A/N: This is for a. narnian, who didn't want me to leave Arthur dead and Merlin waiting, even if it was in a peaceful meditative sleep, for this series. And who suggested the place for Arthur's 'return'…

The Prince's Treasure, a post-epilogue

Drunk and lost, between one stage of life and the unknown next, he wandered in the dark, alone.

He climbed. He fell. He slept.

And dreamed.

First, of the familiar – faces, voices, places – as if he stood in a small central courtyard of a citadel of white stone, and turned in a slow circle to see in at the windows. A glimpse, a suggestion of movement – recognition barely grasped before the scene swung round.

Or was it only him who turned, a few more degrees.

Then the familiar faded. The stone itself faded. He kept turning and the images kept changing, a spiral of change though his feet seemed to stay on the ground; it rose into a great hill and lifted him above all he could see and showed him further than he imagined.

He saw industry and invasion, revolution and regression, victory and defeat, wondrous and ordinary. Youth to age and back again. Great structures struggled into being with the time and effort of a woman carrying a child to term – destroyed by fire or earthquake in one violent moment that as also the birth of something new. He saw history as it happened.

He could have rejoiced, he could have wept, except that change was constant, and fast to his perception. There was no time for specific emotion; there was all time.

At dawn he woke, under the wide wheeling sky and a great finger of stone like an aerial sundial.

The feeling of dew-dampness on his clothing, the stiffness of muscle and bone that came from resting for hours on a hard surface, was both alien and familiar. He struggled upward to sitting, focusing first on his head, throbbing full of confusing images that whirled and faded. The visions he'd seen so clearly, retreating to slumber like a wave from the shore, left a glistening film over memory and perception, at once obscuring and clarifying. True, but impossible.

"Bloody damn hangover," he groaned.

As the sound of his voice dissipated into the air – the open air – he moved his hands away from his face enough to see grass beside and between his jean-clad legs and bent knees. So he'd slept outdoors, and on the ground. That was a first. Lovely.

Grunting his irritation at himself and the situation, he rubbed his face gingerly. Then, when that felt good and eased the ache, he massaged the rest of his skull with his fingertips, up and over.

I'm supposed to be finding myself, not losing my mind.

A solitary holiday, post-graduation. Before youthful freedom would be submerged in the responsibilities of gainful employment. Somewhere and at something, he was suppose to figure out – two weeks that would decide the rest of his life. And for months maybe years that had felt like a weathervane in a hurricane, spinning every way and stopping at none.

The glow of morning rose on his right, touching his face with warmth that coaxed him beyond himself, and for the first time he noticed the silence. Hardly ever was there true silence in his life. Not surrounded by people, traffic, technology.

He could only hear his breathing, and lifted his head to find himself sitting at the top of a hill he didn't remember climbing. Below was a vast sea of mist, here and there showing rooftops or lower hills, stretching to a far horizon. Beginning to yield to the cleansing rays of the rising sun.

The spinning sensation of life itself – and his in particular - had stopped as well. He didn't know what that meant, but the stillness was peace rather than urgency.

Curiosity and the desire to place himself in the world, as a precursor to movement and meaning, had him looking around. Behind him, that fanciful upside-down sundial proved to be more tangible than dream – a tall gray tower of carven stone; a sentinel, watching over him more than the land, he felt. The hillside below separated into uneven terracing – which some claimed was a ritual maze symbolizing the soul's journey through life, death, and rebirth. Or so he had read in the guidebook yesterday, dismissing it as tourist's twaddle.

But, a quick corroborating glance round, back up, and he knew for certain where he was.

"Bloody hell," he told himself, scrambling up undignified, damp and bracken marring his jeans and canvas jacket. "Get drunk one night and climb the bloody Tor?" He thought he'd gotten drunk to avoid climbing the Tor.

No one answered. The sun rose, fractionally and inexorably. St. Michael's tower watched to see what Arthur would do.

He couldn't remember believing in much besides what could be proven by his five senses. What he could see and touch, what he could do. He didn't believe in ley lines or the primordial dragon that represented the Mother. Not in namesake archangels or devils or gods of the old religion. He never believed in fate or faeries; he still didn't.

But in any case, this morning he'd awoken facing north, and it was as good a sign as any, where to go from here.

Arthur brushed himself off, and started down the hill.

He was hungry by the time he reached the bottom. After fueling his car and himself, he drove west to the M5, then headed north – cutting back east eventually to leave the M5, and take the long bridge across the Severn toward Newport. As he drove he kept his eyes resolutely on the road, his mind on the traffic – it was the right direction, he felt; though perhaps inspiration had come from without, it was also still his choice, and only his choice. But to gaze at and dwell on the scenery, the smooth and serene, the abrupt and majestic, would be to invite that unsettling familiarity… that he wanted to figure out, just… not distract him, while driving.

But at Abergavenny he was forced to stop again for petrol. Gazing north into the Black Mountains – impossibly high peaks dusted with snow, their shoulders layered comfortably to his vision, and yet he couldn't help but think how hard it must have been to navigate such, before the days of motor vehicles and roadways. And wondering why thinking wanted to change into remembering, why that name was all wrong. Should be White Mountains, shouldn't it, with all that snow?

Then again, why did a café a short way off the A449 named the Rising Sun call to him, sing to him with vague impressions of laughter and camaraderie his sterile, privileged life had excluded, even though it was already past noon and nearly deserted.

He sat by a window overlooking the beer garden and tried to recall the images of his dreams more clearly. High damp moor-hills, deep ancient forests. A white unicorn… a white castle… a white staff… Just a stray flash of sunlight.

It was there, waiting to pay for his chicken curry, that he picked up a glossy brochure from a front-entrance rack.

There Be Dragons Here was written across the top. Dragons caught his attention first, and the next line – only visible when his fingertips teased the outermost copy of the advertisement an inch upward – Dinas Emrys.

Why did that ring through his very being with exquisite clarity and the ache of longing?

"You on holiday, then, love?" the girl behind the counter asked as he paid over what was owed. "Proper tourist-type stuff, or are you really interested in history?"

"A bit of both this week, I think," he said bemusedly, distractedly. Reading.

… Setting of the famous exchange of the Warlord Vortigern and the youthful Merlin…

Merlin.

He shivered, and accepted his change without thanks and without checking the amount.

"D'you know there's a legend about that place, too," the girl volunteered, leaning her elbow on the counter between them, pointing at the folded page in Arthur's hand. "Supposedly Merlin buried treasure there, and it can only be found by someone golden-haired and blue-eyed." He gazed at her, astonished, and she dimpled. "I suppose you have a better chance than most of finding it, eh, love? A bit of advice – if you feel and hear an earthquake, better run. But if you hear a bell and see a cave – bring me back a piece of gold or a jeweled trinket, won't you?"

Hair of sun and gaze of sky, the bell will ring to let him by…

He interrupted her query, "Are you all right?" with a mumble meant to reassure, and escaped again to his car, where he sat in silence.

And read to the last folded page, where he was brightly and commercially informed, a nearby field had once boasted a thick grove of oak trees, a stone-marked burial ground of wise men, and a white thorn tree that sheltered the graves with its blossoms. Cell-y-Dewiniaid. The Grove of the Magicians.

I do believe in spooks, he thought randomly. I do believe in spooks, I do believe in spooks…

North into Snowdonia National Park. West a bit, then north again to Beddgelert, which was little more than a cluster of tourist hotels.

He parked and hesitated, listening to the engine click as it cooled.

Straight ahead and all around – buildings, roads, signs. The present, and always an impatient one. But if he lifted his eyes – hilltops and trees, smooth and craggy, lush and struggling. The world of the past – a very long past. Slow and timeless and patient, and he felt like it waited for him.

Just as the Tor had waited for him – and he'd ducked into a pub instead. A small and embarrassing and ineffectual delay, after all…

This trip was about more than just finishing coursework, before he found a job. Started a career. It was more than just, what do you want to be when you grow up.

Who am I. A question everyone had to answer, sooner or later. Simple or complex. He felt it, now, like he'd been hiding from really answering, letting others around him, define him.

What do I want? What do I want to accomplish? Who do I want to be? What do I believe?

The answer was not in yet another counselor's office, yet another aptitude test. It wasn't in more research, more job fairs, more conversations. He wouldn't find it in the open streets and underground network of the city that had been his home.

It was inside. Long buried, long hidden, long denied or believed absent entirely. But in a place like this, Arthur rather fancied, a person might find the clarity and the courage to really look within.

He stood up out of his car, locked and closed the door. And instead of heading for either of the hotels flanking the car park, he headed for the road into the hills.

And then, after an hour's trek, he left the road.

With every step, he felt freer – and yet, more responsible at the same time. Following no one's path but his own. Breathing air that was new, not recycled. Curiously enough, there was no fear, though he'd never been here and the sun was not far from setting. Raised a city boy, but somehow he felt sure of his ability to fend for himself out here.

It was almost as if he'd done this before. Leaving home on a quest to find meaning and form purpose, to test his own mettle.

Quest. Odd word, that. And invigorating.

He stopped when he saw Dinas Emrys. Rising above a small valley, the sound of a small river trickling through. Glaslyn, he remembered from the brochure, though it hadn't had a name when he'd been here last.

Arthur shook his head, looking down to place his feet in the damp earth and bracken. Odd thought – he'd never been here before.

He would have remembered.

Why then did he think of the smell and crackle of fire? Why did his hand curl as if around the hilt of a sword? Why could he close his eyes and see the hilltop as if far below him as he flew on the back of a –

No. Clarity and answers, not fantasy and more questions.

He followed his feet, wondering if he should climb to the top – as he'd evidently done in Glastonbury, though he didn't remember that clearly – only just to come down again. He wondered if he had the daylight left… probably not.

And in any case, he could not shake the feeling that he'd already done both. Up the hill, and down. Maybe more than once.

He started to wonder if he believed in second chances. If a soul might be allowed to remember a previous lifetime, or if it would be too confusing, existentially. He started to wonder about his dreams, the night before, as he circled the hill to the west and north… and stopped.

Perhaps the fields, bordered with resurrected rock, were indistinguishable one from the next. Perhaps the stones marking the graves of the wise men were crumbling among them. Perhaps the oaks were long since felled, the white thorn blossoms scattered. But he knew.

This was the field, this the grove. There to the side, where he could throw a stone – only to see it disappear into an invisible cave – the side of the hill.

He was glad he was alone. He didn't need his school friends jeering at the shivery chill ascending his spine, trivializing and mocking the – sacred feel of the place.

Past meets present. Present remembers… like the wash of the next wave, filling in the holes and smoothing the wrinkles.

He was sorry to be alone. Perhaps if he had a companion, the hair would not be rising on his neck and forearms as his ears strained involuntarily for the sound of a bell… What if it rang?

What if it didn't? Slowly he stepped forward.

The thing about prophecy is… it's rarely understood until after its fulfillment. I should have told you, but… I thought you might not come…

His heart was pounding. Around him, the entire world waited and watched.

Would he turn his back in retreat? Go home, weigh job offers, accept the most lucrative one? Earn money so he could spend it, spend it so he'd have to keep earning it? Never chance being extraordinary, never risk being heroic?

Or… accept that he didn't have answers, or control. Embrace fate, or destiny, let it take him where it would…

Believe.

He heard no bells. The very air held its breath.

"Open sesame," he said. And laughed out loud at himself. Wrong part of the world for that legend.

Well, what would be the magic words for this part of the world?

One came to mind. So swiftly and surely and powerfully it shook him, and once again he stood on the edge of decision. Did he have the courage to try? What if it worked what if it didn't…

He closed his eyes and opened his mouth and spoke clearly, if not loudly. "Merlin."

In the waiting stillness, his breathing was loud, and the wind very soft. He opened his eyes and turned his head just slightly to watch the last sliver of sun disappear – the high clouds in the sky reflecting a riot of color, but no warmth.

In an agony of despair – who am I I am alone – he whispered again.

"Merlin."

The light began to fade.

Behind him, pebbles rattled softly on stone, and he spun, hair again rising to think of the fey unknown that might surround him, at this place and in the moment of twilight.

A young man approached him – no one, and then suddenly, someone. He was dressed simply, in dark trousers and a white shirt – nondescript, but subtly wrong. Not a t-shirt, not an Oxford or a button-down… he wore a necklace, cord and charm that sparked in Arthur's memory. He grinned as he took each step, angular face lighting with a fierce joy that seemed to pull the sun back up over the horizon for a moment that staggered Arthur –

He knew him. Better than he knew himself, these days. But his mouth was dry he couldn't speak, he couldn't say that name. Though he had just, twice.

"Arthur," the young man said, managing a tone at once respectful and irreverent with the one word, and Arthur almost sobbed. Almost laughed. He was known, also. "I told you I'd see you again, didn't I?"

Soft comfort of his own bed, distant pain of a slowly-fatal wound, his hand in the hand of someone who sat weeping quietly, just beyond his vision. This face, bearded and lined with decades of faithful service, smiling as he promised, and tears fell anyway.

"This," Arthur said, struggling to control the great elation – a completion - inside. "Whatever this was, it was not soon, Merlin."

Merlin shrugged, yawning, and stretched to ruffle the hair on the back of his head. "The prophecy wasn't specific, you know."

"No, but it was right." Arthur put out a tentative hand. Touched his friend's arm, warm and bony through the sleeve of a homemade shirt centuries old. Pushed it up slightly to see two dark curled points on the inside of the wrist, the beginning of a permanent and fantastic testimony of enduring power.

He didn't see the whole of the tattoo – he probably would later – because Merlin responded immediately and unreservedly, flinging both arms around Arthur and squeezing him so tight it was hard to breathe.

It felt wonderful.

"Missed you," Arthur whispered, and relished the shudder of Merlin laughing.

"Then what took you so long to wake up?"

"Me?" Arthur protested, and Merlin shifted to keep one arm around his shoulders, drawing him back the way he'd come, down toward the distant lights of Beddgelert. "I've only been back for twenty-two years, and you've evidently been Sleeping-Not-Beauty for a millennium and a half?"

"That long?" Merlin sounded unconcerned, and didn't drop his arm, though it made them bump awkwardly as they sauntered over the rough ground. "No wonder I'm so stiff… Where are we going, anyway?"

Arthur caught his breath. We. Where are we going.

Anywhere. Everywhere.

"Never mind," Merlin said breezily. "I'll come with you."

…..

A/N: This is basically just a oneshot, I won't be continuing the boys' adventures, at least in this arc. Some material gathered for this chapter from the Wikipedia page on "Dinas Emrys", and from the site glastonburytor. org. uk.

Next up, I'm going to be doing a sequel to "Son of Poseidon", which I'll be uploading to that story (as there are only 9 chapters to that one, and the sequel probably similar in length).