o13 ♔ video / semi-open action

[pratentious]

[ Because this picture is pretty and I wanted to share it with you. Shush. ]



[ Arthur hasn't been gone long. Many of you likely wouldn't have even noticed his absence at all. But he is returned now, just over a year older and with a new crown that he may or may not have stolen from Burger King is far more ornate than a Prince's coronet hanging in his hands. He may not be much older but he certainly looks aged. ]

It would seem this realm has not tired of its want for Kings and Queens.

[ A tight lipped smile. King Arthur of Camelot has just come from the middle of his coronation, and he is hardly amused. ]

I would ask a question of you, Travellers, if you care to answer. How many of you believed you would return home following the battle of Ragnarok, as was promised? How many of you were prepared for it? Wished for it?

[ A pause. ]

Are there any among you that held dread for the prospect, and are glad now to remain in this city for however long you might?

[ He did, once. Now, he is not so sure. He rolls the crown in his hands once, shifts. ]

Or - an easier inquiry, if you are not inclined to answer the other. How many have returned to their native realms, despite the unresolved conflict? Those of you that have made my acquaintance or would call yourselves my friends, I ask that you make known your presence.

[ Another beat, another tense smile. ]

I suppose Asgard is not yet finished with me after all.

[ The feed ends there. Arthur can be found walking from the Heimdall district in the direction of Thor, golden crown once more upon his head and his rich red cloak trailing in the dirt behind him. He might seem a bit dazed, as he is trying to fit the memories of Asgard into his memory of Camelot or perhaps the other way around, but he will stop to speak with people if approached.

He hesitates only a moment on the sidewalk before the New Camelot residence. Arthur's not sure if he's still meant to call it 'home.' But after taking the time to look his fill, to try and remember what he already knows, he will finally cross the yard to knock on the door. He no longer has the key, after all. ]

Comments

[dragonspeak]

[It's only by sheer luck that Merlin sees the message as soon as it's sent out. Though he and Morgana, and the rest of their friends, have been offering each other what comfort they could the past two days, there's only so much sitting around Merlin can stand. It's been quiet--too quiet, almost, in the halls of their home. They've survived the first leg of the war relatively intact, but none of them have had the heart to celebrate. Not when there's an absence that started on one side of a shared room and spread until it permeated every corner of the house. Even Archimedes hasn't dared to cross the invisible line that separates Merlin's half of the room from Arthur's just yet. It's that silence that's been eating away at Merlin since he first glanced at the list and realised Arthur's name was missing, and the only reliable distraction he's found is...work. Lots of it.

When he isn't curling up with Morgana or Lancelot or whoever might need his shoulder, he's throwing himself into healing, hoping to exhaust himself until he can do nothing more than stagger home and fall into a deep sleep. It's only a temporary arrangement--so he's been telling himself--to take the edge off his anguish until he feels Arthur's absence less keenly. What he hasn't let himself wonder is how long that might take.

Nor has he let himself wonder what he'd do if Arthur returned without his memories, and that thought slams into him while he stares stupidly at the screen. Having Arthur returned to them as only a shadow of the man he's grown into would have been a blessing and a curse. The idea steals the very breath from Merlin, leaving behind a sharp, bittersweet sense of relief. While he would have accepted Arthur in any shape and form (always, there simply is no other option for him), the thought of their slate wiped empty--empty, not clean--and having to start over completely is a painful one. There are no words to describe how grateful he is that it was only a fleeting possibility, and not his current reality.

He drops everything, of course, stumbling out of the hospital in his haste to reach the castle at the heart of the city. When he finally catches Arthur just as he's about to enter Thor district, the uncomfortable knot in his chest finally eases. There are shadows and lines of worry that hadn't been there before--and Merlin can only imagine he looks about the same by now--but the most important part is that Arthur's been returned to them whole, his memories of Asgard intact. Merlin forces his legs to move until he's in Arthur's path, trembling, eyes still wide as if he can hardly believe what he's seeing.

His throat works soundlessly until he manages to utter one word.]

...Arthur.

[pratentious]

[ Oh, Arthur remembers.

He remembers everything all too clearly, to the point that it becomes distorted simply from its focus, like staring at the words on a page until the ink bleeds together and 'these reports don't need done until next week, Arthur, please get some rest;' he remembers this well, the long nights during the year his father's body withered to greys and whites, hollow contours and faded lines until he was more spirit than man, when Arthur would work himself to aching and only Guinevere or Merlin could coax him away from his desk to sleep, or eat, or simply do nothing but breathe during the long moments he felt he was drowning.

Those many days, he remembers, but so too does he recall laying up at night in a bed a third the size of his own, not a few feet from Merlin's, staring up into the darkness of the ceiling and talking about nothing until daylight broke across the horizon and they'd have tired lines across their faces throughout the day, but felt no weariness for the easy chatter that grew between them as friends, unfettered, unbound by Court because then, they were free, and now - now Arthur is bound by memories of everything under the Sun.

Merlin remains hidden beneath lies and pretenses. Morgana remains lost to madness and hatred. Lancelot has given his life for the kingdom, and Uther has given his life for his son.

Or are they friends and family living together under one roof, one city, together in joyful bliss, not an easy feat managed but one they strove for because they could?

These are the things they were, are, at once and altogether separately in Arthur's broken mind, and there is no relief on his face when Merlin seeks him out before he reaches the house, their house, the house they built together in the ways Camelot was never raised but borne in stone and blood and handed to him by the worn hands of his father whispering his name on his final breath - but that is not here nor there. Arthur can't breathe out in solace for the man that would give him the luxury to do so, not when he is neither the servant nor his best friend, not here nor there.

Hues and shades and broken understanding of reality and fiction; these are tales, now, stories for the books they will never read because they are living them, and the writer has lost his pen. Your King is here, but he is not here. ]

Good god. You look horrible.

[ Lightly, easy and short because this, their banter and brevity is the nature of their relationship, their roots. Arthur doesn't know where he stands right now, but he knows where they began, where they will end up every single time because it's who they are in spite of everything else, and he reaches up to tug on Merlin's earlobe. ]

Did one of those eight-legged monstrosities run you over or something?