One of These Times, We'll Get It Right
They came slow at first then repeated in abundance, chasing one another like a forest fire.
Arthur's first return was in 1348. He smelled like lake water and metal and couldn't understand what it meant to be alive again. Merlin cried and thanked every god he had encounter and pulled Arthur by his chainmail out of the water. His fingers caught and bled but he didn't stop until they were both dry.
But it was only a week before the Black Death caught in Arthur's pores and sank him low, back into the ground.
The second time, a hundred or so years later, Merlin was away, off in Persia, searching for a poet and learning new tricks. When he returned to Britain, he found Arthur unconscious on the shores of Avalon. He pushed his sopping hair away from his eyebrows and he kissed him hard and said, "I won't lose you this time." And still he did, when in less than a month, an arrow caught in Arthur's side and Merlin could not fix it.
It was after the third death that Merlin wanted to follow him down. He dropped himself like an anchor into the water and found no matter how he tried, the Lake of Avalon wouldn't shipwreck his lungs. So Merlin continued to live.
Again, during the Reign of Terror, Arthur returned. His chainmail was still speckled with Merlin's blood. Together, they were safe in countryside of southern Wales and Merlin's hand curled onto Arthur's collarbone like it was a port in a heavy storm. He was thin and raggedy and in need of warm air.
This time, it was Arthur who broke the promise that he would stay. On a weekend trip to northern France, a riot broke out and Arthur was shot dead.
In quick succession, the next five returns occurred.
1888: Arthur was murdered in Westchapel by an unknown serial killer.
1912: He drowned in the icy Atlantic, wearing a tuxedo suit.
1917: Drafted into war, shot down by a machine gun in Germany.
1930: It was so simple, and began with a fever.
1941: Bombed in the Blitz.
Each time, they lied to each other: this was the time he'd stay.
For some decades, it stopped. It was long enough for Merlin to dislodge hope from his insides and to replace his blood with gin and for the gold in his eyes to dim. He prepared himself for the next time destiny would cut him down.
But he waited, because he was Merlin and the man in the lake was Arthur and it wasn't just their fate to repeat this worn out story, but it was their choice. For the many brief moments they had together, maybe one day the years would piece together a lifetime.
Merlin would wait and Arthur would go to his grave and they knew he'd wake again to some new desperation and then some new violence.
In the 21st century, he came back again. Merlin wore a Sherpa coat and a beanie hat and thought god was a monster. Arthur swam himself out of the misty water. He said it wasn't their fault, it wasn't their doing. The universe just couldn't get it right. It hadn't figured out that they were supposed to spend their lives together. But one day it would.
And Merlin nodded, thinking of all the ways it would happen this time, how planes crash and cancer spreads and starving animals in the forest howl. But he just curled into Arthur on his sofa, whose hands paced back and forth on his spine, and said in a hush, "One of these times, we'll get it right."