I wrote this almost directly after the finale, but couldn't finish it. Finished it now, though :)
It's been years since Arthur's death, but he's still waiting, still catching glimpses of golden-blonde hair and a muscled physique. When he trips on a paving stone, he remembers a fondly mocking voice in his ear and grins unnaturally wide to keep from frowning, deliberately puts an extra spring to his step to keep from crumbling.
Arthur wasn't supposed to die, he thinks, and perhaps it's true, but he's dead nonetheless and even after all of these years he hasn't come to terms with it.
Every day he writes, at first on thick parchment with lumpy ink (he never quite got the hang of making it) and then on paper, a typewriter, the library's computer. He writes in short bursts, periodically deleting large chunks of text because it didn't happen like that, and he's sure that when he had first met Gwaine, he hadn't said-
Merlin writes to remember - he writes to hear the familiar early-morning bustle of Camelot's market on a Wednesday, to feel the Dragon's breath hot and vaguely threatening against his face, to see the light catch in Arthur's hair just so. It's such a cliche, the hair, but Merlin can't help but write it as anything other than spun gold, or perhaps the sun's rays on a midsummer afternoon, solidified.
But the real reason why Merlin writes, is that he is beginning to forget. Sometimes when he places his (old, tired) fingers over the keyboard he can't remember what Arthur looked like other than a blur of blue eyes and blonde hair. Sometimes he can't quite recreate his mother's scent in his head - rosemary and lavender with a hint of freshly baked bread, he thought - or was it thyme?
Sometimes he wonders if there ever had been an Arthur - the Arthur he knew, not the King Arthur of legends. Sometimes he wonders if the stories in his head are just that, nothing more than the ramblings of a crazy man seeking comfort in the idea of an old friend returning from the dead to save him.
But when he looks in the mirror to find his face the same as it was all those years ago he knows that even that would be preferable to reality and feels lost, without purpose.
Someone once said Arthur is nothing without Emrys, but what about Emrys without Arthur? What is Merlin without his destiny?
He tries to conjure a likeness of Arthur in the early-morning mist which hangs over the lake, but the eyes aren't quite right, and didn't his hair part on the other side? He can't remember, he's forgotten. For a moment he wonders if he will eventually forget everything, and then he's attempting to conjure the image of Gwen, Gaius, Lance. His chest tightens as each comes out distorted, his memories too weak to do them justice.
He's not sure if it's raining or if he's crying, but he brushes the water off his cheeks, smooth as they were when he had only 28 winters and lies on the floor, staring up at the brightening sky through a haze of mist and mucus.
Sometimes he dreams that Arthur will come to stop him if he tries to end it all. It's not going to happen - Merlin will wait forever and a day for Arthur, no matter the consequenses.
He drifts between wakefulness and dreams, the two worlds merging. The rain is beginning to clear up, and he should probably get up before anyone sees him. He stays on the floor, feeling the damp soak through his thin shirt.
Out of the corner of his eye he sees a figure move towards him, and he flinches. The man has blonde hair and a raggedy beard, but he knows it can't be him, hasn't been him for two thousand years, but can't help but hope, no matter how much it hurts.
He closes his eyes and remembers covertly cleaning boots with his magic, having to drop them with a sudden clatter when Arthur walked in. Memory-Arthur's face is blank and elusive, lacking the detail that he wishes he could still remember.
"Are you alright?"
Merlin can sense the man leaning over him and screws his eyes shut tighter. For some reason the man's scent catches in the back of his throat and he chokes, hacking coughs which force his eyes wide.
His hair is blonde and his eyes are a striking blue, but Merlin isn't sure. He can't remember any more, couldn't tell you if this man is Arthur. It's been too long, it's too late, but the man is staring at him with something like recognition and Merlin wonders.
Tentative fingers turn his face to the side, and the stranger's throat works as he swallows, opens his mouth and then closes it, rubs a thumb down Merlin's jaw.
"A-are you-?" The man's voice is choked, and Merlin thinks (Arthur!) and coughs some more, drawing air into his lungs like he's about to dive into the lake.
"Arthur?" He says, wanting to scream, (but settling for a broken whisper), and reaches out to rest a limp hand on the man's chest "A-arthur."
The man's body tenses. His arms do not move, and Merlin draws back and looks into his face. His eyes are dull and clouded, and Merlin doubts, pulls away entirely. Is this man even-
"Merlin?"
Suddenly he is wrapped in strong arms, breathing in the smell of hastily-cleaned armour and exertion and he remembers, he remembers! Arthur's rare grins and laughing mock-glares. It's been so long but now Arthur's face is strong and clear in his mind, his memories, and he gives himself over to Arthur's arms around his ever-skinny shoulders, The sound of Arthur's heart thumping, finally alive again, finally back with him.
"I've missed you." He says, and laughs, sobs "You complete prat, I missed you."