Chapter 1: Once and Future Servant
He walks like a broken man along the side of the road; his back bent, his knees quaking beneath the weight of brittle bone, aged by too many centuries of use. Cars driving by slow their pace to look at him. They all wonder where he could possibly have come from, looking like that. Not only is he wearing a hat the size of a small mat; his clothes are oversized and made out of some sort of dark wool that probably hasn't been used to make clothes since the Dark Ages and his cane...well, it's more of a branch, really. Not to mention his beard.
Some consider stopping to give the poor old hobbling man a lift, but one horror story or another of people getting mugged or beaten or robbed always wins out against their better selves. Most, though, don't even pretend to care, and are content to continue on with their lives as though they never saw him. They might as well not have, for how quickly they forget they did.
The man knows what they see when they look at him, but only shakes his head pityingly and walks on, mile after painstaking mile. He knows what they're thinking, has had millennia to analyse and guess at people's thoughts and fancies himself something of an expert where the human psyche is concerned. Their thoughts, so far removed from a being such as himself, don't really bother him anymore. At least, that's what he likes to tell himself as he walks on by.
Sometimes though, he catches himself looking back at them fondly, with the kind of sentimentality one watches a child playing - two parts longing, one part nostalgia. He remembers, vaguely, what it felt like to be so young, even though old age has dominated the better part of his existence. (Not that being young had necessarily been that much better than being old was turning out to be, but moving around had certainly been easier). There was fondness there too; in the hazy memories attached to that sense of youngness. Those memories - and because he honestly doesn't know what else he could possibly do - is why he still waits. Why he's still searching.
Sometimes, while camping in the middle of a forest on a dark night, doubt creeps in. The old man doubts that the bony old hand holding the staff ever yielded a thing like magic. He doubts that the land he is standing on once went by a different name. He doubts that, long ago, he'd been the servant of a King. Worst of all, he doubts the dragon's words, and on those nights there is no sleep to be had. But he always gets up at dawn regardless.
He walks on, not led by any map, or mystical prophetic feeling or even by instinct. He walks, because not walking would mean not doing anything; because there is nothing else to be done, and doing nothing was never an option. Not when you've an eternity to fill.
Eventually, when the road forks to the right and turns into more of a gravelly path, he releases a shaky breath - though that isn't saying much, because when you're as old as the man is you're always shaking, for one reason or another. This time, it signifies relief.
The landmark that he has been vaguely heading towards is still there, has not yet been replaced by something else. Perhaps, he almost dares to hope, the same will be true for the place he once knew.
Every two hundred years or so Merlin comes this way, perhaps because he has a vague feeling that the castle he once called home had to have been standing around these parts. Of course, so much of the landscape has changed in the years that he's been away that he can't be completely sure, but the feeling remains and he likes to indulge it, if only so that he can pretend that he has somewhere to come back to. Even if he never explores the notion fully.
As he makes his way towards the location of the town that he remembers, houses start to appear and something deep inside of Merlin starts to relax. Cars and lamp poles might line the roads but the tiny gray brickwork remains the same - though a bit more worn - and trees still sprout defiantly in any little crack that might allow it.
In a world that likes to change far too quickly for an old man's comfort, it's a very welcome reprieve.
As he continues walking on what appears to be a major road people stare or avert their eyes as usual, but an unusual amount of people also seem not to pay him any mind as they go about their lives, which in turn brings a swing to Merlin's step that hasn't been there in a while. Eventually he decides to head deeper into the small town, choosing a smaller road over the large one that seems to continue straight on, probably leading out of town.
The smaller road is clearly made to be traversed on foot, though it is plenty wide enough for a small car, and most of the nearby buildings have the look of a home to them. That changes the farther into town that Merlin gets; the houses turn into smaller houses interspersed by shops until finally the shops take over. It all seems to culminate in a sort of town square with cobblestone streets that look to have been taken out of an old painting. It's almost too easy to imagine that a market like those that Merlin used to frequent as a young boy wouldn't seem too out of place in a town like this, and for a moment the old man has to close his beady eyes, lest the memories overtake him.
Less than ten seconds later he shakes his head and heads towards the first person he sees that doesn't instinctively shy away from him (he's become an expert at spotting them). He nudges his mind gently against hers, almost unconsciously, to make sure that despite not having spoken in close to fifty years he'll be understood.
It takes a moment for the words to rearrange themselves in his mind, but when they do he speaks unhesitantly.
"He-llo miss. Would you perhaps... happen to know...a cheap...place... where one...might spend... the night... in this town?" He wheezes out, his voice raspy with disuse but understandable nonetheless.
The girl, a young woman with light brown hair held back in a high ponytail, blinks wide brown eyes up at him for a moment, before answering, "Oh. Oh! Yes actually, 'at would be Mrs. Laughnyer's place. It's just up the road, third house ter the left."
She points to another alley diagonally across from them on the other side of the square, which Merlin assumes to mean that she wants him to start there. He can tell she's flustered so makes sure to smile extra kindly down at her as he takes her hand in his shriveled one and pats it gently a few times.
"Thank...you...miss."
She glances up at him and starts to say something back - probably a polite dismissal - but their eyes meet and she stops mid-breath. She seems not to notice the seconds pass as they stand there looking into each other, but Merlin knows better than to let it go on indefinitely. He smiles sympathetically down at her, not unfamiliar with the reaction, before turning away. He's been told his eyes can be arresting.
By the time she's looked down and opened her fist to find a crystal necklace nestled in the palm of her hand, he is long gone.
Merrighan never sees the man again, and if anyone asks about her necklace she tells them that it was given to her by a faerie (that usually shuts them up). The chain never breaks and the silver never fades, and when she gives birth to a daughter a few years later - a miracle, since by all accounts she'd been sterile since she was 15 - she names her Elvina Blue Branson. Elvina, meaning friend of the elves because it seems fitting; and Blue, after the old man with the bluest eyes she ever did see.
oOoOo
Merlin wanders down the busy street, counting to make sure he picks the right house. He needn't have worried. On the facade of the third house there's an old, worn sign proclaiming:
"Mums' kitchen and Lodgings"
It looks older than most people alive, but he's seen worse.
As soon as he steps foot inside he decides that he likes the place. It's rustic and dark but the wood gleams in the dim lighting and there's an air of homeliness that warms the soul. Well, that last part could also be attributed to the fire crackling in the hearth by the sitting area to his right, but seeing as Merlin stopped feeling cold about a thousand years ago, he thinks the point remains valid.
A wide-set woman with a kind smile suddenly comes bustling into the room, as if summoned by the opening of the door. She's drying her hands on her apron as he approaches the small desk area that he gathers to be the reception.
"Hello there. What canna dae fur ye today?" She asks kindly, seemingly unbothered by his haggard appearance.
Her strange mix of accents reminds him of a woman he met around these parts some years ago (he couldn't say how many), and he vaguely wonders - as he often does - if they might not be related. He's sure his own smile is nowhere as pretty to look at but smile back he does, because that's what you're supposed to do, isn't it?
"I would very...much...like a room, if...you have...any...available." He rasps out, vaguely irritated at how long it takes him to say such a simple thing, but trying valiantly not to show it (he's also been told that his scowl could scare a litter of kittens to an early death).
The words feel strange and foreign on his tongue, the newest nuances of the language having yet to settle fully into his mind. It always takes a while for his brain to adjust after every "update" (on a more positive note, he now apparently knows the word 'update'. Stranger and stranger, these new words get).
The woman seems a bit surprised - perhaps she had thought him more likely to come in seeking a drink than a pricy bedding, not that he'd blame her - but says hesitantly, "Aff course, sir. 'at woulds be forty eight pounds fur th' night."
If she looked surprised before that's nothing compared to her expression when he reaches into his weathered brown bag and draws out several crisp new paper coins (bills - damn it, he never got that one right).
He hands them to her and tries to look as kindly as an old man of over 1500 years can look when he asks, "Would it be... alright…if I payed... for four...nights… straight away?"
Off course, he could have just as easily made her want to give him a room for free should he have felt like it. There is something about this place, though, that makes Merlin feel...nostalgic. Money doesn't really matter all that much to him, anyway. He makes most of what he owns himself.
Either way, the woman gets over any misgivings she might have had about the moneys origins straight away, regaling him with another, even brighter smile, a curt nod and a, "Weel, then."
She introduces herself as Mrs. Laughnyer - Merlin might have guessed - and launches herself into the task of getting him settled in with a vigour that would have made weathered soldiers proud.
She shows him the sitting area - some folk like ter reid th' paper there in th' mornings - the dining room in the back, and the bar - though getting drunk is strictly forbidden as long as he's a guest of the establishment. Merlin only nods at the last bit and tries to look innocent, though he's unsure if he succeeds. Finally, she leads him up a pair of narrow stairs that lead to the rooms; his are down a long carpeted corridor, fourth door on the right.
Mrs. Laughnyer leaves him with a simple, "Dinner int parlour at seven."
Merlin closes the door behind her and heaves a great, shuddering sigh that rattles his old body down to its brittle bones. As soon as he lies down on the first bed he's bothered to rent in a couple decades, he starts to feel his eyelids drooping. He soon falls into a deep sleep, still clothed and with his most prized belongings clutched to his chest, sleeping like a child with his knees drawn up to his stomach.
No one is there to see the first tear fall, and when he awakens half a day later his mind lets the distant memory of a cherished voice fall into the mists, and then no one is left to remember, either.
oOoOo
- End of chapter 1 -
A/N: Hi! Just writing to tell you that I've wanted to write this story for a while but I haven't felt that I had the time (or the talent)...I still don't lol so chapters probably won't be very regular but I'll do my best if people like the story. Credit to my friend Aki for agreeing to look through this beautiful mess for mistakes - any that remain are my own.
A/N 2: Fyi English isn't my first (or second) language so don't hate *hides behind hands*. Any friendly corrections will be appreciated tho. Much love.