Merlin

An unfortunate consequence of immortality is that every new face looks familiar. There are only so many shapes of lips and angles of jaws and colors of eyes, and after a few centuries I gave up trying to keep them all straight in my mind. I often find myself staring at a person, trying to recall if I have met them before or if I'm remembering some long-dead ancestor of theirs. It got so bad that over the years the features and names blurred together in my memory and drove me, eventually, to isolation.

That is not to say that I am an unfriendly man- I consider myself quite cheerful, considering the life I have led. And it is not to say that I confuse everyone, because certain names and faces stick in my memory better than others. But there are only a handful of identities that I have never mistaken, and only because they are my oldest and most-cherished memories. The ghosts of those faces have haunted me for 2,000 years, during which I have seen features so achingly familiar that I wept at the impossibility of it. There were no descendants to which I could turn, no portraits I could find to ease my loneliness. Only my memories.

Gaius had had no children- he often referred to me as the son he'd never had. After he died I had sought out any relatives he might have had, but he was alone in the world but for those of us in Camelot. Gwen and Arthur had produced no heirs, though after his death Gwen visited Gaius every day for weeks hoping that she might have some final miraculous gift from the King. But it never came, and after a few years of urging from the council she took Sir Leon as her husband. I never felt that there was love between them, though there was certainly a great deal of respect and friendship. The two of them never had children, though whether that was by choice or by fate I never asked, and they never told. If Gwaine had had any illegitimate children, which I half-expected and even hoped for, I never found them. Only Percival had had a family, but the last of his line died out long ago, when the tales of Camelot were still considered history rather than myth.

For years I had searched, seeking out every last tie to the friends who fell to mortality while I was forced to continue, but there was nothing to find. Desperate to keep at least the memory of them alive, I'd cast a spell which allowed me to hold the vision of their faces and the sounds of their voices in my mind, so that when the ever-changing world consumed the reality of their existence, I held fast to the knowledge of who they really were.

So when I sat down this morning at the corner table in a tiny coffee shop I occasionally visited, ordered a cup of coffee, and prepared to lose myself in the numbing words of my book, the very last person I'd expected to ask me if I'd like a refill was Guinevere.

I jump, and then she jumps, and I stare while she readjusts her hold on the coffee pot in her hand. "Sorry-ˮ she blurts, and the voice is hers too. I blink, trying to match the image of Queen Guinevere with the girl before me. It is her face exactly, the same gentle brown eyes and flawless, nervous smile, but her hair is cut short and she is wearing jeans and a plain green t-shirt under a wrinkled apron.

"Um- sorry," I stammer, wondering if my spell is beginning to wear off. "I thought you were someone else."

She smiles the painfully familiar smile of our first meeting in Camelot, gushing friendly cheer and just a touch of awkwardness. "Sorry," she laughs. "Just me."

I catch myself staring again and clear my throat. "Are you new?"

"Yeah- I just started today," she answers readily. "I'm Gwen."

"Gwen," I echo, and I almost choke on the name. "Short for…?"

The girl named Gwen wrinkles her nose. "Gwyneth," she scowls. "Isn't that awful?"

"No," I say quickly, but I'm lying. She is not Gwyneth, and for some reason the change of name makes me feel disappointed.

But she just laughs. "It's alright, I'm used to it. Sorry, I don't think I asked your name."

"Oh, I'm-ˮ I pause, trying to remember which appearance I'm wearing. The skin on my hands is smooth- I'm young then, about her age, because I'm going to attend a lecture on Arthurian literature later this afternoon. "Morgan," I answer finally. "I'm Morgan."

"Nice to meet you, Morgan," Gwen smiles, extending her free hand to shake mine.

At least I'm not in the stocks this time, I think dryly, my mind spinning with the familiarity of our meeting. Perhaps I'm dreaming?

It wouldn't be the first time I've dreamed of meeting my friends again, but in my dreams they appear exactly as they had in Camelot. This girl's hair and clothes are enough to prove that she isn't a figment of my imagination, but I have no other way of explaining her.

"D'you want a refill?" Gwen asks, lifting the coffee pot slightly.

"Er- yes. Thanks."

She pours the steaming liquid into my mug, the handle of which I hold steady as I try to think of what to do next. Not much surprises me anymore, but this… how am I to react to this? This girl cannot be Guinevere. She clearly doesn't recognize me, even though I appear exactly the same as I had in Camelot, except for my clothes. And anyway, I was with her when she died- the last of them all, besides me. She had been old then, and sick, and I'd held her hand while the life slipped out of her. So how can she be here, young and beautiful and memory-less? How could she have possibly forgotten?

And yet here she is- modern, but unmistakably Guinevere. She flashes me her familiar brilliant smile and starts to turn away, and I am seized by the sudden fear that if I let her out of my sight I will lose her to the busy crowds of the city and never see her again.

"You're new here?" I blurt, trying to think of something to keep her from going.

"Yeah," she answers. "Just moved here a week ago. My boyfriend lives in town, and I wanted to be closer to him. I mean, not that I moved here just to be with my boyfriend," she continues hastily. "Obviously I wouldn't do that, but I'm studying at the University and it's nice to know someone in town, you know? My family's not from here, so he's all I've got, but it's good to be able to get out and live my own life." She breaks off, looking vaguely embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm rambling so much."

"No, it's ok," I tell her. "You said your… boyfriend-ˮ I stumble over the word and try not to let my sudden flare of hope show in my voice. If Gwen is back, is it possible that Arthur has followed her? "Your boyfriend lives in town?"

"Mmm-hmm," Gwen nods. "Lance is going to be a policeman. He's studying at the University too."

"Lance," I repeat, more to myself than her. Not what I'd been hoping for, but too much of a coincidence to dismiss completely. "Lance the policeman. He sounds nice."

She smiles at me again. "He is. We only met a few months ago, but it's strange… I feel like I've known him my whole life. Maybe we met as kids or something."

"Or in another life," I say quietly.

Gwen gives me an odd look, as if she's trying to decide if I'm making fun of her. "I just mean," I go on, hoping I haven't offended her. "You know, some people believe that when you meet someone and get on really well right away, it's because the souls recognize each other. And I mean- Gwen and Lance?" I smile in what I hope is a disarming way. "That's a nice coincidence."

She laughs. "You mean like King Arthur? My soul is Guinevere and his is Lancelot?"

"It could happen," I shrug.

"You're strange," she giggles, and then breaks off, horrified. "I don't mean that in a nasty way," she adds quickly, and my stomach flips at the familiar words. "You're just… funny. I like that."

When had she said that to me before? Not long after our first meeting, I am sure, but I can't recall the events surrounding her words. They were her words though- Guinevere's, my Guinevere's. The best friend besides Arthur I'd ever known. Not even my lifetime is long enough for me to forget the moments we'd shared- especially not with the added enhancement of my spell. How can this be happening?

"Do you come here often?" Gwen asks, covering up my silence with her unquenchable friendliness.

"Yes," I lie. I like coffee shops, and I've been to this one a few times before, but as a rule I try not to frequent one establishment over another.

"Good," she smiles. "Then I'll see you again?"

I push my confusion and questions aside and return her smile. "Yeah. That'd be nice."

She gives me a parting, dazzling smile and turns away, and this time I let her go.