Chapter Text
WATTPAD LINK TO 'ONCE AND FUTURE MIKAELSON'
Some might have called immortality a blessing, but for Merlin, it was a curse.
In the first century, he had tried to find meaning in his survival.
He wandered through ruined kingdoms, exploring the remnants of fortresses that had once echoed with the laughter of friends. He walked along the banks of rivers that had witnessed countless triumphs and tragedies, each ripple a reminder of joy now lost.
On cold hills, he stood with the wind whipping through his hair, a kingless servant with no one to serve, grappling with the weight of his immortality.
Time stretched before him like an endless path winding into obscurity.
Days turned to months, months to years, and he began to feel like a ghost haunting the world of the living. He watched civilizations rise and fall, each one forgetting him, a relic from a forgotten age.
Merlin wondered if he had been abandoned by even the gods themselves, cast aside like a broken sword, left to ponder the echoes of a life once vibrant.
The sun still rose and set, the stars still twinkled in the night sky, yet each moment felt like a cruel reminder of his endless existence. He was a keeper of memories, but they weighed heavily upon him like a burden he could no longer bear alone.
As centuries passed, the ache of loss transformed into a dull throb. Hope flickered like a candle in a breeze, and he couldn't help but wonder: would he ever feel truly alive again? Would he ever have the chance to laugh, to love, to fight for something greater than himself? Or was he doomed to wander these empty lands as a living testament to all that had been lost?
It was a curse to watch everyone he loved wither and fade while he remained unchanged. A curse to stand at countless graves, unmoving as the world shifted and centuries passed. A curse to feel steel pierce his own heart over and over again, only to awaken moments later, breath steady, skin unmarked, with death refusing to claim him.
Arthur's death had shattered him beyond repair. The night Arthur fell was etched into Merlin's memory with a clarity that never faded.
He remembered the weight of Arthur's body in his arms, the way the king's breath rattled and slowed, the whispered words between them; the words Merlin would replay endlessly, desperate to find new meaning, a different ending.
The world seemed to stop as Arthur's eyes closed for the last time, and the silence that followed was absolute. Even magic, that living force within him, seemed to mourn.
Arthur was his king, his best friend, his other half, his love. If only he had understood that sooner. If only he had said the words when they still mattered.
Guinevere never remarried. Her loyalty to Arthur was unwavering, and her refusal meant Camelot was left without an heir. The kingdom they had fought so hard to build slowly crumbled into memory and dust.
His mother was gone. Gaius was gone. The Knights of the Round Table, brave, foolish, loyal men, were all gone. Gwen was gone too.
And Merlin remained, alone, unchanging, and cursed.
No blade could end him. No poison could still his heart. No fall was high enough, no fire hot enough. He had tried. Gods, how he had tried.
There was only one path left: dark magic.
A forbidden ritual older than Camelot, older than Albion itself. A spell that would not grant death, but rebirth. He would be born anew as a child, his memories intact. He could reset his destiny. He would return to the past. He would save Arthur. He would not fail him again.
Under a moonless sky, Merlin gathered the ingredients: salt harvested from sacred waters, dried mandrake root, crushed rowan berries, and ash from a dragon's flame preserved for centuries. With steady hands, he drew a large star upon the earth using the salt, each line precise and deliberate. He placed five candles at the star's points, their wicks waiting.
He stepped inside the symbol and placed a dagger at his feet.
"Fȳr bærnendness," he whispered.
His eyes flared gold as ancient power surged through him. The candles ignited at once with a soft hiss, their flames bending toward him as though drawn by devotion.
He began to chant, his voice resonating. "Sceal beon edcenned, awendan fyrn, gemunan forlorene."
The air thickened, and the ground trembled. Merlin picked up the dagger, its blade humming as magic flooded through it. "Edcyning."
The dagger glowed a brilliant red, heat searing his palm. Without hesitation and without fear, he drove it into his own chest.
Pain exploded through him. Then... nothing. Darkness swallowed him whole.
He had expected to awaken in Ealdor, perhaps, or in Camelot's lower town. He had expected to open his eyes as a child once more, memories intact, ready to rewrite fate.
He had expected wrong.
He was reborn not in Albion, but centuries later.
Born as the only son of Niklaus Mikaelson, the infamous hybrid known as the Big Bad Wolf, and Hayley Marshall, the fierce Crescent Alpha.
A prince among monsters.
But the ritual had twisted cruelly. Because he remembered nothing. No Camelot. No Arthur. No magic that once burned like sunlight in his veins.
He grew up surrounded by the formidable Mikaelson family, indulged and protected, raised in luxury and violence alike. He was powerful, unnaturally so. Magic coiled beneath his skin in ways even the witches could not fully explain. His temper burned hot, his loyalty ran deep, and his presence commanded rooms without effort.
They called him their heir, the miracle child, and the future of the family. He was the once and future Mikaelson. And somewhere, buried deep within his soul, an ancient destiny waited to awaken.