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Glancing incredulously down at his tiny waving fists, Merlin wondered how on earth he had got himself into this mess.
In his defence, warping time and space was really hard, and he had only skim read the spell, but gods, he had really messed up on his timing. Above him, Hunith cooed over her new born baby and Merlin, not able to communicate in any other way, began to cry.
He had been convinced this would work, and he’d spent months sorting out his finances and saying goodbye to children and grandchildren and even the odd great grandchild. He’d bade a fond farewell to his partner and had settled his finances, leaving everything to his kids. His house was rented out to a local charity and his library was safely packed away in his spelled bags (he’d drawn inspiration from a tv show and the bag fit the entire room, shelves and all). Then, he’d given the spell a glance over, and begun, feeling the power building up around him.
He was going for ad 540 or thereabouts. He couldn’t quite remember exactly when he’d arrived in Camelot and they’d measured the years differently then anyway. Unfortunately, this led to a rather inconvenient mix up which had landed him in a cradle in Ealdor, about eighteen years earlier than he would have liked. And, to add insult to injury, he was a baby. A runny nosed, snotty, crying baby.
Merlin spent the next few months constantly frustrated, warring with the instincts of a babe which called for milk, sleep and attention, and the instincts of an immortal warlock who just wanted to be able to sit up on his own.
Hunith remained oblivious to his plight, and continued to fuss over him, only now, a woman Merlin vaguely recognised as will’s mother often came round to assist her in her fussing.
Being a baby was boring, and Merlin was very glad when it was over. Unfortunately, with speech and movement came toothing and pain. Merlin wished he had some anaesthetics, or at least the vocabulary to cast a spell to ease the agony. He did not, and he suffered for way too long in his opinion.
With the discomfort and pain, his magic began to act up despite his best attempts to keep it down. He saw the terror on his mother’s face when he accidentally set the thatch roof on fire, (and the relief when he immediately got control and put it out with a quick dash of rain).
When he was around two, Will’s mother, who he now knew as Mary, became pregnant, and Merlin realised that he was going to see his old best friend after thousands of years. He choked up when he and Hunith rushed round to help Mary with the birth, but luckily, his mother put it down to normal two year old behaviour. He was tense which Mary screamed with pain, and he took a deep breath.
Will, when he came out, was a little underwhelming. Merlin wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Perhaps he was looking for the 18 year old he remembered, or perhaps another two year old like him. Instead, he got a small wrinkly thing which wailed like the world was ending.
“Did I look like that?” he tried to ask his mother, but it came out more like “Me look?” which made Hunith hold him up closer to the thing which would be Will. Merlin shuddered.
Both he and Will grew up excruciatingly slowly, but over the years, they became the best of friends just as they once had in another life.
Merlin taught Will basic speech, although, since he was still teaching himself, this took quite a long time. However, by the time Merlin was five years old and Will was three, they both had a large vocabulary which thoroughly impressed their mothers.
Merlin’s magic was still a secret to all but he and his mother, but since he had a millennium of experience, he had much better control and there was no incident involving a tree when he was seven.
This meant Will never found out.
Therefore, Hunith would never find out that Will knew, and so, she would never send him to Gaius.
He would never meet Arthur.
Merlin was eleven when he figured this out, and it was during a particularly gruelling day in the fields. He had startled poor old john from the hut down the road near to death, and after apologising profusely, he ran home to his mother and broke down crying.
As she hugged him close and let him blow his nose on her skirt, Merlin thought distantly that he was a bit too old to be crying like this, but the thought of never seeing Arthur after all he’d done to get here was just too much.
He had to do something about it.
The next day, he and a nine year old Will ran through the forest happily. Merlin had caught a fish from the river upon Will’s insistence, and they planned to have a picnic in a clearing nearby.
Will, being a small boy, wasn’t looking where he was going as he ran, and a stray tree root soon caught him and sent him tumbling to the floor. Tears welled up in his eyes and Merlin saw blood stain his trousers. Wincing, he rushed over and assessed the damage. It wasn’t too bad – a deep graze but not one that wouldn’t heal – but it needed to be cleaned. Merlin would have preferred antiseptic wipes, but since those didn’t exist yet, he settled for a flash of gold in his eyes which cleaned the cut instantly. He had been counting on Will being too busy crying to notice, but unfortunately, his friend saw the gold.
“What was that?” he snivelled. “There was gold. In your eyes.”
“What?” Merlin asked. “Nah that was just the sun.”
Will shook his head. “There was! Your eyes went gold! And… my knee looks better. You healed it, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“Yes you did. You healed it. You used…” Will paused, his eyes growing wide. “You used magic, didn’t you.”
“Could you say it any louder?” Merlin growled. “We’re right on the Camelot border! There could be patrols!”
Will ignored him. “You have magic. Merlin, you have magic!”
“Yes I know, but shut up.”
“You have…”
“Will!”
Will shut up.
“Look, yes I have magic. Now come on, we have to get home. I only cleaned your knee. It’s not healed. We need to get you some of mother’s salve quickly before it gets infected.”
“In – what - ed?”
“Infect… ugh.” Merlin sighed, annoyed at the lack of medical knowledge in medieval times. “Just come on.”
They had every intention of going home, but Merlin had never been good with directions, and before too long, they were hopelessly lost.
“We’ve definitely been here before.” Will decided. “I’ve seen that tree. The one with the bendy trunk.”
“I know.” Merlin grumbled. “I’m trying here. You’re no help.”
“Well I’m mortally wounded.” Said the other boy with an affronted huff.
“Shut up, you clotpole.” Merlin winced at the use of his old nickname. He had used that for Arthur. In fact, he realised with a pang of regret, that was the first time he’d used it since Arthur’s death.
They continued to bicker and go round in circles for some time, never quite knowing where they were, and never quite knowing how to get out of the endless circle of trees and branches (which kept smacking Merlin in the face.)
That was until they stumbled upon a druid camp which was rather inconvenient.
Immediately, Will stopped his chattering and went silent as druids around them paused to look upon the disturbance.
Merlin groaned. This was not going to go well.
As if on cue, an old woman dropped to her knees, followed by a man Merlin presumed was her son. One by one, each druid kneeled and stared up at Merlin with awe and admiration.
“Emrys!” he heard again and again.
“Emrys has come!”
“its Emrys!”
Will glanced to him in confusion, evidently uncomfortable.
“Please stand up.” Merlin told the druids, trying to look like a figure of prophecy and not an eleven year old boy. “Please.”
“Emrys.” The old woman from earlier had somehow gotten close without him realising. “forgive us. We have been waiting for this day for a long time.”
“And yet,” her son put in, “We thought we would have to wait longer still.”
“Yeah.” Said Merlin. “About that.”
After a lot of explaining and a hushed conversation in one of the tents with the woman, who turned out to be the leader of this group of druids and was called Beatha, Merlin had successfully convinced them both to call him Merlin, and to stop spying on him, for that was what they had been doing. He didn’t know if it had happened in his first life too, but they had set up camp in the forest next to Ealdor when he was born to keep an eye on their saviour. Merlin really didn’t like that idea.
“I appreciate the sentiment, Beatha, but please. I don’t need protecting, and it’s not safe for you this close to Camelot.” He implored.
“My lord,”
“I don’t need protecting.” And that was final. She seemed to sense his irritation, or perhaps the magic he let flare up, and she dropped the subject.
“Very well, my lord. I suppose you and your friend must be leaving now.”
“We will be. He was hurt.”
“I know.” She said. “Our healers are already seeing to it. He should be fine now.”
Merlin’s eyebrows raised, and he smiled. “Thank you.” He said.
“It is no problem, my lord. I trust in the future you will bring, and we were happy to help.”
His smile turned melancholy. “I promise magic will be returned one day.” He vowed. “I swear it to you.”
“I know.” Beatha smiled. “I know you won’t make the same mistakes again.”
“How…?”
“I can see the years you have lived - they cling to you like a veil. Be careful, Emrys.” She , turned round with a sad smile, leaving Merlin to his thoughts.
After a few minutes, Will came bounding into the tent, his knee freshly wrapped in linen. Merlin winced at the lack of hygiene, but figured it was the best they were able to do. Will probably didn’t need a bandage anyway.
“Merlin!” he beamed. “They have magic too! They showed me some – they made fire in the air, and they made water dance! It was all pretty but then some got on me and I got wet. Can you do that?”
Merlin nodded and cleared his head of thoughts of his millennium of solitude. “Of course. Want to see?”
When they got back, both Hunith and Mary were furious. Hunith shouted for what felt like an hour before huffing and sending Merlin into the corner until dinner.
A few weeks later, Will came round in tears. In between sniffs, he told Merlin and Hunith that his father had been recruited by king Cenred and he had to go to war.
“What if I never see him again!” he cried.
Hunith rubbed his back soothingly. “I’m sure you will, Will. Your father is a brave man. He’ll come back safe and sound.”
Merlin grimaced behind his pretence of sympathy.
Will’s father did not come back, and Will discovered a newfound hatred for monarchies.
Merlin had changed many things throughout his second childhood, but it seemed that fate would not be swayed so easily.
He had thought that he and Will would have at least eight or nine more years of happiness together before Hunith sent him away to Camelot (if she sent him at all), but when he was twelve and not long after Mary had gotten news of her husband’s death, Merlin’s magic swirled out of control for the first time in years.
Just like last time, there was a tree and there was old man Simmons. Just like last time, the tree was felled, and just like last time, Simmons cried out “Magic! The boy has magic!”
Will already knew this time, but that didn’t change Hunith’s anger and fear.
This time, a twelve year old Merlin was sent to Camelot on the back of young Roberts grain cart. This time, Merlin came stumbling through the gates of Camelot, not to an execution, but to a celebration. This time, Arthur was still an ass.
Merlin got just a little emotional when Robert’s cart rattled over the cobbled stone in the market place. He breathed in deeply, inhaling the oh so familiar scent of fresh bread and linen and metalwork. The cart passed the blacksmiths, and oh gods, there was a young Gwen, still so unaffected by the hardships of courtly life. Next to her, a little boy hammered on a piece of metal – that must be Elyan before he left Camelot.
Merlin felt strangely like he was intruding on something private.
There were a few kids running around the water pump while their mothers chatted as they waited with buckets. Merlin was sure he recognised a few of the castle servants he used to know, and he held back a tear.
Robert gestured for him to get off so he could set up his wares to sell, and Merlin hopped off the cart and thanked the man, giving him the sliver piece his mother had provided.
He wandered off out of the market, heading almost instinctually for the tower where he knew Gaius lived. He had a letter from his mother hidden in his trouser pockets, so much like the first time.
He didn’t ask for directions this time, his feet taking him where he needed to go despite the centuries he had spent away.
Walking through the old wooden door and into Gaius’ chambers felt like coming home. it was musty and stunk of various unspeakable potions; the shelves were rickety, and Merlin felt sure the wood was rotting in places; herbs were scattered all over the table and the rabbit mask sat in its rightful place against the water jug.
He had missed this. He had missed this so much it was untrue.
He didn’t startle Gaius this time, although he was nearly startled himself at how young the physician looked. Grey was only just starting to creep into his hair, and he moved much more surely and confidently. Merlin was finding it really difficult not to cry now.
“Who are you?” Gaius asked, his voice so familiar and his eyebrow even more so.
“I’m Merlin.” He said. “Hunith’s son.”
What followed was almost an exact replica of the first time Merlin had had this conversation.
“Well.” Said Gaius. “I suppose I’d better put you to work until you can find some other job. Perhaps one of the market stalls would hire you. Anyway, for now, take this to sir Olwin.”
“Ok.” He took the potion Gaius offered him gingerly.
“Oh, and don’t let him take it all at once.”
“I won’t.” Merlin promised.
As he walked out of the tower and across the courtyard with the potion in hand, Merlin found himself drawn to a noise coming from across the yard. he squinted, shielding his eyes from the sun, and his heart dropped in his chest. He let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding and gasped, for there, right across from where he was standing, was Arthur pendragon.
The potion slipped out of his hand and shattered on the ground but Merlin payed it no mind.
Arthur.
Arthur was there.
Arthur was there in front of him.
Arthur. Arthur. Arthur. Arthur. Arthur.
Arthur was training by the looks of it, and he was waving a small sword about as if he owned the place. Merlin spotted a younger Leon in the corner, resting his head in his hands and… was that Morris? Or was it George?
Arthur couldn’t be a knight yet – he was too young – but he must be a squire maybe, or maybe he was just training for the sake of it. Merlin didn’t know, but he did think that Arthur’s sword was getting way too close to his servant’s face.
Once again, fate did not sway from its intended path.
“You’ve had your fun, my friend.” Said Merlin, and it was only after he said it that he realised he had said the same thing before.
“Do I know you?” said the prince.
“I’m Merlin.”
“So I don’t know you.”
“No.” not yet.
Arthur’s face twisted into a puzzled grimace. “Yet you call me friend?”
“That was my mistake.” Merlin ground out through his choked emotions.
“Yes.” Said Arthur. “I think so.”
Merlin grinned. “I’d never have a friend who is such an ass.”
“Or I one who could be so stupid.” Arthur countered.
“You’re a clotpole. Do you know that?”
“Excuse me? A what?”
“A clotpole.” Merlin said. “Shall I describe it in two words?”
“Go on…”
“Prince Arthur.”
“Merlin.” Arthur growled, and oh gods, that was so much like the Arthur Merlin knew. Gods. “So you do know who I am.”
“Unfortunately, yes. I do.” Merlin sighed. “you’re a prat.”
And, with that, fourteen year old Arthur Pendragon chased Merlin through the courtyard with a mace and as he, ran for his life, Merlin laughed like he’d never laughed before.