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Needless to say, Merlin is a little broken after Arthur's death. He feels like his heart has been shattered, scattered along the winds to distant lands where only the sadness lingers in its shards. It spreads to far off lands, exotic countries, bits and pieces stuck in trees, lakes, buried into the earth, and more importantly, floating along the shore of Avalon.
Merlin doesn't remember moving from his spot since he sat on the shore's edge, wondering if it's all a mistake, and that Arthur will come back, because Merlin needs him, who gives a damn about Albion anyway? But in those days, nothing happens, and Merlin is left waiting.
Percival finds him two days (or was it three?) after he sends Arthur out onto the lake, set it aflame and watched it until it was little more than charred ashes drifting carelessly atop the water. He seems to know what has happened before Merlin will even speak it. He does not pressure Merlin to tell him anything and Merlin is grateful for this, because the words are caught in his throat and he cannot speak them anyway.
The knight talks to him about the recent events, Gaius giving Gwen Arthur's seal, how Gwaine and he went after Morgana. Merlin looks to him and feels an aching sadness when he tells him the fate of Gwaine, his last breath thinking that he'd failed.
(When in reality, Merlin is the one who's failed.)
Merlin thinks of running away, but knows that he is needed back in Camelot. Gwen needs him, and so does Percival in this time of grief. Gaius will still want him, and maybe there are others he doesn't know. So he allows Percival to take him back to the familiar, proud castle, and in that moment, Merlin swears with all his might, one final swear, that he will oversee Arthur's legacy, and will build the kingdom that Arthur could not, and did not, have the time to make.
When he arrives he tells Gwen of the news with a steady voice, stoic in all of his words and phrases. His tears are all shed, all gone, cried out of him in a fit of rage, of anger, of sorrow, moments after Arthur's death. He has nothing left to cry, but Gwen does, and he holds her as she sobs into his shoulder. She may be queen but he is still her friend, and there is no greater love than that between two friends who've lost someone dear.
She thanks him quietly for being with Arthur in his last moments, but he does detect the small amount of bitterness in her tone when she says this. She is grateful, yes, Merlin doesn't doubt this, but he also knows that she wishes it were she with Arthur in his dying breaths. But she is also grateful he was not alone, and Merlin thinks that yes, he is glad for this too. Merlin knows he is not much, not really, he is one man, but he is glad that his beloved king was not alone.
Gwen knows about his magic. He doesn't know how, and he doesn't care. Gwen quietly asks him later about all that he has done, and Merlin finally (finally) tells someone. These are the stories he's always wanted someone to hear, a specific Pendragon, but he supposes that Gwen will have to do. He tells her of his first day in Camelot, of the Druids and of his father, he tells her of the windstorm in Ealdor and of Freya. He tells her everything that he could not tell Arthur, and she looks at him in earnest, and he knows that someone finally looks at him as he truly is.
It takes a lot of time, and deliberation, fussing and bantering, arguing and sweat, but the ban on magic is repealed. Gwen appoints Merlin as her Court Sorcerer, which he takes the position gladly. He oversees the magical affairs and sorcerers slowly come out of hiding, pledging fealty to the crown, but mostly to Merlin—scratch that, to Emrys. Merlin no longer thinks of himself as Emrys. He is not the fated hero who would protect the fated golden king. But he does not dwell on this.
Time passes. Three years into Gwen's steady rule, Gaius dies and he allows himself to cry for this. It is a small ceremony in his honor, full of only those who cared for the old physician. He cries for the ceremony and no more, quickly shutting off the value to his heart as quickly as he'd opened it. A new physician is appointed a few days after, and Merlin likes him well enough. He's a younger man, younger than Gaius, but still well on in his years. He treats Merlin with respect, and in turn, Merlin teaches him simple healing spells.
He takes time off to visit his mother, and he is in time to be with her when she dies. She sees right past all of his lies and his mask of false happiness, and holds him with shaky arms, pressing kisses into his hair while whispering the small comforts into his ear, the comforts that a mother would give to a little boy. He is a little boy again in her arms. That night, she passes away, and he holds her hand as her last breath leaves her body. He cries silently, tears rolling down his cheeks, and only returns to Camelot when there's been a proper ceremony and burial for her.
Camelot prospers. Gwen marries Leon, and Merlin can't say he isn't surprised at this. But he supposes he should've seen it coming. Something ugly rears in his stomach at the thought of Gwen betraying Arthur in such a way, but he reminds himself that Arthur is dead, or at least gone, and Gwen should feel free to love if she so chooses. Leon is a good man, Merlin thinks, he will make a good consort to her. He will help rule steadfast and loyal, as he's always been.
Merlin spends much of his free time with Percival. They trade stories often of the escapades of their youth—and sometimes, when they feel brave, of their shared times with Arthur and Gwaine. There is always a dull pain, deep in his chest whenever he speaks of Arthur, but he ignores it, mostly. He suspects Percival is the same with Gwaine, judging from the way Percival will trip on his words occasionally. He does not fault him for this.
Typically, Merlin thinks of Arthur often. Sometimes, he still has nightmares about his death. Sometimes, he'll actually have guards bursting into his chambers in the middle of the night, alerted by his panicked, ragged screaming for his fallen love. With tear-stained cheeks, he will always tell them that he's fine, and that he was just having a nightmare, nothing more. He will set to cleaning up the mess his magic unconsciously made during the dream, and then he will return to sleep, usually dreamless, after that.
(After such nights, Gwen will always stop by first thing in the morning. She will hug him tightly and whispers comforts in his ear, simple things, and it will feel like they are not Queen and Court Sorcerer, but rather, servants once more. Sometimes, it is a friendly reminder to Merlin to feel so below everyone else, like everything is how it should be.)
Merlin writes to Arthur regularly. It started as an accident and it's become a habit. He writes to him little things, as if he's a long distance friend, keeping him updated on the kingdom and how it runs. He writes these letters by candlelight on sleepless nights, when the dreams are all too much and his head feels like it might collapse on itself if he lays down any longer. It's almost hard to remember on these nights that Arthur is really gone.
He misses him. There is no doubt to that. He feels an empty hole in his chest where Arthur is meant to be. On occasion, he awakes with a start at dawn, and his first thought is that Arthur will be angry if he doesn't get his breakfast. He'll think this until he gets up and realizes that he's not in the tiny storage room of the physician's chambers, rather the elegant rooms of the Court Sorcerer.
It doesn't take him long to realize he is not aging. He supposes this is his curse. Kilgharrah has told him that when Albion's need is greatest, Arthur will rise again. It is his curse to wait until that happens.
Eventually, Gwen bears the kingdom a son. He's a precious little thing and Merlin whispers his name, Galahad, in the quiet of the nursery over and over, making stars glitter just for him, just for the perfect little baby that will someday rule a fantastic kingdom. He becomes a mentor to the boy and teaches him things, tells him secrets, and weaves fantastic stories for him to hear. He tells him of Arthur, the king who never truly was.
Knights come and go. Percival will leave Camelot after sometime to seek his fortune elsewhere. He will keep in touch. He will write to Merlin often and constantly remind him that should he ever be needed, that Merlin only need send word.
The young prince will eventually ask Merlin why he never married, like his mother and father. He will ask why Merlin is not married because Merlin looks so young, so why shouldn't he be married? Merlin will reply that he does not wish for love, and that all of his loves have been gone for sometime now.
(Galahad will promise to find him someone to love someday. Merlin finds this endearing.)
Someday, that same young prince will ask him the same question that Gwen, Percival, Leon, and a slew of other people have asked him over the years. Merlin will reply the same way he has for everyone else. Yes.
Merlin watches life pass slowly before his eyes. He sees old knights die and new knights come in their place. He will see too many battles, watch as his magic fails to save them. He will kill men and add to the death toll with a mere flick of his hand, and for all that magic, he will think constantly, for all that magic, he still couldn't save Arthur.
He will speak to Gwen later on in their years. Merlin doesn't look a day older than he had when he first came back from Avalon, and Gwen will be older and older still; the weight of a kingdom bearing down on her shoulders. She laughs with him as if they are old friends (and somewhere, in their hearts, they are), and Gwen will know Merlin isn't aging, and she will know that when she dies, she will not be reunited with her true love (or maybe she will be, Merlin thinks. For all the love she shares for Arthur and for Leon, he thinks combined they do not compare to the passion she felt for Lancelot.)
Leon and he remain steadfast friends. Leon asks his council on both public and private matters, as Gwen does. He will continue to teach Galahad things that others cannot, ranging from detecting poison to which plants to pick when out in the wilderness for certain ailments (it is nice to pass on the knowledge that Gaius taught him, all those years ago.)
Camelot sees many battles. Gwen dies quietly in her sleep, with Leon by her side. The young prince is just shy of seventeen when this happens. He comes to Merlin's rooms and cries, for as a prince he must show his people he is strong, but for Merlin, he needs show nothing. Merlin knows the kind of prince, and the kind of king he will be. With Merlin, he shows every emotion he denies himself.
(It reminds Merlin of Arthur—that willful stubbornness, but the way he lays himself bare for Merlin to see, only for Merlin to see. It comforts him, and humbles him at the same time.)
Leon dies shortly thereafter, but Merlin knows, like Gwen, he has lived a full life. He is not surprised when Leon presses the seal of the Pendragons into his hand, a smile on his face, as if he knows all of Merlin's secrets, as if there is a secret only they share.
Galahad is not yet of age—so a regent is instilled in his place. This is Merlin. Merlin has no desire to rule, even as regent, but he does so, for the prince's sake.
For the most part, he allows the young prince to rule. Of course, he must give final say on everything as regent, but typically all decisions rest on Galahad's shoulders, as opposed to Merlin's. The years pass slowly, in a haze of treaties and battles and crime. When Galahad turns twenty-one, just shy of four years after Gwen and Leon's death, he is crowned king of Camelot.
Merlin is his closest confidant, and makes good on his promise. He practically parades Merlin around, trying to find someone for him to love. But Merlin cannot look at any woman and not see Freya, and he cannot look at any man and not think of Arthur. Whomever these people are, they deserve better than for Merlin to constantly see someone else in them. He turns down all proposals of marriage.
The young prince—no, king now—the young king will give up after so many years. Instead, he takes to keeping Merlin as happy as possible. Merlin is grateful for this. Galahad eventually finds love of his own in the daughter of Queen Mithian, and that night, Merlin will sit by the fire with Galahad and tell him the story of how Mithian was almost Queen of Camelot, instead of Gwen.
The seasons change and the years grow longer. Merlin feels weariness settling into his bones. He is tired. He wants nothing more than to sleep, to sleep and wake in the morning to find his king still alive, and well, chiding him teasingly about his abysmal skills at cleaning and polishing. But the new Camelot needs him, and such a sleep is a luxury he cannot afford.
Camelot eventually falls under invaders. Merlin alone cannot save them. Galahad is slain in battle and Merlin cries for him, for the last vestige of his past, for the sliver of Arthur he always saw in the boy, even if he was not Arthur's son. He also cries for the loss of his friend, the little boy he watched grow up, that he loved so dearly as if he were his own son, or nephew.
Merlin leaves after this. He leaves Camelot behind under its new rule, refusing to serve the conquerers. He travels to distant lands, offering aid where he can. He helps with little things, from curing illness to making plants grow. He never stays in one place for too long—his never aging face tends to have that problem.
Times change. He watches the world change—he watches the magic of the land fade away, feels the magic in his very being remain steadfast. The five kingdoms fall and new places are built in their place. The names change. Everything changes.
The first time he realizes he cannot die, in any sense, is not until decades, perhaps centuries after Camelot's fall. Merlin is accused of witchcraft and burned at the stake, something he's always feared since he was a boy. He supposes Camelot's repeal on magic wasn't enough for the rest of the kingdoms, and the new people who've taken over the land of Albion are just as scared of magic as they were before the repeal. He has little reason to fight them, but only when he doesn't burn, when he doesn't feel the flames licking at his skin, does he realize he does not die.
He makes a grand gesture of escape, before leaving. He is skeptical of all the magic inside him now, and uses it sparingly, never too much, and never in front of anyone.
This is his life for the next few decades. He works, he moves, he never gets close to anyone. Merlin will occasionally catch some poor soul's eye, and he will leave them before anything gets serious. His heart longs for the companionship of a new person, to talk, to laugh, to be free, but no, no, such things are not possible for him.
He thinks of Arthur often still. He learns things, and wonders how he will teach it to Arthur when he comes back. He functions in the ever changing society like the rest of them—a face in a seemingly endless sea of people without names.
Merlin is tired. He screams his voice hoarse, demanding that Arthur either be returned to him or to let him die—one or the other, the fates can't have both. But of course they can—they're the fates, aren't they? Only they can decide who lives and who dies, and they believe Merlin is not ready. And Merlin hates them for it every second of every day.
Century after century goes on. During every war—he serves in them all—he thinks he'll catch a glimpse of blond hair, of clear blue eyes, but he never sees them. The hair is always one shade wrong, the eyes are always two shades darker. He expects a burst of something inside of him after countless men fall—the sign of his king returning. He never feels anything.
But Merlin lives on, regardless of how much he hates the act of living. The first world war comes and he thinks that Arthur will return, for it is so terrible, so horrible, but he doesn't come. The second, surely, but neither that, either. For all the lives he's lived, and he's lived them all, never once does he find anyone remotely close to the Once and Future King.
Every now and again, Merlin is blessed with seeing his old friends. In the early twentieth century, he sees Gwen and Lance, living happily together, a baby cradled gently in Lance's arms. Likewise, he sees Gwaine and Percival—fast friends as they always were, in another life. Sometimes, he sees Leon, and other times Elyan. He never approaches them, but always watches them, taking those little bits of happiness from them into his own heart.
He aches, but he survives. Eventually, his grief for his fallen city and king is nothing more than a dull ache that is with him constantly. He thinks this is better than feeling all the pain in the world, crushing him, and suffocating him. Instead, Merlin fills himself with hope constantly, praying every morning before he awakens that today will be the day, and every night before he sleeps, he prays that tomorrow will be the day.
Merlin travels. He goes to Germany and to America—to Japan and to China. He goes to Scotland, Ireland, Egypt and Australia. He visits countries and capital cities, reading the stories of King Arthur, and laughs when they get the facts wrong.
But in all honesty, he doesn't stray for long. He returns to England, to the lake of Avalon, where the still waters remain ever quiet. Merlin builds a small home there, on that lake, and sometimes, he'll draw it. Sometimes, he will attempt to preserve the memory of Arthur in his mind by drawing him. Sometimes, he'll draw the others, too, happy and alive, and for a second, he'll believe himself.
Merlin becomes a writer in the following years, in the twenty-first century. He writes stories of the people in his head. Fiction, he tells himself, always fiction. Merlin writes books for children and adults alike, weaving tales of the broken hero and the nefarious king. Merlin writes with vigor, renewed strength each time, telling epics of crafted poems of the golden prince and his journeys, of the knights that follow him.
He meets his fans, and he signs books. He gets criticism and is called a child, a talentless, good-for-nothing writer, but he does not let this bog him down. Merlin keeps writing, if only to lose himself in the worlds that he creates. In his worlds, people get the happy ending they struggle so hard for.
After all this time, he stops being bitter. He no longer resents himself, or anyone else. He forgives Mordred and he forgives himself. He moves on, but keeps waiting. Merlin breathes anew and waits for Arthur with patience, and in the meantime, he'll keep writing the stories no one's heard, the facts of the Round Table and maybe some exaggerated truths, too.
He's long since adopted a pen name, since no one is named Merlin anymore. But he stills thinks of himself as Merlin all the same. But it's more of a secret now than it ever was, something like his magic.
His magic itself has grown dormant from lack of use. The world no longer needs it as much as he once thought, so he uses it no more, and certainly no one knows about it. He is grateful for this, somehow.
It is a perfectly ordinary day when Merlin feels it—the small tug in his chest, very faint, but still there, definitely there. Merlin dares himself to dream, to hope, to believe it, pulling on his coat and shoes as he races out to the lake.
When he gets there the water is still and calm as it ever was, but Merlin looks around blindly, knowing that deep in his old heart there is something there, some sign, anything that will serve as a promise kept. He sees no one, and hears no one, and cannot dissipate the disappointment seeded in his age old bones.
“You took your time, didn't you, Merlin?”
The voice is all Merlin needs to hear. He spins on his heel and Arthur is standing there, the perfect shade of blond hair and the exact shade of blue eyes, the familiar, cocky smile painting his lips. He's even in modern clothing of the twenty-first century (he laughs, he laughs loudly at this, overwhelmed by this) and he runs to him, filled with the anticipation, the desire to feel, to touch, to make sure that this isn't some hoax, some false alarm, that Arthur is really here, honestly and truly.
Arthur meets him halfway. They embrace, and Merlin feels the erratic heartbeat thrumming against his skin, and maybe he's shaking too, but he can't care, because he is happy, he is laughing and crying all in one, squeezing and clinging to him as if he'll never let go. He's waited over a thousand years to do this, maybe longer, he doesn't remember anymore.
“God, I've missed you,” Arthur says into his shoulder, and the words are vibrating over his skin, and Merlin loves the way it makes him feel. “It's been too long. I've had my memories for all of hours and I came to find you, came to find you the only way I knew how, by finding the one place you left me at.”
“Didn't want to leave you,” Merlin mumbles, relishing in the feeling of Arthur. “Had to. Told me to wait, told me I had to wait for you.”
“All this time?” Arthur breaks from his hold, meeting his gaze, and Merlin can only nod.
He's so lost in the sea of bliss that he hardly registers Arthur kissing him—but once his mind catches up, he melts into it. It's clumsy and awkward and all teeth and no skill whatsoever, but Merlin will cherish the feeling it gives him, the feeling of the kiss itself forever.
Merlin knows that Arthur is only back for a reason, that Albion needs him most of all, and he decides it doesn't matter what life throws at him this time, it only matters that Arthur is with him again, and that together, they'll conquer anything.
He laughs into every kiss, with each contact of lips to his skin, and dares to think that maybe, just maybe, this time is for him.
And when he breathes in again, it's like waking up to the rising sun.