Chapter Text
Merlin couldn't breathe.
Pinned down by the dead weight of his best friend on top of him, Merlin buried his face in Arthur’s neck and cried, clutching his friend's cold metal armor.
He let out a strangled scream, and the trees trembled and mourned with him. He punched the ground so hard that the green of the grass stained his fist. There was so much crushing guilt and anguish in his chest, and it was too much to bear. His only thoughts were that he had failed, and Arthur was dead.
Everything had been for nothing.
He could taste the salt of his tears. His lungs hitched and forced himself breathless, and he heaved and gagged as he cried.
The Sidhe fae approached the distraught warlock just short of an hour after Arthur's fated death.
"What do you want?!" Merlin roared. He was already furious, and now there was an outlet for this rage. Because how dare the world take Arthur Pendragon. How dare it try. Blaming the world was easier than blaming himself. Denial and anger coursed through his veins. King Arthur was already cold and dead in Merlin’s tired arms and there was nothing he could do about it.
Currently, he was the most dangerous creature alive.
It hissed back, "To save your precious king."
“He’s dead!” Merlin was hysterical, baring his teeth. “You’re too late!” He wouldn't hesitate to kill the Sidhe fae if it proved to be deceitful. Any sympathy in Merlin’s soul was miniscule in comparison to his wrath. For he had nothing left to lose.
“It is not,” it said, “too late."
"The Old Religion requires a life for a life," Merlin recalled. This was the deal that had led to the Purge. Everything Uther had warned Arthur of. Would Merlin be damning Albion, if he made this deal? Would this cement Arthur's hatred toward magic if he yet lived?
"It does," the fae hissed.
Merlin took his first real breath—albeit it was more of a hiccup—and said, "I would trade my life for Arthur's. If that’s what it took." Despite his doubts, Merlin's voice rang with strength and confidence. Albion could not go on without Arthur. No matter the cost.
"No, you cannot."
"No?!" Merlin repeated, letting himself fall back onto the grass with a howl of frustration and nearly broke down into tears all over again. Like a child’s tantrum. "Why not?! Why can't I just—why can't—"
"You are immortal,” it spat. "It is impossible for you to die so long as there is magic in this world, Emrys."
"Then how did you find me?"
"Your pain radiates like a ripple in a lake. All creatures of magic feel your power. Be warned: there are more coming. Those with less pleasant intentions." Then, after a pause, it said, "I am willing to strike a peaceful bargain. Will you accept?"
"But you said I can't die! What can I even trade?" Merlin dipped his head. "I never wanted this. I didn't ask to be immortal."
Arthur was his purpose.
It smiled wickedly. "An arrangement can be made. A sacrifice just as worthy."
He was desperate. Scarily so. He would do anything to see his king take a breath. "What kind of...?" His voice broke as he cradled Arthur's lolling head. "What kind of arrangement?"
"His life for your wyrd," it hissed.
"Destiny," Merlin breathed. If he hadn't been holding his dead king in his arms, Merlin might have huffed a laugh. He was pretty sure his destiny could not be taken from him, but isn't this what he wanted for so long? To be freed from the chains of fate? If so, then why did the mere thought of it fill him with so much dread? "What would that entail?"
"The death of everything that gives your life purpose," it said. "The death of their memories. Every memory they have of you."
His blood ran cold. Merlin watched the fae closely, fully aware that the Sidhe were cunning and deceitful beings.
The fae continued: “You would succumb to a life worse than death. For everyone you've ever known and loved will have forgotten you. And if Arthur were to ever know your face again…"
"He would die," Merlin finished solemnly, looking down. "And... nobody will remember me? Not... not Gaius? Or Lancelot? Not Gwaine? Not..." He paused. "Kilgharrah?"
"Not a soul."
Merlin's voice grew thick with sorrow. "My mother?"
"Not even she."
His own mother.
Merlin was left to ask himself which choice was less damning. Who was he, without his best friend? What was his purpose, if not to serve The Once and Future King?
Merlin had always hidden within the shadows, working without tiring, without credit. He knew how to hide. He’d done so all his life. Camelot wouldn't miss a servant as much as a king, surely.
Merlin could survive without his friends, and his friends could survive without Merlin, but Camelot could not survive without its king. It was no contest.
Even if it cost Merlin everything.
"I'll do it."
It would be better this way.
"Very well," the faerie cackled. "And your name? For it will only work if I use your true name in the spell."
Someone shouted from behind him, as the world tried to save the warlock from his fate: “Merlin?!”
The warlock turned to see Gwaine. “Merlin!" his friend roared in fear. "No!" But Gwaine was too far. He wouldn't reach Merlin in time.
He offered one last sad smile at the knight, hoping Gwaine would forgive him.
"Give me your name, boy," the faerie snapped impatiently. "Your full name."
"Merlin Ambrosius."
The warlock's fate was sealed.
Thr air pulsed with magic. "Stay far from old friends, or your king shall perish once more," it warned.
Before Merlin could react, his vision swam. He fell back as a tidal wave of magic crushed the air out of his lungs. His grip on Arthur was slipping, and the world tilted on its axis.
He barely made out the shadow of Gwaine above him, reaching, nearly grabbing.
Then Merlin blinked, and neither Arthur nor Gwaine were there.
The sky was hidden from him by a low roof, decorated with animal furs and herbs. It took him a second to gather his bearings and realize he was in Dragoon's home.
None of that mattered.
Because Arthur was alive.
¶
Gwaine found Arthur at the brink of death. The knight cursed, putting pressure on the bloody tear in the king’s chainmail. He couldn’t see the wound, but with that much blood loss, it couldn’t be anything but fatal.
His king's pallor was dangerously white, his skin was glossy with sweat, "...Gwaine?"
Gwaine offered a smile that didn’t reach the eyes. "That's right, princess. Here to save your sorry, royal arse."
Percival plodded up the hill with two horses in tow. The knight called out, "Gwaine? What—" His expression morphed into horror at the sight of his king. "Arthur!"
"Percival," Gwaine shouted back. "He needs a physician!"
Percival was quick to come up beside the king. His hands hovered. "How... how bad is…?" He looked about as sick as Gwaine felt. "Can we move him?"
"Don't know," Gwaine said.
"I can't…" Arthur trailed off, eyebrows knitted in confusion as both knights listened intently. "I can't feel it. The wound. It doesn't hurt." He paused, adding, "Nothing hurts."
Gwaine shared an alarmed look with Percival.
The king watched their exchange fearfully. "Gwaine? What—"
Gwaine swiftly kneeled beside his king, pushing Percival aside. He worked away Arthur's chainmail armor to reveal his torn, sweat-soaked tunic. When he lifted the fabric, he inhaled sharply. "It's..."
Arthur was terrified. "What?"
"It's gone." The king's chest hair was matted in blood, but there was no source but a raised scar. Gwaine looked up at his king in awe. "You're healed."
¶
The fae returned to Avalon laughing hysterically. It had been far too easy.
"Foolish boy Emrys." The Sidhe cackled amongst themselves. "One should know never to give a faerie his true name.”
¶
Arthur returned to Camelot feeling as if half of himself had been left behind on the battlefield.
His chainmail was heavier than usual. The horse moved slower. The knights behind him were unusually quiet—even Gwaine. The birds ceased to sing.
And it was all ridiculous. He'd just won the battle of his life. He should be celebrating.
Yet none of this felt like a victory.
Arthur sighed. Guinevere would know what to say to cheer him up. She always did. Then things could return to normal.
Right?
Wrong.
A year passed and things still weren't normal.
Arthur couldn't find enough energy to get out of bed. His manservant George had brought him his breakfast, which had gone cold by now. The drapes of his windows were still closed and he frowned at them. His drapes were never closed in the morning. Perhaps George had forgotten. The incompetent—
No. Wait. Who had he been thinking of, again?
Arthur blinked up at his dark room and frowned deeper. Right, the drapes. George didn't open them.
Except… George never opened the drapes.
Arthur huffed. Who the hell always opened the drapes, then? And why were they late?
Impatient, Arthur got out of bed to open them himself, but cringed as a headache forced its way behind his eyes, and he promptly fell back onto the mattress. The drapes could wait, he supposed.
When Guinevere entered the room, Arthur didn't move. She came to him, laid beside him on the bed, and for a while Arthur let himself breathe in Gwen's love and comfort until even that no longer distracted him from the mysterious void in his chest.
A year. For a year this depression had not shaken. He felt lost. Camlann had taken everything from him, yet it hadn't. It hadn't. That's what baffled Arthur. The battle of Camlann had been a victorious one. Nothing happened to warrant this feeling.
Gwen looked about to speak, and then stopped herself.
Arthur knew exactly what she was going to say. Today was the anniversary of the battle of Camlann, and Arthur's melancholic state was contagious. "I haven't felt the same since that day," he revealed. Though that wasn’t much of a secret, was it?
"I know," she said, tucking her head into his shoulder sweetly. "It's been a hard year."
"But it hasn't," Arthur said. "It hasn't," he said again, baffled. "It shouldn't have been hard. We won! Shouldn't I be… I don't know… happy? Relieved? Camelot hasn't had this few enemies in decades! We've been in near peace for an entire year, but here I am wallowing in my bed like a moping child!"
She looked up at him knowingly. "Now that's not the whole truth. There were some great losses that day, Arthur." she said.
"Morgana," he murmured. "Her body may have died on that battlefield, but she was already lost long ago. I have… had time to come to terms with her betrayal."
"Have you?" The queen looked up at him sadly. "We all loved her, Arthur. There's no shame in grieving your sister."
"No, there isn't," he agreed. He gently pulled her into his embrace, and brushed a hand along her hair. "But I don't feel as though that is the reason for… this." No, Arthur was certain it wasn't Morgana's ghost that still haunted him—even if he couldn't pinpoint the source of the feeling. "Why do I feel this way, Guinevere? Why do I feel so empty? I feel as though I’ve lost a great friend."
Gwen let her fingers trail over Arthur's skin and he shivered. "In truth," she said. "I haven't felt like myself either. It's as if the entire kingdom is quieter."
Perhaps that's all it was. The kingdom really was just… quieter.
But Arthur didn't really believe that.
"Why don't you go on a hunt, hm? Those always lighten your spirit," Gwen suggested.
And so Arthur decided to go on a hunting trip. He'd been cooped up inside the castle for weeks. It was a good break from monotonous paperwork.
"George! Where have you been?!"
The servant startled, looking nearly faint. "Sire?"
Arthur paused. "Why didn't you open the drapes this morning?"
"The drapes?" George asked. "Pardon, sire, but don't you… hate when the drapes are open?"
"No," he said hotly. In truth he did hate it, but didn't want to admit it. He wasn't sure why it bothered him so much now. He then instructed George to, from now on, open the drapes. Then he asked George to pack his bag for the hunt and inform the knights of the late notice departure.
The servant nodded, though a bit miffed.
¶
“I was beginning to think you were tired of us, princess.” Gwaine teased, bringing his horse alongside Arthur's.
“You mean tired of your childish bedtime stories?”
“Aye, you could only dream of being as amazing as myself," the knight sighed.
“More like a nightmare.”
The knights chuckled.
“Ah, you probably dream of unicorns and butterflies.”
Arthur scoffed. "As if. I think you're confusing me with—" There was a name on the tip of his tongue. "With—"
"...Yes?" Gwaine asked. When the king didn't immediately answer, he regarded the king's faraway look. "You alright?"
"Yes…" Arthur said, scratching his head. "I forgot…" He couldn't remember what he was going to say. "Nevermind. It wasn’t important anyway."
Arthur could feel the knight's tracking eyes, and he hated it. Everyone had been holding their breath since Camlann. Like he would break at any moment. It frustrated Arthur to no end. Clearly, he was missing something. But how was he supposed to get it back if he couldn't even remember what it was?
As if Percival had sensed the change in Arthur's mood, the knight clapped a hand on his back. "Ready for the hunt?"
"Of course, yes." Arthur found himself automatically looking for a seventh person. He wasn't sure why, at first, and then he remembered he needed a servant. "Has George prepared his own horse?"
Percival looked at him as if he'd grown a third head. "George is coming?"
"Who else?"
"I—" Percival blinked, realizing he didn't know. "I suppose we've always brought a servant along, but never… George." He struggled to recall the name. "By the gods, who was it? I can’t seem to remember."
Arthur stared at the knight for a little longer than comfortable. Was it just a coincidence? "It's probably nothing," he finally dismissed. Though the empty feeling in his heart stung more than usual. "Let's just go."
Percival nodded and they walked to the courtyard in a strange silence. The other knights were already mounting their horses.
"Oi, slowpokes are ready!" Gwaine hollered.
"Race you to the woodland edge!" Elyan returned. "Last one is a girl's petticoat!" And they left Arthur and Leon in the dust, who weren't even saddled on their horses yet.
"That's my line," Arthur huffed.
¶
It had been exactly a year since the battle of Camlann, and Merlin continually found himself contemplating the curse of time.
Merlin had begun to feel more like the dodgery old Dragoon than himself. Holed away in a deeper section of the woods where few travelled. A loner without a purpose.
He had a sudden revelation: Dragoon and Merlin were the same person. Dragoon wasn't just a character he had dreamed up, but a specific part of himself. And despite his still youthful face, his soul was already weary and tired. A young man with an old heart.
He had always imagined himself growing old at Arthur's side.
He hummed the sad thoughts away as he picked herbs just outside the cottage. He climbed to his feet, lifting his basket. These lands were known for their harsh winters, and Merlin needed to be prepared.
Part of him wondered if this was how Gwaine had felt before his knighthood. With no attachments, no rules, no kings. Merlin had always imagined he would feel free, if he were in that position, but he just felt lonely. More so than he wished to admit.
There were benefits to his anonymity. It was far easier to save the king when he didn't know who he was. Nobody recognized Merlin's face, so he could sneak by in plain sight and remain an unknown hero.
But he missed Gaius's mentoring. He missed confiding in Lancelot. He missed Gwaine's tales. He missed his witty exchanges with Arthur. He missed the knights' company and teasing. He missed…
He missed Camelot.
That's not to say he didn't visit. He made sure his friends were safe and well. Word also got around rather quickly when the kingdom was in danger, which wasn't often, considering any threat never remained long under Merlin's watch. He visited, sure, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t home anymore.