( once and future king. )

[medievals]

an arthur pendragon open post

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[medievals]

[ the modern age is curiously baffling. despite the fact that arthur grew up in it, there are things that he finds himself particularly inept at. smartphones, namely, are an invention arthur hates, unlike literally everyone else around him who isn't above the age of sixty. he feels like an old (old, old) soul trapped in a young man's body, like he isn't of this era, and yet he knows that he is. he must be. he knows his date of birth, the fifth of april in the year nineteen hundred and ninety, and still -- he doesn't feel like he belongs here, in this time, in this place of modern conveniences and technological marvels. if he didn't know better, if he didn't understand the advances of science and technology, he might call smartphones and televisions and cars the works of some kind of sorcery. but even the thought (the word sorcery) is ridiculous. who does he think he is, some medieval king? ]

[ he's heard the jokes before, was notoriously known as king arthur in college for his reputation of holding round table study sessions and his seemingly innate ability to lead any group project to victory. still, he isn't actually a medieval king, despite how the nickname might have stuck at one point. then again, as the son of the english prime minister, he might as well be royalty -- or the closest thing to it without actually being part of the royal family. a noble, he thinks, if this were anything like the days of yore. which, of course, it isn't. this is the twenty-first century and arthur should really get with it already. all his friends think it's strange how much he dislikes phones and computers despite understanding their necessity. he still uses them, he just wishes people weren't so codependent on the internet or the little voice that talks to them on their phone. whatever happened to human-to-human contact? he knows he sounds like an old fogey, like someone's grandpa, but he likes to think he just appreciates the simpler things in life -- going outdoors, handwriting letters, not relying so heavily on google and apple to dictate his life. ]

[ his friends frequently tell him he should just go live at a renaissance festival, if he enjoys cutting himself off from everything modern so much. (when he can, he prefers candles to electricity, except in the winter when even he admits it's a blessing to have heat.) most of the time, he ignores what his friends have to say -- they mean well, but they don't really understand. arthur doesn't either, to be honest, but he does understand his fondness for the summer home his father owns out in the country, not too far from a small town, where no one knows who he is and doesn't particularly care. sometimes, he feels like he dreamt about something like this, but he can never quite recall when, or if it was a dream at all. it feels almost like a memory, when he spends his days in the gallant halls of his father's newly renovated manor, though arthur wishes it was more like the original, without all the conveniences of electricity and wifi and central air conditioning. ]

[ still, it's nothing without people to fill it, halls too wide and rooms too numerous for just one person -- so arthur invites his friends for the summer, just so the manor won't feel so empty. he doesn't really expect them to come, given how far away it is from anything considered civilization that they're used to. arthur grew up in london, but he's never really been that fond of it -- maybe it's too metropolitan for him, too many people, too much traffic, too many lights. there aren't exactly woods in london, either, which arthur feels like he craves. he's always felt holed up in the city, with hardly a sight to see that wasn't built by man. innovation is certainly something to be marveled, but mountains, forests, rivers, rolling hills and sweeping valleys -- the natural beauties of england seem more like home to him than anywhere else. luckily for his friends, though, there's a major city about an hour away from the manor if they get too bored or restless. ]

[ the third day of the summer, arthur finds himself wandering the town closest to the manor alone, feeling an odd sense of comfort from the barely paved roads and the rustic architecture. maybe they've never had the money to do extensive renovations, or maybe they don't want to pave and build over the ruralness, the historic feel of the town. arthur can't blame them, really. it's probably the sign outside the coffee shop that gets his attention more than the coffee shop itself -- he doesn't really need any coffee in the middle of summer, but he feels almost compelled to go inside. somehow, he thinks, it isn't the sign after all, but the barista himself that truly draws his attention. it's like deja vu, an almost overwhelming sense of familiarity about him -- merlin, reads his nametag. his friends would surely joke they were meant to be, arthur and merlin, and arthur would surely punch them. it's arthur and guinevere, anyway, you prats, he'd tell them. ]

[ and yet -- he can't help but feel drawn to him, like they've known each other for ages and arthur's just forgotten. it doesn't make any sense; arthur never forgets a face. there's only a few other people in the shop, already tended to and satisfied. arthur stands far enough back from the counter to make it look like he's considering something, but mostly he's trying to discreetly figure out where he could possibly know merlin from. eventually, he steps closer, a shrug to his shoulders. he hasn't accepted defeat, but he's accepted that staring isn't going to do him any good. ] You know, I'll leave it to you. Surprise me, Merlin. [ hearing merlin's name in his own voice nearly startles him, frustrates him in a way he can't describe. it's like an itch he can't scratch, the feeling of knowing and not knowing simultaneously. surely, it's nothing. but what if it is? ]

[servanted]

( 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. )

[medievals]

[ there's something in the way merlin looks at him, surprised and terrified and joyous all at once, that slams into him like a train at full speed. it nearly takes the breath out of him, makes his heart race in wonder of why it seems like merlin is staring at him like he's a ghost. it doesn't really make sense, of course, the way merlin looks at him as if he's someone else, or maybe someone who once was -- they're still strangers, aren't they? except, some part of arthur knows they aren't, they can't be, not when he feels his chest tightening, his heart swelling, like he's just been reunited with someone he hasn't seen in a very, very long time. the sound of merlin's voice drags him back to reality, and arthur has to laugh off the absurdity of the whole situation. ]

You don't want my number instead? [ it's a joke, of course, though arthur gets the distinct feeling he wouldn't mind giving his number to merlin, anyway. he shakes his head, a smile creasing the corners of his eyes. maybe it's just warm in here, even for a day in the middle of summer, or maybe it's merlin making him feel warm, like he's home somehow. the atmosphere of the shop surely reminds him of the places he sees in his dreams sometimes, places he feels existed in some distant time. they're tangible, almost, like they're more than just dreams, like he knows these places. it's absurd, really; dreams always feel real while they're happening, don't they? and yet -- it's that same feeling of nostalgia, of familiarity that arthur gets now, observing the smaller details of the shop: the books, the candles; the air of sorcery, if he had to give a name to the subtle hint of magic sending a chill down his spine and keeping his hair standing on end. then again, maybe merlin is just going for a harry potter vibe and everything arthur might be feeling is just misinterpretation. ]

[ he still can't shake the feeling that they know each other, somehow, from somewhere -- somewhere that isn't here (or london, for that matter), though that doesn't make much sense, either. maybe he's from camelot, he jokes to himself, inside the safety of his own head. it would sound ridiculous to say out loud, even as a joke. camelot doesn't actually exist -- it's all just stories, myths, legends. the fact that they're named arthur and merlin has to be a coincidence. arthur knows for a fact he wasn't named after the legendary king, anyway; it's a family name, passed down the line from his grandfather to him. my father's name was arthur, he can hear his father saying. he would've been proud to know you, son. he can't imagine merlin was named after the legendary sorcerer, not unless his parents hated him. it has to be some kind of nickname, right? an inside joke that stuck for far too long. surely, there's a reasonable explanation for all of this. ]

Arthur. [ he says, finally, and it sounds odd to him to say it when it feels like merlin already knows. it could just be he's heard about him in the news -- to hell with paparazzi, honestly -- but it feels like more than that, like there's a side of arthur, a secret side, that only merlin knows, because arthur hasn't even figured it out yet. ] My name, I mean. For the cup. [ there's a silence that follows while arthur waits, filled only by the the busy noises of the espresso machine. he notices the cat, then, and wonders why he hadn't noticed before. that can't be sanitary, he thinks, but he doesn't say anything about it, just exchanges a glance with the animal that seems to convince him his suspicions are correct. why he feels validated by a cat, he isn't sure, but -- ]

Sorry, this might sound a bit mad, but... [ he gives merlin another once over, wishing he could explain the sense of deja vu he gets every time he looks at him. ] Do we know each other? I mean -- I feel like we've met before... [ the problem is, arthur meets so many people so often, he can't always keep them straight. maybe merlin is the son of one of his father's friends, or a friend of their friend. there's no telling, really. they could have met anywhere, probably years ago, since arthur hasn't been to this part of the country in years. ]

[ it's just -- with a name like merlin ... arthur would remember that, wouldn't he? surely, he'd remember merlin's face, too, his eyes especially. he would know those eyes anywhere, such a piercing and brilliant blue, like a lake he can't put a name to or the sky on a clear spring morning. but it's more than just the name, the face -- it's a place ... a time, almost. ] ... somewhere. [ it's mostly an afterthought, almost a question, as vague images of things that were or will be or have been float through the back of his mind, too distant to be tangible. maybe, he thinks, he should leave after this, but there's something about merlin keeping him here, rooted to this coffee shop, too curious about who merlin is to leave it alone. ]

[servanted]

( arthur, yes, he should think so. as if he could ever forget. there is something serendipitous about their second first meeting going over a lot smoother than the first, though maybe that's due to the fact that merlin has had a lot more time to consider his feelings in long depth, and arthur doesn't happen to be bullying anyone, which makes the whole ride a little smoother. well -- sort of. he is still facing the makeshift coffee machine and crying, which doesn't really bode well for smooth sailing -- come on, merlin. you've been wearing a smile for an eternity, surely now that it doesn't feel fake you aren't about to drown in your tears. he forces himself better, maybe a touch of magic to make sure his eyes aren't wet and red when he turns back around to face him with a pleasant, if mysterious, smile lining his lips.

he's not sure how to get reused to looking upon this godly figure, the king of camelot and his best friend, a man he's somehow learned to miss ever more with every passing day, instead of getting used to the absence. he feels complete -- although he wishes he could hug the king, and cry on his chest, and worship words of devotion and immeasurable loyalty into the soles of his feet -- yet he minds his distance, grabbing one of their disposals cups and a permanent marker, and coyishly grinning at him, setting to his masterpiece. the machine crackles and hisses behind him, really much more of a show than it ought to be although it fits in with the rustic feeling of the cafe, whirring around like some medieval tavern, primitive to starbucks and the like. little does anyone know it's entirely run on magic, merlin with his honed in abilities shaped and sculpted over the years, that magic really is just like breathing to him now -- second nature, entirely invisible.

kilgharrah mewls expectantly, and merlin tuts his tongue, taking out a quick dish and splashing some milk inside. it should keep her occupied while he raises an eyebrow at arthur, scribbling on the cup. )

Know each other? Hm. ( of course, i'd know you anywhere, i'd know you blind, i'd know you in sickness, i'd know you anytime you leave my life and every time you find your way back in. i'd know you anywhere.

he doesn't say anything like that though, thankfully saved from his own thoughts by the dying machine, signifying the end of the coffee making process. merlin smiles politely, ) Hold that thought. ( before busying himself over the machine, collecting the coffee while still being mindful of the drawing he's just placed on arthur's cup. he tops it off with cream elegantly designed on the top, setting it on the counter before sliding it over to him, the name "king arthur" written in the middle of a castle landscape, a rushed drawing job, complete with an impressive looking knight situated on top of a horse. )

There we have it. One coffee, sire. ( his grin shines a little bit brighter, hands flattening on the counter while he watches arthur keenly, somewhat taken aback at how familiar he is, how nothing has really changed within him. still a heart of gold, merlin knows. still trying to make his shoulders look broader while he sits, to attend more authority.

still handsome. painfully, unfairly so. )

As for knowing each other... must've been in another life, I'm afraid. I'd surely remember a face like yours.