Part 1: Then

Date: 24 December, 1940

Location: London, England

The solitary knock at the door echoed through the empty apartment like a lone bell ringing above a courtyard before resounding into the walls of the surrounding buildings and into the valleys beyond. Merlin, who was attempting to find solace in sleep but was failing at doing anything other than staring at the peeling wallpaper that seemed to stare impassively at him, jumped at the startling noise. He sat up from the bed in the guest room, tuning back into the sounds of the city below his window and the soft sounds of the neighbors. He blinked, feeling disoriented at the sudden attempt at thinking properly.

The knock came again, this time rapping even sharper and ringing in Merlin's ears, reminding him that somebody was calling upon the people within the house. His breath hitched slightly in his throat, and he had to remind himself firmly that he was in England, and nothing would happen to him here like it might in other places. Still, he had to steady his hand against the wall when he tried to stand up. The knock came a third time as he attempted to take deep breaths. Then he began to slowly shuffle through the threshold of the guest bedroom and through the hallway into the small kitchen and to the front door. Not bothering to peek through the peephole, he left the latch in and opened the small sliver of door that the lock would allow.

The man standing on the other side seemed eerily familiar to Merlin. His long face, covered only by a neatly-trimmed beard and moustache, radiated both warmth and a sense of battle-hardening that Merlin didn't understand. His eyes, silver-gray and appraising, stared at him as if he were not what the man was quite expecting. Merlin didn't care about this, this wasn't his house after all. He was just a guest.

"I was told I might find a Merlin Emrys here," the man said in a low tone, his tone sounding guarded and almost as impassive as the wallpaper had just been for Merlin.

"From who?" Merlin asked back, his voice void of any emotion as was the quality it tended to take on whenever he spoke; and this didn't happen very often, anymore. As much as he was used to this, however, the man before him looked visibly shocked for a moment before composing himself again.

"It's Christmas Eve, I've come a long way. Please may I come in?" he asked in an almost-pleading tone. Merlin pondered for a moment, although in his own brain he was more mulling over the fact that if this was some person who didn't like Jews as much as the Germans and was going to kill him, then he wasn't too concerned. With this masochistic thought in mind, Merlin unlatched the door and let the stranger who had asked for him inside the flat.

The strange man walked in, seeming to look around at the kitchen and the small living room beyond where there stood a small Christmas tree. The man's eyebrows raised while Merlin closed the door and latched it again, before he stood with his hands clasped behind him, appraising the stranger's appearance.

The man was wearing rather nondescript clothes: a black set of trousers, a cream-colored shirt and an equally-black trench coat complete with heavy boots that didn't trail as much snow in as Merlin had thought they would. The man had longish dark hair that had a wave in it. His hair was pulled back from his face in a low pony that not many men could pull off. He turned back around and seemed to look at Merlin in the same way he was being assessed. Merlin hadn't thought of what he was wearing until now, and he self-consciously looked down at his navy sweater and black trousers. He wore white stockings that were thinner than he usually could stand, but at the moment he hadn't been thinking much about his health, let alone his appearance. Everything he put on was courtesy of what Lance let him borrow, so the clothes hung on his small, bony frame like he was a small child instead of the eighteen-year-old man that he was.

"Are you Merlin Emrys?" the man asked, this time his silvery eyes intense as they bored into Merlin's. Merlin moved his hands to his front, found them twisting around each other, and looked down. He let out a quick nod, wondering what the man would do.

"I thought you were Jewish."

Merlin's head jerked up to stare at the man. The way he said those words…they bothered him. Merlin's eyes glanced over to the Christmas tree that stood in the living room, saying nothing. Should he admit that this wasn't his apartment and he didn't want to draw attention to himself from this area of town? Perhaps the man didn't know that this area of town, although accepting of Jews, wasn't exactly the opposite of discriminatory?

In the end, he said nothing. This seemed to satisfy the man enough, and nothing more was said on the matter.

The man seemed to stare at him for an unnatural amount of time, and Merlin, although still not feeling the complete range of emotions he hadn't felt in a long time, began to feel a little anxious. Shouldn't the man get on with whatever it is he came to say or do?

"I'm your father, Merlin."

Again his eyes jerked upwards to stare at the silvery ones. Then Merlin began to study the man's face again, and this time realized why it looked so familiar. If he were to take away the facial hair, bring down his age a few years and cut his hair shorter, he would be staring at a very similar version of himself. This was his father. Balinor.

"Do you believe me?" The man asked again, and Merlin nodded his head once to show that he did. He still didn't speak, and the man glanced down at his feet for a moment.

"I heard about your mother and wife, I'm sorry," he said in a rather gruff voice, and Merlin quickly moved, this time walking past him to sit in the living room on a couch next to the Christmas tree. The man – his father, Balinor – seemed surprised at the sudden movement but said nothing as he followed and occupied the couch opposite Merlin and the tree. His eyes drifted to the tree again.

"So are you not Jewish?" he asked rather abruptly, and Merlin finally spoke.

"I'm Jewish," he said. His voice was hoarse but he just let his statement float over to the ears of his father, the man he had heard of but never met.

"Oh."

It was silent for another few moments, before Balinor tried again.

"I was wondering…if you wanted to come and live with me for awhile," he suggested mildly. Merlin just stared at him.

"I mean, it would require some help on your part, but I figured you had a cause to fight for…" his father trailed off. Merlin waited for more, and eventually Balinor huffed and explained.

"I help with an organization calling themselves Zionists, purely to help Jewish people get out of German-run countries to other countries," he said. "I recently brought over a group of young Jewish children to London, and I figured that I would drop in on you and your mother while I could. Unfortunately…I was too late. But I travel around a lot, and it would be nice to have somebody with me."

"No."

The answer again seemed to boom its echo across the ceiling, through the Christmas tree and back into Merlin's ears. He had begun hearing everything twice now, and he knew it was a symptom of his loneliness for attention. He just couldn't bring himself to interact anymore.

The expression that passed across Balinor's face was shocked.

"Are you sure you won't even consider –" He said.

"No," Merlin repeated softly, his voice still impassive. He didn't want to, he wasn't ready for anything else yet.

There was a lull in the words spoken for some moments, and Merlin found that staring at his father, drinking in the older version of himself that he would one day be as much as he could. In his mind he was weighing his options, trying to see if he would want to live that long or not. He had contemplated dying before, but to see such a close resemblance to himself seemed to make him think more about it. Pondering for the time being.

Balinor looked more concerned than shocked now, and he stood up slowly.

"I need to make a phone call before I leave, and then I'll be out of your way," he said softly. Merlin made no note to acknowledge that he heard this, but stood up instead and walked back into the guest room. He didn't even have the motivation to close the door again. Sinking down on his mattress, he resumed his staring at the impassive wallpaper as he drowned out the low murmuring of his father's voice on the telephone. After awhile everything became silent, and before he realized it somebody was sitting at the edge of his bed.

It was Lancelot. His late wife's best friend put his hand comfortingly on his ankle. Merlin felt the warmth seep into the rest of him, but he didn't let it reach his heart. He couldn't feel anything there anymore. It was broken.

The rest of Christmas Eve passed quietly for the young Jewish man hiding in the guest room of a Christian flat in a Christian part of town.