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Summary
This is Arthur as Merlin first knew him, carefree. Merlin reaches out in instinctive yearning to brush a fallen lock of hair back from Arthur's blessedly unlined brow, and as skin touches skin he feels a surge of magic well up from the earth to fill him—overflow from him—weigh down the air around him with its presence, its demanding potential.
Bring me back, Merlin, Arthur's voice whispers in the silence. His lips, curved into a half-smile, do not move; his face is still. It's all right, you know; I knew I'd have to do all this.
"I don't know how," Merlin repeats.
Of course you do, Merlin. However voiceless, it is the tone Arthur has always used when quite calmly expecting Merlin to do the impossible for him, the voice that always, always, until that final catastrophe, made Merlin break whatever laws of magic and nature he needed to get it done for Arthur…
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