Chapter Twelve

Arthur opens his eyes.

All he can see is light, blue and gray and misty and it looks like a dream.

It must surely be a dream because Arthur is quite certain he had died. But he can feel his heart beating in his chest, strong and steady and very much alive.

His chest which doesn't hurt at all.

He can breathe right, for the first time in so long he'd forgotten what it felt like, no pain, no struggle to get past broken bones and freezing terror, no pain.

In fact Arthur doesn't hurt at all—except for deep, deep in his soul which is still tainted and broken and unworthy—he doesn't feel cold, doesn't even feel tired—rather, he feels rested as if he has slept for a long, long time; a thousand years passing while he slept—but that's impossible, of course.

He's alright.

Arthur turns his head to the right and is not surprised in the least to see Merlin there, where he always is, where he belongs.

Merlin doesn't look alright. He's sitting close to Arthur, his knees pulled up to his face and his arms hugging them loosely. He's pale and there is still blood staining his pale skin crimson and there's a long gash running down his face.

He looks ancient.

Which doesn't make any sense because his hair is still black, and his face is still young but it's there in his eyes which have always carried an old soul but it's different now. As if Merlin has lived ages longer than anyone else can have imagined, survived through atrocities worse than Arthur's nightmares, has lived while everyone has died around him.

Arthur shivers at the thought but pushes it away because Merlin may look old and tired and not okay but he's alive and here and that's really all that matters.

And Arthur smiles.

"Arthur!" Merlin breathes, breaking the silence with a whisper filled with relief and joy and love and so much happiness as if Arthur were the sun rising after a long night filled with the Doracha's screams.

"It's me," he murmurs and his voice doesn't hurt at all, isn't even dry from lack of water, and it isn't hoarse from screaming himself raw. He sits up slowly, expecting all the hurt to come but there's nothing but a body that works without trouble, moves smoothly; moves and works without pain.

It shouldn't be possible.

But Merlin is here, sitting right there in front of Arthur and with him impossible seems to become a word relegated to the past.

Arthur looks around the room again and there's a vague familiarity about it, but he can't recognize it because it still looks unreal. There are no bodies—real or otherwise besides them and Arthur wonders about everyone else but he doesn't ask about them, doesn't say anything at all. He just sits there and relishes the feeling of breathing, breath after breath.

"I'm sorry," Merlin says eventually, and it could have been hours or days or years later for all Arthur can keep track of the time. "I'm so, so sorry, Arthur."

And these shouldn't be the first words they say to each other, because really what could Merlin possibly be apologizing for?

Arthur shakes his head to stop any more words that shouldn't be said from being uttered, "It's alright Merlin," and maybe one day he will look back and laugh that these are some of the first words out of his mouth but right now it's all just too new and too fresh and he knows how important it is that he's saying these three words and meaning them.

"I should have been there," Merlin replies softly, mournfully, "I should have stopped her before you were injured and dyi—" he cuts himself off with a strangled sound.

Arthur gently lays his hand on Merlin's shoulder—bony and cold and trembling beneath his palm—and offers what little comfort he can. It's not much he knows, because he has been there too many times in the dead of night facing the 'what if's'. 'What if I had been stronger, faster, better?' 'What if I had gotten there sooner?' 'What if I had been too late?' 'What if I hadn't been too late?'

"You came, that's all that matters," Arthur eventually says because Merlin is just sitting staring at him while tears run down his cheeks.

Merlin only shakes his head in refusal.

Arthur thinks back to before even though he doesn't want to remember. The pain of every breath and every movement and every second. The sickening feeling of Morgana inside his mind, controlling his actions, and poisoning him with her bitterness. The horror and terror that had encompassed him in that one moment when he thought he had killed Merlin—permanent and forever. The hatred he felt for his sister and the all-encompassing relief when he realized that this was all finally over. The freezing cold and his fading heartbeats. The utter certainty that he was dead.

And further back when he was in control of himself and had to watch as his people tried to kill him while he was helpless to do anything to them or for them. The devastating fear that he would make a mistake. The rage he felt that she dared to use their people against their will. The certainty that he was going to die by Gwaine's hand and Morgana's intention.

And the all-consuming relief when Merlin saved him.

It was all so much, too much to take in and Arthur can't help but shiver again. He'd been so scared and so certain he was dead there in the council room but even then he hadn't believed that Merlin had abandoned him to his death; even as the minutes passed into an eternity of pain and fighting and certain death, he hadn't been surprised when Merlin came to his rescue.

So, Arthur doesn't let Merlin sit there and wallow in guilt that wasn't his to bear. "Who was it?" Merlin frowns at him in confusion and doesn't answer so Arthur elaborates, "Who was trying to kill me this time?"

Because really, that was the only reason Merlin wouldn't have been there sooner, wasn't it?

Merlin looks at him for a long moment before finally with a sigh he murmurs, "Mordred."

Arthur turns away for the first time, bowing his head in a grief he recognizes all too well. Why does everyone turn against him? Why was his life full of betrayal after betrayal no matter how much he loved and trusted and gave them?

"I'm sorry," Merlin says again, "I know you liked him."

Arthur sighs because he always likes them, always loves them and still they turn against him. But it's not Merlin's fault. "What happened?"

"Well, you know how I was having the servants and guards report to me—though not really in those words," Arthur nods even while a smile turns his lips upward because Merlin is talking, rambling and giving more details than Arthur needs but it's so Merlin and Arthur loves it—loves that whatever has happened since hasn't torn this away completely. "Anyway, James came and found me. He said he saw Mordred disappearing into the tunnels even though the council meeting was supposed to start soon. He said Mordred just had a shifty look about him, so I followed him."

"I had wondered where he was," Arthur murmurs quietly. He can't say he's even surprised though.

"I knew it was probably a trap, but I didn't care. I knew we were running out of time and I've never trusted him. I just could never figure out how much he knew about this whole mess," he pauses then, his eyes far away though his gaze is still locked on Arthur. Then he sighs wearily and continues, "he was, of course, waiting for me."

And Arthur expected it but still he finds his muscles locking up, tensing in readiness to get up and stop Mordred before he can even touch Merlin—and it's not logical or reasonable because Merlin is here and Mordred isn't but he can't help himself.

"He wasn't alone, of course not, that would have been too easy. He knew I could take him without much effort even as sick as I am, so he had help. Some twisted creatures I've never seen before that looked like a mix between a wyvern and a wilddeoren except smaller. And there were a lot of the blasted things. And between them and Mordred, with his sword and magic—the coward—I had a hard time just ending it."

He sighs again, runs trembling hands through his hair, massages his neck for a moment, then shrugs as if shaking off the memories, "But then I could feel you were in trouble. I mean I knew it was a distraction to get me out of the way and it worked because of course I would follow Mordred of all people, but it was more than that. I've been so focused on trying to make sure you get through the days I could feel you weakening," another pause while he bites his lip and looks away for the first time as if ashamed. "I knew you needed me and so I had to finish the battle now. So I did what I had to, and in the end, I was the only one left standing. And I was still almost too late."

"But you weren't," Arthur reminds him forcefully. Though things so easily could have been different, and Arthur isn't thinking about his own demise but what would have happened if Merlin hadn't been so focused on getting to Arthur instead of the battle he was fighting. Would he have won easier and quicker and unscathed? Or had needing to get to Arthur been Merlin's focal point getting him through the battle in the first place? Questions, Arthur supposes, he will never have answers for.

"Arthur, another second and you would have been dead, and it would have been my fault!" Merlin shouts as if the words were being torn from him.

"Instead you saved me, Merlin," Arthur replies softly. And oh, how many times you've done this for me, and I've never even realized. "You came in time and here we are. Alive." He switches subjects before Merlin can argue with him more, "How did you break the enchantments?"

This makes Merlin look up at him again, "Honestly? Pure hope and sheer stubbornness that you weren't going to die," he smiles ruefully, and Arthur relaxes at the sight, grateful that Merlin can still smile after all this time. "I know that's not exactly an answer, but I don't really know how else to explain it. That's how I use a lot of my magic actually, it just kind of comes to me. And I wasn't going to let Morgana kill you and certainly not by our friend's hands."

There may not have been a lot of details in that answer, but the explanation was filled with power.

Power that should possibly terrify Arthur, that should remind him of Morgana and the havoc she caused for the fun of it, that should make him reconsider everything. But he doesn't because, yes, there was power in those four simple sentences but there was also loyalty and love.

And if Arthur didn't trust Merlin then he might as well just lay down, close his eyes, and not bother waking up again.

"And then?" he prods.

"Then...I knew I had to stay out of sight because you couldn't be distracted, and I needed to draw her out of wherever she's been hiding."

This time when Merlin pauses there's a weighted silence full of a tension Arthur doesn't understand—perhaps never will—and when eventually Merlin continues he does so in a voice barely above a whisper and tears track down his face, "Arthur, I'm sorry. It's not that I didn't trust you—because I did and I do and I always will it's just...I couldn't tell you the whole plan or give you all the information because...because sometimes you were you and sometimes you were her and I couldn't take the chance, not with your life and all of Camelot on the line," Merlin sobs and in a broken whisper he pleads, "But it's not because I didn't trust you, please believe me, Arthur."

"I do believe you. Of course, I believe you, Merlin," Arthur murmurs and wraps his arms around Merlin, holding him carefully and yet firmly because this is Merlin and he's weeping for Arthur and he sounds so broken that Arthur can't imagine walking away, can't imagine even being angry with him even if there was a good reason to be and so far he hasn't heard one.

Merlin clings to him, his hands curling in Arthur's shirt, his tears falling on Arthur's neck; but Arthur just holds on tight and doesn't let go.

They stay like that for an eternity and when eventually Merlin's sobs fade to the occasional tear falling from his eyes, Merlin pulls back but keeps his hands fisted in Arthur's shirt—a physical reminder that they are both alive and here.

Merlin clears his throat, looks down at his hands, and continues his tale in a hoarse voice, "But that's why I didn't always let you tend to my wounds because I wasn't sure what she would do and why sometimes I refused to really talk to you and it's not because I was afraid of you, Arthur, it was always about her and I wasn't about to give her a speck of loyalty."

And Arthur shivers because it all makes sense now except...he had had no idea that Morgana was controlling him again and again. So many times and Merlin had never been able to say anything, had never shied away from him even though he knew that the person who had tortured him was there right in front of him and yet he had never ever made a move against her or rather Arthur. And... how many other times, thoughts, and actions had Arthur not been in control and he never even knew. And never would.

There would never be any closure for this, no way to know how much was him and how much was her and there was nothing he could do to change that. And really, he should have expected it, should have wondered why she wouldn't be using him again, but the thought had never crossed his mind—or had it and he just couldn't remember because she had erased it?

"Why did you bother with me at all?" The question slips out before Arthur can filter it, can pull the words back because Merlin will always give him answers he doesn't understand at all and now isn't the time for this but the words are already out in the open air, waiting to be answered.

He expects the sort of things Merlin normally tells him; how he is destined to be the greatest king the land has ever known, how he is a good and just man, how he is worthy. But Merlin just looks at him with swollen and red eyes, tears still tracking down his face and mixing with the blood, and says gently and yet with conviction, "Because you're my friend and I didn't—I don't want to lose you."

Arthur can feel the tears in his own eyes, can feel the emotion swell up in his heart till it's full to bursting, and his breath catches in his throat and he can't breathe. And for once, just this once, he pushes aside his doubts and his fear and his guilt and he lets himself feel it.

And it doesn't hurt.

He should say something, should somehow tell Merlin everything that he's feeling—except he's never been able to, never even been able to put it into clear thoughts so how can he possibly say the words he wants to?

Words have never been his strong suit but actions have so he throws his arms around Merlin again and crushes him against his chest and tries to tell Merlin that he's his friend and he's important and Arthur couldn't bear to live if anything happened to Merlin and that Arthur cares for him.

"I can't lose you, Merlin," the words are muffled and slurred, buried in Merlin's shoulder, covered by Merlin's old, thin jacket and yet he knows as he has always known that his friend hears them.

Merlin holds onto him just as tightly and Arthur isn't sure who's comforting who—but it's never been about such things, because in the end they are both there for each other and that's what matters. "And you didn't, Arthur," Merlin assures him, "But I'm sorry, I...I never wanted to make you think you had, I just...I didn't know what else to do. She had to be sure I was dead and for that to happen..." he falters and Arthur can feel the tension locked in his muscles, in his bones but he doesn't pull away—Merlin needs him right now, "For that to happen, you had to, you know, believe it."

And Arthur shivers. Because for that one moment he had believed it. His nightmares come to life in a way that will forever haunt him. Merlin dead by Arthur's dagger, dead because of Arthur's failure, dead by Arthur's hand. Merlin dead. And even now, Arthur knows he will never be able to forget the way he had frozen, locked in a scream; his body refusing to move in the face of such a sight, his mind unable to even truly comprehend such a horrific deed.

Merlin's arms tighten around him, "I'm so sorry, I know how hard it must have been, but it was all an illusion—like the way I hide the wounds except a bit more...complex, of course. Because, it wasn't me, not really—I mean it was my words and my actions controlling it, but it wasn't my body. And you didn't hurt me, Arthur. You didn't touch me and if you believe nothing else, please believe that, you didn't hurt me, Arthur."

Arthur lifts his head and manages in a shaky voice, "I knew it wasn't real."

"You did?" Merlin smiles then, all proud and tentative hope and Arthur can only nod in reply, "Of course you did, sometimes you're a lot smarter than I give you credit for."

Arthur shakes his head, "No, I'm not," he clears his throat and tries to gather his scattered thoughts, "I did believe for a moment." A moment that will be seared into his memory and his nightmares for the rest of his life, "But then I didn't. Because I know you."

"What?"

"You promised, Merlin." Arthur answers and that explains it all really. But Merlin's frowning in confusion and apparently, he needs more, so Arthur continues, "You promised me everything was going to be alright. So you couldn't be dead."

Merlin's eyes crinkle and his lips curve into that half smile he always has when he's confused but happy, "And that was enough for you?"

"Yes." Arthur doesn't know how else to explain it, so he just repeats, "You promised Merlin. And..." He looks down, anywhere but at Merlin and his ridiculous loyalty and finishes in a quiet voice, "I knew you wouldn't let me kill you," Merlin opens his mouth to speak but Arthur just keeps talking, "you would never, ever let me live with that guilt. So you couldn't be dead." He shrugs because really, that said it all, didn't it?

And it doesn't matter to him that it doesn't make sense, not really, the fact that he knows Merlin would let Arthur kill him—indeed, already had by not stopping Arthur while Morgana controlled him—if he thought that it would help Arthur and yet would do whatever it took to save himself—not for himself but rather for Arthur. And it didn't make sense and it was perhaps rather terrifying the way Merlin viewed him—as worthy—but it didn't matter because Arthur viewed Merlin in the same way—as worthy— and maybe it scared Merlin as much as Merlin's loyalty did him but none of that mattered.

What mattered was Merlin.

"Then you broke the enchantment."

Merlin shifts and looks away, "Ah, well, not really. I was getting to that, but turns out I didn't need to," Arthur raises his eyebrows in question. "You did that, all on your own."

"How? I don't have magic."

Merlin shrugs, "You don't have to; you just had to..." he shrugs again, "do whatever it is you did. But that was all you—it certainly wasn't Morgana's plan and I didn't have time to do anything yet."

Arthur takes a moment to let that sink in then decides to put the matter aside for now; he has too many other things to think about to really try to figure out how he could have possibly done such a thing.

"Anyway, it worked. She was so caught up in her victory and it was just the distraction we needed," Merlin continues at Arthur's nod, "Morgana was so confused, which was the whole plan, and then I knew—not that you knew what was going on but I knew you would do what needed done anyway and I wasn't going to let her touch you again. I was pretty certain she knew about our plan to trap her—but just as I couldn't not investigate Mordred, she couldn't resist coming to gloat. I knew I needed to keep her distracted and focused on me so you could come up behind her."

Arthur shivers, suddenly realizing just how insane this whole thing had been. He had known all along that their original plan to draw Morgana out of hiding and poison her had never been the smartest or foolproof plan, but he realizes now that that alone would never have worked. Merlin had known and come up with something more, but it had been just as dangerous—perhaps more so because he was working more or less on his own. So many things could have gone wrong.

But they hadn't.

"And you did," Merlin says, oblivious to Arthur's distracted thoughts, "The poison and the magic on the dagger did the rest," he sounds sorrowful and weary—as he does so often these days, and Arthur realizes that this here is the man behind the mask—and Arthur wants nothing more than to comfort him but he knows all too well the cost of protecting those he loves.

"You brought peace at last," he says regardless of how little comfort Merlin will find in the words.

"We brought peace at last," Merlin corrects sharply then immediately softens his voice, "But I was so late," Merlin replies and he raises old, old eyes to Arthur's face. "Morgana was dead, and Mordred was dead, but you were dy—" He cuts himself off and shakes his head. One of his hands releases Arthur's shirt to rub his neck, wipe his eyes, before he places it on Arthur's wrist where he can feel his heart beating strongly. "I'm sorry, I should have been there sooner, before you were so badly hurt."

"I was dying," Arthur whispers because this perhaps more than anything is what he doesn't understand; he knows his heart had beat it's last and his lungs had filled for the last time. He knows he had died.

Yet here he is.

"You were. You were fading and the entire land was crying out in sorrow and I was losing you!" Merlin takes in a shaky breath, "I could hear your heart stop, could see the blood stop running through your veins, I could feel you dying, Arthur."

Merlin shakes his head suddenly, so forcefully his entire body quakes with it, "But I wasn't about to stand by and let you die! Not after everything, not while I still have breath in my own body, not ever!"

Silence falls in the room after this vehement statement. Merlin seems lost in a memory—and the thought of Arthur dying must be as horrible to him as the nightmare of Merlin's death to Arthur. He's never thought of it in terms like this, never fully allowed himself to imagine what his passing would do to others; how could he when he faced death so often? When he had to ride out and defeat the impossible day after day because that was his duty, because that was what was expected of him. Better to pretend that nobody would be that affected by his passing than to realize that his death would break the ones he loves.

"But I was dying," Arthur finally repeats, to get away from his thoughts, to bring Merlin back to the present, to understand so they can move on.

Merlin starts away from his memory then nods, "You were. And I didn't know how to fix you, I didn't even know where to begin—you were bleeding everywhere and there was so much damage and you couldn't breathe. And I didn't have time to figure everything out, and I didn't have time to make a mistake, and I didn't have time because you were about to die! I just didn't have time!" His hand clenches in Arthur's shirt, bunching it up and Arthur can feel the tension rising within him, coiling so tight he'll have to snap soon. Gently he brings up the hand Merlin isn't holding onto and rests it on Merlin's fist, reminding them both that he is still here, still alive. Merlin's hand slowly relaxes but the tension doesn't leave the rest of him.

"So?"

"I didn't have time so I made time stop," Merlin declares simply, as if it should be obvious; as if he hasn't just said something so ridiculously powerful Arthur is quite certain even other sorcerers would be falling over themselves so as not to offend him.

"You made time stop," Arthur repeats.

"Well, kind of. I mean I think I more tore us out of time, but it all comes down to the same thing," Merlin tries to explain but really that just made it all the more confusing.

"What about...everyone else?" he asks hesitantly. Would he never see Gwen again, hold her in his arms and make her laugh and kiss her lips? And his knights, would he never get to train with them and enjoy their company again? His people, his kingdom whom he loves with all he is, what about them? Would Camelot even be standing still?

"They're fine," Merlin assures him gently, "it's...it's complicated. I just I—I pulled us out of time, made it so no time could touch you and take you away from me. No time is passing here and so when we leave, when I put us back, it will be the same as when we left. Everyone will still be there right where they were. They won't even know anything has happened to us."

Arthur breathes a sigh of relief, tension draining from him as quickly as it had come. He didn't want to imagine what a life without the people he loves would be; he's already had to live out those nightmares too many times. "How did you even know how to do that?" he asks incredulously.

"I wasn't going to lose you, Arthur."

And Arthur knows then just how powerful, how loyal, how good Merlin is.

And how very, very fortunate he is that Merlin has chosen to follow him.

"Anyway," Merlin shrugs again, "after that it was just a matter of fixing you."

"Why aren't you better?" Arthur finally asks the question he both dreads and yet needs to know the answer. What if Merlin wasn't better because he couldn't heal? What if Merlin was still dying? Would Arthur still lose him even after everything?

There's a hesitation while Merlin shifts awkwardly as if whatever he's going to say would make Arthur think any differently of him, then finally he mumbles quickly, the words slightly slurred together, "Keeping you alive took everything—I didn't have anything left to give myself."

Arthur takes in a breath that does not fill his lungs. "Does that mean—?" He can't even finish the thought, not again, not so soon after seeing his body on the ground and blood surrounding him and a dagger resting in his heart—it was just an illusion, he reminds himself, just a horrible, horrible nightmare.

Merlin looks up at him and frowns, "What?" he must find his answer in Arthur's silence because the frown disappears and a small smile replaces it, "No Arthur, I'm not going to die. I'll be fine."

He hesitates again and seems to size Arthur up; it's become an oddly familiar feeling. Arthur has been tested by everyone his entire life, but Merlin has never looked at him the same way; never tested him as others have. And while he has always fallen short of other's expectations, Merlin seems to find him worthy—and while he does not understand why and he does not often agree, it has always brought comfort to him, that somebody believes in him, believes in Arthur.

"And I should start actually healing now that Mordred is dead," Merlin finishes wearily, "He let slip a few things while we were battling and his magic was too familiar—I've been fighting it for too long now not to recognize it."

"You were fighting his magic? When?" Arthur bursts out and he wonders how much had been going on that he doesn't know, how many battles had Merlin fought while Arthur struggled to just get through the day?

"Well, not like you're thinking, more like...passive warfare." Merlin tries to lighten the mood but Arthur is having none of it.

"Passive warfare? That's not a thing, Merlin."

Merlin chuckles, "No?" he turns serious again immediately, "It was just...my magic was doing what it could, and you were tending to me but, as you know, it wasn't really working. I wasn't getting better—that was Mordred's doing, somehow he was blocking me and then my magic was focused on trying to get rid of the other magic so pretty much I was at a stalemate with everything."

"But now you'll be okay?"

"We'll both be okay, Arthur," Merlin promises and for the first time Arthur thinks he might just believe him.

It's not as simple as all that of course.

Arthur may have more answers to questions he had never even asked but there is still the matter of what to do now that it is after the battle.

After the war.

It's after and Arthur finds he still has no idea what to do now than he did before.

But for now, Arthur doesn't ask any more questions; he doesn't worry about what will happen, how he will pick up the pieces of his shattered soul and try to put them back together again, how they will move on from this twisted nightmare.

For now, he just sits here while Merlin feels his heartbeat and counts his every breath and he lives.

"Merlin."

Merlin looks up and nods, "Time to go?"

"If you're ready," Arthur confirms. He's not sure how long they've stayed here, not sure how long it's been since he's woken up alive and healthy, not sure how long it's been since he wasn't.

"More than ready," Merlin smiles crookedly and breathes a sigh of relief. He stands, stumbles slightly, holds out his hand to Arthur who doesn't hesitate to take it.

But he's not focused on standing on legs that don't shake, he barely notices the way his body responds quickly and easily to what he wants it to do, barely realizes that he doesn't even feel stiff as he stands for the first time in who knows how long.

He's thinking about Merlin's answer, so casual yet tinged with solemnity as if his words have far deeper meaning; about the way Merlin had said that time didn't pass here and while Arthur believed him that didn't mean that they didn't still feel time passing; about how it felt like Arthur had slept for ages and ages.

He's thinking about how old Merlin looks; not in body because time hadn't touched it, but in his eyes, in his soul, in his words.

He's thinking about the way Merlin had said his name when Arthur had opened his eyes; his friend's voice had been filled with such relief that Arthur had compared it to some of his darkest memories.

How long? Arthur almost opens his mouth to ask the words, but he doesn't. He doesn't because he's afraid Merlin will tell him an impossibly long time; he doesn't because he's afraid Merlin will answer not with a time, not with a lie but with silence that speaks far more than any words he could give. How long did you wait for me, Merlin?

But he doesn't ask.

He doesn't need to know everything; he trusts Merlin and that is enough.

"Let's go home, Merlin," he says instead and Merlin's answering smile is blinding.