Merlin dreams of Arthur.
The chill of winter is sneaking into the castle, making itself known as rain lashes against the windows and cold draughts whisper under doors. Merlin pilfers one of the furs from Arthur's bed, curls warm and comfortable under it at night, the smell of Arthur clinging stubbornly to the thick pelt.
Gaius scolds him for stealing from his master, tells him in no uncertain terms what the punishment will be if he is ever found out, and Merlin points out he already lives with an axe hanging over his head, and he will absolutely return the fur before Arthur ever discovers it's missing.
Gaius gives him a weary smile, pats his shoulder comfortingly. Be careful with that one.
The days are bleeding into each other, and Arthur is tired. The rain drips steadily from the forest canopy onto the makeshift tent and Arthur wonders if he shall ever see the sun again. The snow that coated the ground a few days earlier has long since melted and the ground he lies on is muddy and soft.
They have seen neither hide nor hair of the witch, pursued her through the hearsay of villagers and gossips in taverns. Arthur has been taught never to give in, but the rain is torrential and the knights sick for home. They have turned back to Camelot, humiliated and defeated.
"You are sorely missed Prince Arthur" He startles at the voice, on his feet with his sword in hand in moments, only to find he has no strength in his arm to lift it.
"You have been searching for me" The voice says quietly, low and rasping and so, so tired. "But I have found you instead" A warm glow fills the tent, the witch revealed sitting cross-legged but a foot from his bed roll.
She is different from his memory, hair ragged and matted, cropped around her ears and caked with mud. Her eyes are no longer brightest green but murky dull grey, her clothes in tatters, her limbs so thin and tiny it is a wonder she can move at all. She looks like a child, lost and hungry. In her hand the glow of magic struggles to stay alight.
"You see what has become of me, what price I am forced to pay?" There is no sharpness in her voice, only sad resignation, and he feels pity for her, despite what she has done.
"I don't understand" He says, sitting down opposite her. There is no danger here, she has barely enough left in her to speak.
"It was a dark magic, to change the very nature of one's being, a price must be paid" There's an itch in Arthur to comfort her, and he has a hand halfway raised before he stops himself.
"You cursed him!" He hisses, "You deserve it." She bows her head, acquiescent.
"I saw the king you would become, and the land that would flourish before you" Her voice fills with emotion. "and I saw you betrayed, I saw you murdered!" Arthur's chest tightens, a future laid before him that is both wonderful and terrible.
"Why do you tell me this?" The anger rings clear in his voice.
"The enchantment is strong, but its hold is not permanent. It will last no longer than midsummer" She closes her eyes, deep purple rings against her pale skin.
"Merlin will be free? Exactly as he was?" She nods.
"He is strong, I cannot hold the enchantment upon him. Even now he fights to return to his true form" Arthur senses her fear. She's afraid, so afraid of Merlin, afraid of what she's done to him, afraid of what she's done to herself.
"You didn't foresee this" He murmurs and her eyes are on his, bright with tears.
"I'm dying" She struggles out, "All for a better world" And she laughs, high and cruel, ending on a wet, pained cough. "He's killing me!" She's almost hysterical, shaking, the light flickering erratically in her palm.
"How can Merlin be killing you?" He asks unthinkingly and her eyes go wide, mouth agape.
"You don't know, and I so nearly- no, no!" She's on her feet in seconds, fighting her way from the tent, splashing away through the muddy undergrowth and he chases her blindly, wet branches stinging his face, sword aloft.
Luckily for Arthur, and unluckily for the witch, she tires quickly, falling onto the wet ground and trembling, pathetic and soaked to the skin.
"You will explain yourself" He spits and the fury is washing over him, like the rain washing over his skin, dripping from his eyelashes and nose and lips. She shivers at his sword point.
"He is magic" She whispers, the words almost lost to the incessant pounding of rain. They mean nothing to Arthur.
"Lies" He hisses, suddenly incensed that she would even dare try to say such things about Merlin, after what she's done. It is one thing to harm him, another entirely to taint his honour in addition.
"You will tell the truth to me witch" The tip of his sword rests above her heart and Arthur would not hesitate to run her through, knows he is capable of ending her wretched life without a thought.
"I speak the truth my lord! You may kill me but-" She chokes back a terrified sob, "-but it will not make it any less so" She gazes up with fearful eyes, and something in her voice is certain, defiant.
"Give me reason not to kill you" He bites out, because the temptation is there, pulling and niggling and even for all she's done he doesn't actually wish to kill her. There is too much blood on his hands already, he can never make amends for all the lives his father has taken, does not wish to needlessly add one more to the number.
She stays resolutely silent, stares back with eyes that say go on, and I dare you and it's a good enough reason as any to drop his sword and fall to his knees in the mud.
"What the hell?" He gasps, unsteady. "What the hell?" because his head hurts and his chest aches and how the hell did he end up in the rain threatening this pathetic creature? And-
Magic. Merlin is magic. Or at least that's what the witch wants him to believe, and it would be easy, effortlessly easy to just slot this piece of information into what he knows about Merlin and leave it at that. Because Merlin could be a sorcerer, he really could, but Arthur has never been fond of the easy route.
"He isn't" He tells himself, and again, firmer; "Merlin isn't a sorcerer" And he believes it too.
"You are the once and future king and he will stand at your side, the most trusted, the most revered-" The witch rasps, "-you should not be afraid to ask for what you want." He looks up at her and she smiles, the same serene smile of dazzling brilliance she gave Merlin in this very same forest. Something flickers in her eyes and Arthur collapses onto the wet ground with a dull thump.
He wakes in the tent, head bruised and tender and his memory is patchy, with nothing but searing stretches of pain between fragments of the previous night.
Midsummer, he thinks, I must do it before midsummer, which would be wonderful, if he only knew what it was.
Arthur thinks about love.
The rain has mostly cleared and Camelot is almost in sight, the knights around him chattering excitedly about their homecoming. They have every right to it, after near a month wet on horseback, to long for a warm bed and a dry nights sleep. Sir Lucan's voice rises above the rest as he wonders whether he has been blessed with a son or daughter and Arthur remembers his wife was with child when they left. He hopes all has gone well in their absence, a future knight or lady of Camelot waiting for their arrival.
There will be no such happiness waiting for Arthur. He thinks of love, of the people who wait anxiously for his return.
His father, whom he loves and hates in equal measure, who will look upon him with anger and disappointment, who will rant and storm about the evils of sorcery until he is red in the face and refuses to speak to Arthur for many days. It is a great tragedy of the world that all of Arthur's love for his mother must be through the filter of his father, who is not a father, and never has been. She is nothing but a creature of myth and legend, and that is how he loves her, as all that is left of her existence in this world.
He thinks of Morgana, who is his sister in all but name, and he knows her beautific smile, the warm curve of her body as she presses against him and whispers you're home over and over until she believes it. She is something to look forward to, her sharp wit and sharper tongue, and her only flaw is that she gives her love so freely, that she does not make him work for it, and Arthur cannot yet appreciate the things he has not earned.
Guinevere will bow her head in acquiescence and murmur sire and my lord and try to hide her smile of relief. Arthur will see it, Arthur sees everything Gwen does. He does not know how long he has loved her, has no recollection of the hour or moment he began, only that he did not and then he did. He would make her his princess, would his father allow it, would Gwen allow it, and he knows she would be loved, and he would love her wholly and without reserve for as long as she would let him. He knows they would be good together, feels the very truth of it deep in his core, the frantic urging that threatens to consume him sometimes, the desperate want for her and no other.
Except, that isn't quite true.
Because now he thinks of Merlin, and he isn't sure what to think. It feels like a betrayal, that he hasn't helped Merlin, that he must remain trapped in a body that isn't his own until Arthur figures out how to break the spell. Because Arthur will figure it owes Merlin that at least. Because though he would never admit to feeling anything like love for his servant, he is very fond of him, in an odd way. In another life they could have been friends, were Arthur not prince and Merlin not, whatever it is that Merlin is, because he still hasn't quite figured that out just yet.
He doesn't think Merlin will be upset though, even if he has every right to be. No, Merlin is sure to do something dreadfully inappropriate like hug Arthur and talk non-stop like a fool and smile until his cheeks are flushed with the effort of it. Merlin will run across the courtyard in one of those ridiculous dresses that really doesn't suit him at all, hair falling loose and stinging his face. Merlin will tease and taunt Arthur for going on a wild goose chase when he's really well within rights to scream and rage and hate with everything he has.
Because Arthur knows with complete conviction, that Merlin will have missed him most of all. That he has probably spent half his nights passed out in Arthur's bed, or pilfering food from the kitchens for breakfasts Arthur hasn't eaten. And it might just be Merlins way of expressing some sort of misguided affection he has for Arthur, which makes it a crying shame that Arthur will have to throw him in the stocks if ever he confirms his suspicions.
The bulk of Camelot rises from the hills, the sunlight finally fighting its way through the clouds and bathing the city in gold, shining and perfect. There is a murmur from the knights behind Arthur, the gods are smiling down upon them, not all is lost.
Yes, Arthur thinks, as they enter the courtyard and a figure with waves of dark hair and clad in a dress of lavender races down the steps towards them, smiling with relief. Yes.
Merlins footsteps are light, the swish swish of his skirts a whisper against the cobblestones of the yard. Arthur watches and feels as if he has been winded, and he sees stars for a moment as he struggles for breath against the frantic racing of his pulse.
Merlin arrives at his side and curtsies deeply, having obviously practiced in Arthur's absence. "Welcome home my lord" His voice is high, thick with barely suppressed emotion, hitched breath matching the tempo of Arthur's heart, fluttering behind his breast bone like a frightened bird.
In time Arthur will look back and understand what this means. For now he is blessedly oblivious.
A/N:
An enormous big thank you to everyone who has left a review. I hope I can deliver something you'll all enjoy!
I'm also going to recommend one of my favourite poets, Pablo Neruda, from whose work I have taken my titles, and indeed provided much of the inspiration for this fic in the first place. His poetry has a lovely flowing quality that definitely puts me in mind of Camelot and the world in those times.