Disclaimer: I do not own any of the BBC Characters. The only character I own is Claude.

Coolio.

"You've forgotten."

"Oh, most certainly, yes."

The man lowered his glass to the side table. The room was filled with the newest technologies and fashions. The windows opened to a lovely view of London, white curtains billowed in a wind that floated off the Thames. The couches, red and made with a hard English oak, seated two men across each other. One was extraordinarily young, the other an older man with a sharply cut beard. Plants around the room made it feel they were outside, but in fact were sitting in a doctor's office in the heart of London.

"Why do you think this?"

The younger of the two frowned, and averted his eyes to looking around the room. Beautiful painted iron designs on the doors. The ceilings were decorated with white and gold. The room felt light. "That's what they told me."

"Who?"

"The Doctors."

"At the Hospital?"

"No, at the wharf, yes, at the hospital."

The old man sat back and puffed out smoke from his cigar. "I'm trying to help."

The younger smiled apologetically. "Yes. Sorry. The Doctors. I know nothing of whom I used to be. It's been years. They said I would most likely never remember. Suppose they were right, of course, but I never looked for anyone to help my ailment."

"I see, yes. And how long ago was this?"

The man paused. "What year is it?"

A furrowed brow. "1909, sir."

"Oh, yes." Another pause. "I received the diagnosis in 1823."

The old man slowly lowered his cigar. "I do not take too kindly to jokes."

"Not a joke, sir."

"You mean to tell me you received this diagnosis in the year 1823 over 86 years ago? How old are you now? 24? 25? You'd be in your hundreds!"

The younger man stroked his chin, looking thoughtfully out the window nearest him. "Yes, that sounds right."

The older man, perturbed by the youngers unaffected attitude, sat back in the couch. He tapped his cigar and laid it down, grabbing his drink. He finished it off and turned to look over the younger man. He was wearing a rather fanciful suit, obviously tailored and very nicely kept. He had a grey vest underneath, plain and not flashy. His shoes, scuff free and black, were shiny. His hair was combed back with gel, and his face was clean shaven. Obviously a man of wealth, or perhaps with family in the upper-class. He had been polite entering the office.

"You believe this."

The younger turned, his blue eyes focusing on the old man. "Oh yes, I lived it. I have proof."

"Proof?"

"Yes sir."

"What did you say your name was again?"

"Ernest Stafford, sir."

"Claude Wingham."

"Yes, you introduced yourself when I arrived."

Claude grumbled. "Yes, I suppose I did. Well. Say I believe you, Mr. Stafford. Assuming of course that this is not some joke."

"My birth certificate."

"What of it?"

"I have none."

"You have none?"

"Correct. In England and Wales, the practice did not begin until 1837 and was not compulsory until 1875. I was 'born' in 1799, predating a birth certificate, therefore I have none. I've no parents either. I was attending school at the time of my accident, if we can refer to it as such, and they told me my name was Ernest Stafford. I was from southern England. I could not remember it, but this is what they told me and thus I believed it to be true."

"Yet you find it isn't?"

"I have not aged. Assuming I did not age before, how can I believe my birth year to be 1799?"

"Given the evidence, you cannot."

"No, I cannot. Assuming such would be foolish. At the time I attended Oxford, I lived with friends of mine. They told me they knew little of me before I had befriended them, and they allowed me to continue living there. I had few belongings, and had several times mentioned my own home on the coast. They did not recall it, and neither could I, and thus I continued my studies with them. It wasn't until several years after I had learned I was not aging."

"What did you do?"

"I left. I had graduated, receiving a degree in medicine, and came here to work. I worked on and off, realizing I was not aging, truly. I performed tests on myself— throwing myself off bridges, taking a knife to my chest, but all the same I would wake up washed on shore or with only a small cut. I could not die. I began to doubt what I'd been told. Perhaps it had been a lie I had constructed to my friends, and because they believed it the doctors had as well… and when I lost everything, so did I."

"You believe that you have lived much longer and…"

"…and often times changed my name to fit where I was."

"…and…"

"…and when I lost my memory, the last name and identity I had assumed became who I was. A rich, funded young man at Oxford who spoke eloquently and lived with rich socialites while studying. You believe me?"

Claude looked Ernest over. "I don't know yet. Why have you only just received help?"

"I've given up, I suppose. I felt as if talking it out would help me remember."

"Has it thus far?"

"We've only begun to sum up my problems."

"I see."

"Yes."

They lapsed into silence.

"1799."

"Supposedly."

"I want you to return. We can discuss you and your ailment and what has happened. I want to hear what you learned of the accident."

"Of course. There isn't much, I must warn you."

"We'll manage. Take this. Return next week and give it to my secretary. She'll show you in," he said, and nodded toward the door. Ernest grabbed the slip of paper. He stared at it a moment and then nodded. He disappeared out the door, humming some old tune even he did not recognize, and was gone.

"Unknown. I was found outside my dormitory. Blood down my neck and terrible wound at the base of my skull. They told me I was lucky to be alive. The assailant was long gone from when they found me, but a piece of wood with blood at its base was found not too far away."

"They never caught them?"

"No, of course not. Closed case."

"And you remember nothing?"

"Nothing. I woke up with only the words of other people. They told me who I'd been."

"Or who you pretended to be."

"Yes, I do not know if this is who I truly am or… something I might have made up."

"Say you were born in 1799, and perhaps you were always meant to never age. You aged until a point and stopped. Perhaps you already knew when you lost your memory and who you are is simply who you are, but you are rediscovering that you cannot age. You are at the beginning of an immortal life. What then?"

"Then this has all been for naught."

"But you don't believe that."

"No."

"Why?"

"It doesn't feel right," Ernest shakes his head.

"You trust a gut feeling more than common sense?"

Ernest paused. "Oh yes, definitely."

"Why?"

"My gut feeling is almost always right."

"Truly?" Claude snorts and scoffs.

"Oh yes."

"So, say you have lived for a long time and you've forgotten."

"Yes, what I believe to be true."

"Yes. Say this is the truth. Then what? Say you remember, what will you do then?"

"Evaluate."

"Evaluate what?"

"Myself. Am I truly Ernest Stafford or am I someone long forgotten to the ill-will of time? Am I truly an estranged young socialite who happened to know the right people or am I some poor mans son from Southern England? I do not know. I could never know."

"And what would you do then?"

"Live, I suppose. Continue what I'm doing now, but as Ernest. As I remain, I will change my name, presumably what I did before."

"But what is your purpose, boy? Why are you this way?" Claude asked, his voice rising. "Why do you not age? Why do you remain on?"

Ernest paused, not at all perturbed by Claude's outburst. "I've read about immortality. It's a myth, a legend. There's neither cause nor reason. It is nothing short of magic."

"Magic."

"Yes."

"Do you believe in magic?" Claude looks over the flowers on the table seriously. Ernest does not meet his eyes.

"Oh yes."

"Why?"

"I'm immortal, am I not?" he smiles faintly.

"We believe."

"We know," Ernest corrected. "If I am to know that I am immortal, something only mentioned along with witches and wizards and the like, then should I then also know that magic exists?"

"Theoretically."

Ernest scoffed. "Theoretically. A stupid word."

"You think?" Claude asked.

"No," Ernest admitted. "It's… helpful. Theoretically, I should've died in 1823. Theoretically, I should not be alive."

"All true."

Ernest nodded. He was sprawled out on the rose red couch, his hand underneath his chin as he stared into the lilies on the table. Claude was drinking his bourbon, sitting poised on the left side of the opposite couch from Ernest. It was mid-afternoon.

"How do I know you're not humouring me?"

"You don't," Claude replied.

Ernest sighed.

"Perhaps fate has something in store. Perhaps I was born too early, and so instead of dying and giving up its forcibly making me remain to wait for something."

"But what?"

"Who knows? Destiny? Fate? God? The Devil? Not I, surely. I may be living forever, but I am not omnipresent, Claude."

"I suppose not."

Ernest hmmmed.

They were sitting outside now, on the balcony. Black curled iron and brick surrounded them as they looked over the Thames. London was across them, sprawled out and energetic like a purring cat on its belly. Smoke billowed out around them, the industrial age headed full-throttle into the 20th century. Claude and Ernest were sitting on the outdoor furniture, plants and colors around them. Behind them, the French doors opened to their usual spots. This time, instead of sitting opposite, they sat next to each other to stare out into the distance. Behind London, there was nothing.

"So, Ernest, I've been meaning to ask. Why did you choose me?" Claude grumbled.

"You were the most reputable."

"Yes but why me? Why, our of all the other men you could have spoken to about your affliction, did you choose me?"

Ernest was seated lower in the seat than what would be deemed appropriate, one hand on his knee and the other on his forehead. "I don't know, Claude. Truly. I needed someone."

"And so I was it."

"And so you were."

They looked out over the Thames.

"Suppose I can do things."

"Everyone can do things, dear Ernest, you'll have to be more specific."

"I can do… special things."

"Such as?"

Ernest remained quiet. It was mid-morning, the earliest he had ever come. Sybil, Claude's secretary, had just delivered morning tea. Claude had begun his second cup. Ernest had barely begun.

"Such as… magic."

"Magic."

"Yes."

"Say you can do magic."

"Yes," Ernest stated, satisfaction showing in his eyes.

"What can you do?"

"Anything, I suppose."

"You suppose?"

Ernest frowned. "I haven't tested my limits."

"No?"

"No, I haven't. I can show you now though. Come." Ernest stood up and walked around the small set up and stood by the large windows. He brushed the white curtains to the side and gestured at cloudless sky. Claude stood and followed him. The man, large and healthy for his age, stood next to the young skinny man. Ernest had incredibly large ears.

"London."

"Not London. It's a very sunny day, yes?"

"Correct."

"Suppose it were raining."

Claude leaned over and peered out into the sky. "Impossible."

Ernest shook his head and told Claude to cover his eyes. The man did so and waited.

"Open them."

Outside it was storming.

Claude's eyes opened wide. He leaned up against the window, his hands leaving impressions on them, and he peered out as if he were a child looking into a candy store. "How did…"

"Magic," Ernest answered. "I've never done it so quickly before. I believe my ailment in 1823 certainly stunted my magic."

"You can perform magic," Claude replied.

"Yes."

"Magic."

"Yes."

"Who are you?" Claude turned to look at Ernest. The man had black hair, short but Ernest had mentioned it curled when it got long. His eyes were a startlingly blue and his skin was paper white, pale, typical of someone from England. His nose was long and he had an impish smile, when he did smile, but he looked tired. Claude supposed someone would be after living over one hundred years.

"I've been trying to figure that out," Ernest replied morosely, his eyes falling. He waved his hand and immediately the rain began to clear. "The spells… I suppose that's what they are called, are in Old English. I don't need to do them, but… they are there."

"Old English," Claude repeated, dazed.

"Oh yes. I simply know them."

Claude nodded and turned to sit back down. He walked over to the small bar cart and poured himself more bourbon. "Drink?"

Ernest shook his head. "No, it clouds my thoughts."

"Fair enough."

"So?"

"So, let's discuss magic."

"I've had a dream."

Claude looked up. "Have you?"

"Yes. I rarely remember my dreams."

"But you did this time."

"I did this time."

"And what did you dream of, pray tell?"

"A king. He wore a red cloak. He stood outside a citadel overlooking a crowd. He was telling them something and he was very angry. There was a pyre set."

Claude paused. "Not a dream, perhaps."

Ernest looked up, hopeful. "Memories?"

"Plausible."

"I thought as much."

"Tell me more," Claude insisted.

"It changes. There is a prince. He is a prat, really. Throwing knives at a servant. I challenge him. You see, I'm not watching, I am there. It is a memory!"

"Focus, Ernest."

"Yes, well, I challenge him. He asks who I am and I say… I believe I say I am a friend, although I've never met him. He is the son of the king. The king who was going to burn someone."

"Why were they being burned?"

Ernest shrugged.

Claude frowns. "Memories. They're returning. Talking to someone reawakens the mind. Perhaps it was the magic. Because that blow to your skull blocked it and it could not heal yourself."

Ernest seems to juggle the idea. "Not out of the question. So I lived when there was a king. We have a Queen now."

"And a Prime Minister."

"True, although this seems to be older… medieval."

"You think you're that old?"

"I'm older than 110, that is for sure. So perhaps I've lived since then. I've got no name to who I was, only a boy who challenged a prince to fight over a servant."

"So you were a valiant man!" exclaims Claude. "You were not a coward! That is an answer to who you are. You may not have a name, but you have discovered a bit of yourself."

Ernest nodded. "I was never one for injustice. So that remained the same." He grinned and it was the first real smile he'd given Claude since he'd arrived several months ago. It was impish and lopsided, like a small child who knew he'd done wrong. The big ears made the who look comical.

"So it did," Claude replied. "Anything else?"

Ernest deflated. The grin gone. "No, nothing."

"You look like you have news."

"I remember something. A name."

"A name? Well, boy, go on."

"You call me boy as if I'm not older than you."

Claude rolled his eyes and sipped his bourbon. "Humour me."

"Gwen."

"Gwen?"

"Yes, Gwen. She has dark skin and curly brown hair— don't make that face— she was the daughter of a blacksmith. She worked in the castle. She attended the Lady…. Lady… Oh, I didn't get that far. But I remember Gwen. She had a lovely smile." Ernest was looking off as if entranced by some distant memory. For him, it was.

Claude frowned.

"Queen Guinevere."

"You believe that's who Gwen was?"

Claude tapped the illustration on the book.

Ernest looked down and visibly deflated. "That's not the woman of my dream."

"That's Queen Guinevere."

"She's not a blonde."

"For heavens-sake Ernest—."

"It's not her," the man said, his eyes blazing. The rooms temperature dropped and outside lightning struck the tower.

Claude paused. "Yes. It's not her. But I do believe the women from your dreams is Queen Guinevere. She's the only woman in the history of England whose name would match with Gwen."

"King Arthur's wife?"

"Yes."

Ernest looked down at the book. Geoffrey of Monmouth. Sounded familiar. "You think I'm King Arthur?"

"I think the first person you'd remember would be your wife."

"I could not be King Arthur."

"But—."

"No, it's ridiculous."

"Uther?"

Ernest just laughed, as if the prospect was the most hilarious thing he'd ever heard. But he didn't know why.

"If we're looking at Arthurian legends, who had magic?"

Mer-lin!

"No, no. I'm sure you're stronger than you look. It's just… Arthur's one of these real rough, tough save-the-world kind of men and well…"

"What?"

"Yeah! What's not to like? I want to spend time with her but I need to get my father off my back. I can't order you to lie to the king, but I'll be a friend for life if you do."

"Morgana. Merlin. Mordred. Any number of people in the legends had magic. Merlin aged. He was an old man by the time he met Arthur!"

"But are we sure!?"

"Listen to me!"

"You know me, Merlin, I never listen to you."

"You're a prat!"

"He does not deserve your loyalty! He treats you like a slave!"

"That's not true."

"He cast you aside without a moment's thought."

"That doesn't matter!"

"But it must hurt so much to be so put-upon, so over-looked, when all the while you have such power!"

"That's the way it has to be!"

"Could the legends be wrong?" Ernest asked, lowering his book.

"Wrong?"

"Yes, wrong. Guinevere never went by Gwen, and yet I remember her as Gwen."

"Perhaps we are looking in the wrong place? Perhaps Gwen is not Guinevere."

"No, let's keep searching. This feels right. Gaius, I remembered that name last night. Let's start there."

"Balinor… is your father, Merlin."

"Do you think I sit around and do nothing!? I haven't had the chance to sit around and do nothing since the day I arrived in Camelot, I'm too busy running around after Arthur— do this Merlin, do that Merlin— and when I'm not running around after Arthur, I'm doing chores for you and if I'm not doing that, I'm fulfilling my destiny— do you know how many times I've saved Arthur's live? I've lost count— do I get any thanks? No— I've fought griffins, witches, bandits, I have been punched, poisoned, pelted with fruit, and all the while I have to hide who I really am because if anyone finds out, Uther will have me executed. Sometimes I feel like I'm being pulled in some many different directions I don't know which way to turn!"

"Merlin, what have we said about you trying to be funny?"

"I shouldn't."

"I'm scared Merlin. I don't understand anything!"

"My life has been marked out by destiny. If this is meant to be… I'm not afraid. I will gladly die, Gaius, knowing that one day… Albion will live."

Merlin!

"Merlin!"

Ernest fainted.

Claude stood some few years later on his balcony overlooking London. The Thames was busy and war loomed over the horizon in the rest of Europe. He drank his bourbon and his cigar was not far behind it. It was late afternoon and there was a light breeze around him. The air was warm, almost too warm, but it was still early enough in May where it was enjoyable.

"Enjoying that cigar?"

Claude turned.

Ernest was dressed in his usual suit. He'd let his hair down though, and his eyes were blue as ever. He smiled impishly and sat down next to Claude. He poured himself a glass of bourbon.

"How are you doing, Merlin?"

"Oh, alright. The usual, I suppose."

"No sign of Arthur?"

"No, none. Suppose I'll have to wait a little longer. Though my hundred year spout of forgetfulness did dull the pain."

Claude snorted. "Spout. That's the word for it, sure."

"Thank you for everything. I know I've told you a thousand times."

"Thank me again by adding some clouds, my boy, my eyes cannot take the sun on the water anymore."

Merlin laughed and waved his hand. Clouds rapidly formed above them and began drifting in the breeze. "I moved back to my home in the South. It's just as I left it one hundred years ago."

Claude laughed, amused by it all. "You say it so casually."

"I've grown used to it."

"I cannot believe I know Merlin, still. Even to this day."

"Truly?"

"Oh yes. A figure of magic, a man, a myth—,"

"Finish with 'a legend' and I will turn you into a toad, Claude."

"— a wonder," Claude finished, side eying Merlin before he continued, "and here he is, sitting here with me. He walked the Earth before anyone else on it right now was born. You've so much to tell!"

"And yet, I'm forced to suffer in silence."

"I listened."

"One of few; I got lucky."

Claude nodded and lifted his drink. "True. What will you do? I'm afraid it seems you are saying goodbye, I will say you're not a good liar."

"I'll manage. No one in Camelot knew about my magic. I'm not aging, and I can only perform so many aging spells before I get weary. I've all but packed up my stuff and returned to my home. I must say goodbye. Though, here." He passed a small card to Claude, who took it and pocketed it. "My address, should you want to visit. I'd love to have guests. It's been a while… you're one of the only ones I've told."

"You'll be alone again," is all the older man can muster.

Merlin looks out of the Thames. It's quiet. There are birds, but the picturesque view is ruined by the black ashy smokes that covers everything like a cloak. Merlin sighs.

"But I won't be forever. Thank you for the time we spent, I hope to see you again."

And before Claude can say anything, Merlin is gone.

He sits back. He lights another cigar. He sips his bourbon, and is thankful for the magic.

Fin.