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Gwaine reclines upon the bed, watching his wife and son at the bedroom door, receiving parting advice from the sorcerer-physician, Merlin. They're all casting worried looks in his direction as they speak in hushed voices, so despite the searing pain in his broken leg, Gwaine forces a carefree grin onto his wrinkled face.
Merlin actually rolls his eyes, his expression shifting into fond exasperation, as if they were brothers or friends or something much more than just doctor and patient. It makes Merlin look like a young man of twenty, the same age as his own son, though he knows that's just an illusion.
Everyone knows the Sorcerer of Avalon doesn’t age, after all.
Gwaine has nearly drifted off to sleep when he hears Merlin says not to worry, that the injury will heal, so long as Gwaine behaves and rests his leg.
"Not likely," Gwaine mumbles, and peeks open one eye.
His wife gives him a stern look. She knows from years of experience what an awful patient he is. "Hush, you," she tells him, shifting in the doorway to put her hands on her narrow hips, the sun from a nearby window catching her long silver hair.
"You should listen to her," Merlin says, moving now to Gwaine's bedside.
He looks as firmly unconvinced as his wife at any potential compliance. Its an insight befitting a close friend; not something this man should know. After all, they’d only met a handful of times since the year Gwaine had lost his memory.
"It's unfair you don't get older," Gwaine says, shoving his old body up the mattress, grunting at a stab of pain in his leg.
"You're not supposed to move," Merlin scolds. "You're so stubborn… Don’t you ever listen?"
Damned horse, Gwaine thinks, as he gets settled against the pillows. He should have gotten rid of the old nag years ago. Hasn’t been able to plow a field worth a damn in a decade. After Merlin helps him get comfortable, the physician sits on the bedside, black hair and youthful face and damn it, it's just not fair. "Aren't you ever going to get old?" Gwaine asks, irritated that time is dragging him into old age, while Merlin holds onto his youth. "Why don't you ever change?"
A weary smile pulls at Merlin's lips as he adjusts the rough blankets. "I’m not supposed to change. So I don't.”
"Not even your clothes," Gwaine says, nodding at the man's neckerchief and tunic, breeches and boots. "You look like a servant, not a physician."
Pain pinches Merlin's brows, and he ducks his head, giving a shrug.
In the silence, Gwaine finds himself staring. Something about the angle of Merlin’s sharp face is-
Gwaine jolts, images tumbling through his mind.
Of castle walls and shining armor-
Of red flowing capes-
Of a golden dragon emblem-
Of blond hair shining in the sun
Of a gleaming golden crown-
Gwaine heaves in a breath, wide-eyed and shaken. "I saw memories," he breathes, and clutches at Merlin's arm. That’s what they are. He can feel it. Memories of the life he'd had before that morning he'd woken in the forest dressed in knights’ armor, his head ready to split in two from the pain, his past completely gone.
"I had to use magic to heal you," Merlin tells him. "Your injury today was too severe. It’s possible that it might have healed other things too."
"You told me that wasn't possible," Gwaine snaps.
"Years ago, I didn't think it was."
"But it is now?"
"Maybe you've been healing all this time on your own. Or maybe it's because I've gotten better at healing. But... I think..." Merlin tilts his head, strangely pained. "If you wanted... I could give you all of your memories back."
"What... now?"
"If you want."
It's a terrifying thought, which makes no sense. For decades he's wanted to remember those years he'd lost. Something important had happened to him, he's certain. He's done his best to move on, to forget about it, but it's always made him feel incomplete. And lately, as he's been watching himself and his wife grow old and grey, and his son becoming a man- gods above- was it actually possible? Could Merlin actually give that part of himself back again?
"If you decide to do this," Merlin says, "I can't undo it again."
"Why would I undo it?"
Merlin shrugs, ducks his head, lets his silence speak even while he hides his secrets.
"If it were you," Gwaine asks. "Would you want to remember?"
Merlin looks out the window, at the trees and valleys beyond Gwaine's small village. Seeing what, Gwaine doesn’t know, though it has Merlin's blue eyes filling with tears. "Yes," Merlin whispers. "I would. I'd want to remember."
“All right then. Go ahead."
When Merlin lays a thin hand upon Gwaine's brow, the memories come crashing through all at once, thousands of splintered images knitting together.
He remembers his father’s death and his mother’s face. Remembers traveling for years and years without direction. and then a bar fight, and a friendship, and a call to adventure. and then- oh, and then- riding in chainmail and armor, with dawn burning orange and red in the skies over Camelot, as his friends-
Oh gods above, his friends-
He remembers Percival, strongest of them all, weeping in despair. He remembers Elyan, young and hopeful, murdered by the spiteful witch. He remembers Mordred, the betrayer who had deceived them all. He remembers Leon, who lived still, caring for Queen Gwenivere, after the death of-
“Arthur,” Gwaine chokes out, tears spilling down his cheeks.
Because he remembers now, too, how failed his kingdom; failed his king-
Merlin shifts closer on the bed and picks up Gwaine's shaking hands, his own fingers warm and strong and so very young even after all these decades.
“Merlin,” Gwaine chokes out, and can’t continue, because it’s dizzying to look at him, this young- yet not young- man who had been his closest friend.
"There you are," Merlin says, and squeezes Gwaine's hands. He's smiling, though tears slide down his pale cheeks. "Remember me now, do you?”
“I failed him,” Gwaine chokes out, remembering now the last words he had said as himself. They're screaming from his heart- had been screaming for years- gods above, how hadn't he heard them? "It was my fault," he forces out. "Arthur died… because of me-”
“No, Gwaine-"
"But I told Morgana-"
"What happened in Camlaan was my fault,” Merlin interrupts. “It was my destiny to stop Mordred, and I didn’t. I didn't and Arthur-" Merlin snaps his jaw shut, lips pressed tight, to stare into a dark corner of the room. "But… it will be all right. They promised. I just need to be patient."
"Patient?"
"Arthur’s coming back," Merlin says. "The druids called him The Once and Future King, remember? It’s prophecy. So you just wait. Arthur will come back. We just need to be patient for him.”
Gwaine doesn't answer, struck by Merlin's desperation, and by the worrying hint of madness mixing with his wild hope. It has Gwaine remembering the tales he'd heard for years around the village. Stories about Merlin, the sorcerer of Avalon.
Dragonlord, is what they call him.
And something else too.
Emrys.
The Immortal One.
Gwaine's stomach twists, wondering exactly when Arthur is destined to return. The Fisher King had been over a thousand years old. And Merlin hasn't aged a single day.
“He’ll come back,” Merlin is saying, his gaze focused on the dark corner of the room. "He will…”
“So this is a pretty good magic trick," Gwaine says, to draw Merlin's attention. "Keeping yourself looking like a kid and all. It's a shame you can't do something about those ears, though."
Merlin’s startled laugh is a delightful thing, especially mixed with the sight of his eyes crinkling into half moons, turning him into that young boy Gwaine had met in the tavern so long ago.
"Stay for a while," Gwaine tells him. "I'm remembering a story about sneaking goats into Geoffrey's library, and I want to know if that really happened."
"Oh, the goats!" Merlin laughs, and proceeds to recount the tale, though Gwaine is only half listening.
He's too busy giving his king one more silent oath.
This time, it's to look after Merlin, for as long as he can.