( he's been waiting so long for arthur, he never thought he'd just show up at his door.
time keeps passing, and merlin passes around with it -- every thirty years or so, gathering up his few select possessions and heading out in whatever way the breeze takes him. for a man with an unchanging face, it's best to avoid striking up curiosities, and he supposes that it's fitting, too, because no place will ever be home the way camelot was. if he closes his eyes, he can still imagine the scents of the gaius' home remedies cooking in a cauldron just outside his bedroom door, or he can feel the bright sun fitting his face through king arthur's bedroom chambers, the way the modern sun doesn't ever seem to shine quite as brightly.
but it was all long, long ago. the seasons keep changing and merlin loses sight of time, for a man not plagued by sleep, not fearing the chase of death, only ever ashamed to admit that he was the downfall of the very thing that gave his long, miserable life promise. there doesn't go a day when merlin doesn't think about him, about the adventures they shared and the ones that were robbed from them. he tries hard not to think about the end of it all, about pushing his forehead against arthur's in a fit of pitiful sadness, feeling the life of his escape through him and travel on his way back to avalon. once and future king, of course, but even the promise of arthur's return doesn't stop the heartbreak from being real, doesn't change the fact that merlin indirectly murdered his destiny, and more importantly, his best friend.
he keeps moving, keeping a cat for company in most places he goes -- the coffee shop was her idea, merlin insists, frequently sharing conversations with her that he wouldn't otherwise have, because any normal person wouldn't believe the whispers of magic from his fingertips, the fairytales that were, at one point, the reality of his life. when camelot was around they at least accepted that magic existed. people forgot, somewhere along the line, that magic is as natural as the trees sprouting from the ground, or the rush of a riverbed into the ocean. still, he keeps it quiet, keeps it sure, buys his shop with money he earned through the other years of working endlessly -- as always, he uses his magic for arthur, and arthur alone.
maybe that's a small stretch. very small.
when arthur was reborn, merlin felt a tugging on his heartstrings that couldn't be properly named -- he knows it now, though, upon watching him walk into his shop, because he gets the same feeling again, his heart pining for one that used to be apart of him, his eternal best friend, which the fates of death and life couldn't separate for too long. i'd wait it all again, he thinks, looking at him, watching him. every hour of doubt, every second of sadness, every time he had to bury a friend while remaining immortal -- it was all worth it to see him again, as dashingly handsome as merlin can remember. the times have not always been kind, of course, but he couldn't forget arthur's face if he tried -- every bone in his body, every twist and turn of his muscles. merlin remembers all of it, remembers the hug of his armor against him, suited and a perfect fit, remembers letting his fingers linger where they shouldn't, speakings words that were surely out of line for a servant, but arthur allowed him to speak them, anyway. because, at the end of his days -- at least, merlin is pretty sure -- they were friends before they were anything else. arthur, a king, and merlin, a servant. best friends.
he aches when he sees him, eyes wide and welled up with the tears he hasn't thought to shed in a thousand years. it hurts, to gaze upon his mighty figure, and remember the painful things, the way merlin held him as he died, sobbed hideously on his shoulder until he was all dried out, and then a little bit more. arthur has always been more than a friend, more than a king. he is the king, the once and future, the end to all conflict and the bringer of peace.
more than that, he's merlin's soulmate, his destiny. merlin yearns to touch him, to wrap his arms around his neck, to breathe him in and wonder if he smells just the same as he did. )
Wha -- O-Oh -- oh, yes, of course.
( he stutters, the trance broken. his name on arthur's mouth makes him shudder, the hairs on his arm stood up, and he has to wonder for a minute just what he remembers, until he glances at the name tag he has at his chest. it breaks his heart, in a way, but he sucks it up because that's what he's good at. the sound of his name keeps echoing in the empty containers of merlin's ears while he busies himself with arthur's coffee, the cat kilgharrah coming up to sit at merlin's counter. )
Could I -- sir, I mean. A name? To... write on the cup, all that coffee business.
( she meows after him, as if asking is this him?, while merlin in turn sends her a look, not now!. the cafe has an older feel to it, the frozen melted wax of candles lining every available surface while fresher candles burn atop, ancient looking books covering bookshelves and shelves in every corner of the room, with titles like magic of old and ancient runes. even the coffee machine looks like something crafted in another time, alchemy symbols etched into it in a rustic and worn way. still, merlin knows his way around the machine and gets to it, swirling levers and knobs around the contraption, feeling it whir silently to life. while his back is turned to him, he cries. silently, but it's still there, the drops of his tears hitting th bronze of his coffee maker.
the once and future king. the future is now, it seems, and with arthur will come the rest of it -- camelot, and the days of old, and for the first time in a long time, merlin will finally be able to go home. )
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time keeps passing, and merlin passes around with it -- every thirty years or so, gathering up his few select possessions and heading out in whatever way the breeze takes him. for a man with an unchanging face, it's best to avoid striking up curiosities, and he supposes that it's fitting, too, because no place will ever be home the way camelot was. if he closes his eyes, he can still imagine the scents of the gaius' home remedies cooking in a cauldron just outside his bedroom door, or he can feel the bright sun fitting his face through king arthur's bedroom chambers, the way the modern sun doesn't ever seem to shine quite as brightly.
but it was all long, long ago. the seasons keep changing and merlin loses sight of time, for a man not plagued by sleep, not fearing the chase of death, only ever ashamed to admit that he was the downfall of the very thing that gave his long, miserable life promise. there doesn't go a day when merlin doesn't think about him, about the adventures they shared and the ones that were robbed from them. he tries hard not to think about the end of it all, about pushing his forehead against arthur's in a fit of pitiful sadness, feeling the life of his escape through him and travel on his way back to avalon. once and future king, of course, but even the promise of arthur's return doesn't stop the heartbreak from being real, doesn't change the fact that merlin indirectly murdered his destiny, and more importantly, his best friend.
he keeps moving, keeping a cat for company in most places he goes -- the coffee shop was her idea, merlin insists, frequently sharing conversations with her that he wouldn't otherwise have, because any normal person wouldn't believe the whispers of magic from his fingertips, the fairytales that were, at one point, the reality of his life. when camelot was around they at least accepted that magic existed. people forgot, somewhere along the line, that magic is as natural as the trees sprouting from the ground, or the rush of a riverbed into the ocean. still, he keeps it quiet, keeps it sure, buys his shop with money he earned through the other years of working endlessly -- as always, he uses his magic for arthur, and arthur alone.
maybe that's a small stretch. very small.
when arthur was reborn, merlin felt a tugging on his heartstrings that couldn't be properly named -- he knows it now, though, upon watching him walk into his shop, because he gets the same feeling again, his heart pining for one that used to be apart of him, his eternal best friend, which the fates of death and life couldn't separate for too long. i'd wait it all again, he thinks, looking at him, watching him. every hour of doubt, every second of sadness, every time he had to bury a friend while remaining immortal -- it was all worth it to see him again, as dashingly handsome as merlin can remember. the times have not always been kind, of course, but he couldn't forget arthur's face if he tried -- every bone in his body, every twist and turn of his muscles. merlin remembers all of it, remembers the hug of his armor against him, suited and a perfect fit, remembers letting his fingers linger where they shouldn't, speakings words that were surely out of line for a servant, but arthur allowed him to speak them, anyway. because, at the end of his days -- at least, merlin is pretty sure -- they were friends before they were anything else. arthur, a king, and merlin, a servant. best friends.
he aches when he sees him, eyes wide and welled up with the tears he hasn't thought to shed in a thousand years. it hurts, to gaze upon his mighty figure, and remember the painful things, the way merlin held him as he died, sobbed hideously on his shoulder until he was all dried out, and then a little bit more. arthur has always been more than a friend, more than a king. he is the king, the once and future, the end to all conflict and the bringer of peace.
more than that, he's merlin's soulmate, his destiny. merlin yearns to touch him, to wrap his arms around his neck, to breathe him in and wonder if he smells just the same as he did. )
Wha -- O-Oh -- oh, yes, of course.
( he stutters, the trance broken. his name on arthur's mouth makes him shudder, the hairs on his arm stood up, and he has to wonder for a minute just what he remembers, until he glances at the name tag he has at his chest. it breaks his heart, in a way, but he sucks it up because that's what he's good at. the sound of his name keeps echoing in the empty containers of merlin's ears while he busies himself with arthur's coffee, the cat kilgharrah coming up to sit at merlin's counter. )
Could I -- sir, I mean. A name? To... write on the cup, all that coffee business.
( she meows after him, as if asking is this him?, while merlin in turn sends her a look, not now!. the cafe has an older feel to it, the frozen melted wax of candles lining every available surface while fresher candles burn atop, ancient looking books covering bookshelves and shelves in every corner of the room, with titles like magic of old and ancient runes. even the coffee machine looks like something crafted in another time, alchemy symbols etched into it in a rustic and worn way. still, merlin knows his way around the machine and gets to it, swirling levers and knobs around the contraption, feeling it whir silently to life. while his back is turned to him, he cries. silently, but it's still there, the drops of his tears hitting th bronze of his coffee maker.
the once and future king. the future is now, it seems, and with arthur will come the rest of it -- camelot, and the days of old, and for the first time in a long time, merlin will finally be able to go home. )