Warnings: implied past suicide, slash or not is up to interpretation. Modrern, Reincarnation, immortality, angst.
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Rain.
The sky has cried all evening, her tears lightly touching the ground. They fall and drench Merlin's hair, plastering the strands to his skin. He is soaked, clothing clinging heavily to him, as he walks down the rainy street bustling with people and lights and so many things which he has had to grow accustomed to, the last hundred years or so.
It is in the midst of the rain, he finds Arthur.
A skinny youth–barely a man–hiding under a box in an ally, a youth like an unwrapped present shivering and cold. Upon further inspection, Merlin finds that he hasn't had food for some time, his body more bones than anything.
With nostalgia looming in the back of his mind, from a thousands years ago of Arthur's complaining of his poor eating habits, the warlock reaches out to his long-lost friend.
A weak hand swats Merlin's away. "Get away from me! I don't need your help!" a younger voice attempts to yell. The youth moves, curling further into the wet and smelly box.
Defiant and alert, once-royal eyes meet Merlin's blue ones. A dirty brown blanket wrapped tightly around Arthur's body acts as a shield.
Merlin smiles, offering his hand once more, "My name is Merlin. What is yours?"
The immortal warlock almost laughs as he watches the other male huff, Arthur lifting his chin in pride despite the state he is in. Not even reincarnation could filter out the stubbornness that is the Prince.
From under long black eyelashes, Merlin standing in the rain, observes this new Arthur, skinny as a bone, very dirty, living in a box in an equally dirty alley, within an equally dirty city.
If it hadn't been for the strong pull of destiny within this valley of buildings, which Merlin had felt consume him twenty years ago, alerting him to the rebirth of his prince, he would have left the sorry place for greener pastures.
A long, silent stretch of moments pass between them. Merlin's gaze never falters and Arthur's defense never lessens.
"I'm sorry, Arthur." The words are spoken in a soft whisper, barely audible over the rain, cutting the silence and catching the younger one by surprise.
Merlin couches down, now eye level with the former prince and king.
'He has light, honey colored eyes this time,' Merlin notes, before he remembers next to whom he is couching.
Arthur, the King of Camelot, had brought prosperity to Albion in a time of great suffering, righting the wrongs of his father and the past.
A man of legends, fables and now television shows…
A man who now and for centuries, thanks to Merlin, has been living so many lives carrying so much baggage…too much baggage.
Baggage, for which Merlin is responsible because of the selfishness in his youth. He dabbled in the dark arts of which he had no understanding, because he could not accept his friend's fate, dying within the grassy blood-red fields of Camlann.
Yet, Arthur died by his own hand during his last rebirth, all thanks to Merlin and his selfishness.
He knew there would be a price to pay; he never thought the price would be Arthur's to bear.
Merlin tries to smile, offering his hand one more time.
His cheerful expression falters, an ancient sadness and guilt that has weighed him down for centuries reveals its old, ugly face. The rain pours down harder upon the earth as if competing with Merlin's dreary mood, as the immortal warlock with tears in his eyes, begs the former King.
"I'm so sorry, Arthur…"