ARTHUR
Merlin smells of ash and fire.
Arthur's been preparing for this, for what Merlin would look like, for how old he would be, but still it's such a shock, and therefore Arthur's standing motionless, not helping Merlin; he's just watching Merlin come out of the water, so slowly, so clumsily, with so much effort.
Arthur remembers how much older Mordred was when he showed up in front of Arthur's door that one winter night seven years ago. And yet, unlike Merlin, Mordred had been in the Underworld for only a few weeks. Mordred had grasped Arthur's hand then, and Arthur stumbled back, abhorring the touch.
"He's not unhappy there," Morded had said, letting go of Arthur's hand. "He's the king. He sits upon the High Throne. Every bit of the world does his bidding: every tree, animal, even every stone or mote of dust. Life and death—he's the ruler of it all, Arthur. He lifts his eyes and millions die. He's not unhappy."
Arthur wanted to say then, "You are so fucking wrong," because he knew—he still knows—his gentle, soft Merlin can't be not unhappy when he's bringing death upon the innocent. But Arthur had kept silent, knowing Mordred wouldn't understand him anyway.
"He's the one who released me," Mordred continued, and Arthur wasn't surprised at all. He suspected Merlin would forgive Mordred's betrayal in the end.
But Arthur wasn't as forgiving, so he told Mordred, "I don't want to see your face ever again," and he shut the door. He wanted to slam Mordred into a wall and punch him hard until he'd be annihilated. But this was not what Merlin would want, what Merlin would approve of.
Later, much, much later, Arthur realised he should've asked Mordred questions about Merlin and Nimueh and Hell, and about what was to come. But by the time he'd cooled down enough to search for Mordred, he wasn't in town anymore. In fact, he wasn't anywhere anymore, or at least not anywhere to be found.
So Arthur went back to waiting for Merlin to come back to him.
He's been returning to the lake over and over, year after year and summer after summer, hoping that Merlin would be out before seven years had passed. But there was nothing—only the dark water and birds singing in the air, and Arthur started to think that maybe the whole Underworld was just a dream, a creation of Arthur's overactive imagination, a beautiful but cruel emanation of his wicked mind.
Yet here Merlin is, standing right in front of Arthur with clothes dripping with water, his long white hair and beard in disarray and his eyes stormy, blue, and distant—so not what Arthur remembers them to be like.
And he smells of ash and fire and is like fire himself.
Arthur reaches for him.
"Don't touch me!" Merlin takes a step back.
"I've waited for you all this time," Arthur says, even though he doesn't have the right to reproach Merlin. After all, Merlin has gone through Hell—literally—and waited ten times longer than Arthur has for this reunion.
"You shouldn't have," Merlin says, not looking at Arthur. "I didn't ask you to."
"Merlin, please," Arthur tries again, but Merlin averts his face.
They can't stay by the water forever though. It's getting cold and windy—the last August night before autumn takes over. Finally, Merlin follows Arthur away from the lake. He allows Arthur to put a blanket over his thin body and place him in Arthur's shiny new car.
The drive home is crackling with tension and things unsaid; it's the most difficult silence Arthur's ever endured in his life.
xxx
They stand in the hall of Arthur's huge loft, a place he's bought because it's located in between the road to the lake and the commute to his office, where Arthur now runs the whole advertising department.
Arthur doesn't know what to say to make this better, to mend Merlin, to bridge the gap between them and bury this seven years—or seventy for Merlin—and make Merlin see that the only important thing is that Merlin is here again. No matter what. No matter how old Merlin is, or what he looks like, or what he had to do during his servitude to the Goddess Nimueh.
"There are fresh towels in the bathroom and clothes for you to change into." Arthur shows Merlin where the master bathroom is, but Merlin just stands still and then shivers as if he sees something that makes him feel cold. When he finally goes to the bathroom, his pace is slow and wobbly, and Arthur thinks that maybe Merlin's had enough of water lately. Or forever.
He sighs and goes to the kitchen, going through the cupboards and fridge, trying to find something suitable to serve Merlin. Half an hour later, reheated chicken risotto sits on the table and wine has been poured into crystal glasses, but Merlin still hasn't emerged from the bathroom.
Fuck, Arthur thinks. He redesigned the place himself when he was moving in, just in case Merlin would be living here, too, so the bathroom is devoid of any mirrors, and it has only a tiled shower with no bath. There's no standing water, except for the toilet. But maybe that's enough? He can't know if the demons will go back to chasing Merlin, or if that has passed along with Merlin paying his debts to the Goddess.
He goes to check on Merlin only to find the bathroom empty. Merlin's dirty clothes are rumpled on the floor and the tiles are wet from where he must have stood. He hears soft rustling from the adjoining bedroom and peeks inside to see Merlin kneeling beside the bed with his face on the sheets. Merlin's hands don't look old at all when he runs them over the fresh, white linen. His fingers are lean, skin soft and pale, just as Arthur remembers.
"Merlin?" Arthur asks softly, still standing on the bedroom's threshold. "What are you doing?"
Merlin rubs his face on the sheets, inhaling. "It just smells so good. Fresh, like the sun." He scrambles up from the floor and looks at Arthur. "Just… I… I missed it."
He looks odd in the jeans and the plain black T-shirt Arthur's left for him. His white hair and long beard contrast awkwardly with the fabric.
"Come eat something," Arthur says, and Merlin follows him slowly, as if reluctant to leave the softness of the bed.
They sit by the table, but Merlin doesn't start eating.
"Aren't you hungry?" Arthur asks.
"Yes." Merlin nods. "No. I don't know. I don't remember."
"You don't remember if you're hungry," Arthur says, not making it a question.
"We don't… didn't have food. Just the Water of Life and Death; that is sustenance enough."
Merlin's hands shake when he grabs a fork. It falls from his fingers, clattering loudly to the table, startling him. "Sorry," he mutters, picking up the fork and trying again, taking a scoop of risotto. He places it in his mouth and chews, swallows it down, and then eats the rest—every little grain—until his plate is clean.
Arthur pushes his own plate towards Merlin without a word, and Merlin eats it, too, in silence. Then he scrambles up, runs to the sink, and throws up, retching violently until he's got nothing in his stomach anymore. He slumps down to the floor, leaning his back on a cabinet.
Arthur gets up and sits next to him.
"I stink," Merlin says, not moving to face Arthur.
"What?"
"This smell of decay. I'm an old man. I have an old body."
Arthur wonders if Merlin will start crying, or maybe it's Arthur himself who feels like sobbing.
Merlin finally looks at Arthur, and his eyes look a million years old. "I won't hold you to promises you made to a different man. I'm not your Merlin anymore. You owe me nothing."
"Don't be ridiculous," Arthur says and takes Merlin's hand in his, refusing to let go when Merlin tries to pull it back.
That night Merlin sleeps tucked under the three blankets Arthur has wrapped around him, but still he shivers until Arthur gets into the bed, too, and hugs him tight.
xxx
Arthur walks into the living room to find Merlin standing in half-darkness, watching something out of the window. He must hear Arthur's footsteps, but he doesn't turn around or even flinch. Arthur stands next to him to see what's gotten Merlin's attention. Outside on the pavement, a mother is dragging her child by the arm, and the little boy is clearly resisting. It's like watching a silent dance—the mother kneeling down, trying to explain something to the kid, then getting up and pulling forward, and the kid yanking back, trying to escape again. And then the pattern repeats itself.
Merlin places his hand on the window and the kid suddenly frees himself from his mother's grip and runs into the street, right in front of an oncoming car.
Arthur's breath catches, but before he can even inhale enough air to shout, the car stops as if frozen in time, and the mother picks her child up from the street, hugs the boy in her arms, and retreats to the safety of the pavement. The car then drives away as if nothing's happened.
Merlin puts his hand down and turns his face towards Arthur, his irises rimmed with gold.
"Did you just…?" Arthur asks.
"I can make them run towards death and then bring them back," Merlin says. His eyes are blue again, clear and gentle, but Arthur wonders what Merlin sees when he observes the world—can he reach underneath the surface and perceive the forces that sustain reality?
"How do I stop?" Merlin asks. "How do I not play anymore?"
Arthur reaches for Merlin. He wants to tell him that it's okay, that he'll get used to living again, but he isn't sure he'd be telling the truth. "Fucking Nimueh," he says, shaking with anger, because he has to direct it somewhere or he'll burst.
Merlin shakes his head. "No. No. She's not to be blamed."
Arthur takes a step back and shouts incredulously, "How can you defend her?" He immediately feels guilty for lashing out. It's just that he's so frustrated—he can't find the way back to his Merlin. Soon enough he'll have to go back to work, he can't be on holidays forever, and then what will happen to Merlin when Merlin doesn't even remember to drink water?
"She is what she is. You can't hold it against her. The world needs her just the way she is. She's the mother to us all."
Arthur swallows, not allowing tears to spill. "Is that why you released Mordred?" he asks, because he wants to know. "Because he is what he is, too?"
Merlin shakes his head, thoughtful. "No. I failed him. I shouldn't have left him alone. He was defenceless against the Guards that came to get him that night. He was just a boy."
Arthur would like to argue, but what would be the point in that?
"Okay," he says, and watches in silence as Merlin goes back to bed, lying down with his face towards the wall.
He tries not to dwell on the fact that Merlin doesn't want to know anything about his life—that he doesn't ask Arthur what he did during those seven years, or if Arthur has, or had, somebody. And Arthur has never even tried to move on. But it's as if Merlin doesn't care anymore. And maybe he doesn't.
"Gwaine moved back to Ireland that summer you were taken," he says, because maybe Merlin would like to know about that. If it hadn't been for Gwaine, Arthur would never have made it back to London back then. And it was Gwaine who stayed with Arthur and kept Arthur sane during those first few weeks when Arthur refused to give up searching for Merlin. But even Gwaine had his limits, and one day he was gone, leaving behind a bunch of amulets he'd started gathering just in case.
"I saw Gwaine last year at a conference in Dublin," Arthur continues. "He lives with this huge guy who looks like a bloody model, you should see him."
And when Merlin doesn't react, Arthur turns around and leaves the room.
xxx
"Merlin, you have to eat something. Please."
Arthur puts a plate with a sandwich next to the bed and sits down, placing his hand on Merlin's arm. It's been two days already since their talk by the window, and Merlin hasn't moved much since then. He doesn't answer Arthur now either, or even acknowledge his presence.
Arthur sighs and lies down on the bed next to Merlin, not getting under the covers. He drapes his arm over Merlin and scoots closer, closing his eyes against Merlin's back. "Let's just rest for a moment," he says.
When he wakes up the room is dark. He must have slept for a good few hours. Merlin is breathing evenly in his sleep, but Arthur's cold and he wants to get under the duvet, too. He sits up and gasps because Nimueh is standing right in the middle of the room, her face visible in the faint light from the streetlamp.
She looks like a young girl—her shiny, thick hair falls down in heavy waves, her cheeks are pink and her lips are red. She smiles brightly to Arthur, her teeth white and glistening in the dim light of the bedroom.
"What do you want?" Arthur says quietly, not moving, not wanting to disturb Merlin. "Haven't you taken enough?"
Nimueh raises her hand, points to Merlin, and then presses her index finger to her lips, indicating silence. She steps closer, her bare feet padding lightly on the wooden floor. When she leans down to Arthur he can smell flowers and fresh grass, reminding him of a spring meadow. It's surprising, for this is not how he remembered her smell from his time in the Underworld. She places her palm on his cheek where he knows the black lines he got in the Underworld stand out like ugly scars. Nimueh's fingers are warm and silky-soft, caressing his face. He stops breathing. His body stills like ice. He doesn't want the witch touching him, yet he feels strangely vulnerable, almost yearning for her touch and affection as much as he abhors the sight of her.
"There," she says, removing her hand from his cheek. He can't see it, but he just knows that the mark is gone, that she's erased it for good. "You've done well, my King. You've completed your task. The third task. Not everyone would wait and then take him back without a word, despite what he is now."
When she bends over Arthur to reach for Merlin, Arthur can feel the press of her firm body, the heat of it alive and full of energy. Nimueh brushes Merlin's hair out of his face and stays for a moment, hovering over him, half lying on Arthur.
"He was quite beautiful, wasn't he?" she says. "My sweet, sweet boy."
Arthur doesn't respond. He can't see what she's doing; her hair has fallen like a veil and covered Merlin's face. But he thinks he hears a gentle kiss, a brush of air and then silence again. When she straightens up, Arthur inhales sharply because she's visibly older—wrinkles crack the soft surface of her skin, and her hair is sprinkled with silver. And Merlin—Merlin looks just like he did on the day Arthur met him, all pale, unlined skin, and unruly black hair.
Nimueh takes Merlin's hand in hers. "I'll grant you one more grace," she whispers to the still-sleeping Merlin. "Think of it as a thank-you for your kindness. Forget your time with me Below, my love."
Under her touch, Merlin's tattoos start fading until all the lines disappear, leaving the skin flawless as if there was never anything there. "Farewell, my Warlock. I will miss you, dear heart. Don't make me wait this long next time."
She smiles sadly, then looks at Arthur and bows lightly. "Until we meet again, The Once and Future King."
Then she opens her mouth, her teeth now ugly and rotten, her smile frightening as it stretches further across her mottled face. "And now, let's hunt!" Her features change. Her face elongates until it's turned into bird's beak, her arms grow black feathers, and her feet expand into claws. With a deafening screech she turns to the window and flies out with a heavy sound of moving wings.
Arthur feels Merlin stir in his sleep and he turns to him.
"Oh, God," he says and draws Merlin closer because it's his Merlin again. Arthur buries his face in Merlin's neck and inhales deeply. He threads his fingers through Merlin's thick hair and kisses Merlin's smooth jaw. Merlin's body is sweetly sleep-warm, alive and so, so young under his fingers.
He draws back to see the navy blue of Merlin's open eyes.
"I had the weirdest dream," Merlin murmurs and smiles the blinding, broad smile of his that has the force to crush stones, melt ice, and stop storms. "I dreamt about being the King of Darkness. I lived in a black palace underground and my queen was Death itself. And then I was drowning, but you pulled me out of the water." Merlin reaches to touch Arthur's face. "Why are you crying?"
Arthur just shakes his head and reins in his emotions, feeling his jaw working as he does.
"I'm not. I'm not," he says. "I just really like the end of your dream." He leans down for a kiss. And God, how he's missed Merlin's soft lips, Merlin's warm breath against his mouth, the smooth slide of Merlin's tongue over Arthur's teeth.
Merlin suddenly freezes. "Oh, fuck," he says against Arthur's lips. "It was real, wasn't it? I remember leaving you by that lake. What happened then?" He tries to scramble out from under Arthur's embrace, but Arthur won't allow it.
"Later," he says. "I'll tell you everything later."
He doesn't know how he can even begin to explain to Merlin what has happened. Should he share what he knows and make Merlin miserable? Or should he go with a lie and pretend that Merlin has been enchanted and asleep for seven years? If he keeps something so big to himself, will the lie destroy their relationship?
But there will be plenty of time to think it through. Right now he has Merlin—alive, and young—in his arms.
He pulls Merlin closer, lying on top of him so their bodies are aligned tightly together. He wants to keep Merlin for this night and every other that is to come. This feeling is overwhelming, and strangely painful, as if there's not enough space in Arthur's body to fill in all the emotions. It hurts, and Arthur doesn't know what to do to get through this without breaking, so he keeps breathing in the scent of Merlin until there's nothing else.
"Ouch," Merlin gasps, and Arthur realises he's been gripping Merlin too hard, digging his fingertips deeply enough into Merlin's hips to leave marks there.
"I'm so sorry. Sorry!" Arthur withdraws his hand as if he's been burnt, ashamed. He buries his face in Merlin's neck, shutting his eyes tight. "It's just that I've missed you so fucking much. You have no idea."
Merlin wraps his arms around Arthur's back and pulls him closer. "I've missed you, too. I feel like I've missed you for a thousand years."
Merlin hitches his hips up, his hard cock nudging Arthur's. And maybe it would be perfect to strip Merlin, to open him up with patient, slicked fingers until he'd be writhing with want under Arthur's touch. But Arthur's been alone for so long, and he doesn't think he'll last.
But maybe it's okay, they can do it some other time, over and over again, until they're both pleasantly sore and exhausted. For now it's enough to grip Merlin's boxers and yank them down, to line their cocks up together, to feel the heat of Merlin's warm body underneath his and just thrust hard, never losing the connection. And despite their skin being too dry and their moves too rough and uneven, Arthur comes like this, his cock suddenly twitching and spilling over Merlin's. He doesn't want this to be over though, so he tries to keep thrusting, but it's just too much now, he can't take anymore. He reaches down to envelop Merlin's cock in his fist, skin slippery now with come and brings Merlin off, too, quickly, with long, hard strokes.
After, he keeps their bodies flush together, because there will be time to let Merlin go later, but not now, not tonight and not tomorrow either, and maybe not for an eternity.
xxx
Above the city, where thick dark clouds gather and collide with each other, a shadowy figure encircles the area. Outstretched wings thump through the air with a dull sound. The creature squeals and dives down towards the surface of the earth only to pause just above the ground and ascend again into the air.
Fresh blood drips from Nimueh's beak, staining the feathers of her chest, but it's not enough, she thinks. Because it's never enough when she has to wait for the circle of history to turn again, the planets to stand in the proper line, and Merlin to come back to her. She cries out and pushes through the air, then descends in swirls, aiming into the black water, sinking straight to the bottom.
Feathers fall out and leave a black trail behind her as she steps towards the burning tree. She sits heavily on the ground, placing her hands on the ashes covering the muddy soil, and wails until all the pets and grey creatures around her scatter and hide in holes, behind stones, in the shadows.
Eventually, and it might be years or centuries that have passed—it's impossible to tell—Nimueh sits up and gathers the dirt with both of her hands. She starts moulding a figure, murmuring spells, her tears mixing with the dusty ashes and tar-like mud.
"You will be Mordred. You will betray them," she says and places the figure aside, leaning down to scoop up more clay to create the next ones. Again.
ADDITIONAL ART BY ADAGIOVIOLIN:
Alternative header for the "ABOVE"
Alternative Nimueh