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“Can you do it?”
Arthur pins Merlin down with a look then, and it’s as though an eternity passed between them. If Merlin managed it, then Morgana and her army will be defeated, Camelot will be saved once again, they could all go home. Merlin’s not entirely sure what the cost to himself will be—he’s never done magic as powerful as these spells demanded, never summoned that much power from the earth. His blood runs cold at the thought of summoning something so raw and pure, only to use it to wreak utter devastation upon the land.
Merlin knows that he can’t very well say no. Things have been strained between him and Arthur ever since he told Arthur about his magic. This is an opportunity to redeem himself, to prove his loyalty to Arthur. This was what his magic was for. He’s been waiting for this moment all his life.
Merlin nods. His heart feels heavy. He knows it is necessary—Arthur wouldn’t resort to this otherwise.
“Very well,” Arthur exhales. He doesn’t appear too pleased, either. Something hardens in his eyes when he commands, “then do it.”
“It is done, Sire.” Merlin lets him know needlessly. The battlefield beneath them is nothing but smoke and charred remains, but strangely enough, it’s not the death and devastation that chills Arthur to the bone. Arthur is used to the gore and the glory of war—this was what he was raised for, after all. It’s not even the thought that the clumsy, stumbling Merlin is capable of such cold-blooded mass murder. Rather, it was Merlin’s voice—Arthur would describe it as dead, unflinching, completely toneless. Hardly human.
Arthur turns to look and takes in the state of Merlin then. Merlin is upright, not a single wound on him. He holds himself stiffly, the way he often does these days, as if there’s an iron rod in his spine keeping him upright. He doesn’t meet Arthur’s eyes—but that’s nothing new, either—but instead of looking anywhere but at Arthur, this Merlin just looks down in deference. Uneasiness settles in Arthur’s gut when he notes that Merlin’s eyes are gold, despite the fact that Merlin is not currently doing magic. There’s no trace of blue in his irises, Arthur thinks with alarm. Worse still is the look on Merlin’s face, or rather the lack thereof. Merlin looks utterly, utterly blank—so devoid of emotion, he might as well be a statue made of stone.
Arthur has never seen Merlin like this. Is this what Merlin is always like after he kills for Arthur? Perhaps he has always been like this, it’s just that Arthur hasn’t been paying attention.
“Thank you, Merlin,” Arthur nods formally, a clear dismissal. Merlin bows his head without further comment and turns to leave. There’s still something niggling in the back of Arthur’s mind, though, like there’s something not quite right. “Merlin,” he calls. He lets a bit of the concern seep into his tone when he asks, “are you alright?”
“Fine, Sire,” Merlin replies, still in that toneless voice. It’s a feeble attempt to dismiss Arthur’s concern, but it doesn’t mollify Arthur—far from it, the warning bells in his head is ringing ever louder. “If that will be all?”
“Yes,” Arthur decides to leave it at that. Perhaps Merlin just needs time to himself. Arthur would, too, to be fair, if he had accomplished what Merlin just did. He keeps his eyes trained on Merlin’s face, scrutinising the man for any hints of emotion. The gold is still not fading from his eyes. It’s incredibly unsettling. He wonders if Merlin is doing it on purpose. “You may go.”
Merlin hardly speaks the whole way back. Granted, he was quiet on the way there, too, but Arthur chalked it up to pre-battle anxiety. Now, though, Merlin only speaks when he’s addressed to. Even then, he speaks formally, tonelessly, no matter who he is speaking to—there’s a distinct lack of cheek when Merlin speaks with Gaius. There’s no hint of that fond camaraderie when Gwaine or any of the knights chats with him, either.
It feels wrong, but Arthur’s not even sure if it’s still well within his rights to be concerned for Merlin. They’ve grown apart since Merlin told him about his magic. Arthur didn’t seek him out, and Merlin has given him a wide berth, presumably to let Arthur process things in his own time.
It hasn’t worked very well—Arthur reinstated George as his servant, and Merlin is now Court Sorcerer. Magic is flowing back into Camelot. It should be the beginning of the destiny they were promised. That easy companionship that they always shared, though, was gone, replaced by something awkward and stilted. They haven’t made any progress in learning how to trust each other again.
Arthur hates it. Hates the flimsiness and the uncertainty, hates the wrongness of it. Hates that for once, they don’t know where they stand with each other. They were never meant to be like this. He desperately wants their old relationship back—wants the irreverent banter, the unflinching trust, the casual touches—yet he doesn’t know how to begin to approach it.
The uneasiness that he first felt in the tent isn’t dissipating now. The longer they ride out, the more convinced Arthur becomes that something is wrong. He looks back at Merlin, riding silently next to Gwaine, still with that stony expression in his face. His eyes are still gold.
Arthur knows Merlin. This isn’t him. The man on Merlin’s horse wears Merlin’s face, yet there’s nothing of Merlin in him. Not in his mannerisms, not in the way he carries himself. Certainly not in his expressions, nor his words.
Arthur pulls not-Merlin aside the moment they stopped to make camp. He hands his horse to some squire and gestures at not-Merlin to follow him. Not-Merlin follows him without question—at least that bit is the same—away from the rest of the men, into the thick of the woods. Arthur stops abruptly and whirls around to face him.
“You’re not Merlin,” Arthur doesn’t phrase it as a question. It’s a statement, simple observation. It’s Arthur voicing out what he knows to be true. “Are you.”
“We are one and the same, Merlin and I,” not-Merlin replies. Arthur wonders if all creatures of magic speak like this—indirectly, and in an annoyingly roundabout sort of way. It hardly answers Arthur’s question. “Though perhaps not in the way that you mean.”
“You know very well what I mean,” Arthur draws his sword in one fluid motion and rests the tip against the chest of whatever creature is inhabiting Merlin’s body. “It’s a yes or no question.”
“I am part of him, as he is part of me,” Those golden eyes travel down to where Arthur’s sword rests on his chest, regarding it with cool indifference. “I have his memories, his aspirations, his magic.”
“But you are not the Merlin I know,” Arthur bites out, certain now.
“No, I suppose not,” not-Merlin concedes. “Perhaps calling me Emrys would be more apt.”
“What have you done with Merlin?” Arthur snarls through gritted teeth, putting slight pressure on the sword.
“Nothing, Sire. The Old Religion requires balance,” Emrys explains. “Powerful elemental magic—the sort I used to win the battle—it extracts a great price.”
“And what price would that be?” There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach now. Arthur knows, suddenly, what Emrys is about to say, and wishes he didn’t.
“My life, Sire,” Emrys replies matter-of-factly. “For every bit of power I extract from the earth, it demands a bit of me in return.”
Arthur lowers his sword, dread pooling low in his gut. Did Merlin know what it would do? “But you’re alive. You’re here,”
“I am,”
And his Merlin isn’t.
“Speak plainly, Emrys,” Arthur demands, but the words are tired. “That is an order from your king.”
“I am here, this is all I know,” Emrys repeats with infinite patience. “I am all that’s left.”
Arthur staggers. You should have said, he wants to cry out. You should have said, you should have told me, we could’ve found another way—
“And the rest of you,” Arthur murmurs weakly, “Merlin's not gone, is he?”
Emrys doesn’t reply.
“He can’t be,” Arthur insists, taken aback, but he knows it must be true, because he looks into Emrys’ eyes and doesn’t see Merlin there.
If he needed proof, before, that this Emrys is not his Merlin, he has all the proof he needs now. Emrys completes Merlin’s duties with utmost efficiency, in a way that is detached, almost clinical. His power thrumming under his skin, palpable in the way it never was before. He regards Arthur with deference as befits his station, as if he was one of the courtiers from Uther’s days.
Arthur tries. He reverts to the affectionate name-calling, the gentle teasing, the pushing and shoving. It feels false, like a farce, a caricature of what they were before Merlin told him about his magic. He gives Emrys a week off so he can visit Ealdor and gifts him Camelot’s finest to bring to his mother. He takes Emrys hunting and requests frivolous shows of his magic.
Throughout it all, Arthur finds himself prattling on to keep awkward silences at bay. Do you remember, Arthur would say, and Emrys reply with yes, Sire. Their roles are reversed, now, and the irony isn’t lost on him. It’s desperate, Arthur knows. More than a little bit pathetic, too, perhaps. He is behaving as though he was a puppy baring his belly for rubs, instead of a dignified king he ought to be.
He doesn’t know how to stop, though, because if he stops, then Merlin would truly be gone.
It takes two turns of the moon for the new reality to sink in.
“I’ve killed him,” Arthur gasps, devastated, burying his face in his hands. “Oh, gods, I’ve killed Merlin.”
Guinevere pulls Arthur close, and Arthur buries his face gratefully in the junction of her neck. His breaths are coming up short and quick. She rubs soothing circles into his back in an attempt to calm down. “Breathe, Arthur,” she murmurs.
“I’ve killed Merlin,” Arthur repeats in horror. “He’s gone.”
She tightens her hold on Arthur, even as her throat closes up. Her own eyes are burning with tears, but she knows that she must have faith, for both their sakes. “He’s in there, somewhere,” she insists. “He must be. Otherwise, why is he here? Why bother at all?”
Arthur pulls back, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
“He’s here for you,” Guinevere says with a certainty she doesn’t feel. “Why else would he be here?”
Arthur goes to the tavern. He finds Gwaine there. This, of course, is nothing new. He looks outright miserable, staring moodily into his tankard. Knowing him, it wouldn’t be his first.
“Tell me you’re doing something,” Gwaine looks at Arthur then, eyes wide and already having a hard time focusing. “If anyone can pull him out of it, it’s you.” He sounds dejected, more than a little bit jealous. “Gods know I tried,” he sighs. “It’s not that he forgets. He remembers everything perfectly fine. It’s just that—“
Arthur nods silently in agreement. Merlin remembers—he just doesn’t know what remembering feels like. “It’s like he doesn’t feel,” Arthur agrees.
“Merlin was never like that,” Gwaine laments. His eyes are bright, uncharacteristically distant, lost in some old memory. It looks out of place on him. Arthur doesn’t want to hear this. Wishes he was anywhere but here, talking about Merlin as if he was dead. “He always did wear his heart on his sleeve.”
“I don’t know what you think I could do,” Arthur confesses. “I spoke to Emrys. He says he’s all that is left.”
“You can’t accept that,” Gwaine shakes his head. “You can’t. Merlin’s not lost—“
“I don’t want it to be true, just as much as you,” Arthur snaps. “But we have to accept the facts.“
“And how would Merlin feel,” Gwaine sneers venomously, “if he knew how easily you’d give up on him?’”
Arthur flinches. He moves Gwaine’s tankard away. “I believe you’ve had quite enough, Sir Gwaine.”
“You know me,” Gwaine chuckles mirthlessly. He doesn’t protest, just looks down and rubs his face tiredly. “I fight dirty.”
“That you do,” Arthur tilts his head in acknowledgement. “But I have never known you to be cruel.”
Gwaine mumbles a quick apology, a look of guilt flitting across Gwaine’s face. “And I’ve never known you to look on in the face of defeat and accept it.”
Arthur summons Emrys to his chambers later that week and finds that Guinevere is correct, to an extent.
Arthur has never spent time alone with just Emrys before, discounting the time when Arthur pulled him aside on their return journey to Camelot. Hell, he hasn’t really spent time alone with Merlin in weeks. He needs to know everything there is to know about Emrys. If he is to accept this new reality, then he must catalogue the differences between this man and the Merlin he knew.
That night, they converse about every topic Arthur can come up with—reports of Saxons crawling about the woods near the battlefield, reports of skirmishes on the eastern border, and rumours of a hound terrorising the villages up north. Emrys doesn’t volunteer much to the conversation—no quick quips, let alone witty repartees—he just answers every question Arthur levels at him and stays silent otherwise. It’s incredibly unnerving.
Emrys speaks matter-of-factly, without any hint of emotion or personality. As if he’s delivering a report. Now that he’s paying attention, Arthur can tell the difference between this Emrys and the Merlin he knew, down to the way he eats. Arthur watches as Emrys cuts his food precisely, methodically. There’s something deliberate in the way he skewers his boiled potatoes, and then the vegetables, and finally the meat with his fork. Rinse and then repeat, same steps each time.
There’s cold in Arthur’s veins. He’s hungry for any sign of Merlin he can find in this man, but there’s a sinking feeling in his gut, like he subconsciously knows that this would be a fruitless endeavour. He puts his utensils aside and takes a deep breath.
“Why are you here, Emrys?”
Emrys regards Arthur coolly. “Where else would I be, Sire?”
Something akin to hope blossoms in Arthur’s chest.
“It is my destiny to protect Camelot.” Emrys continues, and the hope is dashed as soon as it appeared.
And me? Arthur swallows thickly. “Is that all, then?”
“Yes,” Emrys answers without hesitation, looking Arthur squarely in the eyes, and Arthur knows the answer to be true.
Arthur has to look away, suddenly, finding himself unable to meet Emrys’ eyes. He doesn’t mean it to be cruel, Arthur knows, yet the simple yes pierces him like an arrow to the heart. Arthur takes a deep breath to steady himself, despite the dull ache in his chest.
Arthur remembers asking this very question to Merlin, the day Merlin revealed his magic.
I stayed for you, Merlin told him angrily, offended. All my magic, it’s only ever been for you. Do you genuinely believe that I’d risk my neck, day in and day out, over what some overgrown lizard tells me about some distant future which may or may not even be true?
Arthur had accepted that answer, satisfied. But now, he has to forcibly remind himself that this Emrys before him is not the same man that Merlin was.
“And,” Arthur swallows again. Perhaps he has a penchant for the odd bouts of masochism, after all. “What of your friends?”
What about Gaius and Gwaine? Guinevere?
What about me?
“I am grateful for their companionship,” Emrys says blandly. “I regret that I cannot offer the same in return.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Arthur replies, bitter.
“Can’t.”
“Perhaps you just forgot who you were,” Arthur suggests. “Perhaps you just need to be reminded.”
“Or perhaps,” Emrys puts his utensils down and pushes his chair back, standing up, “perhaps that is another part of me that Albion has claimed back.” There’s no pity in those golden eyes, no sympathy. “Thank you for the meal, Sire.”
Arthur bristles at his audacity. “You are not yet dismissed.”
“Nothing I say could appease you, my Lord, or ease your loss,” Emrys observes. “I see no further point to this conversation.”
Arthur wants to laugh. He may see none of Merlin’s humanity in this Emrys, but it seems as though his insubordination is still there. Yet at the same time, he doesn’t know how long he can tolerate this harrowing echo of Merlin.
Arthur suddenly realises what a threat Emrys can be. With all his power, he doesn’t need to heed Arthur’s orders. He can depose Arthur so easily, with the merest flick of his wrist, or bend Arthur to his will. For the first time, he sees Merlin’s face and feels a slight undercurrent of fear.
But he wouldn’t, Arthur has to convince himself. Would he?
Arthur trusts Merlin, implicitly and without hesitation. He knows Merlin. Merlin would never hurt him. Yet as much as Emrys says he’s a part of Merlin, Arthur can’t help but see Emrys—with his toneless voice and expressionless golden eyes—as a whole other person. This Emrys unsettles him, makes him feel uneasy. And seeing this stranger who wears Merlin’s face every day, a painful reminder of what he has lost—
“If I asked you to leave Camelot, would you?”
“I would,” Emrys tells him immediately. “I am not required to stay here in order to protect Camelot.”
“That is fair.” Arthur stands too. He loathes to admit it, but he knows now what he must do.
Arthur steels himself, but it proves remarkably difficult to gain control over his emotions. Then again, nothing right ever seems easy. He swallows heavily against the burn in the back of his throat and the cold dread gripping his heart. Everything in him screams at him not to do this, not to say the words with the power to finally drive Merlin away forever.
“Should you ever want to leave, then I relieve you,” Arthur chokes out, even as his heart shatters into pieces. He smiles tightly, unwilling to let his thoughts show. “But if you do, know that you’ll always have a home in Camelot.”
“Thank you, Sire,” Emrys’ expression doesn’t change. “That is very kind.”
“Just—tell me?” Arthur looks up at Emrys again, commits the sight in his memory. When he’s like this, quiet and unmoving, he may as well be Merlin. Gods, he even wears the silly neckerchiefs, still. “If you decide to leave, that is.”
“Of course, Sire.”
“He looks content, doesn’t he,” Arthur observes. He is in his chambers, looking out the window towards the courtyard. It is a beautiful day—the winter sun is bright in the sky, the air crisp and cold and still. Emrys is there, in the courtyard, leading his horse to the stables, having been out to collect rare plants for Gaius.
Guinevere sidles up next to him. She doesn't ask who he was referring to. “He doesn’t know what he's missing."
Arthur shakes his head sadly. “He does,” he exhales.
“Oh, Arthur,” she sighs mournfully. “Do you truly believe that Merlin’s gone?”
“I don’t know what else I can believe,” he sighs. “There’s nothing in the books, nothing in the scrolls. Nobody else I can ask. And speaking to Emrys—“ breaks my heart, Arthur doesn’t say. He blinks. “Hasn’t been very helpful.”
Guinevere seems to understand what Arthur can’t say out loud.
“I told him he’s doesn’t have to stay if he doesn’t want to,” Arthur confesses softly. He reckons this is what heartbreak feels like. “I know it wouldn’t be fair of me to expect him to go back to the way he was before. Not after everything he’s already done in my name. So I’m letting Merlin go.”
She gasps quietly, then wraps her arms around him. She is trembling. “Arthur, I’m so sorry.”
Arthur remains stiff and unyielding, rooted to the ground, but he lets her hold him and sob quietly into his chest. He takes a deep breath. “Do you think he knew?” He despises the way he sounds then—weak, small. Wounded.
She pulls back. Her face is tear-stained. “I think it’s a line of thought that we shouldn’t pursue,” she answers firmly. “We have nothing to gain from it.”
Arthur has to agree. He wishes he has a modicum of Guinevere’s wisdom, but how can he not wonder?
“When I said do something, I didn’t mean send him away!” Gwaine explodes.
“Tell me, Sir Gwaine,” Arthur whirls to face him. “What exactly would you have me do?”
“Speak to him!”
“Do you think I haven’t done that?” Arthur snaps. “I’ve had Gaius look through every single book he has, and Geoffrey too,” Merlin has always been singular, Gaius had said. Had anybody else attempted what he managed to achieve, they would’ve died. “I didn’t send him away, I said he’s free to leave if he wanted to.”
“And why, pray tell, would you put the idea in his head?”
“Because he’s not Merlin!” Arthur shouts, patience finally running out. “Look at him, Gwaine, really look. He’s not the Merlin that we know. That Merlin is gone,” Arthur’s voice hitches. “Any lesser man would’ve died doing what he did. We should be pleased that he’s here at all.”
“He’s given so much already,” Arthur continues, quieter this time, though no less wretched. “Sacrificed so much. I can’t possibly ask him for more.”
Gwaine looks at Arthur then as if he’s never seen Arthur before.
“I’ve tolerated this behaviour from you long enough, Sir Gwaine,” Arthur says lowly, dangerously—he’s exposed himself too much already. Do you think I don’t hurt as much as you do? “My decision is final. Say one more word on this matter and you’ll find yourself banished from Camelot.”
Gwaine nods tightly, bows with courtesy Arthur knows he doesn’t feel in that moment, then leaves as suddenly as he came.
Arthur finds Emrys in his room, packing his belongings into a leather bag. He stands to attention and bows respectfully. “Did you require my presence, Sire?”
“No, I—“ he trails off helplessly. “Is this truly what you want?”
Emrys’ eyes flit up to meet Arthur’s. There’s something almost like understanding in his eyes. “My presence here hurts you,” Emrys remarks. “It is not my wish to inflict you pain.”
Arthur doesn't deny it. He doesn't need to. He can hardly look at Emrys’ face, most days, without feeling like he’s been punched in the gut. But Arthur is greedy—he wants Merlin back however he can have him.
“Don’t leave for my sake,” Arthur replies after a momentary silence. “Where will you go?”
“Wherever Albion takes me,” Emrys tells him, casual as you please.
“I only wanted to set you free,” Arthur admits thickly, looking away.
“I am free,” Emrys responds. “As free as I’ll ever be. What do you wish, Sire?”
“It’s not about what I wish,” Arthur shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. I have asked enough of you.”
“Of course it matters,” Arthur glances at him in surprise. “You are my king.”
The words send a pang through his heart—it’s something Merlin would have said, a lifetime ago. It sounds false falling from Emrys’ lips, in that detached and emotionless voice.
“I wish for you to stay,” Arthur says softly, his voice almost down to a whisper. It’s pathetic—he’s clinging on to ghosts and it’s only hurting himself in the process. At the same time, it appears as though he cannot fully give Merlin up.
“Very well,” Emrys accepts without protest. “Then I shall stay.”
Arthur tells Emrys to summon the dragon.
They ride that night, just the two of them, and Arthur can almost pretend he was back in the good old days. Emrys rides ahead, leading Arthur through the forest and into an open glade, not two hours away ride from the castle.
Arthur stands back and watches as Emrys roars into the open sky, powerful and ancient. There’s a flutter in his chest that Arthur tries his best to ignore. He hangs back awkwardly, looking heavenward in expectation.
Several moments pass in silence. Before too long, though, Arthur can just about make out a dark shape in the sky, growing bigger and bigger as it flies closer, and the distant telltale flapping of wings.
When The Great Dragon lands on the glade, Arthur can tell immediately that this is hardly the same dragon that attacked Camelot, so many years ago. This dragon is older, his eyes infinitely wearier, and his wings are riddled with holes. Arthur stands rooted to the ground, transfixed and humbled by the magnificent creature before him. Despite himself, Arthur lowers his head in a shallow bow, before turning to Emrys. “Leave us.”
The Dragon watches the exchange without comment, but with a knowing glint in his eyes. Arthur has no doubt that he knows already what is going on.
“You have need of me, young Pendragon.” The Great Dragon states. It is not a question. “What makes you think I will help you?”
Ah. Sins of his father again.
“Not me,” Arthur answers. He makes himself look up into The Dragon’s enormous eyes. “Merlin.”
“He is hale and whole,” The Dragon comments. “It does not appear as though he needs my help.”
“He’s been like that ever since the battle,” says Arthur. “His body is well, and his mind is sound. Yet when you speak with him, and you know it is not Merlin talking back.”
The Dragon watches him curiously. “He is Emrys,”
I don’t want Emrys, Arthur wants to shout, petulant as a child. I want Merlin.
He wonders if all magic users speak like this, but Arthur didn’t grow up in a royal court for nought. “You are avoiding my question.”
“You have not asked any.”
“You know why I am here.”
“You are wondering if it is possible to restore Merlin to the way that he was.”
Arthur blinks. “Yes.” Gods, yes.
“I cannot help you,” The Dragon says.
Arthur straightens. He swallows, clenching his jaw. “Very well.” He turns away, unwilling to let the Dragon see the stricken look on his face, the disappointment in his eyes. The misery and hopelessness he knows must be written all over his body.
“If anyone can come back, Merlin can,” The Dragon says again. Arthur perks up and whirls to face him again, a tendril of hope rising in his chest. “But that would be his decision.”
“So it is possible,” Arthur breathes. He grins, giddy with a newfound optimism. He bows again. “Thank you.”
Arthur can’t be entirely sure, but it looks as though the creature was smiling at him.
“You’re right,” Arthur exclaims excitedly to Guinevere the next morning. He plants a wet kiss on her cheek. “Merlin is in there somewhere.”
She glances at him questioningly. He elaborates, “I spoke to the dragon last night.”
“The dragon?” She repeats, disbelieving. “Ah. Emrys?”
He nods. “He said if anyone can come back, Merlin can,”
“Arthur, he exactly didn’t say it was possible,” she appears doubtful.
“No,” he agrees, deflating a little bit. “But it certainly means that there’s hope yet.”
She sighs. There is sadness in her brown eyes.
“What?” Arthur demands defensively.
“Nothing. It’s just—“ she bites her lip. “Be careful, Arthur.”
She is just looking after him, he realises, but it still stings that she doesn’t share his optimism.
“Merlin is my friend too,” she reminds him gently. “Of course I want him back. But I’ve seen how much it pains you to learn to let him go.”
“Camelot needs him,” says Arthur. I need him. “If it is at all possible, then you know I must try.”
“I know.” She sighs again. She strokes his hair gently. “I just don’t want to see you suffer like that again.”
“If it was Lancelot,” he says. He knows it’s a low blow the moment the words leave his lips, but he needs her to understand. “If it was Morgana. Wouldn’t you do the same?”
Arthur throws himself into his research with renewed vigour, aided by Gaius’ and Geoffrey’s collection of books. Gaius looks wary, uncertain, but mercifully doesn’t attempt to dissuade him. Between running the kingdom, training his knights, and his effort to get Merlin back, he is shattered by the end of the day. It has its benefits, of course—his mind stops wandering until the early hours of dawn, and instead, he falls asleep the moment his head hits the pillow.
He reads everything he can find on the matter, but he knows, too, that if there was anything in there, he would’ve found it a long time ago. So he changes tack.
He engages Emrys more and more often, requesting his opinion specifically on court matters and actively seeking his company, much like he used to do before Merlin told him about the magic. Emrys doesn’t seem to mind—he doesn’t seem to mind anything, but he indulges Arthur and doesn’t protest.
They share a meal that night, half a year after the battle. Arthur asks Emrys to tell him everything he knows about magic, keen to learn how he can further help his land flourish. Emrys acquiesces, dispassionate as usual, and when he leaves, Arthur throws his goblet at the closed door.
The optimism he found after he spoke to the dragon has dwindled down to almost nothing. He chooses to ignore the sad looks Guinevere and Leon levels at him, and even Gaius is beginning to suggest Arthur to stop. Merlin wouldn’t want this for you, Guinevere told him once. Her voice was gentle, full of understanding. Arthur has always admired her compassion. It’s unkind to yourself.
He doesn’t sleep that night and misses Merlin with every bone in his body.
“Will you allow me to try something?”
Emrys nods. He doesn’t look apprehensive.
Arthur narrows the gap between them. They are standing so close now, close enough that Arthur can feel the heat radiating from Emrys’ body. Close enough to smell him, close enough to count every last freckle on his skin.
Emrys regards Arthur coolly.
“Please,” Arthur whispers. He presses a tentative kiss on Emrys’ lips, begging, “please come back to me.”
Emrys freezes, but Arthur isn’t dissuaded. “Please,” he mouths against Merlin’s lips. “Merlin, please.”
You’re in there, I know you are, Arthur pleads silently. You can’t have left.
He doesn’t beg again—not out loud, anyway—and instead closes his eyes against the sting of unshed tears. Doesn’t think he could bear looking at the man who should be Merlin but isn’t. To see the callous disregard in those golden eyes where there should be fond exasperation, or gentle worry, or sparkling mischief.
This is it, Arthur knows. This is his very last attempt. If this, too, doesn’t work, then he’ll stop. He’ll accept Emrys the way he is, utter lack of emotion and all. He’ll let Merlin go.
Emrys still doesn’t respond. Arthur exhales shakily, bracing himself. There’s an ache in his chest, heavy and suffocating. He begins to pull away, still not daring to open his eyes.
Alright, he thinks, a little bit broken. Alright.
But then, there is a hand on the back of his head, followed by soft lips on his.
“Arthur,” Merlin whispers, tremulous.
Arthur knows that voice, because nobody says his name like Merlin does, and it suffuses him with great tendrils of hope. He holds his breath, not daring to shatter the moment. He’s never thought he’d hear it again.
“Merlin,” Arthur murmurs reverently. “Merlin, Merlin, Merlin—“
“Yeah,” Merlin chuckles wetly. “Yeah, Arthur, it’s me,”
Arthur surges forth, kissing Merlin wherever he can reach him, buries his fingers in Merlin’s hair and held on. He opens his eyes, and Merlin’s eyes are blue. “Gods,” he gasps, “gods, Merlin.”
Arthur looks into Merlin’s eyes and finds his own emotional turmoil reflected there, the blankness and cold indifference gone, and his relief is so great it cuts him at the knees. At that moment, he felt like he could collapse then and there, and he suspects Merlin is the same, if the way they cling onto each other is any indication. They’re both shaking, both desperate for reassurance.
I was so afraid, Arthur thought. He holds Merlin’s face in his hands, grinning wide like an imbecile. A part of him hardly dares to believe it.
“You pulled me back,” says Merlin. There’s wonder in the way he says it, as if he could scarcely believe it. His gaze is warm. Arthur basks in it.
“Of course I did,” Arthur scoffs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’d do the same for me.”