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Chapter Text

It was while he squatted, hands braced against the toilet seat, with the sweet but acidic stench of last night's shenanigans invading his nostrils, that Arthur remembered - everything. 

There wasn’t a big revelation. There wasn’t a small movie playing in his head and there were certainly no flashing lights (thank all the gods). It was just one moment he was fuck-up Arthur Pendragon and the next minute he was fuck-up Arthur Pendragon and King Arthur Pendragon, all in one. 

He could picture it, hundreds of silver-and-red-coated men in echoing silence, all waiting, all watching, all ready to charge at the raise of his hand. He could see the deference in people’s faces as he walked past. The feel of a soft hand in his as Guinevere, his wife , stood by him. He remembered his death. He touched his chest, expecting to find a ridge of a scar through the cashmere but it was smooth to the touch; he could still feel the phantom pain from Mordred’s sword as it pierced his torso. He could still see Merlin’s - oh gods, Merlin - red face, strained with anguish, as he clutched Arthur to his chest - his shirt wet with blood and tears.

A retch heaved through him and he tasted acid at the back of his throat. He shifted against the floor, readjusting his position to ease his thigh muscles and got a better purchase on the porcelain, warmed by his hands. God, he was nothing now. A fuck-up. All he had to his name now was booze and hangovers on repeat through university and the years since, with no love life to speak of. 

In his back pocket, his phone started vibrating. With fumbling, trembling fingers, he managed to shimmy his phone out of his back pocket. He put his thumb to the home button and nearly dropped it - his father’s name flashed on the screen. Uther Pendragon. Just as terrifying now as he was a thousand years ago. Arthur’s body shrank into himself and he felt like he was five years old again anticipating a lecture. 

Arthur had made quite a mess of himself at his father’s 50th last night - he had spotty memories but he remembered drinking far too much and throwing up in front of the primeminister. His father had been livid. What an embarrassment, going from king to this. 

The ringing stopped to be replaced by a short text. Arthur scanned over the words, “I expected more of you”, and jammed his phone back in his pocket. His head hurt, he was queasy, and he could not deal with this today.

Another roll of nausea hit him, goosebumps fluttered up his arms, and he retched into the toilet. And then again. And again. 

After some indeterminate amount of time, Arthur’s stomach finally settled down enough for him to get up. 

He hobbled his way to the sink. Avoiding looking at himself in the mirror, he splashed his face with water and rinsed out his mouth with mouthwash, already feeling much better. He made his way over to the living room and plonked himself onto his favourite couch.

His living space had always made him feel warm and at home. With new eyes, he could see why; it was very much reminiscent of Camelot with the red decor, gold accents, grand fireplace, and the ornamental swords hanging above the mantle. It was strange - to see aspects of his kingly personality before he even regained his memories of that past life. Still, it was comforting and made him feel at home, connected to both his present and past lives. 

He switched on the telly. He barely had enough brain capacity for much else. 

The bold red banner of BBC news flashed across the screen with the most recent story; the high priestess, Nimueh, was found dead in her apartment in Edinburgh. The reporter was standing against the grey sandstone wall of her house. 

Arthur sat up. Arthur recognised that name from before . Arthur turned up the volume to hear what was going on. 

“It is thought that the death of Nimueh Ryan may have been caused by her rival Morgause in a bid to become the new high-priestess,” the reporter said as if she was reciting a list of groceries. 

On the screen, enlarged images of both Nimueh and Morgause appeared. Arthur paused the tv and slowly put the remote down, leaning forward. He knew those unnaturally red lips. Nimueh. She had abandoned him to die by hundreds of giant spiders in the dark. And of course, he’d recognise the blonde curls of Morgause anywhere after having lost to her in combat. His stomach coiled into a knot. Why were they here? Of all people. He felt a sharp stab of panic at the implications that his old enemies were coming back. Were all his enemies returned?

How far did the reincarnations go? Could his knights have been reincarnated, could Gwen, could Merlin? He started counting on his fingers, there was Uther Pendragon, these two sorcerers, himself and - 

As if hearing his thoughts, he heard the sound of stilettos against wood - right outside his flat. He knew those footsteps. The one other person he knew who was reincarnated. The one other person who had a copy of his keys. 

“Oh god not now,” he muttered under his breath. 

It was Morgana. 

~~~~~

“Hello?” A female voice called followed by the sound of knocking on his front door. He was right. It was her. 

He didn’t respond, unsure of what to say, and hoping she’d leave him alone. 

Silence hung on the other side of the door for a good minute or so. Arthur dared to hope she was going to give up and assume he was out. Instead, he heard a set of keys jingle against each other and the sound of scraping as keys were fitted into the lock. 

“I hope you’re not naked,” she called out. 

Fuck . He got up, awkwardly hovering by the door, not opening it but not putting the safety lock on either. He felt on edge, defenceless. He knew that this Morgan Le Fay was different. She was a human rights lawyer who had worked feverishly all her life defending druids and practitioners of the old religion. This Morgan didn’t even have magic. She was certainly worlds apart from the previous Morgana. He should be safe with her. 

But still, he could still see her carelessly bringing down the ceiling and ending the lives of dozens and dozens of Camelot’s people, a smile in her eyes. 

He glanced at himself in the mirror to the left of the front door. His hair was a state - greasy with the occasional tuft sticking against his face. He also had three days worth of stubble growing patchy and sparse. His Armani shirt had suspicious looking yellow stains and a trail of vomit on his collar. He winced at the image - not quite the striking king he once was. There was not much he could do now.  

The front door opened. His body tensed just as it had before battle. 

“Rough night?” 

Morgan stood in the doorway, her hair slicked back into a ponytail, and dressed in business attire. She looked different from her past self; neat, tidy and capable. But he could still see some of the old Morgana in her choice of black spikey earrings and her harsh makeup. Her eyes were entirely lined in black, giving her face a dominant but dark look. 

“Nevermind,” she said, giving him a once over. “I don’t even need to ask.”

She walked over to the kitchen counter. She put the kettle on and bustled around opening and closing his cupboards, taking a couple of cups out, the milk, and finding a packet of chocolate bourbons. 

Her familiarity and the happenstance way she threw open his cupboards and interfered with his things, set Arthur’s teeth on edge. She’d done this many times before, but it was all different now. Now all the trust Arthur had once had for his sister, had evaporated. She was now unwelcome, trespassing on his property. And she had no idea. 

Morgan glanced at him as she was filling a glass with water and did a double take, frowning. Arthur realised his expressions must have been clear on his face and he attempted to put on a more jovial expression, using all his skills of diplomacy. She continued to stare at him as the glass filled up with water, only breaking eye contact when the glass had filled to the top. 

She held up the glass of water to him and revealed two pills in her palm. 

“A cure to end all ills,” she announced with a flourish. 

Arthur found himself unable to react, his head was a mess and his heart was juddering in his chest. Every instinct of his was telling him to move away from her.

She shook the painkillers at him as if summoning a dog with treats.

Arthur knew he should move, he should take the water and the pills, otherwise Morgan would know something was up. Still, his legs refused to move. He had the advantage of the battle ground, standing by the exit to his flat. Any tactician would know not to give that up. 

“Arthur,” she said, the frown was back on her face. “Why are you acting like this?” She looked hurt. 

Arthur felt a stab of remorse. This was his big sister, she was trying to help him, and he was giving her the cold shoulder for no reason. It was enough to shake him out of his thoughts. 

“Sorry,” he said. 

He tried to act like everything was fine, while approaching her. He took measured steps with a casual air making sure he wasn’t rushing. He succeeded until she was right in front of him, in his space. Then, his entire body went on high alert - all his muscles tensing up. 

He took the glass and the pills from her quickly, hoping she wouldn’t notice the tremor in his hands. He held his nose and swallowed the pills, taking a swig of water. As soon as she’d taken the cup from him, he backed away from her.

Once there was some space between them, he found himself able to breathe freely, relaxing his shoulders slightly. 

“Thanks,” he said, because he should. 

They stayed like that for a while, in what Arthur could only refer to as an awkward silence. 

He had always been uncomfortable with awkwardness. The urge to break the silence was too great and so he gave in. “So,” he said, straight to the point. “Why are you here?” 

The toggle on the end of the kettle flicked upwards and the light went off. Morgan broke his eye contact and glanced over at the kettle as if relieved by the interruption. She poured the boiling water into two mugs, avoiding eye contact. “Just wanting to drop in on my favourite brother”. 

They lapsed into silence again. 

Everything appeared fine but Arthur could see how white her fingers were, clutched around the kettle like it was a rope and she was hanging off the end of a chasm. There was definitely more going on here.

“ Morgan , tell me what’s going on.” 

Her eyes immidiately flicked back to his face and narrowed ever so slightly. She straightened her back under his gaze and used one hand to smooth out the wrinkles of her skirt.

“Alright,” she said. “Yes, okay there is another reason I’m here.” 

“I’m moving to Scotland,” she said and handed him his tea.. 

Distracted by the tea and due to how casually she said it, it took Arthur a moment to process the significance of what she had said. Then - 

“What?!” he burst out. 

“It’s just for three months! I’ve been offered a prestigious training opportunity - a joint venture between the Scottish Parliament and the University of St. Andrews,” she said, her words coming out all at once. 

A training program - that made sense, but Arthur felt like she offered far too much information, the way she responded hadn’t seemed natural. It almost seemed rehearsed. 

“But you’re already at the top of your firm.” He said. 

There’s always room to improve, isn’t there?” Morgana countered, but there wasn’t any of her usual fire to it. 

“Okay.” Arthur let the statement hang in the air. It was a fair response but he still wasn’t sure she was being entirely truthful with him. “When will you be going?”

The question hung in the air for a couple of seconds. 

“Monday.”

Arthur nearly spat out the tea. He quickly swallowed it instead, the tea burning his throat. 

“What.” He said the word quietly, not asking a question, letting the word have power on its own and met her gaze dead on. This wasn’t the present-day, fuck-up Arthur Pendragon. This was the level gaze of the King. 

Morgan shifted away from him. 

“Arthur, it was a last minute opportunity. I couldn’t say no.”

Her face was closed off, secretive. All at once, Arthur could see her - Morgana. The Morgana who was hiding her betrayal, living in Camelot right under their noses. Arthur slowly put down his tea. He had had enough. He was sick of it. Sick of the hangover, sick of Morgan being evasive, sick of playing nice when he didn’t even know who she was anymore.   

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” he said, each word behind gritted teeth.

“Arthur -” 

“Morgana,” Arthur said warningly. 

Morgan’s mug slipped through her fingers and smashed against the tiled floor. Tea splattered against her trousers but she didn’t even react. She just stared at him, face like stone. 

Panic gripped Arthur’s heart with icy hands. She remembered.

“What did you call me?” She asked, her chest visibly heaving.

“Morgan, of course,” he said, putting on an air of confidence he didn’t feel. 

“ Sure .” Morgan said, her voice biting, sarcastic. 

“Morgana, I -” 

“King Arthur,” she said. Arthur cringed at the title, the distance she had put behind it. She knew . Something was happening, something big, something to do with why they were here and why she needed to move to Scotland. He suddenly felt very lost. He needed answers. 

“Morgana -” 

“Morgan,” she cut in, “I’m Morgan now.” Her eyes were wild. 

“Morgan,” he said, apologetic, reaching out to her, his sister, his -

She flung her hands out. The apologetic, yearning feeling evaporated. Unbidden, a vivid memory flashed in his head from the last time she had made that gesture. Her eyes had gone gold and he had been tossed into the air as if he was a plaything. He had been unable to breathe for at least a minute from the impact. The apologetic feeling evaporated.

It was pure instinct that made him grab the ornamental sword from above the fireplace. The sword easily came loose from the nails. The weight of it made him feel more certain, more reassured. He levelled the sword at Morgan. “Tell me what is happening. Why are we here?” 

“Why don’t you put down that sword, Arthur.” She said, every word measured and soft, miles apart from her frantic expression. 

“I want to know what’s going on and what you’re up to.” Arthur said. He felt silly as the sword was blunt, unpolished, and wouldn’t do much against a sorcerer if she did have her magic. 

“Okay,” Morgan slowly put her hands down, “okay. I don’t know much but I’ll take you to someone who knows everything. Who knows why and what is happening to you right now. Just tell me one thing Arthur, do you remember everything ?” 

“I remember everything.” He said. 

“By the love of Emrys,” she cursed, “I thought we had more time.”

~~~~~

They walked in silence. The sound of Morgan’s stilettos echoed between the skyscrapers and was amplified by the emptiness of the City of London on a weekend. 

Arthur felt an emptiness on the side of his hip, a lack of weight that should be there. He felt off-balanced as he walked. He hadn’t realised how strong his past-life memories were, his muscle memories. He was so accustomed to the weight of a sword that his entire walk had been adjusted. He was vulnerable. Defenseless. And being led by a woman who was once his enemy. 

He didn’t know whether he should trust her. 

They turned a corner and Arthur’s hackles went up; the buildings were shabbier, bundles of herbs and branches hung by string outside flats and corner shops, crates of St. John’s Wort and Lemon Balm sat amongst crates of over ripe apples and pears outside greengrocers, and the shop names had their translation in Old English underneath them. A man and woman loitering in an alcove in hooded blue robes eyed them warily as they passed. They did not belong here; this was the druid district. 

Arthur dreaded what person Morgan was taking him to meet if they frequented the druid district. He could already picture a few unsavoury characters from his past life.  

Arthur put his hands deep in his barbour’s pockets, putting a reassuring hand over his wallet and phone, and hurried his pace. 

“What are you doing?” Arthur hissed at Morgan. 

Morgan didn’t respond, likely a deliberate move on her part to ensure he followed, and she continued walking down the street towards the marble building with the domed roof - the druidic temple. Arthur cursed in his head but kept stride with her, keeping away from the shops and dark alleys. 

The temple would have been grand, with it’s intricate, knotted pillars and it’s huge copper dome but the entire building was covered head to foot in jagged iron-enfused graffiti, which was impossible to remove with magic at least for the common magic user. 

Putting his head down, he increased his walking pace. There was no turning back now.

He was overcome by a sudden scent of decomposing wetland grasses - like those half-mud-half-water puddles you find in a bog and a chill of wind against his neck. He was overcome with a bout of nausea, left over from his hangover likely. He attributed the smell to clogged sewage, or some dark potion making. It was awful but not too out of place for how modern Arthur would picture a modern druid district.

He breathed through his mouth, determined to not let the smell affect him.  

Morgan came to an abrupt stop in front of him and swung round, her eyes flickered to somewhere over his shoulder and widened. She was frightened. 

Arthur suddenly felt on high alert.

“Arthur, don’t move,” she said. She may have tried to be casual, but tension leaked into every word. 

It was then he realised that it wasn’t wind against his neck, it was breaths. A chill crawled down his spine. He reached for his hip. He grasped at nothing. He was defenceless.  

“I said don’t move,” Morgan said, eyes conveying a hundred warnings. 

There was something behind him. Something had seen them come in here. Every warning his father had given him about the druid district growing up was right. It was dangerous. 

Morgan went in a defensive position and put her hands out as if she was about to cast a spell. Arthur realised that was exactly what was going to happen. It was at that moment she started chanting in the language of the old religion. She did have magic. Arthur felt like he was going to be sick. He was stuck between two threats, utterly powerless.

“ Who are you? ,” something hissed behind him, voice reminiscent of a knife scraping against a blackboard. The smell became stronger. Arthur was suddenly overcome with the feeling of claustrophobia as if someone was in his space. He fought the urge to turn around. 

He felt something cold and wet press into the bare skin of his neck. He heard and felt a large sniff. With a grimace, he realised this was some creature’s nose on his skin . His skin crawled and he itched to swat, move, or pull away. But he stayed still. He somehow still trusted Morgan, even after everything Morgana had done to him. He bore with it and hoped against hope she would help. She met his eyes and somehow seemed to convey that she had it all in hand. 

He felt the hissing against his ear now, as intimate as a lover.

“ You stink of it. The hag .” There was a further sniff and then a screech it warbled through the empty alleyway, piercing his eardrums. He winced in pain. 

“ She interferes with the gods. ” The creature hissed. 

He heard rustling and saw gnarled, black and yellow shapes at the corner of his eye getting closer and closer. The smell got stronger. Every instinct was crying out for Arthur to duck. He kept still with every bit of knight training he had. The shapes became clearer and he could finally see what they were. Fingers. If you could call them that. They were splintered bone to the point you could see the marrow. Black skin hung off the knuckles in clumps and the fingernails were twisted into claws. He did not want those things anywhere near his face. 

“Morgan,” Arthur burst out - half command, half plea for help.  

It was at that moment her eyes flashed golden. A white light consumed the alley. It was so bright he couldn’t see a thing, black spots floated across his eyes. The creature wailed behind him. The fingers were gone. The nose was gone. The smell was gone. 

The light was gone but Arthur still couldn’t see. His vision was spotted and blurred. Arthur couldn’t see where Morgan was. If the creature was still there. If anyone was there. Arthur couldn’t see . He felt exposed. What had Morgan done? 

“Morgan,” Arthur shouted, anger vibrating through him. He couldn’t believe he had trusted her again. He reached his arms out into nothing. “ Morgan ,” he shouted again. 

“It’s okay, Arthur. I’m here. The creature’s gone.” Her voice was consoling but Arthur still couldn’t see.

“My eyes.” Arthur said, making sure she could hear his anger.

“Did you keep your eyes open that entire time?” She said, disbelief clear in her voice. 

Arthur couldn’t believe this. This was entirely her fault. How dare she try and make him responsible for it. He clenched his jaw. 

“You should have warned me,” he said, directing his voice towards where he thought she was. 

“I’m taking that as a yes. Keep blinking, you’ll get your vision back soon.”

Arthur was tempted not to blink at all, just to spite her, but decided that was far too childish It was a left-over urge from the fuck-up Arthur, that was not the behaviour of a king. He rapidly blinked his eyes and found she was right. The dingy streets of the druid district were slowly coming back into focus. He felt so relieved, he could cry. There was a strange vulnerability to not being able to see. He realised that he depended so much on the ability, especially in the dangers he had faced as a king. 

Arthur blinked a few more times and Morgan was no longer a blurry figure. He could clearly see her amused expression. He scowled at her. 

“It’s not funny,” he said. 

“You have to admit, it was a little bit.” 

Arthur raised his eyes heavenward and ground his teeth. He was going to be the bigger person and not get into this childish argument. There were more important things. He could still smell that lingering bog smell and he shivered at the memory. 

“What was that creature?” Arthur asked.  

Morgan’s face suddenly became serious. “A drauqr,” she said without missing a beat. 

The word meant nothing to Arthur. He had thought knowing what it was might have made everything make sense. “It said it could smell the hag,” Arthur said. 

Morgan looked surprised. “The hag? Now that is interesting. Did it say anything else?” 

Arthur shrugged. “Something about the gods.”

Morgan nodded, as if that made sense. Arthur still felt frustrated, none of this made any sense to Arthur. He supposed he would be filled in on everything soon. He hoped that whoever Morgan introduced him to would be trustworthy. He needed a friend right now. 

Morgan beckoned him forward and they approached the temple together. 

With a final glance to make sure the alley was still empty behind him, Arthur followed her inside. 

Chapter Text

The noise of London all but disappeared leaving an eerie nothingness. 

His eyes adjusted to the dim lighting and his breath was taken away from him; it was like walking into a fairytale. The walls and carpets had disappeared and instead replaced with evergreens, the ceiling too was replaced with shifting dark blues, white and blue wild flowers lay nestled in a soft grass-carpet, and knotted trunks rose from the ground in concentric circles facing towards the centre stone piece, the altar. 

The only light came from the white and blue orbs, floating around them like fireflies. An enchanted forest, in the middle of London. Magic. His arms prickled with unease. He could picture the scowl on his father’s face if he ever heard Arthur willingly entered a druidic temple. 

He noticed too that his headache and nausea were also dampened. Whether it was the lack of noise or something more nefarious, Arthur had no idea.  

Morgan removed her stilettos and placed them on shelves made of plaited willow. She gestured for Arthur to do the same. As Arthur placed his Chelsea boots on the rack, he noticed that there were small green leaves attached to the willow branch; the willow was alive. 

He made a move towards the grass floor but Morgan stopped him. 

“Your socks”. 

Arthur glanced at the grass and moss covered stone pathways, he didn’t know what had been there or walked on this floor before, he didn’t know how magic worked, were there insects or worms amongst the grass or was it purely decorative? 

“Awww is Arthur scared of a little dirt?” Morgan said, the corner of her lip pulled up in a smirk. Arthur grit his teeth. He knew he would have laughed or playfully jostled her just yesterday. But today, today there was so much more weight and tension to their every encounter. 

As he was hopping around trying to pull his sock off, he knocked into the willow shoe rack causing Morgan’s stilettos and his loafers to clatter against the stone floor. The noise echoed in the silence, if anyone was in this pseudo-grove, they would definitely be alerted to his presence now. He tensed.

For a second, nothing moved and Arthur felt some of the tension leave him until the vines on the opposite side of the room rustled. 

Arthur reached down and quickly righted his and Morgan’s shoes, a quick fix, like a guilty child who’d broken a vase and had shuffled it underneath the sofa as if nothing had happened. 

The vines were pulled apart to reveal a stout man in a brown robe, with a golden embroidered hem looking like he came right out of the medieval ages. His face was obscured by the hood of his robe as was traditional for leaders in the old religion. He knew it was so followers could project the embodiment of whichever god they followed onto the priest. But, in Arthur’s father’s words, it was all a pretentious and deceitful load of waffle. 

The man stood there for some time, assessing them. Arthur assessed him in turn but, with the man’s hand and face covered by long robes, there wasn’t much to see. He was stout and slightly stooped, with his fingers laced together and he was likely old but that was all Arthur could make out. Despite the anonymity, something seemed very familiar about his posture. 

“Morgan and Arthur Pendragon,” the man said finally, breaking the silence, “this does not bode well indeed. Should I put the kettle on? Wait, no, what time is it?” 

The man pulled his sleeve back from his hand to reveal a smart watch. It looked very out of place in this wooded area amongst his period clothes. 

The man did not act at all like how Arthur had imagined a priest from the old religion would act. Arthur had imagined someone mysterious, someone who used measured words and spoke in riddles; this man nearly babbled. He was also struck by how familiar the man seemed. He couldn’t work out if it was the man’s speech patterns, or the voice itself. 

“It’s probably a little too early for wine. Tea it is.” 

The man turned back towards the vines. Even his movements were familiar; Arthur had met this man before. The name and face were not coming to him right away, but it was on the tip of his tongue.

“He remembers,” Morgan said, “ everything ”. 

The man half stumbled and turned around. 

“It’s begun then?”

Morgan nodded. 

Under the cloak, the man’s shoulder’s straightened and, under the hood, Arthur could imagine that the man’s half-smile had stiffened.  

“Well, you’d better come in.” The man said. 

Arthur watched Morgan follow the man behind the vines with a sense of foreboding. Shoulders back, and kingly posture intact, he followed them into the back rooms. 

Behind the vines, the forest illusion quickly vanished and they were back into ordinary London again. The floor was still cobbled over but had a killig rug and two brown sofas pushed up against an exposed brick wall with a window overlooking a block of 1960s council estates. A Victorian fireplace sat in the corner with a merry fire going. The most modern item in the room was a small tv, around ten years old, which sat in the corner of the room on a small table. 

The man pushed through a door on the left. 

“Milk, sugar?” He called out. 

“Just black for me please,” Morgan said. 

“Arthur?” The man spoke like he already knew him.

“Just water, thanks.” He said. 

Morgan took a seat on one of the brown sofa’s and Arthur, not knowing what else to do, joined her. 

“So,” Arthur said, “you took me around London, I followed you into a druidic temple without saying anything, you introduced me to a druid priest. You owe it to me, Morgan. Tell me, do you remember?” 

Morgan sighed. 

“I know what you’re really asking. Am I the nice Morgana you loved or the evil Morgana you hated -” 

“I never hated you.” Arthur said vehemently and it was true. He’d been hurt, betrayed, angry, but he’d never stopped loving Morgana back then. He’d always hoped, always thought that she might come back to him. 

Morgan gave a small smile.  

“Well, to answer your question, yes and no. I don’t remember much after Morgause took me away. I was beyond sleep deprived, and to be honest, a little mad. I remember -” Morgan paused and fiddled with the rings on her fingers “- bits and pieces. I remember the fear or Emry’s and then the insecure hatred of you - that you didn’t like me because I had magic.”

“Emry’s, their,” Arthur gestured back to the temple, “god of magic?” 

“I think he was destined to kill me.”

Arthur frowned. “Did he?” 

“I don’t know. It’s shrouded from me. Like trying to remember what you did after you had too much alcohol.”  

Arthur hummed, he could relate to that. 

“Are the gods real, then?” 

Morgan opened her mouth to speak but was beaten to it. 

“Oh yes, very real.” It was the hooded man who had spoken. 

Arthur hadn’t even heard him come back in. 

The man put down a tray with the teas, water, and a plate of biscuits on the coffee table and pulled back his hood. 

A wave of sudden emotion staggered Arthur. Arthur knew that face. The same wrinkles, the same shoulder length white hair, and even the same outfit - the brown robe with embroidery down the front. He’d grown up with that face. That was the face of a man who always had a kind but gruff word to say to Arthur. A balm compared to the consistent disapproval of his father. The man who would help him bandage his wounds, wipe a cloth against his forehead when he was feverish, a man to whom he owed so much. 

“Gauis.” Arthur said, unable to hide the choke in his voice. 

“Hello Arthur,” Gaius said, smiling, “how I’m glad to finally see you.”    

Arthur had the sudden urge to hug the man. This raw openness, this was something new. A product of his new self. 

“I don’t believe it,” Arthur said, instead, “you’re here and you - you remember?” 

Gaius nodded but said nothing, instead he moved forward and hesitantly put his arms up in an awkward invitation to a hug. Arthur embraced the man. The hug was tighter than Arthur had anticipated and he pulled back to see that Gaius’s eyes were red. 

Arthur could feel the knot working in the back of his throat but he did not cry. 

Gauis drew a trembling finger to wipe a tear that had escaped his own eye. He shook his head and gave Arthur a watery smile. “You have no idea, Arthur, how good it is to see you. I mourned you when you were gone. Camelot was not the same without you.” 

Arthur was not sure how to respond, but he was touched. He and Gaius had always been close; Gaius was often there for him when his father was being harsh, he was there as a moral compass before Arthur had Merlin. He remembered how jealous of Merlin Arthur was, when Merlin first arrived - that Merlin would take Gaius away from him. 

“It’s good to see you too, Gaius,” Arthur said. Arthur put all the meaning he could into that statement. He never felt at ease with words like Merlin did but he felt like Gaius understood just how Arthur was feeling at that moment in time and just how much he valued the other man. 

Arthur stood back and took Gaius in from his robes to his tanned, healthy face and his smile lines. This time period had been good to Gaius whether it was the better healthcare system or a life without worry of being persecuted for magic. “And you’re a priest. I would have pegged you as a doctor.” 

Gaius chuckled. “I’m 72 Arthur and beyond the age of retirement, so who says I wasn’t a doctor?” He gestured to a frame on a wall which proudly held a degree certificate with the words Dr. Gaius Julianson.

Arthur chuckled and felt oddly pleased. At least something was familiar.  

Morgan cleared her throat from the sofa. 

“Arthur, why don’t you share with Gaius what happened earlier?” 

“Ah yes, Arthur, take a seat and both of you while you catch me up with everything and help yourselves with the biscuits. The gods help me, I don’t need it,” he said, patting his stomach.  

~~~~~

Gaius slowly put down his tea as Arthur finished his story. “I’m sorry, my boy, but did you say the drauqr?” He glanced at Morgan who nodded.

“It knew who he was.” 

Gaius pursed his lips. “We’re not as safe as I had thought. Morgan, did you know what the drauqr was referring to with the hag?” 

Morgan shook her head. 

“And Albion’s greatest need…” Gaius repeated, giving Morgan a significant look. Arthur had faced the fall of his kingdom multiple times with Gaius and he would recognise that grave look anywhere. A feeling of dread tinged the room with grey. 

“Well, Arthur,” Morgan said, leaning forward, “it’s about time I tell you about my recurring dream” 

Morgan stared down at the ring on her finger and she started speaking as if she was very far away. The room was so quiet and still that their breaths are the only sounds echoing through the room. As if everything was waiting for this. Almost spellbidden, Arthur too did not move a muscle, eyes transfixed on Morgan’s face. She began.   

“I was on top of a mountain surrounded by four figures towering above me: a woman with hair and robes of fire, a woman dressed in shifting green leaves, a man with the long white hair and beard of an old man but with the muscles and torso of a young man, and a man in a robe as dark as shadows with horns like a ram protruding from his head. From the mountain, I saw a wildfire burning to the East, a hurricane to the West, a land of water to the North, and nothing but desert to the South.

“The beings had their hands linked and were chanting around an ancient pit. There was something hot, it was big, it was deep and it felt incredibly wrong underneath them. It  upwelled towards the surface, getting stronger and larger and picking up speed, moving towards the figures. I knew that when it reached the surface, it would devastate humanity. 

“And then, down the side of the mountain, I saw you in silver armour carrying excalibur followed by dozens and dozens of others. The knights were there, I was there, Gaius was there, Morgause was there, friend and foe alike united, magic and knight. There were large bodies behind you, you had gods on your side. An old man, robed and stooped over a gnarled staff and a woman with sunken, purple eyes. And you were leading them, all of them. 

“You reached the summit of the mountain, all of you, and the white haired god turned to face you.

“And then I wake up.” Morgan said. And the spell was broken. 

Arthur was still not sure if he believed in the gods but he couldn’t shake the images from his head. The giant beings towering into the sky. The fires and the devastation. It all felt too tangible, more realistic than the excel spreadsheets and numbers which occupied his mundane day to day life.  

His kingly self was scared but present day fuck-up Arthur was terrified. Chilled to the very bone. He’d faced many horrors before: death from the questing beast, the doracha, the fall of his kingdom three times, but this sounded like something else. The gods. All-powerful beings. The supposed protectors of the world and humanity. And in this body, and in this world, Arthur Pendragon was a fuck-up. How could he handle the power of the gods when he coudn’t even handle his own stomach at his father’s 50th birthday?

He could feel the weight of Gaius’s and Morgan’s eyes on him. He stared down at his own hands instead and flexed his right one. He couldn’t help but notice how much skinnier and paler it was to his past self’s arm. Arthur continued to stare at his arm and the seconds tick by.

Arthur felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Using it as another excuse to avoid Gaius’s and Morgan’s gaze, he took it out. 

Ten missed calls from his father. 

Arthur can’t think. He was breathing hard and the room suddenly felt suffocating. He needed air. 

“I have to go,” he muttered and stumbled over to the entrance, feeling his way through the vines and making his way outside. 

~~~~~

Morgan moved to go after him but Gaius held her back. 

“You need to give him time. We had years to come to grips with our identities, surely he could use a few days.” 

“I leave on Monday.” 

“And he’ll meet the rest of us during the weekly meeting tomorrow. You know we’ll support him.”

“I wish I didn’t have to leave.” 

Gauis sighed and reclined back in his chair, fingers steepled over his lap. 

“We have things we want to do and things we need to do. You need to gain full control over your powers, Morgan. We need you. Aside from Merlin, you were the most powerful sorcerer.” 

Morgan looked down at her fingers and rubbed one of the rings. It was a soothing motion, feeling the warm, smooth metal under her fingers. She’d been doing this for years now; the features of the golden leaves of the ring on her middle finger were nearly indistinguishable from the band.  

“I feel her sometimes,” Morgan said, “Morgana. I feel this... rage. I get these thoughts - earlier today when Arthur said my old name I pictured throwing his body against the wall, setting it ablaze. I could picture him burning. It would be so easy.” 

Gaius went very quiet and very still, even his breathing was muted. Morgan could feel his gaze and attention weighing heavily on her but she could not summon the courage to meet his eyes. 

“Gaius -” Morgan twisted her hands together and finally met his wide eyes, “Gaius, I’m worried what will happen if I gain full control of my power. I’m worried my memories will come back and I will become her again.” 

Morgan had hoped for some consolation, for a gentle hand on her shoulder, to be told that everything would be okay and that she was just being silly but, instead, Gaius’s face was pale and frightened. He clutched his tea like a lifeline. 

“I’m worried too.” He said. 

Morgan looked down at her hands again, hurt and a little dejected. 

Gaius put his tea down.

“It’s not just you, Morgan. I have every confidence that this time round, you’ll conquer your demons. It’s just everything else.” Gaius stood up and walked towards the window opposite the kitchen, and pointed a finger at the tiny slither of grey sky, just about visible between the two opposite apartment blocks. “I’m worried about that,” he said. “The plotting and minds of the gods that we can’t even see. How utterly small and helpless we are.” 

Morgan knew how it felt to be small. She’d stood before them in her dreams and their utter power and size made her feel like an annoying insect and - to them - she probably was. 

“Have we got any leads on Merlin yet? Or excalibur?” 

Gaius shook his head. 

“He’s out there somewhere,” Gaius said, looking out the window like he would be able to see Merlin in one of the high-rise buildings. “He is and then we will be able to win.” 

Gaius had been utterly convinced for as long as Morgan had known him that Merlin was reincarnated with them. They’d had teams of people looking through police records, birth certificates, internet searches. In London, in Scotland, in America, in practically every country they could think of but they had found nothing. 

“Gaius,” Morgan said, keeping her voice soft and gentle, “we might need to invest our resources elsewhere.” 

Gaius shook his head. 

“Look,” Morgan said, “Last night, I had the dream again, and I could see every face in the dream army in fine detail. He -” Morgan paused, watching Gaius’s back stiffen in anticipation, “Gaius, he wasn’t there.” 

Gaius was quiet for a while, just looking up at the sky, bow slightly bent as if he was tired or burdened with a heavy load, and hands clasped together in a prim and conscious gesture. Morgan wished she could read his expression, so she could have some idea of what he was thinking. But, faced away from her as he was, she could only read the still line of his shoulders. She had no idea what he was thinking. 

After an uncomfortably long time had passed, he unclasped his hands, tilted his head down, and pushed his fingers into his temples. With a somber tone, he finally spoke: 

“There is one final avenue.”

~~~~~

Arthur had somehow stumbled home and had already found his favourite whiskey decounter. He held the crystal decanter up, the sunlight casting amber highlights on his face, and, as was tradition when he’d had a hard day, he poured himself a dram. 

On the wall, the clock chimed. It was three o’clock in the afternoon.

Arthur stared down at the amber liquid. Hesitating. 

Fuck-up Arthur would always find it so easy to slip down a couple of shots or beers after a long hard day like today, but something was holding Arthur back. 

Arthur looked up to the swords on his mantle piece, the swords that he had placed even when he hadn’t had his memories. It was in his very being to be a king, a warrior. He shouldn’t run away from his troubles like this. He should live up to his destiny and be the king everyone wanted.

But how could Arthur be expected to defeat an army of immortal beings? Could gods even be hurt? Arthur looked down at the alcohol again. Even as a king, he’d not accomplished much. There were far greater monarchs throughout history - Charlemagne, Elizabeth (the first and second), Aethelstan… the list went on. He’d lived a pitiful short life.

He picked up the dram and brought the drink to his lips.

He heard a knock on the door - a sharp rap - interrupting his thoughts. 

“Go away, Morgan,” he said.  

There was a pause and then a masculine voice spoke. “It’s not Morgan.” 

Arthur’s heart pounded; it was his father. He glanced at the dram in his hands and back to the door. 

Arthur gave a longing glass to the whiskey in his hands, before quickly opening the nearest cupboard and shoving the glass of whiskey inside. It was hidden, for now. 

He stoppered the decanter carefully, trying not to let the stopper and decanter give their tell-tell clink and placed the decanter on the coffee table. He hoped that his father couldn’t hear, couldn’t tell what he was up to. 

With that sorted, Arthur went over to the door to let his father in. 

Uther marched past him into the room, like Morgan, always dressed in business casual, dumping a paper bag onto the kitchen countertop. 

“It reeks of alcohol, have you been drinking?” 

“No, father,” Arthur said. 

Uther ignored him as if Arthur’s words meant nothing and busied himself with getting two plates and forks out of Arthur’s cupboard and unpacking the paper bag. He pulled out two disposable coffee cups and placed two pieces of cake onto the plates. 

“Sit” Uther said, gesturing to the sofa. 

Arthur reluctantly did so, feeling like a scolded child. He’d completely ruined Uther’s 50th, why was he bringing cake and tea? 

“Now,” Uther said, thrusting a plate of cake and hot drink into his hands. By the smell of it, it was coffee. Arthur put the coffee and cake on the table, not trusting his hands at the moment. “Why is Morgan leaving on Monday?” 

That was not the direction Arthur had expected this conversation at all. 

“For the law training.”

Uther shook his head. “I’ve looked up that course and it’s completely beneath her. There’s something else, isn’t there?” 

“Father, I know as much as you do.” 

Uther’s eyes bored into his own. Arthur shifted in his seat, feeling exposed. But, he was being honest. Morgan still hadn’t told him what she was doing up in Scotland other than the law training. 

Uther leant forward, lowering his voice. “I know she’s your sister, Arthur, but,” Uther’s eyes flicked to the door as if Morgan would appear that instant, “you should be wary of her.” 

Arthur frowned. Uther had always been untrustful of people but that had never extended to Arthur or Morgan before. He felt the urge to defend her. “I can’t imagine why else she would go to Scotland, father. It’s probably nothing - you know how Morgan can get when she’s got a new pet project.” 

Uther hummed and narrowed his eyes.  

“I also wanted to talk about my 50th birthday.” 

Arthur glanced at the cupboard which held his freshly poured dram of whiskey and had an urge to just go over there and finish it, despite his father in the room watching him.

“It has come to my attention that you, my son, need to grow up. I mean-” Uther ran his finger around the rim of the whiskey decanter where a single bead of whiskey was about to fall, his jaw clenched. “It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, Arthur, for God’s sake.” 

Arthur glanced down at his lap, feeling like a scolded child. 

Arthur became aware of how tense his father was but also tired. He had larger bags under his eyes than usual. “You embarrassed me in front of all my colleagues. In front of the prime minister.” 

Arthur swallowed, beet red. His father was right. He knew this. Especially now, with all of the old Camelot memories where he’d prioritised dignity and honour, his shame was tenfold. And he had almost gone back to knocking back drams of whiskey this afternoon. 

Arthur swallowed his pride and straightened his back, facing Uther head on. “You’re right, father. I’ve let myself down and -” the words got stuck in Arthur’s throat, but he forced them out “- and I’ve let you down as well. I am sorry.”  

Uther moved his mouth as if he was about to say something and then stopped. He frowned and tilted his head upward slightly, appraisingly. Uther took a moment to take in his son’s words. “You know,” Uther said, “I was expecting more excuses.”

Uther watched him for a second as if he expected Arthur to say something but Arthur remained silent. 

“Well then,” Uther said. “I hope that means you’ve learned from that evening.” 

“Is that all you wanted, father?” 

Uther frowned. “I just wanted to-”. Then he stopped and pulled a piece of fluff from his trousers. 

“Father?” Arthur prompted, when Uther hadn’t spoken for a while.

“Yes. That’s all. Thank you for your apology, Arthur.” Uther said. 

Uther got up and hovered at the door, staying there longer than was usual. 

“Everything all right, Father?” 

Uther watched him for a second and then nodded to himself. “Yes, fine.” He said haltingly. “Goodbye Arthur, see you at the next Sunday Lunch.” 

Arthur watched him leave. Uther’s departure had felt abrupt. Arthur looked at the table toward’s Uther’s untouched coffee and cake. Had Uther wanted to stay longer?

Well, he’d spent far too much of both of his lives trying to figure out the ins and outs of his father. Besides, his father had served as a good wake up call.

Before he could let his thoughts catch up with himself, he walked over to the cupboard where he had stored the dram of whiskey. With a quick flick of the wrist, before he could hesitate, the liquid was spilled into the sink. 

His eyes caught the glint of amber of the decanter. Soon, the 100 pounds worth of content in the decanter followed the dram, spiraling down the drain. 

For the first time in a long time, Arthur felt proud of himself.

Chapter Text

Gaius always found that there was something about the dawn after a sleepless night. It might have been the quiet chirps of nature before the morning rush of traffic, the brisk air that stung his nose, the dew clinging to the grass that seeped into his trainers as he cut across the grass verge, or just everything combined. It was a nice couple of moments away from the hours of worrying about Arthur, about Morgan, about humanity’s future. A nice couple of moments where he could just breathe.

Coffee and book precariously balanced in one arm, Gaius jostled open the door of his red toyota to a waft of dust and musk and cardboard from the leftover moving boxes, likely stewing in the heat from the last time he’d used his car. Folding himself into the seat and carefully placing the old, heavy book down on the passenger seat, he was ready.

“Come on then you old girl,” Gaius said, slotting the keys into his engine and helping it stutter to, “we’ve got a long journey to Wales ahead, you and I.” He patted the wheel.

After a couple more stuttering starts, the engine was rolling and he pulled out onto the empty road.

Lulled by the predictability of gear shifts and gentle stirring, Gaius let his thoughts drift.

Wales. Gaius heaved a long sigh and allowed himself a quick glance down at his left hand, at the gold band he still wore on his ringfinger. He couldn’t help but think of the last time he’d been to Wales.

He’d last visited Wales back when Alice and he had started remembering their past lives. They had been trying to find any semblance of the old Camelot to see if it was real. Gaius could still remember the hundreds of historical maps and library books scattered across the dining room table.

It turned out, they hadn’t really needed the maps and books after all. The hills were the same, the valleys were the same, the rivers were mostly the same, and a lot of the rights of way were still there, shaped after paths that had been trodden by hundreds and thousands of descendents of the modern Welshman. He couldn’t make sense of it but somehow his feet had just known where to go and soon he and Alice had stood amongst the impressive remnants of circular and rectangular stone walls covered in moss, in Camelot.

But he wasn’t going to Camelot today.

Now well onto the M4 and out of London, patches of countryside had begun to whizz by getting vaster by the minute. He was nearing the Avon Gorge and soon after he would be in Wales.

Gaius couldn’t help but feel a strange tension in his chest as he got closer. He could feel the book beside him, the pull of the ancient magic which leaked from its pages. It was wild and sparked out in unpredictable pulses. It would take every ounce of his magical strength to control those tendrils. If there was a minor accident, if something happened, he could not give in and use magic. Otherwise, the ritual might consume him. But he had to try. For Arthur’s sake. For humanity’s sake. And especially for Gaius’s sake.

Flicking between the trees on the passenger's side, Gaius began to make out patches of open space.

A strange prickling feeling ran along his spine and Gaius straightened in his seat, surveying the open road in front of him. All he could see for miles was lines of trees, tarmac and other cars. But something was out there, something other.

The branches thinned as he continued on the M4 and he got his first view of the Avon Gorge. He could make out grey cliffs covered in patches of green tufts towering over masses of water. And there, across the water, was Wales.

The prickling feeling increased tenfold. There, on the cliffside, contrasted against the blue sky, was a figure. It was stooped over a gnarled cane, its back contorted into an upside down u-shape, and its hooded head jutted out at a right angle like a splintered branch. Gaius could not make out a face under its hood but he could tell it was watching him.

Gaius clutched the wheel tighter and kept his foot on the accelerator but did not move his eyes away from the figure, watching to see if the other being would make the first move.

A series of taller trees interrupted his view of the gorge and by the time the next break in trees arrived, the figure was gone.

Gaius watched the gorge warily as he continued driving down the M4 but the figure did not reappear. Gaius ran a quick mental checklist of the beings he knew were native to Wales. It could be the Gwrach-y-Rhibyn or a Gwyllion, both known for tempting people off their paths to their deaths. But, these beings usually appeared during the night. This being didn’t quite fit.

Gaius felt hyperaware of the prickling feeling. It re-emerged sporadically over the three miles of the Prince of Wales Bridge and continued on as Gaius passed the red dragon and welcome to Wales sign. At times, he thought he could still see flickers of that dark figure. There, some dark robes flapping through the branches amongst a patch of knotted trees. There, a dark outline within the doorframe of an unopened pub. There again, shadowed in the alleyway between two rows of houses. The figure was always in shadow, always watching him.

Gaius drove through Caerleon and turned onto one of the empty, country roads, plunging himself in woodland. Tall trees and dense branches overhead swallowed the mid-morning light. Gaius turned on his headlights.

The road rapidly degraded from tarmac, potholed tarmac, to gravel, and now to nothing but dirt. Ferns smacked the wheels of his car and branches scratched at his windscreen. The prickling feeling was stronger here but Gaius continued on. He was nearly there.

The hairs on his arms stood up. Gaius slammed to a stop. The figure had appeared right in front of him.

Gaius’s heartbeat thudded in his chest and he clung to the wheel. He reminded himself he was at an advantage here, he was in a car and with one push of a pedal, he could return to civilization.

The being held out an arm and unveiled a gnarled hand illuminated white by the headlights. A crooked finger beckoned him. It wanted him to come out of the car.

Gaius stayed in his seat. He glanced at the book beside him. The book’s power felt stronger here almost as if it was pulling at something, calling for something. It did not bode well.

The figure beckoned again.

Gaius hoped the being was nothing but a spectra, without enough occult energy to interfere with the physical world. Hopefully, if he stayed where he was, the being would get bored and it would move on soon.

Gaius flinched as he heard a thud, the sound of the staff hitting the ground. The figure was loping towards him. Gaius gave one last look at the book before letting his magic pool under his fingertips. He would not die today.

The headbeams reached under the hooded figure, lighting up a female face with sunken, purple eyes. Gaius’s heart dropped. He knew that face. It was plastered all over the druidic texts. This was a goddess. The Cailleach.

“Gaius,” she said, her voice clear despite the glass, “I come with a warning. You must not continue your quest.”

Gaius raised one of his eyebrows. “I’m sorry?” He asked.

Her face was emotionless but her dark eyes met his through the glass and seemed to convey regret. “The one you are searching for, he is not the boy you knew.”

Gaius shook his head and swallowed tightly. He’d seen the boy animated and swinging his arms around when he spoke against hunting, or the injustice in society, he’d seen his cheeky grin when he thought he was getting away with doing his chores with magic, he’d also seen him with the tears in his eyes when he spoke of the secret he had to keep, or how he’d aged into a man with bags under his eyes, when he could hardly speak or leave their chambers, after Arthur died. When Alice got pregnant, Gaius had hoped that the child would be at least half the man the boy was.

The Cailleach stared at his face for a while, saying nothing. Her face was still and her eyes stayed on his. In that moment, it seemed as if she could read every thought he had ever had. She probably could.

Eventually, she sighed, the most human reaction she had shown so far. “I will not warn you again. Great pain will come if you follow this path. I will not be able to protect you any longer.”

Gaius frowned. Something did not seem right. The Cailleach had always been a neutral force in the druidic texts. She brought winter, starving the crops of sun, and was the keystone between life and the realms of the dead. This message could not be altruistic.

Unless…

“Are you the hag?” Gaius asked.

The Cailleach’s eyebrows flickered ever so slightly but she otherwise ignored him.

“You are shielded from the Sight. With him, you are exposed. You have been warned.”

And with that, she took up her staff, slammed it to the ground and vanished

Gaius shook his head, vehemently. He couldn’t make sense of anything. In this new life, everything was turned upside down. He did know something though, as he glanced past where the Cailleach had vanished, making out two stone statues in the darkness, he trusted his instincts. He trusted Merlin.

~~~~~

Somewhere, a siren rang, worlds apart from the chain-mail, hunting horns, and horses Arthur was currently seeing. Panic set in immediately. He fought through the heavy weight in his head and the flickered images of Merlin adjusting his armour straps, Gwen in a lovely lavender dress stroking his hair, and, for some reason, a plate of roast chicken. He launched himself up and out of bed, muscles tensed and at the ready, staring with wide eyes at the bed which wasn’t a four-poster-bed, the carpeted floor which wasn’t a wooden floor, the photorealistic family portrait hanging from the wall, before his mind caught up with him.

He glanced at the ringing clock beside his bedside table. 9:30 am. He slapped it off. For a second, he’d forgotten who and where he was.

Arthur’s stomach growled, interrupting his thoughts. He needed food. He made his way out of the bedroom and over to the kitchen, turning on the coffee machine. He fumbled around the cupboards and found some slightly out of date cereal from his last New Year’s Resolution on getting up earlier, and milk.

He checked his phone. Arthur ran his hand through his hair. No new messages. He thought at least his university friends might have checked up on him when he didn’t show up to their weekly pub last night.

He moved to the sofa. After his dreams from that night, he missed his old bedchamber. He missed the open fireplace, Gwen’s satin slippers by the bed, Merlin’s haphazard job of cleaning his armour with the polish and cloth left stranded on a chair. He missed all the little, personal things, from his friends: the new sheath Leon had got him for his birthday, the dice from Gwaine, the roses Merlin had put out to make the room brighter. His flat seemed oddly empty for some reason. It was too spacious, too impersonal. His King Arthur memories made his London life, and home, oddly lonely.

Arthur flicked through his messages again and sighed. Nothing from Morgan either. Rather than letting himself sit around and mope, Arthur seized up the willpower to be productive.

After getting the memories back of an ancient king, there were a few changes to his routine. For one, he started his morning with stretching his triceps, quads and glutes, practiced some old battle maneuvers with the sword from the fireplace, and did some cardio on the running machine which he had to haul out of a cupboard and wipe off some dust bunnies. But the changes didn’t end there, his shower was now cold and he did a clean shave for the first time in a long time.

He was left with a bunch of energy. Arthur checked his phone, still no new messages. Arthur found himself pacing round the flat, pumping pillows, rearranging papers, despite the relative neatness. He checked his phone again but was faced with a dark screen. He decided to put on the TV. After five minutes of inane chatter, he turned off the TV. He heaved a sigh, taking out his phone again, Arthur finally caved and texted his sister first.

The response was immediate, almost as if she’d been waiting for him to text: “we’re at a cafe on the street. We’ll come right up.” Morgan didn’t say who but Arthur assumed it was Gaius.

He picked at the fluff on his jeans and fidgeted with some of the items in the room. He only had to wait five minutes before he heard a knock on the door.

He opened the door to welcome them but halted in his tracks. And gaped. Morgan was not with Gaius.

He couldn’t find any words for a few minutes. She looked different: her dark curls were held on top of her head and tousled forward while one side of her head was shorn short. When he pictured her, she was wearing red embroidered dresses with long hair. Now she was wearing gold hoops, a fitted lavender top, and tight jeans. Still, it was unmistakably Gwen.

She launched herself at him and hugged him tightly.

“Arthur,” she said into his ear, “it’s so good to see you.”

Her hair smelled different too. He had liked the smell of her hair, like roses. Now it smelt of hairspray and something fruity.

She pulled back. Her grin was infectious and Arthur couldn’t help but smile back.

“Are you not going to invite us in for tea, Arthur?” Morgan asked.

Arthur glanced at Morgan who had her eyebrows raised significantly. He hoped he wasn’t blushing and beckoned them inside.

They chattered for a while about inane things. Gwen’s PhD in material chemistry. Morgan’s impending trip to Scotland. Avoiding the past, avoiding the future. The entire time, Arthur could not keep his eyes off of Gwen. The differences weren’t just in her hair and clothes, her mannerisms were different too. She flung her hands around a lot more when she talked, using words such as ‘like’ all the time. She was more expressive too, different from the stiff and regal composure she’d picked up as queen.

Arthur didn’t know how to feel about it. She was both a carbon copy of his wife but also so different, so happy.

Morgan kept catching his eye and flicking them towards Gwen’s hands as if she was trying to point something out to him. He didn’t understand. It was only when he handed Gwen her next cup of tea, when he heard the clink of metal against porcelain, did it finally click. His eyes flicked down to the purple stone on her finger.

“You’re engaged?” He burst out, interrupting her monologue on why she chose her PhD.

They both turned to stare at him. The change in mood was immediate. Gwen blushed and seemed to shrink into herself, clutching her arm from across her chest. Morgan narrowed her eyes at him from behind Gwen, lips pursed into a thin line. Arthur was aware of a pain in his chest, his heart pounding at a rapid rate.

Gwen rubbed her arm. “I- I’m sorry, Arthur. It happened before my memories returned,” she met his gaze, her eyes big and pleading, “Lance and I, we’ve been waiting for you, to see if it’s okay.”

Lance, of course. Arthur couldn’t think. Gwen kept stuttering over apologies. He knew the world was different now, they had different lives. But, this morning, he had thought, just for a second, that he would have the exact same life he had as King Arthur just with phones, cars, and modern fabric.

He excused himself and shut himself in the bathroom. He took a few deep breaths.

This was a relatively small thing, on the grand scale of everything going on. It was fine, he was fine.

But he couldn’t get Gwen’s care-free smile out of his head. She rarely smiled like that while they were together. At least from what he knew of the old Lancelot, the two were always smiling, always chatting, always seeming to have subconscious conversations with each other through looks and body language they weren’t even aware of. They made sense, he supposed, in a way he and Gwen hadn’t. He grimaced.

He tried to convince himself this was a good thing, this might push him to have more courage to explore that other side of himself he never talked about.

After a couple more seconds while he regained composure, he re-entered the living room noting how sterile and empty it looked.

Morgan was frowning at him and Gwen was hugging herself looking at the table but her head snapped up when he re-entered.

He stood there a second, he should say something. He should apologise for his outburst or give Gwen and Lance his blessing.

“So,” he said, instead “who else remembers?”

Gwen looked down at the table again, and from behind Gwen, he could see Morgan shaking her head.

“You can meet them,” Gwen said, her earlier enthusiasm gone. “We have our weekly coffee this afternoon.”

~~~~~

Gaius’s knees hurt, his back was about to give in, he’d been stung three times by nettles, and had his jeans ripped by thorns. The Valley of the Fallen Kings was an unwelcoming labyrinth of brambles and nettles and unyielding trees and darkness. The branches were so dense overhead that the woods were in constant twilight.

The book gave a tug against his arms. He swivelled around to face where the book was tugging, his torch illuminating a mossy cliff. It didn’t look like much but Gaius could feel it. The tangible taste of magic, the almost electrifying currents running down his arms and fizzing against his own magic. It felt familiar, it felt like the smell of smoking yarrow and sage, of the sights and sounds of people bartering in a night marketplace from above.

The book gave another tug and Gaius’s torch fell on a crevasse within the rock. He felt butterflies in his stomach. This was it.

He walked through and into the stone passageway beyond, an eerie white-blue glow illuminating the damp ribs in the stone.

Gaius ducked under a stalactite. His breath caught in his throat. The cavern beyond was immense, nearly the size of a theatre, and it was completely covered in smatterings of prismatic crystals which glowed a white-blue from within. The magic vibrated against him like static. He was almost heady with it. This was it. This was the Crystal Cave.

He wanted to take a few moments to take it all in but the book had other ideas. It bucked and squirmed in his arms until he finally gave in and put the book down. The book immediately fluttered open to a page of runes, and, in the corner, a line drawing of an old man sat in a circle made of candles.

Gaius swallowed. He could feel the book’s magic. The cloying, almost sweet, tendrils reaching out and caressing him. What would Alice think of him?

Gaius pursed his lips and from his bag he pulled out five inscribed black candles, identical to the ones in the picture, and a sage bundle.

He placed the candles in a circle on the flattest bit of the cavern he could find and struggled with a cigarette-lighter as a breeze from a crevasse in the wall kept putting it out. Gaius cupped the lighter and a flame coloured his palms in orange light.

He lit the candles in turn. They burnt blue and spread a prickling chill.

Gaius lit the sage bundle. Streams of grey smoke meandered out into the cave, making the light of the candles and glow of the crystals appear hazy. He let his magic seep into his fingers holding the burning sage and then into the sage itself.

He took a deep breath and began to chant.

Called by the words, the saccharine magic from the book crawled up along his body, over his arm and to the sage bundle, mingling with his magic before evaporating together through the smoke.

His magic was depleting rather quickly, as he expected, and he tugged harder at it. Thrusting more and more into the spell. He was beginning to feel light-headed and the thin remnant threads of his magic ached. But he kept going. He kept putting more in.

The book’s magic became more pushy. It began to dig into his body, searching for his own magic and dragging flakes of it along with it, and there was a stillness to the room, a coldness.

Gaius became aware of two amber lights through the smoke in the darkness above him. No, not lights he realised with a chill. Eyes. Two eyes staring down at him. He stopped chanting.

The feeling of magic around him intensified.

Through the smoke, a large figure began to materialize in the circle. A figure draped in a red cloak with a white beard plaited with branches of willow. It was vivid. More vivid than anything he had ever seen. The world around it seemed like a low resolution photograph in comparison. This was Emrys. The god of the scriptures, the god who’s face lined the walls of Gaius’s temple in East London.

Gaius craned his head, his neck twinging in pain, his eyes straining against the brightness, but he couldn’t look away. He could make out every line on the figure’s face, every hair of his white beard, every pore, the sharp lines of his cheekbones. Dark spots started to appear in the corner of Gaius’s eyes.

GAIUS, the figure said. The voice was both in his head and all around him. Deafening. He could feel the emotions from the voice, the rush of sadness, the shock. The word came with memories of years and years of staring into an empty lake, centuries of watching civilisations blossom into hundreds and thousands of streets and shops and then becoming engulfed in black smoke, fire and metal. Gaius could see forests of tree stumps and litter, oceans with plastic islands, bone-thin polar bears on iceless land, he could feel the magic shriveling, and the slow black feeling of hopelessness.

He could hardly make out the candles or the light from the crystals anymore. His vision was a field of black spots and grey and he felt so, so tired. It was dizzying, the power, pushing down on him, straining his every muscle. Gaius sank to his knees.

And then the power, the force, the light, it was gone.

“Gaius,” the voice said again, a hand grasping his arm and pulling him to his feet.

“Gaius, I'm so sorry. I’m so sorry,” the voice blabbered, “Let me, let me.”

He felt a finger brush against his forehead and the lights came back into sharp focus illuminating blue eyes, a black mop of hair, and pale skin. Merlin.

Merlin’s hands came up to grab onto Gaius’s arms, his grip tight.

Merlin’s eyes were rimmed red. “Why would you do that? This could have killed you. I could have killed you.”

“Merlin,” Gaius said, putting a hand on Merlin’s back and rubbing it, “it’s alright.”

Tears started to flow freely from Merlin’s eyes. He shook his head. “You don’t understand. It’s not alright,” he choked out, “Nothing will be alright.”

Chapter Text

In a dimly lit corner of the Hanbury Inn, over plates of greasy fish and chips, Gaius observed his young ward, Merlin, with a growing sense of unease.

There was something off about the way Merlin moved. It reminded Gaius of the video he had seen of the animatronics at Disney world. How their movements were both too fluid and juddering at the same time. Merlin would be too still for a moment and then he would clumsily throw himself into a movement, like he just did while eating the chip. 

But it wasn't just Merlin's movements that were unsettling. As they had made their way through the thorny undergrowth earlier that day to Gaius’s car, Gaius had noticed that Merlin seemed to have a peculiar blind spot when it came to objects outside his immediate field of vision. While brambles had snagged on Gaius’s jeans and the undergrowth rustled as grass was pushed around him, leaves and grass would flick through Merlin’s torso and brambles would stay unbothered as he walked through them. It was almost as if Merlin was still not completely on the human plane of existence.

And then there was the matter of his shadow. When they had arrived at Caerleon, Gaius had noticed that there was no darkness behind Merlin, as if sunlight passed right through him onto the ground. It was only after Gaius had pointed it out that Merlin’s shadow had made a sudden reapparence.

“I’m not sure I like these things,” Merlin said, gesturing with the chip. 

Gaius frowned. These were fairly standard chips as chips went - thick, slightly greasy, not too soggy and with the perfect amount of salt. Chips like these, along with a slab of battered fish, were a Friday staple when Gaius had been growing up - something even his own grandfather had grown up with. It was puzzling that Merlin seemed so unfamiliar. 

“How long were you -” Gaius paused and searched for the right word, “incorporeal for?” 

Merlin's lips quirked in a half-smile, but there was something sad and haunted in his eyes. "I have always been corporal," he said, as if trying to convince himself as much as Gaius.

Gaius frowned. "You know what I mean, Merlin."

There was a long pause, and Gaius could see the turmoil churning in Merlin's eyes. "A long time," he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Gaius felt a stab of unease low in his gut. He didn’t want to picture it - Merlin on this earth alone. Merlin’s loneliness and the burden of his power was bad enough in Camelot. Many mornings Gaius had to heave Merlin out of bed or give harsh reminders for Merlin to take care of himself and eat a proper meal. Without someone there with him, Gaius shuddered to think how Merlin had handled things at his darkest moments. 

"What happened?" Gaius asked gently, reaching out to lay a hand on Merlin's arm.

Gaius watched as Merlin's face shifted, his expression turning darker and more strained. His cheeks hollowed, and lines etched themselves deeper into his forehead. He stared out the window, his hand brushing against the glass as if he could touch the water beyond. Gaius could feel the tension radiating off of him like heat from a forge.

"It was gradual," Merlin said, his eyes flickering gold. The particles in the sunbeam caught on his outstretched hand and danced like tiny Catherine wheels. "I would sit by the lakeside. My home was there, my garden was there, my books were there. I would eat, sleep, and watch. Sometimes I would venture into civilization, tend to some wounds, write some books, find..." He trailed off, the dust hanging motionless in the air.

Gaius gestured for him to continue.

Merlin's gaze returned to the window, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "It got harder. With every death, every passing moment, I forgot," he said, his voice choked with emotion. "No, I let myself forget. It was easier that way. I could be free of this bone-aching weariness. I could be everywhere at once. Do you know that fairies like stealing blueberries from market stalls in Mumbai? Or that there are snow wyverns at the top of Mount Everest? Or that selkies still..." 

His voice tapered off and he shook his head, his hand clenching tightly around the wood of the window shelf. Gaius watched as his ward’s face flushed with emotion, the pain and frustration etched deeply into every line. 

As both a doctor and leader of the faith, Gaius was intimately acquainted with dissociation. He had watched as family members of his patients or members of the faith asked him for help, their loved ones going through the motions of life, but with no real spark or passion. Most of the time, with the help of therapists and a team of specialists, he’d be able to work with them finding that tangible knot, or multiple knots, in their lifes which would drag them back into the present and make them realise that life was worth living. 

But with magic… Well, with Merlin’s magic, and with no grounding force, it was different. Merlin's magic offered a world of infinite possibilities, no boundaries, and instant gratification. It was easy to become lost, to seek out the instant fix for dopamine and the rush of pleasure that came with it. But in doing so, and for so long, did that mean you lost all that made you human? Gaius dreaded the thought. 

"When did you become...," Gaius began hesitantly, "you know, Emrys?"

Merlin's eyes met Gaius's and for a moment, and the weight of his gaze was immense. "You know that I've always been magic," he said.

Gaius sat in silence, his mind reeling with the implications. His ward did not mean just any magic, but Magic itself. And that’s what the druids worshipped him as now. This all-knowing, all-powerful being, this god. For hundreds of years, there had been no-one on this Earth who knew Merlin as a person. Who remembered that he had needs too, he had off days, who needed the odd hand on his shoulder, a warm bowl of stew, or even someone to whack him upside the head when he was caught in a catastrophising cycle. 

"I wish I had been there for you, Merlin," Gaius said softly, his heart breaking for the boy he had raised as his own son. "To help you through it all."

Merlin's eyes flickered up to meet his, and for a moment, there was a hint of a smile on his lips. It was a small gesture, but it filled Gaius with a sense of hope. Hope that the Cailleach was wrong.

"Thank you," Merlin said.

"And," Gaius began. He hesitated, not wanting to burden Merlin with any more responsibilities, especially not in the midst of a brewing war and the weight of Morgan's prophetic visions. Maybe Gaius was being selfish but he wanted to protect this safe haven: these moments here, in this small Hanbury Inn, where Gaius could just be there for Merlin, to offer a reassuring presence and remind him he wasn’t alone. 

However, Gaius also understood Merlin, what would bring him happiness, and it was his responsibility not to withhold that information. So, he took a deep breath and continued, "Arthur is alive."

Merlin’s eyes went wide. The pub seemed to bend and warp around them, the air thick with energy. A surge of magic crashed into Gaius, pushing him back against his chair, the legs dangling in the air. Merlin was vivid again, the pub growing darker around him, or was he brighter? The woman at the bar had stopped mid-pour of a pint and stared at them, slack jawed. 

It was like Gaius had double vision. He could see black-haired Merlin, eye’s darting wildly around, hands shaking with emotion but overlain in his white-haired, golden-eyed, giant glory was Emrys. Gaius’s eyes watered.

The waitress flung herself down to her knees and prostrated herself. 

Gaius took a deep breath, and mustered the energy to raise a single eyebrow in warning. “Merlin,” he said firmly, refusing to look away even as his eyes ached. He hadn’t been there for Merlin over the last thousand years, but he would be there for him now. He watched as the glowing light began to dim, and Merlin sank back into his seat, looking small and defeated, shoulders hunched inwards. 

“Gaius, I need to see him,” Merlin said. “There's something he needs to know.”

~~~~~

Morgan led the way through St. James's Park. Gwen and Arthur trailed behind her in silence, the air thick with tension. Small talk had been exhausted, and the silence was becoming unbearable. 

Arthur knew he should make more of an effort, but he found himself steeling his nerves for the reunion with his fellow knights. He couldn't help but imagine the extraordinary lives they must lead - perhaps as barristers, doctors, fighter pilots, or police officers - risking their own safety to help others. Meanwhile, he was stuck behind a desk, shuffling numbers on spreadsheets and helping the rich become richer.

Just as it seemed like the three of them would be trapped in their discomfort forever, Morgan's phone rang, shattering the stillness.

"It's Gaius," she said, holding the phone to her ear. Arthur could hear the scratchy sounds of someone speaking, fast. Arthur watched as Morgan’s back became more and more stiff as the sounds went on. All at once, she faltered, breaking her even walking pace, and Arthur nearly bumped into her. 

"You found him. How? When--" she trailed off and continued to walk. A tinny Gaius-sounding voice interrupted her. Arthur strained to hear what was being said, but the words were too faint to make out. All he could do was watch as Morgan went to fix her already perfect hair. Who had Gaius found? 

Arthur didn’t dare hope that they had found Merlin. He couldn’t shake the picture of their last days together, thousands of years ago. The magic, Arthur’s anger and denial, and the deep hurt in Merlin’s eyes at his reaction. At the time, he’d suspected that they were experiencing their last few moments together - he’d felt the energy leaving him, how he had become more fatigued, struggling to keep his eyes open - but still, he’d recoiled when Merlin’s eyes went gold, he’d been bitter, angry about Merlin’s magic, as if that was more important than everything else. He couldn’t bear to think those were the last memories Merlin had of him. 

He wanted to see him again, he wanted a chance to learn about the real Merlin, the one with the magic. He wanted to show Merlin the empathy he deserved. He also just wanted his best friend back. 

"When do you think you guys can be here?" Morgan continued to talk to Gaius, drumming her fingers over her leg.

Gwen caught his eye and raised her eyebrows significantly. As if to say, ‘is it who I think it is?’ 

Arthur could do nothing but shrug. He would have less of an idea than Gwen about who Gaius had found and he didn’t want to convince himself that it was Merlin by overthinking coincidental details. He was sure they would find out soon.  

As they rounded the corner, they stumbled upon two dog walkers engaged in conversation. They were holding the leashes of a number of dogs - a mottley crew of dalmations, chihuahuas, salukis, and a Great Dane - a seemingly ordinary scene Arthur would expect in a park. However, Arthur did think it was a little odd how all the dogs were completely motionless, their eyes fixed on him. 

“Funny how we never found him before,” Morgan continued on the phone.

He followed her as she walked past the dog walkers. She was distracted in her discussion with Gaius and didn’t seem to notice anything unusual. Arthur wasn’t used to dogs. So, several motionless dogs staring at something intently could just be a quirk of a dog's ordinary behaviour. He didn’t spare them much of a second glance as he walked past them. 

“Arthur-" Gwen's voice cut through the silence, her voice laced with concern. "The dogs-"

Arthur spun around, sensing her unease. The dogs remained in the same position as before, their muscles taut and their gaze unbroken, as if hypnotized by his presence.

Gwen stood away from the dogs, on the other side of the path. “Something’s not right,” she said. 

A low growling sound emanated from beside Arthur. He turned to see the Great Dane on a tight leash, its eyes fixed on him and its lips curled up.

Morgan was still talking on the phone, unbothered. “I’m sure Arthur -"

As soon as his name left her mouth, something snapped.

The sky darkened and the park was transformed. What had once been neat, orderly rows of carefully trimmed hedges and sculpted topiaries now seemed to melt and twist in shadows, the greenery taking on a wild and untamed quality.

“There’s old magic here,” Morgan said, slowly bringing the phone away from her ear. “Something’s happening.” Her eyes flickered over towards him, and faintly, they heard the sound of a hunting horn.

“Run!” She said.

The sound of barking filled the air, and out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw the Great Dane break free of its leash, its powerful form hurtling toward them with terrifying speed.

Arthur needed no further encouragement. He turned to make sure Gwen and Morgan were following, then ran, heedless of the path, sprinting through the grass and beneath the trees, his heart pounding in his chest. 

He gave little thought to what people might think. Over picnic blankets he vaulted, helping Gwen as she tripped over her heels. His mind focused only on one thing: getting them out. 

His battle senses took over and he could tell, without looking behind him, that the Great Dane was nearly at their heels. “Dane, left.” Arthur shouted. 

Morgan muttered an old English phrase. The barking ceased abruptly, and Arthur turned to see the massive hound crumple to the ground. It hit the earth with a sickening thud, its limbs twisted at awkward angles. But then, to his shock, the beast rose up, its head snapping back into place. It bounded forward on bent paws, chasing after them with renewed vigor.

He stumbled, and Morgan grabbed his arm, yanking him towards the exit. "Don't look back," she hissed urgently, her fingers tight around his wrist. "We have to keep moving."

They burst through the park gate and onto the busy street beyond, the iron bars clanging shut behind them. The Great Dane snarled and lunged at the barrier, its eyes blazing with fury. But their reprieve was short-lived.

A distant patter filled the air, the sound of tiny feet scurrying along metal. The sound grew louder and more frantic, echoing through a nearby drain. Arthur's heart pounded as he watched a pointed nose and sharp teeth emerge through the drain bars, beady black eyes fixed upon them. The group recoiled in horror as another rat wriggled its way through the opening, followed by another and another, until a torrent of rats surged forth from the drain.

The horde of rats swarmed around them, their beady eyes glowing in the dim light. Arthur’s heart raced as he scanned the area for an escape route, but the rodents were upon them. Arthur felt a wave of panic rise up in his chest. They were trapped, with no way out.

A sound pierced the air, the rumble of a red London bus slowing down as it pulled into a nearby stop. Arthur’s eyes widened as he saw it, its double-decker form towering over them like a beacon of hope. "Come on!" he yelled, on instinct grabbing Gwen and Morgan’s arms and yanking them towards the approaching vehicle.

They sprinted towards the bus, their feet pounding the pavement. The rats scurried after them, their chittering filling the air. Their breaths came in ragged gasps as they drew closer to the vehicle. He could feel the hot breath of the rats on his heels, their claws scraping at his ankles.

With a final burst of speed, they reached the bus just as the doors were closing. Arthur threw himself into the doors, preventing them from shutting on Gwen and Morgan. Just as Morgan’s coat cleared the doorway, Arthur let go. The doors slid shut, cutting off the horde of rats just inches away.

They collapsed onto nearby available seats, gasping for breath. Arthur looked out the window, watching as the rats swarmed around the bus, their beady eyes fixed upon them with malevolent intent. He shuddered, his heart still racing from the adrenaline of the chase.

As the bus pulled away, Arthur’s eyes fell upon a shirtless figure, standing in the middle of the street. The man was ruggedly handsome, long, curly hair whipping in the wind, an intricate golden collar adorned around his neck like a crown. But what truly caught Arthur's eye were the antlers that protruded from the man's head, glinting in the sunlight like polished ivory. Arthur couldn't help but feel a shiver run down his spine as the man's dark, piercing eyes bore into his soul. It was as if the stranger knew him, knew everything about him, and Arthur couldn't shake the feeling that he was in terrible danger.

~~~~~

Gaius rushed for the gearbox, then the brake, and screeched the car to a halt, pulling it into a nearby layby.

Gaius looked at Emrys with fear in his eyes. He pulled out an old version of an iphone, with a beaten leather case, and turned the screen to face Emrys. There was a map on it, and in the corner, an address. 

“Can you get us there?” Gaius asked.

Emrys didn’t need to respond, wrapping his magic around the car and willing it to the nearest available parking spot from that address.  

They hadn’t been aware of the danger at first. As Gaius had been on the phone, Emrys had lazily let his awareness expand outward of his physical manifestation and followed a brief flicker of recognition, so familiar he hadn’t even realised how significant it was. 

He had focused his attention, honing his senses to the point where he could taste the pollution in the air and feel the texture of the trees beneath his fingers. He had heard the growl of a dog and the rustle of leaves, and then he’d become aware of him, briefly.

Arthur.

But, just as suddenly he had appeared to Emrys, he was gone. 

This was not normal for Emrys. Emrys should have been able to find him. Emrys could feel everything that was touched with magic in the universe. And everything was. Magic was energy and energy was everywhere. And where there was magic, there was Emrys. He had strained every part of his being outwards and still there was nothing. 

Something was hiding him. No, Emrys had realised, a coil of rage had burned low in his gut, someone was hiding him. He had smelt it - the entire place stunk of dogs, of beasts, of wild magic. He knew that smell, he knew who it was. 

His vision and awareness had tunneled forward over the paths and picnic baskets, over the metal pronged fence and he had followed that scent until he was right behind the source. 

And then he became aware of him. It was a being, tall and muscled, with a naked back, legs covered in fur and cloven hooves on display. He wore the adorned golden torc and antlers, the very manifestation that the druids worshipped. He wanted to be found, that much was clear.

He had wanted to be seen - by Arthur. Emrys couldn't shake the heat of rage that came over him at that thought, his mind consumed. What had the god shown him? What had he done to him?

The rising fury within Emrys had unleashed a torrent of energy. The very air around him had seemed to darken and thicken, pulsing with electricity that crackled and sparked like a tempestuous storm gathering strength. It was as if the magic in Emrys was altering the very molecules of the atmosphere, alerting any god or magical creature in the vicinity to his presence.

As the being had sensed Emrys' presence, his back stiffened, and he turned to face his general direction. His wavy hair cascaded over his eyes in a careless tangle as he met Emrys' gaze over the hundreds of miles that lay between them. A smirk danced across his face, as if he savored the challenge that lay before him.

It was then that Emrys had become aware of the true danger Arthur was in - made even more worse by Emrys’ own presence.

Cernunnos , for that was who it was, was the wild. He was the first darkness that lay just outside the reach of man’s campfire. He was the carnal energy of a panther chasing a feline in heat. He was the rabid bite in a she-wolf’s stance as she defended her cubs. He was the antithesis of human civilization. 

Cernunnos hated Emrys’ mortal ties as much as he lusted over his power. With everything to come in the following months, Emrys knew that Cernunnos would destroy every physical connection Emry’s had to the human race to ensure that the prophesied future happened.

When Emrys had recounted all this to Gaius, his knuckles had turned white at the wheel and his speedometer had crept up to ninety miles an hour.