Chapter Text
And the decades disappear like sinking ships
But we persevere, God gives us hope
But we still fear what we don't know
London, 2020
The Christmas lights were still up in Oxford Street; the glorified billboards had been unpleasant enough in December, but now that it was January they looked out of place as well as vaguely distasteful. Merlin barely had to use his own feet to propel himself forward, as the morning rush was strengthened by those indulging in the New Year sales. It was suffocating, but unfortunately it was the quickest route to his office.
To make matters worse, there was a violent arc in the current caused by people trying to avoid a group of Arcane rights activists. They were handing out flyers in front of a makeshift cardboard booth, which was painted with the typical slogans, and tacked with photos of suffering Arcanes.
“...Trying to get Parliament to address the discrimination against Arcanes in this country. Arcanophobia is one of the leading causes of homelessness in Britain, and Arcanes belonging to racial and sexual minorities encounter far worse treatment. If you'd just take this leaflet, it can give you all sorts of information about...”
Merlin didn't glance up as he passed the booth, but he allowed one of the women to slip a leaflet into his hand before folding it into his pocket. It was merely out of politeness, for there could be nothing in it that was news to him. Being a charity officer for Arcane Protection Society UK (a name which he thought made them sound like a species of bird), he knew most of the Arcane activists in London from fundraisers, protests and street set-ups like this one. Normally, he would stop and chat or even join in, but the winter wind was biting at his face and although he wasn't due at work for a while, he was feeling restless. His black, wool peacoat and crimson scarf were flecked with snow, and in a moment of carelessness he had forgotten to bring his gloves with him. His fingers were red and stinging, and he rubbed them together in his pockets to try and generate warmth.
Halting at the traffic lights, he looked downward and saw the pavement was decked red and purple with discarded leaflets, crushed into the filthy slush. They were printed by a group called Arcane Youth, which consisted of King's College students and whose members had volunteered for several APS events. The woman's voice floated to him over the heads of the pedestrians.
“...It is still legal to dismiss an employee for not disclosing their Arcane status, and very few religious establishments will even hire registered Arcanes...”
He felt a mixture of guilt and anger at their wasted effort, and considered going back to the booth after all.
Merlin...
He froze mid-turn, eyes wide and breath catching in his throat. The voice had been loud in his ears yet somehow felt remarkably distant, and in the silence that followed he wondered if he had imagined it. He waited for a few seconds, a statue in a heaving sea of people, and just as his heart sank it came again.
Merlin.
It was stronger that time, more insistent, and seemed to vibrate through him. As the centuries dragged on, Merlin had started to worry that he might not recognize his king's voice when he heard it, but it was unmistakable.
Arthur.
“Wake up, mate.” Someone slammed into him as they tried to hurry across the road, but Merlin didn't even consider responding. He pushed his way through the surge of people, moving toward the mouth of the Underground station as fast as the crowd would allow. He didn't have time to consider work or anything else at that moment; his heart was thudding in his chest, and abruptly he felt more alive than he had in decades. There was a spark of hope, the strength of which he had long stopped believing was possible. Somehow, he knew that this was it.
The waiting was over.
*
Merlin drummed his fingers impatiently against the side of the carriage, earning him a dirty look from the businessman seated opposite.
Several times, he had considered using his magic to speed up the train, but desperate as he was, he didn't want to inflict carnage on his innocent fellow passengers. Furthermore, if anyone on the train noticed him using magic, or it was caught on CCTV footage, he would most likely be arrested. Martin Emerson – which, according to his current legal documents, was his name – was a registered Arcane, which was the politically correct term for one born with magic. He hated being on a list in any capacity, but being a vocal member of APS made it unavoidable. When so many of his fellow activists had come out of the potions cupboard, as it were, he felt it would be cowardice to remain hidden.
He had waited hundreds of years to practice magic without the threat of execution, but now that the opportunity was here he felt somewhat let down. Although it was not illegal in the United Kingdom, it was heavily regulated (and discouraged) and prejudice was widespread. Merlin had occasionally come home to graffiti on the front door of his ground floor flat, and – on one occasion - a broken window. The Government was constantly threatening to outlaw sorcery once more, and while magic had been officially declared legal in 2010 after nearly a decade of protests and awareness projects, no concrete laws had been constructed concerning the nature and restrictions of its practice.
Anti-Arcane groups and politicians engaged in fear-mongering by warning of Arcane terrorist organizations, and biased documentaries on Arcane behaviour was not uncommon. Law enforcement were often happy to blame Arcanes for unsolved crimes, and there was a great deal of arcanophobia (or arcaneism, if you liked) amongst officers. However, police brutality against Arcanes was rare, for fear of retaliation. The truth was that the country relied on the Arcanes employed in the penal system and police force to control Arcane criminals. It was the primary obstacle faced when trying to ban magic, and it was something of an embarrassment.
Secrets were being kept on both sides. Strictly speaking, registration was mandatory and any unregistered Arcanes practising magic faced a fine at least and a small jail sentence at most (magic that broke other laws naturally incurred a stronger penalty). But as far as the law was concerned, there was no humane way to be certain whether or not an individual was an Arcane. Still, according to legend, a potion with such a function might have been refined in the late 18th century, the recipe known to a select few. There was something of an unspoken rule against sharing this information with non-Arcanes, lest it inspire a literal witch-hunt, and even the most law-abiding Arcanes upheld it.
Merlin curled his fingers into his jeans in an attempt to keep them still. He was reminded of the same journey he had made in the early days of the Second World War, and the crippling disappointment it resulted in. Even when he returned home from the fighting - battle-scarred and haunted by twice as many ghosts as before – he hadn't been able to bring himself to visit Avalon for another sixty-five years. He had been voluntarily homeless at the time, living under the guise of an old man and walking cross-country, occasionally squatting in empty, leaking buildings under clouded skies. For a while he had relished the ability to stop pretending he was a young man, and lost himself in the aching bones and sunken skin that still couldn't betray his true age. It had been something of an impulse to pass the burial site, and he had told himself at the time that he expected nothing, that it was merely to pay respects. But when he had passed the monument, he felt the ache of grief again, like an old war injury.
He tugged the red iPod nano from his bag, surface nicked and scratched from ill care, and began to painstakingly untangle the earphones. His fingers shook slightly as he pushed the buds into his ears, and he leant back, head tilting toward the window as the song started up. He barely listened to it, eyes fixed on the rolling landscape as it flickered past, with Arthur's last words buzzing in his brain.
I swear, Merlin thought, I'd cook your meals and run your baths. I'd do whatever ridiculous errand you sent me on. I'd never leave your side again. Just please be there.
*
An hour's drive from Avalon, Merlin gave in and stole a blue Ford Fiesta from a Tesco car park. The sunlight was starting to drain out of the sky, and along the way he phoned the APS office and babbled something about a family emergency and losing track of the time. He wasn't sure they believed him, but he didn't typically let them down and sounded vaguely hysterical, so Kavindra seemed to let it slide. She told him to get some rest and come in the day after tomorrow. The truth was, he wouldn't really have cared had they fired him on the spot.
“Hell, if Arthur's not there, I'll probably drive straight into traffic anyway,” he mumbled to the empty car. He followed it up with an awkward chuckle, but he honestly didn't know how he would react if it was another dead end. He had finally managed to adjust to civilian life – there were people he called friends, and he rented a flat he had bothered to furnish, he had a job and he paid bills. He had stopped relying on disguises, and wore his own face, as it would have been when he was a young man. Outwardly, he was a complete, respectable person, or respectable as one considered an Arcane to be. But hearing Arthur's voice had yanked him out his routine without thought, and if it turned out to be some sort of cruel joke, he feared what that would make of him. As it was, he was shocked he hadn't ended up as one of those old people who mumbled into rubbish bins in public parks.
*
At 4:27pm, Merlin pulled over just down the road from the site. He had been travelling for hours, and he needed the air to clear his head and lungs. He was also stalling slightly, stomach churning from anxiety and the threat of getting his hope extinguished once more. The more he bided his time, the longer he could cling to the possibility of seeing Arthur's face.
He slammed the car door, glancing up and down the road to check for cars before beginning a slow walk. In the distance he could already see the remains on the hill, an ugly stump compared to the imposing tower it had once been. As he drew closer, he felt himself immersed in a powerful energy. His body tingled, and a pleasant, electric feeling coursed through him. There had always been a faint current around Avalon, but now the air practically sizzled with it.
As he reached the gap in the bushes, he saw a heavy mist weaving its way across the field that had replaced the lake. Suddenly overwhelmed, and frightened by something he couldn't really specify, Merlin hesitated on the edge, hands flexing at his side. He sucked in a breath, and shook his arms, loosening his muscles.
Come on, Merlin. This is the moment you've been waiting for, and you're hovering there like an idiot?
He took a few steps forward onto the grass, raised a hand, and gently exhaled. “Ádæle,” he whispered. The mist began to disperse, and he gingerly moved a little further. The ground was hard but slippery from the frost, and he skidded. Righting himself, he squinted into the milky veil, praying for any signs of life. Panic threatened to bubble up inside him, and he tried to concentrate on continuing the spell. Suddenly, he made out a dark shape directly opposite him, just a few metres away. His heart thudded in his chest and his lips trembled as he said, “A-Arthur?”
At last the mist lifted completely, and he made a sound that could have been a gasp or a cry.
“Merlin?”
The former king of Camelot looked utterly bewildered, eyes darting here and there. Although he seemed exactly the same age as the day he died, the wound from Mordred's sword was missing, and his armour and chain-mail was as clean as if Merlin had just polished it. His hair wasn't filled with dirt or sweat and his face was washed, yet he was obviously tired and a little pale. However, when he recognized his manservant, a smile lit up his features that made Merlin so happy he almost felt sick with it. He let out a small laugh, tears streaming down his cheeks. It was a few seconds before he found his voice.
“Hello Sire,” he managed, struggling not to break into full-blown sobs. “You took your time.”
Arthur opened his mouth, clearly about to respond with something sarcastic, when he staggered slightly. Merlin rushed forward just in time for Arthur to fall into his arms. He blinked slowly for a moment, head nodding, then looked up at Merlin. “I'm so tired,” he murmured, as if confused by that revelation, and rested his head against Merlin's shoulder.
“Haven't you slept long enough?” Merlin teased. The last time he had held Arthur like this, the king had been dying. Now, despite his obvious exhaustion, his eyes sparkled with life. Merlin extracted one of his hands and touched Arthur's cheek. His skin was warm, and his chest rose and fell with healthy breaths. Merlin honestly couldn't believe it was happening, that he was actually looking into those familiar blue eyes again, and for a few moments he just gazed down into them.
“Merlin,” Arthur began, “much as I'd love to hang around my grave all day, do you think maybe you could find me somewhere to rest?” His tone was chiding, but his smile was cheeky, and Merlin felt his chest swell.
“Making demands already.” He tutted, and pulled one of Arthur's arms over his shoulder as he manoeuvred them to the roadside. “I should never have come to get you.”
“I thought I was being uncharacteristically...” Arthur trailed off, and Merlin abruptly found himself supporting his entire weight. His legs nearly buckled, and he halted to check on Arthur, only to see that he had passed out. Merlin hoped it was anything to worry about, after all, resurrection probably was quite exhausting. It would be too much hassle to take Arthur back to London tonight, so the first order of business was getting him to a hotel. There Arthur could recuperate, and Merlin could feed him as well as treat him, were it necessary. Ensuring they were alone on the road, he summoned the car using magic, and it rolled to a gradual stop in front of them. He set Arthur down in the back seat, hand resting on his shoulder and eyes lingering on him for a moment before going to sit behind the wheel.
Merlin succeeded in finding a vacancy at a family-run guest house a few miles out, and after managing to rouse Arthur for a few seconds, Merlin convinced the owner – Mr. Ashfield, a balding man in a forest green, cable-knit jumper - that he was simply tipsy from a themed party and was not in fact under the influence of anything more illicit.
Ashfield looked pointedly at the clock, which showed it was just past five, and raised an eyebrow. “Celebrating on Japanese time, were you?” he asked, earning an unflattering, awkward laugh from Merlin. Ashfield shook his head but said nothing more - he gave the impression of someone who had had a long day and wasn't in the frame of mind to pick battles.
The building had probably been constructed in about 1910, and parts of it groaned with age. The carpets were nicely vacuumed and shampooed, but they were unsightly floral affairs, and the steps squeaked on the wooden staircase, which left a square gap that you could peer into the foyer through. The faded wallpaper – also floral, naturally - was decked with dull, painted seascapes and photographs of relatives which were probably too distant for the current owners to recall. Their room had a double bed with – luckily - an en suite bathroom, and overlooked the winter-ravaged garden. Unfortunately, it was on the top floor and there was no lift, so getting Arthur up the stairs had been a bit of a chore. He kept tottering and had threatened to plunge over the balustrade once or twice.
After the usual prattle about check-out time, where the tea was kept, and how to use the small, plasma TV (“If you just switch on the... well, you know how to work a telly, I'm sure.”) Mr. Ashfield had backed out of the door, sparing them one last suspicious glance. It was a decent room for the purpose it served; the walls were painted in pale peach, and there were a few small watercolours of the local area that – upon later inspection – Merlin found were made by members of the Ashfield family tree. Aside from the television and the bed (which had a floral duvet – Merlin was beginning to wonder if bees were the average clientèle) the only furniture was the bedside table, a small, pine wardrobe with a safe at the bottom, a green wicker chair and a round, glass coffee table with a couple of coasters.
Merlin had no change of clothes for Arthur, so he stripped him to his underclothes and tucked him in bed. After rooting out the tea things, Merlin made himself a cup and collapsed into the wicker chair, limbs splayed like a ragdoll. He didn't touch his drink, just let the cup warm his fingers as he stared at Arthur in silent disbelief. Were it not for the scrutiny from Ashfield, he might seriously have wondered if he was imagining the man sleeping in the bed. Hell, maybe it was all an elaborate hallucination and he had finally gone off the deep end.
He set down his cup and went over to Arthur, eyes roaming over his face for a moment, before reaching down and brushing the blonde fringe away from his eyes. He felt Arthur's breath on his fingers as he pulled his hand back, and he smiled.
If it was a hallucination, Merlin didn't care, so long as Arthur continued to be part of it.
*
Several hours later, Merlin was woken by something he never thought he would hear again – Arthur's pestering.
The room was dark, and he realised he had fallen asleep on the carpet beside Arthur's head. He glanced up, disorientated, to find Arthur peering down at him in a curious way. The top of his head was washed orange from the street-light that was shining through the open curtains, and he seemed to be suppressing a smile with some effort.
“What are you doing down there?”
Merlin rubbed his eyes, getting to his feet in a somewhat unsteady fashion. “No ante-rooms for servants here,” he mumbled, “and your stupid big body took up all the space.”
“Where is here any-- dgah!” Arthur made a hilarious noise of dismay as Merlin flicked the lamp on. “What was that?!”
“I just switched the light on,” Merlin replied, and turned round to find Arthur pressed back against the headboard, eyes wide as saucers. Merlin had to stifle a laugh – he looked like he had just been chucked off a horse.
“Did... did you use magic?” Arthur asked, raising a hand to cover his face, “it's so bright. Where is it coming from?”
“What? No, I just...” Merlin trailed off, mouth opening in an 'O' of comprehension. In all the fuss, he had completely forgotten he would be exposing Arthur to centuries of alarming technological developments. He perched on the edge of the bed, and Arthur reluctantly lowered his hand. Merlin adopted a sombre expression, his tone gentle to the point of condescending. “It's electricity.”
Arthur looked at him as if he had just suggested introducing an element of dance to the morning hunt. “Elett... what?” Merlin began to smirk and then attempted to hide it by scratching the corner of his mouth.
“It's a sort of-” he waved his arms in a circular manner, trying to put it as simply as possible, “-power, that moves and... and powers things? I'm not explaining this very well, am I?” Arthur shook his head, looking vaguely disgusted. “It's a force, a non-magical force, that has been harnessed to make things work efficiently, and you can cook and light things and you don't need fire. And you can use it to move things without manpower or horses.”
Arthur snorted and began massaging his temples. “I may have completely underestimated your insane sense of humour, Merlin. Just- You seriously expect me to believe that I'm barely gone a year, and suddenly there's some special god-like force that moves things but has nothing to do with sorcery? And what is with this room? It looks like Gwaine arranged it after a night at the tavern, I don't even understand what's happening in here--”
“Wait,” Merlin said, holding out a hand to silence him. “How long did you say you had been gone?”
“About...” Arthur made a vague face and shrugged, “yes, a year? Couple of months over maybe, why? What's wrong?” The colour had drained from Merlin's face, and he felt sick. Suddenly, there didn't seem to be enough air. Arthur placed a hand on his arm and he flinched. “Merlin.” His tone was serious now, disturbed by whatever he saw in Merlin's features, but Merlin couldn't seem to speak, and in the silence Arthur seemed to catch on. “Merlin... Merlin, how long have I been gone?”
*
“You've got to be joking.”
“I'm not.”
“But that's... I mean, I can't have been gone that long. It didn't feel that long. It's absurd.”
They were side by side on the bed, Merlin on top of the duvet and Arthur still beneath it, both of them sat upright enough that their heads almost cleared the headboard. Arthur stared off in the direction of the far wall, eyes somewhat glazed, and Merlin looked down at his lap, nervously picking a hangnail. He laughed in a hollow way.
“Trust me, Arthur, it... It was definitely that long.”
There were a few seconds of heavy silence, and then Arthur spoke again, his voice weak.
“So, it's just you and me. And everyone else is...” He trailed off, swallowing hard. Merlin glanced up, and the mixture of fear and sadness on Arthur's face made him feel like he had been punched in the stomach.
“Yes,” Merlin whispered, as if saying it quietly enough meant that it wouldn't hurt either of them.
Arthur opened his mouth, lips trembling as he visibly forced himself to ask: “Guinevere?” Reluctantly, Merlin shook his head. Arthur wasn't looking right at him, but he reacted all the same. He exhaled sharply, as if he had been holding his breath. Perhaps he had. Merlin turned away, nausea washing over him. He squeezed his eyes shut, and for a moment it was quiet, save for Arthur's heavy breathing.
“Merlin.” Arthur's voice was unsteady, and it took all of Merlin's willpower to look at him. He wished he hadn't. Not since Uther's death had Arthur looked this vulnerable, and Merlin felt horribly responsible for it. “If this is a joke, or-” Arthur stopped, and took a deep breath, shaking his head, “-or anything. Please, tell me now.” His eyes were pleading, the tiniest shred of hope left in them. He was asking Merlin to take it all back, Merlin could see it, and he hated the universe, hated himself, for the fact that he couldn't. If he could make it so, he would be in Camelot, hiding his magic, doing pointless chores and saving Arthur's life without taking the credit, because all that would be so much better than this.
Why me? Why do I have to be the one to hurt him this way?
He took a deep breath, holding back the tears that wanted to come. They could wait, but delivering this blow could not. He had to say it, had to be brave for Arthur as always, and he could fall apart later. The longer he hesitated, the worse it would be. That was what he told himself.
“I wouldn't joke about something like this,” he replied. Arthur studied his face for a moment, searching for any hint of a lie, probably praying for one. Finding nothing, his face fell and he gasped as if he had been struck unexpectedly. The gasp turned into a sob, before he struggled to collect himself somewhat.
“Alone,” he choked out, “I want to be alone.” Desperate, Merlin reached for his shoulder.
“Arthur-” he began, but his hand was knocked away, and he edged back slightly.
“You heard what I said,” Arthur snapped, before the anger abruptly faded into grief again. Merlin watched him for a few seconds, wanting so badly to help him but not knowing how, before he slid carefully off of the bed and headed for the door. Leaving Arthur alone went against every instinct he had – he could run off or electrocute himself, or goodness knows what, but Merlin didn't really have a choice. Arthur dealt with bad news poorly at the best of times, but this was a completely different level of pain. Neither words nor magic could heal it, and for Merlin, being there and knowing he could do absolutely nothing about it, was more than he could stand. He had tried, yet Arthur didn't want him right now.
“I'll be back later,” he muttered, and when Arthur said nothing, he hurried out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Merlin had forgotten to grab his coat on the way out, and the cold air was sharp when he stepped onto the street, but he barely acknowledged it. In a daze, he got in the stolen Ford and began to drive, not knowing where he was going but motivated by the desire to escape. Very soon he realized that it was impossible, that what troubled him could not be left behind. Arthur would still be in that hotel room, broken, their loved ones would still be dead, and he would still have waited more than a thousand years only to feel more isolated.
He stopped the car in a side road, and for a moment, he simply sat as the anger and misery began to spread through him. When his hands began to shake, he gripped the wheel, clenching them before pulling them back and slamming them hard against the centre.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. It isn't fair.
He did it several times with increasing force, until finally he gave up and collapsed forward, body heaving as he sobbed.