I've been playing around with a different sort of writing style lately, so for sure let me know what you think of this piece.

Disclaimer: I pretty much own nothing, so that includes Merlin.

The Rest of His Life

*.*.*.*.*

It still plays out in his mind, day after day after year, and all the could-haves and should-haves still haunt his dreams when he finally collapses at night, everything about him aching and screaming for a break. It's easier, he once decided, to work himself to near-death in the fields and in the forest and village than to leave himself with the energy to dwell on everything.

But he still does it. Even dead tired and with little extra energy to do much of anything, he still dwells, he still... remembers.

When he's out working in the fields, he remembers his mistake, remembers his magic betraying him, remembers being so out of control of it, remembers it happening without him thinking, and he remembers the Pendragons' faces, one angry and one… scared.

When he's out in the forest collecting firewood, he remembers his mentor's death, remembers Arthur stealing him away for comfort, to apologize for his father and his hasty mistake, remembers crying in his arms and Arthur's soft whispers against his neck and in his ear. And it's nice, for a moment, the remembering.

But then he's in the village running errands for his mother and he remembers facing Uther, and the anger in his veins, the unthinking display of his magic, gold eyes hurt and angry. And he remembers the guards on him at Uther's command and fending them off because his magic—oh, his magic is no longer a secret and he uses that freely now.

He remembers considering, for a fleeting moment, what it would mean to kill Uther—a father for a father-figure. But Arthur has never wronged him, so he leaves him and flees fast and far.

More often than the rest of it, he remembers that night—in his bones he will always remember that night—remembers being an idiot and needing to see Arthur just one more time to explain himself, more than anything else.

He remembers that Arthur had wanted no explanation. He remembers that he cut Merlin off mid-sentence and is wrapping his arms around him before Merlin knows what's really happening. He tells him to leave, go home to Ealdor where it's safe; he will convince his father that he's not worth the man-hunt.

Merlin remembers, as he's lying on the floor at night, being hesitant, not wanting to leave Arthur's side even if it means sure death, and he realizes it must be showing on his face the second Arthur draws him close again and kisses him, but it's so bittersweet in that moment. Everything he ever wanted is happening because the very worst thing is happening, but then it's back to Arthur's lips and remembering the way they had quivered against his own, and the kiss tastes like fear and missing someone, and Merlin can get lost in that moment, in that memory, for hours on end, missing the whole night, leaving him aching for something else the next day while he works in the fields.

But it's more than the kiss that Merlin will always remember, it's Arthur's words, hushed and hurried as he takes Merlin away from the city under the cover of night, that he whispers to himself on those nights when he doesn't believe what his life has become and how he has been so far away from someone he loves so much for so long.

"When I am king, Merlin," Arthur says. "When I am king, I will come for you, I promise. All this will be forgotten, magic will return to the land, and we…" He shakes his head and swallows hard around a lump in his throat that Merlin knows he is trying to ignore for Merlin's sake more than his own. "I will come for you—the second I am crowned king, I'll leave for Ealdor—I promise."

And he says it over and over like a prayer, like a plea, like he needs Merlin to believe his words more than anything else in the world.

And he does—oh, he does. Every second after that, after Arthur leaves him at the border with another kiss on his lips, he tells himself that Arthur will come for him. He tells himself, as he breaks down before his mother, that Arthur will keep his promise; he tells himself, as he slowly settles back into life there in Ealdor, that Uther is old and not likely to live that much longer anyway; he tells himself, as the years begin to slip by, that any day now Arthur will come for him and take him home. He has to.

He remembers every single detail of the day that changed his life, and he holds onto the hope that this—this is all so temporary; Arthur will come for him any day, any moment, any second now.

He can never be sure, of course, when Uther will die or if he has already died and Arthur has simply forgotten about him—truly, Ealdor is cut off from most of the land, only interacting with the odd traveler and merchant that comes through, none of which, of course, ever come bearing news of Camelot—and Merlin is no fool, he knows he cannot send word to Arthur questioning, wondering…

And so he hopes. He remembers and he hopes, ready to spend the rest of his life waiting for Arthur—because, really, what else is there for him to do?

There isn't any way for him to know that Uther has been dead for three years now, killed by a revenge seeking sorcerer only Merlin could have protected him from. And there isn't any way for him to know that Arthur himself was ambushed on the way to Ealdor by a group of Odin's men who killed him on the spot.

There isn't a way in the world Merlin could know any of that at all.

*.*.*.*.*