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Merlin is shaking, his hands fists in the sheets. His magic, normally a soft golden flow in his veins, has turned into a midnight-blue tempest raging inside him, pressing behind his eyes. He has felt it growing inside him for some time, dark and threatening. Time is riffling away, spreading threads in all directions, updownforward, in circles and to the left. Linearity is lost. Merlin doesn't know what is, what will be and what has come to pass. What he sees, has he lived through it? Will he?
Sometimes he feels thousands of years old, sometimes he isn't sure if he's been born.
"Merlin," he hears and forces his eyes to open. Arthur is looking down at him, young, so very young. "Merlin, please calm down," he says, "you must –"
Merlin is standing on a battle field, corpses all around him. He is tired, worn, his hands are shaking. They are a stark white, there is no blood on them, yet he is sure that they will never be clean again.
Arthur comes to him then, crimson-clad, streaks of violent red in his face. The sun glints of his breast plate. He smiles. There is sadness in it over the lives lost today, tiredness too and pride, but mostly happiness. And Merlin knows that the fighting was worth it.
Merlin is standing in front of the dragon. "Two sides of one coin, young one," the dragon says.
Merlin has turned into a tree. Morgana said it would hurt, said it with joyous glee, but she was wrong. He is not caught inside the tree, he is the tree. His thoughts are slow and sure, wind caresses his leaves, rain beats against his skin. His roots reach deep down into the earth and he can feel the magic within its depth. He cannot move, he does not want to. He cannot speak, there is nothing to say. The wind never stops.
He is content for a long, long time. Seasons come and go. He grows swiftly, faster than any other tree ever seen. He gives fruit to animals, children. He grows. Till one day his roots reach so deep that they touch the magic deep within the earth itself. The Old Religion courses through him, strong and bright, and he feels a yearning, long forgotten, but deep and indescribable. He reaches into the earth and reaches into the sky and casts off his bark.
They are standing on a hill, wind tearing at their clothes. Merlin lays his hand on top of their clasped ones.
"Arthur, King of Albion, Guinevere. You are now man and wife."
Later, Merlin stands in the shadows and watches Arthur and Gwen dance next to the fire. Somewhere, he knows, Lancelot is watching, too.
Even later, it is Merlin's tent Arthur comes to.
Merlin is old, so very old. He has lost count of the summers he's seen. The forests disappear, people come, roads are built, houses, too. People and always more people, all there and gone in the blink of an eye. Merlin sits unmoving on top of the hill, unperturbed by rain and snow, wind and sunshine, birds nesting in his beard, vines growing around his legs, blossoming white and beautiful in the spring. Merlin doesn't move.
It is the night of the Samhain celebrations. The castle's court is full of people in their best clothes. Enormous amounts of food fill the tables that have been brought outside. A big pile of firewood sits in the middle of the court, and when horns are blown, all the courtiers and servants gather around it, there is no rank tonight. Merlin, deep blue robes heavy on his shoulders, steps close to the pile, raises his arms. The fire springs to life. "A good year has come to its end, rich in harvest full of peace. Let this Samhain be full of joy for all of you and may the next year be as fulfilled as the one we now part with." He takes his arms down, steps back. On the other side of the fire now burning brightly, Arthur stands, eyes on Merlin. He is smiling quietly.
Merlin is running. The world is screaming around him, an inhuman scream ripped from the depths of the earth. His own mouth is torn open. Then Merlin realizes it's him that's screaming. His magic is boiling midnight-blue, flashes of white across his eyes. It is too much for his body to hold, it burns the air around him, lashes of not-colour veering in all directions.
He is too late, too late, too late.
He tries to stop time (he has done it before), he tries to run faster (he's done it before), to stop the sword from falling. Nothing changes. His magic burns the trees around them to blackened fingers, turns the grass to ash, but the sword still falls. It hits Arthur beneath his ribs, a deep, ugly gash, red blood running freely down his body, red, so red against the black and grey meadow.
Mordred is standing almost frozen, sword still raised, and from it red runs down and over his white-clenched fingers. He is still so young. His eyes are wide open, terrified, and he is smiling.
Flickering over his image, sometimes taking his place, Merlin sees another man, younger even, in the same druid's clothing and with a shock full of blond hair, Arthur's hair.
Arthur doesn't look at Mordred. His eyes are still surprised, when Merlin finally, finally reaches him and catches him in his arms when he crumbles to the ground. "Merlin?” he asks, his voice unsure.
Mordred is still not moving. Merlin gathers Arthur up in his arms and starts walking. It is too late. It is too late. Arthur is dying, and as much as Merlin twists and turns his magic, forces it until the white flashes in front of his eyes make everything else bleed colour, the wound doesn't heal. Merlin walks on, carrying Arthur effortlessly, the only thing his magic is still good for. He doesn't know whether the wetness on his face is rain. He can see nothing but the red blood drenching Arthur's clothes and his eyes, which are closing more and more often. He can feel the life seeping out of Arthur. Merlin walks on.
When he reaches the lake, the lake that gave them the sword, he walks in, never slowing. Memories of rescuing Arthur from drowning wash over him. Arthur is slack in his arms, his head tilted backwards. The water laps over his breast now. Merlin walks in deeper and deeper, streaks of faint red dancing in the water behind him. He doesn't stop.
Merlin is three years old. His mother is feeding him porridge on a cold winter day, the small fire barely enough to keep the house warm. Hunith' fingers are dry and red on the spoon. She laughs as Merlin keeps turning the spoon away from his mouth with magic. Merlin grins.
When Merlin opens his eyes again, it is to blue eyes focused on him. "Where are we?” Arthur asks, but there is no urgency behind the question. Merlin doesn't know where they are or when, but the searing midnight-blue turmoil of his magic has faded to the gentle golden simmering coursing swiftly through his veins like it used to. Though he feels that he is lying naked on a soft surface, all he sees is Arthur's face, Arthur, who is tentatively smiling at him. Merlin lays his hand against Arthur's jaw, thumb moving slightly over his cheekbone. "It doesn't matter,” Merlin says and kisses Arthur oh so carefully on the lips.