Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

After miles of wrong turns and retracing his steps, Merlin allowed himself a moment to rest—tipped his head up a fraction, closed his eyes to savor the feel of warm sunlight on his pale skin.  He didn’t worry about his lack of sunscreen.  His age spots and wrinkles hadn’t changed a fraction since he first disguised himself in the form of an old man to save Gwen from the pyre.

The smell of the powder he’d needed back then to create the enchantment, the rough fabric of the robe he’d borrowed from Gaius to cover his usual blue shirt, brown trousers, the confused look on Arthur’s face when he asked if they’d met before…  Even after so long, the memories came to him with little effort.  His decade with Arthur was just as fresh in his mind as his most recent 10 years.  It was the intervening time that got jumbled about and blurred together in his head.

A kid brushed past Merlin’s elbow, jostled him back to the present.  The streets before him were crowded, over-full.  It was the first nice day of spring and the people of Cardiff were out to enjoy the weather.

Merlin hadn’t planned to be here today.  He was supposed to be out in the countryside, driving the deserted, barely-there road that marked, near enough, the border between what was once Camelot and Nemeth.  The inaccuracies in the route were of little importance; no one but Merlin knew the difference. 

It had taken a fortnight to do a full patrol of the border on horseback if there was no trouble.  It could be done in a single day by car if you were dedicated.  He walked parts of the route to make up the time difference, took detours because patrols with Arthur had never gone to plan.

The journey was something he did every year, a ceremony of sorts.  One of many rituals he’d developed to help pass the time.  He needed that, especially now. 

The waiting has been harder to bear in recent years than in any time since the early days.  Because Arthur was here somewhere.  And even though the population was far larger than he had once thought possible, it shouldn’t be this bloody difficult to find a person.  What good was his magic, his wealth of experience, if he couldn’t—

Merlin halted his train of thought; he wouldn’t allow himself to think that way.  Couldn’t.  It was just the fatigue wearing on his patience again.  What he needed was a nice long sleep, but he no longer had the time to spare.

What he could do was have faith in Arthur.  Today’s intended detour destination was just one of many places where Arthur had earned his trust.

Arthur had given this area over to Nemeth years before he died.  Back then, if he’d turned toward the sea, he would have seen that overgrown hedgerow, that labyrinth where Arthur had been willing to die for Camelot, for Merlin.  That spot along the beach was a port now.  That’s where he’d been heading before he’d been forced to pull over, stash his vehicle in a car park, and start walking.

Something called to him, tickled at his senses, like a symphony played at the threshold of hearing.  Only it wasn’t his auditory system that was straining.  The thrumming was subtle, but incessant—powerful. 

Merlin stopped midstride.

Down the street was a man with Arthur’s silhouette, with Arthur’s gait.  He forced his breath to follow its regular pattern, willed his heart to stay calm.  He’s been through this before.  So many times.  Sitting down to dinner in a pub, riding the Tube beneath London, or meandering the streets of a sleepy village, he’d catch a glimpse of that specific shade of hair at the proper height or hear a voice with the right tone and the cadence to match.  But whether he rushed forward or crept in for closer evaluation, the result was the same.  Hope would flare bright, only to die down the instant he realized all the other features were wrong.  It would take weeks, months, sometimes years to restore that low burn that kept him going all this time, through the trials and disappointments, the relentless centuries.

He held back, observed the man.  There was a petite woman attempting to cling to him.  Merlin took that as a good sign.  Arthur always had attracted more than his fair share of admirers.  The man shrugged her off, which was even better because Arthur had never displayed much interest in romance.  Not unless magic or Gwen was involved.  Even then, he’d been more than just a little hopeless.  Ordering your servant to fetch your love flowers has never been the epitome of romantic gestures. 

Merlin rose up on his toes to look around the other pedestrians, tried to stamp down the surge of optimism that had already begun.  Was it his imagination that made him think the magic call was coming from the same direction as the Arthur shaped man and the clinging woman?

The couple was watching him now and he squinted for a better view.  These old man eyes were useful for a great many reasons, but their ability to see detail at a distance was not one of them.

He could use his other sight, but apart from the ever present risk of being seen with glowing eyes, which was worse now than ever with the prevalence of video phones—that was not something he needed posted online—he risked detection by whoever had set the enchantment. 

When the man looked away, Merlin’s will crumbled and he dashed forward to a space between two buildings where he hoped to find enough privacy to restore his youthful vision.

“That old man is staring at you, James.  It’s creepy.”

He didn’t need to ask whom she meant.  The man with the long, white beard stood in the middle of the pavement on the opposite side of the road.  He was too far down the street to make out more than his basic features, but he was definitely looking in their direction.  

“He’s not staring.  See how he’s shifting about?  Looks more like he’s trying to decide if he knows one of us.”

“He’s making me nervous.  Let’s go into this shop while he passes by.”

“There’s nothing creepy about him.”  There was something familiar about the man’s frame, his posture.

This wasn’t the first time a stranger triggered such a feeling—that was the sole reason he was here with Veronica this afternoon.  It certainly had nothing to do with enjoying her company.  She was pretty to be sure, but God was she annoying.  Spending time with her was a chore but if she could help him figure out why some people triggered that odd sense of recognition, it would be worth his time.  The man down the street, he was different. 

“James?  James!”  He tore his gaze away from the old man long enough to get her to stop calling him that.  It wasn’t even his name.  Not his real name anyway.  “Look at these dresses.”  Her pout turned into an expression he could only assume was meant to be seductive.  “I could try them on for you.” 

He ignored her, looked back to the place where the old man had been and found that section of pavement empty.  He widened his view.  A flash of white pulled his gaze to where the man ducked into an alleyway.

“I know I said window shopping, but it won’t hurt to just go inside.  Please?  James?”  She giggled.  “Are you imagining how irresistible I’d look?  You naughty boy.”  He cringed.

He needed to have that talk with her again.  ‘We are not a couple.  We will never be a couple.’  He’d stopped being delicate ages ago.  She didn’t listen.  She was undaunted, utterly convinced that one day he was going to wake up and realize he was madly in love with her. 

When he still didn’t respond, she put on her most extreme pout.  He could see it out of the corner of his eye.  

“James?”

Would it be strange if he followed the man?  He looked too old to have got far.  If he didn’t want to lose—

A much younger man popped out of the same ally into which the old man had fled.  Despite the distance, the man locked eyes with him and if the old man had triggered a sense of familiarity, then it was almost as if he knew this man.  The certainty of it washed over him, filled his chest near to bursting.  If only he could see him a bit closer, maybe hear his voice, he might actually remember something.  Something from before. 

That had been a hard day.  And not because he’d been a child wandering alone in the middle of the Welsh countryside.  No, the hard part had been feeling like the whole world was wrong somehow—a deep wrongness that went beyond the fact that he hadn’t understood a word anyone said.  Having nothing for comparison, anything should have been acceptable to his mind.  If everyone else had sported green skin and scales, he would have had every reason to assume that he was the oddity. But even today, it was as if the world was too full or he was too empty, missing more than just memories. 

Before he knew what he was doing, his feet were compelling him down the pavement, toward the younger man with the dark hair.  The other man stood still a moment, hands clasped to his mouth, before scrubbing at his eyes and striding forward to meet halfway. 

“James.”  Veronica grabbed his arm, but he shook her off, didn’t stop walking.  

Cars streamed by on the road to his left.  They partially obscured his view of the familiar man, but he kept his eyes on him as best he could, taking only the minimum time needed to look away and make sure he wasn’t going to run into anything. 

“James!”

This constant “James-ing” was going to drive him mad.  After 15 years of being addressed by the name he should have got used to it, but he hadn’t.  In fact, the older he got, the more annoying it became. 

“Enough!”

Veronica took a step back.  He wasn’t proud of the piece of himself that was pleased by her reaction, but the James thing was especially annoying coming from her—as though he expected her to know better.  It was a completely unfair expectation.  Even he couldn’t remember his true name.  

With circumstances as they’d been, he’d had no choice but to accept the name the head of the orphanage chose on his behalf.  The people there gave him more than just a fake name.  With the help of a series of doctors, they’d decided that he’d been nine years old and gave him a fake birth date to match.  

All this was settled before they even started teaching him English.  They claimed whatever he’d spoken before was a horrible mutilation of Welsh, an opinion that led to a number of theories about his life previous to that point that included neglect, abuse, and isolation.

Those theories had never bothered him.  Whatever happened to him, he suspected it had something to do with the scar below his heart.  Obviously he’d been injured at some point.  Perhaps he’d been in a coma for years.  That would explain the lack of memories.

When he and the familiar man were suitably close, standing at opposite corners of an intersection, he made a series of hand motions to indicate that the other man should stay in place and that he would cross the two intersecting roads that separated them.  The gestures made perfect sense to him but he realized belatedly that they weren’t what could be called intuitive.  Across the street, the familiar man gave him a confident nod and took a step back from the street to wait.

James jogged across the intersecting street then turned to his left to wait for the traffic signal to change so that he could cross High Street as well.  This close, he could see the other man was beaming.  The grin amplified prominent cheekbones and though he could not recall ever seeing such features, nothing had ever looked so familiar.  There was a time when even his own refection had been foreign to him, but not this man.

He took a moment to consider the possibility that this wasn’t what he was hoping.  That maybe his mind was playing tricks on him and this bloke across the street was just some sort of crazed madman who grinned at anyone that met his gaze. 

“James, wait for me!”  Veronica’s high heels thundered off to his side but he didn’t bother looking at her.  The light was turning.  Traffic trickled off and a pair of cars pulled to a stop on his right.  Somewhere in the distance, a horn blared.  He paid it no mind and stepped into the street.

The familiar man looked away for a second and when he turned back, started to say something.  James indicated with a hand up to his ear that he couldn’t hear and suddenly the man was yelling.  It made no difference.  Not with Veronica screeching at him to slow down from five paces behind and the rumble of traffic to his left and that stupid driver still laying on his horn.

The familiar man pointed up the street, but James was passing in front of a van and didn’t have a good view.  He stopped to make sure something wasn’t wrong, tried to peek through the vehicle’s windows.  All he saw was an overabundance of flower arrangements and balloons packed into the cargo space.  When he turned back to resume his journey across the street, he found the dark haired man sprinting toward him.  The man didn’t have far to go.  It was three lanes, one for parking and two for travel, both one way heading west and he was just entering the center of the middle lane. 

Time is supposed to seem slower in an emergency. Something about adrenaline and the speed at which the brain processes information.  He’s experienced the effect before, on that first terrifying day where his memories began and since then many times at work. And so it wasn’t surprising that when he finally saw what was happening, his feet felt rooted in place even though he knew he was turning and stepping back to avoid the collision.  He was so focused on the imminent collision, he barely noticed the familiar man continuing toward him, arms outstretched.  He never felt the man’s hands touch his chest, but they must have because he was pushed backward out of the collision path just as the tipper truck with the blaring horn ploughed into the back of the vehicle he had been walking in front of. 

The familiar man wasn’t so lucky.  Propelled forward by momentum, the van struck the man on his left side, sent him flying into the intersection like a wayward bowling pin.