Prologue

Nobody remembered him. Well, they remembered a version of him, a wrong, twisted version and for some reason that hurt more than anything, that they'd forget Merlin. Arthur had watched, here in his after life, as their stories were told less and less. Merlin became an old man. He went from brother to friend to mentor/weird old wizard. Sometimes he was even portrayed as bitter, it didn't suit him at all. Arthur watched, and he waited. Magic, it died out. And Arthur couldn't help despair for his brother, his Merlin, how alone he would be. Arthur got used to watching, watching as Merlin fought, hefting a gun and running bravely into the war. Watching as Merlin looked hopefully at the face of every soldier then crumpled, running to his tent and crying, all through the First World War, all through the second. He watched as Merlin sat, holding his gun firm in his hands, not agreeing with his orders but forced to go through with them, staring at the sky; "What would Arthur do"? And how often he would whisper that phrase. "Would Arthur be proud? What would he do if he were me?" So much death; men falling and screaming and agony and tense silence before the boom signifying more death. No man is worth your tears, no man.

The sun would rise, its golden rays peeking through the canvas, Merlin would sit and take a book from deep inside his jacket, his journal from Camelot. He decided to read about his adventures in Ismere this time, laughing slightly at his naivety. A warrior, he reads, learns to enjoy each day as it comes. Later he stood on the battlefield, gun cradled in his arms as if it were something precious. "Because," he whispered, as the tension builds, and muscles tense and hearts jump, "he knows it may be his last." He ran at the enemy with a roar. Many hours later, as the sun set, lighting the battle field bronze as it shone on splatters of blood and lit on the bodies of dead men; Merlin would stumble weary into his tent. "Are you proud of me Arthur?" He'd chuckle almost sadly, "Are you proud of me?"

It was in these moments that Arthur would almost cry. "Yes!" He'd yell, beating the divide between this world and the next. "Merlin!" And Gwen would come, accompanied by a sad Lancelot and rest a hand on his shoulder.

"Stop torturing yourself, Arthur, you can't do anything."

"Stop it!" Arthur had screamed, "That's Merlin, my brother, my little brother, and I can't do a thing!" Then Arthur had choked slightly, hands covering his mouth, "I can't do a thing." Gwaine bounded over.

"Let's go find a tavern!" Leon smacked him upside the head. Lancelot looked down at the world below, shaking his head slightly.

"No use dwelling in a land we no longer belong," Arthur had only felt more lost at that.

"Merlin," he'd whispered, unwilling to look away even as he was pulled back by his friends.

Arthur didn't think it could possibly get worse than that, watching Merlin fight and hope and get crushed over and over. But apparently it could, because now he couldn't find Merlin at all. He watched and watched, and scrolled through the world, searching desperate for that one face. It was straight after his magic went haywire and he got de-aged to a mere 4 years old, losing his memory and himself in the process. It had been kind of funny at first, watching a confused, tiny Merlin wondering the streets of London, even Gwen got invested in watching him after that. Only than Merlin was found and put in the care system, and it was no longer amusing, he was put in foster home after foster home, beat and abused. It was only a matter of time really, before he was found out. This young Merlin didn't understand that the bubbly, warm power inside him was bad. He healed his dog's broken leg. The last thing Arthur saw was the frightened animal shot, and a screaming Merlin being taken away and locked in an armoured government van.

Why couldn't it be when Merlin needed him? He would be back when Albion needs him most. How many people would die before that? Would Merlin join them? Arthur almost threw up at that, a tiny Merlin of only six years being tortured to the point of death to find the reasons behind his 'freakishness.' It was soon after Merlin being taken away that the burnings started, ordinary people, for magic had died many centuries ago. It was a modern purge, almost an enactment of the single most destructive event in Camelot's history. And Merlin was still missing.

I don't care if I have to fight a god, Merlin, I will find you. He determinedly ignored the voice in the very back of his head. What if he's already dead?

Somewhere in the world a little boy woke, his back hurt from the hard floor, and he wasn't quite sure he was meant to be caged. His mind was empty, blank, aside from flashes of a white castle and blond hair.

"Art," he called, as if his fantasy could rescue him, "Art, Art. Where are you?"

No one came.