Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Merlin, in all of the hundreds of years he had been alive, knew exactly what it felt like to have a bad day. He had lived through plagues, revolutions, wars, and had dealt with some of the worst stomach aches known to mankind. He had been starved, tortured, hanged, drowned, and decapitated. However, Merlin had never, in his nearly two thousand years of life, ever had quite a shit day as he was having. 

Well, the whole being tortured and murdered thing kind of sucked in comparison, but he was allowed to be a little dramatic. He had earned that right the first time he had donned the medic garb and ran to the front lines in Somme. He had earned the right to complain much earlier than that, too, in his opinion. So, Merlin could admit that the day he was having, beginning at six am with a burnt piece of toast, was bad. 

He had overslept his alarm, stubbed his toe while brushing his teeth, and he had run out of milk. At least he hadn’t had any classes until nine, but he was already in a bad mood, and he had forgotten his umbrella in facing a hard drizzle to accompany the grey overhead. He’d done a sort of embarrassing dance between cursing out the sky, bending halfway over his bag so none of his books would get soaked, and sprinting headfirst towards campus. When he’d finally sat down in the back row for his biology lecture, mopping his wet face with his sleeve and resigning himself to his hair drying messy and damp, he had officially sunk from a vaguely miserable morning to a doomed entirely twenty-four hours. 

Then, after labeling his bad day as, well, bad, he had learned about the student walk-throughs of the senior studios. If he had been able to die, Merlin would have asked his professors to dig him a grave and pack him in. 

After he had grown old in a small town just shy of Belfast, he decided it was time to start over again. He faked his death, relocated, changed his name and age, and tried to decide what a young man in his twenties should be up to in the twenty-first century. He considered becoming a historian, publishing a few works and going on archaeological digs, but that road always led to unwanted attention by his manuscripts. There was also the added trouble of trying to decide which era to involve himself in, which he knew would always end up with him researching Medieval times, staring at a Wikipedia page about the great old wizard and the mythical aspects of Arthurian legend. 

He’d also briefly contemplated a career in Engineering, but he was never ambitious enough to figure out the inner workings of machinery, let alone driven to invent something himself. He always had such a fascination with the subject, along with an admiration for all the wonderful technological inventions and machinery that came after indoor plumbing, but the whole stretch of wonder needed to be observed from afar. (He’d learned his lesson when he tried to help invent the radio. He still had ringing in his ears when he got too close to a speaker system). 

There were months of debate within himself as he settled into his new life, into a one-bedroom flat in downtown Birmingham with the perfect view of a convenience store across the street and enough space for his cats to lounge about. He debated over medicine again, or education, writing up pros and cons lists of each profession and driving himself mental with a murder-case-esque cork board. He spent most of his days wandering the local coffee shops and bookstores, building friendly relationships with other fresh graduates and trying to bring himself to complete one application to a few local Universities.

During one of these outings, when he had nearly begun to bang his head on his keyboard, a kind employee suggested to him: what about the studio arts? They had told him all about their portfolio submission, and seemed rather shy when they mentioned how they’d been peeking over his shoulder at his disastrous excuse of a sketchbook the past few times he’d brought it with him. Merlin had been painting and sketching for nearly three centuries now, calling it a hobby, or more likely an excuse to hang around far more talented artists in their own times. So, when given the prompting, he’d gone home and sorted through his canvases, standing barefoot in his living room and thinking, why not?  

Biggest. Mistake. Of. This. Century. 

He’d thought back to the conversations he had had with Da Vinci, Van Gogh, Michelangelo; all the greats who were nothing more than men with brushes when Merlin had spoken with them. He thought fondly of the Renaissance, even when it seemed the movement of art (and time, for that matter) was never consistent, always whirling and changing with the newest fascination of the modern age. Everything that was created was done with hopeful intent; to be remembered as a part of history, as something important. 

Of course, Merlin’s interest in the people behind the paintings had nothing to do with Da Vinci’s equal enjoyment of his company. Fleeting attention was never something to draw him in, but he instead lingered to learn, even if it was a weak imitation of a more skillful hand. Vincent had also given some notice to the immortal, and whether it was in the solidarity they found in their misery or something else, Merlin could never decide. He was such a kind man, consumed by an endless depth of grief that had no real source, only the consequence of living. They spent most of their time together gazing at the same canvas, the blurring lines familiar and avoidant in all the wrong places. It felt, to Merlin, as if he were in the company of an old friend, someone who understood, without judgement, the weight of time itself on his shoulders. It was nice for a while to be miserable with company, when for so long it seemed like the only amity he would find would be between the very thing that isolated him. 

He had taken a break for a while, when the Reformation began, from France, from the artists behind it all. The first time he returned was to see the Louvre, after a fond sort of distance had been put between him and the famed artists within its halls. He met someone there, standing in front of the Barque of Dante , alluring and beautiful in how he glanced at Merlin, shoulder to shoulder. He liked to talk about philosophy, took his coffee black, and he always wandered around with a leather jacket on. 

“We all like to see the world through our own eyes,” He’d told him, hanging over a balcony one night and getting stoned. We like to paint that view, to bring together the quiet and the loud. It doesn’t matter if it’s drawn out with a crayon, mon beau, it never matters to the canvas.” 

When they kissed and Merlin could taste the coffee he loved so strong coated on his tongue, all he could think about was what that very moment would look like through him. 

His university application was accepted, nearly immediately, and he threw himself into his studies. He was in and out of classes the last few years, teaching him how to apply charcoal to paper without smudging everything with his fingers, how to choose the right colors to temper the mood, and the most important lesson of how much he truly despised small canvases. 

In his third semester, he finally picked a major: painting. He liked the way his brush began to move as an extension of himself, reminding him of how his magic worked, in an off way, and how it seeped into everything he interacted with. It also helped that he had a clear idea of what he wanted to be painting, of what exactly he wanted to create to be judged by his professors and fellow students. 

Merlin, after declaring a major and spending most of his days holed away in his studio, had decided to focus his works around Camelot. Camelot and its King. 

His instructors over the years were either entirely enraptured or slightly bemused by his fixation on the ‘legend’, and how the era always seemed to find its way in his pieces. Currently, in his last year at the university, he had been given an entire exhibition space to display whatever he so desired, and thus the ‘fictional’ kingdom was created (through his hazy memories, of course). Merlin had gotten so attached to his recreation of his old home that he barely remembered to leave his studio, trudging home well after the sun had set and constantly asking his neighbor to slip in to feed his cats. If he had the ability to (without heavy reprimanding from campus security), he would probably sleep in his studio. His small collection of friends in this life were worried, he knew, and the elderly woman who lived next door had practically demanded that he leave his door unlocked with the amount of time she spent over at his flat in his absence. However, his painting was almost done, spanning floor to ceiling in his tiny, cramped little workspace. 

Today, he sat on the floor in front of the wall, trying to ignore the exasperated exhale that followed the door squeaking open behind him. If he didn’t turn, he tried to convince himself, the noise could simply be a figment of his imagination. 

“When I allowed you an extension for this project, I didn’t mean make it bigger,” A voice called as Merlin rolled his shoulders, irritated that his mind was not playing tricks on him and there was actually someone invading his space. He turned around, facing the professor behind him with a single raised eyebrow in acknowledgement. She was standing with her arms crossed in the doorway, her eyes set on Merlin and not the drying paint behind him. 

“If I recall correctly, you were the one who told me to live up to my full potential,” He threw at her, to her chagrin. “I thought you’d be happy to see that I’ve…manipulated the space of the canvas to convey a deeper thematic expression.” 

Her face twisted, her nose scrunching and her eyes narrowing, and Merlin was briefly reminded of Gaius when he was the most cross with him, and he found himself blinking a few times to try and rid his brain of the sudden assault of nostalgia. 

“You wanted to paint on the wall that badly, then?” She let the door swing shut behind her, and he tried for his most innocent smile as she sighed. 

He dragged himself to his feet, pausing as he leaned on his knees and groaned the rest of the way to straight posture. He brushed off his pants, straightening his shirt and avoiding a few open cans of paint as he met her halfway. “When else am I ever going to have the opportunity to paint on the wall? Professor Galahad, you cannot look at me and tell me it isn’t a little tempting,” He pinched two fingers together, indicating a tiny margin in which she would agree with him. She tutted at him, the disappointment less effective on her face with the clear amusement pulling at her lips.

Merlin stepped further back to stand next to her, looking from the same distance at his painting. He tried to ignore the mess of paint on his tarp, at the dozens of brushes discarded or still submerged halfway on his palette, at the unrecognizable rag that he had been using to dry his hands with. His eyes darted between the completed paintings, canvases pressed to the sides of the room, drying and finally finished, despite his endless fussing. Each was a different size, depicting the knights of the round table, or Queen Guinevere, or a kitchen maid; any of the faces he could remember, distinguishing them around the millions of other faces he had tried to memorize throughout his long, long life. 

“You have another month, Emrys,” He snapped out of his regretful musing, chewing on his lip and trying not to feel guilty at all of the people he could not give faces to. The surname he had chosen would never fail to send a jolt through him at its use, held within the confines of bitterness and prophecy. It was the one thing that he had tried not to change when switching identities, whether it be a middle name, or perhaps something he just went by. “One month,” She reiterated, and he met her eyes. 

“You can’t rush art,” He scoffed, weakly, and she wagged a finger at him. “Isn’t that the whole thing about it? How it can’t be rushed?” 

“You’ll have to,” She retorted, easily. “Or else you’ll have to kiss goodbye full marks for this semester.” She stared at him sternly for a moment, and he clicked his tongue.

He threw up his hands. “Fine! Fine, I’ll rush this one so fast that–that the next time you come in here, it’ll be done!” He placed his hands on his hips, standing proudly, and she barked out a laugh. He didn’t tell her that he would just lock his door until he was finished, so she wouldn’t be getting in without knocking, anyway. He could definitely get it done before the month was over. Probably. Hopefully.

“Sure, I’ll believe it when I see it,” Galahad commented, trailing over to the nearest table and straightening a few of his thumbnail sketches, humming softly as she handled each paper. “Oh, by the way, because this is a senior studio we’re going to have a few people come in to view it.” 

Merlin nearly toppled over, grabbing the nearest thing for support, his ladder, and whipping to her incredulously. “Pardon?” He squeaked. 

She gave him a thin smile, innocent and vicious. “The extension does conflict with the original plan, but the university feels that it might be even more authentic to show potential students an in-progress work.” 

“Is this like a volunteer thing?” He scratched the back of his neck, then winced when he realized he probably got a bit of paint on the edges of his hair. “I don’t remember signing up for anything like that.”

“It’s mandatory,” She informed him, and he glared. “I suggest you try to clean up a little before they get here,” She finished, cheerfully, and turned away from his sketchbook. He tilted his chin towards the paint cans, frowning and knowing she was right, but feeling particularly stubborn. 

“Mm,” He hummed, striding over to the other side of the room, back towards the wall, beginning to stack canvases to be set aside. 

“I can hear you thinking rude things from over here,” She teased, and he paused over his painting of Guinevere, grinding his molars and tucking it to his chest. 

“When’s the first showing?” He said, instead of the slew of insults that were nipping at the back of his throat. 

“Oh, about thirty minutes?” She checked her watch and he scowled in her direction. She let out a startled sort of laugh. “Don’t give me that face. It’s already well past normal schooling hours. You really ought to finish these things quicker.”

“I’ll clean up the floor,” He decided, and Galahad began picking her way carefully to the exit. “ Maybe. Thank you for the timely notice,” He snarked, just as she opened the door. 

“Remember, one month,” She pointed at him, scolding and serious. 

“Oh, sod off,” He heard her laughing well into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind her succinctly. He sighed, sitting down right in the middle of his mess of paint and thinner. He set down the painting of Gwen, heavily, off to the side, letting his head fall into his hands. The old pair of overalls he was wearing were already doomed the moment he first wore them to a figure drawing class, so looking presentable was thrown out the window. He had thirty minutes to try and clean up his area… or thirty minutes to keep doing whatever the hell he pleased. He went with the latter option, obviously. 

With a wave of his hand, all of the open paints were capped and set to the table. He left his palette and brushes where they were, picking up a few more canvases of the knights and propping them against a stool near the corner. He dragged his ladder over, throwing a rag across his shoulder and climbing to the top, inspecting the citadel he had been working on before dipping his brush and getting right back to detailing. He hummed as he worked, wondering where his phone had gone and what time it was, but not enough that he actually went searching for it. 

Almost just as he had finished the roof of the highest watchtower at the edge of the city did the door creak open, his indication that time was up. 

“Hello,” A voice echoed from the far side of the room, timid but loud. “Excuse me, I’m meant to look at the studios? I didn’t know anyone would be in here,” Merlin sat up, trying to keep himself from hunching any further into the wall. He let his arm hang loose from where it had been mid-stroke, wiping the bristles with his rag at the same time he tried to sweep his hair out of his eyes. 

“Don’t mind me,” Merlin returned, clearing his throat when it came out a little rasped. He sat up straighter, itching at his nose and wondering for a moment why the voice seemed so familiar. It must’ve been someone he’d seen around campus, maybe another student who had spoken up in a class he wasn’t invested in. There was something about it, though, that made his toes curl and his shoulders tighten. “I’m just finishing up for tonight. Have a look, then, yeah?”

“Oh, alright, thanks! Sorry for intruding,” There was the softest sound of feet shuffling, the barest indication that the man was moving at all, and the door swung shut. Merlin pretended to be incredibly invested in the paint drying before his eyes, letting a moment of silence fall between him and the stranger. Deeming it awkward, the other began to speak, “I’m actually only taking an art elective, trying to finish my credits for next semester,” His voice grew in volume, either as he gained confidence in speaking, or just because of how the open air took it. “Any suggestions on which course to take?” 

Merlin felt something just past the pull of familiarity tugging inside him, his magic rearing its head and poking at him, as if to say, pay attention! He’s important! He froze.

“Uh,” Merlin tried to keep himself from spinning around, knocking everything down from his perch in an attempt to satiate the stirring in his stomach. “I’m afraid I’m a bit biased, there. My major is painting, if you hadn’t already guessed…so…” 

The other laughed, softly, and Merlin pressed his hand to the back of the seat, inhaling quickly and looking over his shoulder. He nearly choked on his own spit, his knuckles going white with how hard he steadied himself on the ladder. Either Merlin had actually, clinically, finally gone insane, or his oldest friend and Knight of the Round Table, Lancelot, was standing in the middle of his art studio, looking curiously around at his canvases.

His hair was shorter, and he looked younger, but he still had the same line of stubble along his jaw and upper lip. He was dressed in a hoodie and jeans, his hands tucked into the pocket near his stomach. Merlin tried to drink in every feature—the same curve of his nose, the lines around his mouth, the cowlick at the back of his head—even as his eyes got misty and a lump formed in his throat. 

“Everything here is amazing,” He was saying, the baritone of his voice so achingly familiar, making his chest feel tight and his face hot. He had forgotten what he sounded like. “The professors told us you were painting Camelot, from the legends, right? It’s kind of funny, my mum nearly named me Lancelot, so I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for this stuff.”

Merlin felt his breath catch in his throat, his mind going blank for a moment. He felt stiff and detached, his face tightening in all the wrong ways, his molars clacking. “Really?” He forced past the ache in his esophagus, burning and hard. “What did she name you instead?” 

The carbon copy of Lancelot smiled, finally, looking up at him instead of the painting just behind him. When they locked eyes, something in his expression changed, pinching in confusion. “Lance,” He said, eyebrows furrowing. “Just Lance. She figured the end bit would be too much, too obvious I guess,”

“Yeah,” He said, realizing a moment too late how breathless he was, his heart hammering in his chest. 

“Sorry,” The man, not-Lancelot-but-Lance, tilted his head at Merlin. “Do I know you?”

Merlin startled so hard that he dropped his paints. The palette fell, face-down, and splattered against the tarp, his brushes tumbling right after it. Lance also seemed to jerk away, blinking down at them and moving forward to help, reactively. Merlin was quicker, however, waving his hands around and swearing. 

“Shit,” He yelped, almost hysterically, and he tried to steady himself as the ladder began to wobble. Too many forceful twinges had set it off-balance, and he was losing control of his seat. He took a step down, his foot slipping, and he faltered, leaning a bit too far backwards. “Shit!” He tried to grab frantically at the bars, his fingers slipping uselessly over smooth metal or missing the hand-hold entirely. His heart leapt into his throat, a bit quicker than his mind in realizing that he was falling, helpless. His magic stirred, slow and hot, ready to save him instinctively from the cold, hard tile below. 

Except…the ground never came. Strong arms wrapped around his middle, catching him with little strain, his legs flailing uselessly before touching the ground, immediately slipping on the tarp. Merlin exhaled sharply, blinking up at his savior, staring into the dark eyes he had long since forgotten. 

“Are you—” He began, hurried and out of breath. He leaned protectively closer to him, mindless and impulsive. 

“I’m Merlin!” He interrupted, his voice squeezed and high. He pressed a hand on Lance’s chest, pushing away and onto the floor. Lance followed quickly, catching his arms before he fell again, slowly lowering him down. “Holy shit, you just saved me. Like, knight in shining armor saved me,” He laughed, a little too loudly, accepting the hand that Lance offered to him to help him to his feet. “Thanks.” 

“Merlin?” Lance’s voice was soft, inquisitory, and his eyes sparked. Merlin felt blood rushing to his ears, his cheeks hot. 

“Yeah, I know, what a coincidence, right? I guess my mother had a bit less sense than yours, ha!” He moved a hand to his hair, brushing it back on his forehead, his mouth moving before he had much time to think of what to say. “I can’t exactly go back in time and ask her to choose another wizard to name me after, right? Because, uh, time travel is impossible and I honestly can’t think of another wizard right now.” 

“Merlin,” The other man said, gently. 

He inhaled shakily, barreling on. “I think she might’ve actually been naming me after the bird, which could just be misplaced hope that my entire life wasn’t based around, er, the Sword in the Stone film—”

“Merlin!” His mouth snapped shut, his eyes wide as he turned to look over at Lance. He made eye-contact with his past-life companion, his mouth opening and closing for a second as he desperately tried to find some grasp of the situation. 

“Yes, I know the name is…weird…” He swallowed thickly, searching his expression for something other than the warm, fond sort of look he was receiving. “You’re not talking about my name…” He pieced together, slowly, and Lance nodded. “You’re saying my name. You’re…” His magic bubbled up under his skin, pushing with everything it had for him to get it. He gripped the other man’s sleeve, finding the same motion mirrored back at him. Lance’s hands were rough, solid , squashing any remaining doubts that this was another elaborate hallucination. His eyes welled up suddenly, and he could barely manage to contain a sob when he said, “Lancelot?” 

“Merlin!” He surged forward, crashing into the other man, half-desperate, half-laughing, being given the same ferocity on the other end. He pressed his nose into the other’s shoulder, clinging to his jacket and letting himself get hugged. He realized that he was shaking, after a while, but Lance ws in a similar state of distress, so he didn’t think it mattered too much. 

“You remember,” He whispered, thick and cracked and aching. “You remember?” He pulled back, slightly, but Lance just mumbled his agreement, pressing a hand to the back of his head and pulling him back in. 

“So do you,” He laughed, his voice equally wrecked. “I feel like I never really forgot. I don’t know, it’s kind of like…something missing finally slotted back into place,” Lance hugged him harder, if it was even possible, and Merlin felt a horrible, awful sort of guilt knotted up in his stomach. “You’re back, though. How long have you known?” 

He let them come apart, finally, and Merlin knew he must’ve looked pale, his lips pursed carefully as Lancelot grinned at him. His eyes were shining, and his face was already splotched with tears, but he was smiling and gripping his shoulders and looking at him. He felt an ugly, awful sort of feeling settle in his bones, overwhelming in comparison to the relief he felt at his old friend remembering. He knew him, but he didn’t know. He had no idea just how long Merlin had been waiting; he had no idea how long Merlin had lived. 

“Forever,” He muttered, after he had paused for too long, everything inside of him mashed together in an amalgamation of grief and exhaustion and dread. He had lived forever knowing exactly who each of them were, and he was the only one who even knew it. “I’ve known forever,” He whispered, trying to convey a thousand years in one sentence. 

Lance just nodded, oblivious to it all, overjoyed and teary-eyed. “You’re always one step ahead of all of us. Some things never change,” He seemed to think of something, his expression clearing and his voice lowering. “Was it your magic?” 

Merlin had a feeling his attempt at hiding his grimace was not as successful as he hoped, but he nodded, pretending like he didn’t see the befuddlement on Lance’s face. His magic was always the secret only the two of them had kept, a bond forged between them in the light of sharing the most important part of him. Now, in this space with just the two of them, in the circumstances of this modern world, he should be ecstatic to talk about it. He should be. He wasn’t. 

“Yeah,” He forced out between chattering teeth, a shudder running through him at the thought of hiding fifteen hundred years from the only person he could ever be honest with. “Yes. It was. And all of this? Is this…” He tried to find a way to change the subject. “Reincarnation?”

“I think so,” Lance finally let go of him, his worry easing with the question. “Camelot, all those years ago….why are we back? Are…are we all back?” His eyes widened, his hands flying to his face, slapping his cheeks. “Gwen, holy—Merlin, Gwen is back! And…and the other knights, too, but I…” He reached into his pocket, digging for his phone, but pausing once he’d found it. “She doesn’t remember. Merlin, I don’t think any of us…oh, you’ve got to meet Gwen!” 

He felt, suddenly, so very heavy, sinking to his knees and away from Lancelot. His soul, old and brittle, reminded him that it could not be led in so many directions so easily. Flashes of memories resurfaced, of the life they had all lived so long ago, of the death he had watched befall all of them. He remembered the pain of loss, the sinking realization that he could not follow any of them into the afterlife, that he was doomed to walk alone throughout time. It all felt so fresh, the anguish of familiarity, and it took everything he had to stop himself from pressing his forehead to the ground and screaming, praying to the Goddesses above that now could finally be the end of it.

“Guinevere,” He felt himself say, an exhalation, and something in his strickenness must’ve shown so clearly to Lance. “And…and everyone else,” He leaned heavily to his side, catching himself with one arm and leaning into it. “It’s been so long.” 

“I know,” The other agreed, readily, concern coloring his expression in its entirety. “It’s a lot.”

Merlin nodded, numbly, trying to wave off Lance’s worrying hands, moving towards him with no purpose in mind but to bring them closer, to steady him. 

“It’s a lot,” He repeated, a weak attempt at mimicry. “It’s just…so crazy,” He tried to smile, but figured that even with Lancelot’s absence in his life, he had gotten no better at lying to him. He stared across the floor, trying and failing to remember which painting he had done for him. How he had fretted over strokes, trying to capture the face of a man he hadn’t seen for centuries. How he had nearly lost himself in those days, mourning his poor memory and the man he had once known, gone in a needless sacrifice for an immortal.

Now, in a horribly ironic twist of fate, he had been missing someone who was alive again. Even when he was sitting right next to him, inches away, ready to embrace him again, Merlin felt like he was back in the moment he died. He hated himself for it. He hated that he had no way to reconcile it. 

“It’s good to see you,” Lancelot told him, placing a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. Merlin tried to force himself to relax, to accept the comfort being given. “Your hair is different,” He let go, lifting a hand to pinch at the inky black waves that hung around his ears. 

Merlin cracked a dry smile, finding it easier to feign happiness as he slumped forward, ducking his chin towards his chest. “Yours looks exactly the same. Still all scruffy and…roguishly handsome,” They both laughed, an odd sensation of something old, known to both of them, heard again. “So, everyone is…back?” He asked, when silence fell. 

Lance nodded, then paused. “Well, most of us, I think. Elyan is Gwen’s brother overseas, and Leon, Gwaine, Percy…they’re all friends. We’re all friends. Can’t believe we missed you, here of all places!” 

“I spend most of my time here,” He gestured vaguely around them. “Can’t blame yourself, unless you secretly spend most of your days in the art building,”

“Unfortunately not,” Lance agreed, chuckling. Merlin wrapped his arms around himself, crossing his legs and looking towards the canvases set away.

“You shouldn’t happen to have a…prattish blond man whose name rhymes with Barthur hiding somewhere in your instagram followers, would you?” He tried not to look too hopefully, digging his fingers into his ribs. 

Lance winced, regardless, apologetic. “Oh, Merlin.” 

He felt any shred of expectation disappear, a bit of himself dimming at the truth he knew would be there. He couldn’t hide his disappointment, he knew, even when he tried. “I know, I know,” He laughed it off. 

“I’m sorry,” Lancelot said, earnest, and Merlin avoided his gaze even as bile built in the back of his throat. “Merlin, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” He argued, immediately, biting the inside of his cheek, forcing his frustration back below the surface. “He always liked to take his time, I guess. It’s annoying, and stupid, and… predictable,” He spat out bitterly. “If he was going to wait until I’d lost my mind, he would’ve shown up a long time ago,” He puffed out his cheeks, straightening and rolling his shoulders back “I can wait,” He tried to convince himself. 

“You haven’t lost your mind,” Lancelot insisted, kind and thoughtful, thinking he was reassuring Merlin of something he had doubts over. He just hoped his face was angled far enough away that the other didn’t catch the dubious look he pulled. “You’re amazing, Merlin. This—all of this—is amazing. And it’s because of your magic! Probably…” He cleared his throat. “You followed him to a new lifetime, my friend. He’ll show up, I know it,” He sounded so cheerful, and Merlin dug a little harder into his sides. 

“Better you than me,” He muttered, faking another smile and pulling himself to his feet. “I…haven’t given up,” Yet , he thought, then scolded himself for it. He offered a hand to Lance, who took it without hesitation, and they both straightened their clothes awkwardly. “It’s my job to wait for him, and I’ll keep doing it. Maybe we can all rub it in his face that we beat him…when he gets here,”

He looked at the paint he’d dropped from the ladder, a glob of colors that he was not excited to clean up, and he moved past Lance to begin collecting his brushes. “I’m not sure if the whole waiting thing is forced obligation or just plain destiny. I’ve learned that there’s this thing called a ‘guilt complex’, and I’m pretty sure I have, like, ten of them. Which isn’t funny, but isn’t it?”

He felt eyes on his back as he walked around the larger mess he had created, ignoring it all together as he found his paint water and dumped all of the brushes in. “You’re still the same as you were, aren’t you?” His tone was teasing, soft, but Merlin heard the relief in his tone, an unvoiced worry easing. 

He rose to meet Lancelot’s eyes, crossing his arms and straightening his legs. “The same? You mean, charismatic and alluring?” He waggled his eyebrows and his friend shook his head, amused. 

“Nah,” He said. “Weird.”

Merlin looked at him, offended, before cracking. He laughed, and Lance joined him, and he picked up one of the wet brushes and threw it at him. He nearly fell over with how hard he laughed, and the other man spluttered, but there was no real anger behind his eyes when he chased after him. They both ended up slipping on paint, in the end, which Merlin was pretty sure made them even. 

Chapter Text

Having Lancelot, or ‘just Lance’ now, back in his life was something Merlin refused to take for granted. He knew that when he had known him, way back in Camelot, he hadn’t had much time to spend with him between slaying monsters and wicked sorcerers and his normal duties of servitude to Arthur. Now, though, in the modern world, he had nothing but time. 

The two of them would meet up for lunch on the campus grounds almost every day, and Merlin never really got used to seeing his friend outside of armor, sitting across from him at a table on the quad with his jeans and bomber jacket. He was here studying environmental sciences, hoping to move into public health, something that would lend him means to travel, and satiate his personal need to help others. Overall, much about him hadn’t changed, and every time Merlin found himself thinking too much about his past life, he found that the ache in his chest of long held grief had almost dissipated. 

“I thought you would try to become a doctor,” Lance mentioned, offhandedly, as the two of them walked from his studio to the nearest coffee shop. “Or a nurse, or something. Because…” He trailed off, obviously thinking of Gaius, and Merlin’s apprenticeship under him. 

He had to bite his tongue, almost blurting out that he had been a doctor, many times over the course of the past fifteen hundred years, and he was still comfortable with present and past medicinal care. It wouldn’t make much sense to Lance, of course, who assumed Merlin had only been around for the twenty-odd years he appeared as, and he was content to let the other think just that. 

“Me too,” He managed, as he gripped the strap of his bag, hanging loose across his shoulder. “I guess I wanted to try something different. I can always go back to school if I want to. I’ve got time.”

Lance hummed, giving him a curious look, something he had gotten quite good at over the few weeks since they’d reunited. “I think you’re just about the only person our age who thinks like that,” He laughed, and bumped their arms together. “It’s refreshing. You’re either brilliant or mad.” 

“Or money-wasting,” he added, smiling. “I’ll bet I’ll have sold two paintings by the time I’m forty.”

“No way!” His friend defended, quickly, his mouth agape. “I think you’ll have hundreds of them in museums, or murals all along the streets. You’re an absolute genius with those brushes. I don’t understand how you do it. It’s like magic—er…” 

Merlin snorted, heading forward to open the door ahead of them, gesturing Lance in first. “Like magic. I think it would be pretty dishonest of me if I were using enchantments on my canvases.” 

“Dishonest, but awesome,” Lance agreed, stepping through the threshold and into the well-heated cafe. Merlin ducked in behind him, reaching for his wallet before they could step up to the counter. He was looking down, counting out a few pounds when he ran directly into Lancelot’s back. 

He leaned back, blinking harshly and grabbing his nose and making a noise in the back of his throat, indignant. “Why did you—” his words died in his throat.

Sitting at a table, the side of her face partially covered by her curls tucked behind one ear, was the spitting image of the Queen of Camelot. Standing in the other man’s shadow, Merlin peered over Lance’s shoulder, drinking in all of her features for the first time in centuries. 

Her hair was shorter—more free—curls tight and dark as they fell down her back. She had her ears pierced, two golden studs in one ear and a hoop curved at the top. She was wearing a sweater and corduroy pants, her ankles crossed, feet donning brown and heeled boots. She seemed to be absorbed in something on the laptop open in front of her, chewing on her bottom lip, her hand smoothing the collar of her top, her nails painted sage green. After a moment, as if she could feel his eyes on her, she glanced up, looking at him and Lance before recognizing the latter. 

A smile broke out on her features, her face still rounded and soft, and she turned in her seat to face them. “Lance!” She greeted, and began to push herself to her feet. “I didn’t know you were going to be here, you’ve been taking lunch on campus recently.” 

She walked towards them, striding towards Lancelot first and kissing him, her hands going around his neck. Merlin watched, feeling dizzy, and took a wide step backwards, almost bumping directly into the door. 

“Sorry, I would’ve said something if I knew I was headed over,” His friend laughed, reaching up to brush a stray eyelash on her cheek. “Last minute decision, we hadn't planned it.” 

Her eyes skittered away, still warm and crinkled, and she registered his presence. “Oh! Who’s this?” 

“Merlin!” Lance exclaimed, as if he’d forgotten he was there entirely, which he couldn’t exactly blame him for. The two of them had always been soulmates, he’d believed, intertwined past fate and responsibility. It was only the misfortune of such that kept them apart, especially after Lancelot’s sacrifice to the veil. He quickly regained his composure, his ears reddening, and he cleared his throat. “Merlin, I’d like you to meet my girlfriend, Guinevere.” 

He smiled, reflexively, even as the air around them became sharper, colder. He stared at Lance for a moment, who was giving him a wild look, just as put-out as he was. He tried to plaster on a smile, turning fully to face the woman in front of him, watching him with wide, curious eyes. Her smile curled the same, showing her dimples and dark brows as she glanced between the two men, clearly bemused.

“Most people call me Gwen,” She said, breaking the silence, moving to offer her hand. 

He stepped forward, his body jerking before his brain could catch up, and shook her hand. He felt like something was finally sliding into place, and the atmosphere cleared, the world turning once again.

“I’m Merlin,” He repeated, and felt a little silly doing it. “But most people call me idiot.”

She laughed, and then he laughed, and Lance looked like he was about to faint. She returned to her seat, allowing them some space as they ordered their drinks and waited for them. Merlin was stirring some milk into his cup when his friend tapped his shoulder, leaning in to whisper at him. 

“She doesn’t know,” Lance hissed from behind his hand, and Merlin gave him his most unimpressed look. 

“I know,” He said, at a normal volume, and stirred a packet of sugar into his cup. “I have no idea how I made you remember. It’s not like I was firing out incantations.” 

The other shushed him, glancing over his shoulder, where Gwen’s back was to them, perfectly unaware. “How are we going to do this, then? Are we childhood best friends? Did we just meet? Do we have classes together? Do we—”

“I don’t know if it really matters,” Merlin stopped him, grabbing his elbow, trying to be soothing. “Let’s just tell her the truth. I can’t see the harm in it.” 

“All of it?” Lance asked, skeptical. 

Merlin shrugged. “Why not? If she thinks we’re crazy, I’ll just turn you into a toad. Boom, indisputable proof.” 

“Well, I don’t know how she’d—wait, can you do that?” Lance tore his gaze away from Gwen’s back, eyes wide as he faced him. 

“I’m also assuming that any memories of our past life can be brought forward with familiarity,” He took a sip of his coffee, still steaming, and hummed at the bitterness. He grabbed another sugar packet, tapping it and then ripping the top open. “I mean, for you, the first time we met, you saved my life. And then you did it again, with the ladder?“ He explained, and pointed his chin towards Gwen, who had finally returned to her computer, typing away. “I think I can try to do the same with her. I mean, we used to spend a lot of time together, back then.” 

“You didn’t answer my question,” Lance pestered, looking nervous the longer Merlin dodged the subject. 

Merlin waved him off. “I’m just not sure what I could do that would make her remember. I’m not sure I have any idea how we even met.” 

If he had to do something that reflected his younger self and his relationship to Guinevere, then he might be able to recreate conversations, or mannerisms. He tried to wrack his brain, staring intently into his cup, as if the swirling black could give him any reprieve. Everything was a little fuzzy, and it wasn’t like he could ask Lancelot about it, the man hadn’t even arrived in Camelot until months after he’d become Arthur’s manservant, and he’d met Gwen on his very first day. 

He had gotten in trouble with Arthur after he had called him names for being a bit of an ass. Maybe he was chasing him around the market? One way or another, he remembered his first time being tied up in the stocks, where Gwen had come up to him and…

He pressed his knuckles to his forehead, screwing his eyes shut. It was like he could taste the cabbage in his mouth as she approached, all shy smiles and swirling skirts. She had called him brave, he remembered, and he had said it was stupid. He was right, of course, and Gwen was quick to agree, saying that he was good to run away. He didn’t seem like one of those muscly fellows, she had told him, and he had grinned and thanked her. He felt the familiar sting of grief at the back of his throat, his eyes going misty, how could he have forgotten it all?

“Gods above, I have no idea how to do this,” He muttered to himself, rubbing his eyes and turning back to Lance, who was watching him cautiously. “I won’t turn you into a frog,” He said, at last, and then smirked. “But I definitely could.” 

“You frighten me,” Lance admitted, deadpanned, his face straight and his eyes wide. Merlin winked, and they shuffled their way towards the table and Gwen. He had to pull over a chair, setting it down almost exactly opposite to the other two, who were knees apart, sans the slight curve of the counter top. 

“So,” he began, conversationally, at the same time Lance blurted, “Merlin has magic!”

He turned to the other, slowly, working his jaw, and the woman between them looked up from her screen, startled, unsure of which one of them she should focus on. 

“What?” She said, almost-laughing, and her boyfriend hid his head in his hands. “Like, he’s a magician?” 

Merlin shrugged his shoulders. “I know a few parlor tricks. Cards, scarves out of sleeves, the works.” 

“No,” Lance bemoaned, voice muffled by his palms. “He’s the literal reincarnation of the wizard Merlin from legend.”

Gwen moved her gaze across the table, skittering along the salt and pepper shakers and jam packets, then pausing on him. She opened her mouth, her eyebrows doing a funny dance in creasing the lines on her forehead, then the skin above her eyelids. He picked up his cup of coffee, taking a few big gulps that burned the back of his tongue, then he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. 

“I would tell you to check your pocket to find your ‘card’, but I think it might just get me in trouble,” He admitted, slowly, and cracked a smile. “Let me reintroduce myself,” He cleared his throat, then offered his hand again. “I’m Merlin Emrys. I’m here studying painting and art history, and you, and Lance, and a ton of other blokes running around here are actually…versions of older souls that’ve undergone metempsychosis,” He paused, thinking. “Or reincarnation I guess is the easier term.” 

“You’re taking the piss,” She told him, flatly. 

“Check your pocket,” He told her, and his eyes flashed gold. 

She startled, an almost miniscule flinch, instinctual if the frown pulling at her lips had any say. He sat back, holding his hands in his lap, trying to look calm and patient. Gwen exhaled sharply, lifting one of her hands carefully and plunging it directly into the pocket of her cardigan. She looked blankly towards Lance, who was peering at the scene before him between the gaps in his fingers. She slowly pulled her fist out, turning her wrist and holding out her palm. There lay a single, tiny flower bud, just the edges of purple forming at the lips of the bulb. 

“What the fuck,” She muttered, and he coughed into his elbow, finding his throat suddenly hoarse. She stared up at him, her lips pursed, and when he held his arm out to her, palm facing upwards, she deposited the bud into his hand. 

“I know it’s a little early for lilacs, but,” He cupped one hand over the other, then pressed both of them side-by-side, giving full display to the actively blooming flower in his palm. He allowed a small part of himself—a well deep in his stomach—to pulse into the very fiber of the plant over his skin. The color brightened, and the petals opened around the stem, cluttered and leisurely. “I hope your favorite color is still purple.” 

He picked up the flower by the stem, placing it on the table in front of her computer, feeling a little awkward as the two of them stared at him. Lance, the traitor, was slack-jawed as he watched the last petals unfurl, his face finally exposed to open air once again. Gwen reached for him, blind, and he met her halfway, pressing his lips to the back of her hand. 

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes wide as she glanced between the flower and Merlin. “I think you might have to pinch me, dear,” She stage-whispered to Lance, who was grinning. “Because I’m pretty sure I’m having the most bizarre dream about a wizard in a coffee shop.” 

“Warlock, technically,” He corrected, politely, and finished the rest of his coffee in a single swig. “But I’ve also been called other things. Sorcerer, dragonlord, wizard, too, a nuisance, and my personal favorite: Dragoon! The Great!” He proclaimed the title dramatically, rasping his voice, a horrible imitation of his older persona. “I came up with that last one myself. Arthur was so mad he couldn’t catch me. And, well, it was me, so I couldn’t do all the work, as usual, to stop the ‘crazy sorcerer’ of the week. He never stood a chance,” He sighed, trailing off into nostalgic contempt. 

Gwen let out a high-pitched sort of hum, her knuckles white in Lance’s hand. She was blinking hard, her eyes unfocused, and he sat up a little straighter. Had he…made her cry?

“Gwen?” Lance said, quietly, urging her to speak. She shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line as tears began to drip from her eyelashes. “Guinevere,” he tried, more urgently. 

She finally drew her eyes back towards him, her mouth beginning to move, but no sound escaping. Her lips curled and tensed, silent breaths leaving her tongue, forming words that would never meet the air. “Lancelot,” She gasped, and pressed her face into his shoulder, sudden and shaking. 

“Holy fucking Questing Beast,” Merlin muttered, and Lance held her, giving him a quick, triumphantly smug look over her curls. He tried to be overjoyed, but there was one thing stopping him: he still had no idea what he had done to make her remember.