Chapter Text
Merlin was staring at the ceiling again.
It was grey and just like him it never changed. It may gain new cracks every so often, but Merlin supposed that was just like him too. He supposed if he was a ceiling, he would be full of cracks and flaking pieces of plaster. He should really get the cracks filled before they get worse, he should be doing a lot of things really, but he found himself with less and less energy to do anything these days. He could use magic to solve this problem, but he had only ever really used it for…
Well, he hadn’t used it in a long time. At least, not unless he’s changing his physical appearance of age.
And that is when his shrill alarm began to beep, informing the immortal man it was time for another monotonous day of work.
Slamming his fist down harshly onto the cursed device, he lies there for another minute. His bed wasn’t the most comfortable – springs sticking out at multiple points – but he still cannot bring himself to leave it easily. He should get up… But he ends up lying there for five more minutes anyway.
When he eventually does gets up, he throws on some dark jeans and a black moth bitten shirt, moves to the bathroom to brush his teeth, and stares at his dark and tired eyes in the mirror. He tries to do something with his messy brown hair that’s gotten longer than normal, and thinks he should really shave the stubbly beard he’s growing, but eventually he just shrugs and leaves the mirror. Merlin skips breakfast before grabbing his trench coat and stepping out into a world far too bright for his liking.
Off to the bar he goes.
He hasn’t begun to day drink, he’s not yet that desperate, but the bar is his place of work. It’s in the exact location in town where the tavern used to be and you can still notice some of the wooden detailing of the old building inside. The front, though, is almost entirely unrecognisable now with its painted walls and new sign with a new name. He supposed this information is true all over town, Camelot long forgotten only to be remembered in the little rundown museum, most believing it to be legend or myth now.
Merlin honestly doesn’t know why he continues to live here. He just… He supposes there’s nowhere else to go.
That’s a lie and you know it. There’s an entire world out there to see and you’ve chosen not to leave this village once in over a thousand years. He’s never coming back, you know.
Merlin ignores this voice in the back of his head. He just needs to get through this day, just this day. And then the next day. And the next. And a week. Then a year. And then the next however long he is going to be forced to stay alive.
How much longer can you keep this up?
“Martin! There you are. You’re three minutes late, boy. Get to work!”
Martin scoffs at the word ‘boy’ before coughing to cover it up. He may be centuries older than his boss, but this man still holds the power to scare all that life experience right out of him.
“Yup, I’ll get right on that.”
The day goes pretty much the same as every other day. Pouring drinks for the usual daytime drunkards, cleaning the bar and glasses, unloading new stock, watch as Arthur walks into the bar—
Wait…
Athur?
No… No, that’s impossible. It can’t be Arthur. Arthur’s dead. Arthur’s been dead for over a thousand years.
This can’t be real… And yet hope pierces Merlin’s heart faster than he can volt the bar top to run to him.
He ignores the shouts he gets from his boss, walking briskly up to the blonde man in the red shirt. His back is turned but Merlin is sure. He looks just like him. It has to be. It’s got to be.
“Arthur?” Merlin speaks, afraid to touch him in case he disappears into the air.
One beat, then two. Then around a thousand more of Merlin’s pounding heart as his breath quickens to the point of hyperventilation. The man begins to turn and then his breathing stops, sucked out of him.
And, finally, Merlin’s water-coloured eyes meet with… Grey ones.
Grey…
That can’t be right.
This isn’t Arthur.
In fact, now Merlin is up close and personal, this fake looks nothing like Arthur. Ignoring the almost colourless looking eyes, his nose and lips are wrong too, his jaw isn’t nearly as strong, his eyebrows are far too preened, and his hair has far too many darker streaks of blonde amongst it. And when he smiles at Merlin, his teeth appear far too straight and far too perfect.
Merlin’s going to vomit.
“Sorry, I… I thought you were someone else. I… I’m sorry.”
He turns away quickly after that, making strides to pick up his coat from behind the bar and performing an even faster exit. His boss is shouting swears at him, he can tell that much, but Merlin’s hearing is muffling increasingly, and he feels like all the air has been vacuumed from his lungs, taken from the imposter he idiotically mistook for Arthur. If he stayed in that depressing bar for one more second, he feared the life would be taken from him entirely.
But then again, would that be so bad?
No. No, no, no. Merlin cannot allow himself to think like this. He has to keep going. He has a destiny to fulfil, a duty to uphold. He is King Arthur’s most loyal servant, and Arthur is the Once and Future King. He shall return. He has to return.
Merlin needs Arthur to return.
That’s when his vision starts to spot, the world begins to spin, and by the time he’s taken one step into his rundown house, he’s already falling to the floor.
~
“Gwaine is dead.”
“What?”
“I… Gwaine is dead. I’m sorry, Merlin.”
Percival looks like he’s going to say more, then he looks like he’s going to cry, and finally he walks off briskly into the crisp summer night.
Merlin has just returned to Camelot, has just informed an inconsolable Gwen about Arthur, found Gaius shuffling without purpose around his quarters and given him the same news, and finally tracked down Percival and Leon at the tavern to inform them as well – though they already seemed to suspect.
Merlin has also just discovered that not only is the man he loved more than anyone gone, but one of his longest and dearest friends too. He wants to vomit.
“Sorry, Merlin. Percival, he… He’s taking Gwaine’s death the hardest. He needs some time.” Leon excuses, sitting back down at the table with a huff.
“Have you burned the body yet?” Merlin questions but his voice does not sound like his own, rather like he’s hearing someone else ask after his beloved friend.
“No, not yet. We’re doing it in the morning, at the Lake of Avalon,” Leon goes to take a sip of his almost still full tankard but then looks awfully queasy, putting it back down instead, “You’ll be there, won’t you?”
Merlin thinks about the lake, thinks about the other man he just put in a boat there and left to drift off never to hear his incessant nagging again. The sorcerer couldn’t even set the bloody thing ablaze because the mere notion felt too final, too conclusive, like if he did so Arthur may never return. And the thought of Arthur’s resurrection is really the only thing keeping him from giving up on his own life entirely.
“I don’t know.” Merlin hates that this is all the answer he can give.
“I understand. I…” Leon sighs, abandoning his drink entirely to stand up and place a firm hand on Merlin’s shoulder, “I’m sorry about Arthur.”
“He was your friend too—”
“But he was more than that to you, wasn’t he?”
“I don’t—” Merlin begins to shake his head but is, once again, cut off.
“You don’t have to explain yourself. You don’t have to tell me anything, Merlin. I just… I want you to know that I’ve known Arthur a very long time, since we were boys, and in all those years I’ve never seen him truly smile and laugh as much as he did with you. And you appeared never more at peace than by Arthur’s side. So, I’m just saying I… I understand. And I’m sorry.”
And as nice as that speech was, as much as it made Merlin want to break down and cry, he couldn’t really believe it. How could Leon possibly understand? Arthur was his friend, yes. They grew up together, of course. It appeared he observed the relationship that grew between Merlin and Arthur for years and drew some pretty accurate conclusions, undeniable. But Leon couldn’t possibly understand even a speck of what Merlin was currently experiencing.
Merlin and Arthur were woven together by destiny, by the cruel hands of fate. They were made for each other, born to meet and born to be as intertwined as two lives could possibly be. They were two sides of the same coin. Arthur was— is the Once and Future King and Merlin is his ever-loyal servant. Merlin would die for Arthur and Arthur for Merlin. Merlin only ever uses his magic for Arthur, to protect him and make sure he is always satisfied. Arthur means… Arthur is everything to Merlin and more. He struggles to put into adequate words all that Arthur is to him.
So how could Leon possibly understand when Merlin barely understands it himself?
Merlin remains on the fence about Gwaine’s funeral. Even as the cold morning comes after a very sleepless night for the grieving man, he remains unsure about his attendance. When Gaius comes to inform him that he’s preparing for the departure, when Leon comes to check up on him after last night, when Gwen comes to inform him of their leaving and briefly squeezes his hand, Merlin remains undecided.
He cannot return to that cursed lake. He said goodbye to Freya there, to Lancelot, to Elyan, and just last night to his purpose for being on this forsaken planet. He cannot say goodbye to yet another person he loves. He can’t do it. He can’t keep doing this!
And yet…
He has to, doesn’t he? Because this isn’t about Merlin. It isn’t even about Gaius, or Leon, or Percival, or Gwen. This is about Gwaine. Merlin’s dear friend Gwaine.
Gwaine was there for Merlin in times he didn’t even know he needed someone. He came hurtling into Merlin’s life a drunken mess and yet made him laugh more than he had in a very long time, lit up his life with his bombastic personality and became as true a friend as Lancelot or Arthur. Gwaine was always there for Merlin no matter their personal moods or the matter of Merlin’s mission. He was always there.
And now Gwaine was gone.
So, now, it was time for Merlin to be there for Gwaine.
Better late than never…
He burst forth from his quarters and ran as quickly as he could through the stone hallways, slamming open every door in his path as though they were what was holding him back before. He runs faster than he thinks he’s ever run and, luckily, makes it to the courtyard just in time for the party to begin leaving.
“Merlin!” Gaius calls in confused delight as he sees the dishevelled sorcerer make his appearance.
“Glad you decided to join us.” Leon smiles.
“Gwaine… Gwaine would be happy you’re coming.” Percival admits sadly.
“Come on, Merlin. You can ride with me. I could use a friend today.” Gwen speaks from her carriage, opening the door for Merlin to hop in.
He wouldn’t usually accept an offer like this but… Well, Merlin could use a friend today too. And when Gwen holds his hand throughout the entire ordeal, he knows he’s made the right decision.
As they approach the lake, as they lower Gwaine’s body into the boat, as they push off and watch it float away, as each and every one of them begin to cry, as Leon finally orders the archers to release their flaming arrows… Gwen continues to hold Merlin’s hand. And he continues to squeeze back just as tightly as she had in his room. Gwen was ever so kind, ever so beautiful, and Merlin knew he had found new purpose in that moment.
As Merlin watched the smoke rise from the boat, as they all watched right up until the end when it finally sunk, he began to form his new destiny. Merlin would watch over Gwen for the rest of her days, for as long as she’d let him, and he knew Arthur would be glad for it.
Though he wasn’t doing this for Arthur. Not really.
Merlin was doing this for Gwen… And for himself. He needed a friend today, and for the coming days, too.
~
Merlin comes to with a throbbing headache and tears beginning to dry on his cheeks. All these things considered that was the best sleep he’s had in centuries.
It’d been a long time since Merlin had dreamed of Gwaine and this fact made him feel guilty. He didn’t like to think of those times and so he did his best to keep his mind off them entirely, which meant that his dreams were often… Well, dreamless. Merlin didn’t really dream of anything anymore. Dreaming would give him too many fantasies, too much hope. But he also felt this was an insult on Gwaine’s memory, like his own was trying to purge the very thought of him, and that made Merlin hate himself that little bit more.
It just hurt far too much. And this is why he decided it best not to dwell on such memories at all.
His door is still open, anyone could have marched right in and robbed him blind, but it doesn’t appear as though they have. This is most likely because Merlin doesn’t have anything of value worth stealing anyway and if a thief walked in, they’d take one look at his home – if you can even call it that – and walk right out again.
The woozy man stands slowly and decides to close the door as night has fallen and moths could get in, never mind the cold that has crept into every corner of his dank abode.
He’s used to this by now. The cold has been creeping into his bones ever since Arthur left him.
Arthur. The man at the bar.
Merlin had never felt so stupid in his entire life – and he’d been alive an awfully long time, led many lives. Merlin had grown old, then become young, become the son and grandson and great-grandson of his former selves, and started the cycle that way every time. A different yet similar life every single time, but one that always took place in this village because Merlin could never bring himself to leave, because he was a naïve fool who still believed Arthur would return, because he was an idiot who thought that man in the bar could possibly be…
Merlin wanted to knock himself out again.
He did the next best thing. He went to bed.
His night was restless and filled with the maddening racing of his thoughts.
~
Martin grovelled for his boss the next day, apologising profusely and begging to keep his job. His boss swore only one more chance and Merlin grasped at it gratefully. Jobs, especially in a small village, were hard to come by these days.
The day went by the same as every other blasted day.
He watched a movie that came out some years ago that felt a lot like his life recently, where a man was cursed to relive one day until he got it right. The same day, over and over and over… But at least he was keeping his mind off his embarrassment yesterday.
Just keep your mind on the work. Pour the drinks, clean the glasses, smile at the patrons, smile at Arthur… Oh for fuck’s sake!
“Hi there. I believe we met yesterday… Only you ran out before I could catch your name.” Arthur— not Arthur smiles.
His voice at least sounds slightly similar to that which used to order him around all those centuries ago.
“Oh, yeah… Uh… Sorry about that. I thought you were someone else.” Merlin replies awkwardly, keeping his eyes focused desperately on the glass he was polishing.
“Right, um… Arthur, was it? He a good friend of yours?”
“He was.”
“Not anymore?”
Merlin finally raises his eyes to give this man an exasperated sort of look. He doesn’t talk about his life at the best of times, never mind talk about something as personal as this. This oaf is asking far too many questions for a man that is decidedly not Arthur.
“Right, apologies, I haven’t even asked your name yet. I’m Artie! Artie Pendrell.”
Okay, this was just getting ridiculous now. Artie Pendrell? You have got to be—
“And you are?”
Merlin sighs, places the glass back where it belongs, and turns back around to tell the idiot to piss off.
“Martin Emerson.”
What is wrong with you?
“Martin,” So-called-Artie grins, “So have you worked here long?”
“Five years, give or take.”
“Oh wow. Lived here long then?”
“My entire life.”
“Amazing… And you’ve never thought of living anywhere else?”
“Are you writing a novel on my life or investigating me for a murder you suspect I’ve committed?” Merlin asks in annoyance, feeling more tired than ever.
“I’m just curious, that’s all.”
“Why? Why the hell are you curious? You don’t even know me!”
“That’s the point! I’m trying to get to know you.”
“Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Just…”
Merlin lets out a sort of groaning sound that sounds a little more on the pirate side. He looks to the clock and realises it’s a minute past when he was supposed to finish up, so the sorcerer takes his leave as quickly as he possibly can. Artie, though, follows him right out the door.
You think the idiot would take a hint by now. But Merlin supposes he is, in fact, an idiot who needs large neon signs in order to see something.
“Why are you now following me?” Merlin shoves his hands in his trench coat pockets with vigour, trying to make the sign more colourful for the fool to see.
“We hadn’t finished our conversation. You haven’t answered my last question.”
“I wonder why that could be!” Merlin announces sarcastically, adding a flashing light to his growing sign.
“What is your problem with me?”
“You’re bothering me! That’s what my problem is!” Best to scrap the sign altogether for this type and outright scream it in his face.
Merlin begins to feel a speckle of rain.
“Why? Why do I bother you so much? You don’t even know me!”
“And I don’t want to know you!”
The rain is beginning to get heavy, to spatter.
“Well, I’ve just moved to this bloody town and I was only trying to make a friend!”
“You can do that with literally anyone else! Why are you insisting on it being me?”
Merlin hears some thunder as the rain comes on heavier and heavier.
“Because! Because… I…” The oaf seems confused himself.
Honestly, what a total… I mean, what an absolute…
“You know what you are, my friend? You are an absolute dollophead!”
“Well that’s rich coming from you, Merlin!”
The thunder roars loudly and yet the world has never felt quieter.
“What… What did you call me?”
“What d’you mean? I called you your name!”
“Yes, and what is my name?”
“For God’s… Martin! It is Martin, isn’t it? Or are you an amnesiac as well as a rude arse?”
“A rude arse? Well that’s just—”
And that’s when the lightning strikes.
~
It was a blossoming Spring when Gwen died.
She outlived all of them. Percival was the first to go after Gwaine, fighting recklessly in a war declared by another kingdom and… It was bound to happen eventually. Then it was Gaius, perishing from time as all but Merlin would. Then, finally, it was Leon who contracted a serious illness which took over his brain and which Merlin could not cure no matter how much he tried. At least in those final years Leon gained the happiness Merlin always thought he deserved, marrying Gwen and fathering a beautiful daughter.
Merlin loved little Ellie with all his heart, so named after Gwen’s brother. And Gwen loved her even more… It was a shame when old age crept in and tore the two apart.
Merlin and Gwen were all each other had left of their former lives as the years progressed and everyone eventually faded. Gwen learned of his magic after the battle with Morgana and she became his constant confidant in their last years, even getting Leon in on it to push forward rights for those with magic.
Merlin was devastated when her time finally came but Gwen, ever kind and beautiful, just took his hand in hers as she did so often and said:
“You will live a long time yet, Merlin. I’m sad I will not be around to be there for you… But you must continue on,” She had to take a large, struggling breath and Merlin knew it was about to happen but she insisted on continuing, “I love you, Merlin. My dearest friend… Thank you for all you’ve done for Camelot… For me. Promise you won’t forget me.”
When the tears started to come, Gwen began to fade. Just like everyone else.
Merlin only had Ellie for a few more years after that before the same affliction that got her father took her from Merlin too.
He never forgot Gwen’s words; he swore to keep the promise she asked of him. He lived so many lives, continued on for so many years, just playing these words in his head. He believed, he trusted, he hoped, he prayed, he begged…
But that’s the dangerous thing about powers such as optimism. They often cloud your reality and warp them into something entirely impossible. It makes you delusional.
When Merlin took on his fourth identity, he stopped thinking about Gwen’s words. He stopped thinking of Camelot entirely. He broke his promise.
But if Merlin thought he had given up entirely on the notion of Arthur’s return, he truly had become entirely delusional.