Chapter Text
The worst thing about being immortal, Merlin had decided, was that his body hadn't seemed to adjust to the idea that it was going to live forever. Every morning, he woke up feeling the aches of 1500 years in his bones, tugging against his joints and weighing his very organs down. The charms he cast to keep it bearable always wore off during his sleep, and the moments he was without them were the worst.
It never took long to recast them all; he could do it in seconds now. He'd be up in almost no time, with the pain vanished away, and his body made to look it's young and healthier self. But for those first seconds after his eyes opened, he felt the damage of every battle he'd ever fought, every hit he'd ever taken, everything that should have killed him desperate to still take away his peace.
But he supposed, at least, it gave him some routine. No matter what sort of life he was living, and he'd lived a lot over the centuries, his first few moments after waking were always the same. As he thought it, the same series of thoughts he'd had every day for almost as long as he could remember, he started to dress himself for the day ahead.
He'd started part-time work in a museum a few years ago, doing tours, guiding visitors around the exhibits. It wasn't every day, and it didn't pay much, but he didn't need it to. It was something to do, and anyway, history was easier to talk about when you'd seen it with your own eyes. He could give a better account of what life had been like during the last thousand years than anyone, and as long as he didn't bring up magic, he was seen as educated and respected. He'd watched the lives and stories of all kinds of people, and he could tell them now — their stories deserved to be told.
Of couldn't, he couldn't tell the stories that were most important to him. No one believed in sorcery now. The magic of the earth was dying around him. But one day, he told himself, one day, it would be different.
When Arthur comes back.
~*~
As soon as he woke up, he knew something was off. There was a sort of tingling sensation under his skin, a buzzing spreading around his bones, like something ancient within his body was stirring again. It took him a few minutes to realise that he didn't feel old. When he looked in the mirror, he almost recoiled in shock. He was covered head to toe in scars, in burn marks and blade wounds, just as always, but beneath that, his body was young again. This wasn't his magic, this was no glamour, this was real. He felt it. 1500 years of memories stared at him from his eyes in the mirror. But he wasn't a day over 25.
With a sudden twist of the gut he realised that he hadn't truly felt this young in centuries. Not since Camelot had fallen. Not even since Guinevere had been crowned in Arthur's place. He needed to get to the lake.
~*~
Arthur opened his eyes slowly, letting the sunlight glaring down at him fall into focus. His ears were ringing so much he couldn't hear anything else, bar his heartbeat pounding far too loudly.
Gradually, he tilted his head to look around him. He was laying on grass, a little damp, with a few trees scattered around him. At his side, lay still water, stretching as far as he could see — which, granted, wasn't very far — and what seemed like a tower reaching to the sky from an island a little way out. The water was almost eerily blue, as if something wasn't quite right, but he couldn't think what. He couldn't think much at all, actually, and nor could he remember how he got there.
Merlin.
The name appeared in his mind quite suddenly, and stopped all of his other thoughts still. But he remembered now, how could he have forgotten? The Battle at Camlann had been won. Merlin was a sorcerer. Arthur had been dying.
Only, he wasn't dead now, and as he tentatively reached a hand up to his stomach, he could feel no sign of injury, nor that such a wound had ever existed. Merlin must have saved him; Merlin, his idiot servant, his most trusted friend, who had somehow turned out to be a powerful sorcerer, who had lied to him all these years, but never done him harm. Merlin must have healed him, and then left before Arthur could turn on him. That was the only thing that made sense. Merlin must have run before he could be taken back to Camelot, he must have been afraid.
Arthur could never hurt him. He knew that, but perhaps Merlin didn't... Perhaps he had been to afraid to speak to Arthur when he was well.
They needed to talk. But first Arthur needed to find him, and he couldn't even stand yet. His eyes were far more focused and his ears had stopped ringing, but his muscles were still too stiff and weak to lift him from where he lay. But he had to try. Camelot needed him.
He almost managed to push himself onto his elbows, until he tried to life his head a little too much. He only had a moment to realise his vision had darkened before his consciousness slipped away once more.