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juxtaposeWrote this as a nice little fix-it for Tumblr. Merlin's been waiting a long while. Turns out he finds what he's looking for--or maybe it's the other way around?--when he's leaving Starbucks in the middle of winter.
Disclaimer: I own nothing!
It's the twenty-first century.
Merlin's just heading out of the cafe and walking down the busy street with a hot chocolate in his right hand (because how many flavors of coffee can you have these days, really; it's just easier to order the simplest thing on the Starbucks menu, and Merlin remembers when all there ever was to drink was tea if you wanted something fancy, and once he drank some that was made of his own bathwater but that's another story), and honestly, for all his super-strong magical senses and the alertness he wishes would accompany his young, spry appearance, he's not paying much attention.
The world around him is the same as it has been for thousands of years. Merlin may change his face and the style of his clothes, but otherwise--it remains the same.
A weighty, empty grayness forever clouds his vision, fills up all his senses until he feels as though he is drowning. It has done, since he watched the love of his life, his purpose, his great big Destiny, float away on Avalon waters.
It's become more of a buzz in the background of his daily life, now, but watching the bright blue glow fade from Arthur's eyes is something that haunts his dreams even now.
Merlin and Loneliness are old friends.
So Merlin is not paying attention. He's got a lot on his mind all the time--centuries' worth of memories and reflections, and all the while he pushes past Londoners on their way to work or school. Awaiting their own destinies, whatever they might be.
Merlin's still waiting on his . . .
"Ow! Watch where you're going! Ah, dammit, it's all over my--"
And suddenly Merlin, the renowned Emrys, great and legendary sorcerer, finds himself plopped down on the sidewalk, his hot chocolate cup cast off to the side of the road, its contents splattered all over the light blue dress shirt of the extremely perturbed man peering over him.
Merlin doesn't know how it happened. He really doesn't. Maybe clumsiness is something you never grow out of, even after millenniums. Even now he's always fumbling and, apparently, walking right into people. A certain someone would've called that sheer idiocy. Merlin himself just considers it part of his charm.
"Oi! What're you just staring for? I was on my way to an important meeting--my father's going to . . . "
That voice. It hits Merlin like a crashing wave, thunderous in his ears and coursing through his veins.
The man's still shouting at him, but at the moment, Merlin can do nothing but watch and listen in awe.
That voice. That voice. And, looking--really looking up at the man he'd bumped into, with golden-blonde hair and crooked teeth and an intense, piercing blue gaze, Merlin thinks, those eyes. Merlin sputters a little, attempting to stand but his legs suddenly feel as old as they are, rickety and rubbery.
This is it. This is him. This is everything.
"Are you deaf? Blind? Or just completely stupid?"
Slowly, Merlin finds the strength in him to stand, leans forward a little and places his hands on the man's shoulders. "I'm sorry," he says very seriously, before bursting into an uncontrollable grin. He feels it reach the corners of his eyes, a sensation he hasn't felt in decades. It almost hurts--to smile. To really smile. His muscles aren't so used to it anymore.
The man rolls his eyes in response, shoves Merlin off him, runs a hand through his hair, but there's an air of curiosity in the way he furrows his brow and stares at Merlin for a long moment. Finally, he clears his throat and says, "Step aside, you complete nutter, before I--"
"All right, all right." Merlin raises his hands defensively. "You've had your fun yelling at me, my friend. I said I was sorry."
The man blinks a few times incredulously. "Do I know you?"
Yes. "No."
"Then sod off." The man begins to walk away, but Merlin finishes, because he knows he has to for this to be right, for everything to fall into place: "I'm Merlin. And you're an arrogant prat, but some things never change, my lord." And Merlin lowers his head slightly into a bow, able to peer up just enough to watch the man abruptly halt in his tracks.
Merlin can't help but think that even now, in the morning grayness of the clouds, his King simply glows. Then again, he's always been crowned in gold. A shining beacon of hope. "What . . . what did you call me just now?" The arrogance he'd displayed mere moments prior has been replaced with the tremor of a man who's got memories on the tip of his brain that are coming over him like waves.
"Hello, Arthur." Merlin's crying, now, ignoring the flabbergasted stares of onlookers. Thousands of years, he's waited. Only to find what he's been searching for all this time, right outside an old Starbucks. "It is good to see you."
The man--Arthur Pendragon, the Once and Future King, turns round completely, frozen in place for a fraction of a moment. He shakes his head a little before nodding slowly, confidently, as if everything in the twenty-odd years of his life has led up to this moment.
(Because it really has.)
In one fluid motion, Arthur strides toward Merlin, the widest grin on his face that Merlin thinks he's ever seen.
"Merlin," Arthur says, voice heavy and thick and beautifully familiar. He lightly clasps a hand behind the base of Merlin's neck, the fingers of his other hand splayed across Merlin's back. He leans in, gently, and their foreheads touch. They stay this way for a long while, as twenty-twelve happens around them but they don't seem to notice, because right now, everything is red and gold and promises come alive.
Arthur takes Merlin's hand, leading him down the busy street. "You owe me a new shirt, idiot." It's the first thing either of them have said for quite some time.
Merlin squeezes Arthur's fingers. "As you wish, my King. Only if you buy me another hot cocoa. Do you realize how much these places charge nowadays?"
"Oh, for God's sake, I'm not buying you a--"
"I could turn you into a toad. Right now, on this very sidewalk."
"You wouldn't."
"Watch me."
It is the twenty-first century. And for the first time since the days of old that can only be read about in dusty storybooks, Merlin can stop looking. For the great Emrys' destiny has found him.
Or read it here on AO3.
PART II: Save Me, I'm Lost
In which Merlin has found his Arthur again--but while his King's spirit lay sleeping, things have changed. Not just in the surrounding world, but in Merlin, who's had to watch it all go by.
Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Merlin.
Give him time, Merlin. Be patient. You know how to be patient.
The clock mounted on the doorway in Merlin’s flat ticks deafeningly. Merlin sits across from Arthur at the kitchen table, the silence of almost-asked questions crammed between them.
For thousands of years, Merlin treaded a familiar worn path to what was once known as Avalon Lake, yearning to use his cracked and aching and tired voice to speak Arthur again.
And now, in a strange twist of irony that is certainly not lost on him, Merlin has no idea what to say.
And so it was that Merlin Emrys and Arthur Pendragon were reunited at last by means of spilt cocoa and a stained azure blouse. On a London street in the middle of winter, on what seemed to Merlin like any other day at its start, he found his King once more. Merlin, twining his hands through Arthur’s hair and peering into those very familiar and timeless blue eyes, had felt it was almost too good to be true. The expression on Arthur’s face--genuine shock combined with immense relief and unadulterated affection--seemed to reciprocate Merlin’s own feelings, and together they’d run off to escape the surrounding world and delve back into the one they’d built side by side so long ago.
But as it’s turned out, the moments that have followed thus far have been inexplicably, unexpectedly awkward. He watches, carefully, as Arthur sits back in the creaky wooden chair, seemingly trying to sort out the memories flooding back to him.
And Merlin sits back, too, choosing to give him some space. Finding out that you were the King of Camelot in a past life can’t very well be easy, can it? The confusion, the blurring of past with present, is enough to drive anyone mad.
Arthur sits quietly, though, thinking and processing. He lifts a hand to his chin in that serious, contemplative sort of way and Merlin thinks, oh, God, he hasn’t changed at all. He’s been gone for millenia, and he’s still the same Arthur onto which Merlin’s every move and thought and word had hindered so long ago.
Merlin wants to tell him that. He wants to fling his arms around Arthur again; he wants things to be as they were outside Starbucks earlier, full of excitement and passion and new life, but this, he thinks, is the aftermath. There’s always an aftermath.
So he stares down at his hands, matches his breathing with the seconds loudly passing by.
Finally, it’s Arthur who speaks: “Was it like this for you, too? All the remembering?”
Oh. Oh, he doesn’t know, does he? Merlin gulps down the lump in his throat. How foolish he’d been to think all of this would be easy to explain, easy for Arthur to understand, that they could just resume the life they’d begun together in Camelot without the catch of a breath.
Arthur may have remained the same, despite having died and been reborn and placed in a new century, a new world.
But Merlin had never died. And he’s changed so very much.
Before he can find the right words to answer, Arthur, his initially shaky voice sounding a little more even than before, “What about the others? M-my father . . . I just spoke to him on the phone not twenty minutes ago, to call in sick and explain my absence. . . he runs a publishing house, for God’s sake. He’s alive, and he’s--” Merlin sees Arthur’s thoughts cut his words short. “What about the others? Guinevere, and my men . . . and Morgana, she’s--she’s my--where are they?”
Ah; that’s a question Merlin can answer. “Well . . . they come and go, you see,” he replies. He speaks slowly, tentatively--not to undermine Arthur, but to introduce him to all this gradually. He’d dreamed of and analyzed and prepared for the moment when Arthur would return to him, and he always knew it would have to be this way. “You were always meant to come back, Arthur, when you were needed. The others--others, who were part of the world we were destined to create, whether they helped or hindered its inception--they’ll come back, across time, to fulfill their own destinies.” He smiles fondly, wisps of a recollection crossing his mind. “I saw Sir Elyan on the train once. He kept staring at me across the way, like he knew me. Because he did. I never saw him again.”
“But . . .” Arthur frowns. “Don’t they remember? Like I did?”
“Not always; not if it isn’t meant to be. Maybe someday they’ll all come back. All of our friends, all at once, if fate should have it. I can see through to their souls, and know who they used to be just by looking at them--but that often differs from who they are now, or who they could be in another life, ages from now. The essence of their former selves is always there, though--it leaves a mark. Does this . . . does this make sense?” Arthur nods slowly, prompting Merlin to finish: “You and I . . . we’re different, Arthur. We’ve a mission that crosses the boundaries of time. Our story is never over. It’s just changed to be told in new ways.”
“I see.” Arthur furrows his brow; Merlin can practically see the conflicting trains of thought swimming in his head. A long silence stretches out between them again, and Merlin worries he‘s chased Arthur away with all this. But no sooner has the panic begun to set in does Arthur let out a small huff and say, teasingly, “Sounds like you’ve been practicing that little speech.”
Merlin grins. “I’ve had a lot of time on my hands,” he replies.
“I just . . .” Arthur sighs, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, lifting a hand to rub his forehead wearily. Merlin folds his arms, waits patiently. “I’ve been . . . asleep, gone, whatever--for ages, but it doesn’t feel that way. It’s as though the real me has been bubbling at the edges just waiting to be awake again--but it still feels like I’ve always been here, and nothing’s changed.” He sits up, meeting Merlin’s gaze intently. “Is that what it felt like for you?”
Merlin abruptly breaks the eye contact, looking beyond Arthur’s face at his reflection in the microwave oven. “It felt like forever,” he says simply. He tries to be brave; he tries to ignore the way his own voice cracks at the six ugly syllables. But Arthur sees.
In a blur of swift movements and the sound of a scratching chair on hardwood floor, Arthur is kneeling in front of Merlin, taking his hands in Arthur’s own. “There are a lot of questions to answer," he says softly, “And there’s quite a bit to figure out. But for right now, all I know is--we don’t have to wait any longer,” It’s so open and honest and so unlike Arthur--and yet, and yet, Merlin knows it’s more like him than anything he’s said in the last few hours. Because under all the jokes and half-grins Arthur is the most genuine person Merlin has known in his many lifetimes.
To keep the tears he knows are coming from spilling down his face, Merlin stands quickly, laughing lightly. “No, we don’t. Destiny’s brought us back to each other, and we don’t know why just yet--but we have time, for now. We’ve got so much ahead of us, you and I.”
“Yes.” Arthur rises to meet Merlin’s eyes, leaning to place a peck of a kiss on Merlin’s forehead, a surprisingly intimate gesture. “You should start with cleaning my shirt.” He grins wildly, and Merlin rolls his eyes, making his way out of the kitchen and into the living room, feigning irritation.
And then, just like that--just like Merlin had wished and imagined--it’s as if he and Arthur had never been apart.
“Erm, for the record, I’m definitely not your servant anymore--” He’s cut off by Arthur’s booming, bemused voice as he follows behind:
“Hey, you’re the one who said it; our roles in this great big world never change. This means you clean my shirts--”
“--You do realize that when I said that, I meant that you’ll remain a giant turniphead for now and for always, right?”
“I ought to throw you in the stocks for that.”
“--Too bad that went out of style a few centuries ago--”
“--God, this flat is an utter mess. Just like your rooms when you lived with Gaius. Don’t you have spells to tidy things up, O Great Sorcerer?"
“That thing where I said I’d turn you into a toad still applies--hey! Don’t touch the pile of receipts, I’m going to go through those; I swear--"
“How do you find anything in here?” Arthur spins around once, gesturing emphatically to the various stacks of books and clothes and gadgets and items Merlin himself can’t even identify at this point, and falls back onto the couch, laughing. Merlin stands above him with his arms crossed in mock annoyance, grinning and shaking his head. I’ve missed him so much. So, so, so much--
“Merlin, what are these?” Arthur reaches toward the coffee table next to the sofa, and in an instant, Merlin feels the blood drain from his face. With a quizzical expression, Arthur sits up, leans over and picks up a handful of hospital identification bracelets.
“Oh, those--those are just--you can leave them; they’re from a while back--”
Arthur frowns a little, shifting the weight of the half dozen bracelets from hand to hand. “Were you ill? This one dates back to only three months ago. What were you in hospital for?”
Oh, God. Merlin shakes his head a little, and in spite of himself, clasps his hands behind his back. “It’s nothing, really. You know. Broken bones, and things. Fractures. You know how clumsy I am. And not even a sorcerer can evade the flu, right? I should’ve thrown those away; but you’re the one who said it--it’s a mess round here, I do have to hone in on my organization incantations--”
“Merlin, you’re reminding me now of what a terrible liar you are. Most of the time, anyway. You look like you’ll faint any moment. For God’s sake, come here, idiot; sit down.” The joking tone in his voice has subsided, having been replaced with the resolute firmness and determination only Merlin’s King could ever possess. Merlin, as ever, obeys.
“So.” Arthur leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees and folding his hands; Merlin remembers seeing his King in just the same stance at his round table many times over, and many ages ago. “What happened? What were you admitted for all these times?”
Merlin chews his lip, stares down at his lap. “Well, I . . .” He sighs, decidedly, realizing he can’t put this off any longer. “Arthur, when I realized it was you out there this morning--when I realized you’d come back--I wasn’t sure how much you would ultimately remember about your past, or understand about what happened after you entered Avalon.” He shudders, painful recollections grating at his senses. He continues, shakily, “The last time I saw you . . . you told me to always be me. I‘m not sure I‘m the same person anymore, Arthur.”
Arthur lets out a small chuckle, shakes his head. “No, you’re--you’re exactly how I remember. You’re exactly what I last saw when I closed my eyes that night. We both came back and we’re--”
“No, Arthur,” Merlin interjects quickly, forcing the words out before he loses the confidence to say them, “You came back.”
“I . . . Merlin, I don’t understand--”
“Your destiny is to come back, my lord. To always come back." Merlin smiles bitterly. “And mine . . . mine means I’ve never left.”
Arthur opens his mouth to say something, then promptly shuts it again. He rubs his eyes wearily and says, “You mean to say you’ve . . . you’ve been waiting? All this time?”
“I’m immortal, Arthur. I never died,” replies Merlin, and to say it out loud, finally, after centuries, makes it all the more concrete. “I moved with the waves of time, rose and fell with them. Crashed with them. All the time guarding Avalon and preparing for your return. It’s been a long road and I . . .” There is much he feels rising to the surface of his lips, many words he wants to express. But all he can manage is to finish simply with this: “I’ve missed you. Very much.”
Arthur, stricken with the realization of the years heavily pressed between now and time he last saw Merlin's face so long ago, leans back on the couch and gazes up at the ceiling with large eyes. “What have you been doing all this time?”
”A loaded question,” Merlin mutters, half-grinning, “For one, I’ve tried out every profession in the book--and for the last century or so, teaching has worked out nicely for me. I’m an art teacher at a primary school right now. See, it’s what I do: I blend into the very dust of the earth, change myself, change my appearance, begin again. And in between, I’ve . . . I’ve perfected my magic." In spite of himself, Merlin turns fully on the couch to face Arthur, sitting in a cross-legged position and gesturing animatedly. “I’ve figured out new ways, better ways, to guard your resting place. Even now, I have to keep it all in check--the magic, I mean. It’s almost beyond me, sometimes, Arthur. I see every minor detail of the soil, of the skies, with perfect clarity." He stares down at his hands, clenching his fists. “I can delve into the deepest thoughts of men and women and children who pass me by everyday--"
“Merlin--"
“--I can hear the humming of every human heartbeat the length of this street, and my own pumps so loudly in my ears sometimes that it hurts.” He chuckles, closing his eyes. “It’s . . . it’s so much. Too much, sometimes.”
Arthur nods slowly, and then, before Merlin can change the subject: “But . . . what does this have to do with . . .” And then Arthur pauses suddenly, lifting his head and sifting through the little handful of bracelets again. “These---these date back over two decades. 1989, 1997, 2004--”
Merlin can’t recall when he started crying, and he doesn’t notice until the droplets begin to make miniscule pools in the palms of his hands as they fall from his cheeks. “I told you,” he whispers hoarsely, “I’m not the same person anymore.”
“You . . . you tried to take your own life. These bracelets are reminders.” When Merlin does nothing to refute his conclusion, he lets out a shattered breath. “My God--Merlin, why would . . . why would you--”
“The funny thing about being immortal . . .” Merlin stands, begins to pace, feeling trapped and tight in his own skin. “. . . is that no matter what you do, you can’t die. I tried everything; trust me, I really did--”
“Six times, Merlin?” Arthur shouts, standing up and clasping his shoulders, “Six?”
The low laugh that escapes Merlin’s lips is one he himself doesn’t recognize at his own. “They only started making those ID bracelets for admissions maybe twenty years ago.”
The look of sheer, unmasked pain that takes over Arthur’s expression makes Merlin sick to his stomach. “Wh-why . . . if you knew it wouldn’t work, I . . . why would you keep doing that to yourself? How could you be so foolish?!” Of course, Merlin can’t help but think, Arthur’s playing the offense. It’s how he approaches arguments, at least initially. “Honestly, Merlin, what were you--”
“It felt like you would never come back!” Merlin’s shout reverberates through the entire flat, making him tremble. Arthur seems unable to do anything but stare at him, nonplussed. “You weren’t coming back to me, Arthur, and I was lonely--I was so lonely and . . . and it was selfish, and terrible, but I truly, truly thought . . .” He lets out a choked sob, bringing a hand to his mouth to attempt to stifle the ones he knows are bound to follow. “I thought I’d have to spend the rest of eternity without you. I didn’t want that. I don’t want that, ever. You’re my only reason to live; you’re everything . . .” The all-powerful warlock’s knobby knees give way, and he falls to the floor with a soft thump. “I’m so sorry, my lord. I’m sorry. I’m not who I was. Time has changed me, and I wish it were not so.”
All he can see when he stares straight ahead through the blur of tears in his eyes, is Arthur’s form turned away from him at the window a little ways off. Merlin lets his eyes flutter closed, wishing he’d put those bloody bracelets away, hidden them or better yet tossed them into the trash bin before Arthur could see them. Maybe Arthur would not have had to discover the truth about what Merlin had been through all this time, while he slept in Avalon unawares. It is a burden Merlin never wanted anyone else to bear, least of all his King.
And yet when he opens his eyes once more, Arthur is knelt in front of him, tears brimming in his own eyes. “Merlin,” he says quietly, “Oh, my Merlin . . . you don’t understand, do you?”
My Merlin. He’s never called me that. He sniffs, unable to muster the energy to do much else. Arthur lifts a hand to tentatively cup the side of Merlin’s face, and Merlin leans into the sensation of Arthur’s thumb brushing his cheekbone, then gently moving down to caress his bottom lip.
“When I told you I wanted you to always be you, I meant it,” Arthur continues, “And I mean it now. Time may have changed you in many ways, but you’re still my Merlin. I saw your eyes on the street today, and that silly way you smile, and I knew it was you. I know you feel like you’ve lost yourself, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be found again. It may have been my destiny to come back for you to find me, Merlin . . . but maybe, in the end, we’re destined to find each other, and begin again.”
The words, coming from that deep, confident, beautifully familiar voice, cause Merlin’s thoughts--the stream of consciousness seemingly ever-present in his mind full of doubts and darkness--to quiet to a lull. Merlin sighs, relief taking over his senses. They really could begin again, together, if Merlin learned to let go of his tight grip on the past, and look to the future.
“So?” Arthur leans back onto his knees a little, dipping his head trying to catch Merlin’s gaze. “What do you say?”
Merlin then decides that words are not needed. He launches himself at Arthur, flinging his arms around his neck with such force that it sends Arthur falling backward to the floor in a muffled combination of a yelp and twisting limbs. Merlin presses his forehead to Arthur’s, smiling through his tears before covering Arthur’s lips with his own, untangling his arms from bracing Arthur’s back so he can run his hands up and down Arthur’s chest. The rumble of Arthur moaning into his mouth prompts Merlin to deepen the kiss all the more, reveling in the taste of Arthur’s lips and tongue and the warmth of his body pressed against Merlin’s own. He stifles a quiet cry as Arthur begins to nibble at his bottom lip, and God, Merlin thinks, why hasn’t it been like this all along? Merlin, Arthur, and the vast world they built between them unable to separate their synchronized hearts and bodies.
Merlin pulls away just slightly to catch his breath and nuzzle Arthur’s nose a little, and grins cheekily at Arthur’s utterly perplexed face as he tries to catch his own. “Sorry . . . it’s just I’ve been wanting to do that for a very long time.”
Arthur, still panting, just shakes his head slowly. “No . . . no, you definitely don’t need to apologize for that.”
Chuckling, Merlin falls onto his back next to Arthur. He hears Arthur say, “We’re going to be all right, Merlin.” It doesn’t sound like a reassurance, either for Merlin or for himself. It sounds, when spoken with the honesty and resoluteness only a King can muster, like a concrete, irrefutable fact.
And Merlin, as he does in all things that tumble from Arthur’s lips--regards it as such, unconditionally.
“Yes,” he agrees, feeling surer about his words than he has felt in many years, “We’re going to be all right.”
The silence between them now is not stuffed with uncomfortable untold truths or ambiguous questions. Instead, it is full of understanding, of two hearts having found each its own companion with which to beat in time.
Or read it here on AO3.
