Chapter Text
Arthur stood on the ramparts of the curtain wall, breathing in the subtle warmth of the summer morning as he admired the kingdom that was well and truly his. Camelot slept in the wake of his coronation the previous day. No doubt many would awaken bottle-weary. The celebrations had gone on into the small hours, and he was both honoured and humbled by his people's joy.
The official ceremony had been a long time coming, but Arthur would not have had it any other way. He wanted to be named king only when the citadel stood safe and whole once more. It had been an arduous task, as much about mending his people's hearts and faith as it was about piecing together shattered stonework. Only a week ago, the masons had declared their job done. They had praised the mages for their assistance even as they basked in the general acclaim that Arthur heaped upon them.
Everyone had worked their fingers to the bone all through the winter and spring, dismantling the castle to wipe out the damage and rebuilding it anew. In some places, they'd had to strip it right down to its foundation trenches, but in the end, it had all been worth it. Arthur could see how the town had healed with each passing day, their own wounds mending even as stone and mortar rose from ruin.
More than once in the long months of reconstruction, he had wondered if it had been a mistake not to rip the whole thing down and start anew. Yet every time he saw the look on his people's faces, he knew he had made the right choice. The culture he fostered now would be the one that grew and strengthened over the years, and he would not have anyone think he was content to ignore the bloody ground on which Uther had built his legacy. He could not pretend the Purge had never happened, and he did not intend to.
If not for the help of Morgana, Mordred, Merlin and the druids, Arthur knew that the reconstruction could have taken years. It may have been the masons who cleaved and set the stones, putting their knowledge of engineering to increasing use, but it was those who wielded magic who held off the weather, letting them work in comfort: snow and ice, rain or shine.
Normally, a project of this size would take its pound of flesh, but sorcery ensured that there were no worse injuries than the occasional bashed finger. It helped move heavy loads that would have taken twenty men to shift, and it gave the masons space to innovate and experiment, coming up with new notions on how to make the castle stand strong for years to come.
He still remembered the first time he had watched one of the young druids standing with a journeyman, the former murmuring a spell over the mortar as the latter stirred it at a steady pace. It was a simple enchantment, Merlin had explained, something that made sure the mixture cured evenly, preventing flaws from forming that might crack open in harsh winters. Yet it was seeing sorcery and skill combined with such ease – as if such a practice would not have seen both men beheaded a few years ago – that warmed Arthur's heart.
He sighed, leaning back on the rampart and admiring the turrets, the crimson flash of the pennants high on their peaks capering in the morning breeze. The rising sun made the stonework gleam, bright white: resplendent in every respect.
If he looked closely, he could see where the old masonry met the new. It was a subtle scar but present all the same. In the newer portion, the windows were bigger, the arches wider and higher as the masons showed off their techniques. The roof tiles were darker, freshly hewn, and here and there, artistic flourishes made themselves known.
Some were obvious, like the two dragons that were now carved, one on either side of the huge main door. His people had wanted to celebrate the creatures' role in the battle against Sigan. He had to admit, the sculptors had done an incredible job. They were no mere motifs, but lifelike depictions, their scales etched here and there with the subtle gleam of beaten metal pressed into the stone. There was talk, too, of making statues to match the Zersarkos who still flanked the northern gate, putting a pair at each entrance to the citadel.
Arthur could not begrudge them the desire to make something tangible of the history that had been written that day. Besides, now that all the essential work had been done, he was more than happy to let everyone turn their minds to how they could improve matters, not just in the castle itself, but in buildings all throughout the town.
In his father's time, Uther had let the people's houses rot. He claimed he had no responsibility towards their well-being. He offered them the sanctuary of the citadel. For that they should be grateful and pay their ever-increasing taxes accordingly.
Arthur grimaced at the notion. He wanted his citizens to be comfortable and safe rather than living each day hand-to-mouth, always on the brink of disaster as they scraped together gold for the kingdom's coffers. Change, he knew, would not come quickly, but all of it started with a single seed: one he intended to nurture with every decision he made.
The castle may be rebuilt – his realm hale and strong once more – but there was still plenty to be done.
The skitter of claws over stone interrupted his musings, and he barely had time to brace himself before something warm launched itself at him, all gleaming scales and happy noises: purrs and chirps that made him laugh out loud. Tayastra's talons caught in the fabric of his tunic as she clambered her way up to his chest. She settled against him like an over-large cat, half-draped over one shoulder as she butted her head against his jaw.
He ran his fingers down her spine in welcome, feeling the weight of her tail as it coiled around his leg. It had taken her months to recover from her injuries, during which time she remained wrought in ink upon Merlin's skin. Arthur had almost given up hope that she would ever stir to life once more, right up until the day Merlin's back began to itch so fiercely that he could barely stand it.
She had clawed her way out of his flesh that evening, with just as much drama and discomfort as her first "birth". This time, however, she was greeted with joy rather than shock. There had been more than one tear of relief and happiness that day. Some of them had even been Arthur's.
'He's right behind you, isn't he?' he murmured, stroking his finger along the jagged gold that now painted her body like a lightning strike: the scar of Sigan's magic. The damage didn't seem to bother Tayastra in the slightest, and Merlin swore that she was as healthy as ever. It was merely a memento of what had happened, wrought into her scales for the world to see.
Tayastra churred in agreement, butting at his chin even as Merlin sauntered up the last of the rampart steps. He gave Arthur a distinctly unimpressed glare when he saw him lounging about at the peak.
'It's early,' he complained, his voice rough. Those dark curls were an absolute mess and hair stubbled his jaw, making him look roguish. The clothes he wore were a long way from the finery of yesterday, but Arthur had to admit he looked good: rumpled and perfect and Merlin. 'You've barely had any sleep. Why are you out of bed?'
'I was restless, and you were snoring worse than Percival on patrol.' He held out the arm that wasn't supporting Tayastra's haunches and hooked Merlin close. The kiss he received made his toes curl, and he hummed in pleasure as Merlin's hand cupped his jaw.
'Good morning?' Arthur grinned as Merlin huffed, easing back with an apologetic smile.
'Good enough,' he teased. 'It would have been better if I'd woken up to you, but I'm not nearly as hungover as the druids. They'll be flat on their backs until the evening bell, I suspect. You, however, are far too awake for this time of day.'
'I was too busy talking to various people to have much wine, and then...' He shrugged. 'Eager to make a start, I suppose.'
'If you think anyone is going to get any work done after last night...'
'That's not what I meant.' He elbowed Merlin in the side, grunting when Tayastra scrabbled upwards and launched herself off his shoulder, swooping through the sky with her usual grace and snapping at sparrows. 'No, people definitely deserve to bask in their accomplishments for a while. I just...'
He shrugged, not sure how to put it into words: the thrumming, happy resolve that filled him to the brim. For the first time since his father's death, it felt as if he could cast aside the spectre of his disapproval. The crown was his, now, well and truly. There was no going back, and that was all for the best.
'I know.' Merlin leaned into him as they admired the sprawl of the citadel. Between them, the bond glowed with understanding. Merlin didn't need him to explain. He had been at Arthur's side through the highs of his triumphs and the lows of every setback.
He did not know what he would have done without him. Sometimes, Merlin's assistance was unquestionable, there for the world to see. He had earned Camelot's respect a hundred times over, but for Arthur, it was the support he offered behind closed doors that meant the most to him.
A warm embrace, tender words or understanding silence. Whatever Arthur needed, Merlin gave, and he had never faltered.
Not even when, a few weeks after the battle, Arthur asked to return to the Banador. Safe in their chamber, far from a blood-soaked battlefield, they both reclaimed that liminal space and the wisdom it could offer. For Arthur, there was his mother's bold pride and attentive ear. As for Merlin?
He sought out knowledge, not for himself but for their friends, who had offered up their mortality to guide him home. Some answers they would discover for themselves in due course, but for other uncertainties, there was clarity to be found.
The others had gathered around, silent and intent, waiting for Merlin to speak upon his return. They had all taken in his revelations, such as they were, and to Arthur's mind at least, they had been stronger for it.
Now, they knew that their bodies would naturally seek the time of life when they were at their best, both physically and mentally. Mordred would grow into adulthood but would stop before his third decade. Leon was unlikely to age at all, while the rest of them would only gather a few more years to their name at most.
The exception was Gaius. Merlin had confided how, back in the healing tent, the old man's choice had influenced the magic the Banador offered. His life would continue on to its end, as was his wish. For everyone else, aging would be a performance: an illusion for the benefit of others, to be discarded at will. Illness and injury may claim their lives, but they could always return, their youth intact.
Yet when the time came – when any one of them made the choice to go into death – the magic would oblige them. The only warning the Banador offered was that there would be no going back from it. Once they passed through its arch and into its depths, that was where they would stay.
It was also a gift for them alone. The immortality would not be carried in the blood. Nor could it be given to another. Grief and loss would still be part of their existence. The only consolation there was the Banador itself, and the man who was its voice and conduit.
Through Merlin, the dead would be within their reach, distant, perhaps, but not lost.
An elbow in his ribs interrupted Arthur's thoughts, and he glanced over to realise he was being subjected to a critical, piercing sort of look.
'You're thinking too hard. You should be careful; you might hurt yourself.'
'I should have known that you'd still speak treason, even if I made you a lord.'
Merlin grimaced at the reminder of his title, which Arthur had bestowed on him almost a month ago. The knights had teased him endlessly, insisting on addressing him as such and bowing until Merlin threatened to make all their hair fall out. The druids, however, had given Arthur a look of distinct approval.
Of course, that could have something to do with the gift of lands Merlin offered them, handing over the estate that should have been his by right for their use.
It was an inspired move. The druids wanted a permanent community of their own, one separate from Camelot but still carrying close ties to the citadel. The large estate was not far to the east and would suit their needs perfectly. Besides, the gesture made Merlin more tolerant of his rank, as if he could see the good that he could do with this different sort of power.
'Maybe I'll give you another title as punishment. "Your Excellency" has a nice ring to it.'
'Don't you dare.' Merlin nudged his shoulder, a silent entreaty. 'Don't think I didn't notice you trying to change the subject. What's got you looking like that?'
'Like what?'
'Pensive. What's wrong?'
'Nothing. I was just thinking of Morgana and the others. They're happy, aren't they?'
As questions went, it was fairly nebulous, but Merlin didn't hesitate. His grin was bright, utterly unburdened, and all the threads of the bonds that cradled them gleamed with peace. 'Yeah, they are. I thought maybe they would come to regret the magic you wrought together while I was gone, but....' He shrugged. 'I think they're as eager to see what the future holds as we are.'
'Morgana especially.' Arthur smiled at the recollection of his sister, who had stepped into her role as his heir with formidable grace. She leveraged her abilities as a seer as much as she could, no longer a victim to her visions. Now, she sought them out, using her insights to help him steer the kingdom in the right direction. 'She's thriving.'
'She's not alone in that. I don't think I've ever seen Leon happier. He's on the training ground at all hours, putting the new recruits through their paces.'
Arthur nodded. Camelot's ranks had almost doubled in size recently, and Leon always knew how to get the best out of any new arrival, whether they were lordlings or peasants. He did not merely lay the foundations of Camelot's army; he built a strong community among the knights: one of mutual cooperation and respect.
'He's not the only one.'
Merlin chuckled at that. 'True. You did the right thing, making the others captains.'
'I know. It's one of the best choices I've ever made.'
He had not even hesitated over the decision. Percival, Elyan, Lancelot and Gwaine each brought their own unique talents to bear, be that Lancelot's honour or Gwaine's irreverent diplomacy, Percival's compassion or Elyan's practicality.
However, what delighted Arthur most was not how his friends reacted to the extra responsibility, but how it provided a foundation for them to branch out, pursuing more personal interests that still benefitted Camelot as a whole.
Elyan spent more time with his father in the forge, experimenting with blends of metal and magic to make better armour and weaponry. Gwaine joined him, proving himself to be a surprisingly quick study. More often than not, they could be found testing out their creations on the boldest of the new recruits.
Percival had taken Mordred under his wing, promising to train him if Mordred showed him how to use magic in return. Percy had no latent gifts, but that calm demeanour hid a sharp mind. Between the two of them, they had come up with unique twists on battle strategy, enhanced by spell-work. They honed their skills in the name of defence rather than conquest, hoping for the day when no realm would need an army.
Lancelot had shifted in a less martial direction. He and Guinevere had taken a look at the demands on Merlin's time and had decided to take the restoration of Camelot's magical heritage into their own hands.
Now, the vault was a brightly lit space, the artefacts within it clearly labelled and maintained. The books that Geoffrey had saved from the Purge had been tended and rebound, claiming their rightful place on the shelves of the library once more. Magic stepped out into the light, and the kingdom welcomed it.
'And then there's you.' He gripped Merlin's hand in his own, bringing it to his lips and brushing a courtly kiss over his knuckles. 'My Court Sorcerer. Are you happy?'
'Do you really need to ask?' His eyes sparkled as he hooked a finger under Arthur's chin, holding him steady as he lavished his mouth with kisses, soft and strong and perfect. He never failed to leave Arthur dizzy with desire, wrapped up in the warmth of his regard.
At last, Merlin retreated, deliciously ruffled and wonderfully flushed, but it was his words that struck up a symphony in Arthur's heart. 'I've never been happier.'
'Because of me?'
Merlin rolled his eyes. 'I suppose you're not entirely terrible, for a prat.'
Arthur huffed in mock offence. 'Thank you. I do so love your casual insults.'
'Someone has to keep your head a normal size, or your crown won't fit.'
Arthur grinned. 'It is a very nice crown,' he acknowledged, leaning in for another kiss and murmuring his thanks against Merlin's lips. 'I wondered what you had been up to, slaving away in secret.'
'It wasn't just me,' Merlin pointed out. 'We all had a hand in it.'
The reminder brought a smile to his face, because he knew that well enough. He had walked in on his friends conversing only to have them fall silent more than once since the spring. That was a sure sign they were up to something.
He'd let them have their secrets, content in the warm, loving reassurance of the bonds that tied them all together. The moment the new crown had rested on his brow, he had felt their touch upon it: exquisite design and beautiful metalwork, subtle spells for safety and confidence. Yet most of all, there was a silent notion that, when he wore it, he carried all their hopes and dreams in his hands.
That could have been a heavy burden, but the crown was beautifully light. Gone was the brutalist, striking symbol of rule Uther had worn throughout his reign. The one they had made for Arthur was a softer, more curved shape, formed of strong, elegant vines of metalwork. There were no sharp spikes or harsh edges. Instead, the outline of it rose and fell like soft waves. When Arthur wore it, he did not think of war and conquest, but of peace and prosperity.
He thought not of his father's tyranny, but his mother's compassion.
Merlin shrugged, ducking his head before offering a bashful grin. 'There's more to Camelot than Uther's legacy. There were kings before him, good and bad, and they all left their mark. We found their crowns locked away down in one of the cellars. It was Morgana's idea to add melted pieces of each when we cast it: to make it a crown of the kingdom, rather than the king. I think it was a wise choice.'
Arthur could not say that he was surprised by his sister's way of thinking. She had spent years of her life playing the games of the court, and she knew how the nobility loved a tale steeped in heritage. It also let the realm acknowledge the past that Uther tried so hard to deny: one where the magic and the mundane had lived happily, side by side, worshipping their gods and celebrating their festivals.
'That's just the kind of story the court would adore. No doubt she's already been spreading it around.'
'She barely waited for it to settle on your head before she got started.' His cheeks dimpled, and the sight of his joy only made Arthur's heart swell, surging beneath his ribs. He could not remember the last time he had felt this happy, untroubled by attacks on his kingdom or fears for the future. Trials aplenty would await them in the years to come, but for the first time, Arthur knew he had the strength to face them.
He always would, as long as Merlin stood at his side.
A faint twitch caught his attention, and he smiled as he recognised the distant look in his eyes.
The dragons had flown from Camelot, heading back out into the wilds over the course of several weeks. Anebai and Kilgharrah had been the last to depart, and each creature had sworn they would return the moment Merlin called for them. Yet they had their own lives to lead after so long in stone. The magic of the world was strong enough to sustain them, and the hurts of the past had healed. Arthur didn't know what the creatures did with their time, but Merlin had charged Kilgharrah with one final duty.
To watch over the Tomb of Ashkanar, which apparently contained a dragon egg.
'All right?' he asked when Merlin blinked himself back to his side, relieved to see his face remained clear of concern.
'Fine. The tomb's still standing and no one's disturbed it. I wanted to make sure. I can feel the egg, but I couldn't tell if it was buried under rubble. Kilgharrah's promised to keep an eye on it until we're ready.'
'It won't be much longer,' Arthur vowed. 'I know how much it means to you.'
Merlin had confessed his guilt over the white dragon he had freed from its shell and the fate that befell it. He blamed himself, as if he'd had a choice in the matter. Arthur, however, could see the truth. Merlin had already been risking his life by living in a Camelot that reviled sorcery. He would never have been able to hide a dragon hatchling.
Thankfully, those days were long gone. Dragons roamed the skies once more, and the world hummed with power, more vivid and alive than Arthur had ever known it.
Those blue eyes met his, full of faith. Once, Merlin would have been reluctant to ask for assistance. It had been an uphill battle to remind him, time and again, that they were eager to help. Now, it seemed to have finally sunk in. He asked for what he needed without hesitation, and Arthur was happy to give it.
'I'd like to bring the egg back to Camelot. To hatch it here with the dragons in attendance if they wish. I don't know why, but I think it's what was meant to happen. In the old world that was impossible, but here? It's where she belongs.'
Arthur was no seer – he had not an ounce of magic to call his own – but in that moment, he had a flash of insight into what the years ahead may hold in store. A kingdom standing stalwart as a huge, white dragon sailed the skies: their constant protector. His people happy, healthy and prosperous.
And Merlin, bold and strong, a matching crown to Arthur's upon his brow as they both served Camelot in that promised golden age, ruling as equals.
'Are you all right?' Merlin pulled back, frowning in consternation at whatever expression scrawled itself across Arthur's features. Something stunned, perhaps, because he could barely breathe around the fierce, desperate surge of his own determination. 'Arthur, it doesn't matter; I can hatch her anywhere. It's just –'
'Yes.' Arthur turned, trying to ignore how his hands shook as he cupped Merlin's face in his palms. 'Whatever you want, yes.'
'You might regret saying that one day.'
'I very much doubt that.'
He wrapped Merlin in his arms, pulling him close: chest-to-chest and heart-to-heart as he sealed his promise with a kiss. Distantly, the morning bell rang out, summoning people from their beds, but Arthur barely paid it any mind. How could he, when that image lingered with him?
That was the future he and Merlin would claim, together.
Their destiny. Their choice.