Chapter Text
Merlin doesn’t know whether to be pissed or relieved when Destiny speaks again.
He’s always been remarkably impatient for someone with seemingly all the time in the world. He’ll admit to getting a little restless waiting for Her call. Still, he’s enjoyed Camelot. He’s nomadic by nature, but he finds he honestly wouldn’t mind another decade or two just like this.
Now that Arthur’s King, their days are nearly idyllic, with just enough would-be assassins and strange side quests to keep him entertained. Picnics with Gwen. Random adventures with the knights. Tavern brawls with Gwaine and philosophical dinners with Gaius.
And then there’s Arthur. He hasn’t turned out too badly, all things considered. Sure, Merlin wouldn’t mind staying, despite his terrible breath in the mornings, the constant chores, the overtime without any thanks. Despite the way he laughs too loud and then blames Merlin for scaring the game. Despite having to attend every council, because he’s the only one Arthur trusts to advise him through important meetings and amuse him through unimportant ones. Despite how he’s actually begun to forget a time before this one short decade. Despite how he’s now not himself until he’s seen the prat in the morning, bedhead aflame with the divine light bursting through his window, yawning around a threat and a give me my blanket back this instant, Merlin. Despite how Arthur’s taught him emotions entirely new to him, and possibly new to this world, not all of them kind. Despite how much he’s irreversibly changed in the blink of an eye, rewritten in ten short years, upheaved and uprooted like a daisy from the dirt. Despite how he’s sown misery in the name of this man, and worse still, how he’d sow untold more should it be asked of him. In a heartbeat, without remorse. Despite how he’s been re-taught what it is to be alive, the world recoloured a hundred fold, with everything meaning infinitely more than it ever did before (and it had always meant a damn great deal).
Yes… despite all that, it hasn’t been too bad. And here is Destiny, feeling more like the hand of doom than She ever has, informing him that it is over.
It does not feel like his hands that pack his bag. He begins to mourn in increments, snapping up every moment afforded him during the day and stowing them greedily for the long night he feels approaching. He is almost aggressively present for every breath of sun shared with his fellows, and is decidedly absent come the nighttime, when Her voice is his only company. Memories creep cold through his bones, his blood, accusing him cruelly in Sindarin. At the same time, they sing a song as beautiful as it is familiar; They ask him if he remembers what his first home feels like. He replies, always, but he does not say that he may lack the heart to remember when he returns. He may lack the heart for everything, for he knows he will leave the greatest part of it here, on picnics and adventures and the king’s right hand.
He has never slept as mortals do, and he now uses that time to prepare. He does so in a detached manner, so as to convince himself as much as possible that he isn’t doing it at all. He goes through the motions blankly— warns the Druids, weaves a masterwork of protective magic over the castle, carefully selects charges and makes sure of their appointment— and come the morning, pointedly forgets it all in favour of basking in what he still has. He does his best to pretend it isn’t going anywhere, but come nighttime the cold seeps back in. Every morning, it becomes harder and harder to chase back.
Inevitability approaches.
And so he finds himself with nothing to say, folding Arthur’s linens and staring out the window, envisioning the man’s face. Arthur has an uncanny ability to know when he’s being watched, so much as he might desperately, desperately need to, Merlin cannot simply stare while he finishes up his tax report. He doesn’t want to push it— already Arthur’s been gracious enough not to mention the fact that Merlin’s been folding linens for about an hour now and has no real reason to still be here. Maybe he just hasn’t noticed. Either way, staring would definitely break the spell, and so Merlin refrains. Not an easy task.
It should hardly matter, since he could say exactly what Arthur looks like right now and spare no detail, but it makes all the difference.
Merlin stares instead at the town, memorizing it for the umpteenth time. Pictures how it will look in a few hours under the first weak light of morning. Then when it strengthens, the men sweating in their armour and the stalls being opened. At midday, then the afternoon bustle. He pictures Gwen in the courtyard, basket of flowers in hand. Gwaine ducking quickly around the outskirts, trying to avoid training but lured in by the lovely maids going about their day. Percival carrying a load for three men, getting distracted by a stray dog he holds affection for. Leon barking orders at the new recruits. Arthur striding about like he has somewhere important to be, pretending not to notice the way the sea of people parts for him.
Imagining seems a waste of time. He has the rest of his life to imagine, does he not? So he focusses next on the immediate; The smell of Arthur’s quarters, somehow a mix of absolutely everything with an overwhelming current of him thrumming underneath. Leather and fresh linen and sweat and polish and metal and musk and parchment and fire and, strangely, cardamom.
There’s the slight breeze from the window, ghosting light fingers through the curtains around the bed, the soft murmur of them brushing against each other. An owl hooting in the distance. The scratch of Arthur’s quill against the parchment.
Merlin finds the edge of the loose floorboard with his toes. He’s always pretending to trip over the damn thing, but Arthur won’t let him replace it because he thinks it’s funny. Came up with some excuse about it holding the rug in place. Cabbage head.
Eventually the scratching stops. Then there’s the rude noise of the chair being shoved back, Arthur’s knees popping as he rises. Then his elbow as he stretches. His jaw as he yawns.
‘Finally,’ he groans dramatically. ‘That has got to be the worst part about ruling a kingdom. Never become a king, Merlin. It’s not worth it.’
Merlin hums. Then he sets about clearing the desk while Arthur readies himself for bed.
It’s still another hour, at least, before it becomes apparent that he’s lingering unusually long. Merlin’s missed about six chances to take his leave, and now he senses he’s really pushing it. But he cannot bring himself to leave, and for whatever reason, Arthur doesn’t send him away. They just exist in comfortable silence, pretending to fold linen and pretending not to notice.
Merlin will not have a lot more chances to speak with Arthur like this. It knocks the wind out of him to think it, and leaves him with nothing to say.
But that doesn’t mean Arthur’s left with nothing to hear. He cannot afford to let these opportunities slip by, he realizes. These are his last chances to make a difference here. This might well be the last time he has the ear of the king he swore to make.
It’s time for drastic measures.
And he thinks Arthur might just be ready.
‘Do you trust me?’ he blurts. Well, it probably just sounds like a non-sequitur, but Merlin was raised to consider such tactlessness akin to blurting. Not that it stops him.
Arthur looks over at him, half a frown in his brow, and Merlin finally gets to look back properly. ‘I don’t mean how you think I mean. I mean, do you trust my judgment? My values? Do you trust me to council you well? I want you to think about it.’
Arthur floats closer, almost without thinking. His whole body shifts to face Merlin, which is more answer than he could give verbally. But he answers anyway.
‘Yes.’
Merlin almost tells him to think about it some more, but they don’t really have time for that. The answer would stay the same anyway, he knows.
‘...Do you believe magic is evil?’
Arthur reacts with the poise of any real king. His eyes don’t shift from Merlin’s, and his brow only contracts slightly and briefly. But nothing could hide his soundless intake of breath from Merlin.
For all he knows Arthur like his boots know his feet, he has no idea what response to expect now. It could be anything. A straight answer. A flat joke to steer them back on course. A threat. A warning. A complete shut down.
Instead, Arthur lowers his chin almost imperceptibly and rumbles a quiet, ‘Yes.’
Well, that could be better, but it could be worse. It’s just a fact. But he still waits to hear what Merlin has to say.
Merlin briefly considers his options, but he’s already made up his mind.
‘You are wrong.’
Arthur blinks. Straightens. Inclines his head slightly. But he doesn’t immediately blurt out an argument.
‘You believe this,’ he realizes out loud. He’s not really responding. It takes a moment before he gets there. ‘Why?’
‘There’s not enough time in the world to tell you all the reasons,’ Merlin chuckles softly. ‘Besides, this isn’t something I can convince you of. It’s something you have to learn for yourself. You know that.’
Arthur just stares at him strangely, taking this in. Merlin waits for him to ask for more information, demand Merlin explain himself, but he stays quiet for a long time. He never stops staring.
‘I do trust you,’ he says eventually, as if to reassure him. Merlin senses the unspoken but and saves Arthur from uttering it by finally turning to go.
‘Just… think on it,’ he implores before he leaves, relishing the heaviness of the door and the sound it makes when it shuts.
He takes a deep breath of musty corridor air.
That went… surprisingly well.
The next few weeks pass without either of them bringing it up, shockingly. Merlin definitely didn’t expect Arthur to take his word that this was a solitary task so seriously, he’s normally much more difficult to get through to. But he doesn’t ask about it again. Instead, he quietly investigates. He speaks to Gaius privately about the time before the Great Purge. He hunts down what information survives in the bowels of the royal library, and beyond that, in Geoffrey’s living memory. He reads over the old laws, the original decrees, carding through every line word by word with single-minded focus. He spends a lot of time thinking– just sitting and thinking, staring right through the wall with a hand over his mouth, blind and deaf to the world around him. Merlin feels it’s only a matter of time before he comes to his servant, but Arthur wants to be ready for the conversation first.
Unfortunately, he’s running out of time.
And then one night, Merlin’s sure of it.
It’s time.
He writes up a note for everyone. Says goodbye to Gaius personally. Then he steals out when the moon is high, following Her voice.
Again, it feels like it’s happening to someone else. Like this is just another adventure, and he’ll be back to see the Camelot flag flying again tomorrow from the familiar parapets. Certainly not like he is leaving. And yet, that is just what he’s doing.
He supposes it will take time to sink in. He’s grateful. If he felt the full weight of putting Camelot behind him now, he would not be able to do it. Best he doesn’t realise what he’s done until there’s no going back.
Best there’s no illusion of choice, here.
Merlin buys an old nag for the journey and stops only to let her rest. Unfortunately, that’s all it takes. Even with his headstart, someone riding hard on his trail day and night could catch up, as Arthur proves on the third day when he bursts into Merlin’s clearing in dramatic fashion, throwing up leaves and dirt as he does.
In hindsight, Merlin’s nag was never going to outpace Llamrei. And perhaps he could have done a better job covering his tracks, if he’d wanted to… but maybe he hadn’t.
Merlin sighs at himself even as he smiles. Always overcomplicating things.
‘And just what the HELL do you think you’re doing?!’ Arthur all but yells, puffing his chest up as if to make up for his horse’s heaving. He throws himself off her back and hits the ground hard, eyes wild, already marching up to where Merlin’s sat on a log. Arthur looms large over him, shoulders up as he rips something from his jacket pocket and brandishes it. A bit of parchment– likely the note Merlin left him. ‘Got places to be, have we? Not coming back? Care to explain yourself, Merlin?!’
The more he speaks, the more Merlin regrets his lapse in judgment. This is going to be so much harder now. He grimaces.
‘I’m going somewhere you can’t follow,’ he informs the king.
‘And why, pray tell, can’t I follow?!’
‘Because it’s a land of magic.’
Well that pulls him up short. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t that. Merlin usually enjoys shocking Arthur silent, but today it’s a little hard to appreciate.
Arthur cycles through a series of very visible emotions as Merlin watches. First he looks shocked. Then it’s back to furious. Then confusion creeps in, and he finally lands on suspicion. He takes a step back, hand raising between them as if to calm a wild horse.
‘Are you enchanted?’
Merlin barks a laugh. Clearly Arthur believes that if he was, he’d be able to ask him outright and receive a straight answer. And, apparently, hold him at bay with one hand.
‘No, I’m not,’ he huffs. Arthur makes no sign of believing him, and Merlin rolls his eyes. ‘I’m not enchanted. Look, d’you think I could do this if I was?’ He pulls his eyelids up with one hand and uses the other to snub his nose like a pig, sticking his tongue out and blowing a raspberry.
Annoyance flashes back, and Arthur straightens despite himself. ‘Why on earth wouldn’t you be able to? Although, I’ll admit, you certainly look ugly enough to be yourself.’
Merlin lets his face go. ‘No self-respecting evil magic-user would let me do that, especially not if they were trying to make me act normal, now, would they? No. It’s me, and I meant what I said. I’m going somewhere distinctly magical and that’s why you can’t come.’
Arthur throws his hands up and does a spin on the spot, as if trying to find sympathy with the surrounding shrubs and trees. Then he plops down on the ground, heavy as you please, and looks indulgently at Merlin like he’s being ridiculous. ‘Right. Where is this place, and why do you think you’re going there?’
‘I can’t tell you, Arthur.’
‘Oh no?’
‘No.’
‘Then I’m coming.’
Merlin’s about to argue, but he actually thinks about it for a second. Destiny has not spoken of this. She is quiet now. And yet, Merlin instinctively finds himself here. He did not make haste. He did not hide his tracks all too well. Perhaps there was a reason.
Perhaps this is the reason.
Perhaps Arthur is a lot more ready than Merlin gave him credit for.
The second the hope enters his head that it’s a possibility, Merlin blooms. The cold stutters in his veins as he dares to dream about what it might mean, not having to leave Arthur behind here. To take him along.
‘You might not like it much,’ Merlin says thoughtfully, watching him through squinted eyes. ‘On account of the magic.’
‘You’re not going alone, Merlin. Especially not if it’s as magical as you say. You obviously don’t have an ounce of survival instinct in your head, and it will likely be dangerous, whatever you believe.’
‘It will certainly be dangerous.’ Arthur’s head whips up. ‘Not by nature, but by circumstance. But that’s just why I have to go. I have to help.’
‘I think,’ Arthur starts slowly, once again turning his full body to face Merlin, ‘you’d better start at the beginning.’
Merlin looks up. It’s just about darkening. He slaps his knees and rises. ‘Alright. You set up camp, I’ll get the firewood. This will be a long conversation.’
Reluctantly, Arthur leaves it there so they can get comfortable. Merlin didn’t plan on camping the night, but the Valar know Arthur lives to disrupt his plans, so camp they apparently shall.
Merlin takes the time gathering kindling to formulate his explanation rather than get too attached to the idea of Arthur coming along (as if that ship hasn’t sailed). By the time he comes back, Arthur is up and tapping his foot restlessly, arms crossed as he worries his ring. As soon as he hears Merlin coming, he whips around to stare at him intensely, as if he can suck answers from his manservant’s brain through sheer force of will.
The moment Merlin drops the firewood, Arthur’s hand on his shoulder is forcing him back down onto the log. The king drags another one close by so he can sit as well, and then he does so, never letting up his stare. Merlin licks his lips nervously.
‘Start with where we’re going,’ he commands.
Merlin hums. Where to begin? How does one sum up Middle Earth to an Otherside king? He resolves to think of it in terms of how Arthur would view it.
‘There is a land beyond the reach of Camelotian maps. It is accessible through a certain point that is called the Rift. Its laws and ways are different to those of any known land to you, as they were born from an environment that is inherently magical. Their peoples, geography, and customs were all born from that magic. It is where the Druids came from, though they may not all remember. It is called Middle Earth.’
Arthur looks halfway to checking Merlin in to see the nearest healer for mental issues, but he doesn’t interrupt. The more Merlin speaks, the less sure he becomes.
‘...You’re messing with me. Well, that’s great, Merlin, but you didn’t have to drag me all the way out here for a joke. You’ve got Gwenuivere all up in a state worried about you–’
‘Arthur.’ He falters. ‘I’m serious.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ Arthur sighs deeply, brow knitting. ‘Alright then. Say that there is some magic world we somehow didn’t know about that you somehow do– what are we going there for? It sounds like the worst idea for a holiday you’ve ever had.’
‘It’s in trouble. And with it, the Balance itself.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘You were right about the danger. Something very bad approaches Middle Earth and all its peoples. I need to be there to fight it.’
Arthur shuffles his feet, still watching Merlin like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. ‘...This is personal for you.’
‘Very.’
‘Why?’
Merlin heaves a big fortifying breath. It’s now or never. He resists the urge to squeeze his eyes shut.
‘Because many lives are at stake here. Many friends of mine. Many cultures, including the one I was born to, and ones I have learned to love deeply along with their people. My first home, and all the ones I knew before Ealdor and Camelot. I’m from Middle Earth, Arthur.’
Silence, but for the bugs.
Arthur stares for a very long time. Until Merlin gives up on trying to read his face and just feels supremely uncomfortable.
‘You… have magic.’
‘I was born of it. Just like every creature of Middle Earth.’
‘You tell me now that you’re not human.’
‘No,’ Merlin can’t help a slightly hysterical giggle. ‘Put on a pretty good show, though, don’t I?’
Arthur doesn’t so much as twitch in response. His voice comes out low and serious, giving away nothing. It’s not a question. ‘You are still Merlin, though.’
Merlin nods, and Arthur takes in a sharp breath, blown slightly back. His eyes widen as if it all hits him at once. One hand pulls back to steady himself against the log, slow and absent. Again, Merlin is amazed to find that Arthur can still surprise him. He thought there’d be a lot more denial and some demands of proof before he was believed. And yet, Arthur reacts as if Merlin’s handed him hard evidence on a silver platter.
‘My race isn’t so different from humans, though, of course, visually– I mean, I’ve got a glamour on, but I’m not completely unrecognisable beneath it. I was very grateful I didn’t have to contend with, say, extra limbs, or fewer eyes; it was enough of an adjustment as it is. Culture’s a different story, but I always found elves too uptight anyway. I typically get along with men much better. Though, of course, men might be the most diverse race, so when I say I get along with them, I hardly speak for all of them–’
‘Merlin.’
‘Hmm?’
‘Shut up.’
‘Right.’
Well, at least some things haven’t changed.
Merlin actually can’t stand the thought of sitting still a moment longer under Arthur’s far-off, mindless gaze. Merlin fears he may have broken him. He focusses instead on the fire, since it’s getting properly dark now. He considers just lighting it his own way for a moment. Wonders if that might be too much too soon. But then again, they don’t have much time for Arthur to come to terms with this. Merlin can’t delay his return much longer.
With a snap of his fingers, the fire is lit.
Arthur doesn’t even notice.
Typical.
‘All this time…’
Merlin snaps to attention. Arthur’s head slowly turns to look at him, shaking slightly. So confused. Like Merlin’s a stranger that’s far too familiar. It makes Merlin’s stomach drop.
‘...All this time. Why would you stay?’ he breathes. ‘If it is as you say, why on earth would you stay?’
Merlin can’t help it, he grins. ‘Why d’you think, clotpole? I had faith in you. I have faith in you.’
This turns Arthur quiet again. And he stays that way long into the night, occasionally asking questions. Large ones, about how Merlin hid, how he feels about the druids, if anyone else knows. If he’s ever felt unsafe in the castle under Arthur’s reign. That one’s the hardest to answer, but he thinks he’s done enough lying to his king.
They mutually decide not to broach the topic of Middle Earth again until tomorrow. It’s just too much, right now. Arthur needs the night.
‘Go to sleep, Merlin. I’ll take watch.’
‘Oh, uh… I don’t really sleep.’
Arthur turns tiredly to look at him. ‘What?’
‘I mean, what I do normally, it’s not really sleeping. I don’t need to sleep half as much as you do, so I usually just… pretend. Sometimes I meditate.’
Arthur’s face crumples in on itself a little. ‘Then do that. Just… do that. Please.’
The way he begs, Merlin doesn’t argue.