Chapter Text
[441 CE, Britta]
At first, Merlin ignores it. It isn’t his problem after all. He doesn’t owe anyone anything, especially after the hand that fate has dealt him. But as time passes and he continues watching, the invasions start to turn violent.
When they had first arrived at the shores of Albion, the Saxons stayed in vacant land, making peaceful settlements and keeping to themselves, much like the Britons had done. But it doesn’t take long for the two to start to clash. The Saxons want more land, and the kings, who had tolerated their presence at first, fought back. It’s savage. There’s violence, destruction, and massacres in the communities who battle back. In the ones which don’t, the people are spared—the women, anyhow—and then married into the Saxon’s tribe.
Merlin waits patiently at the lake. Surely Arthur will return now to defend his people, to defend the kingdoms that have come after Camelot. This is his legacy; his land.
Merlin is bitterly disappointed when it becomes apparent that Arthur is not coming back, and instead he does what needs to be done, and takes to defending the local people as best he can. But over time he and the Britons become hopelessly outnumbered and Merlin has to retreat to his bubble of safety.
The next time he meets the locals, they’ve started to speak in a strange new language—the tongue of the Saxons. And within a few generations, the Brittonic language is lost.
[1066 CE, Hastings, England]
Yet another battle and more bloodshed is what draws Merlin out of the safety of his cottage by the lake next. He knew that something bad was going to happen ever since he’d heard whisperings about the passing of the Anglo-Saxon king, King Edward of Wessex, in the village.
When the news is confirmed, Merlin decides to travel to Lunden—or what had used to be called Lunden; he isn’t quite sure what name it’s going by these days—to find out what will happen now that Edward is dead. He always takes an interest when the high king’s crown changes in the kingdom. He’ll need to be prepared and understand what’s happened so that, in turn, Arthur will know when he returns.
The port town is a busy place with lots of comings and goings, so he knows he’ll be able to find out who’s been named king. It turns out, Edward has no heir. Though married, it’s rumoured he lived a life of celibacy. Merlin smiles at that, amused. Is that what they’re calling it these days?
Merlin has seen this situation before and listens carefully to the tales of in-fighting between the most powerful earls of land from the men he meets in the taverns. The new king is to be Harold, from the House of Godwin; the Queen-consort’s brother. Merlin was surprised when he heard Lord Godwin’s line had carried on so long, and that his house was still so carefully entwined with the monarchy. Godwin must have sired another heir after Elena. Good for him. Merlin always welcomes echoes of Camelot; it serves as a reminder that, whilst Arthur is gone, the kingdom and legacy they built endures.
However, all is not well. Harold manages to be crowned King, but instead of peace there is unrest in the land and Harold faces constant challenges to his legitimacy, both from abroad and from within Albion. The most significant of these has Harold seeing off an invasion from the King—Harald, ironically—of Norway, then heading swiftly south with his army, for a rumoured invasion from across the channel.
Upon hearing of his movements southwards, Merlin decides to head that way too.
***
The battlefield is chaos; a mess of horses and men, with fire and arrows raining down on them from above. William, the Duke of Normandy from Gaule is the latest challenger to the throne, and he is a force to be reckoned with. He had bedded down along the coast whilst Harold was defending in the north, and his army had brought horses and archers, whereas Harold had none. It was obvious to Merlin from his time in Lunden that there were plenty of Lords and Earls that would see the king gone so that they could claim Albion as their own.
Merlin does what he can during the battle, though as always, he’s reluctant to do too much that could sway the annals of history. He’s been to the crystal cave many times since Arthur’s passing, trying to see what will come to pass. But there are too many timelines, too many things that he could damage if he interferes. He knows better than to try to change what must come to pass. If he helps to keep Harold on the throne, who knows how that will change the future, or if it could thwart destiny further.
Instead, Merlin employs his skills as a physician, using medicine and magic to heal and ease the suffering of the men around him.
It’s a long, gruelling battle, one which, without intervention, Harold was always destined to lose. And lose he did. Merlin feels it when the tide begins to turn against them, late into the afternoon, and as the light begins to fade it becomes clear to all that the battle is lost. Rumours spread through the battlefield that Harold is dead, and the survivors—Merlin amongst them—begin to flee. No good comes from being found by an opposing army.
He waits patiently in Lunden again, biding his time, hoping that Arthur will just pop up somewhere ready to reclaim his crown and bring peace to this troubled land.
The Duke of Normandy may have won his first battle, but he meets fierce opposition everywhere he goes as he advances to Lunden to be crowned king. The people of Albion won’t give in without a fight. However, he finally reaches the capital and Merlin retreats once more to his home, clear that Arthur’s time is still to come.
[1917 CE, Ypres, Belgium]
Merlin hurries along the trench, glancing skywards. They’ve been lucky. So far today, he hasn’t had to utilise his magic to divert any mortars or enemy fire from his unit. He presses himself against the damp earth that forms the trench as a soldier in front of him comes to a halt, and tries to catch his breath. He’s so disappointed. He hadn’t wanted to leave his waterside vigil, but he knew that if he’d find Arthur anywhere it would be here.
Eighteen months now he’s been here in Flanders, and it’s like hell on earth. Merlin has never known anything like it. Such misery and pointless destruction. The stench of death constantly in his nostrils. He’d thought that he was used to death—he’s seen enough of it in his lifetime. But what he’s seen here has been unthinkable, like it’s an entirely different plane of existence.
He thought that he’d find Arthur here. Surely, surely Albion’s greatest need is now. He’s been here before, thinking that if not now, then when? But he’s so certain of it this time. If there was ever a time that Albion needed a leader, a warrior-king, it was now! So where the hell is he?
Merlin has joined up with countless units in this war, attempting to get promoted through the ranks to get access to officers, but with everywhere he’s been in this godforsaken war, there’s been no sign of him. There’s a clap of thunder overhead, and the skies open up, soaking him to the bone, further adding to his misery. At least he can help here. He can’t change the war. He can’t influence it, win it for his homeland. But he can help to protect the men who so bravely stand by his side. So many of them are so, so young, with mothers, sisters, and sweethearts back home. He keeps his brothers safe and fights along with them. His eyes are ever turning towards a flash of blond hair, thinking that it’s him. But it never is.
He glances up into the sky, the rain streaming down his face and soaking through his trenchcoat. When will it end, he wonders, not sure if he’s talking about the war, or his never-ending vigil.
[1944 CE, Normandy, France]
It’s not long after the first war—the Great War, people had called it—before Europe is at war again. And this time is even more bloody than the first one. Merlin had been at home in his cottage when the news broke over the wireless, an announcement from Prime Minister Chamberlain. Britain was at war.
It’s different this time. The world has changed in the years since the Great War. There have been many technological advancements, so that the war has moved beyond the trenches to the skies and the seas with submarines and airplanes, and with that come the bombs.
Merlin hadn’t signed up at first. He went to London again—this seems to be the name that has stuck—preferring to stay as an old man whilst he discovers what’s happening. He listens to the careful whispers in darkened pubs and posh gentlemen’s clubs. People are fearful of another long campaign, but determined to help in the war effort.
Merlin stays in London, helping families who lose everything when the bombs come, all the while keeping his eyes and ears open for any mentions of a man who could be Arthur. When the conscription age increases again to fifty-one, Merlin ages himself down and signs up again, pretending to be his own grandson. First, he tries his hand at an office job, hoping to find Arthur amongst the officers. Perhaps that had been his mistake last time, thinking that he’d find him in the trenches—Arthur had been a king, after all. It would be fitting for him to return as a posh git helping to plan the Allies’ victory. But he han’t been able to find him. Eventually, Merlin moved on to active service, waiting to be deployed, figuring even if he doesn’t find Arthur at least he can help there for the country he called home.
He’s fighting on the front line in Italy, using magic to help his unit avoid landmines and navigate their way through the hellscape, when Merlin hears rumours of special operation. It’s top secret, so he hasn’t been able to determine the exact details—not without using a little bit of judicious magic to ease the way. An operation is being planned, a massive invasion of the Allied forces on the coast of France to take back key cities and finally bring an end to this war.
It all sounds rather insane to Merlin, but he’s no stranger to crazy, unwinnable plans, even back in Camelot. If he’s to find Arthur anywhere in this war, this sounds exactly like the place to be. He feels bad slipping away from his troop, wiping their memories so that to them, he never existed. He leaves them with a strong protection spell on their tank and prays that will be enough to keep them safe.
Then, within months, he finds himself crammed onto a small boat on the English channel, heading towards the coast of Normandy, a bundle of nerves. He understands the plan, he gets how much rests on this and he knows how much they all want it to work. But the waiting has been killing him, and he’s no stranger to waiting. He lets his magic swell within him, preparing himself for whatever they might face as he casts a spell to make enemy eyes slide off of them, hoping to give them all time to get to work once they make land.
The boat falls silent as they drift closer to the shore; eerily, unnaturally silent as the waves lap against the boat. When they reach the shallows and the boat runs aground at the edge of the beach, they spring into action. Merlin grabs his gun and jumps over the edge, gasping at the bitter cold water that comes up to his waist. It’s now or never. For Arthur, he thinks. For Camelot. For Britain and for Europe.