Work Text:
Something hard hit Merlin’s head as he headed back to Arthur’s for the late afternoon, and in an instant, he crumpled to the ground.
When Merlin woke, it was dark.
Not just night dark, where there’s hints of light from the moon or stars, or even torches. No, this was the wrong kind of dark. The kind that pressed against his skin like a wet cloth.
Merlin blinked. Once. Twice. And sat up slowly. His head throbbed distantly, but that was fine. He’d figure it out.
Glancing around, the hall was empty.
He didn’t remember falling. Or why he’d been over here.
Actually… where was here?
Merlin blinked and glanced around a bit more, trying to figure that out.
There were distant footsteps echoing, a strong scent of citrus, and… Merlin reached up and touched his temple, blood. Dried and crusted, but it certainly clung to the air.
Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, blinking hard in the dark hall, making his way to the window to glance out.
The stone walls of the courtyard below were nothing noteworthy, but through the window, and his pounding headache, he saw the guards outside. They were a bit hard to make out, and dark, but that certainly wasn’t dark blue of Essetir.
Merlin squinted, trying to make sense of the colour. The cloaks shimmered oddly in the torchlight.
His throat tightened.
The Blood Cloaks of Camelot.
Surely he was mistaken. Surely he wasn’t within Camelot’s borders. Not only that, inside what seemed to be the very citadel.
Maybe he got the colour wrong.
He blinked hard, but the red remained.
Merlin’s stomach turned and he stumbled back from the mirror, breath shallow.
He had to get out.
He had to get out now.
Merlin held the front of his neck to keep his breathing steady. He wasn’t in chains. Obviously the knights had no idea he was there, or else he’d be in chains, right? So, so long as he didn’t run into any of the soldiers, he’d be able to get out.
Merlin pressed his palm flat against the cold stone wall to steady himself as he walked down the empty corridor. He moved, quiet as he could, to the door and waited to hear anything beyond.
Silence. Good.
His magic pulsed faintly beneath his skin, sluggish and uncertain, as he opened the door and snuck beyond it.
He passed a tapestry on the wall, the Pendragon crest.
Merlin involuntarily shuddered.
He continued past and to a stairwell, pausing to listen again. No footsteps. Or voices. It seemed that the deities were on his side for now. Ahead, the stairwell twisted sharply, showing naught but the stone.
Merlin descended, jaw clenched, fingers brushing the stone like a lifeline. He needed to get back to Ealdor. He needed to see if they had laid ruin to his home. His mother… no, he couldn’t even think it.
Halfway down the stairs he stopped.
A guardsman stood at the bottom, back turned, the Blood Cloak unmistakable this close.
Merlin’s heart pounded.
Somewhere behind him, a door creaked open.
He couldn’t go back, and he certainly couldn’t go forward.
“Merlin?”
Merlin tried not to flinch as he turned on the stairs, nearly losing his balance.
The figure at the top of the stairs stepped into view, though Merlin had no idea how he knew his name.
The stranger was young, broad-shouldered,with sand-like hair and bright eyes, and a posture that spoke of power. His tunic was plain and sun-faded, but it clung to a fram built for battle, lean muscle, long limbs, and a neck that bore responsibility like armour. His boots were scuffed, dust clinging to the leather, and a sword swung at his hip.
Merlin’s breath caught.
The man was an adonis, beautiful in a mythic way. The kind of beauty carved into Roman cathedrals or sung about in bardic ballads. His face belonged to a prince in his mother’s stories, all sharp lines and power.
Certainly not someone who would have glanced twice at Merlin back home, where Merlin was more whisper than present to most.
But this man, this stranger, was looking at him. Really looking. His gaze was steady, unflinching, and far too intense for that of a stranger.
Merlin’s heart stuttered. He wasn’t used to being seen like this. Not with that type of weight.
Not like he mattered.
Yet, the man didn’t look away.
“Merlin,” The stranger said again, softer this time, “You’re… bleeding.”
Merlin blinked, one hand instinctively brushing his temple, “Er, I fell.”
The stranger’s voice was gentle, but there was something behind it. The man descended a few steps, slow and deliberate, like he didn’t want to spook Merlin further.
Merlin stepped back instinctively, his hand still on the wall, “It’s nothing,” he said too quickly, “Just a scratch.”
The man’s eyes flicked to the dried blood, then back to Merlin’s face, “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”
Merlin gave a tight nod, though his pulse thudded louder than footsteps in a cave. The stranger was close now, close enough that Merlin could see faint scars along his arms, the kind earned in real fights, not taverns.
The stranger stared at him for a long moment and nodded, “Alright, I think we better take you to Gaius.”
Merlin blinked, “You know uncle Gaius?”
The stranger put a hand on Merlin’s shoulder and squeezed, “Right, that’s… Right.” There was a distressed look in the man’s eyes.
Merlin stiffened beneath the stranger’s touch, though the hand on his shoulder was warm. Familiar in a way that made him ache.
Although… that could have been the possible concussion.
“I know Gaius,” The man said, voice low, like he was tring not to break something between them, “He’ll… He’ll know what to do.”
Merlin nodded, though his thoughts were tangled together. The stranger’s grip lingered a moment longer before falling away, and Merlin felt its absence like a chill.
They descended the stairs together, the silence between them thick with things unsaid.
Merlin kept glancing sideways, trying to place the man’s face. There was something in the way he moved that tickled the back of his mind.
He gave the Blood Cloak a nod and there was a small movement of his hand.
Merlin frowned but kept walking, happy to be past the guard.
“You said your name was…” Merlin asked softly, the question trailing off like he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.
The man hesitated, then said, “Arthur.”
Merlin stopped midstep in the hall, the man- Arthur stopped with him as if hyper-aware of his movements.
The name rang like a bell in his bones, but his memory refused to surface.
Just…
A flicker.
Firelight.
Shouting.
Metal in the sunlight.
A hand reaching for his.
“I should know that,” Merlin murmured.
Arthur turned to face him fully, and for a moment, the weight in his eyes was unbearable. “You do,” he said. “You did.”
Merlin swallowed hard. “Did we... were we friends?”
Arthur’s jaw tightened. “More than that.”
Merlin’s breath hitched, the air suddenly too thick in his lungs. “More than that,” He echoed, the words tasting strange on his tongue.
He hadn’t been more than that with anyone but Will.
Arthur didn’t move. Didn’t press.
Just stood there, gaze steady, like he was waiting for Merlin to figure something out.
“I don’t…” Merlin began, then faltered, “I don’t feel afraid of you.”
He settled on that. That was safe, right?
Arthur’s expression softened, but the ache in his eyes didn’t fade, “You never did.”
Merlin looked down at his hands, fingers twitching like they might remember what his mind could not. “Did I… did we fight together?”
Arthur nodded. “Side by side. Against things most commoners wouldn’t believe.”
Merlin’s brow furrowed as he thought it through. “Magic?”
The word burned on his tongue knowing he stood at the heart of Camelot.
Arthur hesitated, then said, “Yes. Yours helped a lot.”
Merlin blinked. “Mine?”
“You are the strongest sorcerer I’ve ever known,” Arthur said quietly, hand reaching out and ghosting near Merlin’s cheek, “And the most reckless. You drive me mad. But you also save me. Over and over.”
Merlin’s throat tightened. “But we… we’re… Camelot?”
Arthur’s hand dropped, curling loosely at his side. His voice was steady, but something was raw beneath it. “Camelot changed. You helped me change it.”
Merlin shook his head slowly, as if trying to dislodge the weight pressing behind his eyes, “But magic is forbidden. It’s… The Tyrant King would never…” He glanced around for any more guards.
Arthur’s gaze didn’t waver, “King Uther is dead. I swear to you, you have nothing to fear in Camelot.”
“But… but how could I… how could you…?” Merlin stared at him, the pieces refusing to fit together in his mind.
Arthur took Merlin’s hands in his, “Because you made me see. Foolish, young Prince Arthur of Camelot, enthralled by a farm boy and made to see. You showed me what magic really was. What you were.”
Merlin’s breath trembled. Or perhaps those were his knees. “I don’t…”
“I know,” Arthur said, and the grief in his voice was like a shadow stretching long across the hall.
Arthur didn’t let go of Merlin’s hands right away, but held them like they were something precious. Something he’d lost and feared to break now they were found.
Merlin didn’t pull away either. He couldn’t. Not with the way Arthur looked at him.
“Come on,” Arthur said gently, “Gaius will know what to do. Or one of the others. They’ll meet us there.”
“Others?” Merlin asked softly.
“I told the guard to fetch my sister and your apprentice. If this injury is magical in nature, perhaps they can help.”
Merlin nodded, and slowly began to follow Arthur, though his legs felt unsteady. Like they weren’t entirely convinced they belonged to him.
Arthur kept close as they walked, near enough that Merlin could feel the warmth from his arms.
The corridors of Camelot stretched long and familiar, but also strange. Merlin’s gaze flicked to tapestries he half-recognized, to alcoves that whispered secrets he could barely remember.
Arthur didn’t speak the rest of the journey, but his presence felt protective.
They reached the old wooden door in the western wing, and Merlin hesitated, fingers brushing the worn handle.
Arthur paused beside him, close enough that Merlin could hear the quiet rhythm of his breath. Merlin’s fingers curled around the handle and pushed it open.
The room smelled of herbs and parchment, of old magic and older memories. A fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering light across shelves stacked with vials, scrolls, and relics. The room felt like a sanctuary as Merlin glanced around.
Gaius, though he was older than Merlin thought he would be, glanced up from the desk he was at, “Your majesties, is something the matter?”
Arthur stepped forward, his voice low but firm, “It’s Merlin. He’s injured, and he doesn’t remember much of anything.”
Gaius rose slowly, the lines in his face deepening as his gaze settled on Merlin.
Merlin stared, trying to connect this older man with the one he’d seen visiting his mother as a child.
“He didn’t remember me at all,” Arthur continued softly.
Merlin shifted under the weight of Gaius’ gaze, “I know you,” he said uncertainly, “You’re older, but it’s still you.”
Gaius crossed the room, his hands gentle but urgent as he guided Merlin to the nearest stool. “Sit. Let me see the injury.”
Arthur lingered near the door, arms folded, but his fingers twitched against his sleeve, like he was holding something back.
Gaius examined the dried blood at Merlin’s temple, fingers brushing the skin with practiced care, “It’s not deep,” He murmured, “But something about it is… off.”
Merlin flinched slightly, “Off?”
“Like the wound’s been touched by something unnatural.” Gaius said, “Not dark, exactly, but…”
A knock interrupted them. Arthur turned as the door creaked open to reveal Morgana, her dress bunched in her hands with worry and her eyes sharp with concern. Beside her stood a younger figure. Merlin’s apprentice perhaps? The young boy was clutching a satchel filled with what seemed to be books.
Morgana’s gaze swept over Merlin, then landed on Arthur, “At least this time he’s awake when you call us.”
Gaius straightened, “We’ll need to test for magical interference. Morgana, prepare the basin. And Mordred,” He nodded to the apprentice, “Fetch the mugwort and sage.”
Mordred nodded quickly, his eyes flicking to Merlin with something like awe, or fear, and hurried to the shelves, fingers already sorting through bundles of dried herbs. Morgana moved with practiced grace, crossing the far table where a wide silver basin sat nestled among vials. She poured water from a clay jug into the basin and brought it over.
Merlin watched the basin fill, the water catching firelight like shimmering drops of gold. His heart beat a rhythm he didn't recognise, but his body leaned forward, “What are you doing?”
Gaius looked up from where he was grinding what Merlin had to assume was the mugwort and sage with something else, “A memory potion,” Gaius hesitated and met his eyes, “It won’t restore everything. But it might stir what’s buried.”
Arthur stepped closer, his voice quiet. “Only if you want to try.”
Merlin looked around the room, at the firelight, the faces, the fragments of a life he couldn’t yet claim. Then he nodded.
“I want to remember.”