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The legends often spoke of King Arthur and His Merry Band of Knights, of King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table.
Wondrous tales of noble deeds and impossible victories.
King Arthur and his Knights often ran into battle, unsure if they would live to see next morning light, to hear the cock crow as the sun rose from it’s slumber.
For the love of Camelot, they cried as swords clashed and blood coloured the green grass of the battlefield crimson. Not many shades off from the Great King's very own cloak.
King Arthur and His Merry Men were known across Albion, known for their incredible acts and loyalty to their kingdom.
The Knights, loyal as they were, often followed their King into the jaws of death without hesitation. For Camelot! The King would bellow before charging sword first, and the Knights, eager for Camelot's victory against whatever the enemy, would follow in suit.
Loyal to a fault, they were. Willing to give their lives for the man they held as dear as a brother.
We ride at dawn, King Arthur said.
And the Knights did ride. King Arthur at their side, pride gleaming off his armour like the sunlight glinting off his Knights'.
There was another tale, though, one less whispered in the winds of time.
The tale of the Warlock who Waited.
Oh, Great and Old Merlin, the loyal lad who followed our King to the ends of the earth and further.
It was a tale as old as time itself, but lost to the boldness and honour of our Noble Knights, who claimed their deeds as theirs while Wise Merlin sat in the backlight, needing no recognition so long as his King lived on bold and brave and breathing.
And loyal as he was, when the Great King Arthur fell by the hands of Mordred, his Warlock raged and raged and raged and Morgana Fell upon the lands at his Pain-Blinded hands.
And then, he waited...
And waited...
And waited...
For one thousand and five hundred years, the Great and Heartbroken Merlin waited for his King to Rise once again.
It was in the evening that Merlin sat upon his couch, curled beneath a feathery duvet that wore a crimson cover with a heavy leather-bound journal in his hands. The pages were worn and aged, a tea stained tan, with tears and rips at the edges from years and centuries of abuse, and fading ink spotted with decade old tears.
Outside, a storm raged. Wind whipped at the windows, while rain pelted them like icy bullets. Thunder cracked and screamed over head, and the skies were lit by lightning. Lightning that flooded the dim living room Merlin sat in with blinding light, for a flash of a second before letting it settle back into darkness.
The television played old re-runs of Are You Being Served? quietly, if only for the sound of another’s voice filling the otherwise desolate house Merlin lived in, as his tired eyes scanned the old pages of his journal. It tiled and skipped and stuttered as the storm struck power lines and television stations without mercy.
Merlin, a weary and doleful smile on his lips, turned the page. Another clap of thunder sounded from above, and a sigh spilled from his lips in time with it as his eyes fell upon the blank page. He’d come to the end of his journal, reached the final page. Yet, he found not the will to continue writing it, unable to pick up where he left off those years ago.
Unable to take himself back to that age, that stage in his life, that place of mourning and grief.
Albeit, an outsider may look at him and ask, is he not in that stage now still?
And their question would be right to ask, Merlin knew. Everyone knew. Lightning flashed and illuminated the dark room for a moment. The bright light had Merlin squinting his eyes as he forced himself to sit up, leaning over and setting his journal on the dusty coffee table.
He needed to clean.
Yet, he’d been pre-occupied. Distracting himself with living his unending life. He had papers to grade and students to email, faculty to call and tests to write. Yet, he sat on his couch, curled in his feathery, red cover donned duvet, staring aimlessly out the window next to his tiling television, absently craving a mug of coffee to warm him.
As thunder continued to rumble and crack overhead, Merlin swung his legs off the side of the couch. He pushed duvet off his body and stood, sending a harsh chill through his body as his bare feet touched the hardwood of the flooring. Another flash of light filled the room, and Merlin rolled his shoulders back before stretching his arms over his head.
With sluggish steps, bare feet dragging slightly, Merlin led himself to the kitchen.
It was much too large for only one person, but as was the entire house. With it’s long dining room table, many rooms, large beds, baths that could fit four in both restrooms, and showers that could hold two… It was much too large for only one person.
Perhaps that was what pushed Merlin to buy it, back when it’d just been built—back when living was at affordable rates. Perhaps that was why he bought it.
Oh, but he longed to fill the rooms, and the yearning was worsened by the hollow emptiness of each room—the hollow emptiness of the space beside him in his king-sized bed.
Yet, perhaps it was his punishment. To repent his crimes, his mistakes, he suffered a lonely, eternal life, in a house as empty as it was big.
A terrible fate, indeed, to live a luxurious life and hate every moment of it.
Merlin knew he would sound ridiculous to anyone who heard him lament such things. That, though, was what the mind was for. To cry and weep about the smallest and most ridiculous things, outside the judgement of listening ears.
The kitchen windows rattled with the wind as Merlin fumbled around the room after flicking the lights on. He plugged in the coffee bean grinder as his eyes darted around the countertop, searching for his beans. Finally, with a cry of triumph, he spotted the whole bean coffee sitting in it’s crystal container at the back of the counter under the plate cupboard.
He grabbed it, his quick snatching of the jar contrasting greatly to his initial slow steps into the kitchen. As the rain came down harder, promising no end to the storm in sight, Merlin tugged off the lid of the crystal jar and raised it to his face. He took a deep breath, inhaling the rich, warm, slightly spicy scent of the Italian roast beans.
Eyes fluttering shut for a mere moment, Merlin breathed out a soft sigh. Then, he placed the jar back down, the crystal clinking as it touched the marble countertop.
Merlin grabbed the measuring spoon from beside the grinder and scooped two carefully, precisely, measured scoops of coffee beans into it. Then, after a moment’s contemplation, added one more half scoop for good measure.
Satisfied with his choice, Merlin set the spoon aside and closed the jar before putting it back in its place. Then, he took a breath, a subtle anticipation for the warm drink he was about to make settling in as he closed the grinder and clicked it on.
It roared to life, drowning out the sound of the raging storm with it’s deafening whirring, before it stuttered. Merlin’s heart dropped. Then, all at once, the grinder screeched to a halt and the lights flickered off with a pop as the storm finally knocked out the electricity.
“Damn storm,” Merlin muttered, vexed and angry, before throwing his head back to glare at the sky through his ceiling as he cried to the gods, “Haven’t you cursed me enough?!”
As if laughing, the next clap of thunder rumbled long and loud and filled the time-weary warlock with spite. Against his own will, his eyes began to burn as hot tears filled his dry eyes. Merlin blinked rapidly, swearing as he slammed a fist against his countertop.
He stood for a few moments, breathing in the stale air of his dark kitchen deeply to calm himself. To compose himself. Then, he backed from the counter as he raked his hands through his hair.
Then, a bang echoed through the silent house, and the wind and rain grew louder, and Merlin swore. He knew, from the sound alone, the door had been thrown open by the wind. Cursing the gods in his mind relentlessly, he stormed out of the kitchen and towards the foyer to close the door.
The air rushing in the house chilled him to the bone, despite his heavy sweats and long-sleeved crewneck red shirt. Or, perhaps it was the sight that greeted him two steps into the foyer that did it.
Merlin sucked in a harsh breath, his heart leaping in his chest, and froze mid-step as his eyes fell upon the doorway. His hands tightened into fists at his sides and the arctic-like air faded into the background, registering no longer, despite it biting at his exposed skin mercilessly.
“Gods forgive every harsh word I’ve ever said,” he breathed out, words heavy and voice thick as stinging, watery tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.
As thunder crashed and lightning cracked in the skies, as if the gods were answering his plea of forgiveness, Merlin launched himself at the figure in his doorway. He wound his arms tightly around the soaking wet man’s neck, and pressed their bodies close as he pressed his face against his cheek and buried his nose in the dripping blonde hair.
Startled arms wrapped around his waist tightly as a sob locked itself in Merlin’s throat.
Merlin inhaled deeply, breathing in the strong scent of freshwater and sand and, strangely enough, apples. His hands gripped unnervingly tight at the old, worn and ripped, cloak he’d not seen in centuries. He felt cold hands grip the back of his own shirt just as tight.
Then the angels sang, their choir the sound of a voice he never imagined he’d hear again. Sweet, honey-coated words of a language long dead filled his ears, and he sobbed. His relentless grip loosened and his head fell to his King’s shoulder as his arms slid from around his neck and to his chest.
“I’m here, I’m here, oh, I’m really here,” Arthur—Arthur—repeated the words like a prayer, voice simultaneously awestruck and reassuring, while Merlin cried. Tears of relief, tears of joy, tears of sorrow for his King for the centuries he’d missed.
Merlin’s shoulders shook with the trees in the storm outside, his clothes growing damper and damper the longer he clung to Arthur, but he found he didn’t care.
He cared about nothing, with his King in his arms. Only him. Oh, gods above, it was only ever him.
And he was back.
The wind seemed to begin to calm, as the rain lightened—Merlin heard the way it pattered on the porch out the door and against the windows. Heard the way it quietened as he pulled back to look at Arthur’s face, to really take him in.
His hands trailed up from Arthur’s chest to the sides of his neck as they held eye contact, Arthur’s eyes as wide as Merlin’s felt. He took a deep breath, the air wet and scents mixing and mingling and lingering. His fingers fumbled and felt at Arthur’s skin until they found his pulse point.
Then, he held his breath, doing the thing even the gods would swear he did best.
He waited…
And waited…
And waited…
One beat, then two.
He exhaled. Pressed their foreheads together gently. Let himself smile, truly, genuinely, finally.
“I missed you so much,” Merlin whispered, his voice hoarse from crying. “Oh, oh gods, I missed you.”
“You don’t have to miss me anymore,” Arthur told him, his voice hoarse as well, but from lack of use. The old language was music to Merlin’s ears nonetheless, and a choked, but joyous, wet laugh tore from his throat.
He cupped Arthur’s face in his hands and dragged him into a deep, burning kiss. Arthur’s lips were rough and chapped, but he knew his were as well, and he couldn’t care less so long as it was Arthur he was kissing. When they parted, it was breathless and glossy eyed, and Merlin couldn’t help but laugh again before dropping his hands back to his chest and tucking his face back into the space between Arthur’s neck and shoulder.
“Damn right I don’t.”