SOOOOO hello ppl, I'm back and with a new fic of a new Fandom (new to be anyway) Hope you like this one, I'll prolly have some one-shot here and there as well.
Masterlist Pt 2
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Camelot — Autumn, four years before Arthur's coronation
The boy who arrived with the new royal physician was thin.
That was the first thing people noticed. Thin in a way that had nothing to do with country living. He was scrawny, all limbs and bones and barely not fat; but if you looked at his face you could see a healthy flush and prominent cheekbones. His eyes weren't sunken and his stature could explain his lithe form. But Gaius knew better. He knew how long it took Merlin to look even this healthy.
He had dark short hair that stuck up at odd angles, blue eyes too large for his face, and a smile he deployed at everyone like a shield. He was nearly seventeen, though he looked younger with the way he looked at everything with big eyes and kept close to his mentor.
"Stay close," Gaius murmured as they passed through the great gates. "The castle is large. It's easy to get lost."
Merlin nodded, but his eyes were already moving; scanning the walls, the towers, the guards at their posts, even the commoners milling through the plaza and market as they passed. Gaius watched him map the exits, catalogue the shadows, press closer to Gaius's side whenever anyone drew too near. It was a habit Merlin had developed in the three years since Gaius had found him. Three years, and still his eyes did that every time they entered a new space.
Give it time, Gaius told himself. The boy had come so far already. He couldn't blame him for the vigilance—not really. After all, Merlin had spent the past few years in a small village with only Gaius for company. The citadel, with its endless crowds and noise, would overwhelm anyone.
Once inside, the castle revealed itself as a maze of corridors and chambers. Servants hurried past with armloads of linens and trays of food. Guards stood at attention. Nobles swept by in silks and furs, not deigning to notice the physician and his scrawny apprentice.
Merlin stayed close to Gaius, still watching everything in silence as they moved through the halls. Occasionally he paused to note certain corridors and where some doors led. Gaius let him familiarize himself patiently, pointing out some of the spaces he remembered from his time as an apprentice himself in his younger days.
They kept walking until they reached the stairs leading to the tower that would be their new home from now on.
"These are the physicians' quarters," Gaius said, pushing open a heavy door. "Ours, now. What do you think?”
Merlin stepped inside. The room was cluttered but warm. Shelves lined the walls, filled with herbs and flasks containing various unfamiliar liquids; a worktable sat scattered with equipment and parchment. Against one wall, a fireplace held a small fire with a black iron crane swinging out from the stone and a pot still hanging from its hook. Nearby, an open area provided space where Gaius could set a bench to treat patients. Above it all, an interesting loft jutted out, its shelves crowded with books and other paraphernalia he couldn't distinguish.
And, tucked into the back corner, a tiny hallway led up a couple of steps to two doors: one to Gaius's sleeping chamber, and one to a smaller room that would be Merlin's.
He stood in the center of the main room and turned slowly, taking it in. His expression didn't change, but something in his shoulders loosened, just slightly.
"It's… nice. Comfy" he said quietly with a barely there smile.
"It is," Gaius confirmed. "No one is allowed without knocking or without the need of healing." A pause. "You can lock your door at night. There's a latch."
Merlin's eyes flicked to the small door that would be his. He nodded once, and that was all.
Gaius let him explore. He'd learned, over three years, that Merlin needed space to make a place his own. Needed to check the corners, test the locks, know exactly where the exits were. It helped the lad to feel more comfortable and safe, the gods know he could use having this bare sense of control.
Only thirteen years old, Gaius thought, watching the boy run careful fingers along the doorframe of his new room. Thirteen years old, walking out of ashes with the gait of a survivor. It was a miracle he was as whole as he was, and Gaius couldn't be more grateful to whatever above for that.
Merlin finally emerged from his room after a few minutes. "There's a window."
"Small, but it opens. Good for the air in summer." He commented, observing his guard curiously.
Merlin nodded and then with a barely concealed hope asked "And the roof? Is it accessible?"
Gaius blinked. "The roof? I... yes, there's a stairwell at the end of the corridor. It leads to the battlements. Why?"
Merlin shrugged, suppressing a mischievous smirk that wanted to form in his lips. "Good to know. In case of fire." He excused with fake innocence.
It was a sound answer. Gaius knew that wasn't the actual reason, but he didn’t press the issue. He also learned it was best that way.
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That night, after everything was settled and weariness started to seep in his bones, Merlin lay in his new bed and stared at the ceiling.
This was new, unexpected, but surprisingly, not unwelcome. The room was small but clean, it had a bed, a washstand, and a small chest for belongings. There was a small window high up the wall that let in a sliver of moonlight. And, a door with a latch that worked.
He'd checked the latch four times before lying down.
He knew he'd check it again before sleeping. And probably once more in the middle of the night, if he woke up needing reassurance. Despite all that, Camelot he told himself, is safe. He had Gaius just through the main room. The chamber was multiple stairs and doors away from the outside world. Guards patrolled the corridors, royal guards, trained men. And magic was illegal here, punishable by death.
Oddly enough, that was the best reassurance he had so far.
Gaius had found him around three years ago. Merlin had been walking along a road, just walking—no destination, no purpose, no anything—when the old physician's cart appeared. Gaius had taken one look at him and stopped.
Merlin didn't remember much about those first weeks. Just flashes: a warm bed, broth that someone kept trying to make him drink, a voice that never raised, hands that never grabbed. He'd woken screaming more times than he could count. He'd flinched from every touch. He'd gone days without speaking, and Gaius had simply waited, patient as stone.
Eventually, he'd started talking. Eventually, he'd started eating. Eventually, he'd started helping with the herbs and the poultices, learning the healer's trade because it gave his hands something to do and his mind somewhere to go. And, eventually, he started getting better.
And now they were in Camelot. Because Gaius had been summoned by the King, Uther Pendragon, who had lost his own physician and needed a new one, and Merlin had nowhere else to go.
Nowhere else I want to go, he corrected himself. Gaius was the closest thing to family he had. He wasn't leaving.
He checked the latch again. Still secure.
He closed his eyes and waited for morning.
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It was the next day. Merlin had slept surprisingly well and woke feeling more energized than he had in a long time.
He rose quietly, pulled on fresh clothes, and set about his morning tasks. First, a quick inventory of the physician's chambers, checking that everything they'd brought had made it inside, that the supplies they'd need for breakfast were somewhere in the cluttered space. He found a small sack of oats, some dried fruit, and a pot that would do for cooking. Good.
He got the fire going, added some kindling and swung the crane into place. While the water heated, he cleared the worktable of its scattered equipment, stacking books and jars to one side to make room for their meal. The rhythm of it was familiar, comfortable. Just morning chores. Nothing that required him to think at such an early hour.
By the time Gaius emerged from his room, blinking against the light, Merlin had two bowls of porridge ready, a pot of tea steeping and some barely stale bread from their traveling leftover supplies.
"You're up early," Gaius observed, settling onto the bench.
"Couldn't sleep in. New place." Merlin shrugged, pushing a bowl toward him. "Figured I'd get things organized."
Gaius accepted the porridge with a nod. His eyes swept over the room, the organized table, the crackling fire, the supplies neatly arranged, and something warm flickered in his expression. But all he said was, "Good. We have much to do today."
Merlin sat across from him with his own bowl, and they ate in comfortable silence for a bit.
"You'll need to meet the Court," Gaius said over breakfast. "Not today. Today we'll keep to the quarters, get things organized. But eventually, you'll be seen. People will ask questions."
Merlin tore off a piece of bread. "What should I tell them?"
"That you're from Ealdor. A small village. That I'm training you as my apprentice." Gaius paused. "They don't need to know more."
Merlin understood. They'd discussed it, once, in those early years when he'd finally started talking again. Who should I say I am? he'd asked. And Gaius had looked at him with something ancient and sad in his eyes and said, You're my apprentice. That's true. The rest... the rest is ours. No one else's.
"I can do that," Merlin said.
It wasn't about shame. But if people knew Gaius was his uncle, they'd ask about his mother. And he didn't think he could answer those questions. Not now, maybe never.
So he was from Ealdor. He was Gaius's apprentice. That was all.
"She'd be proud of you," Gaius said quietly, not looking at him. "Coming here. Starting fresh. Living."
Merlin's jaw tightened. He focused on his bread, tearing it into smaller and smaller pieces. "I'm not starting fresh. I'm just... following you."
"Following me into a castle full of people. Into a life you could have refused." Gaius finally looked at him. "That takes courage. Even if you don't feel it."
Gaius knew. Gaius always knew. So Merlin said nothing and they kept eating.
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Later that day, as he and Gaius finished organizing some of the physician's belongings, a light knock came at the door. Both occupants were startled, neither had expected company so soon from their arrival. But if Merlin has to guess, injury awaits no man. So after a quick exchanged glance, Gaius called them in.
The door opened to reveal a knight. Tall, blonde, with defined features and a polite stance. But something was wrong. He held his arm awkwardly against his chest, and a sheen of cold sweat glistened on his brow. The pallor of his skin made him look almost translucent, but even that couldn't hide the green that threatened to overtake.
"Forgive the intrusion," the knight said, his voice tight with pain. "I was told there's a physician in residence now."
Gaius was already rising, gesturing toward the treatment bench. "You were told correctly. Come in, sit down. What happened?" He talked as he moved closer to the bench.
"Training accident." The knight moved carefully, lowering himself onto the bench with a grimace. "Took a hit to the shoulder. Felt something... give."
Gaius nodded, his hands already reaching for the injured arm with practiced gentleness. "Let me see."
Merlin hovered at the edge of the room, watching. He knew this dance, knew when to stay back, when to step in. The knight's shoulder was bad. Even from here, Merlin could see the wrongness of it, the way the joint sat where it shouldn't.
Gaius probed carefully, asking questions, where did it hurt, how had he landed, could he move his fingers. The knight answered steadily despite the pain, his composure was impressive. It made Merlin wonder if that was a feature of this specific knight, or if that was one trained into all Camelot’s knights. He guessed he'd find out one way or another once they treat more of them
Finally, Gaius looked up, scanning the room until his eyes found Merlin.
"Merlin. Fetch the wide sling from the shelf. And the willow bark."
Merlin moved.
The supplies were where Gaius had shown him, the wide sling folded on the third shelf, the willow bark in a jar beside the dried chamomile. He brought everything to Gaius's side without being asked, setting them within easy reach. Then he stepped back once again, waiting.
Gaius acknowledged him with a small nod. To the knight, he said, "This will hurt. But it needs to go back in place, and the longer we wait, the worse it will be."
The knight's jaw tightened. "Just do it."
"Merlin." Gaius didn't look up. "The tea. He'll need it after."
Merlin retreated to the small stove, filling a kettle with water, measuring the willow bark into a cup. Behind him, he heard Gaius's quiet voice walking the knight through what was about to happen. The knight's responses were short, strained, but he didn't argue.
Then. A sharp cry, quickly cut off.
Merlin didn't flinch. Being a physician's apprentice taught him to stay steady in the face of others' pain. He focused on the tea, on the steam rising from the kettle, on the simple task of pouring water over dried bark and getting some honey to sweeten the bitter and strong acidic after-taste of the infusion.
By the time he turned around, the knight was slumped forward, breathing hard, but the wrongness in his shoulder was gone. Gaius was already reaching for the sling.
"Here." Merlin approached carefully, making sure the knight saw him coming, and held out the cup. "Drink this. It'll help with the pain."
The knight looked up. His eyes were grey, still hazy with pain, but something in them sharpened as they focused on Merlin. "You're the apprentice."
"Merlin." He offered a small smile. "And you are?"
"Leon." The knight took the cup with his good hand, managing a weak smile in return. "Sir Leon. Though just Leon is fine when I'm not on duty." He sipped the tea, grimaced at the bitterness he could still somewhat tell despite the honey, then sipped again. "You're young for an apprentice."
"So I've been told."
Gaius finished securing the sling, stepping back to assess his work. "Keep that arm immobile for at least a week, probably two. No training, no lifting, no heroics. Cold towels for the swelling, and more of that tea as needed. Come back in three days so I can check it."
Leon nodded, testing the sling's fit. "Thank you. Both of you." He looked at Merlin again, something thoughtful in his expression. "The last physician... We learned to patch ourselves up, mostly. It's good to have someone who actually knows what they're doing."
"Gaius knows what he's doing," Merlin said. "I'm just learning."
"Learning fast, by the look of it." Leon finished the tea and carefully stood, swaying just slightly. Merlin's hand twitched, an old instinct, reaching to steady, but he caught himself. The knight was already finding his balance. "I should report back. The Prince will want to know the physician's quarters are in good hands."
"The Prince?" Merlin asked.
Leon's mouth twitched. "Arthur. He sent me, actually. Saw me take the hit and ordered me here before I could argue." He paused, then added, "He acts like he doesn't care about the men, but he does. Just doesn't like showing it."
Merlin filed that away. The Prince cared. Interesting.
Leon moved toward the door, pausing with his hand on the latch. "I'll see you both in three days, then." He nodded to Gaius, then to Merlin. "Welcome to Camelot."
Then he was gone.
The door closed behind him with a soft thud. Merlin stood there for a moment, staring at it, then turned to find Gaius watching him with that particular expression, the one that meant he was pleased but wouldn't say so directly.
"Well," Gaius said. "That went smoothly."
Merlin shrugged, but there was a small warmth in his chest. "You did the hard part."
"I did the bones. You made the tea and you were calm, that helped him too." Gaius's eyes were knowing. "That matters, Merlin. Never doubt it."
Hear me out. Arthur loved Merlin purely because he is who he is, he was so fond of him without knowing most of the reasons why he should be, but Merlins love for Arthur was always tainted by destiny, he wouldn't love him even half as much without knowledge of this invisible strings that tied him to Arthur, he did love him immensely, of course, but this love wasn't as pure and natural as Arthur's love for him
The creatures creep closer with every second, and the journey to The Isle is every bit as difficult as the group expect it to be. An unexpected but more than welcome visitor helps them out.
Part 1
TW: Angst, bittersweet ending.
They set off that afternoon, not wanting to take any chances, thankfully not facing any resistance from the council for once. Gaius elects to stay behind, and though Arthur tries to make Leon, Morgana, and Gwen stay behind as well, so they can keep an eye on things, he doesn’t get anywhere, receiving nothing but raised eyebrows, crossed arms, and planted feet until he backs off.
The journey is slow and tense as they make their way towards The Isle of The Blessed, all of them feeling a sense of dread; not once have any of them been there and had something good happen. Elyan and Gwen stick close together, Leon and Arthur stick close together, Gwaine and Percival stick close together, and Mordred and Morgana stick close together. Each natural pairing gains a Merlin at some point, though never for long, and untrusting glances continue to be thrown between the two of them until they finally settle into a camp, hours after dark has fallen. Then, the Current Merlin levels a slightly harsh stare on the side of the other Merlin’s head, and said other Merlin in turn stares at the floor with blank eyes, hands fiddling tightly in his lap.
Gwaine, ever the one to break the silence, is the first to speak in what feels like days, directing his question to the group, and then to the Merlins specifically:
“I have what may be a slightly... insensitive question, if the two of you don’t mind?”
The both of them look to him, dragged from the inner workings of their minds’, and raise an eyebrow each, speaking eerily in sync:
“Depends on the question.”
It almost echoes around the forest, but the glares they shoot each other is distracting enough that Gwaine just clears his throat and says:
“... Ok. Now there’s two insensitive questions. One, who’s Freya? I don’t understand, how can one name convince you-”
He nods at his Merlin:
“-that he-”
He nods at the other:
“-is actually you somehow?”
Gwaine’s own Merlin clenches his jaw and looks away, half angry, half suddenly teary, and mutters:
“Not that question.”
But the other Merlin sighs and answers truthfully. His voice is quiet and he can’t quite look anyone in the eyes, but they all hear him loud and clear:
“I was going to marry her, a long time ago, but things went... awry, and she died. With the benefit of hindsight, I know that I could’ve saved her, but that’s what regret is, isn’t it? The benefit of hindsight?”
His counterpart glares at him viciously, his head whipping around and his eyes furious when he realises the other man has no intention of lying or keeping his mouth shut:
“Do you mind?! This isn’t your time, your life, you don’t get to fuck things up for me just because they’re fucked up for you.”
The camp goes chillingly silent, but the other Merlin just shrugs his shoulders and shoots himself a look, half condescendingly amused, half hateful:
“Yeah, well, we’ve always loved a bit of self-flagellation haven’t we? And anyway, they’ll keep asking question after question, now they know about the magic thing and the destiny thing and the immortality thing. I’m doing you a favour.”
Current Merlin snorts in clear derision, and looks away with rolled eyes and a shaken head. Gwaine clears his throat again, opens his mouth, closes it, opens it, and asks his next question, his timid voice somehow overflowing with curiosity:
“That... leads me on to question number two. Why do you two hate each other so much? You’re... the same person??”
Though a few of the people sat around the fire, Gwen and Mordred and Percival, look upset at the question, the others just seem intrigued, like they’d been on the edge of their seats, waiting for someone to ask. The two Merlins look to each other, and when Future Merlin shrugs and looks away, Current Merlin huffs, rolls his eyes, and answers quietly. It’s an odd sort of kinship they have, one in which they know almost exactly what the other is thinking, can have whole conversations in glances and tapped fingers and haughty scoffs, but still can’t stand each other:
“Have you ever... looked in a mirror, for the first time in a long time, and really... seen yourself? Your face, your hands, the blood on them? Seen how tired you are? How miserable? Except this time it’s not a two-dimensional image, it’s another version of you, warm and bloody and thinking and feeling, staring right back at you;-”
He gives them a crooked, self-deprecating grin as he quirks his eyebrow, almost challengingly:
“-it hates you as much as you hate it.”
No one quite has an answer to that, all, including Arthur, staring at him with a desperate sort of sadness, diluted with confusion at just... what could possibly have happened to make Merlin hate himself so much? Elyan is the first to speak, what feels like hours later but is probably less than a minute:
“That’s... a lot of self-loathing, Merlin. How in the name of the Gods does that sort of thing happen without anyone noticing? You’re... you’re Merlin?”
This time, Future Merlin takes the question, starting with a scornful, sarcastic snort, and ending with a tone of voice that speaks to years and years of agonising isolation:
“When you’ve made the decisions I’ve... we’ve had to make, done the things we’ve had to do... When you have to weigh the pros and cons of every life that’s ever been in your hands, every life that’s even just passed you by, and have to watch as the scales tip towards a decision that you know you’re going to have to... live with, often enough that at the end of the day, you’re more monster than man, all for one person, one ideal, one destiny, that you’re losing more and more belief in with every passing minute... well. Self loathing sort of comes with the territory.”
Everyone looks horrified at his little speech, more so when their own Merlin doesn’t even react, just stares into the fire, perfectly still, perfectly unbothered. Arthur begins regretting his anger more and more by every crackle of the fire, and is the first to break the eerie silence:
“Merlin? Is this true?”
His voice is quiet, but it carries strong over the sound of the flames, and his own Merlin looks up to him blankly, only briefly, before he sighs and looks down again:
“Destiny... is a fickle thing.”
Arthur flinches at the words, certain that he’s heard them, or a variation of them, from Merlin’s mouth possibly several times over the years. He asks the dreaded question:
“You both keep mentioning this... destiny. What destiny?”
The identical Warlocks turn to look at each other, for once seeming to seek a comforting agreement instead of sending an argumentative glare. The slightly older of the two sighs and gives his counterpart a smile that’s part pitying, part proud:
“It... might be time, Merlin. As I’ve already proven, things can go to shit at any moment.”
Though most of the people sat around the fire are tense and apprehensive, the group’s Merlin just nods, sighing and clenching his jaw before looking back to The King with a shadow in his eyes that makes him almost indifferentiable from his traumatised future self. Arthur wonders just what that means, but takes a breath, preparing himself for the oncoming explanation:
“Albion, The Forever King, and The Eternal One. There’s this...-”
He sighs again and looks down, fiddling with his hands. He speaks as though he has to force the words out, but after ten years of apparent secrecy, no one can find it in themselves to hurry him along:
“-there’s this prophecy, that you’ll be the greatest King Camelot has ever known, unite the Kingdoms—collectively named Albion—under your High Rule, and bring peace and unification between... between the magic, and the non magic. I’m meant to... protect you, guide you, stand... uh... by your side, I guess.”
Arthur’s expression goes blank, ever so briefly, but then his face pales and he gulps, shaking his head ever so slightly:
“Magic and non... Merlin, why did you never say anything?”
His face and voice seem distraught, almost teary, but both Merlins look to him with a flash of anger, gone in a second for the Future, who looks away, obviously unable to stare at the face of an Arthur that isn’t his whilst maintaining his fury. The time’s Merlin doesn’t have any problems with the tense eye contact as he grinds out through an unrelenting grief:
“Ten years of having everyone around you tell you, unknowingly, that you’re a monster and have been since birth, ten years of everyone who knows about the prophecies parroting that *telling Arthur is the worst possible thing you could do*, really effects a person, really alters the way you think.-”
Arthur obviously wants to interject, but Merlin doesn’t give him the chance, furrowing his brow and clenching his fists as he continues:
“-And besides all that, excuse me for thinking I’d ever be safe in your presence if you knew the truth, King of the self-proclaimed We-Hate-Magic-And-All-Those-Who-Use-It-and-Burn-Sorcerers-As-Public-Entertainment Kingdom. Or as you like to call it, Camelot.”
Arthur, wide-eyed and mouth open, keeps his teary stare firmly fixed on his own Merlin, though the others glance between the two versions nervously, heartbroken and not quite knowing what to say. The other Merlin catches Gwaine’s eye and gives him a small smile, muttering:
“It’s been a tough... decade.”
The King finally finds his voice, breathlessly asking, barely heard over the hooting owls and spluttering campfire:
“You’ve been waiting. For me. For ten years. My Gods, Merlin... I’m so... I don’t even know what to say, I’m so sorry.”
Before Merlin can even answer, his face, despite Arthur’s apology, still unnervingly blank, Mordred speaks up, timidly, but with an undercurrent of confidence that presumably comes from a lifetime of belief in something bigger than himself:
“A lot of people have been waiting, My Lord. A lot of people have been waiting for a very long time.”
Arthur doesn’t have time to open his mouth to ask what on Earth his youngest knight means, doesn’t even have time to blink, before Mordred’s eyes are flashing golden and the fire flares green for a moment. Everything returns to its normal colour, and The King lets out a sudden breath, deflating under the weight of his realised failure. Both Merlins seem perturbed that Mordred had outed himself, despite the young man's—almost boy’s—insistence on appearing strong. He’s failing only marginally; his face remains stubbornly challenging, but his hands shake in his lap.
The atmosphere is charged and heavy, thick with a swirling mix of emotions flowing in and out of everyone’s lungs, becoming more and more potent with each exhalation; it’s anger, misery, guilt, perhaps just a touch of pride. Both Merlins, despite the presence of Mordred and Morgana, feel as though they’ve never missed Lancelot’s quiet, determined, hand-hidden-on-the-small-of-their-back support, more than this very moment.
Arthur is the first to break the teary stare between Mordred and himself when the youngest of his knights refuses to look away; he can’t even muster up an apology, can’t look anyone in the eyes when he calls for everyone to pull out their bedrolls. The watches are decided haphazardly between the others, and no one questions it or argues when Merlin, Mordred, and Morgana settle close together—the King’s sister had always been protective of the youngest of them, and they accept rather easily that she had likely already known about Mordred’s magic, if not Merlin’s as well. The other Merlin strays as far away from the fire as he can without freezing in the cold of the night, and the way his counterpart relaxes more and more with every pace he takes away from The King is mostly ignored by everyone else.
~
The next day follows as the previous afternoon: silent, tense, awkward.
Arthur figures, when they settle into camp again as the sun falls, that they’ll make it to the shore of The Isle after only an hour or so of travel the next morning; originally, the Future Merlin had pushed for the group to keep going, but Gwen’s soft groan of saddle pain—badly hidden despite her effort—softens his resolve, and he allows the group to build a fire, cook some food, and sit in their customary circle.
Just like the day had followed from the previous, the night follows as well, though this time it’s Leon that starts the almost-interrogation of the two Merlins:
“I... I understand not liking each other. I understand looking at your own face and seeing nothing but the mistakes you’ve made, the decisions you’ve been forced to undertake. I’ve... I’ve done plenty of things I regret,-”
He looks away briefly, and a select few members of the group frown at the First Knight’s rare display of weakness before he looks back:
“-done things I’ll never forgive myself for. But how can you not trust each other? Merlin, or, that Merlin,-”
He nods at the version that isn’t quite his own:
“-is right: regret is formed with the benefit of hindsight, but in the moment... in the moment you are the one who makes those decisions, and you’re the same person. He’s only got one week’s worth of hindsight, and considering him just being here has already changed his past, I hardly think it counts any more. So how can you not trust each other?”
He says how can you not trust each other, but it’s hardly hidden that the question is aimed solely at his own Merlin. They both dislike each other in equal parts, sure, but the distrust comes from the time’s Merlin only, and it’s obvious to anyone who looks between them.
The Future Merlin smirks and shrugs his shoulders, signalling to himself that... he’s going to have to answer this one on his own. Though the others get the distinct impression that he knows the answer anyway. The slightly younger of the two Merlins takes in a deep breath, holding the cool air in his lungs for a moment before he lets it all out and levels a judging, assessing gaze on his other. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t even blink, as he replies, his voice difficult to read in it’s monotony:
“A lot can happen in a week, and I’m a very good liar.”
The other continues his smirking and quirks his head to the side slightly, obviously in agreement, half accepting that his past self doesn’t trust him, though also half annoyed. The knights, the King, Morgana, and Gwen, evidently don’t think his answer explains anything at all and wait in silence for him to expand; when he doesn’t, Morgana—who had previously been intent on staying silent, lest she give something away or upset Merlin—asks, her words slow and her voice low:
“Surely not that much can happen in a week? And even then, a week, a year, ten years... you’re still the same person.”
The other Merlin, now being ignored for the most part, raises an eyebrow in his counterpart’s direction, wondering just how he planned on explaining it; he knows how he would explain it, but Leon had been right, him just being here had changed things, maybe even the way he used to think. It’s all fucking with his mind a little, if he’s honest, so he tries not to dwell on it too much.
Morgana’s Merlin shakes his head, frowning, and though he glances up at his future self for just a split second, he answers with his gaze firmly focused on his Witch friend:
“No, he’s me, I’m not him, not yet.-”
He seems content to leave it there, but with the way everyone stares at him, he knows he’s not going to be able to get away with that. He huffs out an annoyed sigh and rolls his eyes, continuing:
“-What I mean, is that... with the life I lead, the things I’ve done, the things I have to live with... the decisions, the death, the pain, the... the loss,-”
He voice cracks slightly, but no one calls him out on it, not even when his future self blinks away sudden tears and looks off into the forest. He clears his throat, gulps, and continues, his voice forcefully louder and very... matter-of-fact:
-well. I’ve always been hyper aware that it might only take one more thing, one more tragedy, to... uh... send me over the edge, as it were. I’ve always been averse to proving Uther right, but if there is one person in all the Kingdoms whose mind is susceptible to snapping under the weight of magic and all the suffering my destiny has brought... it’s me. Like I said, a lot can happen in a week; yes, he’s me, that’s exactly why I don’t trust him.”
Arthur, at long last, is the one to reply this time. He seems confused, and heartbroken, and guilty, and angry, all in one, every inflection of his voice in every syllable he utters floating across the camp with a different emotion buried in it:
“So you... what? Think that at some point in that week, you went insane, killed everyone yourself, and then came up with an elaborate story so you could travel back in time and... do it all again?”
Everyone’s eyes gradually get wider as Arthur goes on, and then get impossibly wider still when both versions of Merlin just tilt their head and shrug their mouths, answering, once again, in eerie harmony:
“It’s a possibility.”
They don’t glare at each other this time, they barely even notice, in fact, that they’ve both said the same thing at the same time. When Arthur orders everyone to sleep that night, they all toss and turn in equal parts, unable to sleep both out of fear for their friend, and, as much as no one would admit it, as much as they all hate themselves a little for it, fear of their friend.
~
Arthur would have been right, in that the journey the next morning would only take an hour or so, had everyone had at least a few hours of sleep the previous night. As it is, it’s almost noon before they reach the shore of the lake surrounding The Isle. They had barely slept a wink between them, and even on horseback they’re sluggish and aching and slow. When they finally make it however, there’s an air of relief around them, like they know that, some way or another, it will all be over soon. It being the oppressive atmosphere that has been hanging low over their heads, choking down their throats into their lungs, dulling their senses but heightening their emotions, since the Merlin from the Future had appeared in the Throne Room, dirty and bloody and so very very scared.
The King, the knights, the servant, don’t quite know what they plan on doing once they get there, but they board the boats anyway, trusting, despite last night’s conversation, that Merlin would know what to do. Merlin who had raised an eyebrow at the appearance of multiple boats, with just enough room to carry them all across, but hadn’t questioned it in any way other than sending a narrow-eyed glare of suspicion to his future self, and a confused but passive shrug of his shoulders to Mordred and, more subtly, Morgana.
When they get to the other side and clamber through the overgrown ruins to the centre of The Isle, the room where they last sore The Veil torn just around the corner, they see... not who they were expecting. Their own Merlin is the first to figure out who it is pacing up and down the courtyard with his arms folded tightly across his chest as he mutters angrily to himself. The Warlock stops in his tracks, shocked, before he breaks out into a sprint, calling his name:
“LANCE!”
The man looks up, grinning widely and rushing to meet Merlin in the middle, embracing him tightly as the others stare, suspicious, but hopeful enough to smile and hurry their pace. When they get there, they can see that this truly is their own Lancelot, his eyes devoid of the evil darkness that they hadn’t noticed in the Shade until it was too late. The deceased knight barely spares them a glance, holding Merlin so tightly Arthur fears he might crush him, before pulling back, holding him by the shoulders, and rushing out his words:
“Thank the Gods you’re here, everything’s about to go to shit and I really don’t know what to do about it. Merlin, they’re coming, they’re going to-”
He’s cut off by the other Merlin, pale and shaking and the only one not sporting a smile as he stares at his old friend with wide, teary eyes; Arthur supposes it’s more difficult for this Merlin to see him, having already lost everyone else. This Lancelot... he’s the only one that both Merlins are on equal footing with. He is neither the time’s, nor the future’s:
“We... we know. That’s why we’re here. Why I’m here.”
Lance manages to stare at him with an open mouth for a moment, then look between him and his counterpart, and then glance to The King, before the man at his side sighs and deigns to give him an, albeit rushed and clipped, explanation:
“Everything already went to shit for him. He’s from the future, where the creatures came through, supposedly killed everyone, leaving only him. He came back a week in time to warn us, and here we are. How are you here?”
Lancelot just raises an eyebrow:
“Supposedly?”
The Merlin from the future just rolls his eyes as everyone else looks marginally uncomfortable, but the Current Merlin just waves his question away:
“A long story, doesn’t matter. How are you here?”
Lancelot hesitates for only a moment, but lets out a breath and shrugs his shoulders, accepting that he isn’t going to get much more than that:
"The Veil’s torn again. I’m... uh... somewhat of a special case apparently, I can move between Avalon and The Darkness fairly easily, unlike creatures like the Dorocha and their more... violent, counterparts. The tear meant I could climb through, before the creatures thank God, but I can’t leave the Isle. I’ve just been waiting for someone to pass, for something, anything, for me to be able to get a message to you. I guess you didn’t need me though.”
He finishes with a grin, and moves around the group, hugging everyone tightly, especially the King, Gwen, and the other Merlin, much to the Current Merlin’s evident, badly hidden, annoyance. He takes care not to waste too much time, speaking to Arthur as he lands a hand on each of the Merlins’ shoulders; the way he squeezes however, tells them that he’s actually speaking to them:
“So. How do you plan on fixing this, My Lord? Because unfortunately, I know nothing of use, other than the fact that the Veil has to close.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms:
“I’ve no clue, but I’m assuming that the two Merlins and Mordred will be able to figure something out. What with their magic and all.”
Lancelot freezes, only momentarily though, before he leans to one side, speaking to one of the Merlins:
“... When did that happen?”
Future Merlin, not that Lancelot knows that, having already lost track of which is which, tilts his head and mutters, only just loud enough for the others to hear and snort at:
“About twenty minutes after I had everyone shitting themselves by appearing out of nowhere in the Throne Room.”
Lancelot just nods, muttering a quiet “Fair enough.-” before speaking up, somehow managing to stop himself from glancing to Morgana, knowing that, for whatever reason, her own magic hadn’t been outed quite yet:
“-So! I’m assuming the plan is just... see what you can manage?-”
The three Warlocks look to each other, one decidedly more worried than the other two, before shrugging and looking back to the knight, nodding their assent:
“-The Tear is just around the corner and it’s pretty... gruesome.”
They all frown at that, and with a glance to each other that is, once again, less suspicious and hateful than the group had become used, the two Merlins turn around and lead the way into the next room.
The Tear is immediately obvious, and the group doesn’t understand how they had missed it before, what with the noise. It’s deafening, seeming to suck all sound from the room and amplify it back to them, loud and distorted and painful. They would have to shout over it to be able to hear each other, but equally, they loath the idea of contributing more turbulence to the cacophony. Gwen, Morgana, and Mordred, in particular, stare at the deep, black, seemingly endless crack in the fabric of their existence with a horror they’ve never experienced before. The others... they have experienced it before, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less horrifying, and they struggle to rip their eyes away to look at the Merlins. It’s only their clothes that tell them apart, their clothes, and the way that only one of them seems to be going pale and shaky at the sound of the ear piercing screeches coming from inside the Veil. Like nails on slate.
Lance is the first to yell, his voice echoing in all different pitches and tones around the room as he struggles to be heard:
“You need to figure it out soon! It’s been getting bigger by the minute, and I have to slip back through, to Avalon, before you shut it, otherwise it won’t work!”
Gwen responds quickly, seeming to lose interest in The Veil entirely as a few tears escape her eyes:
“You can’t stay? Can’t we find a way to bring you off the Island? Can’t you come home?!”
He frowns, teary himself as he shakes his head:
“No. I’m sorry, Gwen, I don’t belong here. I have... responsibilities. And part of my soul being forced to resurrect in the form of a Shade... that’s the whole reason this happened. I have to go.”
Everyone accepts it quickly enough, though they’re clearly unhappy about having to let him go once more. They suppose it’s easier now that they know he’s ok; he’s happy, safe, keeping busy in... Avalon, wherever that is. The time’s Merlin grips his arm tightly at a particularly vicious gust of wind, and changes the subject:
“You know the most about this, how do we shut it?”
He looks to The Veil, looks to The King, and seeing the trust in his eyes, looks to the two Merlins:
“You’re Emrys! You have enough power, especially between the two of you, and especially if Mordred and- especially if Mordred helps. Just tell it what you want it to do, it should obey!”
If anyone notices his slip up, no one points it out; Mordred nods and steps forward, though frowns when a thought apparently occurs to him:
“What about the Cailleach?!”
Lancelot appears angry, only for a moment before it disappears and he yells over the growing noise:
“Fuck her! You don’t need her, not anymore! We’re running out of time!!”
The group nods, all gripping each other tightly as the wind grows, almost lifting them from the ground and dragging them into the rift; Percival has both Gwen and Elyan clinging to him, finding safety in the heaviest and strongest of them all, whilst Gwaine, Leon, Arthur, and Morgana anchor each other. Lancelot turns to face the Veil, pulling the two Merlins and Mordred together so they don’t trip and slide towards the Tear when he lets go. Everyone has to stop themselves from reaching out towards him when he begins walking towards the Veil, leaning back against the violent force to stop himself from being taken off his feet. He turns back at the last moment, screaming as loud as his lungs can manage and still only barely being heard:
“Merlin!! I’ll come find you next time you die and bring you to Avalon! Freya wants to see you! She misses you!!”
Both Merlins tear up, but the current allows the future to answer, already suspecting what will happen if they succeed; he’s decided that if... if this is where either everyone dies, or this Merlin ceases to exist, then he can afford to be a little kind to himself:
“Tell her I love her!!”
Lancelot smiles slightly and nods, but doesn’t get time to answer before the gale becomes too much for him to resist and he has to step through, to the other side.
The Veil tears even more, growing tall into the sky as sharp black claws rip through, holding on to the edge of existence as their anchor. Mordred is the first one to thrust his arms forwards, his eyes glowing golden as he yells:
“We don’t have time!! It looks like they’re early so it’s now or never!!”
The Merlins nod and push their own hands forward, groaning with the effort of forcing their magic to the edges of the Tear without letting it pull them into oblivion. With a blinding light of gold clashing against darkness, the edges slowly begin to push together, starlight stitches appearing at the top and bottom, pulling tightly and disappearing into the bright noon sky as the Veil heals, forcing the claws so disappear. It’s slow work, difficult and tiring, and after minutes of the Veil barely closing a few metres in all the time, Mordred groans loudly, hands shaking, eyes clamped shut:
“This isn’t... this isn’t enough! I can’t keep this up!!”
He sounds close to tears in his agony, and Morgana decides, in that moment, that she should have matched his bravery two days ago; she lets go of her brother, allowing the darkness to pull her forward, catching herself between the two Merlins even as Arthur reaches out for her desperately:
“Morgana!! What are you doing?!”
She can barely speak as she lifts her own arms, gold spilling from her eyes and hands and joining with the stitches of Merlin, Merlin, and Mordred:
“What I... should have done.... from the beginning!!”
No one says anything more, all praying and hoping and begging that this, whatever this is, is enough.
A minute passes. Two. Three. Four. The three Warlocks and the Witch seem to gain traction, their power growing more and more intense the further they manage to push The Veil closed. Eventually, despite the deafening noise and the blinding light, they manage it, closing the last of the darkness away with a great heave of breath and one last push.
Everyone falls to the floor, panting, feeling as though they’re floating with the sudden lack of extreme force on their bodies. The magic users are the last to rise, only able to get to their feet as other members of the group rush towards them on wobbly legs and pull them up, Gwen and Elyan to Morgana, Gwaine to Mordred, Arthur to one Merlin, and Leon to the other.
It’s Elyan. clearing his throat and still gripping tightly to his sister, that is the first to break the blissful silence:
“How do we-”
He realises he’s yelling and coughs again, speaking quietly:
“-How do we know it worked? We thought the Veil was closed last time, but apparently not.”
Leon’s Merlin, the group’s Merlin, answers gravely, glancing to his future self with what looks disturbingly like pity:
“We should know soon enough.”
He barely finishes his sentence when his counterpart collapses to the floor, dragging Arthur down with him. Everyone goes quickly to crowd the two of them, but Merlin waves a hand and they’re frozen in their spots; the magic seems to be tiring him faster than normal, which is to be expected, so he just shakes his head subtly as he looks to each of them before releasing them all. They seem to get the idea, staying back back but staring on mournfully as Arthur rests the other Merlin’s head in his lap, cradling him ever so gently:
“No.”
The creature smiles weakly but shakes his head:
“All your courage, Arthur, it can’t save me now.”
Tears drop from Arthur’s eyes as he shuffles on the floor, trying to keep Merlin comfortable but also hovering his hands over his chest, trying to figure out what’s wrong:
“I won’t lose you, not after everything, I-”
Merlin rolls his eyes fondly and takes his hand in a weak grip. He’s lethargic, more than that, his movements slurred as he opens and closes his mouth, like he keeps forgetting what he wants to say. His eyes close, and Arthur, among everyone, weeps, thinking it the last time, before they fly open again. He struggles slightly, and though The King is shocked, he doesn’t let go, clamping his eyes shut when Merlin’s remain unfocused and confused. He mutters quietly, frightened and angry, though everyone hears him, even over the sound of their own heartbreak:
“Elyan... I left... I can’t... I can’t go. I left... left him. I have to... he’s hurt, I left him.”
Elyan darts forward, kneeling down opposite Arthur and taking Merlin’s other hand softly in his own, stroking his forehead until he looks up at him:
“You didn’t leave me, Merlin, I’m right here. You and I are staying right here, neither of us are going anywhere.-”
He looks up to his own Merlin, grateful that no one acknowledges the tears on his cheeks—though that would have been hypocritical, considering everyone bar their own Merlin is crying at least a little—as he whispers:
“-Is there nothing we can do?”
Elyan’s own Merlin sighs and shakes his head, responding with furrowed brows and soft words:
“I’m sorry. The time he came from... it doesn’t exist anymore. He doesn’t exist.”
Elyan gulps but nods, looking back down to the slowly dying creature in Arthur’s lap, not releasing his hand for a second as he smiles and repeats his earlier words:
“Neither of us are going anywhere. We won, Merlin, you just need to rest, and everything will be fine.”
His voice cracks and splits as he says it, and whether the creature smiles because he believes him, or smiles because he knows he’s lying, because he knows why he’s lying, Elyan can’t quite tell. He doesn’t think it matters really, not when he creaks out a groaned:
“Just, hold me please. Please.”
Arthur tightens the grip he has around his shoulders and chest and face, and Elyan holds his hand tightly, right through the last breath. Before they can even check for a pulse, the body shimmers slightly, fading and becoming glassy and see through before suddenly collapsing into sparkling white dust. Arthur and Elyan almost fall into each other before scrambling back, staring between their hands and the cloud of stardust currently floating away on a light breeze in horror. Merlin, their Merlin, the only Merlin, steps forward, kneeling down and resting a hand on either of their shoulders:
“He’s gone. But if it makes you feel any better... he never existed. Which means he never suffered. I’m... I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.-”
The two men look up at him quickly, pouncing on him with teary eyes and shaking limbs as the other members of the group finally crowd in, all grabbing softly at Merlin’s tunic and hair and hands, in desperate need of some sort of comfort, that he is here, that he isn’t going to turn to dust before their eyes.
Merlin sighs, tired, exhausted really, and allows himself to be held, gripping especially tightly to Arthur and Elyan, and forcing himself to remain hyper aware of Mordred and Morgana’s positions; at least half of his brain is always concerned about them. He struggles to stay awake as the warmth and pressure winds him down from an adrenaline fuelled desperation to fix the Veil, to a languid, listless need to just... let go. To not need to be so tightly held together, for once. The Warlock knows that sleeping is probably not the best thing he could do right now, and with the last of his resolve, he forces himself to stand, gently pushing everyone bar Arthur away from him:
“We should get back. I need a... a nap. And a drink.”
Arthur snorts a soft laugh, obviously equally as tired, but pulls him into another tight hug, cradling the back of Merlin’s head softly, but crushing their chests together tightly, not that the Warlock would complain:
“If you think I’m letting you out of my sight ever again...”
Merlin copies his laugh, holding onto Arthur securely and deciding, not too surprisingly, that if Arthur is content to follow him around and keep him safe for the rest of his life, despite everything, well then. Merlin is content with that as well. He’s always wanted a brother.
~
THE END!!!
At long last!!!
As a prologue, Merlin dirties himself up, travels back in time and re-enacts everything so that no... paradoxes or whatever appear. But it was so long I really couldn’t be bothered to write it all out just for the sake of fixing a minor plot hole.
I almost made this Merthur, but I also love some background Freylin so🥺🤩
*Bradley “Rooster’s* voice: Oh my gosh, this thing’s SO OLD. 😲
I think this videos still a good one, but its from like, six or seven years ago :-O I reuploaded it cause it’s been blocked. We should really vid more merlin at some point.
It started as all things start. With Merlin being late.
Arthur forces himself to act as though he doesn’t really care. He tries to force himself to genuinely believe it as well, but that never works and he gives up fairly quickly; Merlin is his best friend after all, not that he’d admit it to anyone but himself. It’s the middle day of the week, Audience Day, and his people wait in a long line outside of this room: he can hardly postpone it anymore than he already has with general blustering and excuses just because his manservant has yet to make an appearance. People might talk.
Well, he thinks, people might talk more than they already do. Damn guards.
The King calls a start to the event, and the first group of farmers trickle in with complaints of low yields and the occasional cow theft. It’s mind numbingly boring, but equally, Arthur forces himself to treasure this time; these days are for him to touch base with his people, to speak to them with smiled reassurances as a loving and involved King, as opposed to a faceless, systematic ruler.
He doesn’t think much time has passed, when it happens, but he can’t be certain; his mind, when it does happen, is immediately taken up with other things, and continues to be so for a rather extended period of time.
The last group of citizens, a handful of stall holders who are having trouble with thieves and pick-pocketers, shut the door behind them as they leave the hall, but before Arthur can gesture for the guards to let the next group in, some sort of... wave, erupts from the centre of the room, crashing outwards and forcing everyone who’s standing to stumble backwards. Before anyone can react, the room goes dark as clouds cover the sun and a sudden wind blows out the majority of the torches; a high pitched squealing, that only grows louder and louder and higher and higher, forces everyone to turn their faces away from the golden sparks at the wave’s epicentre.
The noise is near deafening, and Arthur squeezes his eyes shut as he clamps his hands over his ears; he feels as though his brain is about to leak from his skull, through any available orifice, and he’d rather that didn’t happen, if at all possible. The noise reaches a crescendo before a loud pop echoes around the room, and all falls silent.
It takes Arthur a few moments to recover, a loud ringing still buzzing in his head when he uncovers his ears and opens his eyes. Though disoriented, Leon has still managed to draw his sword and stumble his way to be in front of The King, and before Arthur even realises what he’s doing—he’s very proud of his training and instincts for kicking in before his brain—he’s pulled his own sword and pushed Morgana, much to her annoyance, behind him. His vision slowly clears, and the ringing stops all of a sudden, leaving a deathly silence broken only by the whimpers of frightened servants and councilmen, and the deep, though ready, breaths of Arthur, Morgana, and the guards.
Leon drops his sword to his side and Morgana lets loose a confused jumble of extremely worried sounding mutterings as Arthur’s eyes finally come into focus. He almost drops his sword at what he sees, but just about manages to keep a hold of it as he almost falls forwards, to be in line with his First Knight:
“Mer-...Merlin?”
His voice is croaked, sounding far too quiet to his own ears, but he can’t find it within himself to worry about the state of his hearing, the state of his brain even, not when Merlin stands dirtied and bloodied and shaking in the centre of the room, tears leaving clear tracks down the dust and blood that covers his face. Merlin just heaves, staring at him with wide eyes; he’s not quite sobbing, but it’s a close thing, and he’s clearly trying to keep himself under control. Arthur takes another step forward, intent upon reaching his frie- his manservant, before anyone else.
He doesn’t even register the sound of a door slamming open, not until a horrifically familiar voice yells out from behind him:
“Arthur, wait!”
Everyone’s head whips around to the servants’ entrance to see... Merlin. He’s out of breath, still holding on to the door for support as he stares at himself; Arthur wonders if the wave of... energy, he supposes, had reached beyond this room, and had prompted Merlin into a sprint from wherever it was he was skiving off to.
The room has gone silent, truly, not even the most uptight of councilmen demanding a punishment for Merlin’s address of The King. The clean Merlin, the Merlin that Arthur is sure is real (mostly due to the lack of magical entrance) stares at whatever creature has managed to steal his face in the centre of the room. Arthur stares between them in turn, unsure of his next move, similar to everyone else in the room. And the creature, the dirty Merlin, the other, allows his wide, frightened eyes to dart from person to person; Arthur, to Merlin, to Lord Geoffrey, to Leon, to a guard, to Morgana, to Elyan, to the servants huddled at the back of the room, and back to Arthur again. His expression seems to grow more and more wild the more people he lays eyes on, as if he’d previously had no idea of exactly where he’d appeared.
Arthur finally clears his throat, and with the noise, everyone seems to jump into action. The guards and knights who hadn’t already drawn their swords do so and begin closing in, the councilmen make for the back of the hall, uncaring enough of propriety in this moment to separate themselves from the servants, and Merlin, Arthur’s Merlin, slowly creeps forward, sending a confused glare to Morgana and Mordred, requited by both of them.
The intruder drops to his knees before anyone reaches him, blood soaked hands limp on his lap as he stares up at The King with desperation:
“I... I am Merlin... just not you’re Merlin. They’re coming. They’re coming. You have to stop them before...-”
He cuts himself off with a choked sob, clamping a hand over his mouth and looking down as he forces himself to take a deep breath before continuing, looking up again to see Arthur now in front of him, his sword barely an inch from his chin:
“-before it’s too late. They’re coming. Arthur, they’re coming.”
Arthur clenches his jaw, knowing that, even if it is some sort of falsity, he would never stop seeing this version of Merlin in his nightmares: frightened beyond belief, dirty, bloody, crying, a sword at his throat. Arthur’s sword:
“What Sorcery is this?”
Before the creature can say anything, Arthur’s Merlin speaks up again, from directly behind The King this time, his voice soothing down Arthur’s rigid spine:
“Arthur, the councilmen, the servants, they... they should go.”
Thankfully no one but Arthur seems to hear him, as not even the newest council member, a man who hasn’t seemed to understand yet what Merlin can get away with, protests when The King looks towards the crowd huddled in the corner, and nods towards the door:
“Out. Everyone, bar the Roundtable Core, out. Guards included.”
The guards seem hesitant, but they do follow the councilmen and servants out, and it’s only when Arthur, the five knights, Morgana, Gwen, Gaius, and... two Merlins are left, that Arthur looks up, frowning towards his sister:
“Morgana, Gwen, you should go too.”
Gwen’s lip twitches, but she otherwise doesn’t react, but Morgana rolls her eyes and openly scoffs:
“As if, brother dear. Not happening.”
Arthur’s frown deepens, but he doesn’t argue. He sort of knew it was pointless to ask in the first place, but he figured there was no harm in trying. He huffs, annoyance quickly forgotten when the body at his feet takes in a shaky breath and speaks, his voice cracking and tired:
“I don’t suppose we could... take this to your chambers or something. I... this place is...”
He trails off, and when Arthur looks back down to him, his eyes are focused on the Throne with such a wretched fear that The King can’t help but want to give this man, this Merlin, anything and everything he wants.
~
Someone, presumably a guard as the councilmen would’ve been too busy shitting themselves crying in their rooms to be useful, has put the castle on high alert, near full lockdown, but no one knows this building like Gwen, and she manages to lead everyone to Arthur’s chambers without being seen. There are still two knights outside his door, but the others crowd around the dirty Merlin, hiding him from view as The King curtly dismisses them. Again, they seem reluctant to go, but with the glare Morgana sends them, and the fact that The King will have five of the Kingdom’s best warriors following him into his rooms, prompts them to walk away with lighter consciences.
They all file into the room, the raggedy man held between Leon and Percival dropped semi-gently into one of the dining chairs as everyone gathers around him. He immediately bends over, burying his face in his hands as he tries to catch his breath before he seemingly bursts into tears. Leon stands right beside him, his hand on his sword, and Arthur stands facing him, a few feet away, Merlin at his shoulder and Gaius against the wall behind him. Gwaine perches himself on the end of the bed, Elyan and Percival standing either side of him, and Gwen stands by her brother, brows furrowed in concern and hands held tightly in front of her. Finally, Mordred and Morgana stand to the bent over creature’s other side, eyes flicking between Merlin and... Merlin, in concern and confusion.
Arthur is the first to speak, after taking a deep breath:
“You said that... they are coming. What’s they?”
The false Merlin looks up with bloodshot eyes and sniffles slightly, opening his mouth only to be interrupted by Gwaine, clearing his throat and standing from his soft perch with crossed arms:
“Wait. Why are we trusting this thing? It has Merlin’s face, and we’re asking it to... to tell us exactly what it wants to tell us before we figure out what the hell it is? How it got here? Who sent it? Morgause is still running around out there, pissed as hell because we destroyed her... her fake Lancelot, and de-brainwashed Gwen. How do we know this isn’t just another trick?”
Everyone notices the way Gwaine stutters over his dead friend’s name, but no one points it out. Merlin shares a quick look with Mordred and Morgana, confirming what they all know in just a split second of eye contact: that this is Merlin, someway, somehow. They can feel it in their magic, but it’s not like they can tell anyone else that. False Merlin doesn’t argue, actually just nods as though he’d been waiting for it, and everyone looks to his copy, or his... original, with expectation. Merlin frowns and shrugs his crossed arms:
“What do you want me to do?”
Arthur rolls his eyes, but Leon, still with his hand on the hilt of his sword, is the one to speak:
“Maybe... ask a question? Something about a childhood memory, or something only you would know, something that would prove that he really is you, and not Morgause’s approximation of you.”
Merlin nods, and looks to the filthy man with an odd mix of reserved-ness and sympathy; he thinks for a moment, brows furrowed, before his face clears and he nods:
“What’s one of the things you regret most in this world?”
The seated man stares up at him openly, eyes still weeping almost absent-mindedly, as if whatever it was that supposedly happened forces tears from him even when he isn’t thinking about it. He mutters one word as he looks away, almost ashamed, one name, his voice quiet and pained:
“Freya.”
The others look to Merlin just in time to see his jaw clench and his eyes dart away, welling slightly before he relaxes with a put-upon sigh. Arthur frowns but holds in his questions as his servant blinks away tears. He looks back to himself with a blank determination:
“Yeah, it’s me.-”
Unlike Arthur, Gwaine looks plenty prepared to start a friendly, though curious interrogation, but Merlin's quiet mutterings to himself interrupts him:
“-though that doesn’t mean I trust it.-”
He clears his throat and continues louder, without pause, before anyone can question him:
“-Where, or... when, are you from?”
Leon raises a confused eyebrow as he mutters “when?”, and Morgana takes in a quiet gasp as she is once more reminded of the breadth of Merlin’s power. The dirty Merlin just looks up at him with hopeful, though somehow still terrified, eyes:
“A week from now, it was-”
The King, normally able to hold his strong façade so well, exclaims at that, cutting him off; of everyone in the room, he knows best how good Merlin is at hiding any distress, agitation, failure of composure that he’s suffering from (bar perhaps Morgana and Mordred, but what would he know about that?) :
“A week?! This happened to you in a week?!”
His gaze darts between the two Merlins, and even his own unflappable version of the man seems troubled, though Arthur can’t tell if it’s because he doesn’t believe what’s in front of him, or because his brain is running through a million and one scenarios, trying to figure out what on Earth could have happened... could still happen, apparently. The Future Merlin shakes his head and lets out a cracking, broken laugh as he sits up straight, seeming the most lucid since he’d first appeared:
“No. This didn’t happen to me in a week. Arthur, this happened to me in an afternoon.-”
No one knows what to say to that, and so he sighs and sags in his chair once more, looking between everyone, though focusing mainly on The King and his mirror image:
“-It was a normal Audience Day, nothing was amiss, it was a normal day.-”
He seems to grow more distraught at that, as though bad things should only happen on days with rain and blood and bodies to bury. Though Arthur supposes that those things are what makes a bad day. Merlin quickly calms himself and continues:
“-A normal Audience Day. We were... I don’t know, an hour from the end? Maybe two? I don’t... really remember. It was boring, like it always is, and I wasn’t paying attention I... I...-”
He seems to trail off slightly, gazing into the middle distance with blank eyes, but quickly clears his throat and forces himself to re-focus, with only a little difficulty:
“-There was this... ripping sound. But it echoed all around the room, like it was coming from everywhere at once, and it was deafening. It lasted maybe... five seconds? At most? And then...-”
He takes a deep, shaky breath and begins bouncing his knee. Up and down, up and down, like he has no control over his limb. He’s obviously still terrified, and Leon abandons his hold on his sword in favour of resting a soft grip on his shoulder:
“-they just... appeared, out of the shadows. These... creatures. I couldn’t even tell... they weren’t people, weren’t sorcerers or spirits, at least not normal ones. They came from the shadows, made of shadows. I don’t know. Monsters made of shadows, or shadows made of monsters. Either way. They... they got to the servants and guards first, because they were all too close to the shadows around the edge of the room. They all went down, and Arthur...-”
He rubs his eyes sharply and takes in a sobbing breath, turning his head as far away from The King as he can manage:
“-my Arthur, ran forward to... to help them, to fight the creatures, I don’t know, but he... the moment he stepped off the dais... Gods, he screamed and it... it was so loud. Everyone screamed, all at once, but Arthur... it was the only one I could hear, and-”
Arthur kneels in front of him, blinking rapidly to get rid of his own tears, and takes Future Merlin’s hands softly in his own:
“I’m fine, Merlin. And I’m going to stay fine, because we’re going to figure this out.-”
He obviously shaken, whether by the state of his oldest and closest friend, or the detailed description of his coming death, the others can’t quite tell:
“-So. I died,-
He gulps, but forces himself onwards as Leon rests his other hand on his King’s shoulder:
“-as did lots of other people. What happened next, how did you survive?”
Future Merlin stares at him with squinted, weeping eyes, as if unable to tear his gaze away from his red cheeked, warm skinned, face. After a few moments, Arthur’s Merlin clears his throat and raises an impatient eyebrow, much to everyone’s confusion, but Future Merlin shakes himself from his stony silence and looks away:
“Percival and I... we were the only ones left in the Throne Room,-”
He sneaks a glance up at the terribly sympathetic looking giant, but can’t seem to hold his stare for long. Percival wonders just when in this story he dies. He wonders how long ago it was for this Merlin. An hour? Half that? Ten minutes?
“-we... we tried to make a run for the Physician’s chambers. When... whenever magical things happen, Gaius is my first port of call, always. But, um... before we got there...-”
He takes a deep breath and covers his mouth again, sobbing into his palm for just a few seconds before he moves both hands to his lap, clenches them tightly, and forces himself to continue, his voice high and whining:
“-we... we found Gwen and Morgana. They’d obviously been heading in the same direction as us but... but got too close to the shadows. Percival and I had a torch... Gwen and ‘Gana didn’t, and they were just... they were just lying there, in the middle of the corridor. I wanted... we wanted to... to move them but... but... but we could hear the whole city screaming, we had to just... step over them and carry on.-”
He cuts himself off and leans over, both hands over his face this time as he almost wails:
“-I just... Gods, I just left them there, like... like they meant nothing.-”
At Current Merlin’s almost harsh glare, Morgana holds herself in place, despite her clear upset, her clear desperation to comfort the creature in front of her. Gwen has no such qualms, and gently pushes Arthur out of the way in a rather uncharacteristic fashion before falling to her knees in front of him, pulling Future Merlin forward by the wrists until his forehead rests on her shoulder:
“It’s ok, Merlin, we’re... we’re going to fix this, fix it so it never happens, ok? I’m still here, see?”
She gently tilts his head up and pulls his hands away until he’s looking at her; he gives her a small smile but shakes his head:
“I know. But you’re not... you’re not my Gwen. You’re his.”
He nods his head at Gwen’s Merlin, who is currently stood with his arms crossed and an angry frown on his face behind her, Arthur back to standing besides him. She glances to him over her shoulder, but is quick to return to her previous focus with her own smile:
“Well, I’m only a week younger than her, I’m sure I hug the same.”
Future Merlin’s smile grows, in both size and shakiness, but before he can say anything, the other version, the current version, clenches his jaw before tutting and grinding out:
“Yeah, speaking of only having a week, let’s get to the end of the story and figure out how we can fix it, before my Gwen becomes you’re Gwen.”
The others glance to Merlin, uncertainty in their gaze as they pick up on his unforgiving aggravation and the odd inflection in his voice when he’d said story, but Future Merlin nods and leans back in his chair, continuing in a forcedly blank voice:
“Right. We... we left Gwen and ‘Gana to go find Gaius. He was also... gone, in his chambers, in his bed. He’d skipped out that day’s worth of meetings because he wasn’t feeling well, he was meant to be asleep so... so the curtains were drawn, the torches were out. The whole room was in shadow.-”
Gaius interrupts with a quiet, whispered “oh, my poor boy” but the weeping man pays him no mind, and continues:
“-It was well past midday, so Percival suggested we head to the courtyard. We would have an hour or so of sun left to set up a perimeter of fires, just... we had to prepare for night time. No matter what else happened, no matter what other... other bodies we found, we had to prepare for night time, and take as many people with us we could.-”
He looks up, unable to meet Gwaine’s gaze as he nods to Mordred and Elyan in turn:
“-That’s where we found Mor’ and Elyan. They’d had the same idea as us, and had managed to grab a whole pile of wood as well. Gwaine... Gwaine wasn’t with them...-”
His voice goes quiet, and he sniffles again:
“-That’s... uh... that’s how they knew what was going on. The three of them were in the armoury when it all started, and Gwaine had... Gwaine had been caught, among others. No other knights were left, at least not in the castle. I think we saw Kay’s body,-”
He looks to Percival, almost in question, before he realises that he isn’t his Percival, and looks away again, pained:
“-and Bedivere, he was just inside the main castle entrance. Gods, he’d almost made it. He was so close.-”
He shakes his head and refocuses, giving a tight smile to Leon as he hands him a handkerchief to wipe his face clean with:
“-There was only five of us in the end. Hundreds of people live and work in this castle and... and five of us had survived. The rest of the Kingdom, Gods... the rest of the world, I can’t even imagine. Myself, Elyan, Percival, Mordred, and some... serving girl. She normally works in the stables.-”
He lets out a self deprecating, almost insane sounding laugh out as he stares blankly at the floor:
“-You know... I don’t even know her name? How insane is that? Hundreds, thousands, Gods, millions, of people dead, the world falling down around us, The King, dead, and I can’t even remember what my fellow survivor’s name was.-”
Another laugh, this one barely a huff of air as he fiddles with the handkerchief:
“-She didn’t survive long, anyway. She saw her brother coming from the city, ran towards him. We tried to stop her but... they both hit the shadows under the gate at the same time. Elyan tripped trying to chase her, did his head in. There was so much blood and he... he was in and out of consciousness. I just... we were the last ones left in the end and I... I left him... Gods, I left him...-”
Percival frowns slightly in confusion and shares a look with Mordred before softly interrupting Future Merlin’s renewed crying:
“What happened to Mordred and I?”
He freezes momentarily before looking up in confusion. His nervous eyes fix on Percival, somehow both dazed and manic, but he seems to remember himself after a beat or two, wiping a shaking hand down his face tiredly as he sighs before answering:
“Uh... you... after the stable girl died, when it got dark, a couple of the fires were getting low on the perimeter. You went out to bulk them up with a torch but... uh... there was a wind, a gale, and they went out. We couldn’t even... I couldn’t even see you in the darkness, just heard the screams, then I heard your... your bodies hitting the floor.-”
Mordred clenches his jaw and shares a look with Morgana, and is then ignored by his own Merlin when he tries to share the same look again. Percival’s frown deepens and he sighs:
“I’m sorry, Merlin. But it hasn’t happened yet, like Gwen, like The King said, we’re going to fix this before it even happens. Ok?”
Future Merlin stares at him with wide, childishly fearful eyes, and Percival’s heart swells in a way that feels as though it’ll burst painfully any second. Percival’s Merlin however, interrupts the moment with a curtly cleared throat, drawing everyone’s attention as he stands with still crossed arms and a slightly disapproving frown:
“Describe these creatures. Did magic not combat them?”
Future Merlin’s eyes go wide as the room takes in a collective gasp; Mordred and Morgana stare at him, trying desperately to slow their heartrates, but it’s Arthur who breaks the silence:
“Magic??”
Merlin just rolls his eyes and glances around at everyone:
“I was so desperate to reverse what had happened that I used time travel. Do you know how insanely difficult that is? How near impossible? I can’t have been the only one to figure out that I would’ve tried... tamer, forms of magic, before that.”
No one breaks the stare, bar Gwaine, who shrugs his lips and then his shoulders before looking to the seated Merlin, awaiting an answer. Arthur takes a deep breath and speaks slowly, the anger floating just a hair’s breadth beneath his tone of voice:
“Implying that you know both tamer forms of magic, and how to... traverse through time.”
Merlin sighs and looks to the floor, murmuring:
“That would be the implication, yes.-”
He heaves an even heavier sigh before looking back up to Arthur with a wide, desperate sort of fondness that, once again, has The King wanting to give him anything he could ever possibly want:
“-Look, I’d wanted to have this conversation under vastly different circumstances, but we don’t always get what we want, and we don’t have many other options. Normally I sneak away in the night to deal with this sort of thing, but-”
Leon interrupts him with a raised eyebrow and a dry tone:
“The apocalypse sort-of-thing, you mean?”
Merlin glances to him, his expression blank and his eyes more thankful than they are amused:
“Yeah, exactly that sort of thing, anyway-”
He looks back to Arthur, his determined face and voice undermined slightly by the way he clutches the hem of his own tunic, trying and failing to disguise the shaking there:
“-we unfortunately don’t have that sort of time before things get fucky, so you’re just going to have to come terms with it: I have magic, have been successfully using it since before I could walk because I was born with it, and have a destiny to protect you and this Kingdom until you bring peace and harmony and whatever. Arthur, you think I’m a bumbling idiot, and that is... true, for the most part, but magic is my thing, I’m good at it, like real good, and if any of this is true, if we have any hope of coming out the other side of it alive... you’re just going to have to trust me. You can chop my head off or hang me or burn me all you like in a week and a day, but for now... you’re going to have to trust me.”
None of it is a question, all of it is absolute truth and everyone in the room knows it, but still, the servant stares at The King with a pleading in his eyes that’s too open and vulnerable and honest to be ignored, so with a lump in his throat, a lump that feels like something between guilt and hatred, Arthur nods.
~
They decide fairly quickly after that that their group’s new, temporary addition needs some sleep and a wash before they think about going anywhere. He’s quiet and withdrawn, settling without complaint in the bed in Arthur’s antechamber, very obviously against his counterpart’s pleasure; if the others pick up on the odd mis-balance, the odd mistrust, the odd dislike between the two of them, no one has the gall to bring it up quite yet. Especially not with Arthur’s worsening mood.
The magic is getting... mixed responses. Leon, Morgana, Mordred, Gaius, and Gwen act suspiciously like they already knew, which seems to spark confusion between even them, Gwaine, Elyan, and Percival seem more impressed than anything else, but Arthur... Arthur doesn’t seem anything, at least he doesn’t seem anything to anyone who doesn’t know him.
He’s angry, of course, but Arthur’s anger nowadays is rarely as fiery as it was in his youth, and had never been quite as explosive as his father’s. No. Arthur’s anger is cold and calculated, it’s narrowed eyes focused on your spine, on the back of your head, on your inner wrists and the side of your neck and your inner thighs. It’s a hand on the hilt of his sword, it’s never having his back to the subject of his fury, it’s clipped words and deep silences that feel like a mid-winter gale whipping over your exposed face. It’s feeling as though your skin has been peeled away to reveal every mistake, every lie, every sin, every regret that has carved the soul within. Arthur’s anger feels like judgement, the final judgement, an axe in the air waiting for the inevitable signal to drop.
Unfortunately for Arthur, Merlin just puts up with it, rolling his eyes when Arthur demands that he leave for the night, and sneaking back in to sleep on the chair by the fireplace once he hears The King’s snores from the corridor.
Arthur’s anger turns to bitten cheeks and harsh words and clenched fists when he awakes to Merlin only just rousing, but the servant rolls his eyes again, and uses golden eyes and a flick of the wrist to open the curtains and summons a breakfast feast on the table. The King doesn’t touch it, and growls lowly—not that anyone notices—when the others, gathered in his room once more an hour or so after dawn, begin eating it without suspicion. The other Merlin eats like a man moments from succumbing to starvation, and with the servant’s tendency to not feed himself properly anyway, mixed with the last day’s worth of trauma, they all figure that that’s perfectly possible.
Gwaine especially still watches the odd glares sent between the two versions of one man, even more confused by the way they, between glares, avoid looking at each other entirely. He knows it’s weird, this whole situation is weird, but not... not that weird. He’s definitely seen weirder, though maybe that’s just him. He doesn’t bring it up anyhow, crunching into the greenest apple he thinks he’s ever seen before asking, his mouth disgustingly full:
“So. New Merlin never answered Our Merlin’s request for a deeper description of those creatures of his. And also... any ideas on where they came from? Or... will come from?”
The room looks towards the newly clean Merlin, his eyes clearer than they had been yesterday, but still dark and haunted. He sits back in his chair and clears his throat:
“I don’t really know what else to say, they were... dark, black shadows. People shaped but they had no features, just silhouettes. I tried warding them off with...-”
He shoots Arthur an almost frightened look, but quickly glances away and continues as The King clenches his jaw:
“-with magical light, but it didn’t work. Only natural light, the sun or a torch, was effective. They were silent... you know... they sort of reminded me of the Dorocha, but darker and with sharper edges.”
Everyone’s frowns deepen, and Arthur, despite his barely restrained fury, glances to his own Merlin, a flash of reminiscent worry darting across his face. To his credit, the time’s Merlin seems entirely unbothered, a confused, though scholarly scowl on his face as his swipes his thumb repeatedly over his bottom lip, resting his elbow on his other arm, crossed against his abdomen. He takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment, obviously deep in thought as rest of the room awaits his response. It doesn’t take long thankfully, and without looking up from his where his narrowed gaze is focused on the floor, he quietly asks:
“You said you heard a ripping? Before it all started?”
Future Merlin nods decisively, and even Arthur can tell he’s relaxing more and more the closer they seem to be getting to an answer:
“Yes, like thick fabric was being torn inside our skulls, the others we met up with confirmed before... before. I felt this... energy, though I couldn’t tell you where from, I’m sorry.-”
Gwen mutters a quiet “it’s ok, Merls, we’ll get there.” and if her own Merlin bristles slightly at her use of his nickname on... another himself, it isn’t mentioned by anyone. He waves his apology away absent-mindedly as he turns his back to the crowd of people, taking a few steps towards the wall and muttering nonsensically under his breath, like he’s trying to figure something out. Before anyone can ask his thought process, his counterpart speaks up again, knowingly, but hesitatingly all at the same time:
“-You know... it’s odd. The first thing I thought of when I heard that sound, was-”
The two Warlocks speak at the same time, turning to face each other with curious frowns and then worried looking grimaces:
“-the veil.-”
The King clenches his jaw, along with the rest of the knights, but Morgana raises an eyebrow and tilts her head as her Merlin gestures for the other to continue first:
“-I... hadn’t really had the time to think about it again until now, but that ripping sound, coming from all around us... yeah. The Veil.”
His past, or... current self sighs again and nods, though Arthur interrupts him angrily before he can verbally agree:
“No. It has to be something else, we repaired the hole in The Veil. Lancelot’s sacr- Lancelot fixed the issue there, why would it tear again? Why would it tear differently?”
The current Merlin shoots him a not quite friendly glare that just deepens Arthur’s scowl, and promptly answers:
“Because Lancelot’s sacrifice didn’t... fix The Veil entirely, apparently, it just stitched it up, smoothed it over.-”
He huffs and deepens the crease between his brows, looking towards the window and continuing, obviously deeply troubled:
“-Morgause pulling the Shade into existence... it must have damaged it again somehow, and this time it just couldn’t handle it. You know barely anything about what’s on the other side of death, it’s not... pretty, and there are far worse things than the Dorocha over there. I’ve never encountered specifics, never been there long enough to remember details, but these creatures-”
He’s interrupted by himself, who seems remarkably perked up considering the topic at hand:
“They could definitely be whatever’s hiding in the shadows over there. The last tear obviously wasn’t big enough for them to break through, but we destroyed the Shade weeks ago, they must have been pulling away at loose threads since then.”
Current Merlin nods and points an agreeable finger at him absent-mindedly; neither of them seem to notice the staring until Elyan speaks up, his voice strong but hesitant:
“You speak... you speak as if you’ve seen the other side?”
Elyan’s Merlin looks to the floor, avoiding the question with shamed eyes and a tightly clenched jaw, but Future Merlin apparently has no issues with telling the truth, his eyebrows raised and his lips twisted into an almost cruel smirk:
“What, you think I just miraculously survived being touched by a Dorocha? Being stung by a Serket? Being repeatedly poisoned and stabbed and set on fire? If you’re lucky, you go to Avalon when you pass, if you’re immortal, like yours truly, or you’re just a very very bad person, you go to The Darkness. And that, my friends, is not very nice at all.”
Morgana and Mordred suppose that this Merlin sees himself as having nothing left to lose. He might as well tell the truth, make life easier for another version of himself whilst he can. Said other version of himself obviously doesn’t agree, and shoots him a venomous look, the type he gave Kilgharrah when he first suggested he kill Mordred, and the type he gave Morgause when she asked Morgana to go with her. People other than Gwaine are beginning to pick up on his hatred now, but the only thing they can manage to focus on is the fact that Merlin has... died. And apparently lead some sort of secret life filled with pain and terror (Serkets!? Poison!? Fire!?) without anyone realising. Even Arthur's anger is drip drip dripping away, now.
The conversation is concluded after a few more worried questions and clipped answers, the other Merlin seeming to have gotten the hint after sending his own glare his... his own way; plans are made for a journey that they’d all wished they’d never have to make again. They all pray and hope and beg that this time, this time, they all come home.
~
The END of Part 1!!!
Part two is already written, and posted!! I just split it into two because it was getting far too long for my tastes.
