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Merlin was long past weeping, long past the crushing agony he’d once felt when he used to return to the Island, to the lake where his king rested, dormant and locked away from him. It was all so long ago, and had all been rewritten so many times, from the fanciful and romantic to the ridiculous, in books and movies and all manner of legend and lore. Sometimes...sometimes, Merlin, who had lived it, almost doubted that the time of Camelot had ever actually existed.
That perverse dragon Kilgarrah, he of fiery temper and a propensity for riddles, had once woven for him tales of his own, grand stories of two young men with intertwined destinies, of being two halves of a whole, two sides of a coin, and all they would accomplish together.
And when it had all proven untrue and tragic, then had promised Merlin that his great king would return again, “When Albion’s need was greatest”.
Well, Albion’s need just kept getting greater and greater every year, and Merlin had given up, some centuries past. And Arthur didn’t return. And he wouldn’t, Merlin knew.
At least that is what he’d told himself after the first hundred centuries of fruitless, helpless waiting.
Merlin had lost his reason for living long, long ago, with so much left to be done and so much unsaid between he and Arthur that it seemed the life of himself had just been snatched from him, and his true “destiny”--and oh, he did scoff at the word now--was to maintain an outward shell for the dead husk of a soul long buried.
Yes, he’d made a go of it, after he’d grieved himself into a time of hibernation just afterward, and Camelot rose and fell while he slept. When he awoke to a new and foreign world, a world where everyone he’d cared for--his mother, Gaius, the knights, Gwen--were all long gone, and Camelot was nothing but a tourist attraction--he’d traveled. He’d learned languages and cultures. He’d been interested if not taken up in it all. His magic began to fade, not needed in this rapidly evolving world, and while it would never leave him, it seemed to seep from the earth and wind and waters with each passing decade. It was as if Magic itself had given up with him. His King was lost, and all they had been born to accomplish had been swept into tomes of myth and lore, fairy tales.
It wasn’t reality, so what was the point? Really, what was the point of it all?
Merlin remembered still a time when he’d been happy, despite misadventures and constant fear and anxiety. He remembered his mother’s soft kindness and gentle strength, Gaius’ nurturing and concern and counsel, and the warmth of his friendship with Arthur that had somehow became an unspoken more until that was all Merlin had really known.That memory was blunted now, overshadowed by the overwhelming grief and despair that had followed and the dull emptiness that now defined him. Contentment hadn’t lasted long. Merlin knew how long, “long” could really be. He was immortal, after all, and his body could not die, would never grant him that peace.
So he tried to be useful, if not happy. He tried to help people when he could, though he rarely formed emotional bonds with anyone. He knew better than that. Most people sensed a “differentness” about him that at best made them keep him at arms’ length and at worst, shun him. Merlin didn’t even mind, not anymore. He preferred being alone anyway. There was no sense in caring about anything that he’d lose in just a few short years, after all.
He read, and he studied. He buried himself in texts. He earned at least one university degree every century. He wrote, sometimes tales of Camelot (written under various aliases, and twisting the stories he’d lived this way and that just to amuse himself). Other times, he wrote of other adventures, of his travels, of magic and mystery. He made money, but he gave most of it away, having little use for any material possessions for any period of time. He could always magic whatever he needed.
He was fascinated by the new technologies clever men and women came up with in each century. He liked running water perhaps best of all. Toilets and showers were such good ideas. Such a trial it had been, hauling buckets and buckets of water up and down castle steps...being clean was just too much work for most, so they had rarely bothered. Merlin couldn’t really blame them. And oh, the smell of human waste, tossed out on the streets from upper windows, especially on a hot day. He didn’t miss that at all. Yes, indoor plumbing was a true gift to the world.
Cars and planes he rarely used, (though he recognized their place in the world), but Merlin was still rather enamored with horses. He loved central heating, and electricity was quite remarkable too, though there were times Merlin still curled up with a good book before a fire and candlelight.
Television beguiled him too, though he was somewhat embarrassed to admit it. The idiot box! But then again, when personal computers came along, and then computers contained in small mobile phones--well. Merlin knew, as he’d known for every hundred years now, that nothing could possibly top that...until the next extraordinary new invention came along, that was.
There was always something to give him a dull prod, to tell him to wait just a little while longer rather than sleep again, just to see what was around the next corner. He told himself he’d wait, and endure a little while longer, just to see what would happen next, because this planet’s people, for all their brutality and violence and short-sightedness, could be brilliant at times.
So Merlin was alive and experiencing what the world had to offer, and many times enjoying it, but never really participating in it. He didn’t feel whole or alive or a part of anything, not as he’d once been.
And he was no longer waiting for Arthur. That would be just foolish.
No, Arthur had been lost to him all those centuries ago, a victim of Merlin’s own stupidity and arrogance, thinking he could always save him, would always be able to protect him. Merlin didn’t believe in fairy tales--he wrote them, sometimes, but he wasn’t so far aged that he actually believed his own silly made-up stories. Men did not rise from the dead. That was stupid.
But he did still know he’d never stop loving his king, never stop missing him and would never forget him, despite how time had gone on without him. Had gone on without them both.. He did not know if Kilgarrah had simply lied for his own entertainment, or he’d simply gone mad at some point and might have believed his own addled “prophecies”, but none of the empty promises of a talking dragon held sway over Merlin.
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Every decade or so, if the state of the world allowed, Merlin tried to return to the Island where his king lay at rest. It was markedly changed now, much less water, much less Island, but still surprisingly unspoiled and untainted. Somehow, progress and expansion had been kept at bay here, for the most part, and the lion’s share of changes had been natural and organic, time wearing away at it all rather than man. It was not terribly different from the awful day Merlin had given Arthur over to Freya’s care.
As was his custom, Merlin traveled by foot whenever he was near here, veiling himself to look like an old man so that he wouldn’t be noticed. No one wanted to look at a grizzled, white haired, bearded man, shabbily dressed and with travel bags, even if that same octogenarian oddly walked with the stride of a strapping and fit young man.
Merlin no longer went to the water’s edge, no longer dipped his fingers in the Lake as he used to, no longer tried to sense Freya, no longer whispered pleas to her to watch over the great prat and look after him, keep him well until his time came. Merlin had developed a ritual in the last century or so. It was not unlike those people who visited the graves of long dead relatives. He didn’t torture himself any longer by trying to imagine something that he knew would never come, but still respected and loved his king’s memory too much to allow himself to leave his resting place entirely. This was Merlin’s compromise, and his penance. He would visit, but he would stay away, not close enough to touch, but close enough to see. And then he would leave again, for another dozen or so years, and try to find other ways to occupy himself and his mind..
A loud lorry passed him by just before he came almost directly across from what Merlin had come to call “The Place” in his mind. As he had for some time now, he allowed himself to feel it all, just for a moment, for his long-dulled emotions to swell and relive, only briefly, and he remembered.
He remembered a pair of blue eyes that laughed with teasing mirth or sparked with outrage. A golden-haired head that glinted with the crown of his station, a strong and stubborn jaw, broad shoulders and wide, strong, sword-calloused hands. He remembered a spoiled prince and a serious king, a young bully who became a caring and fair sovereign, one who listened to the needs of his people and did what he could to make their lives a little bit better. Merlin remembered a Round Table, and the man who had wanted the men who served him to be equal, “no man above another”. That man had listened to a lowly servant, and had even heeded his advice, and had loved and married another servant. He’d loved fiercely and without reservation, fought ferociously for what he’d believed in, and strived to do what he’d thought was right with unparalleled bravery and nobility and good intent.
Merlin’s beloved friend had died knowing he’d been betrayed by almost everyone he had ever loved--by his own father, his sister, his uncle, and even by Merlin. And Arthur had chosen to forgive--even when learning of Merlin’s years-long lies and that Merlin was what Arthur most feared and hated. He’d forgiven Merlin, and recognized that Merlin had never meant to hurt him.
And maybe--just maybe--had loved Merlin, a little bit, in return.
Merlin allowed his memories, all his pain and all his love, to envelop him just for a moment. It was like taking out a seldom-seen portrait for just a moment, experiencing it all, and then returning it to storage. He wouldn’t allow himself to dwell, but it was always good, he supposed, to be reminded that he was still capable of feeling, even if those feelings were mostly sadness and longing and regret and loneliness. The emotions were still there, even if they were usually “in storage” and rarely saw the light of day.
His ritual complete for another dozen years or so, Merlin took a deep breath, glanced down for a moment, tamped down on his emotions, and continued on his walk.
Maybe he’d travel again. Belize, maybe. The last time he’d been there, it had been called by some other name, he was pretty sure. Couldn’t remember what it was now, but...
He passed by an outcropping of buildings that shielded him from the road, and whispered his rejuvenation spell, changing his appearance from the elderly vagabond to a much younger man, not much older than when he’d lived in Camelot. He caught sight of himself as he passed by a window and shook his head slightly. He could never get the eyes right anymore. No matter how he transformed himself, his eyes always stayed the same, that of a much saddened and world-weary man. It didn’t match the young face he was currently wearing.
Ah, well, no matter. He knew few would be looking at his eyes anyway. Merlin himself would be the only one who would notice.
He pulled out his phone, checked the GPS and googled the nearest library and tea shoppe. Things had changed dramatically since the last time he’d been here, as they always tended to. Maybe he’d get some tea and a sandwich, check to see if any new Arthurian legends had cropped up, before he made any decisions. It wasn’t like he was in a rush or anything. All he had was time.
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Two new books scanned, paid for and in hand (well, new to him, as Merlin refused to buy any “new” books--new books had no soul or character)--Merlin located the small tea and sandwich cafe via his phone and allowed himself to be shown to a seat.It was after the mid-day rush, with not many people about, but enough that Merlin could also occupy himself with people-watching if he fancied. There was a quiet buzz of people’s conversations around him, but nothing distracting. They were all too busy and self-involved to notice an old-young man with messy hair, stubble and rumpled, old-style clothing, and that was just how Merlin wanted it.
He wasn’t hungry per se--he rarely became so any more--but found comfort in the “normalness” of taking tea and a meal while reading. Besides, it was turning out to be a nice day, and his purchases, although not Arthurian, could be interesting. It really did seem that nothing new was being written about Arthur any longer...maybe Merlin would take on another new name, come up with a new yarn.
Well, he didn’t have to decide today. He’d eat, and rest, and then decide, he supposed.
He was about to signal the server that he was ready to order when he was approached by two young women, who appeared to be uni-aged.
“Excuse me”, the first said. Merlin just raised his eyebrows. What could they possibly want with him? Maybe the salt shaker from his table?
The girl who’d spoken first turned her face into her hand and giggled.
What on earth?
“Sorry”, the other girl said, and then they both giggled. “We’ve just came from London, saw you in the play, in Mojo.”
“Interesting”, Merlin said, not interested at all. This was reminding him strongly of why he usually avoided people. His voice was hoarse, he noticed, and sounded strange even to his own ears. He so rarely talked, his voice was actually rusty from disuse.
Something seem to register with the two nonsensical girls then because they both stopped giggling and now seemed to be staring at him. Silently. With puzzled expressions.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. I haven’t been to any plays in quite some time.” Actually, almost a hundred years, but Merlin knew better than to say that.
“Um”, the first one said, and then stopped.
Maybe Merlin’s strange accent had thrown them off?
Or maybe they actually had noticed how Merlin’s eyes didn’t seem to fit his face at all. He really was going to have to work on that...
“We’ve made a mistake”, Girl Number Two finally murmured. “We thought you were Colin Morgan, from the play. You do look a lot like him, but we can see now you’re not him. Sorry to disturb you.”
And they were gone.
Merlin shook his head. People these days.
He just hoped the waiter would be along soon. The cafe offered a very tasty-sounding tuna on wheat, with thinly sliced Granny smith apples, and had his favorite black tea as well...
Something stirred under his skin and near his heart. His magic shimmered and shifted, as if suddenly recovering from a long, debilitating illness and was stretching.
“Merlin.”
Time suddenly stopped. That voice...he knew that voice. He’d always know that voice.
But it couldn’t be.
How many times had Merlin heard that voice before? No, he wasn’t mad yet. It was just that he was so close to the Lake, his memories and emotions reawakened.
Merlin shut his eyes tightly for a moment, opened them.
“Merlin”.
No one said his name like that. Hell, no one ever said his name any more. The faintest hint of exasperation and humor. ..
“Merlin, look at me.”
A king’s voice. His king. A command.
As cheeky as Merlin had always been, he’d still always responded to that voice.
He looked.
Golden hair. Broad shoulders. Laughing blue eyes.
The strong hands that held him when he started to fall.
Had he ever really believed he’d never feel again?