Chapter Text
In retrospect, Arthur didn’t think he’d ever be able to fully explain the sensation of being brought back to life. Perhaps one could compare it to the feeling of being roused from a deep slumber, when your consciousness is drifting in a haze between sleep and awareness. Not quite coherent, but no longer submerged in the realm of dreams either. A blissfully oblivious state of mind Arthur quite enjoyed being immersed in, thank you very much.
But just as he had started to fully embrace the void, letting it seep into every crevice and fissure of his mind, something was suddenly pulling, tugging at him, trying to violently drag him from the peacefulness his mind and body were swimming in, and no matter how much he tried to resist, it succeeded.
***
Arthur tried to hold on to the tendrils of what had been a more than pleasant dream, but alas, he already felt them starting to fade, the familiar tingling feeling of increasing lucidity appearing in its stead.
He groaned, not yet ready to dive into reality, and burrowed himself deeper into his feathery cushions. Cushions that were rather uncomfortable and- wet?
He made a mental note to have a word with Merlin about the pillows. The halfwit had never been very proficient at his job, but surely there was very little one could do wrong when dealing with cushions? Had the fact that he was now king, and deserved the utmost comfort possible slipped the idiot’s mind again? Not to mention that Guinevere, who had recently abandoned her own chambers in favour of actually sleeping in his bed with him, deserved to rest on nothing less than clouds in his opinion, and these cushions were quite far from that.
As if the sogginess wasn't enough, he suddenly felt a chill start to seep through his clothes and into his bones, starting from his back. He shuddered. Why was it so damn cold all of a sudden?
Arthur rolled over in his sleep, attempting to escape the sudden discomfort.
Finally, though involuntarily, becoming more aware of his surroundings, he registered a strange sloshing feeling at his side. He groggily forced his eyes open and, after letting his sleep-addled eyes adjust to the sudden bright light for a moment, was confronted with yet another strange observation. Clouds? He was pretty sure he had never slept outside and felt so comfortable, so at peace before. - Although the comfort was just about gone at this point.
The cold was becoming more noticeable now and he hissed as he felt it becoming too sharp to ignore. It took a suprising amount of effort as he found he was still clad in his heavy iron armour, but he eventually managed to hoist himself into a semi-sitting position, his hands propped at his sides for support and scanned his surroundings.
Grey, murky water as far as the eye could see, and beyond that the jagged silhouettes of pine trees bore themselves like clawed fingers into the darkening sky.
What was this place?
While craning his neck around to check what lay behind him (which turned out to be a rather strenuous exercise, considering the surprising stiffness in his muscles), Arthur felt a sudden sharp pain in his abdomen. He hissed and massaged the sore spot with one hand, frowning in surprise when his palm came away bloody. In fact, his whole front was covered in old blood, seemingly stemming from the sore spot on his stomach. Even the chainmail meant to cover and protect the soft flesh of his torso, was torn and mangled as if he'd been brutally stabbed, and the (rather large) sword had been retracted without mercy in turn. Merlin wouldn't take it well that the armour he supposedly adored so much was in this kind of state. Though it was entirely inappropriate considering his current predicament and apparent amnesia, Arthur felt the corner of his mouth slip into a smirk at the thought.
Speaking of annoying idiots, where was Merlin anyway? Somewhere in the many years of their friendship, the man had grown to be his confidante, his rock in the turbulent waters of the court. He'd perhaps even go as far as to say they shared a bond stronger than the one between him and Guinevere.
Though Arthur would sooner die than ever admit that fact.
The king knew that what Merlin did for him surpassed the tasks of any average servant; from mucking out his stables and whispering flippant remarks into Arthur's ear, every time a council meeting became too boring to bear, to preserving Arthur’s life with a vicious vehemence, that occasionally bordered on suicidality, Merlin had always displayed a startling amount of loyalty and trust when it came to Arthur, even going so far as to insist on following him into battle like a duckling would its mother.
Merlin was barely trained, a country bumpkin that had only ever picked up on one or the other combat technique from a training session, of which he had (more often than not) been the training dummy. The man had never truly learned to properly defend himself and always relied on sheer luck to overcome every high-risk situation they encountered. Although fate seemed to twist itself in favour of the boy suspiciously often, Merlin was no warrior and that was a fact. Gods, now that he thought about it, it was a wonder he wasn't dead yet.
Wait.
In the span of a few minutes, the mere discomfort his head had initially suffered from had culminated to an overwhelming magnitude, scraps and shreds of past events suddenly materializing in his mind. Shouts and screams reverberated in Arthur’s ears, the whistle of a sweeping sword slicing through the air accompanied by a jarring battle cry. A morbid symphony of terror, backed by a strange humming in the back of his head. It was an odd compilation of seemingly random moments in his life arbitrarily lumped together; the bark of his favourite hunting dog Eowan, the stern glare his father had sent him after Arthur had hugged him that once, the list went on. Images flashed before his eyes, only surfacing long enough for him to acknowledge, but never to grasp the situation they depicted. Then, suddenly, it all fell into place in a flurry of clanging swords, grief-stricken cries and one rather unwelcome wave of nausea. He groaned and held his temple with one gloved hand. The searing ache in his head was making it hard to think clearly.
The battle, Morgana, Mordred, his wound, the battle, Morgana, Mordred, his wound and-
Merlin.
Merlin was a sorcerer.
His most loyal and trusted companion, his manservant of many years, his best friend, a sorcerer.
And a rather powerful one at that. If what Merlin had told him while treating his wound was anything to go on, then he just might be the most powerful sorcerer ever to walk the earth.
That gangly, clumsy Merlin, the ungainly idiot with the adorable smile and untidy mop of raven hair was supposed to be a god of some sorts was something Arthur would never be able to fully wrap his head around, no matter how much time and effort he put into thinking about it.
Accompanied by another wave of
nauseating pain, more memories resurfaced. The arduous journey to the lake, the great dragon, how Merlin had cried, had sobbed while cradling his crumpled form in his arms, begging him not to bid him farewell. He had reassured him that it was something else entirely he wanted to say, had to say. Arthur had whispered something then. Two words he should have said a thousand times more, two words his best friend, the man he l- he lo- he respected, had deserved to hear at least a million times more.
Thank you.
Arthur had been sure he would die then. He knew he would succumb to his injuries and die like the heroes he had grown up admiring. A warrior’s death. But at first he had hesitated at death's door, not yet willing to part with his other half so soon after recognizing him as such, and knowing the whole truth about Merlin. So soon after finally finding out about everything the other half of his coin had done for him, had sacrificed for him.
He knew that the two words weren't nearly enough to make up for everything that had taken place between them, but it calmed him to know that his soulmate had heard them from his lips at least once. "Just- just hold me." He had murmured, content in the knowledge that his last moments would be in the arms of the person he loved most in the world. A kind of love seldom found between two people wherever you may look.
He laid there, broken but finally at peace, like he hadn’t just been brutally stabbed by a boy he had unfortunately come to trust with his life in a war that should never have come to pass, only two days earlier.
Soon after, he had welcomed the sweet nothingness with open arms, satisfied that his wife, his knights, and his kingdom were in the safe hands of someone more capable of protecting them than he had ever been.
But now everything had changed. Where was he? How did he get here? How had he survived a supposedly mortal wound? And most importantly where was Merlin?