title: time will give us nothing
rating: k+
disclaimer: belongs to the bbc.
a/n: because another modern day, reincarnation fic is just what the archive needed. sorry this first part is so short- it stemmed from a drabble i wrote for tumblr and couldn't seem to grow that much more. the second part should make up for it, though.
-time will give us nothing-
Time pressed on. Despite the absence of the Pendragon line, despite the absence of the Once and Future King, life resumed. Centuries passed, kingdoms rose and fell, wars were raged. He was perhaps the only thing that remained constant in this world.
It had been unnerving to watch everything he had grown to know wither and die while he retained his youth. When the last traces of his world fell, it was only fitting that he would disappear with it.
He distanced himself from the foreign. He discovered that he preferred the solitude, the isolation, having learned that change was not something he favored. His world had slipped away right in front of him, and no matter how hard he tried he could not erase the feeling of not belonging. He is disconnected, feeling more and more lost with each passing sunrise.
He stopped counting the days—the concept of time becomes a little lost after having lived as long as he has.
Now, he waits. Waits for the day his destiny foretold. It's all he has left.
The loneliness can be unbearable. Weeks will pass without a word exchanged with another person. He'll spend nights lying in bed, staring at the wooden planks that compose his ceiling as voices fill the void. But he's discovered there is nothing worst when the silence is filled the memories of those he has lost.
He sees gold dragons on red banners. Lavish feast and banquets. Heavy chainmail glistening under rays of sun. A bouquet of purple flowers. A crown being placed atop a head of flaxen hair. Stacks of books on the Old Religion. Waves of dark hair against emerald eyes. A vial of hemlock. Fair-skinned hands clutching at a long neck…
Some memories hurt more than others.
His disguises are many to keep suspicions at bay, but he favors the familiarity of creaky bones and a long, white beard. No one bothers a homely old man. No one looks twice. He's able to blend in, to become nothing more than a watcher in the shadows.
Waiting is all he has left.
-x-
Once, on a warm day in spring, he sees her.
It's one of the days he's using his own face, his own eyes, as he takes a walk through a crowded marketplace. The sounds and the smells remind him of the citadel, and sometimes if he tries hard enough he can hear Gwen calling his name as she hurries up behind him. But she isn't, no matter how many times he checks over his shoulder.
It's a laugh that catches him. A laugh that lifts the haze.
Across the street, on the patio of some small café, she sits at a small table with a friend. At least, he assumes she is; the other girl is all but invisible to him. All he can see is the dark waves of hair, pale skin, and emerald eyes.
He wants to bolt across the busy street. He wants to talk with her, to have the discussion they desperately needed all those years ago. He wants to explain everything. He wants to be with her. But he doesn't move.
He can see it in the way she's laughing, a sight he never thought he would see again. Even when his life was contained in the walls of Camelot, he only ever saw it in his dreams. He can see it in how it radiates across the contours of her face. In her posture, in her smile, in her eyes.
She's happy.
And she can remain happy if she doesn't remember. If she remembers him, if she remembers what he did, he knows it will all be shattered.
So he turns, slipping back into the crowd.
-x-
Across the street, on the patio of a small café, her gaze is pulled upwards. She sees his retreating figure—the mess of dark hair, the outline of large ears, and the scrawny build that could not be hidden by his grey overcoat. He was leaving. Something mixed between anxiety and adrenaline comes over her, and she has a sudden urge to follow him. Her vision seems to become tunneled, and the longer she looked the louder a name sounded in her mind.
"Morgana?"
She is pulled from her trance. Noise returns to the world.
"Y…" she clears her throat. "Yes?"
"I asked if you were alright," her friend Sophie eyed her warily from behind square-framed reading glasses. "You went as white as a sheet all of a sudden."
"Oh." She musters a brief smile. "I just spaced out for a second. I'm fine."
But once her friend continued on with her tale, Morgana found her eyes returning to that spot across the street.
Merlin.
He was gone.