Disclaimer: All characters from this story belong to the BBC, the makers of the magical series of Merlin, and the companies and individuals working in conjunction to make it. I make no profit from my efforts.

WARNING: this series contains graphic depictions of violence and attempted suicide. If you think this may be a trigger, please do not read.

Chapter 1: Alive

It was her voice that brought him back, drew him from the stasis he blissfully dwelled.

…wake…wake! You must awaken NOW! Wake, King, you are needed!

Again. And again. And again. Cry after desperate cry.

Slowly, gradually, awareness crept upon him. The cocoon of warmth receded, the cold encroaching. Throbbing begun as an insistent beat in his temples alongside a murmur of sound seeping into his ears. The crisp air pervaded his nostrils, sharp and chilling, until suddenly –

THUMP-THUMP-THUMP!

A fierce pounding. Physical blows beat onto his chest as though he was being kicked by a horse. Incredibly heavy, the weight pressed down again and again, replacing the ethereal voice that thrummed, not through his ears, Arthur realised, but from somewhere deeper. Dimly, another buzz of words could be heard, fading gradually into understanding.

"…come on, come on, breathe, come on, mate, come on…"

In tandem with the pounding, those words chanted like a litany. A strange voice, in a strange accent. It rung in Arthur's ears, echoes drowning out the woman's voice, growing louder and louder as her own gradually died.

In a moment before the woman's voice finally failed Arthur heard it. Another voice, deeper, larger, heavier. Like the grumble of a giant beast. It settled upon him like a swaddling blanket.

I leave him to you. Please, lead him. And hurry! And her voice disappeared.

"Breathe, mate, come on!"

Air flooded his lungs. With a rushing inhalation, Arthur gasped. His chest inflated and he convulsed in a tremor of heaving coughs. The horse stopped stomping on his chest and the litany of accented words ceased with an audible sigh of relief.

Gasping, panting, Arthur sucked at the air with the urgency of a drowning man. It both hurt and eased his pain with each rushing rasp down his throat. Finally, with a Herculean effort, he peeled his eyes open. Light scattered blindingly across his face and he immediately closed them again. It took moments of rapid blinking before he could finally manage to squint them open once more.

The world settled gradually around him. The pain in Arthur's chest was horrendous, his throat ached, and every muscle was only slowly hushing its screams from heartfelt cries of distress. Turning his head on the cold, hard ground, Arthur trained his squinting eyes upon the figure kneeling beside him.

It was a man, that much Arthur could tell. A man, strangely dressed in colours of bright orange and blue and green, with a wonky hat atop his head. Arthur immediately thought him to be a jester. Or perhaps an eccentric gypsy. He was illuminated by little white-light torches swaying over his shoulder and glaringly bright. It took Arthur a moment to realise that people held the blinding lights aloft in their hands. More oddly dressed people in painfully clashing colours. Some even had their hair coloured in horridly bright shades. There must have been over half a dozen of them, all peering at him worriedly.

The closest man, the jester one who looked halted in the process of leaning forward over him, cocked his head questioningly. A frown settled on his face.

"You right there, mate?"

His voice; he was definitely the man who had spoken before, but it was strange seeing him speak. The words sounded unfamiliar, and as Arthur watched his lips move, squinting into the sharply illuminated darkness, there was a slight delay. As though the sound wavered in the air between them before filtering into his ears, taking a few seconds to reach him and make themselves comprehensible.

Struggling feebly, Arthur levered himself to sitting. In an instant, a multitude of hands reached forwards to assist him. Or to attempt to urge him to lie down again, Arthur wasn't sure which. There seemed to be some indecision on the subject.

"Whoa, whoa, slow down there. Take it easy," the jester man cautioned. Again the slight delay from the movement of his mouth to comprehension, but Arthur hardly noticed this time. "Slow steps, zombie man."

Frowning at the words, Arthur squinted up at the man. "Zom…bie?" His tongue felt heavy and awkward in his mouth, his voice a croak, but apparently he was audible enough.

The jester and his fellows nodded fervently. "We thought you were dead, man."

"You weren't breathing any more," another man added, wincing sympathetically in a way that caused his tall hat to wobble.

"Your heart stopped too," a woman with bright pink hair continued.

"If you're gonna wear fancy dress to a lakeside party, you might want to steer clear of knight-in-actual-armour get up. Something a little lighter, maybe. That floats," a woman suggested, crossing her arms over her glittering and flashing dress that showed far too much ankle. It came almost to her knees.

"It's alright, though. We brought you back." That was the first man again, a beaming smile spreading across his face. Apparently, with the excitement of the moment dying, pride rose to fill its place. The jester man glanced over his shoulder. "See, Brian, I told you that CPR training would come in handy. I'm a verified doctor!"

There was a smattering of laughter punctuated by groans of exasperation. Muttered words of "keep dreaming, Johnny," and "think it takes a little more than one miracle to be a real lifesaver", were spoken with more affection then reprimand.

Arthur swept his eyes over them in confusion. Brought him back to life? What…?

And then he remembered. Something. Before he had closed his eyes, before he had fallen into sleep… no, not sleep. He'd died. He'd been stabbed, Mordred had stabbed him, and then… then Merlin had…

Arthur had died. He'd died in Merlin's arms.

Everything past that was only a warm, dark cavern of silence and stillness.

What… had happened?

King. You must hurry.

Starting, Arthur glanced towards the group of motley dressed jesters beside him. They were talking with increasing volume, in a smattering of words that were both heavily accented and slightly slurred in a way that Arthur suspected may have been induced by at least partial drunkenness.

But no, none of them had spoken the words. He should have realised immediately. That wide, deep, blanketing presence, that was the source of the voice. Some unseeable source, distant and yet somehow here. It was unfamiliar, vast and powerful. Arthur wasn't sure if the voice belonged to a man or a woman. It was both and neither. It was…

Inhumane?

What…? Who…?

Hurry, King. You must hurry. Leave, now!

Like a hook sinking into his gut and hauling him into motion, Arthur abruptly felt the overwhelming urge to move.

It was an effort, even more than it had been to open his eyes, but at least the ache in his muscles was slowly dying. With a bunching of his legs, a thrust of his arms, Arthur pushed himself to his feet.

"Whoa, whoa! Slow down, mate, you've only just returned to the land of the living!" The first jester man's words were echoed by his fellows who stumbled to their own feet in a shambling impression of Arthur's rise. Yes, they were definitely drunk.

"I… I'm alright," Arthur assured them, raising his hands in placation. He caught sight of his own arms, pale and clothed only in his undergarments. Dripping wet, they were, as were his breeches. Like being suddenly struck by a wave of cold water, Arthur felt a chill seep into his bones. An instant later, shivers set in.

Cold. It was very cold. A glance around him explained the iciness falling upon him; it was snowing. Or at least it had snowed. Ice crusted wilted grass, turning green to bright whiteness and freezing the lake – more like a large pond, really – beside him almost solidly except for a mushy mass of broken slush upon the banks. Each ragged breath Arthur breathed fogged before him. He hadn't even noticed –

King, you must hurry. Go now!

The inhuman voice thundered in Arthur's head, almost painfully deafening. He winced, raising shivering fingers to his temple. Cold, tired, aching and assaulted by an unknown voice. What a brilliant way to – how had the jester man phrased it? – return to the land of the living.

"Aw, shit, sorry mate. You must be freezing." The man, his self-proclaimed rescuer, started as though only just realising the cold. He didn't appear particularly well dressed himself, but Arthur suspected that drink had likely warmed his blood as much as it clouded his senses. He didn't reprimand the man for his foolishness, however; rather, he was grateful to him when a brief, broken discussion between the wavering group produced a thick coat of some heavy, furred material that didn't smell like skins but felt nearly as warm. "Here you go."

Arthur hesitated in taking the coat only for a moment, but the voice in his head and the tugging in his gut became more insistent, more demanding. Go, now, hurry, you must hurry… He had to leave, and the extra layers would be welcomed in what appeared to be the coldness of winter. He quickly shrugged it onto his shoulders. "You have my thanks."

"No problem. You look like you needed – hey! Wait! Where are you going?!"

The words followed Arthur as he turned from the group and broke into a lumbering jog in the opposite direction. In the direction urged by the tugging in his gut, the insistent demands ringing in his mind. He didn't reply to the jester man's calls, or his fellows. All of his attention was abruptly focused on the direction of his flight.

"Hey, wait!"

"You should rest!"

"Mate, I think you need to go to a hospital or something..."

"… could really use some help…"

Gradually the voices died. Slowly, as Arthur put more and more distance between himself and his apparent rescuers. With every pace, the aches in his muscles seemed to ease and within minutes he was leaping in great strides, steps chewing up the distance as he powered in the direction of… something.

Hurry, King. You've not much time. You must hurry!

He knew not where he was going, nor what he ran towards, but the coaxing drew him on to speeds that bordered on flight. Even the heavy darkness that fell upon him as the lights of the white, handheld torches flickered into distant non-existence could not stop him.

A/N: Hi everyone! I hope you enjoyed the first chapter (short as it was - they should be getting longer after this one, I think). If you would, please take a moment to share your thoughts, comments, questions or suggestions. Thank you!