Do You Feel Like a Young God?

by onceandfuturewarlock

"If I am to keep your secret," Agravaine's touch glided upward now, tugging light but insistent at the waistband of Merlin's trousers, "then I do deserve some form of recompense." / S4 AU. Set right after S4, E03. Blackmail, non-con, dub-con, magic reveal, Merlin!whump.

16. I'm Not There For You

"Sometimes, I'm a selfish fake,

You're always a true friend,

I don't deserve you,

Because I'm not there for you,

Though I wish I could be."

- There For You, Flyleaf

---

Arthur wasn't really very sure of a lot of things right now—he wasn't really very sure if he could ever come up with a way to take down Morgana, he wasn't really very sure if he could ever come up with a way to take his kingdom back from her, he wasn't really very sure if his people would even want him to return to the throne, if his people would even trust him any longer after he had let the crown fall so easily into enemy hands again, and honestly, he couldn't blame them, any of them, if that was the way it turned out, and he was really not very sure at all if he could ever figure out what to do with Merlin when he finally got back to the castle, when he finally had to face the man again—but he was very, absolutely sure of one thing.

If he had only known every last druid in the entire camp would snap 'round and stare at him the second he stepped out of the tent, he would have stayed in the tent, and no big mess like this, no fuss or hassle or stir like this, if he had only known, if he had only known every last druid in the entire camp would look at him like this, all wide-eyed and wary and terrified out of their magical little minds, all tensed up like taut bowstrings, he would have stayed in the tent. Much better. Much simpler. No fuss. No hassle. No stir.

Honestly, what did the druids think he was going to do,even? Strangle a bunny? Leave a kitten up in a tree? Snap a newborn pup's neck? Toss a child in the creek? Come on, this was ridiculous! He hadn't done a thing wrong! He hadn't even pulled out his sword! And he was only here at all because Guinevere and Gwaine and Elyan had dragged him here! It wasn't like he had wanted to come here! It wasn't like he wanted to be here! It wasn't like he was going to stick around! As soon as the storm had cleared up, he was going to go, he was going to leave, he was going to turn around and head right back out in the wood, and thank God! He certainly wasn't going to linger here any longer than the druids wanted him to linger here! He was very, absolutely sure of that, too!

But it wasn't really up to him right now. Nothing was really up to him right now. So he could only slump silently down onto a hard, hollow log pulled up near the small, smoky fire, with Guinevere and Elyan settled in on the wood beside him, and Gwaine slouched over on the other side of the flame. The old druid, Iseldir, got up and handed Arthur a little wooden plate piled with food.

"Thank you," Arthur murmured, with a quick dip of his head at the druid, but he only put the dish down in his lap, on his knees, and he found he could hardly even look at it at all. Even if the sweet, fruity scent hadn't made his stomach twist up in knots, he had far too much else on his mind right now to even think of food. Morgana. Camelot. The people. Oh, God.

The people.

Morgana would hurt the people, he knew that—he was really very absolutely sure of that, too, but he would give up everything he had ever had if only he wasn't so sure, if only Morgana had ever left him any room to doubt, but she hadn't, she hadn't, and she would hurt the people, he knew it, and maybe she already had? Maybe Morgana already had hurt the people? Maybe she had already rounded them all up and locked them away in little cells or maybe she had shut them all down in deep, dark dungeons? Maybe she had slaughtered them all? Maybe she had burned them on pyres and hanged them on gallows? Maybe she had burned down all the homes, maybe she had burned down all the crops, scorched all the fields down to nothing, down to ash and cinder and ember, maybe she would starve them, all of them, every last soul within the city, and, oh, God, she would really do it, wouldn't she? She would really do all of that, wouldn't she?

And, even if he could save his people, even if he did save his people, even if there were any people left alive to save, once Morgana was done with them, even with all of that, Merlin was still a sorcerer, Merlin still had magic, Merlin was still aliar, a traitor, and he—

—he—

—he saved me, he saved my life, Guinevere had said, screamed, really, he saved my life, all the glass was going to fall and hit me, and it didn't, because he saved me, he shoved me down, he shoved me out of the way, he put his own body over mine, to protect me, to make sure he would get hit instead and he had saved Arthur, too, the knife at the feast, the knife the old lady had slipped out of her long golden sleeve, nothing in it for him, but he had still saved Arthur, he had still put his life on the line for Arthur, he hadn't even known Arthur, he hadn't even liked Arthur, he had slept a whole night down in the dungeons because of Arthur, he had gotten hours and hours in the stocks because of Arthur, and evil sorcerers could carry heavy grudges a very long way, except Merlin hadn't, and what if that meant something? What if that really, actually meant something? What if it wasn't all a lie? What if Merlin wasn't a mask? What if Merlin was really real?

And now there was all this Emrys business, too. The name still echoed, over and over, in Arthur's head, and it lingered like a black shadow in the back of his mind, and it still made his skin tingle and prickle, it still felt like an old friend, and he knew that was ridiculous, he knew that was mad, he knew it didn't make any sense, but maybe, if the name made him feel like this, maybe Emrys was important? Kind of?

All right. Fine. It was a stupid thing to get stuck on. A name. Arthur knew that. He had a far bigger headache on his hands right now—he had a kingdom to take back, a castle to storm, a crown to reclaim, a witch to overcome, a whole city to save, except he—

—he couldn't.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, but he had to face the truth. If he tried to rush off right this moment, he would only make everything worse for himself and his friends, and there would be no one left in all the world to save Camelot in her darkest hour. So it seemed the only thing he could do, right now, was—

He put his plate down in the ice and snow at his feet, leaned up a little on the log, and looked the old druid straight in the eyes.

"Tell me about Emrys."

Right now, he couldn't ride off and save his kingdom.

But, right now, he could do this.

Iseldir raised his silver brows and smiled his usual warm, kind smile. "That is certainly a very broad request, Arthur Pendragon. You must know there is much to say of one so great." He took a quick, quiet sip from the rough wooden cup clutched in his wrinkled hands before he went on. "Perhaps it would be easier if you could simply tell me what you would like to know?"

"I—I don't know him," Arthur said, because it was the only thing he could really think to say, in that moment, "I don't know any man called Emrys, I'm certain of that, yet—" yet it feels like I do, it feels like, maybe, I did, only I forgot, and now I don't know what's real and what's not, I don't know if I ever really knew him at all, but I think maybe you do, I think maybe you know, I think maybe you can tell me the truth, "—yet you say I do."

A little frown creased Iseldir's kind, open face. He leaned back a bit on his own log. "I see," he said, very softly, almost to himself, really, like he didn't actually want Arthur to hear a word of it at all. "I see." He nodded, once, short and sharp. "You have misunderstood."

Arthur scowled. Really, it was a very simple thing he had asked of Iseldir—did he actually know a man called Emrys, or did he not actually know a man called Emrys? Had he gone 'round the twist or had he not? Had he made it all up in his own head or did he really know that name the way it felt like he did? Was Emrys merely a story he had told to himself, so much, and so well, he actually believed it now? Or was it really real? "No," he huffed, "no, I'm really quite sure I haven't, actually." I'm pretty sure you have misunderstood, except he couldn't come out and say that, he could only bite his bottom lip and not look at Guinevere, or Gwaine, or Elyan, because he could feel their eyes on him, burning little black holes in him.

"I did not," Iseldir said, very calm but very firm, and it was like Arthur hadn't even opened his mouth at all, "say you know Emrys. I believe I merely said you have met him. And there is a difference, Arthur Pendragon. A vast one. I would urge you to learn it, and learn it well, before you face him again, or you will surely repeat your last mistakes."

Arthur blinked. "What?" Last mistakes? What did that bit mean? Had he done something wrong with Emrys? Had he made some sort of mistake last time he had seen Emrys? Had he wronged Emrys in some sort of way? To say absolutely nothing of all that other rubbish! "I—I think if I've met him, it's pretty safe to say I know him."

"I am sorry, Arthur Pendragon," Iseldir dipped his head again, "but you are wrong."

Arthur ripped open his mouth—no, I am not wrong, you old madman, you can't say I've met Emrys but I don't know him, that's absolutely ridiculous, that makes no sense at all—

"I—I think," perhaps Guinevere could see or sense the furious words in the back of his mouth, because she cut in before he could say a thing, and, much as he didn't like it, he knew it was likely for the best, "I think what he's trying to say is, who is Emrys? You've told us his name, but nothing else."

Iseldir smiled his warm, kind smile again, at Guinevere now, and he put his wooden cup back down. "That has been my mistake. Please forgive the rudeness, and allow me to correct it. Emrys," he whispered, and his whole, wrinkled face seemed to almost shine with the name, like he had filled up with light from the inside, and his voice flooded up with this soft, breathless reverence, almost, like he called upon a king, like he called upon a god, even, "is the greatest sorcerer to ever walk this earth."

Arthur's heart thudded. The greatest sorcerer to ever walk this earth? No wonder the name made his skin tingle and prickle. This was a threat to Camelot even bigger than Morgana herself. The greatest sorcerer to ever walk this earth. Could the kingdom even withstand such magic? Such power?

"Oh," Gwaine said, a touch faintly, his brown eyes very wide in his face, "is that all?"

"He is the hero of prophecy. The champion of magic. The warrior we have awaited all these years." Iseldir's old, pale eyes still glistened bright with a beam like the sun itself. "He is the slayer of wicked monsters, the bane of blood traitors, the master of life and death, the last High Lord and Priest of the Old Religion, the sole defender of all Albion, the one true lover of the Lady of the Lake, the undeadlic, the godbearn, the bealucræft cyning. He is the light in the dark. He is the way back to the sun."

The hero of prophecy? The champion of magic? The master of life and death? Sharp jolts of dread and fear, almost too big for his own body to hold, stabbed at Arthur like jagged-edged blades with every new name the old druid added on. If this Emrys turned out to be even half so powerful as Iseldir said, Camelot hadn't a hope against him. Camelot had no match for that kind of magic. Camelot had no match for this man.

"And," Iseldir glanced over at Arthur, his mysterious smile bigger and broader than ever, like he really wanted Arthur to hear this, like he really wanted to make sure Arthur listened to this bit, "guardian, guide, and great friend to King Arthur Pendragon of Camelot."

Guardian, guide, and great friend? What bit of that was Arthur actually supposed to believe? Because not a single word of it made any sense at all. He was no friend of sorcerers, for a start, and sorcerers were certainly no friends of his! Hell, half the sorcerers he had ever known had tried to murder him! And the other half usually had it out for Guinevere, or his father, or one of his knights or—! And all that guardian nonsense. All that guide nonsense. Like Arthur was a child. Like he was only a mere boy, too silly and stupid and small to ever really rule on his own, like he was some sort of puppet, and this Emrys held the strings tight in his hands. Like he actually needed to be guarded. To be guided.

No. Absolutely not.

Arthur could not believe it. He would not believe it.

But he didn't even get the chance to say a word of it before Gwaine let out a sort of sputter. "Why?"

Iseldir only frowned. Thin silver brows arched up again. "I beg your pardon, Sir Gwaine?"

Gwaine raked a rough hand through his thick, dark hair. "All right, why? It makes no sense! The greatest sorcerer in the world wants to buddy up with him?" He jabbed a dirty finger at Arthur. "Why? He hasn't done a damn thing for magic! Forget loyalty here, this Emrys bloke doesn't owe him a moldy loaf of bread!"

Arthur nodded. He certainly could live his whole life without that moldy loaf of bread bit tossed in, but Gwaine had reached over and nearly snatched the words right out of his own mouth. He should probably be a bit annoyed about that, but honestly, he was actually rather grateful. At least he didn't have to say it now. At least he didn't have to say this actually makes absolutely no sense at all, do you really expect me to believe such an obvious load of complete rubbish. At least he didn't have to ask what does Emrys want with me, what can Emrys want with me?

Iseldir's frown got bigger. "Camelot has done magic many great wrongs," he said, very slowly, "that is true. I do not deny it. I do not ignore it. And I certainly do not forget it. Nor does Emrys."

Arthur's cheeks flared hot, and he snapped up, straight as a steel rod, on the log. Perhaps it had slipped Iseldir's old, feeble little mind, but Camelot had certainly not done magic "many great wrongs"! Or, well, if it had, it was only because magic had done Camelot "many great wrongs" first! All the things his father had done, all the sorcerers hanged and burned and beheaded, all the spellbooks tossed in blazing bonfires, all the histories he had hidden away in unseen rooms and shadowed corners, all the—

—all the secrets he kept, even from his own son, and all the homes and families torn to pieces, ripped apart, all the innocents slaughtered, a hundred thousand all condemned with no hard evidence, no real proof, a hundred thousand wide-eyed, terrified, tearstained faces Arthur could never forget because maybe they had magic, they couldn't prove they didn't have magic, we must take all precautions with sorcerers, Arthur, we cannot allow this evil to grow in the very heart of the kingdom itself—

"But," Iseldir never actually got louder than a soft, slow murmur, like the gentle babble of a forest brook, but in the thick silence all around them, amid the jumbled whirl of Arthur's own mind, it sounded very much like a scream, "Emrys, like us all within this camp, bears no grudge. Quite the contrary, I'd say."

Arthur blinked. Emrys. Right. Of course. Emrys. It all came back to Emrys. It had to come back to Emrys. The sorcerer had to matter in some way, or Arthur wouldn't feel the way he did about it. "What—?" He lifted his heavy, aching head up a little more. "What do you mean?"

Iseldir turned his grey head to look around the camp. "We bear no grudge, as I have said, but I fear we are much in the minority. Many sorcerers seek to destroy you and your kingdom."

That did not make Arthur feel any better. At all. "Yes," he scowled, "I have picked up on that, actually, believe it or not."

"And," Iseldir said, perhaps a touch sharply—like Arthur had cut him off in the middle, like he hadn't gotten to the end—and his pale eyes flicked back over to Arthur again, "time after time, it is Emrys—a sorcerer—who delivers you safely from the wrath of our kind."

What? Arthur snapped his head up to look Iseldir full in the face, straight in the old, pale, mysterious eyes, and already, he could taste the words in his mouth, the denial, the refusal—no, that's rubbish, that's absolutely rubbish, come off it, that's ridiculous, I don't need saving, I'm the King of Camelot, I don't need to be saved, and even if I did, why would a sorcerer save me, why would a sorcerer ever step in and save me, he must know it would be far easier to stand back and let me die, and even if he really did do it, even if he really did lend a hand once or twice, why hasn't he ever shown himself to me, why hasn't he ever stepped up and claimed the credit, why hasn't he ever asked me to reward him, or return the favor, because he could, and surely, he knows he could, surely he knows he could demand a great deal of me, so why—?

Wasn't that the question of the hour right now? Why? That was the bit Arthur really couldn't get his head around. That was the bit he couldn't riddle out on his own. That was the bit he had to come right back to every single time. If Iseldir had really got it right, if Iseldir had really told the truth, and Emrys really did fight sorcerers, if Emrys really did fight his kind, if Emrys really had set himself against his own, Arthur still didn't know why.

The greatest sorcerer to ever walk this earth, with all the power of an actual, literal god in his hands, hadn't gone ahead and conquered the entire world with one flick of his little finger. The greatest sorcerer to ever walk this earth had looked out upon the very not-conquered world and hadn't made a move to reign on high over all. The greatest sorcerer to ever walk this earth had looked out upon the world and picked Arthur out of all the people, out of all the kings and queens and royals in all of Albion. Emrys had looked out upon the world, and no doubt he had seen greater and nobler and fiercer and braver and better, he had seen the kind of king Arthur could only dream to be, and he had still picked Arthur.

He had still picked Arthur. And, if Iseldir had it right, he had saved Arthur, over and over, again and again, but he had never even stepped out of the shadows to say so, to tell Arthur, to show himself, to say, look at me, look at me and know I've done so much for you, know I've done everything for you, all for you—

—it was all for you, everything was all for you, everything, always, for you, I did everything for you, it was all for you, it was you, it was always, always you, and the sharp thud of the door as Arthur slammed it back in its thick frame behind him and the filthy, tearstained face, puffy eyes all rimmed in red, staring out at him through the big wooden bars—

"I—" Arthur shook his head, and his entire skull ached, from his temples to his brow and back again, "—I don't understand."

"Yeah," Gwaine snorted, "join the club, Princess. Pretty sure I missed something big here. What the hell is Emrys' deal? Why is he so hung upon you?"

I only wish I knew. Arthur rubbed at the side of his head, but the light touch of his own hand couldn't wipe away the dull ache deep under his skin.

"Wait," Elyan bolted straight up in his seat, his brown eyes wide in his face, "d'you think Emrys learned magic all for you? Because that—" he pulled a little face, "—that would be really weird."

Arthur could have very happily lived his whole entire life without ever thinking that. Even once. Whatever would he do without Sir Elyan to put these sorts of things in his head.

But Iseldir only laughed—a little too hard, and a little too loud, like it was really so ridiculous, like it was really so unthinkable, but honestly, so long as it turned out Emrys wasn't actually that obsessed with him, Arthur would be all right. "Oh, no, Sir Elyan," Iseldir shook his grey head, hard, "no, no, certainly not! Emrys did not learn magic solely for your king. Indeed," he looked down at his own, withered hands, clasped tightly in his lap, "Emrys did not learn magic at all. He was born with it."

What? Arthur nearly jumped off the log. "That's impossible!" Honestly! If this old druid really wanted to spin such stories of Emrys, he would do far better to make it all at least a bit realistic! Born with magic! Like Arthur would ever swallow that load of rubbish!

But Iseldir only smiled all the wider. "Oh, yes, but Emrys is rather good at the impossible, Arthur Pendragon. It is something of a specialty of his. You should accustom yourself to that now if you can. It will save you much shock in your future doings with him."

No! Absolutely not! This had all gone far enough! Arthur had to draw the line, because he was not going to have a damn thing to do with Emrys, thank you very much, not now, and not ever, because Emrys was a sorcerer, and Arthur didn't go 'round with sorcerers, at all, ever, and sorcerers didn't go 'round with him, and the moment he got back to Camelot, he was going to push this whole thing all the way to the back of his mind and never ever touch it ever again, ever, and that would work, right? That would be fine. Right?

Gwaine suddenly let out a long, low whistle. "You know," he said, "I'm really coming 'round to this Emrys bloke. Sounds a right lark."

Arthur rolled his eyes—he should have known Gwaine wouldn't last much longer with his mouth shut, and of course, he should have known Gwaine would warm right up to Emrys because Gwaine could warm up to a brick wall if he thought it would get under Arthur's skin—before he turned back to Iseldir. "Emrys or not, it's still impossible. It's impossible to be born with magic. All sorcerers have to learn it, and being Emrys doesn't change that." True, Arthur didn't know very much of magic at all, and he knew it, but he knew this. Sorcerers had to learn it. Sorcerers had to choose it. Like the sky is blue and water is wet and sorcerers know the ills and the evils of magic, and they still do it, they still learn it, they still choose it, and that's why they're wrong, that's why they're bad, that's why they're a danger to Camelot, because they know they could destroy the world, and they don't care.

"That," Iseldir said, simple and calm and very, very firm, "is a fallacy."

"No, it's not!" Arthur snapped right back, before he could stop himself, before he even knew if he wanted to stop himself or not, before he could think do I really want to pick a fight with a druid right in the middle of a druid camp, do I really want to find myself on the wrong end of a whole lot of magic, is that really the wisest thing I could do right now? "It's impossible! Sorcerers can't simply wake up one day and have it! That's not the way it works! You've got to choose it!"

"Oh?" Iseldir's pale old eyes looked even colder than all the ice and snow around him, but his words only got softer and softer and softer. "And I suppose you think we've chosen it?"

Arthur blinked. Yes. Except that didn't sound like the thing he should say, that didn't sound like the thing he should say at all, that actually sounded like the sort of thing that might push Iseldir right over the edge, but what else could he say? It was the truth, wasn't it? "Haven't you?"

"Do you think," Iseldir said, and softer now than ever, hardly a whisper, hardly a breath in the winter air, "do you think I chose this, Arthur Pendragon? Do you think I chose to be cast out? Do you think I chose to be ripped from my homestead? From my life? From my family?"

"I—" Arthur shook his head, "—I-I don't—" I don't understand, but he never got that far.

No.

Iseldir didn't let him to get that far.

"Do you think I chose a power I could not control? Do you think I chose to build a whole world in the shadows, on the edges, on the outside? Do you think I chose to be hunted down like an animal? To be trailed and tracked and pursued over mountains and underground? To be hated? To be feared?" Iseldir's pale old eyes almost burned in his withered, furious face, and the fire only blazed brighter and hotter the longer he looked at Arthur. "I did not come into this world with magic at my fingertips—that falls upon Emrys, and Emrys alone—but magic thrust itself upon me, either way, long before I ever opened a book or recited a spell, long before I ever had the chance to. And if I had not set my shoulders to bear the burden as best I could, it would have crushed me a very long time ago."

But was that really true? Was that really, actually true? Arthur couldn't think why Iseldir would lie to him—what would even be the point of that?—and he looked like it was true, like he had meant it, with the fire in his eyes and the fury in his face and the pain, the ache, in his words, he looked like that had all really, actually happened, like that was really the way it had gone.

—ripped from my homestead, it echoed, over and over again, around and around in Arthur's sore head, ripped from my life, from my family, hunted down like an animal, trailed and tracked and pursued over mountains and underground, magic thrust itself upon me, magic thrust itself upon me, magic thrust itself upon me—

"Y-You didn't—?" But Arthur still had to be sure. "You didn't choose it?"

"No," Iseldir said, and he sounded almost like himself again, simple and calm and very, very firm. The fire had simmered back down to mere ashes and embers, so quickly, Arthur almost wondered if it had ever really burned at all. "No, Arthur Pendragon. I did not."

Arthur's head pounded. Sorcerers didn't choose it? Sorcerers really didn't choose it? But his father had said—his father had said to him—his father had told him—

Had his father—Arthur's mouth turned very dry, his heart picked up, too hard and too fast, in his chest, and he knew he was on the brink of a Really Big Thing, and it would be a thing he couldn't take back, it would be a thing he couldn't cast back out once he had let it in, it would be a thing he couldn't un-say or un-think, but he had to think it, he had to say it—had his father got it wrong? Had his father made a mistake? Had his father only thought sorcerers could choose it, except he had got it wrong, and sorcerers couldn't really choose it, and never got to choose it, and never got a choice?

Was his father wrong?

Guinevere leaned, suddenly, up on the log, and so fast Arthur couldn't stop her, so fast, he didn't even know she was going to do it until she had, until she had grabbed the old druid's wrinkled white hand up in her own, and pressed the withered palm to her heart. "I'm so sorry, Iseldir, truly, I am. I—I can't—" she shook her head, and it made her thick, dark curls bounce a bit around her pretty face, "—I can't even imagine what that must have been like for you."

Iseldir looked at Guinevere. He reached out, and he patted the back of her hand, lightly, with his own, before he pulled his arm back again, and dropped his palm down in his lap.

Arthur almost looked away—Iseldir hadn't said a single word, but he had made Arthur feel, oddly, like he had invaded, like he had intruded, like he had pushed and shoved his way into a place he didn't belong. Like he had pushed and shoved his way into a place he should never be within.

Guinevere tipped her head at the old druid. "How old were you? When—" she lightly bit her bottom lip, "—when your magic—?"

Iseldir clasped his hands in his lap again. "Twelve winters."

"Twelve winters!" The words had tumbled out of Arthur's mouth before he even knew he was going to say it at all. Twelve winters? Only twelve winters? So much magic at only twelve winters? Now that Iseldir had put it in his head, he couldn't get it back out again. "But that's so young!" No more than a boy! No more than a mere child!

"No," Iseldir said, but gently now, "no, that is ordinary. That is the ordinary age for magic to manifest itself."

"It is?" Arthur wasn't so sure he believed it. Twelve winters. Only twelve winters. Only twelve winters in the whole world before magic showed up. That was far too early to choose. Wasn't it? Sorcerers didn't choose. Sorcerers never got to choose. Sorcerers never got the chance to choose. Sorcerers never got the chance to say no, thanks, why don't you go off and manifest in somebody else. Sorcerers never got to cast magic off like a heavy cloak or quilt. Sorcerers had to stick with it and make the best of it.

Sorcerers didn't get a choice.

Like kings don't get a choice, like I didn't get a choice, and a sharp burst of real, actual pity tugged hard at Arthur's heart. At least he had known he would have to take the throne one day. At least he'd had his entire life to make himself ready for it. Sorcerers didn't even get that. Iseldir hadn't gotten that. Emrys hadn't gotten that.

"Well—" Guinevere cut in, all of a sudden, her chin up, her brown eyes bright, her shoulders very straight and very taut under her thick woolen cloak and purple dress, "—well, right now, we could really do with some help. Do you believe Emrys would aid us in the battle to come if we asked it of him?"

Arthur's stomach jolted, and he nearly shot straight up off the log again. "Aid us?" Even if Emrys had backed him up in battle before—and that, honestly, still looked like a pretty big if, at least so far as he could see—he couldn't very well stroll on up to a sorcerer and ask for aid! What would he even say? Hello, good day to you, tell me, if it's not too much trouble, do you think you could pitch in and lend a hand? I need to get my throne back from a mad witch, and oh, by the way, magic is very, very outlawed in my kingdom so as soon as the fight is through, I'll have to execute you by law. Even though you apparently didn't actually choose it, even though you apparently had no choice in it at all. Sorry! Sucks to be you!

Hell, Arthur would be lucky if he made it back in one piece! Because he was pretty sure Emrys would blast him to bits before he got even one word out of his mouth! Didn't matter if the man had chosen magic or not, he could still kill with it!

"Well. Yes." But Iseldir said it far too slowly, and he didn't sound very sure of himself, and Arthur did not like that at all. "Yes, indeed, Guinevere, I'm nothing short of sure he would, but," he got even slower now, "I-I do not believe he can."

What? Arthur felt his lips tug down at the edges in a little frown. That didn't sound right.

"But," Guinevere wrinkled her dark brow—looked like her mind had gone the same way as Arthur's own—and she leaned up a little more on the log, "but you said he's the greatest sorcerer in the world. If even he can't overpower Morgana—"

If he can't overpower Morgana, if Morgana is greater than even the greatest, Camelot really has no chance, except that was ridiculous, that was a ridiculous thing to think, because obviously, even if Emrys could do it, even if Emrys could overpower Morgana, even if Emrys could crush her with a snap of his fingers, that obviously didn't mean he would. Even if Iseldir didn't seem to think so, Emrys could very well hate Arthur with all he had in him. And that would be absolutely fine, because Camelot certainly didn't need Emrys, thank you very much. Arthur and his knights could handle Morgana well enough without this sorcerer to pop up and shout some gibberish. Hell, he already had handled Morgana well enough without Emrys! He certainly didn't need a hand now!

Iseldir's lips twitched at the edges, like he had to fight back a laugh. "Oh, no, no, Guinevere," he said, instead, but a smile did dangle lightly at the corner of his mouth, "no, it seems I have misled you. And I am sorry for that. Emrys can overpower the witch. Indeed, he has overpowered her, even, and a great many times, too. Perhaps—" he raised his brows, "—perhaps you recall the immortal soldiers she set upon the kingdom?"

"What?" Arthur almost got up. Again. No! That was not Emrys! That was not some mysterious sorcerer in the shadows! That was him! That was the Knights of Camelot! They had saved the kingdom! Not Emrys! Not a sorcerer! The knights! Sharp blades and cold steel had slain the soldiers! Not magic! Certainly not magic!

"That—?" But Guinevere's eyes had gotten very wide and very round in her face—oh, for God's sake, she didn't really, actually believe a word of this rubbish, did she?—and her words hardly got louder than the barest whisper. "That was him?"

Iseldir nodded. "Alone, and entirely unaided, he conquered the undead. Alone and unaided, he faced Morgana. He dueled her, and it did not take him long to triumph over her. At his hand, Camelot lived to see another dawn."

At Emrys' hand? That was not the way Arthur remembered it! Absolutely not!

"Iseldir," Guinevere said, and she looked serious, in a slow and steady sort of way Arthur didn't think he had ever seen in her before, "Iseldir, tell me, are you absolutely sure of this?" She leaned up, her hands clasped on her knees until her knuckles turned pale and all the veins stood out under her skin. "Are you absolutely sure this is true? Emrys saved us from the immortal army? You're sure of that?"

Iseldir blinked. "Certainly, Guinevere, I am sure. Even the smallest child within this camp could tell you that tale." The corners of his mouth turned up in a full smile now. "I must admit, it is rather a favorite among us. It was a great honor he bestowed upon us when he returned the Cup to our care."

Wait. The Cup? "He gave that back to you?" Arthur really did jump up on his feet now, his heart pounding furiously fast in his chest and a flush of scorching hot fury in his face, his blood at a boil in his veins. Did Emrys even know the headache it had been to lay hands on the Cup at all? Did Emrys understand, could Emrys understand, even, the absolute, enormous risk he and Merlin had taken to get a hold of the thing? To push into King Cenred's lands? To chance an all-out war with King Cenred himself? All for nothing? All so Emrys could turn right around again and—

—and—

—wait.

Arthur stopped dead.

If Emrys had come here, and he had handed the Cup back over to the druids, the Cup had made it. The Cup was still all right. The Cup was still whole.

That meant Merlin had lied.

Merlin had lied to him. Merlin had lied to him about the Cup. Merlin had told him the Cup had gotten destroyed. Merlin had told him the Cup couldn't withstand the battle. Merlin had told him Morgana's magic had ripped the Cup apart, torn it all to bits and pieces, and, God, he had said I'm sorry, Arthur, it's gone, but if Iseldir was right, if the Cup was really here, that was a lie, Merlin had lied—

Iseldir bowed his grey head. "I know you longed to possess it, Arthur Pendragon, but mortal men, and above all, men without magic, simply cannot resist the temptations of it. For there are many, and they are strong indeed. It is too powerful for this world."

Arthur blinked. He felt like he should fight the old druid on that. He felt like he should say, well, perhaps other men are much weaker than I, because I could do it, I know I could do it, I know I could fight the pull of the Cup, so hand it over, it's mine, it belongs to Camelot, we won it from you, except he didn't even care. Let Iseldir keep the damn Cup. Let Iseldir say he couldn't have it, let Iseldir say he shouldn't have it, he didn't care, he didn't even want it anymore, he had only wanted it at all to keep it out of Cenred's greedy, grasping hands. And he had a far bigger thing than a fancy little goblet stuck in his mind. "My servant," he said, at last, and far slower than he wanted, far slower than he really meant to, "my servant told me Morgana blew the Cup to bits. He said not a shard survived." But Merlin had magic. Merlin had magic, too. He had known about the Cup's power, hadn't he? He had known, and he had known he couldn't fight it, and maybe it had scared him, maybe it had made him believe no one in Camelot could fight it, maybe it had made him believe only the druids could be trusted with it, so he had lied to Arthur and turned around and handed the Cup off to Emrys, and oh, God, that means Merlin knows Emrys, doesn't it, that means Merlin really knows—

"Oh, Arthur," Guinevere got to her feet, too, her chin tipped up to look him dead in the eye, her fisted hands jammed on her hips, and her pale purple skirt all bunched up under her clenched fingers, "don't you see? Don't you see it yet?"

Arthur didn't like the way she said it. He didn't like the way looked at him right now—like she couldn't believe he hadn't caught on as quick as her, like he was blind, like he was stupid, like he was an idiot—and the words fell far harsher from his mouth than he really meant it to. "See what?"

"Open your eyes!" Guinevere raked a hand through her thick, dark curls. "Merlin is Emrys!"

It should have come as a shock.

It should have slammed him straight in the chest and right in the heart, it should have hit like a stone, like a boulder, like a bolt loosed too soon from the bow. It should have dropped down on him like a rock, like the sharp side of a sword hanging over his head. It should have cut him up all to pieces and left him to pick himself up and put himself back together all over again. It should have hit him hard. It should have rattled him right down to his core. It should have crushed him flat.

It was the last thing in the whole world Arthur had ever expected to hear.

So it should have come as a shock.

But.

That was the thing.

It didn't.

Mostly because Arthur didn't really believe it at all—he could swallow a lot of things, he could swallow a whole hell of a lot of things, like Merlin has magic but I don't think he's actually working for Morgana, I don't think he wants to kill me, I don't think he hates me, I think he might actually be on my side, and I think the greatest sorcerer in the world is also on my side, too, a little bit, maybe, and sorcerers don't get a choice, sorcerers don't get to choose to be sorcerers, it's just dropped on them all of a sudden, out of nowhere, and they have to learn to live with it as best they can, like Iseldir, but this—

Merlin is Emrys, and it dropped down into his mind like it might drop down into a fresh fall of new snow, so cold and clear and thick, Arthur hardly felt it at all. So cold and clear and thick, it barely made even a little bit of a dent in the blank, white heap. Merlin is Emrys. It tumbled into his head like it would tumble down onto a pile of soft ivory cotton, or a jumble of thick, fluffy feathers. Merlin is Emrys. Merlin is Emrys. Arthur tried the words out in his mind because he didn't think he actually wanted anyone around him to hear it. He didn't think he wanted anyone in the world to hear it. If he said it out loud, he knew he would make it real. He didn't think he was ready for that.

Merlin is Emrys. He tried it again. Merlin is Emrys. Merlin is Emrys. It sounded funny, with all the snow and cotton and feathers to deaden it down. Muffled. Muted. Far away. Merlin is Emrys.

Except Arthur wasn't entirely sure Merlin could be Emrys.

Merlin tripped over his own boots. Merlin was complete rubbish with a sword. Merlin couldn't scrub a floor or make a bed right. Merlin always looked like he had clambered out of a swampy, mucky bog deep in the wood. Merlin talked to the horses in the stables, and Arthur's hounds in the kennels, like he would talk to real, actual people who could really, actually understand him, and talk back to him. Merlin loved sunflowers and honeybees and butterflies.

Emrys was the greatest sorcerer to ever walk this earth. Emrys was the champion of magic. Emrys was the master of life and death. Emrys was the last High Lord and Priest of the Old Religion. Emrys was the sole defender of all Albion. Emrys was born with magic.

No man could be both.

"The immortal soldiers?" Guinevere arched her dark brows at him. "That was Merlin."

"No," Arthur said, but that sounded funny, too, muffled and muted and far away, "no, that was us. That was us. The knights."

"That was Merlin!" Guinevere said, again, even louder now. "That was Merlin! Don't you see? It's all Merlin! He saved us! He's been saving us for—" she bit her bottom lip, and shook her head, side to side, slow and sad, "—for a long time now, I think."

"No," Arthur said, all muffled, all muted, and it seemed everything in the whole world right now sounded like that, muffled and muted, too dim, too faint, too dulled with the snow and the cotton and the feathers.

But Gwaine looked like he had lit up from the inside out, brighter than a lantern in the night. "That means Merlin's all right!" He straightened up on the log across the fire. "That means Merlin's all right, doesn't it? That's got to mean he's all right! He's the greatest sorcerer in the world! And he's kicked Morgana's ass loads of times before! Ha! Bet he's already sent her and her sad-sack soldiers packing, and he's on his way tous right now!"

Elyan rolled his eyes. "Come off it, Gwaine, even if Merlin really is Emrys, we can't count on him or his magic to get us out of this."

"Why not?" Gwaine crossed his arms over his broad chest. "Maybe you've got your head way too far up your own ass to notice, but Merls was pretty incredible even before he turned out to have loads of magic on his hands, so I don't see why he—"

"—yeah, yeah, I get it, we all get it, Merlin's great, Merlin's wonderful, Merlin's amazing, you're madly in love with Merlin, you would marry Merlin tonight if you could, you don't need to go on about him again—"

"The Dorocha!" Guinevere cut in. "The Dorocha, Arthur, don't you remember?" She reached up to grab his arm, but the warm touch of her hand on his skin felt muffled, muted, dim, faint, dulled. "The Dorocha? The veil? Merlin saved you! Remember? The Dorocha would have hit you, only Merlin pushed you back, and he—"

"No," Arthur said, again, because he couldn't stop it, he couldn't, but the Dorocha, the cold deep under his skin, all the way down to his bones, the screams and wails of the dead, and the fear a hard, tight knot in his chest, and Merlin's hands on his shoulder, Merlin's hands shoving shoving shoving him back, shoving him down, and the grey mist all around Merlin, inside Merlin, and his body sliding down the wall and the awful thud as he slammed to the stone floor and he had said take me with you, please, take me with you, he had actually, honestly begged Arthur to let him die for Camelot, and he had said what is the life of a servant compared to that of a prince and all the snow and all the cotton and all the feathers in all the world couldn't dull that down.

"—instead, and oh, the poison, don't you remember that, Arthur, the poison, with Lord Bayard, and he wouldn't let you drink it, he was the one to—and we all thought he was going to die and—"

The poison. Arthur's stomach jolted. The poison in the wine. The poison in the wine, and he had said I'll drink it, because even all the way back then, he had known his skinny, plucky little servant with his ridiculous ears and his enormous innocent eyes shouldn't have to risk his life like that, and he had reached out to snatch the chalice, only Merlin had jerked it away and pushed him back and said no, no, I'll do it, I'll drink it, and he lifted the golden goblet to his lips and drained it to the last damn drop so Arthur couldn't—

"—and the other immortal soldiers, too, don't you remember, Arthur, the skeletons, and you could hit them, but they wouldn't fall, your sword would just go right through and stick in the bones, and Merlin—" Guinevere bit her bottom lip again, and cast a quick glance over at Iseldir, "—wait, that was Merlin, right?"

Iseldir nodded and folded his wrinkled hands up in his lap again. "You see much your eyes do not show you, Guinevere. Do not lose that. It will serve you well."

Arthur swallowed a little bit too hard, to try and shove the snow and cotton and feathers back down inside him. The immortal soldiers. The skeletons. The poison. The afanc. The wind in the tunnels when he had killed the afanc. He had pushed it to the back of his mind, the sharp gust, the way the flames almost leaped off his torch and devoured the slimy earthen creature, he had pushed it to the back of his mind, he had told himself it wasn't magic, it wasn't magic at all, and the only magic I did feel came off the afanc, only the afanc, it was only the afanc, but the moment the wind had whipped by, he had known it was more.

And he had known it was more when Guinevere's father had gotten better. He had known it wasn't her. He had known it wasn't so simple as that. He had known it was more. Even with the poultice under the pillow, he had known it wasn't so simple, he had known it was more, and Merlin had said it was me, I used magic to cure Gwen's father, Gwen is not the sorcerer, I am, and oh, Christ, he had actually meant it, hadn't he? That wasn't a lie he had made up to get Guinevere off, like Arthur had always thought. That wasn't a lie he had made up because he fancied her.

No, that was the truth. That was real.

Merlin was Emrys.

That was the truth.

That was real.

Arthur collapsed back down on the log. He didn't want to. He didn't mean to. He didn't even know he was going to do it at all. Like a great weight had crashed down on him, slammed into him, and it was all he could do, to fall right back in his seat again, with a faint, faraway thump of hard wood on the backs of his knees. Merlin is Emrys. Merlin is Emrys. Merlin is Emrys. With all the snow, with all the cotton and feathers, he had to try it out a hundred thousand times in the quiet of his own mind before he could really be sure. Merlin is Emrys. Merlin is Emrys.

That was the truth.

That was real.

Wasn't it?

The Dorocha. The Isle of the Blessed. The Cup of Life. The poisoned wine. The skeletons. The afanc. Guinevere's father. The knife at the feast. Valiant's shield—I didn't summon you, the knight had hissed to the serpents, what are you doing, go back, I didn't summon you, and Arthur had pushed it to the back of his mind, like the afanc, like the wind, like Guinevere's father, he had told himself Valiant lost control of the magic, that's it, that's all, Valiant got cocky, he got overconfident, he thought he had it all figured out, but he didn't, he was wrong, so the snakes got out and he couldn't shut them back in again, but that was wrong, that was all wrong, because it wasn't Valiant, it was Merlin, wasn't it, the shield, the snakes, what are you doing, I didn't summon you, it was Merlin, wasn't it?

And the way the branches ripped off the trees right as bandits rushed underneath, and the way Merlin would disappear for hours, for days, even, and everything would be all right again when he finally showed back up, and the way he had told Arthur I don't think you should have killed that unicorn, I think it was cruel, I think it was wrong, but he had still tracked down the old man with Arthur, for Arthur, and he had still gotten Arthur a second chance to lift the curse, and save the kingdom, and he had still gone with Arthur, down into the Labyrinth, and he had still tried to drink poison for Arthur, again.

It was all Merlin.

All the lucky breaks, all the impossible escapes, all the incredible, unbelievable twists and turns of fate, and it was Merlin, it was all Merlin, and if he only walked one way long enough, he would come right back to Merlin, it would all come right back to Merlin, all the roads would lead him right back to Merlin, all the paths would end with Merlin, and Arthur could finally see it, like a thick veil lifted off his head, like a mist, like a haze, rubbed out of his eyes, like a bright light in endless dark.

Merlin.

It was all Merlin.

And Merlin—I did everything for you, it was all for you, it was you, it was always, always you and I use it for you, only for you, it's yours, I'm yours, and that wasn't a lie, that wasn't a lie at all, a whole lot of pretty words poured in his ears to win him back over, to blind him to the truth, to get his trust back, no, no, that wasn't all smoke and mirrors, that was the truth, that was real, Merlin had really, actually meant it, and Arthur could finally see.

Merlin was his friend.

And Merlin was a damn good friend. Merlin was the best and most loyal friend he had ever had, Merlin had always listened to him, Merlin had always stayed loyal to him, Merlin had always stayed at his side, Merlin had never left him, Merlin had never walked away, and Arthur knew he had never made it easy, Arthur knew he wasn't easy to stay with, Arthur knew he wasn't easy to love, but Merlin had dug in his heels and stayed with him and loved him, even when he was a complete prat, even when he was a right dollophead or a real clotpole or an absolute ass, Merlin had still stuck around, Merlin had still stayed with him, and—

—and I shut him down in a dark dungeon and I left him there and I didn't listen to him, I wouldn't listen to him, I didn't let him talk to me, I didn't let him explain, I didn't let him say a word, and he's always listened to me, he's always let me talk, he's never done that to me, he's never not listened to me, he's always been there for me, always, and I wasn't there for him, I didn't stay at his side, I didn't stick around, I left him, I said horrible things to him, I blamed him for everything—

Oh. Oh, God. What if this was it? What if that was the straw that broke the camel's back? What if he had pushed Merlin away forever? For good? What if Merlin hated him now? What if Merlin didn't even want to see him ever again? What if Merlin walked away and never looked back? What if he had lost Merlin? What was he going to do if he lost Merlin? What was he going to do if he had lost Merlin because he was too blind and stupid and wrapped up in himself to open his eyes and look?

If it was the other way 'round, if Merlin had let him down like that, if Merlin hadn't listened to him, if Merlin had left him, if Merlin had blamed him, if Merlin had said such cruel things to him, he knew he would hate Merlin. He knew he would. He would walk away, and he would never look back, let Merlin see if he liked it, let Merlin see the way it felt when the tables had turned, let Merlin see the way it felt to get left behind, to get treated like dirt on his boots.

Arthur would hate Merlin. If it was the other way 'round. Arthur would never forgive Merlin, if it was the other way 'round, and if Merlin tried to say sorry, Arthur would spit in his face and tell him to find some other poor fool to reel in, because this was over, he was through, he would never, ever come back, he would never, ever be Merlin's friend again.

What if Merlin did that to Arthur?

Just thinking about it made Arthur's heart twist up in his chest. If he lost Merlin, again, he really didn't know what he would do.

If he lost Merlin, again, he would absolutely deserve it.

---

Notes: at this point, i'm just lucky y'all don't go "new phone, who dis" every damn time i post a new chapter rghjgfghgfvb also my anglo-saxon's very rusty so i might be wrong but as far as i can remember, 'undeadlic' means 'immortal, untouched by death' and 'godbearn' means 'divine, blessed, child of the gods' and 'bealucræft cyning' literally means 'magic king' because im just so original like that.

anyways! thanks so much for sticking with me, i know i don't make it easy. let's hope we can wrap this fic up soon, and then y'all can be free!