Work Text:
Many years had passed since the death of Arthur Pendragon yet, for some, the pain had not lessened. Such was the way for one sorcerer. Emrys he called himself, having retired his chosen name after the death of the king. It had been a reminder of things lost. One he could not bear to hear spoken aloud, not by any other, least of all himself. He was a far-cry from that man now. That man who had found joy, humour, and magic in everything - even in times of great pain. The one who had always had hope. Hope was in sparse supply now.
The world had moved on from Camelot. It had shifted into something new; something fast, ever-moving, and entirely unlike what had come before. Roads which had once been dirt-ridden and muddy had been replaced by smooth tarmac, grey and unnatural amongst the greenery. Trees and bushes had been cut back. Natural places had been picked up and moved, or bull-dozed over to make room for emerging modernity. Big flat fields were sold off and used to build houses, each one uniform and bricked. It was a new world entirely. One that Emyrs didn’t much care for. There was no room for magic here. Everyone was too busy looking for explanations, trying to find truth and reason in places where there was none to be found.
The lake remained untouched. Its crystalline waters sheltered from the swell of modernity by pure luck. It was a small comfort to know that some things would remain.
Emrys didn’t involve himself in this world. He did the odd errand for the townspeople, would conjure up some tricks for small children if they asked, but more and more he began to withdraw himself from their world. A world he had no place in.
Sometimes he would think back on Camelot and the people he had known. All of them long-since dead.
At night, he couldn’t help the dreams.
They brought him faces and memories that were almost too painful to bear.
He could see the youthful face of Morgana, the way her eyes lit up and her smile bloomed. He was reminded of Gwen, the grace and kindness she had shown him throughout her life, both before and after she had gleaned his secret. The way she had ruled over Camelot for many years, always with the same gentle nature, keeping it prosperous and maintaining the hard-won peace. The image of the knights, how they would joke and tease one another, how they never once questioned his presence or his loyalty. He remembered the way Gwaine would wrap an arm around his shoulder, clapping him on the back and whisper in his ear about a beautiful woman he’d met. Or how Percival would shake his head in disappointment but always with a hint of a smile toying on his lips whenever they would return from the Tavern. Even Gaius with his chores and his lectures, how he’d chide Merlin for getting himself into trouble despite that fact that he never sought out trouble - trouble sought out him.
All too soon those images morphed into something else, something sinister. They would show him the matted hair and the glassy eyes of Morgana as she lay bleeding on the forest floor, amidst the insects and the dirt, succumbing to injuries caused by his own hand. Or of Gwen when she was old and sickly, hair greying and thin, her eyes unable to focus on anything as she slipped into an endless slumber. He could see invented images of Gwaine, face coated in sweat, unable to hold his own weight as he gave into the lure of Morgana’s spell. He thought of Percival finding his friend in agony, tied up like a dog, and fearing he’d failed. Of how that must have hurt, of how that ache had consumed him and led him to withdraw from court just as Merlin had done. All of them nothing but an empty husk of their former selves.
It was a fresh hell every morning. There was one face he never was able to dream up, the one he longed for the most. The face of his king, of Arthur Pendragon.
The years had grown too much for Emrys. Each one carrying on longer than the last, droning onwards monotonously, with eternity still stretched out in front of him. He could hardly bear it. The thought of this life, devoid of love, of meaning. He didn’t want it anymore. Couldn’t keep on waiting, not knowing if any of it would pay off.
And so, it was decided.
In the dark of night, Emrys took to the lake. The moon hung heavy in the sky, casting the scene in a ghostly light. Stripping off his satchel and removing his shoes, he stepped forth into the water. The sudden cold bit at his skin, mud squelching between his toes. None of it deterred him. His mind set on his goal, Emrys waded through the water pushing against the current, until he was too far to turn back. His arms ached with the effort it took to stay afloat, a deep pain that caused his shoulders to stiffen. It would be of no matter soon. He splashed a couple of times, steadying himself, before closing his eyes for what he hoped would be the final time. Without the motion of his arms, Emrys began to sink.
His face fell below the water, oblivious to the sharp chill of the lake.
He had heard that drowning didn’t hurt. That it was over quickly.
None of that was his experience.
Despite his previous motivation, his body seemed unwilling to give into the swell of water. He gasped, drawing in a breath that was more water than air. His lungs throbbed under the added weight, his arms thrashing and flailing. He clawed for air, desperately pushing himself upwards to no use. Body weary and defeated, he could no longer keep his eyelids from falling shut. The air rushed from him, leaving him deflated and close to exhaustion. Slowly but surely, the world faded to black, and he gave into the lull of sleep and the promise of relief that came with it.
When he awoke it was with complete surprise. He spluttered and coughed, forcing the fresh-water from his lungs. His fingers splayed out in the mud, relishing the feel of the grounding earth beneath his palm. Blinking against the light, he started to come back to himself, and regaining his sense of self.
“Sleep now, Merlin,” a familiar voice said. “We’ll reunite soon enough.”