Long Time, No See
Chapter 1
"Well, Doctor, what do you say?" The nurse asked. Grace, her name was. Sweet girl, kind girl. They got on well, Merlin and her. Of course, he had had to take different names over the years; there were too many legends surrounding the name Merlin. For the 20th century, he had chosen the name name William, it seemed to hold memories for him, and he suspected that he had once known someone of that name, before his face faded into the past. William Dorne. That was the name that Grace knew him by.
Merlin passed his hands over the young man's body, casting a subtle spell to clean the wound and prevent infection. Nothing that would arouse suspicion.
"He'll live. Get that Henry bloke out of here, Grace, he's crowding up the ward."
"Yes, Doctor. What about the Parsley girl?"
"Tell her mother to go home and get some sleep. We'll send for her if her daughter's condition changes over night. But tell her that Jane is likely to make a good recovery."
"She's dying, Doctor. She won't last the night," Grace whispered.
"Don't doubt by abilities, Grace. The girl will be fine." The nurse nodded her head, tucking a spiral of black hair behind her ear, and hurrying off to persuade Henry that he would do better off going home and getting some rest.
Grace seemed a little distracted, but Merlin supposed that it was understandable. Her brother, Elliott, had left for the front two days previously. He had never even left his home town before he signed up.
The day passed like all the others. A blur of sickness, injury and death.
But it could be worse, Merlin thought, remembering the magical disease which had attacked Camelot's water supply...
Where the hell did that come from?
That had happened a long time ago, in the days he thought he had forgotten.
Wierd.
He quickly collected himself, mixing a magical remedy in a pot and casting a quick charm to complete it.
"What's that, Doctor?" Grace asked, and Merlin jumped, not realising that she was there.
"A herbal remedy. Very effective. The only thing that can save Jane's life. So stop bothering me with your questions and let me do my job," He muttered angrily, pushing passed her to the child's bed. Grace looked hurt for a moment, but smiled when Merlin shot her a sly wink.
He supported the little girl's head whilst he tipped the life saving medicine into her mouth, muttering a spell to slow its effects slightly. No need for people to think that he was any more than an exceptional Doctor.
"Where did you learn that? Will it work?"
"Gaius taught me, so of course it'll work."
"Who's Gaius?"
Merlin froze. Who was Gaius? He had just said it without thinking, it had jumped to his lips automatically.
"Someone I used to work with. I think. He might have been an uncle though, or my father. It was an awfully long time ago."
"You do say the strangest things, Doctor."
"I am a very strange person. And what did I say about asking bothersome questions?"
"Not to."
"Exactly. Now, back to work."
Blood. War. Destruction. Death.
Soldiers are slaughtered on the battlefield each day.
Victory at this point is quickly dissapearing towards the horizon, fading along with the country's hope that it would all be over by Christmas.
Albion is in need.
Merlin summoned a flame to warm his hands as he stomped home through the snow covered streets of London. His joints ached in the cold, and from standing all day. But Merlin was used to that and didn't let it bother him.
He had been a Doctor for as long as he remembered, and a physician before that. Wherever he went, he used his skills to cure the sick, but after that incident in 1612, he had been careful to be subtle with his cures.
Recently though, he had had to present qualifications when he started working somewhere. It hadn't been much of a problem to him, but it was bothersome nonetheless. And he had to keep moving around. He had looked like an eighty year old for the majority of his life, and after a while people started to wonder why he wasn't dead.
Sometimes he wished he would just die.
"Doctor Dorne?" Merlin turned to see the face of his colleague, Doctor Thomas Smith. A man in his early fifties, Thomas was a clever man, and a good doctor, with a wife and three adolescent children. Merlin couldn't remember their names.
"Thomas. Bloody cold, isn't it?"
"You can say that again," They walked in silence for a few minutes before Thomas spoke again, "My sons want to sign up for the war. I tell them that it'll be over in a few months, but I'm not sure whether I believe it any more. I just... Mary and I have always tried to do what's best for them, and let them make their own decisions. But even if this is their own decision, I'm not sure that it's really what's best for them."
"I understand, Thomas. But, you know, I used to have a friend that frequently risked everything to fight for the people he loved. I mean, he was an arrogant prick who probably also did it for pride and glory, but he made sacrifices nonetheless. And maybe your boys need to decide why they want to fight, because I've seen plenty of wars in my time, and the men with someone to fight for usually tend to come home in the end. They're the ones with something to come home to, after all. And they need to carve their own paths, or they might just end up blaming you for not letting them live their lives."
"I suppose you're right, William," said Thomas, "What happened to your friend?"
"My friend?" Merlin paused, trying to remember the details of the man he had been thinking of. He was sure that had died, but didn't want to worry his colleague with a tragic story of a soldier's death. "He moved away. I haven't seen him in a long time."
They nodded to each other as they turned down different streets. Merlin unlocked the door to his small home, full of books and memories of his long life. A painting hung on the wall, the work of a talented young artist a few centuries back, who had painted Merlin's portrait in return for a room in his house for a few nights. A signed copy of 'Great Expectations' lay on his desk and a 12th century tapestry was thrown over the sofa. He absentmindedly lit the fire with a flick of his eyes, sitting down to read his first edition Charles Dickens book for the hundredth time.
Some time before he drifted off to sleep in the early hours of the morning, he remembered his friend's name.
Arthur.
"Condescending dollop head," Merlin muttered as his eyelids flickered shut, "Whatever happened to you my friend?" But he couldn't remember, and wasn't sure that he wanted to.
Obviously, I own none of theses characters.
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