Author's Note: Yes, I stole a line from Star Trek: Into Darkness. Sue me. Or, like, don't. I would have to sell one of my tits to pay the legal fees (If you have a heart of black sludge and do sue me, make certain you know of a buyer).

I disclaim everything except my own imagination.

Something was very, very wrong.

Arthur knew that, but couldn't for the life of him think what it was. He had to do… something. Tell someone something, but nothing other than the urgency sprang to his mind. He wasn't even sure he had a mind. He couldn't feel his body, couldn't feel anything except the violent need to do something, but he couldn't think of anything more than that. He was helpless, and his mind churned in turmoil.

What was it? Something big, something important.

That's when he heard it. A low voice, a voice he knew. A voice almost choking with tears. He heard his name being choked out, almost a sob. And then there was warmth, sweet and welcome. "In sibbe gereste."

Finally, finally there was peace. He could rest.

"Arthur…"

The melodic voice rang out, rousing Arthur as if from a deep slumber. He was disoriented and confused, but the voice rang out like a beacon. He felt compelled to follow it, as if in a drunken stupor. He opened his eyes, surprised to see he was already standing. Grass tickled his naked feet, and the breeze enveloped his naked flesh pleasantly. He spared a confused thought as to why his nakedness didn't bother him, then continued to follow the melodious sound of his name, repeating seductively like a chant.

Finally, he stood at the edge of the water. The water was unnaturally still, silent. There was no sound other than the fading sound of his name—no birds, no rustling in the trees. He cocked his head. It didn't bother him. Nothing did.

"Arthur."

He turned around, still feeling a little out of sorts, and took in the woman standing before him. She was a little thing, barely reaching his chin, with flowers woven into her dark hair and her pale skin glowing, a gentle smile on her face. She reached out and touched his face. Her hand was cool, like the water of a summer lake.

"Do you remember yet, Arthur?"

Arthur's brows furrowed. "Remember what?"

She smiled at him, gentle beyond belief. When she walked to encircle him, her wine-coloured dress made no sound as it slid across the grass. "Not what, who," she corrected gently. "What you remember now is obsolete, a relic of a time long past."

Arthur wanted to be bothered by this information, but the restful peace he felt was unshakable.

"Do you remember Merlin?"

As she said it, the strange woman touched his forehead with her fingertip, the touch burning hot as if with a fever.

And just like that, it was all coming back to him. He gasped, drowning in feeling, vaguely aware that he had fallen to his knees. He saw Merlin, the cheeky teenager who sassed his Prince that first day in the marketplace. I was born to serve you, Arthur. And I am proud of that. He remembered the time he had upturned a bucket of water on Merlin's head, the way he had often shoved Merlin to come along. No man is worth your tears. You're certainly not! He remembered yelling for him, feeding him rat stew, waiting for him to get back from the tavern. I swear I will protect you or die at your side. He remembered Merlin frozen, bruised, with a bloody forehead, with a limp. I do this because of who you are. He remembered Merlin undressing him. Feeding him when he was too weak. There will never be another like you, Arthur. He remembered Merlin's cheeky grin and his tearful confession. I am a sorcerer. I have magic.

Arthur was drowning in the memories, drowning in the emotions he had experienced once, feelings he was struggling with once more, as if they were new and raw. He felt it all, too much—too much agony, joy, brotherhood, love… it was not meant for one man to all endure at once.

When he passed out, he had a brief moment to thank God for this small mercy.

As he lay there at the banks of Avalon, Arthur dreamed. He dreamed vividly of a world gone mad, of a mad struggle for power, of bloodshed and new kingdoms. He dreamt of Merlin, weeping next to a lake as the seasons passed him by; he felt rather than saw the abject agony. He felt Merlin's anger and rage when the castle at Camelot crumbled, his mind seductively suggesting that perhaps it would bring Arthur back. He felt the darkness in Merlin, felt him let it consume him for a while, before he unleashed it all on the enemies trying to destroy the castle. He saw years pass Merlin by, the world changing around a man who waited with increasing agony. He saw Merlin walk through a dirty, deserted street, the wailings of a hundred dying souls oozing out of doors marked with red crosses, the dead already littering his path. He saw the world ending in fire, men and women screaming as it raged around them.

Arthur slept, and he dreamt of a world where men could fly, of people using frightful contraptions and magic to destroy each other. He dreamt of Merlin charging into a desolate place used to burn people by the thousands, a place where the men and women were thinner than should be possible and the children were nowhere to be found. He saw them line up to be killed by poison or fire, he saw Merlin's eyes burn like fire and the death workhouse explode into flames. He saw Merlin stare as man went into space, as man dived farther and farther underwater, and man created weapons so horrible they could end the world at a whim.

He saw it all, and he saw his friend at the centre, never changing on the outside, growing bitter and angry and desolate on the inside. He could see Merlin's battered soul through his expressive eyes, and he felt the need to vomit when he realized the brightness in them was slowly dying. He saw it all, and he regretted not being next to his friend.

When he woke up, the woman was still next to him. He scrambled to his feet gracelessly, his armour and chainmail making him clumsy for a while. "Merlin," he gasped. "Merlin is—" He hadn't known how to finish that statement, and was actually grateful for the woman interrupting him.

"Alive," she supplied with a rueful smile. "But he craves death."

Arthur's head was spinning. He sat down again, and decided to take some time to breathe. When he decided he could speak without vomiting, he looked up at her again. "Was that—" he swallowed and tried again. "Were my dreams real?"

"Do you remember that you died?" she asked.

Arthur's eyes fluttered. The clamouring of a bloody battlefield, a flash of lightening, a dragon's enchanted fire. The glint of steel and searing pain in his side. Just, just, just hold me. "Yes," he said, remembering Merlin's tears. "Yes, I remember."

"Merlin was told that you would return," she explained calmly. "He has believed it, however fleetingly, all this time. His conviction was strong in the early years, but then it waned and strengthened in an interesting cycle of grief and determination."

"He didn't die," said Arthur with dawning horror. "He lived through all that time… all that pain and agony."

"He waited," she corrected gently. "Merlin hasn't lived in a long, long while." She sighed, her eyes becoming infinitely sad. Finally, she sat next to him, crosslegged on the grass with her head tilted near his, like children sharing stories. "He doesn't believe anymore, Arthur Pendragon."

"He doesn't believe I am—" Arthur wasn't sure he was alive. "Returning?"

"He doesn't believe in any of it," sighed the woman. "He doesn't believe you will return anymore. He doesn't believe he has any reason to live. But most importantly, he doesn't believe in his own magic. He hasn't cast a spell in years."

Arthur cocked his head. "Is it really that important for him to do?"

She nodded grimly, a worried frown marring her fey features. "Yes," she whispered. "For Merlin is magic itself. He is what binds together the world—his magic is what keeps the sky over our heads and the waters in the oceans. He hasn't used it in too long, he has chained it up… and now the world is slowly rotting. Like he is rotting inside. Ferocious winds batter the world at whim, waves rise higher than the heavens to end all that is in their path. It rains till it feels as if Judgement Day has come. The grounds shake and shudder in agony, creatures of the most resilient kind often drop dead without an explanation."

It took Arthur a full minute before he could say anything at all. "What do I do?"

"Make him believe, Arthur," said the lady. "I met him once, when he was hardly more than a blushing boy falling in love for the first time. His spirit is gone, buried under years of agony and distrust. Help him. Fix him. Make him use his magic again. Help him find joy in it."

"How?" Arthur had seen Merlin do magic on around four occasions. He was no expert when it came to Merlin's magic.

She shrugged elegantly. "I do not know." She handed him Excalibur, which she seemingly procured from nowhere, and paused to consider it a moment. "But when you go back to Albion, will you give him something from me?"

"Certainly," he said, extending a hand. She ignored it completely, instead leaning forward to plant a kiss on his surprised lips.

Arthur tried to speak, but the warm press of her fey lips felt too good, so he decided against. He was supposed to kiss Merlin? He resisted the urge to laugh at the idea, closing his eyes instead.

When he opened them, Merlin was there.

But that was not what he could focus on. He couldn't breathe, and the stench of the thin air was incredible. He felt as though he was dying again. He clutched at Merlin, trying to breathe in enough air to tell him he couldn't breathe.

Merlin looked like the old man he once disguised himself as. He was babbling through his tears, his hands all over Arthur, the coarse material of his gloves catching on Arthur's chainmail. He wouldn't let Arthur go, standing knee-deep in the lake, Arthur wheezing in his grip.

Arthur let Merlin drag him to the shore, too weak to do anything else. He wanted to comfort Merlin through his wracking sobs, but wasn't entirely certain Merlin would hear him. His servant was still babbling the same sentence over and over like a madman. You're here, you came back to me.

When Arthur's eyes watered, Merlin wrapped his muddy arms around him and just held him.

This world was strange.

The food, water and air were all poisoned, or so Merlin told him. He was only to eat what Merlin put in front of him. There was stone all around him, trees nowhere in sight, and the night sky was eclipsed by the tall castles of stone, iron and glass.

Arthur could see very well that everything had changed.

Even with the preparation that the fairy girl had provided, Arthur had been very scared of the sights and sounds of this new world. He had shamelessly clung to Merlin, who had been laughing and sobbing at the same time, and thanked the Gods that at least he had Merlin.

But even Merlin had changed. He had woken up the next day and left Arthur sleeping alone in his little hovel, returning hours later, claiming he had thought Arthur had been a dream. Arthur's reprimand at the lack of breakfast had died in his throat. He had been afraid to ask how many times Merlin had dreamt of him.

That had been eight days ago. Merlin felt like a different man-he would absolutely insist on Arthur being in the same room as him (to keep him safe), would mumble things to himself while he cooked, and would sob at the drop of a hat. A couple nights ago, Merlin had come into his former room (where Arthur now slept) to wake Arthur from a deep slumber and apologize profusely to him for letting him die. For failing him. That had led to a talk about regrets and apologies that had broken with the morning light peeping in the window. Merlin had made them something called tea, and they hadn't mentioned it after.

"Merlin?"

Merlin looked up from the book he was reading, clean shaven and dark-haired once again. Arthur had insisted on it. He was obsessed with finding out why Arthur was back. "Yeah?"

"Why don't you use magic?"

The hatred that filled Merlin's eyes before they became shuttered gave Arthur a clue as to the answer. "What do you mean?"

Arthur waved his hands around deliberately, trying to look a little foolish. He didn't want Merlin to get all serious. "You know," he said vaguely. "To boil water or light your candles or polish my sword. Can't you do all that with sorcery?"

Merlin was silent a long while. His gaze was steady, he hadn't bought into the levity. "I did, once. Not anymore."

"But why?"

"It belonged to another lifetime," said Merlin shortly, and left.

"Arthur?"

Merlin's whisper was so soft that Arthur wouldn't have noticed it in his sleep. Maybe Merlin had been counting on that, but Arthur was very much awake. "Yeah?"

"I hate it," said Merlin, and Arthur could hear the tears in his voice. He was suddenly reminded of Merlin's tearful confession not so long ago. A hundred lifetimes ago.

Arthur sat up in bed and tried to discern Merlin's face in the dark doorway. "I don't understand, Merlin." There was no response. "Come here."

Merlin took small steps till he was standing next to the bed, his eyes shining in the light from the window. He was silent, as if the confession had been wrenched out of him, and he was afraid of Arthur's reaction.

Even half-asleep, Arthur knew what this was about. He sat up, wishing there was more light so he could see Merlin's face. "Sit down, Merlin."

Instead of sitting on the edge of the bed, Merlin went down on his knees, his cheek pillowed on the mattress. " 'M sorry," he mumbled.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," said Arthur vehemently, resisting the urge to run his hands through Merlin's hair. "You have been perfect. It's I who should apologize for not seeing your brilliance sooner." He paused. The dark cover of night felt perfect for prying out secrets that hid in the light of day. "Why do you hate your magic, Merlin?"

Merlin sucked in a breath, and an eternity passed before he replied. "What use is my magic if it couldn't save you? It was meant for you, Arthur. I was born to serve you. And I let you die!"

"Merlin!" Arthur winced because his voice was too loud for their middle-of-the-night conversation, but he couldn't stop being angry. "I died. It was no one's fault, and certainly not yours. If anything, it was probably my own doing; I drove Mordred to hate."

"No," said Merlin like a stubborn child. "I should have been there. I should have found you sooner. I should have killed Mordred before he had the chance to even breathe the same air as you. I could-"

"Don't," said Arthur, voice suddenly pleading. "Don't do this to yourself. I died, Merlin. And it was no one's fault. And how many times has your magic saved my life? You have been the most loyal servant in the history of mankind."

Merlin huffed out a breath that could have been a laugh or a sob. "What would you know?"

"I might surprise you."

Merlin said nothing in reply.

"Merlin!"

Arthur had admittedly been walking on eggshells around Merlin this past week, ever since they had chatted in the middle of the night. But right now he needed to yell just a little.

Heavy footsteps sounded outside the door to the bedroom, and Merlin skidded in to see Arthur standing in the doorway to the bathroom, a towel clutched around his waist and a bewildered expression on his face. "What? What's wrong?"

"The water in the fake shower is ice-cold today, Merlin," said Arthur petulantly. "I froze my balls in that icy downpour."

Once Merlin had stopped laughing and could actually breathe, he explained that some bit of machinery might be broken. Arthur, too mesmerized with seeing Merlin laugh once more, suggested that Merlin fix it. Well... more like demanded.

"I am not a plumber! Or, like, an electrician," protested Merlin.

"I have no idea what either of those things are." Arthur said pompously. "I do know that you are my servant, and that you have magic, so heat my bathwater. That's all there is to it."

Merlin looked at him, his eyes so old and sad that they made Arthur's breath catch. "Of course, Sire. At once."

In the end, Merlin filled a bucket in the kitchens and brought it over to fill the tub. Arthur's ploy hadn't worked.

"I think it was beautiful," said Arthur out of the blue one day.

Merlin stopped chopping vegetables to focus all his attention on his king. "What?"

"Your magic," said Arthur with studied casualty. "I think it was beautiful."

Merlin dropped the knife with a clatter and stared down at it like a simpleton, his gaze fixed, not daring to look at Arthur. "That's not what you said at the time," he mumbled.

"I was angry," said Arthur, already having anticipated the retort. "Angry, and hurt that you hadn't told me about your magic before. That you hid it from me for so long. That you didn't trust me."

Merlin said nothing, shame and self-loathing dripping off of him. Arthur wanted him to say something, to retort with the friendly banter he had been used to, but he was disappointed. He bent down to pick up the knife instead. "Still, just wanted you to know that dragon from the embers, it looked beautiful to me. I would have liked to know more of what you can do."

Merlin shook his head, took the knife from Arthur, and resumed chopping. He didn't say a single word.

In the end, it happened quite by accident.

Arthur tried helping Merlin in the kitchen out of sheer boredom, and it went terribly. Merlin had gone along with the idea, just to give Arthur something to do, but he was certainly regretting it now. There was flour all over the counters, and Arthur had put grated cheese in the tea instead of sugar.

"Have you forgotten what cheese smells like?" said Merlin. "Or do you like your tea salty?"

"You said it would be in the blue box, Merlin," said Arthur petulantly.

"Yes," said Merlin with warm humor in his voice. "As opposed to the green one with the cheese." He shook his head and went to the little cupboard, abandoning the tomatoes he was slicing.

As Merlin rooted around in the cupboard, Arthur realized that his manservant wasn't being entirely fair. His skills with a sword or dagger made him easily qualified for a chopping or slicing job, did it not? He could easily use this little knife and slice the tomatoes for their sandwiches.

Mind made up, Arthur made for the knife, ready to cut the tomatoes. Being unskilled in a kitchen, however, he hadn't anticipated tomatoes to be so slippery, nor had he imagined the knife to be so sharp.

A little slip, and blood welled in his sliced-open thumb. Arthur grunted.

Instantly, Merlin was at his side. "No," he said, far more seriously than the situation warranted, his expression horrified. "No, no, no," he repeated frantically, even as Arthur tried to wrench his hand from Merlin's white-knuckled grip.

"Merlin, it's alright!" Arthur tried to look into Merlin's eyes, to calm him down somehow, but Merlin wasn't looking at him. His eyes were fixed on the blood.

Arthur's mocking remark froze in his throat when he saw tears well up in Merlin's eyes. He wasn't entirely sure he and Merlin were seeing the same wound. Maybe Merlin was still haunted by his fatal wounds centuries ago. He could never share in this grief, in this fear that had festered and simmered for an eternity. He could never truly understand what his loss had done to Merlin's soul.

The repeated litany of no tapered off, and Merlin steeled his shoulders, finally looking up to meet Arthur's eyes. "Gelácne," he said softly, and his eyes flared like molten gold for a second before returning to crystal blue, full of defiance and daring. The skin of Arthur's thumb tingle madly as it knit itself back, no trace of the wound remaining. Merlin looked at Arthur as though daring him to find any fault in what he had just done.

Arthur's smile was relieved. "Well done, Merlin," he said softly, his mouth next to Merlin's ear. "It seems you are not entirely useless."

Merlin's huff of relieved laughter warmed his ear. "Prat."

"Idiot," retorted Arthur with great fondness. He moved back a little, gentle, trying to peer into Merlin's eyes to gauge his mood. "There was no need to panic."

Merlin impatiently brushed away tears from his face like a petulant child. "I know. I just..."

Arthur waited, but there was no end to that statement. He looked so forlorn, so brave that it made something in Arthur's chest squeeze tightly. His Merlin, so valiant and tortured. "Merlin, I am going to do something I have always wanted to do," he warned. Was it just him or did Merlin just look at his mouth? "And I need you to quell the urge to punch me in my manhood if it should so arise."

Feeling secure in the knowledge that Merlin probably wouldn't kill him again, Arthur moved the last remaining inch, cupped Merlin's a face with both hands, and kissed him.

Merlin stiffened as though Arthur had socked him. His hands made an fluttering motion near Arthur's hips. A helpless sound made its way out of Merlin's a throat, and then he was kissing Arthur as though his life depended on it. He was strangely forceful as his tongue coaxed Arthur's a mouth open, his hands grabbing Arthur's waist. Before long, Merlin was the one controlling the kiss, with his tongue in Arthur's mouth and his body backing Arthur into the cold box that Merlin kept milk in.

Arthur absolutely refused to acknowledge that he whimpered when Merlin's a leg made its way between his thighs.

He broke away to breathe in huge gulps of air, his hands clutching the back of Merlin's neck and his lips stretched in a grin. "I am guessing you liked it."

"Well, my Lord," said Merlin with a cheeky grin of his own. "It wasn't as I had always imagined, but I believe I will make do."

The end.