fifty-something years after arthur's death, merlin tries to remember some inconsequential detail - maybe he passes by a knight on the road, and the man's armor makes him think arthur’s was better, there wasn’t a large a gap on the vambrace - and then he realizes he can’t quite picture it. he tries to summon the picture of arthur’s armor in his mind, the metal curves and leather straps he’d put together hundreds of times, and merlin can’t visualize how it all fit together. it's just a shining silver image in his mind.
so he starts a journal. writes down everything he can remember about arthur.
he has blonde hair. blue eyes. broader than I am, but just barely shorter. his skin turns a golden tan in the summertime. there’s a bump on his nose from breaking it too many times. he smells like leather and rosemary. when he smiles, it shows how pointed his canine teeth are.
over time, his journal grows with more entries, as he feels more memories start to slip through his grasp. notes on gaius's wonderfully bland stew. gwen's favorite kinds of wildflowers. the name of the tavern gwaine got banned from for life. but for every entry on the others, there's twice as many on arthur alone, on every precious detail merlin can't bare to lose. he loves honey candy and apples. he snores when he sleeps even though he always denies it. he’s so beautiful when he lets himself truly laugh.
until sometimes in the 15th century, when merlin is rereading the journal in need of comfort, after helping yet another young woman escape the crowd that roared for her death. for the simple crime of rescuing a black cat from drowning in the well. merlin opens his journal, tattered and worn, preserved only by grace of his magic. he reads the entries on arthur, and - and only sees a hazy figure in his mind.
blonde. tall. strong. his smile, his smell, the blue of his eyes, has all faded from merlin's memory.
merlin throws his journal on a pyre of its own.
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