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Merlin couldn’t breathe.
He put the small knife he held in his right hand down, fingers trembling as his exposed wrist dropped to the floor, opposite the knife. Everything was just too bright and too loud and too close to him, and he couldn’t focus on anything anymore, let alone the small, lethal weapon he’d only just been so ready to use. His chapped lips were parted as he attempted to drink in the oxygen he needed so desperately. It seemed no matter how many times he breathed in as hard as he could, it was never enough. He clutched at his chest, grasping the fabric of his shirt roughly, suddenly feeling a choking sensation overtake him. What the hell--! He wanted - needed - to scream but his voice was utterly and completely useless at that very moment.
Outside. He needed to get outside -- yeah that sounded like an OK-ish idea. Get outside, Merlin. Get. Out. Now.
Merlin half crawled, half pushed himself across the worn-out, maplewood floor of his cabin. He struggled with the doorknob a few times, still shaking all over, until it gave way and he burst through the frame and into the woods. He nearly fell face-first into the damp earth before him, losing his footing slightly. He forced himself to stand up, but found he couldn’t stand still just quite yet. His body was basically bursting with the rush of adrenaline. He still felt extremely jittery and Merlin needed to get somewhere else; anything but inside that cabin. Right. Bloody. Now.
The warlock stumbled into the trees, hardly noticing that it was raining. He actually found the cool, wet drops hitting the too-hot skin on his face was exactly what he needed, and he slowed his pace just enough so he could tilt it up towards the gloomy sky. He let the raindrops cascade down his forehead, across his cheeks, falling off his nose and chin. He was oversensitive and shivered as he felt every single one trail its way down his face. Merlin closed his eyes tight, forcing himself to breathe through his nostrils, clenching his fists as he did so, really sick of how badly they were shaking and how ridiculous he probably looked.
Now that he had finally stopped moving, everything he’d been thinking of back in the cabin came back to him at full-speed, and now he felt like he was being smashed against a ginormous sixteen-wheeler. Merlin couldn’t control his legs when they gave in totally and he fell to the wet grass below, now unable to hold back the tears that were fighting so damn hard to spill out and fall down his cheeks.
Despite his attempts to calm himself down, Merlin began to sob.
And sob and sob until he was wailing horribly with an overwhelming need for release; of what, however, poor Merlin didn't know. His cries could very easily have been heard throughout the forest, had anyone else resided there with Merlin. But he was alone with the creatures and nature and beyond and had purposely chosen somewhere where solitude was guaranteed. He’d tried living in the city (the closest city around where he spent most of his life had been Paris, but he moved around quite a bit, never really settling down) many times, and found he couldn’t handle it after the first couple centuries. It reminded him too much of home.
Home. Oh.
Home was gone. Paris, Birmingham, Marseille, London, Belfast, Nice, Glasgow, Manchester... he'd tried them all and more, and they were no Camelot. Even when he attempted to move to the countryside at times, in England, France, even Ireland, just to connect with his roots, never really forgetting his country-boy childhood spent in Ealdor, it wasn't enough. There was always something missing. Always something incomplete, wherever and whenever he tried to settle down and start over. He even travelled across foreign lands and across the seas. Merlin had stayed everywhere, from South Africa, China and Australia, the Americas, to Russia and Greece and Egypt, Japan and Greenland, to Brazil - he had all the time in the world but still couldn't find the right place. It all would never do for him, because it would never be home. That magnificent castle, the once-so-powerful realm of Camelot — it was all in ruins. Pieces of stone, forgotten by the rest of the world. Before, he found it too hard to leave after everyone had died; Morgana, Mordred, Kilgharrah, Gwen, Hunith, Gaius, Leon, Gwaine, Perceval…
Arthur.
Because everyone had gone, it was like Camelot was the only thing left that he could hang onto. But even Camelot died in its own way, its walls crumbling to dust over the centuries in which he guarded it faithfully after living in the shadows far away for all the years his friends wondered where he had gone and whether or not he’d survived at all after Arthur. Gwen had sent out countless search parties, boundaries meaning nothing to her after a week of Merlin’s disappearance and Arthur’s passing. Leon and Perceval had volunteered to lead nearly all of them personally.
Though it meant everything to him, the knowledge of all his old friends worrying about him so much, Merlin would know every time they’d come near him, and he always turned them away; leading them somewhere else or distracting them. It broke his heart, knowing they were so close when he knew he had no place in Camelot as long as Arthur was no longer reigning king.
The land was in peril. Gwen tried to keep it all together as best she could, but even she couldn’t keep every single one of Camelot’s enemies by herself; bandits, greedy kings from across their borders, and rogue magic-users alike beat her down bit by bit until Camelot was lost completely. Only a fraction of his friends were fortunate to die middle-aged, but still, every single one of his companions died too young. Arthur being one of them. He hadn't even made it past 30.
Merlin lowered his face, weeping into the palms of his hands now, face wet with the mix of salty tears and raindrops smeared together, and his shoulders heaved violently as sobs continued to wrack his thin frame.
It had been millennia. Over a thousand years had past and he could still remember each day all his loved ones died. He wanted so badly to have been the type that could turn away easily and just forget, and he honestly thought he’d learned his lesson after Arthur, but it was hard when he sensed, actually felt, how close they were to their end every time. He couldn’t leave them in their last moments, and that meant watching the light fade from their eyes, which was probably the worst part of the entire process. But before that, he could pinpoint the exact moment they went from shock to confusion at seeing Merlin again, finally, not having aged one day physically, then eventual understanding. There had been fear for a few of them, once they made the connection to the magic, but he did recall that Gwen was never afraid.
She actually looked like she wasn't surprised and only smiled up at him tiredly, reaching for his hand. Merlin knew, somehow, that she had known about him being a sorcerer. He didn't know how, but whoever it had been who'd told her had his gratitude. Or perhaps she'd figured it out all on her own. It didn't matter, because he never asked her about it, and didn't even need to because all she seemed to care about was that he was there, right beside her, like he had been years ago. Her best friend. He stay by her side until she breathed her last breath, talking to her quietly as though the time that had passed between them, separated, hadn't been long at all. She never let go of his hand, and once she was gone, having to release hers broke Merlin's heart completely.
For all of them, their initial reactions were all different in some way or another, seeing him again, but they always cried in the end. Every single one of them. And he cried with them. He made sure they were all buried at the Isle of the Blessed, where they all deserved to be.
It was a horrible, awful curse, immortality. The number of times he wished he could join them in Avalon was incessant and endless. The moments he was close to bringing death upon himself were countless, immeasurable, and this day was to be added to the list. No one on earth had experienced grief and loss the way and in the levels Merlin had. He’d seen thousands of civilizations rise and fall. Millions born and millions die. The earth had changed so much; it was practically unrecognizable to him compared to his days spent in Camelot.
Merlin was alone.
Of course he’d met thousands (probably more) of people, even some sorcerers that still managed to make it through the years the world went through so much change. But they all died eventually. He’d made friends, but let none ever get as close as those from his dear Camelot. He never dared let himself love again. No one would ever be Arthur, and he supposed that was probably selfish of him and definitely a little immature and very impractical, but he didn’t care. He also knew it would't be fair for the other person he'd be using as a distraction. Sure, "distraction" wasn't a very nice way to describe a potential lover or companion, but it would be the truth. Merlin would never forgive himself if he ever tried to replace Arthur. His heart couldn’t bear it. Besides, he’d remind himself darkly, they’d only die too, while I’d have to bury them and keep on going.
After being around for so long, Merlin had nearly lost faith in humanity wholly... many, many times. There was so much violence over religion, and the irony of it all made him want to laugh at the stupidity of humanity. People all over the world preached about peace, compassion and acceptance, tried to prove to others that what they knew was the godly truth. The debates on that truth, what a god was, if God really was, were never-ending. There was so much persecution and murder in the names of gods people worshipped so blindly, it wasn't a surprise to Merlin that nearly all of the original messages were corrupted, translated and edited into what men wanted to see, only to justify their actions. And it wasn't just religion. People were judged so harshly across the world because of their skin colour, gender, sexuality, class, age… the list was unending. Merlin found it hard to think that the years spent living in Camelot were so much simpler, even though the biggest war against magic seemed to be raging for centuries before that.
Humanity was now fighting World War IX. Merlin honestly couldn’t believe how childish and selfish some of the reasons why countries decided to turn against each other even were. Only rarely were they actually just, in his mind. He’d played his role in many big moments in history, helped in any way he could, but it just seemed it never ended, no matter where he travelled. Arthur never returned while the United Kingdom rebuilt itself, much to Merlin's surprise. He only wondered if, during each worldly catastrophe, that would be enough to call Arthur back. It wasn't. Not yet.
But there were the little things humans could do that always reminded Merlin why they’d lasted so long. Everyone would be thinking a very different way had the Scientific Revolution of the 17th century never happened. The French Revolution called on people to become poets and artists of any type, to cherish what was beautiful and pure. Amazing, wondrous things were created; new cities and countries with striking monuments and landmarks rose from the ground all across the globe. Stories and legends lived on through the dreams of children and the mouths of the elderly, even 'til this day. Heroes were born. Their enemies fell. Sometimes so did the heroes.
Merlin wrapped his arms around himself, feeling cold now that the rainwater was seeping through his thin clothes. He opened his glassy, sapphire-blue eyes, and gazed up towards the grey clouds, tears still streaming down his face, but no longer crying out. Little clouds of mist billowed past his lips in the cool, mid-Autumn air. He forced himself to try to remember all the other good things that happened in the world before he couldn't help but lose himself in his panic and sadness that’d struck him moments prior.
The empire of Britain had been formed, thanks to his Arthur's valiant efforts to unite the land. It still amazed Merlin how passionately people still tried to fight for the proof that the great King Arthur had lived and breathed among this earth. They would never find a body. No, Merlin had taken care of that himself. All traces of Camelot’s walls that had once stood proudly were gone, though Merlin knew he’d be able to find his home with little to no effort needed and through pure instinct alone. His own existence had been debated throughout the centuries, and that piece of information drew a small grin to tug at his lips. He and Arthur were portrayed in the theatre, in film, in literature and poetry…
He’d always wondered if there was any way he could show all the speculating historians the truth without looking like a complete buffoon. He also knew there really wasn’t one. Merlin smiled to himself for the first time in a month, at the thought that “Arthur” and his sorcerer “Merlin” and all their trials and adventures had lived on so long in the minds of men... Just as Kilgharrah had said they would. Do you even know how much you’ve done, old prat? What we’ve done together and how much we’ve affected these people?
Oh Arthur... Merlin could feel his throat tightening again, and his mouth felt dry. He let out a ragged sigh, shaking his head.
Arthur was the one thing that kept him from doing anything stupid; which lately, he tried often. The incident with the knife was the most recent stupid thing. He couldn’t help it the first time he’d used a blade against himself; all he’d wanted was relief. He needed to breathe and had felt the same way he was just feeling. He hadn’t lost too much blood and had patched himself up easily with his own magic as if nothing had happened, and if anyone were to look at his pale arm, there wouldn't be anything abnormal to notice. But Merlin had known what he’d done to himself.
And he kept on doing it.
Merlin wasn’t quite sure why he needed to slice at his skin whenever he felt on edge and overwhelmed, but… he had been around for well over a thousand years, and that seriously messed up his head. Or, at least, that’s what he kept telling himself every time he hurt himself.
Merlin tightened his grip around his chest, teeth chattering now. He sniffled pitifully, having cried so hard he didn’t think there were any tears left in him. His pulse finally slowed its erraticism and he looked ahead at the sound of rustling among the bushes, puffy eyes narrowing. A bushy red tail swept through the green shrubbery. Merlin relaxed and smiled faintly as the fox snuffled its way out and into the clearing he’d stopped in. He opened his palm and a glowing, white sparrow flitted its way to life, hopping right out of his hand. The fox’s ear twitched as it watched, mesmerized for a moment, before batting at the air playfully like a tomcat, then started to chase the little bird among the taller grasses half-heartedly.
The warlock hardly used magic like he did in Camelot -- never as an easy way out of something. Whenever he did use it, it was spontaneous and random. He used to it make beautiful things, or fix things. He’d vowed never to use it to harm anything or anyone ever again after the horrors of World War II.
The sun was beginning to set; though it was still concealed behind the gloomy expanse of clouds, he could make out past the branches overhead. He could tell because it was only just beginning to get dark in the woods (and he just, well... knew... but he didn't like to resort to the whole "greatest-and-most-powerful-sorcerer-ever" excuse), and so Merlin willed ivory orbs of light to life, had them hover at a comfortable distance around him, making the clearing glimmer and glow as the lovely whiteness was reflected in all the water droplets gathering on each leaf, blade of grass, and mossy log. He'd used this particular spell so many times, he didn't need words anymore. It was purely elemental, and once he thought of it, they just appeared. An owl hooted somewhere above him, reminding him of the time of day.
Merlin looked up and around him until he made out the familiar, bedraggled shape of the large bird, blinking its large, sleepy eyes at him. Just in time, old boy. His expression morphed into something kind and grateful as he called up to the owl, "Evening, Archimedes. I trust you had a good day's sleep, judging by how you look right now. Your feathers are in quite the mess, my friend." Archimedes only ruffled his feathers irritatingly, and Merlin heard him sniff. That wasn't a very owlish thing to do, but after being around for about 410 years, his avian companion had picked up a few characteristics from his wizard compadre. Merlin knew it wasn't like him to cast an age-ceasing spell on a bird, but Archimedes hadn't left him alone all those centuries ago and Merlin needed a friend to talk to. He didn't want to go insane, only talking to himself when he was alone (which was most of the time), so it seemed only logical.
Besides, Archimedes didn't seem to mind, and liked Merlin well enough to stick around for a pretty long time (which Merlin was grateful for), following him whenever Merlin moved across countries or just went out for midnight strolls. Whether he was perched on Merlin's shoulder or gliding overhead, his presence was a comfort to the old warlock. For some reason, he reminded him oddly of Kilgharrah, which was probably why Merlin chose Archimedes as his companion... He was no dragon, but he was the winged, old, grumpy friend Merlin needed.
Merlin commanded a pile of magically dried sticks to arrange themselves properly for a campfire. He hadn’t done this in a long time. Almost all the time, it was because it reminded him of times spent with his Once and Future King by the fire in the dead of night, lying side-by-side. Sometimes they’d be fooling around (which almost always meant Arthur batting at Merlin like a child, laughing hysterically at his manservant's face once he'd gotten him irritated enough), tossing light-hearted insults back and forth over mugs full of stew, or they’d be sitting together in complete silence, and all were perfectly alright. They all had always felt natural with Arthur.
Merlin settled down before the pile of sticks, whispering for the rain to separate itself from the grass around him as Archimedes stretched his wings, now seated in the tree closest to him. He wasn't one to voluntarily sit in wet grass.
“Forbearnan,” he murmured, and the fire flickered to life. Merlin outstretched his hands and rubbed them together, sighing in contentment at the feel of warmth he'd been craving. Archimedes let out an impatient hoot before flapping his way down to settle on the warlock's right shoulder, the air his huge wings stirred ruffling Merlin's shaggy hair. "You're cold, too, huh," he mumbled, reaching up to scratch at the old owl's neck. Archimedes leaned into his hand letting out a couple chirps, as if answering: Yes, you buffoon, I was just rained on in my sleep. What did you expect?
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Merlin shushed him, huffing out a chuckle in faint amusement. He sighed, only faintly aware of the weight on his shoulder he'd gotten so used to over the time Archimedes spent keeping him company. It used to be Arthur that would keep you company. Now you've got an owl. An old, moody, owl.
It was never easy thinking about Arthur. It was always bittersweet and it had taken a long while for Merlin to move past his guilt and that terrible feeling of I’ve failed you please forgive me I never deserved any of the love you offered me whenever he recalled Arthur’s death, but he’d managed. He knew what his fate had been before Arthur’s end even came, despite his efforts to not think about it. It was his job to wait for his king to return, and once he did, they’d finally be reunited and Arthur would finally reassemble Albion, the two of them healing the land together.
But at the moment, Merlin was still alone and still waiting. Faithfully and patiently, waiting. With Archimedes, of course.
He’d always wait for Arthur. Arthur was what he remembered each time he tried to take his own life. Arthur was coming back, and Merlin just had to wait. He’d died, but that didn’t mean he was gone forever, and that was what kept Merlin moving through the years, months, days... What would Arthur think? was what he’d ask himself every time he’d been close to letting go completely. No, Merlin would never disappoint Arthur.
Never.
And Arthur would never abandon Merlin. So he’d wait for his golden king, like he always has been, for the last couple thousand years. He could do it for Arthur.