Author's Notes: This was written for the Merlin Reversebang, where you create stories from art instead of creating art for a story. Thanks, love and all the glomps and chocolate in the world to Matchboximpala for her gorgeous art and Emjayelle for all her help with the story! 3 (Go find Matchboximpala and me, Nympha_Alba, on AO3 to see the art masterpost and the art imbedded in the story.)

Thanks also to Led Zeppelin for the cheesy titles and story/chapter quotes : ) (From their song Battle of Evermore.)

the beads of time pass slow
dance in the dark night, waiting for the eastern glow

CHAPTER 1 – DRAGON OF DARKNESS

the sky is filled with good and bad, the mortals never know

CAMELOT, THEN

There were words and concepts that Merlin wouldn't learn until centuries later, like static noise, or interference. For now, as he watched the boat glide out on the mirror-still surface of Lake Avalon, he only knew there was a strange, hissing noise in his ears and something in the air that faintly obscured the view, like falling ash or a snowfall in the middle of summer.

It ought to have been a serene and dignified moment, this farewell to the King of Camelot. Instead, Merlin stood on the lakeshore wanting to sob and rage, kick and scream, or use his magic to make the earth erupt. But it wouldn't help, it wouldn't make him feel better, because it would change nothing. Arthur was dead and with him the Golden Age of Albion, and any hope that Merlin would ever be more to him and to the kingdoms than he had been before. The turning Merlin had waited for all those years would never come to pass – the Camelot where magic would be allowed, accepted, even revered would never come into existence. The Camelot where magic would be used for good. And if Merlin had been born to serve Arthur, what would become of him now that Arthur was dead? He was nothing, nothing without his king, only a sorcerer with no use for his magic. A man who hadn't even been true to his word.

I swear I'll protect you or die at your side.

In the end he had done neither. Now he could only stand on the lakeshore and watch the swirling mists open up to receive Arthur's body. Deep at the core of Merlin's being, underneath the painful turmoil of his emotions, was the strange, cold sense that everything had come to a halt.

That time had stopped.

x x x

The journey back to Camelot felt endless.

If he'd had a choice he wouldn't have returned at all. In Camelot, everything would remind him of Arthur and what had been, but equally of what could have been, should have been, and would have been if Arthur had only listened or if Merlin had been quicker, braver; would have been if only Morgana hadn't… Merlin stopped himself. There was no use to dwell on if only.

So instead here he was, tired to the bone, slowly making his way through the woods back to the place he least wanted to go.

Return he must. He owed it to Gwen to tell her in person what had happened to Arthur, at whatever cost to himself. Telling her the truth would mean revealing his magic, but perhaps that cat was already out of the bag and the news all over Camelot by now. Perhaps he would be met at the gates by an executioner.

Despair sunk in his stomach and seeped into his bones like a chill. It was all the same to him now anyway. He didn't care who knew.

Approached by Saxons on the way, Merlin didn't stop to find out what they wanted, only dispatched them with a flick of his hand and walked on without a twinge of conscience. What did it matter?

Arthur was dead.

x x x

The first time Merlin had seen the towers of Camelot, his heart had skipped. Camelot, the golden city, filled with possibility and promise.

This time, there was no hope in Merlin's heart as he neared the city walls.

But nothing happened. The guards greeted him with nods and smiles, and Merlin returned their greeting, confused.

When he opened the door to the court physician's chambers, Gaius straightened his back from where he'd been working on a potion and swept Merlin into a hug.

"Dear boy," he said. "Did you take Arthur to…?"

Merlin only nodded. There was nothing else to say.

Gaius had made some of his usual, awful soup, but Merlin had no more than sat down and lifted his spoon before a pageboy knocked at the door, out of breath with the importance of his errand. The Queen requested Merlin's presence in the Throne Room.

Merlin's heart beat fast as he stood before her in the vast hall. She looked small but determined, every inch the Queen of Camelot, beautiful in a purple robe stitched with silver and the tiniest of seed pearls, with her hair in intricate braids and a gemstone on her brow. Her eyes were filled with pain.

"Merlin," she said stiffly. "I'm glad you're unharmed. Gaius told me you were taking Arthur to… to where he might be healed, but now you've returned without him. Am I right to think that this means…?"

Her voice broke off as if she couldn't bear to say the words, and Merlin took a deep breath. He didn't know how to say them either, how to get them across his lips and past the pain in his chest, but she had the right to know. The Queen deserved to know the truth, and all of it.

When Merlin had finished his report, her face was streaked with tears.

"Oh, Merlin," she breathed.

Her skirt swept the floor as she ran up to him, and when she threw her arms around his neck she was Gwen again - kind, wise Gwen, Gwen the blacksmith's daughter; Merlin's first friend in Camelot who had remained kind and loyal ever since.

He held her to him, buried his face in her hair, trying to let her strength calm him.

"I know what you did for us, Merlin," she said, "out on the battlefield. I asked Gaius who the sorcerer was. No, he didn't give you away," she added hastily when Merlin started, "he only implied, but I think I already knew. Thank you, Merlin, for everything you have done for us."

Merlin closed his eyes and took a breath before stepping away from her, holding her at arm's length and searching her face. "So, what will you do?"

The smile she gave him was watery and weak. "About you?"

"Yes, about me, about magic. I expected to be met by an executioner when I arrived. I expected gallows in the courtyard. What will you do, Your Majesty? Will you burn me at the stake?"

Gwen didn't even blink.

"Stop it, Merlin," she said, and he wasn't sure whether she meant the use of her title or his questions, or both. "I believe magic users are like everyone else. There are always good and bad people, so why would sorcerers be any different? I know you, Merlin, and you are no more evil than I am. There will be no persecution of magic users in Camelot under my reign, I promise you that." She paused and glanced up at him. "Arthur would not have objected, I think, given time – he started out on that path when he sought peace with the Druids. This is only the next step. If he had known that you have magic…" She stopped herself and swallowed. "Did he, Merlin? Did you tell Arthur?"

Merlin hated crying in front of people but there was no stopping it now. Besides, Gwen was still crying, too, and if grief was not reason enough for them to cry, then what could be? Tears were running down her face and dripping from her chin onto her stately dress.

"Yes," Merlin whispered. "I told him."

"And how… how did he take the news? What did he say?"

Pain sliced through Merlin afresh at the memory. "He wanted me out of his sight." This was harder than anything he'd had to say before. "I should have told him long ago, Gwen. He was frightened, and hurt, and…" Merlin stopped and took a breath. "But in the end, he went with me willingly. He had accepted the truth by then, I think, or at least realised that there was nothing he could do. And along the way to Avalon, when he'd had time to digest it a little, I believe he felt… ashamed. He knew in his heart that I had only ever used my magic for him, to help. To protect."

"Oh, Merlin," Gwen whispered and touched his cheek. Her hand came away wet. "I know you meant the world to Arthur. He depended on you. He was so terribly disappointed when you didn't come with us to Camlann, and he missed you so. But then, one night, the… the last night, he said you spoke to him in his head – he said you told him to send knights to meet Morgana's ambush force. I thought he'd only dreamt, but now I think it must have been true. Was it? Did you talk to him…?

"Yes." Merlin picked up his story again, and this time he left none of the magic out.

When he had finished, Gwen was sobbing into her hands.

Merlin's voice was thick when he said: "The Once and Future King. Arthur will return, Gwen, but I don't know when that will be. Next year, fifty years, a hundred? All I know is that I have to wait for him. However long it takes, I have to wait."

"But what if it does take a hundred years?" Gwen whispered. "Or three hundred?"

The air between them shimmered with ash or snowflakes, distancing them from each other; Merlin enclosed in his own, small space where the atmosphere was different. A bubble. A crystal.

"I have a feeling," he said slowly, "that even if it does take three hundred years, I will still be here."

Gwen gave him a doubtful smile, but he didn't want to tell her what Balinor had said in the Crystal Cave: that Merlin was magic. That Merlin would always be.

x x x

Camelot was empty without Arthur, lifeless and cold, and Merlin knew he couldn't stay. It would drive him mad.

When he went to see Gwen and say goodbye, he knew it didn't come as a surprise to her. She had already seen it in his eyes.

"I had hoped you'd choose to remain in the end," she said quietly, "but I see that you've made your decision. What will you do, Merlin? Where will you go?"

He shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. For a time, though, I'll go to Ealdor and stay with my mother."

Gwen's face softened in a smile. "I'm glad to hear that. She will be happy to see you." She reached out for his hand. "But when will I see you again? You will come back, Merlin, won't you?"

That he could promise her. "Wherever I go, whatever I decide to do, I'll come back from time to time to see you and Gaius. And if for some reason you should need me, just take this in your hand and call my name." He pressed a small, clear crystal into her palm, one he had put in his pocket when he'd left the Crystal Cave. "I will come to you with the speed of the wind."

She hugged him then. "Is there anything you need, Merlin, that I can send with you? I mean, I know you will not need a guard of knights for protection, but is there anything else I can give you?"

"Your good thoughts, Gwen. I'd be happy to have those."

There were tears in her eyes. "No need to ask for that, Merlin. You will always have them."

x x x

"Your garden grows well," Merlin said to Hunith as they strolled side by side along the vegetable beds in the soft, still evening. "What about your house? Are you pleased with it?"

The cottage was sturdy with a skilfully thatched roof, built for her as a thank you from Arthur and Gwen. In the orchard, apples were ripening, and the herb garden would have won Gaius's approval.

"How could I not be pleased?" Hunith smiled up at her son. "It was built with love. It's in the structure. I can sense it in the walls." As they sat down on a bench under the large chestnut tree, Hunith asked cautiously: "How is Gwen holding up?"

Merlin looked down at his hands. He was so tired. The exhaustion went too deep to be explained by his journey here. "Very well. Better than I had expected. She is strong and I know she will be a good and just Queen."

"Yes," Hunith says. "Gwen is a good woman. But does she have the support of the court? Of the knights?"

"Whole-heartedly." Merlin closed his eyes for a moment. The strange ash was still dancing before his eyes and his mother's voice seemed to come from far away.

She noticed, of course. "What's the matter, Merlin? Are you unwell?"

"No," he replied, but he was far from sure.

He had forgotten who it was he was talking to.

"Let's get you to bed," said his mother firmly. "Now."

Merlin didn't like trying to sleep. Whenever he closed his eyes, his memories shone too brightly, the images were too intense. Arthur golden against the blue sky, laughing; Arthur with hard eyes and set mouth on the battle field. Arthur dying, begging Merlin to hold him. No ash there. No snowflakes. Clear and sharp.

But it was surprisingly good to feel like he was six years old again, good to be steered into the house by his mother's firm hand. Sleep claimed him as soon as he put his head on the pillow.

x x x

Like so often, Merlin dreamed of his father. There was always a wistful quality to these dreams, as if even in his sleep he knew it wasn't real but centered around things past, things lost.

He slept all day and all night, and most of the next day. When he woke, the afternoon light seeped through the fruit tree outside and made trembling, dappled shadows dance over the walls.

After a meal of bread, cheese and an apple, he felt refreshed and ready for what needed to be done.

"Mother, please sit," he said. "There's something I need to ask you."

Hunith turned a wooden bowl upside down over her bread dough and cleaned her hands before she faced Merlin across the table.

"Is it about your father?"

He smiled at her, nodding. She had always seen straight through him and he loved her for it. As a child he had resented it. Now it made things easier.

"Has he ever come back to you?" he asked. "I mean, after… after his death."

She didn't recoil as he had expected her to. Instead, there was a softness around her mouth and in her eyes. "Yes. He came to me when you went to Camlann, and once before that. It's been a comfort to me."

"When I met him in the Crystal Cave," Merlin said, "he told me something strange. He said that I am magic. He said that I will always be, as he will always be."

"Because he is magic just like you are."

Merlin leaned back and closed his eyes. "Kilgharrah said that Arthur will return. That he is the Once and Future King." He opened his eyes again and reached across the table for his mother's hand. "It frightens me, Mother, not knowing. What does it mean, that I will always be? Will I die and live on as a spirit, like my father? Or will I be here as I am now - unable to die?"

Hunith shook her head, biting her lip as she squeezed his hand; her eyes brimming with sympathy. "I don't know, Merlin. I don't know much about these things."

But deep inside, Merlin thought he did know, and only wanted to be contradicted. When Arthur had died in his arms in the sweet-smelling, dew-wet grass, something irreversible had happened to Merlin, too.

x x x

Merlin avoided Camelot for a long time.

The rush in his ears that had begun on the lakeshore had never left him. It was a noise like the whisper of wind in the trees, like the sound of a distant waterfall. The shimmer in the air was a screen between him and the rest of the world.

Constant motion was the only thing that soothed him and he began to wander far and wide. New people, new places, anything and anyone that was not reminiscent of Arthur.

It was a fruitless task.

Over the years, Merlin became a familiar sight all over Albion, both as a young man and as the old, frightening wizard that some remembered seeing against the blood-red sky at Camlann.

People stepped aside to make way for him. Some bowed.

The young Merlin was kind with a quick smile that dimpled his cheeks but did not quite reach his eyes; the old man was gruff and grumpy, impatient with the world. Both kept to themselves. Both carried a staff they never let out of their sight. Both harboured a deep sadness.

x x x

When it became apparent that Merlin did not age, he made his first visit to Camelot since Arthur's death.

Although his mind felt ancient, heavy, cluttered and over-furnished, he was physically unchanged from the last time he'd been there, frozen in time in his mid-twenties unless he chose to alter his form.

It was a strange feeling, entering Gaius's chambers that used to be Merlin's as well. Gaius was very old now, stiff-jointed and unable to move around much. His chambers were more comfortable than Merlin remembered them – made so at Gwen's insistence, he was told.

In the afternoon light, Merlin sat opposite Gaius by the window in his own old room, which now served as Gaius's bedroom. He placed his forearms on his thighs as he leaned forward to meet Gaius's watery eyes.

"I don't age," he said quietly. "It's like I suspected, like I said to you all those years ago. I'm trapped. Trapped in time."

Gaius sat back against the cushions in his high-backed chair, his old hands like claws on the armrests and his voice cracked, weak with age. "So are we all," he replied, "so are we all in a way. We are forced to go forward, forced toward our death. But you are trapped in a different way."

"Yes," said Merlin bitterly, "I'm doomed to be different, always. I feel old and tired, Gaius. An old man's soul trapped in a young man's body."

Gaius's laugh was a cackle. "Many would envy you that, my boy! They would give anything to have what you have. Most of us suffer the opposite fate – in our minds we still feel young, but we are trapped in an ageing body that plays us painful tricks and won't do our bidding."

"I don't know which is worse," Merlin murmured.

"I do," said Gaius, who was very serious now, with something like sympathy in his eyes. "When death comes for me, which will be soon, I will welcome it. I am tired to the bone. If it is as you believe, Merlin, that escape is not open to you."

"I'm sure I'm right," Merlin whispered. "I'm sure that's how it is. I will not die, not when I've lived the lifetime of a man and possibly never. Death, or the certainty of it, is what brings meaning to people's lives, isn't it? There is a definite end – let's live while it lasts, it will be over all too soon... So what about me then, Gaius? What is the meaning of my life? What can I do to bring meaning to it? I can't live like this."

They sat a while listening to the rain. It was spring and all the buds were ready to burst open and bloom, the birds were singing and the air was heady with the scent of early blossoms. Only Merlin felt old and wizened, older in heart than the man before him.

At long last, Gaius said: "Arthur. That is the only way I can see it. Arthur is the reason you are trapped in time, and his return must be the meaning."

Merlin closed his eyes. "But how long will that be, Gaius? I can stand it for a hundred years, perhaps. But what if it takes five hundred? Six?" He did not add: What if it never happens?

Gaius reached out to pat Merlin's knee; it seemed to take an effort. "I don't know, my boy. I don't know. But the Great Dragon said that Arthur would return, and hasn't he been right before?"

Merlin had to nod, because what Kilgharrah said usually did come to pass, if not always in the expected way. Perhaps he had not meant that Arthur would actually physically return. Perhaps it had been a metaphor, a symbol like the two sides of a coin. Perhaps Arthur would never return at all, and then what would become of Merlin?

x x x

The only time Queen Guinevere used Merlin's crystal was when Sir Leon disappeared.

"He left me a note," she told Merlin shakily, "saying he needed to leave to try to find out what is happening."

"Have you any idea what he may have referred to?" Merlin asked, watching tears tremble in her eyelashes and wondering how much Leon really meant to her.

"None."

"Are there border problems? Uprisings? Rumours of attack?"

Gwen shook her head and swallowed a sob. "No, nothing."

Merlin reached for her hand. "I will try to find him."

"Thank you, Merlin – if you can't find him, then no one will."

But Merlin never found Leon and did not hear so much as a rumour of his whereabouts.

x x x

One by one Merlin began to lose them, all the ones dear to him: Gaius, his mother, the knights.

Queen Guinevere's reign had been long and peaceful and her aged face was still beautiful in death, her white hair strewn with diamonds and her hands folded over her chest. She was the last, and the grief was too bitter for Merlin even to cry.

He remembered them all and would never forget: Will and Freya. Lancelot, Elyan and Gwaine. He remembered their faces and their voices, the way they had laughed, the way they had died. He remembered how the sword had felt in his hand, the resistance as it pierced Morgana's body. His hand recoiled at the memory, seeking the warmth inside Merlin's coat, at his chest. He remembered, oh, he remembered, the weight of Arthur lying wounded in his arms, the chill of the armour. He remembered the emptiness in his heart as the boat carried Arthur across the water, the moment when the mist descended and the constant hum began.

Watching Gwen's dead face truly brought it home – that this was what Merlin's life would be like. People would come and go, time would flow and they would move with it, and Merlin alone would stand still. He would meet new people and perhaps learn to love them, but they would only exist for a short, finite period of time and then leave him lonelier than before, a very old man trapped by time and magic in a physically unchanged, cruelly young body.

Arthur would rise again when Albion needed him. It was of little matter, because Merlin needed him now, had needed him then, would need him always.

x x x

Merlin dreamt of Arthur's face. He saw the familiar teasing grin, the grim determination on the battlefield and the rare, affectionate smile, but above all he saw Arthur's face in those very last hours; his lips pale as death began to claim him, his blue eyes clouded with pain. In the dream Merlin reversed the series of events, made Arthur jump aside so Mordred's sword only cut through air. He stopped Arthur going to Camlann; he rewound time and revealed his magic to Arthur at the beginning of the good years, and stood by Arthur's side to unite the land, changing history and fate.

When Merlin woke up with his face itching with tears, Arthur's voice rang like a faint echo in his head:

I want you to always be you.

Yes, he was still Merlin. He would always be Merlin.

Always was a cruel word.

x x x

Constant travelling did not only quell Merlin's boredom but was prompted by necessity as well. If he stayed too long in one place, people would notice.

Sometimes he turned himself into the old, white-bearded Merlin so his body would reflect his mind, for the satisfaction of feeling his bones creak and his steps slow. A kind of balance.

From time to time he used his magic, but the events of the world overwhelmed him. He could not change history, could not influence the way things evolved. Politics and wars were too complex and vast, and magical solutions only temporary. The best way to use his magic was to make a difference for one person, one situation at a time.

With Arthur absent, this was the only meaning that Merlin had been able to find.

Sometimes he lay awake at night and remembered how he had loved Arthur, a love that went well above and beyond the feelings of a trusted servant for his king. Now and then a look in Arthur's eyes had made Merlin believe that his feelings were requited, but neither of them had ever let on, never acted on the impulse.

The most intimate moments had been after a long day riding or training with the knights, when Merlin had had Arthur's bath ready and Arthur had allowed Merlin to wash him. Merlin had pushed the sleeves of his tunic above his elbows as he'd watched firelight flicker over Arthur's pale skin. As Arthur undressed, Merlin had taken garment after garment and placed them in a neat pile, and when Arthur had got into the tub Merlin had rubbed the wet washcloth gently over Arthur's shoulders and back, and then around to his chest and stomach. They had never spoken in those moments, but Merlin would never forget how his lips had almost, almost touched the back of Arthur's neck, or how he had held his breath as Arthur had taken the cloth to see to his intimate parts himself, while Merlin had turned his back and closed his eyes, pushing away his desire.

x x x

Time taught Merlin how history was written.

Details were forgotten or blown out of proportion, facts were twisted until barely recognisable. He experienced the absurdity of becoming a legend, a character in a story that everyone knew and told, while he wandered around unrecognised. Arthur and Guinevere, Sir Lancelot, Sir Gawaine – the stories had a core of truth swathed in gauzy layers of fiction, and Merlin could tell that truth to no one. Who would believe him?

My name is Merlin – yes, that Merlin. I am six hundred years old. Would you like to hear about King Arthur?

No, that story was at an end or at least put on hold, the story of the sorcerer and the king and their unlikely friendship, of a love that was the only thing keeping Merlin from going insane. Sometimes he raged at the injustice of it all, but mostly he was resigned, because what was there to do? He was even denied death as an escape.

x x x

Once a year, Merlin paid a visit to Avalon.

The isle was a hill now, resting in a sea of grass. There was no water still as glass, no waves, only grass rippled by the wind. Merlin never looked straight at the hill. He couldn't. He walked past and stopped for a second the moment he could see it out of the corner of his eye.

But this time, there was something different about it. He sensed something new - something that made him stop dead.

He took a deep, steadying breath and turned to face the hill full on. As always, it lay half hidden in a dreamlike mist, but Merlin could feel Arthur's presence. It was faint but definitely there, the sense that Arthur lay sleeping.

The visits were easier after that - and harder, too, because of the wild hope in Merlin's heart. Perhaps one day, Arthur would sense Merlin's presence too, open his eyes and draw a breath, and return to the world.

x x x

The twentieth century brought many marvels but magic was long since dead, only to be spoken of in fairytales. Merlin felt like a relic of a bygone age, the only rock in the fast-flowing river of time.

By now he had learned of static noise and interference and knew how to describe the noise in his head and the falling ash that still danced before his eyes, obscured his view and never, ever left.

x x x

It was the mid-1980s when Merlin, old and bearded with long white hair under his wool hat, rented a flat in Lewisham and befriended his upstairs neighbour Emily because she reminded him of Gwen. He was tired, so tired of being lonely, and Emily's kindness to an old man warmed his dried-up, shrivelled heart. From time to time through the centuries he had allowed himself lovers, but had always had to leave before they noticed that he wasn't ageing, and always with the absurd, grating sense that he was unfaithful to Arthur. He knew he would never be able to love anyone the way he had loved Arthur, the way he still loved Arthur even after a thousand years.

For years, for centuries, he had avoided thinking about it, had pushed it away and created watertight compartments in his mind to stay sane, but his love for Arthur was the reason he had never allowed himself to be deeply involved with anyone. When someone fell in love with him, which happened from time to time, he ran from them. It was too painful; he couldn't respond. Only twice had he loved someone back, as much as he was ever capable of loving anyone who wasn't Arthur. Both of them had been men, both of them blond and handsome.

Emily had only met Merlin as an old man and regarded him as a grandfather. There was no risk of her falling in love with him, and he allowed her closer than he had anyone for a very long time. She seemed to enjoy his company, invited him for tea or a meal and came to cry on his shoulder when she had boyfriend troubles. Once she even took him to a comedy at the cinema and beamed when he laughed. Her kindness did him good.

Only once had he been sharp with her; the time when she had touched the oddly shaped crystal he kept in the kitchen window where it caught the sunlight and made it dance. She had backed away with a hurt look in her eyes, but the crystal was his only prized possession, the one thing he had left from back then, from the time when his life had still been a life, when it had been real.

When magic had begun to forsake the world entirely, Merlin had made one last visit to the Crystal Cave. Sooner rather than later it would disappear – cities were expanding and devouring rural land everywhere. He had allowed himself to wallow in the past and weep over Arthur, but had also tried to see the future. What he had seen he had not understood, a world so foreign he could not grasp it. He had taken one single crystal and put it in his pocket, and carried it with him through the years. Not even Emily could be allowed to touch it.

Sometimes - not often - he took it in his hand and saw the familiar images flash past. The world he had found so strange in the cave wasn't strange any more. It was the world he saw around him every day.

One summer evening when the sun hung low in the sky, setting the windows ablaze on the building across the street, Merlin made a pot of tea in his kitchen. Emily would be down in a few minutes, bringing biscuits. He used the electric kettle. He had nearly forgotten how to heat water with magic.

As he put the tea cosy (knitted by Emily) over the pot, he was seized by the strangest sensation. A premonition, perhaps, or a warning; an intake of breath before a shout, before a song at the top of his voice. The buzz and hum in his body ceased as abruptly as if he had flipped a switch. Everything in and around him was absolutely serene and still. The static noise vanished and made the world unfathomably clear; every little sound appeared clean-edged and sharp.

And time began to move.

At first it was only a trickle, as if an hourglass had been turned and the sands begun to flow, but it turned to a rush like a waterfall. All the centuries Merlin had lived, his millennium of staying a rock in a rapid river, broke their confines and cascaded through his poor body, his fragile human form. Catching up.

If he thought anything at all, it was at last. When the kitchen tilted sideways and the floor rose up to hit his face there was no fear or pain, only a sense of jubilant relief before he plunged into dark and light, into nothingness, soaring weightless in the void.

x x x

When Mr Emrys failed to open the door and didn't answer his phone, Emily called the landlord who unlocked the door. A pot of freshly brewed tea was still warm on the counter, but Mr Emrys himself was nowhere to be seen. A terrible sense of dread burrowed at the pit of Emily's stomach. When she spotted the red and green tea cosy in the shape of a tomato, she began to cry, and when the old man still hadn't turned up the next day, the landlord called the police.

Mr Emrys was never found.