Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

By some miracle, Merlin manages to get to the lake in time. With all the care he can muster, he moves Arthur into the waiting boat and climbs in after him. His magic comes without so much as a thought, gently pushing the boat through the water as he cradles Arthur in his arms. The king drifts in and out of consciousness, his breathing labored and his body limp, his pulse no more than a faint murmur against Merlin’s searching fingertips. Yet somehow he remains alive. Merlin chooses not to question it. The boat continues its path through the waters, guided along a path that Freya provides, until it finally bumps up against the shore of the isle.

It takes little more than his presence to call the Sidhe forth from their sanctuary in the lake, as their small winged blue forms fly out of the water.

Merlin: (begs, looking around) Please! You must save him!

The creatures seem to ignore him. Merlin is about to yell laudee when he spots two human sized figures on the shore. When the boat arrives they help bring it to shore. Their faces are obscured by hoods, and Merlin doesn’t care enough to look any closer. Once the boat is secured, the figures reach for Arthur—much to Merlin’s alarm. 

Merlin: No, wait—

The figures say nothing, but one of them offers a pointed gesture towards a stretcher and the path waiting for them. Their intent becomes clear; to bring Arthur to the ones who can heal him. Merlin reluctantly allows them to lift Arthur gently from the rowboat and onto the stretcher, each of them lifting either end. 

As they follow the path, Merlin can feel something in the air. It’s almost electric, humming with a kind of magic so wildly different from what he commands. Something otherworldly. He’d felt it before, long ago, when he’d caught a glimpse of Avalon, reflected in the water of the lake. His own magic had no place here.

They reach their destination after a few tense, silent minutes of walking. The clearing is devoid of grass in a near perfect circle, surrounded by large stones standing upright on narrow ends in varying heights which are carved with swirling runes and writing Merlin can’t make out. Two more figures wait, draped in shimmering fabrics and holding staffs. Unlike the two carrying Arthur, this pair’s faces aren’t hidden by dark hoods, their faces fully visible. They’re not the little blue figures Merlin had seen flitting about the lake before; but the very same energy radiates from them. The magical charge in the air only grows stronger as they approach, and Arthur’s body is gently laid in the very center of the clearing. The full moon looms overhead, and golden, glowing motes drift around them like fireflies. The hooded figures bow their heads and move to stand away from the platform to watch in eerie silence. Their teeth flash in the light as they speak, unnaturally sharp.

Sídhe 1: Emrys, son of the Earth, Sea, and Sky.

Merlin: (voice breaking) Please, he’s dying. 

Sídhe 2: You bring the Once and Future King to be healed.

Sídhe 1: Your request defies the fate your gods have ordained. It will come with a price you are not prepared to pay.

Arthur groans quietly, before Merlin can respond. Merlin kneels beside him quickly, smoothing Arthur’s hair away from his forehead. Arthur’s eyes flutter open slowly. He focuses on Merlin first, then his gaze drifts to look around as best he can. Confusion shows on his face, followed by understanding and a hint of dread. 

Arthur: (Slowly and quietly) Merlin… where are we? 

Merlin: Don’t worry. Don’t worry, Arthur. (smiles a little shakily) You’ll be okay. I’m going to fix this.

Arthur: Wh—

Merlin pulls away from Arthur, who stretches his hand after him slightly like he wants to reach for him but he’s too weak. He turns back to the Sídhe, who are waiting patiently. 

Merlin: Take me. I’ll trade my life for his.

Sídhe 1: You cannot die, Emrys. You are no mere mortal.

Sídhe 2: You are magic incarnate. Immortal. With your death, so too will the magic of your lands perish.

Merlin: I don’t care! (takes a step forward, tears streaming down his face) Whatever you need to heal him—my blood, my magic, my life, whatever the price I will pay it a hundred times over. Please!

The Sídhe exchange a glance. Their eyes glint in the moonlight, cruelly, almost mischievously as they lean in to discuss with one another. One of them spares Merlin a brief, pitying glance. It’s the kind of pity that a king would spare someone before the executioner swings their axe; demeaning, without empathy or sympathy. It sends a chill down Merlin’s spine, but he remains resolute. The Sídhe come to a decision, and they face Merlin once again.

Sídhe 1: Are you sure you are willing to pay any price, Emrys? 

Merlin: Any price—my life is yours, do with me what you will.

Arthur: (wants to scream, but barely manages a whisper) No… No…

Sídhe 2: That’s a dangerous thing to offer. (Pauses) This is not simply an act of self sacrifice. Saving your king won't grant you the Golden Age you seek. You are not just putting yourself at our mercy, you are twisting fate. Should the Once and Future King die today, there may yet be an age of magic. But if he is to survive, then your gamble with fate could have dire consequences. The magic of your people may never run free in this land again.

Merlin: (Shouting) Then damn the bloody Golden Age! Any of that means anything without him!

Sidhe 1: You condemn yourself and your kin for one man, oh mighty Emrys. (The last part is said almost mockingly.)

Merlin: (Begs, crying) Please! Take anything, anything, just…please… He must live.

Sidhe 2: Very well, then. We’ll heal your king.

The two hooded figures from before approach the edge of the clearing silently, and the carvings in the stones surrounding it begin to glow a soft, eerie blue. The glowing motes take on a silvery hue. The hooded figures begin lighting large braziers along the clearing’s edge, and the Sídhe begin chanting in low voices. Merlin kneels beside Arthur again, gently pulling his head into his lap. Arthur looks distraught, and he manages to lift his hand to grab onto Merlin’s sleeve.

Merlin: If I somehow can’t come back from this, Arthur...

Arthur: Merlin. Merlin, don’t do this, please— 

Merlin: (with a smile, whispers) I love you. 

There’s a bright flash; and then, nothing.

...

When Arthur wakes up, he’s alone. The Sídhe, the stretcher, the flames in the braziers are all gone—it’s like they were never there in the first place. All that’s left is a young sapling just beside him, in the very center of the now abandoned clearing. He sits up. The pain is gone, his head is clear. His heart beats strong in his chest, and his breaths no longer shudder and shake in his lungs. Arthur looks around. Merlin’s scarf is tied loosely around the nearby sapling, which Arthur barely looks at as he unties the frayed red fabric and grips it tightly in his gloved hands. 

Arthur: Merlin! (raises his voice further) MERLIN!

There is no answer. Arthur staggers to his feet and stumbles away from the sapling, lifting his hands to cup them around his mouth.

Arthur: (shouting) Where is he? I know you can hear me! Bring him back!

Yet again, there is no answer. He turns, looking around wildly, before he screams Merlin’s name again. It’s a raw, agonized sound that rips itself from his lungs and tears through his throat, echoing through the shrubbery and the trees and the water of the lake. Birds take off from the nearby trees, letting out panicked calls of their own after being so thoroughly disturbed from their peaceful rest. The water begins to ripple, unnoticed to Arthur.

Freya: Arthur.

Freya’s voice is nothing more than a gentle call, barely above a regular speaking volume, and yet it somehow draws Arthur’s attention. He turns slowly to face the lake, where a woman is rising slowly from the water. Arthur stumbles down the steep, rocky hill that leads to the shore, completely forgoing the path in order to get to the water quickly. He doesn’t know who she is, but his heart is so full of anger and despair and utter agony that he assumes she had something to do with what happened. As he gets closer, he notices that her form is somewhat translucent. She does not step out of the water. 

Arthur: (in a demanding tone) Where is he? What did you do with him? (His voice shakes with rage) I didn’t ask to be healed! I should have died, just—reverse it! Bring him back. My fate was not meant to be his.

Freya: I am not your enemy, Arthur Pendragon. (chidingly) I only wish to help. 

Arthur: (spreading his arms out) Then where is he?!

Freya: The Sídhe didn’t take his life. They couldn’t, even if they wanted to.

Her gaze trails past Arthur. He turns to see what she is looking at; the young tree in the clearing. There’s a flicker of something like grief in her gaze, a stirring of emotion that disturbs her otherwise neutral expression.

Freya: He is still here. But he has been changed into something else. (Her tone is mournful, nearly matching the pain that Arthur himself speaks with.) I’m not sure it’s any better than death.

Arthur: (stunned into silence for a long moment. Then, he speaks) … a tree? (Incredulous, almost laughing in disbelief) They turned Merlin into a tree? A—A plant?

Freya: The Sídhe claim that Merlin was so blinded by his loyalty to you, that he’s lost sight of his purpose. They say his sins outweigh any good he might have done. (grits her teeth, and her anger shows for a moment.) In this form, he cannot do right nor wrong. He just is.

Arthur: So they took away his will. (turns to Freya. If he could look any angrier, feel any more rage at this injustice, then he would.) You can turn him back, right? Right?

Freya: (shakes her head sadly.) It’s not within my ability. I’m sorry.

There’s a long stretch of silence between them again. A couple tears stream down Arthur’s face, hitting the gravel beneath his feet.

Freya: (tentatively) His roots will ensure magic returns to the lands of Albion, as it was always meant to. 

Arthur: (sharp) Is that supposed to be reassuring? (grits his teeth, before forcing himself to speak a little softer.) It’s a cruel joke, that’s what it is.

Freya: The sapling is young yet. You’d be able to move him somewhere else, if this is your wish, king of Albion.

Arthur stares past Freya for a moment, not entirely focused on anything. The waters reflect the dull gray sky, which is clouded with the threat of rain. It’s more than fitting. What right does the sun have to shine, when Merlin is gone? He drops his gaze down to the scarf clutched in his hands. No, he isn’t going to accept that. There has to be something, someone that can reverse this. Arthur will do everything in his power to bring Merlin back. He tucks the scarf somewhere safe for the time being, close to his chest, then turns back to Freya.

Arthur: Can you help me move him, then? I won’t leave him here. (spits that last word with venom.)

Freya: (Inclining her head) Of course.

Freya holds her hands out over the muddy banks with a focused expression. Slowly but surely, the water held within the soil begins to shift and move, dragging the damp clay from the earth upwards until it takes the rough shape of a large pot. Arthur watches as she pulls the water from the object, until it is completely solid.

Freya: This should suffice for now. (She gestures for Arthur to take it) 

Arthur: (His voice a little terse) Thank you. 

He’s still angry. But this is only temporary, he reminds himself. Merlin will be back to normal again, and he won’t need to be stuck in a pot for long. Arthur picks the container up, barely giving Freya another glance as he strides towards the path. He realises just that moment that he never asked the woman who she was or why she cared so much about Merlin, about them. Not that it matters anymore. He can still see footsteps in the damp earth where Merlin’s feet had tread not too many hours ago, and he takes great care to not step over them. Eventually he returns to the clearing, where the sapling sits at the very center, surrounded by worn earth and stone obelisks. He stops in front of what was once Merlin and gazes upon it for a moment, taking in the sight of it. The bark is a deep and rich brown, almost black in color like Merlin’s hair. Soft glowing blue leylines shoot through the thin trunk and into the branches, pulsing slowly like a heartbeat. The deep green leaves glitter in the dim light, reflecting shades of silver against the glossy lamina. The king extends a hand but retracts it again to take off his gloves with hard movements, needing to feel. Arthur’s fingers tremble softly before he reaches for one of the leaves, gently tilting it up with his fingers as carefully as he can. It's smooth and cold.

Arthur: Merlin… (He takes in a shaky breath, slowly pulling his fingers away from the leaves.) I promise you, I’ll find a way to fix this. All of it. You bloody idiot, getting yourself turned into a tree. (He chokes out a teary laugh.) Gods. What will I do without you? (Thinking) I wasn’t ready to lose you, Merlin.

He kneels down beside the sapling and traces his fingers along the bark to the ground where the roots barely peek through the soil. Arthur hesitates. The last thing he wants to do is somehow damage the sapling and hurt Merlin. Gardening isn’t exactly something he learned about while studying as a boy. In fact, all he’s done is the opposite, hacking and slicing through the underbrush whenever it got in his way, practicing his swordsmanship against whatever random sturdy tree he could find. Arthur chews on his lower lip, then turns to face the lake where Freya is still waiting.

Freya: (raises her voice so Arthur can hear her) His roots are strong. You won't hurt him.

Arthur: (thinking) Haven’t I already?

Not only had Merlin been transformed into a tree so that Arthur could live, but Arthur had spent much of the last few days they’d spent together reproaching him for his lies. He had treated him poorly, spoke to him bitterly and coldly, and all the while Merlin was doing everything he could to save his life. He never had a chance to tell him how grateful he was for the things he’d done, for being there when he needed it. He never—

No, Merlin is not dead. Merlin is right there. 

Arthur: (raises his voice) Can he hear me? (He asks, feeling stupid but needing to know anyway.)

Freya: Plants may not have ears, but they listen. Every living thing speaks its own language and comprehends its surroundings in its way. He may not understand what you say in words, but he’ll understand the meaning and intention.

Arthur nods. It brings him a small amount of relief, at least. And something in that explanation reminded him of Merlin’s explanation, about the Disir’s clearing, about the sacred place.

Freya: When you finally depart, I’ll guide your vessel safely to the other side. May the gods be with you, Arthur Pendragon. (Disappears) 

Silence stretches out for a long moment, while Arthur gazes down at the sapling. He once again brushes his fingers through the loose soil with shaking, shuddering breath. There’s a drop of something that hits the soil, and then another, and another; and he realizes, as he takes another hitching breath, that he’s crying. He reaches up to gently brush his fingers—still caked with damp soil—along his tear streaked face. Marveling, if only briefly, at how his fingers glisten once he pulls his hand away. That wretched pain that had been twisting so violently in his chest had finally clawed its way out in the form of silent tears that Arthur had no intention of wiping away. He will cry; he will mourn, even; and he will fix it. This won’t last forever.

With no shovel, Arthur digs with his bare hands, raking them through the soil over and over again until they begin to bleed. His tears and blood mingle with the soil that clings to Merlin’s roots, and as he carefully transfers him into the clumsily made pot, he’s careful to not let it stain Merlin’s bark or his leaves. It takes him a while to complete the wretched task, as he spends so much time trying to do it as carefully as possible, and by the time Merlin is safely settled into the pot Arthur has no more tears left to cry. And then, with his bloodied hands stinging painfully, he lifts up the pot carefully into his arms, holding it close to his chest as he walks slowly back to the boat, which waits patiently at the shore for its passengers. 

Arthur nestles the pot into the boat first before he climbs in, kicking off the shore to send the boat drifting into the water. The lake ripples faintly, an unusual current slowly forming that directs the boat along at a steady pace. The oars rest at the bottom of the boat, unused, and Arthur is allowed a moment of rest.

Once the boat hits the shore, Arthur takes a moment to add a little bit of water to Merlin’s soil before hefting him back up into his arms and heading for the trail nearby. If he’s lucky, there might be someone with a cart that could make the trip shorter. He walks without stopping, until he reaches the outer gates.

Despite it being midday, the drawbridge is up and it’s more than obvious the citadel has taken on defensive measures. Guards are stationed above the bridge, and as he comes to a stop one of the guards leans out.

Guard 1: State your b—My lord?!

Three other guards poke their heads out to gawk at Arthur in shock. Words are exchanged between all four, before one of the guards leaves, presumably to inform the court and the queen. The other three set about lowering the drawbridge and raising the portcullis to allow Arthur entry. 

...

The first to greet him is Sir Leon, in the courtyard. There’s a small procession around Arthur, giving him a wide-enough berth but still crowded close enough that the king is mildly overwhelmed. Camelot’s citizens swarm the king, chattering amongst themselves and asking Arthur where he’s been. He tunes their voices out mindlessly, without the energy to tell them to leave him alone; so when Leon’s voice rings out, it’s a major relief. 

Leon: Step away from the king!

The knight descends the stairs quickly, his red cape sweeping along as he lifts his arm and guides Arthur away from the crowd of nobles and servants alike. With one hand firmly on Arthur’s shoulder, Leon ushers him up the stairs and into the Citadel, instructing two other knights to clear out the courtyard along the way.

Leon: Clear the courtyard. 

Knight 1: (Wide-eyed, trying not to stare at Arthur) Yes, sir. (Hurries off.)

Knight 2: (Also trying not to stare; speaks at the same time as Innprudence) Yes, sir! (Leaves)

Arthur: (Hoarsely) Thank you, Leon.

Leon: Of course, my lord. (He pauses for a moment; then he speaks again, as a friend rather than a knight.) It’s good to see you again. We all thought… 

Leon trails off, but his meaning is clear. Everyone believed Arthur to be dead. Once inside, Leon continues to lead Arthur to the council room, where Guinevere, Percival, and Gaius are waiting. Guinevere stands at the head of the table, rather than sitting upon the throne. The surface is littered with various documents and maps, small figures representing the forces of both Camelot and other kingdoms spread out strategically. The rest of the chairs look as though they’d been filled, only for their occupants to quickly leave—the council, most likely dismissed once news of Arthur’s return reached them. Gaius is seated at the table still, and Percival stands just behind Guinevere. The doors close behind them, allowing the group some privacy.

Gwen: Oh, Arthur! (rushes forward, presumably to try and hug Arthur, but the pot is in the way)

Arthur: (Continuing to hold the pot) Guinevere… (After a moment, he moves to hold the pot with one arm, and wraps his other arm around her. He presses a kiss to the top of her head with a distant expression.)

Gwen: When you and Merlin didn’t return, we thought you had—we thought— (stops, looking at Leon and then Arthur, realising that someone is missing) … where’s Merlin?

Arthur: (silently gestures to the pot. He pulls away from Gwen and finally, reluctantly, sets the pot carefully on the ground.) He’s right here.

A heavy silence settles over the room. Nobody quite knows what to say. Nobody wants to ask what happened, because they’re afraid of the answer. Perhaps, Arthur thinks, a few of them are in disbelief, and believe Arthur has gone mad. Finally, a steady and aged voice asks what everyone else is far too afraid to.

Gaius: (Speaking very carefully.) My lord… What happened? 

Gwen: Wait! Sit (guides Arthur to a chair gently) You must've walked a long way.

Arthur: (Silent for a long moment, before he speaks.) The blade Mordred fought me with, to my understanding, was meant to kill me even if he hadn’t struck a mortal blow. (His hand drifts upward, still covered in bloodied scrapes as he points to where his heart still beats.) A piece of the iron was dislodged, and traveled to my heart.

Gwen: (sits next to him) Gaius commented us something. That he had to bring you somewhere where you might be saved. 

Arthur: Magic was needed for me to be saved. But even Merlin’s magic was unable to heal me. So…

Arthur’s voice tightens and fades as soon as he mentions the word ‘magic.’ It’s still a fresh wound, to know Merlin had hidden sorcery from him for all these years, the very thing he’d been raised to hate with every fiber of his being. And while the way he’d spoken to Merlin in their last days together will forever be one of his biggest regrets, and while he’d tried to make his peace with it before he died, it still comes with emotions that twist and writhe and scratch inside of him, just like the piece of iron that was meant to kill him. In some ways, he can still feel that hatred burning towards magic, the flames of loathing fueled by what the Sídhe had done, because it is magic that turned Merlin into this. It is because Merlin is magic that they’d taken him from Arthur.

But to know Merlin is magic, that stifles his hatred. How can he hate magic, if Merlin is magic? Suffice to say, Arthur still has a lot of complicated thoughts and emotions to work through. But this isn't the moment to dwell on them.

Leon: (surprised, almost shouting) Merlin has magic?!

Percival: (opens his eyes wide as only reaction since he is too deep in grief for Gwaine too to react farther)

Right... Maybe it wasn't the moment to disclose Merlin's big secret like that either.

Gwen: (firmly to Leon and Percival) We'll discuss that later. (holds Arthur's hand) Continue.

In another moment, Gwen's lack of surpise for the news would've caught his attention. But, just as his complicated feelings toward magic, Arthur decides to ignore it for the time being.

Arthur: (slowly) So… Merlin brought me to the Sídhe.

Gwen: The Sídhe?

Gaius: (Looking at the tree with something desperate in his eyes) The fair folk. Fairies, pixies, beings from the Otherworld—Annwn, or Avalon. They are beings of magic that not even Uther could try and hope to kill, not through mortal means. (He pauses a moment, lacing his fingers together slowly.) When King Uther banned magic, he also called for the destruction of any texts relating to the Sídhe. Though perhaps some of you might remember tales of Annwn from your childhoods.

Arthur: They asked for a price… (he says through gritted teeth and his eyes land on the sapling again) and Merlin paid it.

Everyone eyes are on the sapling now. There's confusion and then an horrible realization. Gwen gasps and covers her mouth, her eyes watering. Leon pales so much it's almost funny. Percival, that seemed hardly responsive before, opens his eyes wider and mouths a "No...", in a denial that would break anyone.  It's clear for Arthur that they expected their king to announce his friend's death, not this. Everyone but Gaius. Arthur can see in his eyes the physician already suspected, but it doesn't make him look less devasted.

Gwen: Why? Why would they…?

Arthur: They wanted to punish him. Something about him doing more wrongs than rights with his power, I don't know. (Thinking) And honestly I don't care. Who are they to decide? What right do they have?

Gaius: Rather Merlin wronged them. They’ve meddled in Camelot’s affairs twice before. Lady Sofia and Lord Aulfric. Princess Elena. Merlin stopped them every time.

Arthur: (Thinking bitterly) And nobody thought to tell me any of this until now? (Says) So it was personal?

Gaius: I wouldn't be able to tell.

Arthur: (about to lash out) You knew that and you thought going for them for help was the best idea?!

Gaius: (scared and hurt by the acussation) I…

Gwen:  (scolds) Arthur! I know you're hurt. We are all hurting. But don’t You dare blame Gaius for this. Don't You dare!

Arthur: (composes himself) You’re right. My apologies, Gaius. You are not at fault, lets focus in what we can do to get him back to normal.

Gaius: It's alright, Sire. (His voice is quiet, and wavering with grief. Still, ever the logical and stoic adviser, he tries to remain as collected and professional as he can.) Sidhe magic is as old as the dragons, Sire. There may not be… it may be difficult to reverse this. (Lowering his voice) Especially after what Merlin did to their kin

Leon: (Looking at his king and friend, at the tree that once was Merlin and then at Gaius) If this kind of magic is similar to the dragons, maybe the dragons can heal him?

Gwen: (raising her eyes from Merlin, something similar to hope in them) Of course! Morgana (she stops, hurt by the memory of her long lost friend) She had a dragon that Merlin managed to control, during the battle. Maybe that dragon can heal Merlin, no?

Gaius: (sighs, looking tired) Aithusa, that’s the name of the dragon, is too young to be that powerful. And Kilgharrah… Well, I don’t know if this was what he thought would happen.

Aithusa? Arthur stops, looking troubled. Does the dragon have a name? And Kilgharrah… it has to be the other dragon, the one that Arthur had killed. Well, the one he thought he killed until Merlin summoned it to get them to the lake.

Arthur tries not to think in how many of his sucesses were fake or actually Merlin’s. Merlin and his belief that Arthur was a good king. The reason why the Sidhes punished him.

Arthur: (compelled to ask, just to make sure) Who are Aithusa and Kilgharrah?

So Gaius explains. It's a long story and Arthur has to stop himself from interrupting him every five seconds. How could Merlin have been so foolish to set the Great Dragon free?! Merlin could control the dragon because he was the last Dragonlord? Why Merlin didn't tell him Balinor was his father?! He wouldn’t have blame him for being his son! Let alone say something so insensitive like “no man is worth your tears” if he had known.

There's so many things he should have known…

Gaius:  Merlin wanted to tell you, Arthur (puts a comforting hand on his shoulder) So many times. But I always advised him not to and then he was so scared you wouldn't forgive him for the things he's done. That you would push him way.

Arthur: Push him away (gives a watery laugh) Not execute him, not arrest him, he was just afraid I’ll… push him away.

Gaius: He always knew you weren’t your father, but he always value your friendship more than anything. He didn't want to lose it.

Merlin… Merlin never thought he would kill him.

“You were going to kill me.”

“I should've”

“...I'm glad you didn't.”

And then he told him he would.

He swallows his guilt. There's no time for it. Not now. Now he needs answers.

Gaius keeps on his story. And finally Arthur understands why Merlin was so devoted and had so much faith in him almost from the begining. 

The dragon had manipulated Merlin since he first arrived at Camelot. With promises of a Golden Age. Telling him they share some destiny.

He filled Merlin’s mind with lies.

Arthur: (hurt) So that's why he stayed. That's why he was so loyal to me. Just because of some prophecy.

Gwen: Arthur… (caresses his arm)

Gaius: Maybe at the beginning, but he soon stopped carrying about the prophesy. He stayed for you, because he believed in you and not because of what some dragon said.

Arthur: How can you be so sure?

Gaius: You asked his opinion once. When Mordred's life was at stake. You asked him if you should bring magic back to Camelot.

Arthur: And he told me no to.

He remembers it well. “There's no place for magic in Camelot” Merlin had said.

Gaius: It was foretold Mordred would kill you. So he took the chance of getting rid of him before achieving his “destiny”.

Arthur: But he didn't die in the end… (thinking) and Mordred did try to kill me. Merlin's sacrifice was for nothing.

Gaius: Over and over Merlin chosed you over his so called destiny, so please don't think his believe in you was due to some prophecy, because it was anything but.

“Then damn the bloody Golden Age. Any of that means nothing without him!”

“You condemn yourself and your kin for one man, oh mighty Emrys.”

Merlin always put him first.

Still, Arthur feels anger. Not towards Merlin and his lies. No, this time his full anger was towards Kilgharrah, who used Merlin’s fear and hope against him, making him a puppet in his hands.

Leon: If the Great Dragon helped Merlin before, he surely can help him now, right?

Gaius: (shaking his head) It doesn’t matter. There is no way to revert this kind of magic. Not by us, not by Kilgharrah,

Arthur: (Vehemently) I will find a way. And I’ll start with that bloody lizard if I have to. 

The rest of the day feels like a blur. Arthur knows he insisted on keeping Merlin's “condition” a secret between the people present, not wanting the news of the most powerful sorcerer to ever walk the earth being turned into a tree to spread more fear towards magic between his citizens. He wouldn't risk it, after all Merlin did for him and Camelot. So the offical version for everyone else is that Merlin died in battle like a hero. He also recalls giving orders for both dragons to be found and giving a public speech to his people to let them know the threat was handled, that their king was safe and sound and hinted some changes will be made for the greater good of the kingdom.

But as he does everything, he is bleak, empty, not really there. Like a dead man walking.

He only finds himself regaining some kind of emotion when he is back in his quarters and his eyes spot the sapling beside his bed.

Arthur manages to smile. Merlin is alive, he reminds himself. Merlin is still there with him and Arthur will fix him in no time. The King kneels before his tree and touches his trunk gently. 

Arthur: Everything you've done. I know now. For me, for Camelot. For the kingdom you helped me build… (his voice breaks) Thank you. And I’m sorry for all you had to go through. I’ll make things right this time, you’ll see. I’m going to need help in revising the laws on magic, so I’ll make you my court sorcerer as soon as you are back to normal and you’ll have to wear those extravagant robes you hate so much. What? You thought you were going to have days off after this? You can dream of it! (Laughs but he soons turns sad)

Gwen: (who entered seconds before, her heart aching as she watches Arthur talking with the sapling) Arthur… You need to rest. You must be tired.

Arthur: (eyes not leaving Merlin) I don't think I can sleep tonight.

Gwen: I understand. (Approaches, hugging Arthur from behind) I can only imagine what you've been through. (Looks at Merlin) Is it really okay? For him to be here?

Arthur: (turns to her) What do you mean?

Gwen:  Well, Gaius and Merlin are family. The closest he had to a father figure. I thought Gaius would want Merlin with him.

Arthur: (a bit sharply) He said it was fine.

Gwen: (carefully) We must tell Hunith too. She… she deserves to know.

Arthur: (nods) I’ll send an escort of knights for her.

Gwen: (smiles) Come to bed with me.

Arthur complies and goes. They both dress themselves in their night clothes and lay snuggling together.

Gwen: I’m so glad you are alive.

Arthur wishes he could say the same.

Chapter Text

Time passes, yet, for Arthur, the world remains suspended in a state of sameness. He is not blind to the golden age his leadership has brought upon Camelot; he knows the prosperity is his doing. He feels the weight of his people's gazes, their faith and admiration a mantle upon his shoulders. But the truth is a cold stone in his gut—Arthur doesn’t feel like a king. He hasn't from that day, when he lost everything.

He repealed the ban on magic, of course, as he should have done years before Merlin's final, courageous stand at Camlann. He made certain that everyone in the kingdom knew the name of the sorcerer who had saved them all, weaving the tales of Merlin's secret deeds—learned from a grieving Gaius—into the very fabric of Camelot's history. An annual feast was declared, a towering statue erected in his honor. Slowly but surely, magic returned to the land, and Camelot blossomed into the most prosperous kingdom in Albion.

And yet, the victory feels hollow. It’s never enough. It would never be enough.

Arthur: (runs his sword through a Saxon warrior)

Saxon warrior: (crumples, gurgling blood)

Arthur: (braces a foot against the body, pulling his blade free with a sickening scrape, and whispers) Fifty five.

Another battle, another day. There is always a reason to fight. He tells his knights and his council that he fights for Albion, for what was his dream. The truth is his dream has changed long ago and it had nothing to do with uniting a land.

The King of Camelot walks to the heart of his royal gardens, to the tree that is both his comfort and his grief, before his next battle. This isn't new. He always visits it. But it will be the last time he does it. 

Arthur: (caressing the bark of the tree with a hand) It's finally time. I'm sorry it took so long. (sighs) And I'm sorry I have to do this.

He knows he's being selfish. Camelot is better than ever, his people are happy and yet he's going to another war, risking this era of peace. A war he knows he won't come back from this time. But it's necessary.

Gwen: (arrives, her voice, soft as velvet but firm as steel) Arthur...

Arthur: (doesn’t turn) I won't change my mind, Guinevere.

Gwen: I know. I didn't come to change it. I just want to understand. (steps forward, her gaze moving from her husband to the magical tree and back) Arthur, why? The price is too high and the chance it might work is too slim. And even if it does work, you are risking that everything you know, everything you built will never happen. And you know that, even if it does work, the world you save may never know the one you built. It could unravel all of this.

Arthur: It's a risk I'm willing to take. I can prevent so many things from happening, not only Merlin's fate, but Elyan's, Lancelot's, Gwaine's—

Gwen: Don't pretend you're not doing this just for him, Arthur, I'm not a fool.

Arthur: ...

Gwen: He wouldn't want you to do this. And you know it.

Arthur: (Feeling hurt by the reminder of what Merlin did want, but didn’t mind to ask) Yeah, well, he didn't care about what I wanted when he made that stupid deal.

Ten years has passed, a decade, but the pain is still there, a cruel reminder of what Arthur lost.

Merlin now stands in the royal gardens as a majestic tree and he is Camelot's most valued national treasure due to its magical properties: its fruits can cure the most grievous wounds or deliver the most lethal poison, and its wood is the finest in all the lands. Once, before a pivotal battle, it shed its branches for its king; the weapons forged from them remain as sharp and unyielding as the day they were made. Though Arthur did his part, he knows Camelot would never have obtained the title of the greatest, richest and most prosperous kingdom in Albion if it weren't for his Merlin.

Even as a tree, Merlin is always there to aid him.

However, not everything was sunshine and rainbows. Like every treasure it was also coveted by everyone who wanted to use it for their own selfish purposes. Kingdoms envious of his power sent spies to try to steal its fruits, its branches, even to cut it down and leave Camelot defenseless. Others launched full-scale invasions, desperate to possess the magical tree. Yet Camelot's army, the strongest in all the Five Kingdoms, repelled them all, until eventually, the attempts ceased.

There was one time, however, they came too close.

Arthur still remembers that day as if it were yesterday. The day he found a stranger with an ax buried deep in Merlin's trunk.

A fury like he had never known before consumed him. He nearly beat the man to death, his knights only just pulling him back from delivering the final blow. He remembers lashing out, screaming like a madman. They told him later that he had cried out Merlin’s name, that he had called the tree by his name. It was Gaius who later spread the story that The great sorcerer's remains were buried beneath the roots, a necessary lie to protect the king's most painful secret.

Arthur remembers wrenching the ax from the tree's trunk with a vicious, desperate strength. The blade left a horrific large gouge in the wood, and Arthur looked at it as if it were a wound to his own body. He whirled on the man—the spy, the transgressor—and it took every ounce of his will not to revert to the bloody pulp he had almost made of him moments before. He would learn later that even his closest knights, Leon and Percival, had flinched back from the feral rage contorting his face.

Arthur: Anyone who so much as touches this tree pays for their transgression with their head.

He was still livid after that, but he let Gwen oversee the man's trial, knowing his own judgment was still poisoned by a need for vengeance. The sentence was beheading—the mandated punishment for an act of treason against the Crown's most sacred treasure. The foreign king, to avert a war, was forced into a humiliating public apology and substantial reparations. And Arthur ensured the axe that had bitten into Merlin's bark was the very tool that delivered the spy's sentence.

Only when it was done, and he was alone in the moonlight, did the fury shatter into something else. He sank to his knees before the tree, his fingers gently tracing the cruel wound. The king broke, weeping because he had almost lost Merlin all over again.

Arthur: (between ragged sobs, his forehead pressed against the wounded trunk) I'm sorry…I'm so sorry.

He apologized over and over and cried until exhaustion claimed him, falling into a fitful sleep curled at the roots.

It was then when it hit him. One day he would die and there won't be anyone to protect Merlin from greedy people who will only use his power for their own gains. Merlin would be at his new owner's mercy and the one after that, and the one after that, forever without being able to do anything about it. The mere thought made Arthur sick to his stomach.

No, he won't allow that to happen.

Arthur: So the spell is within your power?

Druid: In theory, Your Majesty, but only with the proper components. However, they are… exceptionally rare. A blade stained with the lifeblood of three hundred men, and three dragon scales... such things are not easily found, if not impossible.

Arthur leans forward on his throne, the movement slow and deliberate. His eyes, however, hold a wild, fervent light—a look that sent a familiar chill down the spines of the druid delegation. It was the same terrifying zeal that once burned in Uther Pendragon's gaze as he hunted their kin.

Arthur: The materials are my concern, not yours. You simply need to be ready. Ensure the ritual does not fail when the time comes

And the time has come.

Gwen: (with teary eyes) Aren't we happy? Did I fail at making you feel safe and happy, Arthur?

Arthur: (pleads, his voice thick) Don't. Don’t say that. You have always made me happy. You know it, you have to know it. (His gaze searches hers, desperate and guilty.) You know it, right?

Gwen: (laughs weakly, without answering his question) But he made you happier, didn't he?

Arthur: ...

Gwen: You never told me. (pauses, looking away for a moment, before looking back at him) Which were Merlin's last words. 

There is something in her eyes that tells Arthur that she already knows. He answers the same, he owes her that, at least.

Arthur: I love you…(pauses, smiling to himself) he said I love you.

Gwen: Oh... (her expression softens and smiles) I get it now. Alright, I'll help you. (reaches for his hand) Just promise me something.

Arthur: Anything.

Gwen: Don't feel bad if you can't prevent other people from dying. In fact, you don't have to do it. Just save Merlin.

Arthur: But-

Gwen: No, you have done so much for this kingdom and sacrificed so much. (cradling his face) You owe us nothing and you owe me nothing, alright? Just be happy, on your second chance.

Arthur pulls her into a fierce embrace, giving her a last kiss—a goodbye kiss, both to apologise and to thank her for being able to understand.

Then, he rises.

Arthur: (sighing, looking at the window) It’s time for me to go, Guinevere.

Gwen: (A faint, sorrowful smile on her face) You must be glad Gaius isn't here to lecture you on how stupid this plan is.

Arthur: (laughs despite himself) Yes, he would have used that eyebrow.

The battlefield is, once again, a place of death and pain. Arthur knows that every hit he strikes is a life ending, but, at that moment, he the only thing he is thinking about is blue eyes, unruly black hair, and a smile he has not seen in ten long years. It is for that smile that he is fighting; it is for that smile he will stain his soul.

Knight 1: (recognises a body lying on the ground, his voice cracking as he calls out to his comrades) The King is dead. We must inform the Queen.

Still on the battlefield, while all the others prepare themselves to go back home, Percival and Leon stand beside Arthur.

Leon: (His voice low and steady, a hand on Percival's shoulder) He had a plan, Percival. We have to see it through. We need to help him now

Percival: (Swallows hard and gives a slow, pained nod) I know. I just… I feel… (shakes his head, trying to understand what happened) We lost him, too. I didn't want to lose anyone else.

Leon: (gaze drifting towards the distant towers of Camelot) Perhaps in the future he's trying to reach, we won't have to.

Together, they lift Arthur's body—neither could bring themselves to think the word corpse—and carry him to the queen.

Gwen; (meets them, her composure a mask of steel, and, with a gentle hand, she closes Arthur's eyes) His sword?

Leon: (offers the blood-stained blade to her, hilt first) Here, my Queen.

Gwen: (Gives another look at her husband's face, finding it almost relaxed, for the very first time in ten years) Then we must hurry. Or his sacrifice will be for nothing.

They go back to Camelot, where the preparation for the queen’s special orders already started: a great hole beside the tree of Camelot, the king’s jewel.

Knight 1: My queen, we… (gives a worried look at Gwen) It isn’t done.

Gwen: As like it wasn’t done for a king to marry a servant, and yet Arthur did with me, choosing to follow his heart instead of a political marriage. As it wasn’t done for a king to name common people as knights, and Arthur did, making the very first Round Table and the finest men of all the kingdoms, choosing to follow his heart instead of his rules, previous laws. (pauses, her gaze sweeping over the assembled knights and nobles, her eyes finally settling on the majestic tree) And, now, Arthur would prefer to rest in the ground where an old friend lies, following once again his heart.

Her words hang in the air, leaving no room for argument. She looks around, her expression resolute.

Gwen: This day starts a new day. Your King fought valiantly to give us a future. And we will give him some peace in his death. 

No one can refuse her reasoning. And so, the King is buried in the quiet earth, right next to the tree that has once been his servant, his conscience, and his closest friend. As the last shovelful of earth is placed, the great tree's leaves seem to curl, its vibrant life fading to a withered grey.

Leon: (walking closely to Gwen, observing where Arthur now rests) Arthur would have really wanted to rest next to him

Gwen: I know. (pauses, taking a deep breath) But he won't be lying here for long. We will give him a new start. We owe him that much.

Leon: (nods) He deserves that peace, yes. Most than anyone. (laughs a little) Although… he won’t find peace with Merlin, he’s too chaotic for that.

Gwen: (chuckling) I can’t believe that he managed to keep his magic a secret for all those years. Once (a smile spreads all over Gwen’s face) Once he asked me to help him to take a statue, one of the dogs that is still missing (points towards the internal court) inside the castle. I did it without any hesitation and even now I have no idea of what he wanted to do with that, or what end that statue met.

Leon: (laughs) That's precisely why we loved him. He was never just a servant. Merlin was... Merlin (with a more serious tone, his gaze returning to the fresh grave) If it weren’t to save him, I would never have agreed to help Arthur with this plan.

Gwen: If it wasn’t to save Merlin, Arthur would have never thought about this plan at all.

No even for me, is what goes unsaid. And no one could argue with that truth.

The night after the funeral, she secretly brings the druids her husband consorted for years to the royal garden for the ritual to be made. 

Before the tree, as was planned, is the Ancient Round Table of the Ancient Kings.

Druid1: A sword, quenched in the lifeblood of three hundred men.

Gwen: (steps forward, placing Excalibur upon the ancient table. The blade, still stained)

Druid2: Three dragon scales.

Percival: (his face a mask of grim determination, carefully lays the iridescent scales beside the sword)

Druid3: And the corp—(cuts himself, glancing at the queen). And the King. We have all that was asked.

Leon: Will this truly work?

Druid1: This ritual has succeeded but once since the age of the Ancient Kings, and only by the combined might of three of the most powerful sorcerers of that time. We are not that powerful.

Druid2: But we have a source of power they did not. (points to the tree). The very heart of magic itself stands with us. It might be enough.

And as one, they begin. The ritual starts not with a shout, but with a low, resonant hum that seems to emanate from the table, the tree, and the earth itself.

Druids: Fyrst bestepe baec. Ferian baec ealde cyning. Ferian baec ealde burh. Efencume ond áwendednes ure fyrst.

The ground trembles, not in a shake, but in a deep, groaning heave. Above, the sky tears open with silent, searing lightning that casts no thunder, only stark, terrifying shadows. The knights instinctively close ranks, their armor scraping as they form a protective shield around their Queen.

Then comes the light—a blinding, all-consuming whiteness that swallows the world, the garden, and the very sound of their screams of fear.

And then… absolute darkness.

…

The ground is soft. Comfortable. That is his first, disjointed thought. It is nothing like the cold, churned mud and blood of the battlefield where he fell. The metallic stench of blood is gone. There are no screams, nor sounds of clashing steel.

Arthur’s eyes fly open. He is staring at the familiar, carved wooden canopy of his old bed. His prince’s bed. He sits up so quickly his head spun, his gaze frantically sweeping the room. There is his old desk, scattered with half-written scrolls. His dining table, wiped clean. His bookshelf, every volume in its place. And leaning against the bedside, the simple sword he kept for protection in his younger years, as if he had never left.

A disbelieving laugh bursts from his lips—a short, wild, almost manic sound that echoes in the quiet room. It worked! His plan, the one everyone that knew his intentions suggested otherwise, had worked. He has done it! Finally, finally!

He scrambles from the bed, his heart hammering against his ribs, and stumbles to the polished metal mirror on the wall. He braces himself, not knowing what to expect. Has the ritual sent him back to his childhood? If he has to endure it all again, every lesson and loneliness, just to meet Merlin another time it is a prize he is ready to pay. He waited 10 years, what's a couple more? But it seems his fears were useless: he is back in his twenties it seems, by his adult stature and the lack of wrinkles and grey hair he gained in the middle of his thirties. Which means—

Arthur: Merlin? (raises his voice, overcome with emotion) Merlin!

He is already moving, ready to throw the doors open and tear through the castle until he finds that familiar, lanky figure. But a sound stops him dead—a sharp, formal knock on the door.

His brow furrows in confusion. Merlin never knocks.

Arthur: (voice tight, the hope already curdling into dread) Come in

The door opens and Arthur can’t hide the desilusion and disappointment even if he wanted to. There in front of him is one of the many forgettable servants he had before Merlin, carrying a tray with abundant food.

Morris: (startled, but visibly relieved he doesn't have to rouse the prince, bows) Your breakfast, Sire.

Arthur should have known. The room is spotless, the scrolls neatly stacked, the air still and orderly. It is all wrong. It is far too clean. Merlin isn't his servant yet.

Morris: Sire?

Arthur: Just leave it there (points the table listlessly)

As the servant does as he’s told, Arthur forces the disappointment down. He was here. He was young. And, more importantly, he is in his twenties, he's sure of it. So Merlin has to be close.

Arthur: (his voice carefully neutral) Your name. What is it?

Morris: (bowing again, perplexed) Morris, my lord.

Arthur: Morris… (thinking) It does sound familiar. (says) Can you tell me how old I am?

Morris: (confused, but still answers) You are twenty, my lord.

Arthur: Are you certain?

Morris: Yes, Sire. We celebrated your twentieth spring two months ago.

Yes! He remembers now! That's how old he was when he met Merlin! And Morris… Morris was the servant he was bullying when Merlin confronted him that day! Merlin is close. Maybe he is already there!

Morris: Do you need anything else from me, Sire?

Arthur: No, that would be all. You are dismissed.

Morris: (bows and leaves)

The moment the door clicks shut, Arthur crosses to the window, leaning heavily on the sill. The familiar sprawl of Camelot lays before him, but his mind is racing through the corridors of time.

If Arthur is not mistaken, Merlin will arrive in days time, if not today. He knows Merlin arrived at Camelot the day Mary Collin’s son was executed thanks to Gaius’ stories. Is that today? He doesn't want Merlin to be greeted with that sight again. He could be there for him this time, he could prevent the man from being executed even, he could—

But then Mary Collin wouldn't take her revenge, Merlin wouldn't save his life and his father wouldn't make Merlin his manservant.

A heavy sigh escapes him. He has to let it happen, just as he has to let Merlin see it. There is no way he could approach Merlin to protect him or comfort him without looking like a creep. This Merlin doesn't know him yet.

So he’ll wait until Merlin encounters him again. When he called him an ass for the first time. He’ll wait and make things right this time.

…

Far away, in a small room in Ealdor, another pair of eyes fly open.

Merlin: (gasps and sits bolt upright, eyes wide with panic) Arthur!

Chapter Text

Merlin: (scrambles from the bed, eyes wild, scanning the cramped, familiar hut.) Arthur? Arthur! ARTHUR!

Hunith: (rushes in, her face etched with concern.) Merlin! Sweetheart, what's wrong? What are you shouting about?

Merlin: Mom? (grips her arms, his expression desperate.) Why am I here? Where's Arthur?

Hunith: (frowns, completely baffled.) Which Arthur?

Merlin: Arthur Pendragon! The King of Camelot, mom! Where is he?

Hunith: (lets out a soft, worried laugh, smoothing his hair.) As far as I know, Uther Pendragon is still king, sweetie. Arthur is the crown prince.

Merlin: What? No, he… (The protest dies on his lips as he truly sees her. The lines around her eyes are softer, her posture less weary.) You… you look younger.

Hunith: (smiles.) Well, thank you. But no compliment will get you out of this. Today you leave for Camelot, whether you want to or not.

Merlin: (stares at his own hands—smooth, without the calluses from a decade of servitude. He touches his face, his arms; the strength he gained over the years is gone.) I… what?

Hunith: (Her expression softens with maternal understanding and pulls him into a hug.) You had a nightmare, didn't you? A terrible one. I know the thought of Camelot is frightening for you. But Gaius is the only person I know who can help you with your gifts.

Merlin: I…I haven’t been to Camelot yet?

He doesn’t understand. The last thing he remembers with visceral clarity is the desperate bargain with the Sídhe, the crushing weight of Arthur's body in his arms, and then a blinding light. Why is he here back in the past? Has the Sídhe stolen ten years of his life as a price? It doesn't make sense to him. Or is this some kind of twisted cruel punishment? 

Hunith: (patting his back.) No, sweetheart. (A pause.) Look, you don’t have to stay with Gaius forever. Perhaps he can help you find a druid camp instead—

Merlin: (shouts) NO! (catches himself, seeing her startled expression, and forces his voice into a calmer, more deliberate tone) I mean, you are right. Gaius is the best option for me.

Confusion and the ghost of a decade's worth of memories still swirl within him, a tempest in his mind. But there is no time to be overwhelmed, no time to grieve a future that now feels like a dream. There is only one thought, one imperative that burns through the chaos: He has to get to Arthur.

Hunith: (studies him for a long moment, seeing a new, unreadable depth in her son's eyes) Very well. I'll prepare you some food for the journey. (leaves)

Alone, Merlin stands perfectly still. The initial panic recedes, replaced by a cool, sharp clarity that settles over his features. A resolute expression takes hold, hardening the youthful lines of his face.

If the Sídhe had intended this as a punishment, if they thought to disorient him or steal his life, then the joke is on them. They have not taken anything. They have given him everything. Not only is Arthur alive and whole, but Merlin has been granted a weapon more powerful than any spell: foresight.

He now carries ten years of knowledge. He knows the betrayals before they happen, the threats before they emerge, the moments where a single different choice could have saved a life or changed a destiny.

He has a second chance. And he will not waste a single second of it.

[ROLL INTRO]

Outside the towering gates of the citadel, Merlin finishes reading his mother's letter. His thumb gently strokes the familiar, careful script.

Merlin: (whispering to himself, a fond, sad smile on his lips) Oh, mom… (folds the letter carefully, tucking it into his pocket) I know it wasn't easy to raise me. Don't worry. I already know my purpose.

He hesitates, the parchment feeling suddenly superfluous. Does he even need to give this to Gaius? He already knows everything the physician will tell him, and he doesn’t need to learn to control his magic anymore. The thought is still forming when a memory slams into him—the memory of his first day, of rushing into Gaius's chambers, and the old man's startled, teetering fall from the loft.

Merlin: (Eyes widening in panic) Wait… Gaius! (runs)

…

In the Physician's Quarters.

Merlin: (slams the door against the wall and bursts inside, his chest heaving) Gaius!

Gaius: (startled, turns on the high bookshelf stairs, losing his balance)

Merlin: Be careful! The railing is—

Too late. With a cry, Gaius tumbles backward. The old, rotten railing splinters under his weight, offering no support.

Merlin: Fuck! (his eyes glow gold)

The world around him slows, the dust motes hanging frozen in the air, Gaius suspended in a graceful, terrible arc towards the floor. But something is profoundly wrong. The spell that has once felt fluid and effortless—a pure, instinctual extension of his will—now feels like trying to hold up a mountain. A searing pressure builds behind his eyes, and a wave of nausea washes over him. The fabric of time is tearing itself from his grasp.

He has only a fractured second. Abandoning the failing spell, he pours his remaining focus into moving the heavy wooden bed shot sideways, scraping it violently across the stone floor just as time snaps back into its normal flow. Gaius lands on the mattress with a jarring thud.

Merlin: (gasps, clutches a hand to his chest, his heart hammering from the dual shock of almost failing and the magical backlash, whispering) Why didn't my slow time spell work like before? (stares at his hands)

Gaius: (Slowly, carefully getting out of the bed, his eyes fixed on Merlin with a mixture of awe and alarm.) What did you just do?

Merlin: (still staring at his hands, confused)

Gaius: (raises his voice) Tell me!

Merlin: (Finally looks up, meeting Gaius's gaze) Magic.

Gaius: And you say it so carelessly! Do you have any idea what would happen if anyone had seen—

Merlin: (snaps) Nobody saw! And if I hadn't used it, you would be dead on this floor. So, a simple 'thank you' would be nice!

Gaius' expression softens, seeing the genuine distress in the boy's eyes. There is no real defiance in the boy's tone either, but some sort of… grief.

Merlin: (anger evaporates as quickly as it came, leaving him looking young and lost) Sorry. It's just… (suddenly overwhelmed, his voice small) Can I hug you?

Gaius: (His suspicions momentarily disarmed by the sheer, unexpected vulnerability. He lets out a slow breath.) Sure, kid.

Merlin steps forward and wraps his arms around the old physician, holding on tightly, as if clinging to a rock in a storm. Gaius can feel the slight tremble in his shoulders.

Merlin: (voice muffled against Gaius's robe.) I know you don't know me. Not like… before. But I missed you.

Gaius: (pulls back slightly, his hands on Merlin's shoulders, studying the face that is both entirely new and strangely, hauntingly familiar) Who are you?

Merlin: (gives a watery, helpless smile) I'm your… (stops, correcting himself) I'm Hunith's son.

…

The next day. In the Training Grounds.

Arthur paces, the hilt of his practice sword slick in his palm. His eyes constantly flicks towards the entrance to the courtyard, his heart thumping a restless rhythm against his ribs.

Arthur: (Thinking anxiously) Where is he? (Snaps his fingers with feigned irritation, his voice a little too loud) Where's the target?

Morris: (Pointing with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, his voice a perfect monotone) There, Sire.

Arthur: (his tone with the bratty princely arrogance he spent years unlearning) Into the sun? Again? 

Morris: (Heaving a world-weary sigh) My apologies, my lord. I’ve been distracted. (leans in slightly, whispering) For how long more will we do this?

Arthur: (Through a gritted-teeth smile, whispers back) Long as necessary. Now go back to your script.

Morris: (Sighs again and speaks up) I'll put the target on the other end then, shall I, Sire? (carries the heavy target toward the far wall with deliberate slowness)

As if on cue, two knights (which Arthur definitely has NOT strategically positioned nearby) speak.

Knight 1: (Chuckling) How useless! It’s the third time he's done it wrong.

Knight 2: Maybe he didn’t learn his lesson the last time.

Arthur’s gaze sweeps the courtyard entrance once more. Nothing. A cold thread of panic begins to weave through his determination. What if the ritual has failed? What if Merlin isn't coming? No. He is back in the past. So Merlin must be coming.

Arthur: (forces a smirk onto his face) You are right. This will teach him.

He picks up a dagger, his stomach twisted with anticipation and self-loathing. He is meticulously recreating one of the moments from his youth he is very ashamed of. Yet, it is also the moment his life changed forever.

He hefts the weapon, his knuckles white. He isn't doing this for cruelty or sport. He is doing it to hear a specific voice call him an ass for the first time. 

Arthur: (throws the dagger at the target Morris is holding, thinking, pleading) Come on, Merlin. Where are you? (shouts) Keep moving! (throws another dagger)

Morris: (Shifting the heavy target, his face a mask of weary resignation, thinking) Be the prince’s manservant, they said. It’s an easy job, they said. 😓

…

The image of Arthur—pale, bloodied, and barely breathing—has haunted Merlin’s every step since he woke in Ealdor. It’s a wound that has not scabbed over, a memory so visceral it steals the air from his lungs. He knows, logically, that the Arthur of this time is whole and healthy. But logic is a poor shield against the fears of an anguished heart.

He has searched for him the day before, his heart hammering frantically against his ribs, only to be told the prince was away on patrol (which explains why Arthur wasn’t present beside his father to witness the execution of Mary Collins’ son in his other life). He remembers their first meeting was in the training grounds, on his second day of his stay in Camelot. The temptation to lurk by the main gates, to catch a mere glimpse of him, is a physical pull. But he forced himself to wait. How could he explain such desperate behavior without looking like a madman?

So, he endures a night of restless dreams (ignoring Kilgharrah's calls) and a morning of feigned normalcy. He accepts Gaius’s list of errands and delivers them with a haste that borders on rudeness and, as soon as he is done, he flies toward the sounds of clashing metal and shouts.

And finally, he sees him. Arthur, in the sun-drenched flesh, his brow furrowed in a gesture of princely irritation, throwing daggers at poor Morris just as the first time he met him. The sight is a punch to the gut, so profoundly relieving it leaves him dizzy. The image of his dying king shatters, replaced by the vibrant, living young man in front of him.

Merlin forces himself to breathe, to not break down crying.

Merlin: Ar— (thinking) Wait I’m not supposed to know who he is yet. What did I do the first time?... Oh, right. Insult him (shouts) You, oppressor!

…

Arthur freezes, the dagger half-raised. His heart stops, then restarts with a painful, joyous thud. The voice, that specific, wonderful, defiant voice, cuts through the air and straight through Arthur’s soul.

Arthur: (thinking with overflowing longing, joy and relief) Finally. (turns to the voice with expectation)

Their eyes meet and, for a single, suspended second, the world ceases to exist. There is no courtyard, no watching knights, no carefully orchestrated play. There is only Merlin with his chest heaving with what Arthur assumes is indignation. The years of lonely kingship, the hollow victory, the cold shade of a magical tree—it all falls away from Arthur’s heart, leaving behind a raw, aching wonder. He is younger, yes. His frame is slimmer, the angles of his face more pronounced, untouched by the years of service and sorrow. But he is him. The same dark hair, the same blazing blue eyes, the same set to his jaw. Utterly, wonderfully human and alive.

Arthur: (thinking, forcing himself not to cry) He’s just as beautiful as the day I lost him.

The urge to cross the space between them, to pull Merlin into an embrace that spanned a lifetime, to feel the solid, breathing warmth of him after a decade of cold bark and silent leaves is unbearable. A thousand words claws at his throat: a thousand apologies for every harsh word and missed cue, the ‘I love you’ he has been too stunned to return on that bloody lake, the ‘I love you’ he has whispered to a tree’s unhearing trunk and a thousand more. He needs to say them all now that he can. He needs to—

But this Merlin does not know him. Their history is a phantom limb, felt only by Arthur. To act on it would be to terrify him, to ruin this fragile, impossible second chance before it even begins.

No, he won’t ruin it.

Unfortunately for him, Arthur can’t make himself move or speak. He can only stare.

…

Merlin: (His heroic stance falters for a fraction of a second, his brow furrowing in confusion, thinking) Wait, that's not my line. What was it? (Stares back, the prince's intense, silent gaze becoming unnerving. His internal panic rises) He isn’t saying anything. Why isn’t he saying anything?! (Forces himself to continue, the words tumbling out) Is that the way you treat your servants? You are a... a prat! and...and an ass!

Knights: (take a step forward)

Arthur: (stops them with a single hand gesture, his eyes never leaving Merlin's face)

Knights: (step back)

Arthur: (just continues to stare, a small, wondering smile touching his lips. He is completely lost in the moment)

Merlin: (Shifts uncomfortably under the prince's strange, fond gaze, thinking) Is he mocking me? Why is he just smiling? This is not how it went before. Come on, say something. Please say something… Stop staring and say something! 😡

Arthur: (Suddenly snaps back to reality, coughing to cover his emotional disarray.) You're right. I was being mean. (offers a genuine, apologetic smile) My apologies.

Merlin: …

Morris: …

The knights: …

Merlin: Wait, what? 😧 (jolts out of his stupor and takes a hesitant step forward) I mean, yes! Exactly. (stammers, pointing a finger that lacks its original conviction) You-you can’t treat people like that! 😠

Knight 1: Are you alright, Sire? Why are you smiling like an idi—

Knight 2: (clamps a hand over his mouth, and interjects smoothly) Sire, do you want us to capture him and throw him in the dungeons?

Merlin: (extends his arms, wrists together, expecting to be shackled)

Arthur: (voice calm and dismissive) It's not necessary.

Knights and Merlin: What? 😧😧😧

Merlin: But I insulted you!

Knight 1: (mumbling through Knight 2's hand) Yes he did. I heard him. (turns to Knight 2) You too—

Knight 2: (covers his mouth more firmly) Shut. Up.

Arthur: (finally tearing his eyes away from Merlin to address the knights, his tone leaving no room for argument) Leave. I'll take care of this.

Merlin: (thinking) Oh, great. He’s going to beat me.

Knight 1: (wrenching Knight 2's hand from his face) Are you going to beat him up yourself, Sire?

Arthur: (turns his head, and glares at him, his eyes promising a future of latrine duties and stable-cleaning for a decade)

Knight 2: (bodily hauls Knight 1 away) 

Merlin: (instantly drops into a clumsy, defensive fighting stance, his hands raised)

Arthur: I'm not going to beat you. Relax.

Merlin: (lowers his hands, a sigh of relief escaping him, but then) Wait, why not?

Arthur: (A faint, incredulous smile) Are you stupid? Do you want me to beat you?

Merlin: No? But you're a pri–A nobleman. (gestures at Arthur's tunic vaguely) I can tell by your clothes. They look expensive.

Arthur: Do you have such a low opinion of noblemen? (spreads his hands in a gesture of mock surrender). I'm not unreasonable. You were right, I went too far.

Merlin: (frown deepens, cause this is not how Arthur reacted before. But he still decides to retort) If you were a reasonable person, (points an accusatory finger toward Morris), you wouldn't have done that to your servant in the first place.

Morris: (flat on his back on the ground, pinned beneath the target)

Arthur: You are still here?

Morris: You didn't tell me to move, sire. 

Arthur: Go.

Morris: (In a flurry of movement, scrambles out from under the target, stands, dusts himself off, gives a perfunctory bow, and shoots Merlin a discreet look before scurrying away)

Arthur: Where were we? 😏

Merlin: (arms crossed) About how you mistreat your servants. 😑

Arthur: But I pay them well. (Thinking) “I pay them well”? Really? 🤦‍♂️

Merlin: (snorts, thinking) Yeah, that's the prat I remember. (Says) You are an arrogant and insufferable nobleman. (A laugh escapes him) I wouldn't wish the curse of being your servant on anyone.

Arthur: (laughs, knowing Merlin definitely will be and corrects) Prince.

Merlin: (feigning ignorance) Excuse me?

Arthur: I am a prince. My name is Arthur. (extends his hand, trying not to look so eager, because he hasn't feel Merlin’s skin in SO long)

Merlin: (stares at the hand as if it held all the secrets of the world)

Arthur: (hiding his disappointment and confusion, thinking) Why isn’t he shaking it? He was the one who offered to shake hands before. (Masks his hurt with a well-practiced facade of superiority and says with a mock patience tone) When one extends their hand, it's so the other can extend theirs as well. And when one says their name, the other should say theirs. It's basic courtesy, understand? Although perhaps that's too much to expect from an ignorant peasant.

Merlin: (offended, but secretly pleased) Merlin… (extends his hand, but instead of a shake, he gives Arthur's palm a sharp, dismissive slap) My name is Merlin. I'm from Ealdor, a village of Essetir. And I'm the new apprentice to the court physician.

Arthur: (looks down at his slapped hand, then back up at Merlin, his smirk widening into something more appreciative) Well, as I mentioned before, I am the Prince.

Merlin: And that should matter to me because…

Arthur: Because as prince, I can make your stay in the castle pleasant, (his voice drops to an intimidating but at the same time intimate, almost suggestive tone), or, on the contrary, I can make you return to your village in tears.

Merlin: (thrown by the shift in tone) I thought you were reasonable. That you felt bad for mistreating your servant. 

Arthur: I said you were right. Not that I was sorry. Morris is my servant, and it is his duty to assist me in all I ask, even if it means becoming a human target.

Merlin: But you apologized. (Crosses his arms again) Or was that a lie?

Arthur: I apologized to you. Not to Morris. 

Merlin: (confused) Why would you apologize to me? You barely know me.

Arthur: (takes a step closer, closing the distance between them. The air grows still) Because I haven't seen eyes like yours… (thinking, completing the sentence with a pang of loss) ...in a long time. (Aloud, words soft and deliberate) ...and I regret having been blind before.

Merlin: (turns red and squeakes) Ah? 😳 (Thinking) What's gotten into him? He seems to be... flirting. If he had said this to a maiden, she surely would have fainted. (dismisses the absurd thought) No, it can't be. I am not a maiden. And since when is Arthur flirtatious?

The intensity of Arthur’s eyes make Merlin lower his gaze to the ground, his heart hammering. He is about to ask what on earth that was supposed to mean when the spell is shattered by a cough. They both turn to see Morris, looking extremely uncomfortable.

Arthur: (barks, all traces of softness gone) What are you doing here? Why did you come back?

Morris: (flinches, but holds his ground) My lord, the king summons you.

Artur: And you couldn't announce yourself? Why were you standing there lurking in the shadows?

Morris: (thinking) What is the Prince talking about? It's broad daylight in the middle of an open training ground! (as the experienced servant he is, he simply lowers his head in a practiced gesture of deference and says) The king was most insistent I find you immediately, Sire. He orders you to the throne room. At once.

Arthur: (rolls his eyes in annoyance) Just a second.(turns back to Merlin, the exasperation melting from his face) I'm sure we'll meet again soon. Merlin of Ealdor.

Merlin: (smiles despite himself) Unfortunately, I think so too. Arthur of Camelot. (turns on his heel and starts his walk out of the training grounds.)

Arthur: (shouting after him, a grin spreading from ear to ear) You forgot ‘Prince’!

Merlin: (keeps walking, not turning, shouts back) I’m not camelotian. You are not my prince. (thinking lovingly) You are my King.

Arthur: That's not how it works! (the protest is automatic, but lacks any real heat)

Merlin: (doesn’t answer and just raises his hand doing a fig sign with his hand—ancient equivalent of a middle finger—before disappearing around a corner)

Morris: (Mouth open, horrified at the grave disrespect and turns to Arthur)

Arthur: (keeps looking where Merlin vanished, a mesmerized, utterly enchanted smile on his face, as if he has just been given the greatest gift in the world)

In the quiet of his mind, a single, solid truth settles on the Prince’s mind, calming a decade of restless grief: He's back. I have him back.

Meanwhile, Merlin walks briskly back towards Gaius’s chambers, the strange encounter replaying in his mind. His first meeting with Arthur has been nothing like the belligerent clash he remembered, yet it has been… something. Something far more disconcerting… and exciting. He feels a traitorous flutter in his stomach as the memory of Arthur's charming, intimate smile replays behind his eyes. Then he shakes his head, as if to dislodge the fatuous hope.

Merlin: (thinking, scolding his foolish heart) No. He is my friend. Well, he is going to be in this life, too. That’s how it always was and that is all he will ever be.

…

The next day. In the Lower Town.

Merlin is haggling half-heartedly over a bundle of herbs for Gaius when a friendly voice interrupts him.

Gwen: (approaching with a warm smile) Hey, I remember you. You're the one who confronted the prince yesterday.

Merlin: (surprised) You saw?

Gwen: I was watching from a window. Not that I wanted to spy or anything! I was just airing out my Lady's clothes.

Merlin: (his smile fades slightly, replaced by a knowing caution) Morgana…

Gwen: (frowns, her friendly demeanor cooling into something more measured, studying him with fresh suspicion)

Merlin: (Thinking) Why is she looking at me like that?... Oh, right. I'm not supposed to know Morgana. And I called her by name! (Recovers, offering a casual shrug) I mean, Lady Morgana. I've heard of her. Who hasn't?

Gwen: (She relaxes marginally, but a flicker of intrigue remains in her gaze) Well, I'm her maidservant. Guinevere, but most people call me Gwen. (extends her hand in a polite but slightly reserved gesture)

Merlin: (shakes her hand, his own smile returning, warmer now) Merlin.

Gwen: (her tone is more observational than effusive, as she continues to assess him) It was brave, what you did.

Merlin: (lets out a short laugh, remembering the lengthy lecture on self-preservation he received from Gaius once the old man found out) It was stupid.

Gwen: (a little more earnest) Seriously! I'm glad he didn't beat you. You wouldn't have stood a chance.

Merlin: (raises an eyebrow) Thanks?

Gwen: (flustered, waves her hands) No, no! I just mean you don't look like one of these big, muscle-y kind of fellows, you know? (blushes, trying to backtrack) I mean, what I'm trying to say—

Merlin: (chuckles, taking no offense) I know, I know. Don't worry. Though I must say, I'm stronger than I look.

Gwen: (studies him for a long moment, her head tilting with open curiosity, wanting to figure him out.) And since when have you known the prince?

Merlin: Recently.

Gwen: (gives him a flat, deeply incredulous look) Right.

Merlin: No, really. We just met yesterday.

Gwen: (her eyes widen) Your encounter in the training grounds was your first meeting? (frowns) But you seemed… close.

Merlin: (shrugs, though clearly flattered by the observation) Part of my charm, I suppose.

Gwen: (her expression turns more serious, a thoughtful crease forming between her brows as she recalls the scene) It's not just that. You see, Arthur's a bully, but the way you handled him there... and the way he reacted…(hesitates, searching for the right words) Everyone thought you were—

Merlin: (a boyish grin spreads across his face) A hero?

Gwen: (bites her tongue, stopping herself from saying more. A small, knowing smile touches her lips as she nods) Something like that. (her eyes catch a familiar figure in the distance, and her demeanor shifts to a somewhat amused one). Talk of the fiend.

Merlin follows Gwen’s gaze, his own smile faltering as he watches the prince stride purposefully through the market. Arthur isn't flanked by his usual gaggle of noble friends this time. Not that Merlin misses their jeering, but the sight is unnerving.

Merlin: (thinking, protective instinct surfacing) Shouldn't the Crown Prince have guards? Why is he walking here alone?

For his part, Arthur has been actively searching for Merlin. He moved to approach the moment he spotted that shock of dark hair, but his steps faltered as he took in the scene. A conflicted ache settled in his chest—the strange, poignant sight of his former queen and his eternal love together, conversing. It was a collision of his past and his future, the life lost and the life he is desperate to build, standing side-by-side in the bustling market.

Gwen: (sensing the shift in the air, speaks a bit too quickly) I've got to go. It was nice to meet you, Merlin. (With a final, nervous glance toward the approaching prince, she hurries away)

Arthur: (watches her go for a moment before composing himself. Then he saunters over and leans casually against a nearby stall, a familiar smirk playing on his lips) I knew we would meet again, Merlin of Ealdor.

Merlin: (puts a hand to his brow, feigning a swoon) Oh, but what do my eyes see? Am I hallucinating from the mushrooms Gaius made me pick? (gestures dramatically at Arthur's attire).What is the royal prince of Camelot doing frolicking in the marketplace with the common folk? Isn't he afraid of getting his fine royal robes dirty or catching lice?

Arthur: (deadpans) Ha, ha, how amusing. (pushes off from the stall, his tone shifting to one of deliberate gravity) A future king must know his people. And the people must see their king.

Merlin: Well, what a poorly protected future king this is. (looks around theatrically) Where are your guards? I had the impression the king would have his precious defenseless boy always well protected.

Arthur: (with indignation) I’ll have you know, I’ve been trained to kill since birth. I don’t need anyone to—

Merlin: (points somewhere triumphantly) There they are!

In the distance, three knights stand conspicuously, having clearly been ordered to keep their distance. As Merlin points, one of them, Knight 1, gives an awkward, small wave. Knight 2 immediately slaps his hand down.

Arthur: (sighs) They wouldn't leave.

Merlin: (acting incredulous as he turns to select herbs from the stall) Trained to kill since birth, huh? (picks up a bundle, inspecting it casually) And how long have you been training to be a prat?

Arthur: (snorts, a flicker of fond recognition in his eyes at the familiar line) You can't address me like that.

Merlin: Oh, I'm sorry, (pays the seller and turns back to Arthur with an exaggeratedly innocent expression) How long have you been training to be a prat… (delivers a mockingly formal bow) my lord.

Arthur: (An unguarded smile softens his features as he takes in the sight—the bow, the sass, the blindingly familiar cheek of it.) You haven’t changed a thing. (quickly adds) Since yesterday. Not that I…(clears his throat) expected otherwise.

Merlin: (looks at him strangely)

Arthur: (earnestly) May I accompany you?

Merlin: (still puzzled by Arthur's strange behaviour but disarmed by the offer, he smiles) Sure.

They stroll through the market, a strangely comfortable silence settling between them as Merlin buys a few other things for Gaius. Arthur's gaze keeps drifting, appreciating the familiar shape of Merlin's hands as he handles coins, the curve of his lips as he smiles at a seller. A deep, aching need to do something, to give him something, begins to gnaw at Arthur. His eyes dart around, landing on a cloth merchant. The idea is impulsive, clumsy. He was never good at this. Even with Gwen, he’d needed Merlin's help. But he remembers the basics: you see something you think they’d like, you give it to them. Simple. However, he can't be that obvious either. They are just getting to know each other after all, so he has to be casual, to mask the depth of his feelings behind the act.

Merlin: (Tucking his last purchase into his bag) Well, I've got to get this to Gaius.

Arthur: (tosses the neatly folded blue neckerchief he just purchased, which lands squarely in Merlin's face)

Merlin: What the— (gets the neckerchief off his face)

Arthur: I noticed the rag you're wearing is looking a bit... threadbare. So, in my great generosity, I'm bestowing upon you a new one. To welcome you to Camelot.

Merlin: (His fingers instinctively go to the red neckerchief he wears, defensive) It's not a rag. And it's fine.

Arthur: (scoffs) Please, that thing must have been with you since you were born. And it's shoddy quality. The merchant who sold it to you should be in the dungeons for ripping off his customers.

Merlin: (his voice dropping, quiet and firm) My mother made it for me.

Arthur: (his smug expression shatters, replaced by dawning horror) … Ah.

Merlin: (thinking, very offended and a bit hurt) Gods, he's been acting so unexpectedly decent, I forgot how a colossal idiot he used to be. (Says, voice flat) Thank you, (hands the neckerchief back) But I don't need your charity, disguised as generosity, Your Highness.

Before Arthur can form a single, coherent word of apology, Merlin turns on his heel and is gone, swallowed by the market crowd.

Arthur: Wait, I didn't mean— (brings the heel of his palm to his forehead with a solid thump) Damn it. Why, why, why?

From their discreet post, the knights observe the debacle.

Knight 1: (Scratching his head) Okay, maybe I'm reading this all wrong—I know I'm not the brightest person—but why does that whole... thing... feel like the prince was just courting that foreign boy?

Knight 2: (without looking, he cuffs Knight 1 on the back of the helmet)

Knight 3: (Sighs) What you see is what you get, my friend.

…

The next day.

Merlin stands frozen outside Morgana's chamber door, the vial of medicine feeling like a lead weight in his hand.

Merlin: (thinking, trying to convince himself) She is not the same. This Morgana is still good. She is just a girl scared of her dreams. She hasn't done anything yet. (But his feet refuse to obey)

Gwen: (Rounding the corner, stops in surprise) Oh! Merlin, what are you—

Merlin: (thrusts the vial into her hands, his movements jerky with relief) For Lady Morgana. (bows directly at Gwen quickly, then turns and almost flies down the corridor)

Gwen: (watches him go with a puzzled frown. Then chuckles softly to herself, shaking her head, thinking) He really is new here. He's supposed to bow to Lady Morgana, not me. (enters Morgana's chambers)

…

In the Banquet Hall. At night.

Arthur: (waiting anxiously because Merlin is supposed to save him from "Lady Helen" to become his servant today and he isn't there yet)

Uther: Are you alright, Arthur?

Arthur: (too quickly) Yeah, right, excellent, never better.

Uther: You've been acting strange lately.

Arthur: (thinking) Well it's not easy to act normal around your dead father and your dead sister who wanted you dead. (says) I just haven't been sleeping well. I had... nightmares. Very long nightmares.

Uther: I see... (Thinking) I hope Morgana's condition isn't contagious.

Just then Gaius enters into the hall followed by Merlin.

Arthur: (turns and his eyes find Merlin's almost immediately)

Merlin: (Thinking, while he looks at Arthur in the distance) Why is he looking at me like that? Do I have something on my face?

Arthur: (Noticing Merlin is without his neckerchief, and he is so young and so beautiful, and he doesn't have his neckerchief on!) God have mercy!

Morgana: (enters in her breathtaking dress)

Merlin: (stares at her with a mix of longing and guilt, seeing the ghost of the friend he lost, the woman she was before the darkness took root)

Gwen: She looks great, doesn't she?

Merlin: (smiling sadly) Yeah...

Gwen: Some people are just born to be queen.

Merlin: (almost shouting) NO!

Gwen: (flinches, staring at him in startled alarm) There's no need to sound so disturbed.

Merlin: (flushed, quickly composes himself) I'm sorry just... I think she could do better than Arthur, that's all. (Thinking) And with someone who is not her brother.

Gwen: (shoots an appreciative glance at Arthur) He's not so bad.

Merlin: (confused cause Gwen was supposed to agree with him) What do you mean? He was bullying a servant only a few days ago!

Gwen: I remember. You confronted him about it.

Merlin: See? A total prat.

Gwen: And he also recognized his mistake and apologized to you. And he didn't arrest you for insulting him in front of his knights, even though that's technically treason.

Merlin: Okay, maybe not a total prat, but still a prat. (Thinking, worried) He was too nice indeed. Perhaps I was too harsh on him this time? 

Arthur: (watching them from the other side of the hall, the conflicted feeling still on his chest, thinking) Are they talking about me?

Morgana: (seeing Arthur is watching in Merlin and Gwen's direction, approaches him) Have your eye on someone, Arthur?

Arthur: (cold) No.

Morgana: (playfully) It's rather obvious. Is it the lovely Gwen? Or perhaps—

Arthur: (doesn’t even look at her) Let's sit. Lady Helen will arrive at any moment (turns and strides to his seat)

Morgana: ... Sure (thinking, while she goes to her seat) What's wrong with him?

Uther rises, his voice booming through the hall, effortlessly commanding silence.

Uther: We have enjoyed 20 years of peace and prosperity....

Arthur: (thinking, resentfully) 20 years of genocide and lies.

Uther: ...It has brought to the kingdom and myself many pleasures but few can compare to the honor of introducing Lady Helen of Mora.

Applause fills the hall as “Lady Helen” makes her entrance. As she begins her ethereal song, Arthur's eyes immediately flicker back to where Merlin stands. His future manservant isn't watching the performance. He is staring intently, not at the singer, but at the heavy iron chandelier in the middle of the room. Then he looks at Lady Helen, as if waiting for her to position herself under it.

Arthur: (smiling to himself, thinking) So that's how you did it. (frowns) But how did you know? You knew what she was up to before—

His thoughts are interrupted as a strange, heavy lassitude washes over the hall. One by one, nobles and servants alike slump in their seats, succumbing to a magical slumber. Arthur feels the pull of it, a thick blanket smothering his consciousness, but, for some reason, he remains at the edge of awareness, not completely asleep, but barely awake. His vision is blurred, but he manages to witness it: the room choked with ghostly spiderwebs, and Merlin, with a sharp gesture and a flash of gold in his eyes, sending the chandelier crashing down.

Everyone stirs, groggy and confused, staring at the crone revealed beneath the ironwork. Arthur is just as confused, but for a different reason.

Arthur: (Thinking) Why…Why didn't I fall completely asleep?

Mary Collins: (throws the dagger at Arthur)

…

When Merlin delivered “Lady Helen" her voice tonic the day before, the urge to kill her right there and then was a physical ache. It would have been so easy—a drop of poison, a silent, magical strike. Not acting, letting the threat to Arthur’s life persist, felt like a betrayal of its own. It was his inaction that had cost him Arthur once before.

But then what? He’d be caught, accused of murdering a noblewoman, and lose any chance of ever becoming Arthur’s manservant. He knows Uther would never have allowed it by other means. He was never manservant material.

So he forces himself to let the play unfold. He has saved Arthur from this before; he can do it again.

He was wrong.

As the dagger flies from Mary Collins’s hand, Merlin’s magic surges, but, just like when he saved Gaius, the spell to slow time takes him an impossible effort that shatters against his will.

Merlin: Come on, come on! (grunts, feeling the precious seconds slip away) Damn it! (Shouts, running)  ARTHUR!

He runs desperately as time snaps back to its normal, cruel pace. Just as the dagger is about to reach its mark, Merlin throws himself forward, covering Arthur’s body with his own. The blade sinks deep into his back, a searing, white-hot agony. But as Merlin gasps, the pain is completely, utterly overshadowed by one overwhelming, triumphant thought: He's safe. Arthur is safe.

Arthur: (horrified) NO! (catches Merlin as they fall to the floor) No, no, no, no! You idiot, what were you thinking?! (thinking) That’s not what you did before!

Gaius: (runs and skids to his knees beside them) Merlin!

Uther: (approaching) Who is this boy?

Gaius: My ward. (his fingers already probing the wound, his face tightened with grim expertise) We need to move him to my tower. Now. I can't pull the knife here; he'll bleed to death in minutes.

Merlin: (his vision swims, but he finds Arthur's face and manages a weak, radiant smile) I did it. (tears of pure, unadulterated happiness well in his eyes) I did... (his eyes start to flutter close, the fight leaving his body)

Arthur: (pure panic mode, his voice cracking with a terror that is both past and present) No! don't you dare die on me! (gathers Merlin into his arms as Gaius instructed, cradling him close) You're going to be okay, you're going to be okay. Stay with me (thinking desperately, as he strides from the banquet hall) Please, don't leave me again. I just got you back. I can't lose you again.

The prince abandons the feast followed by Gaius, leaving the stunned court, and his kingly father behind without a backward glance. He is holding the most precious thing in his world—in any world—in his arms, not realizing, and in that moment, not caring, about the gasps, the whispers, or the scandal his desperate, heartbroken display has just ignited.

…

In the Physician's Quarters.

The door bursts open. Gaius points at the bed in the middle of the room, where Arthur carefully lays Merlin down on his stomach. The prince's face is pale, his expression haunted, unable to tear his eyes from the knife hilt still protruding from Merlin's back.

Arthur: He will be—

Guard: (enters) Sire! The king demands your presence in the Throne Room immediately!

Arthur: (A wave of disbelief and anguish washes over his features) Now?! (looks at the guard, and then Merlin)

Gaius: (gives him a reassuring nod) You can go, Sire. I'll take care of Merlin.

With a frustrated sigh, Arthur agrees. He rises to his feet, but not before leaning down and, in a gesture of startling tenderness, softly caressing Merlin's cheek. The action is fleeting, but its significance is profound. It does not go unnoticed by the physician. Then the prince is gone.

Guard: (pauses at the door, adding over his shoulder) The King wishes for your presence as well, physician, as soon as your duty here is done. (leaves, following the prince)

Once alone, Gaius lets out a weary breath and turns his full attention to the wound. His hands, steady with decades of experience, work quickly. He pulls the dagger free, but as he stanches the flow of blood, his experienced eyes see the truth he feared. The damage is too severe. The blade has pierced too deep. The boy will not survive.

Unless…

Gaius casts a sharp, furtive look at the door, ensuring they are truly alone. A profound conflict within him—a lifetime of obedience to Uther's laws against the fierce, inexplicable protectiveness he feels for this boy from Ealdor. His sister’s son. His nephew. He has only known him for days, yet the thought of losing him is unbearable.

He passes his hand over Merlin's body, enchanting in the Old Language. A soft, golden light emanates from his palm, seeping into the terrible wound. The bleeding stops considerably and Gaius finishes to close the wound with needle and thread.

He sits back, his own hands trembling slightly from the effort and the risk. He can only pray it has been enough. The alternative—having to inform both the king and the prince of his boy's death—is a future he dares not contemplate.

…

In the Throne Room.

The heavy doors close behind Arthur. Uther turns on him, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

Uther: Who is he?

Arthur blinks. That isn't something he thought his father would ask him. Shouldn't he be more interested in the assassination attempt? Then, his mind goes back to Merlin, still in the physician's chambers, alone, without him. 

Arthur: (angry and anxious) You called me all the way here just for that? He's Gaius' apprentice. He told you that!

His father doesn't appreciate his lack of respect.

Uther: Do not take me for a fool, Arthur. I am asking who he is to you. (takes a step closer, his gaze dissecting his son's agitated state) It’s obvious that you knew him from before.

Arthur: (pales, thinking) Shit... (says) We... met just three days ago.

Uther: (raises his voice in anger) And you expect me to believe that you would make such a tremendous, undignified display for some peasant boy you've known for three days?!

Arthur: (his own anger flaring) That 'peasant boy' just saved my life!

Before, Arthur knows, he wouldn't have raised his voice at his father like that, but he can't help it. How does he dare to disrespect Merlin and dismiss his great act of courage? Merlin did a lot for him, like Arthur knew he’d do, just because it was right and that is the kind of person Merlin is. And after literally receiving a knife for him, his father dares to reduce him to ‘some peasant boy’.

Uther: (calms down, his tone dripping with cold pragmatism) For which I'm grateful... but also suspicious.

Arthur: What?!

Uther: He took a knife for you. He shielded you with his own body without a moment's hesitation... and he called you by your name. Yet you insist your acquaintance is a matter of days. (pauses dramatically) I will ask you one more time. What is that boy to you?

Arthur sweats, his mind racing. This is new. In his previous life, Uther has rewarded Merlin without this inquisition. What has changed? Then he remembers. He has changed. He has shown too much. While Merlin acted the same in his previous life—save for the use of his name and the resulting injury—Arthur reacted entirely differently. Which, apparently, made Merlin look suspicious. And now he can't think of an explanation that makes sense. 

Just as he opens his mouth, grasping for any plausible lie, the great doors swing open.

Gaius: (enters) You summoned me, Your Majesty?

Arthur: (surprised) Gaius! What are you doing here? You should be tending to Merlin!

Uther: (sarcastic) Oh, you know his name too. What a surprise.

Arthur really wants to hit his father, but something in Gaius' gaze, relieved and composed, flickering from Uther and him, makes him relax a bit.

Gaius: The boy is stable. The blade miraculously didn't puncture anything vital. I have closed the wound. He is out of danger and resting now.

Arthur: (A visible wave of relief washes over him, so potent it makes his knees feel weak)

Uther: You told me you recently took this boy on as your apprentice, correct, Gaius?

Gaius: Yes, sire.

Uther: And how long has he been within the Citadel?

Gaius: Just a few days, sire.

Uther: Are you certain?

Gaius: Quite certain. He arrived only three days ago.

Uther: And he has never set foot in Camelot before this?

Gaius: Oh, no, sire. Merlin is from Ealdor, a small village in Essetir. He has never been to Camelot before in his life.

A smug, triumphant smile begins to spread across Arthur's face. Even though he knows he has told the truth, having Gaius' support the facts with his word feels like a solid victory.

Arthur: See?

Uther: (studies his son for a long moment, the suspicion in his eyes not fully extinguished, but banked for now) Very well. But you shouldn't act so distraught over strangers, Arthur. I expect better composure from you in the future.

Arthur lowers his head, behaving like Uther expected him to behave: with shame and distress of having disappointed his father and king. He’s happy to realise that, for once, his father doesn’t have this effect on him.

Arthur: Yes, father.

Uther: (turns to Gaius) Your ward deserves a reward for his… heroic act today.

Arthur: (thinking) Finally!

Arthur feels like Uther took a lot of time to act like himself—well, past self. But, nevertheless, finally he'll have Merlin with him every day, again, after all those years.

Uther: I shall grant him twenty pieces of gold.

Arthur: (thinking) What?! (says) No! You can't reward him with that.

Uther: (his eyebrows rise) You think it's too much?

Arthur: Too little! He saved your son! The heir to the throne! Or do you truly believe my life is worth only twenty pieces of gold?

He does his best to pretend to be very hurt in his pride as prince and belittled by his father's opinion on the worth of his life. He knew, with time, even after the ghost of Uther haunted the castle, that his father loved him, in his own way. But he is also very aware that, for Uther Pendragon, he was always the Crown Prince first, and his son second. So he is appealing to both—the prince whose value is being cheapened, and the son who feels grievously undervalued—to get what he wants.

Uther: (silent for a moment, taken aback by Arthur's fervor, but reconsiders) I suppose you have a point. How, then, do you suggest I reward him?

Arthur: Status. Gold is precious, but it is spent. Status is forever.

Uther: (blinks, before scoffing) You want me to make him a lord? I cannot do that. He is a peasant.

Arthur: (keeps his voice carefully neutral) But you can grant him a position. A permanent one. Within the royal household.

Uther: (thoughtful) Hmm... It is not a bad idea. I shall have to see if there is an available position—

Arthur: (quickly) There is one.

Uther: (looks at him surprised, frowning for a moment) Really?

Arthur: (a slow, victorious smile spreads across his face) Well... I still need a personal manservant.

Uther: ...

Gaius: ...

Well, if Arthur knew he'd just needed a few sentences to make both Uther and Gaius shut up, he would've done that long before.

…

In the Physician's Quarters.

A dull, throbbing ache is the first thing Merlin registers. Then, the scent of dried herbs and antiseptic. Merlin blinks his eyes open, his vision swimming into focus. He is on his stomach, his back a canvas of tight bandages and a deep, persistent pain.

Merlin: (sits up, flinching, and murmurs) Still alive then.

The door creaks open, and Gaius enters, followed closely by Arthur. The physician's face is a mask of stern disapproval, but his eyes betray a profound relief that softens its edges.

Gaius: (his voice low and shaking with a mixture of anger and fear) Don't you ever do anything so foolishly and recklessly ever again. You scared an entire decade off my life, boy.

Before Merlin can form a reply, Gaius steps forward and pulls him into a careful, bone-crushingly gentle hug.

Gaius: You are not to move from this bed unless absolutely necessary. No chores, no errands and no heroics. For two weeks, you rest. Is that understood?

Merlin: (manages a weak nod against the old man's shoulder) Understood.

Arthur: (asks gently) Would you leave us alone a moment, Gaius?

Gaius: (eyes narrow slightly, suspicious of the prince's intense, strange behavior toward his ward. He hesitates, but finally gives a curt nod) Of course, Sire. (shoots a final, warning look at Merlin and leaves)

Alone, Arthur stands by the bed, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as if holding himself together. The usual princely arrogance is gone, stripped away by the raw terror of nearly losing Merlin again, leaving behind something vulnerable and uncertain. He just looks at Merlin, drinking in the sight of him—alive, awake, here—the frantic panic of the banquet hall still shadowing his eyes.

Merlin: (worried, because he doesn't remember ever seeing Arthur this quiet and upset) Arthur?

Arthur: (composes himself) Better do as Gaius says. I can't have my personal manservant injuring himself further.

Merlin: Personal manservant?

Arthur: My father, the king, decided to reward you for saving my life by granting you a place at the royal household.

Merlin: (ecstatic inside, but pretending to be annoyed) As your personal manservant? Couldn't he just give me gold or something?

Arthur: (smiles, some of the worry going away) Most would consider it a great honor.

Merlin: Well, I'm not like most people.

Arthur: (laughs a little) You certainly aren't. (steps closer, his gaze involuntarily sweeping over Merlin since he's never seen him without a shirt before, and the sight is... distracting. But as soon as his eyes land on the stark white bandage wrapped around Merlin's torso, all humor vanishes and his expression turns deadly serious) What you did was very brave... and unbelievably stupid. You shouldn't have done that.

Merlin: (still mocking) If that's your way of saying 'Thank you for saving my life', well, I'm starting to regret saving your royal ass.

Arthur: I'm serious. Now you're my manservant and that makes you my responsibility and my concern. You are not allowed to put yourself in harm's way, ever. Not even for me. (Thinking) Especially not for me.

Merlin: (Bewildered by the sudden protectiveness) Is that a rule?

Arthur: It is now. Do I make myself clear?

Merlin: (touched, he smiles) Yes, my lord. (Thinking) I would die for you a hundred times over.

Arthur: (Thinking, a wave of nostalgia invading him) ‘My lord’... how much I missed that. (says) Good. Now get some rest (starts to leave but stops at the door, turning back) And Merlin.

Merlin: Yes?

Arthur: Thank you. For saving my life. (Makes a small bow, smiling, and leaves)

Merlin: ...

Merlin: Did he just bow to me?!! 😨

[ROLL CREDITS]