So I made myself sad with this post. I fixed it to make myself feel better. First Merthur fic, be nice.
“I use it for you Arthur… Only for you.”
Merlin woke up, the words still caught in his throat while the tears soaked his face. He rolled over, buried his face in the pillow for a moment, and let the sadness take him. Just for a little bit, he let the pain and grief and loss wash over him completely, and he sobbed for all he had lost. When the tears finally stopped, more due to a lack of water than a lack of sorrow, Merlin sat up and turned the light on so he could find his way from the bed of his loft to the circular dining table.
“A round table afforded no man more importance than any other.”
Merlin brushed the echo of Arthur’s voice aside with some pain and set about making his breakfast. It was early enough that most of the saner parts of the city were asleep, but in London someone was always awake, be it four in the afternoon or four in the morning. Usually, that someone was Merlin. He scrambled up some eggs –having meant to fry them, but giving up halfway through– and ate them from the pan, scalding his tongue a bit on the way. He went to the bathroom, showered apathetically, and shaved in front of the mirror.
“Are you ever going to change, Merlin?” “No, you’d get bored.”
But like it or not, Merlin had changed. He’d become harder, more entrenched in himself, through the centuries. It had been too long, too many he loved had been taken from him, and he was the only one left who remembered any of what had been lost. It was a terrible burden, and though his face was still young when he remembered to shave, his eyes revealed the years they had seen.
He glanced at the clock. Just turning five, if he took the long route he could get a coffee at the right time. He pulled on a hoodie, and dragged himself out the door and through the park towards the twenty-four hour coffee shop on the other side. Thankfully, his timing was on today, so Gwen was already behind the counter when he got there. She smiled, recognizing him, but not in the way he wanted, never in the way he wanted.
“Morning, Merlin,” she chirped, “same as usual?” Merlin nodded.
As painful as it was to see Gwen, he’d at least been expecting her. The first to come back had been, oddly enough, Morgana, whom he’d run into in a bookshop. Merlin had nearly fainted then and there, but realized quickly that she had no idea who he was. And somehow, that was worse. That she didn’t remember anything, didn’t feel some spark of recognition. Just… nothing.
After her, more of his friends began to come back. Percival, Gwaine, and the other knights showed up quickly, and Merlin swore that the man who served as Gwen’s background was Lancelot. Not that he’d said a word to any of them. No, he’d faked a smile and pleasantries, vague excuses for his look of surprise each time he found one of them, and even vaguer reasons for the disappointment that haunted him for days afterwards. Because at least they were coming back, albeit without memories, but where was Arthur?
He took his drink from Gwen’s hands, smiling warmly at her. She was still his friend no matter what life they led. Drink in hand he stepped out of the shop and headed back to the park. Sometimes, if he went deep enough into it, he could pretend to be home again. It didn’t work often, but he tried. He gave his drink to the first homeless woman he saw; try as he might, he couldn’t stomach coffee. Too strong, not enough like the tea he’d grown used to. But Gwen worked at a coffee shop, so coffee he bought.
Today was going to be a rough day, he could feel it. They always were, this time of year. The time when he would return to the lake was drawing near, and with it, all the memories he tried so hard to put aside for the sake of functioning were welling up again. Of all the deaths he’d witnessed, all the people he’d lost, Arthur was the one that had cut the deepest. The first time is always the hardest, that’s what he’s heard people say down the years, and it is never less true for the repetition. Losing Arthur was the one thing he never wanted to do, but always knew was coming.
Merlin settled a little ways off the beaten path, between a few trees with one at his back for support. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and let himself remember, just for a little while, what Arthur was like. During the interim years, before everyone began returning, Merlin’s memory had begun to fade. He found it difficult to recall Lancelot’s smile, or Gwen’s laughter, or the sound of Gaius always nagging after him. The only memories that never dimmed were the ones of Arthur, frozen crystal-clear in his mind. Now he pulled them out, remembering the cocky young prince he’d first encountered when he was still a boy. When they were both still boys. Even then, Merlin knew he was something special.
He’d wasted years, beating around a secret he should have revealed, avoiding the trust that could have made them succeed. And in the end, he’d failed. He couldn’t save or protect Arthur like he was meant to, and even as Arthur lay dying he couldn’t choke out the words that had been stuck in his throat for years. Merlin could feel the warmth welling behind his eyes, and while a part of him was ashamed at crying in what was technically public, most of him was just so very tired. Tired of waiting, tired of the pain, of the guilt and the regret. Tired of constantly feeling like only half a person, one side of a coin. So he let the tears pour out, let them drench his cheeks while he squeezed his eyes shut, refusing the early light of dawn in favor of the darkness of his own eyelids.
A warm hand brushed the tears away gently, and Merlin’s eyes flew open.
“Didn’t I tell you? No man is worth your tears, Merlin.”
