what he told Uther. To protect me."
Arthur huffed. "You saved me with magic. You have quite the stash of those stories, don't you?"
"Yes," Merlin said, although Arthur wasn't sure which part he was agreeing with. "Not with my magic, though."
Arthur stared at him, puzzled. "Who else's magic could it have been?"
"The universe demands balance," Merlin whispered. "A life cannot be saved without another life being taken. I went to the Isle of the Blessed and I made a bargain with Nimueh. My life for yours."
Arthur felt a rush of fury, which he quickly tried to tame. Now was not the time to yell at Merlin and call him an idiot. A twist in his gut reminded him of the horrible last words he'd spoken before his friend had died in his arms.
"You made a deal to trade your life for mine?" he repeated, carefully keeping his voice calm. But the slight grimace on Merlin's face told him some of the anger had seeped through.
"I brought back water from the Cup of Life back, and we gave it to you, and you started recovering instantly. It was truly a miracle. And I went to bed that night believing I wouldn't wake in the morning. I thought that was it. And Arthur...I was scared. I didn't want to die." A tear fell from the corner of Merlin's eye. "And now...now it's a privilege I'll never have."
Arthur moved from the chair to the side of the bed, then awkwardly reached out and took Merlin's hand. It was an uncomfortable move, outside the bounds of their normal interactions. But Merlin gripped back with a desperation that belied his calm tone, making Arthur glad he'd done it.
"I always believed I would die first, Arthur. Because I would do anything to protect you, including trade my life for yours. Even if you were mortally wounded, I knew I would just use magic to take your place. I always, always knew I would die first."
Arthur's stomach turned. He'd never thought about who would die first, but he'd certainly never assumed Merlin would trade his own life to prolong Arthur's.
"When Gaius died, it was…" Merlin broke off, wincing at the pain of the memory. "But you're supposed to outlive your parents. I always knew someday I'd lose him. Just like I know someday I'll lose Mother. But I'm going to watch you die, Arthur. And Gwen. And Gwaine. And Leon. And Percival. And Elyan. Every friend I have, I'll lose. Just like I lost Freya. Just like I lost Lancelot. And then I'll watch your child die. All of your children, if fate grants you more than one. Then their children." Merlin's grip grew tighter with each name, until Arthur fought the urge to withdraw from the pain.
"The prophecies say I'll come back," Arthur said softly. It wasn't much, but it was the only comfort he had to give.
Merlin's eyes widened at that, and he turned to look at him. "When?"
Arthur gave him a sympathetic smile. "When Albion's need is greatest."
Merlin huffed, turning away again. It was a weak promise. It could be ten years, it could be ten thousand.
Ten thousand. Merlin could live ten thousand years. Arthur fought a shudder at the idea, knowing Merlin would be able to feel it.
For twenty years, they'd done everything together. For fourteen of those years, they'd lived without secrets between them, with a common destiny uniting them. And Arthur had believed that common destiny meant they'd always be together. Two sides of a coin.
But now he knew that someday, their road would fork. He would go one way, and Merlin…
"I've always followed you," Merlin said softly, as though he were reading Arthur's mind. "Quests and battles and hunts and diplomatic visits and every manner of foolishness you felt like venturing into. I always followed you. And you're going to go somewhere that I-" he broke off with a sharp gasp, his body shaking with a silent sob. And this time, Arthur was the one who tightened his grip.
"I'll come back," he promised. "I don't know when or how, but the prophecies say I will come back."
Merlin smiled, but there was no mirth in it. "What's the purpose of a one-sided coin, Arthur?"
Merlin's body healed quickly, as it always did, helped by his magic. He made jokes, he laughed, he teased the knights. He used his power to make shapes of fire and water and smoke to entertain the children in the lower town. He experimented with his magic, learning new spells and potions and enchantments to protect Camelot and its king.
But the smiles didn't quite meet his eyes. There was a panic, a wildness underneath it, although Arthur suspected no one saw it but himself.
Guinevere had her child, and Merlin waited with Arthur, watching him patiently when he paced, and placing a firm hand on his shoulder to reassure him when the king sat, burying his head in his hands in fear.
"My mother…" he said. Just once. And Merlin's hand tightened in understanding. But he made no promises he couldn't keep; Guinevere wasn't old, but she was past the ideal years for childbearing. There were dangers. They knew that.
Colter was born healthy, but the birth was difficult. In the end, Arthur held his wife and Guinevere held Colter, but the physician warned them that she would be unlikely to survive the birth of a second child. Their family was, by necessity, complete.
When Arthur handed the baby to Merlin, his friend looked awkward and befuddled, trying to figure out where to put his hands and arms to keep the child secure and his head supported. Then he put a small levitation charm on the child, "just in case."
"You're not going to drop him," Gwen said in response, half reassuring and half chiding, and Merlin grinned back.
"You're right. I'm not. Because I put a levitation charm on him."
Arthur had to make an excuse to leave the room. He had believed, for a few long hours, that Merlin would never hold his child, and the joy of seeing Colter in Merlin's arms was enough to make his allergies so severe that his eyes watered.
The kingdom celebrated the birth of a prince, and Arthur tried to learn how to be a father. He fought the jealousy he felt because Merlin was better at soothing the fussy child than he was, comforted only by the fact that Merlin was also better at it than Guinevere. But then he would remember his life was temporary; a poisoned bite of food, a crossbow bolt in the back, a dagger through the ribs - there were many ways a king could die suddenly. But Colter would absolutely always have Merlin. And then the jealousy would mutate into a different kind of envy, envy that Merlin was promised a lifetime with the boy who held Arthur's heart, but that jealousy was also mixed with gratitude at the undeniable bond between his friend and his son.
Arthur resumed his normal duties, including travels outside of the castle. There were bandits and mercenaries and, when they rode to Mithian's aid, bloody battles. Merlin was still there, fighting alongside them. But while Merlin had always been bold and courageous, now he was nothing short of reckless. He attacked with a frenzied passion, as though determined that not a single soldier of Camelot would receive even a scratch.
Over the next two years, he died three more times.
One of those times, in a battle in Nemeth, he died in front of the entire army. His immortality became the most open secret in the five kingdoms.
"What is wrong with you?" Arthur shouted when Merlin woke up after the third time, hardly able to look at his friend with his skull still slightly deformed.
"I got hit by a mace," Merlin grunted. "I'd think that would be obvious."
Arthur clenched and unclenched his hands. "You got hit by a mace because you ran into a crowd of over a hundred soldiers by yourself. You were part of a troop, Merlin! You were supposed to be fighting with the knights, not instead of them!"
"The knights can die," Merlin answered simply. "I can't. Why risk their lives?"
"Because you can't help win the battle if you're knocked unconscious thirty seconds in!" Arthur roared. "Because you still feel pain, even if it doesn't kill you! Because we don't know exactly what the limits are of this immortality thing, and every single time, I don't actually know if you're going to come back!"
Merlin looked away, a combination of guilt, pity, and despair on his face, and suddenly Arthur understood.
Merlin wasn't throwing himself into every battle because he couldn't die.
He was throwing himself into every battle in the hopes he would.
"Gods, Merlin," Arthur whispered, his rage evaporating. He opened his mouth to beg him to stop, for Arthur's sake. To tell him he was acting foolishly. To demand he submit to the authority of his king and follow orders.
But he didn't say any of those things. Because honestly, if he were in Merlin's shoes, he wasn't sure he'd do it any differently.
So all he said, honestly and brokenly, was, "I've watched you die four times now, Merlin. Could you watch me die four times?"
Merlin flinched at that, his face twisting in horror.
Arthur sighed. "Get some sleep. I know you're in pain, and your body needs to heal."
They stayed in Nemeth for a few days after the battle, allowing everyone to rest and the wounded to heal some before making the trek back to Camelot.
Arthur didn't mind, even though he missed his wife and son. They were near the shoreline, and while Camelot boasted many beauties, it did not have a coast on the ocean. The sight and smell of it stirred something in his soul, made him feel restless and content, all at once.
On the third morning, Merlin found him standing on the beach, watching the waves.
They stood side by side for a few minutes, just enjoying the sound of the water and the birds. Then Merlin spoke.
"I remember the first time I saw the ocean. A stupid prat of a prince had killed a unicorn, and decided to make up for it by drinking poison."
Arthur smiled at the memory. "You weren't even supposed to be there. I ordered you to stay in Camelot."
"You've ordered a lot of things over the years," Merlin said dismissively, and Arthur chuckled.
"If we'd known then what we know now," Merlin added, "it wouldn't have been such a dilemma, would it? The only inconvenience would have been you carrying my dead body back until I woke up again."
Arthur's mouth tightened in response, and Merlin sighed.
"Sorry," he murmured, the apology barely audible over the surf. "I know you don't think jokes about it are funny. I just...don't know what else to do with it."
Arthur's face softened, and he nodded. He understood. As much as Merlin's attitude towards his immortality irritated and even angered him, he wasn't too blind to realize it made sense. And he wasn't heartless enough to judge him for it.
"What do you think is out there?" he asked, and Merlin accepted the change of subject with a grateful look.
"Out where?" he asked, following Arthur's gaze to the ocean.
"At the end of the sea. If you got in a boat and sailed until the ocean ended, what would you find?"
Merlin laughed. "I have no idea."
"I'd like to know." Arthur paused, wondering how Merlin would react to what he was about to say. "I can't, of course. A king can't just jump in a boat and sail away."
"No," Merlin agreed with a dry smile. "He can't. Even if he wants to sometimes."
Arthur grinned ruefully. Merlin knew him well. Then his grin faded.
"Will you do it?"
Merlin blinked, confused. "Will I do what?"
"Someday, after I'm gone, will you take a boat to the end of the sea? And when I come back, will you tell me what you found?"
Merlin stared at him for a long minute, and for once, Arthur couldn't read the look on his face. When he finally answered, his voice was solemn and pained.
"Yes, sire. If you'd like me to, I'd be happy to do that."
I'd like to know.
I'd like to see.
I'd like to do.
I'd like to hear.
Arthur said the words over and over again.
"I'd like to see a volcano erupt."
"There are supposedly enormous fish in the ocean who sing to each other. I'd like to hear that."
"I'd like to see every forest in the world, even beyond the five kingdoms."
Sometimes they were crazier things.
"I'd like to know what a star looks like up close."
"I'd like to see the bottom of the ocean."
"I'd like to fly."
Sometimes they were painfully simple things.
"I'd like to be an artisan. Learn how to make something and live a simple life, with no concerns about matters of state or wars.
"I'd like to be a no one. To live somewhere where everyone knew everyone, but no one expected anything from me."
"I'd like to cook. No, seriously, I'd like to learn how to cook real meals, not just stews over a campfire. Stop laughing, Merlin!"
And every time, he would hesitate, and add, "Will you do it? Will you tell me about it when I come back?"
Sometimes Merlin gave him a wry smile and said, "I can already tell you what it's like to be a no one." But usually he gave a solemn nod and promised, "Yes, sire. If you'd like me to, I'd be happy to do that."
And then it changed, in a way Arthur hadn't dared to hope.
A trader had come from a distant land, telling wild stories of impossible things. But he spoke with such matter-of-factness that he was hard to doubt, and Arthur enjoyed an evening of listening to his tales, Merlin and Guinevere sitting by his side.
As they left the dining hall that night, Merlin walked silently, his face thoughtful. Before he and Arthur parted ways for the night, he turned to the king and said, "Do you believe the story about an enormous cave with the forest growing inside of it?"
Arthur shrugged, pulled from his own thoughts about tomorrow's council meeting. "I have no idea."
Merlin hesitated, shifting his weight uncertainly, much more like the awkward teenager he had once been, then asked, "If it's real...is that something you would like to see?"
Arthur felt something warm and painful in his chest.
Hope. He felt hope.
"Yes, Merlin," he answered softly. "That's something I would like to see."
The years passed. Colter grew into a prat of a teenage prince, and then into a thoughtful and discerning young man, and a great warrior.
Gwaine, Leon, and Elyan fell in battle.
Hunith, Percival and Gwen fell to illness.
Arthur walked around the castle in a daze for months after he lost his wife of thirty-six years. He hardly ate, hardly spoke, hardly seemed to even see the world around him, and for a short time, Merlin worried her death would change him as irreversibly as Ygraine's death had changed Uther.
But Arthur saw friends where Uther had seen only enemies, and Arthur saw a son where Uther had always seen an heir. And bit by bit, he came back to himself, even if his eyes never fully lost their sorrow.
The king grew old. Not senile, but weary. Patrols and battles became things of the past; now Merlin sat with his friend in front of a fireplace instead of a campfire, retelling old stories about friends long since gone and about a young Crown Prince who was now the Prince Regent.
Merlin thought perhaps this was a small piece of mercy from destiny, that Arthur was the last one she took from him. But he could feel the sand slipping through the hourglass. He knew they were down to the last few grains.
He decided he would be angry about it later. He would not allow his fury to taint his final days with his friend.
"Do you still have the list?" Arthur asked one night, and Merlin stiffened. He didn't want to talk about this. It felt too much like goodbye.
"Of course I still have the list," Merlin said, rolling his eyes.
"And you'll tell me about all of it when I come back?"
"That was the deal. Is your memory going now too?"
Arthur took a sip of wine, his blue eyes surrounded by wrinkles, but just as clear as they'd been all those years before.
"Promise me something?"
"You sure are demanding," Merlin grumbled.
Do not say goodbye. You royal ass, do not say goodbye.
"Keep adding to it. I'm sure down the road, the world will be full of things I can't even imagine. Don't think you'll get a pass on skipping things just because I'm not there to tell you to add them to the list."
"You always were bossy," Merlin muttered.
Arthur retorted, "And you never did anything without being explicitly told to do it. So I'm explicitly telling you, add to the list."
"Yes, your majesty," Merlin said, and he saw Arthur try to hide a smile at the familiar sarcasm in the title.
Fourteen times.
Six stab wounds. Two mace wounds. Three poisonings. One fall from a cliff. One blow from an ax. And one attack from a chimaera.
Merlin recited each one as he stared at Arthur, lying in state. His face was peaceful, just as it had been when they'd found his cold body in his bed that morning.
He'd put Arthur through this fourteen times.
He wasn't sure he could bear going through it even once.
He'd considered, for just a brief instant, using the Cup of Life. Bringing him back.
But he knew Arthur wouldn't thank him for doing such a thing. Not now. His time had come. Merlin knew that, no matter how desperately he wanted to deny it.
Colter's coronation would be held in three days. Merlin had been asked to crown the new king.
He was proud to be asked, proud of the king Colter would be. He lacked his father's passion and charisma, and, truth be told, he did not have his father's courage.
But then again, who did?
He would be a strong king, though. Perhaps not a king of legend, but a strong king.
But when Arthur's crown sat upon his head and the crowd roared, "Long live the king!" it was not pride, but sorrow, that caused tears to fill Merlin's eyes.
Merlin loved Colter. He always had. He protected him and served him and advised him with the same faithfulness he had his father.
But while he would never admit it aloud - would never even admit it to himself, except in the darkest parts of the night - sometimes he struggled not to resent the man.
Because he was a good king, and Merlin loved him. But he was not the other half of the coin.
Merlin grieved Colter's death.
And then he grieved the death of Colter's daughter.
And then it happened. The thing he had feared, but had prayed would never come.
Colter's grandson and his wife found themselves unable to conceive. They adopted the teenage son of a lord as their ward and heir, and Merlin feared they'd chosen poorly. The young man was charming, but foolish.
The king died.
The line of Arthur Pendragon had come to an end.
Merlin stayed, because Arthur had loved Camelot above all else. And while his king may be dead - or sleeping, if you believed the legends - Merlin remained loyal to him, and that meant remaining loyal to Camelot.
The foolish heir was greedy. He led Camelot into pointless wars in his attempts to fill his coffers. He made unnecessary enemies for the sake of his pride.
Camelot fell. From a hill in the distance, Merlin watched his beloved castle - Arthur's beloved castle - burn.
Then he turned around and started walking.
First, he walked to the Lake of Avalon. He sat on the shore and waited for a month, certain the time had come. But still, Arthur slept.
Finally, Merlin stood and moved again.
This time, he walked until he reached the ocean in Nemeth, the same beach he and Arthur had once stood upon. He thought now might be a good time to try to see the bottom of the ocean. What did it matter if he died again? There was no one to grieve. No one to yell at him for it.
But instead of walking into the ocean, he walked along the shoreline. He walked until he found a port full of ships. He had only two rules.
Whatever ship he boarded, the destination must be a place he'd never heard of before.
Wherever he went, whoever he met, no one could know about his magic.
It wasn't fear or shame that drove him to hide it, as it had in the early years of his life. No, this was something entirely different. His magic existed to serve Arthur. He would not use it to serve another. Until Arthur came back, it would be a private thing, known only to himself.
He tried to find the end of the ocean for Arthur. For two hundred years, he practically lived on the water. But the ocean never ended; he always found himself on another shore.
One night, standing on the deck of a ship and staring into the darkness, he heard an unfamiliar sound. He was certain he'd never heard anything like it before, but it stirred something in him, and his magic perked up, eager to respond to it.
"What is that?" he asked, turning to one of the sailors behind him, and the man smiled.
"That? Oh, that's the mating call of the whales, the huge fish that live in these waters."
It felt almost like a physical blow to the stomach as he heard Arthur's voice in his head, as clear as it had been centuries before.
There are supposedly enormous fish in the ocean who sing to each other. I'd like to hear that.
He'd done it. He'd done one item on the list.
He was standing on the deck of that same ship when they saw a mountain explode in the distance, red fire spewing into the sky. It was terrifying and awe-inspiring and beautiful and awful, all at once. He could imagine Arthur standing beside him, trying to look stoic and kingly even as fear glinted in his eyes.
He couldn't wait to tell him about it.
He moved on from the sea and wandered across foreign countries, using his magic to learn the unfamiliar languages. He decided to become a blacksmith.
That ended up being easier said than done; no one wanted an old man as an apprentice. He ended up having to use a reverse-ageing spell.
He couldn't bear to look in a mirror for over a year. The face looking back at him was that of a different man. That Merlin had been full of hope for the future, surrounded by friends and destiny.
It felt wrong to see the reflection of that face when he was so utterly alone.
But he forced himself to stay put for a while, to put down roots in a village and get to know people. He didn't do anything extraordinary, didn't stand out. He didn't want any expectations on him. He just wanted to know people and be known, even if it was in a casual and superficial way.
It wasn't a bad way to live, but it felt claustrophobic sometimes. He felt a little too known. He'd have to tell Arthur it wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
He traveled again, seeing forest after forest after forest, including the forest hidden in an enormous cave. But he still hadn't seen all of them. He also hadn't kept track - didn't even know how to keep track - of what he had and hadn't seen.
That item was going to be trickier to check off the list.
He married a kind and lovely woman, a widow whose heart still belonged to her late husband. They had a happy marriage, both comfortable in their understanding that although they cared deeply for each other, they weren't in love. They had no children.
A couple centuries later, he did the same thing again.
It kept the immensity of the loneliness at bay, but the women didn't truly know him any more than his neighbors had known him when he'd been a blacksmith.
He was still only one side of a coin.
The years passed. Merlin reluctantly made an effort to learn how to cook - good meals, not just the gruel he'd thrown together to survive. Food had lost all taste for a few hundred years. It never fully came back, but forcing himself to learn to cook helped to keep him eating.
Technology changed.
Merlin went hangliding, and then bungee-jumping, and then skydiving. None of them compared to riding a dragon, but he had to gather all the data points so he could explain the pros and cons of each to Arthur when he returned.
Cameras became a thing, and then they became a cheap thing, and then they became a digital thing, and Merlin bought one and took an absurd number of pictures. Weird pictures, funny pictures, beautiful pictures. All things he wanted to share with Arthur when he came back.
Merlin got his first computer, spent three hours fighting with it, and gave up. It wasn't worth the effort. They were just a fad anyway.
Ten years later, he gritted his teeth and got another one, and waged war against the damn thing until he understood how to use it. Then he figured out how to use a cellphone and the internet, cursing technology the entire time.
Once he got the hang of it, he decided when Arthur came back, he wouldn't tell him right away about how much he struggled. He'd pretend it had all been easy and laugh as Arthur floundered for a while. After all, if Merlin had a hard time with it, Arthur would be hopeless.
Merlin went scuba diving along a coral reef. It was uncomfortable, but not frightening.
Nothing had frightened Merlin for centuries. He couldn't die, and he had nothing to lose.
Still, depending on a mask to breathe was a strange sensation that he didn't care for. But he forgot his discomfort in an instant when he saw the reef. The beauty overwhelmed him, filling him with joy and peace, emotions he'd all but forgotten about. He wanted to stay there forever.
Arthur would have been blown away. Merlin could picture his wide eyes, his infectious grin. He could picture him pointing excitedly to the schools of fish and the strange creatures swimming in and out of the coral.
When he returned to shore that evening, he locked himself in his car and wept. Body-wracking, snot-bubbled sobs that reminded him he could still feel things, even after all this time.
He swore he would not go scuba diving again until Arthur could go with him.
The list shrank, but it also grew.
Merlin had seen pictures of stars, but now he wanted to see the moon.
Not a picture. He wanted to stand on the actual moon.
The technology wasn't quite there yet, but it was close enough that he went ahead and put it on the list.
He wanted to see penguins in Antarctica. He wanted to see the inside of a tornado (he knew that one would probably cost him another death).
He went to university for one semester before determining Arthur would have hated it and would have no interest in living that experience vicariously through Merlin.
He stayed and graduated because he thought Arthur wouldn't begrudge him three and a half years spent on something he wanted to do instead of what Arthur wanted to do. He knew Arthur would have been happy Merlin wanted to do anything at all.
He learned to play rugby because he thought Arthur would have enjoyed it. He decided he'd far rather hold the shield during the knights' training exercises.
Of course, that just reminded him there were no knights, no training, no shields.
He didn't try sports again after that.
He wanted to see a movie set.
He wanted to wrestle an alligator.
He wanted to climb Mount Everest.
"Want" is, of course, a relative word. Merlin would not shed a tear if he failed to do every single one of those things. He didn't truly care about any of them. But they kept him busy. They gave him a Next Thing To Do while he waited.
Because he did wait. Every single day, he waited.
And when Arthur came back, he would have a thousand stories to tell him.