I didn't really want to post this one just yet, but it was ready and I haven't been writing a lot lately, so... here you go. Bit of sore melancholy for you. Also, I love that all of you hate the Merlin/Mordred relationship in the show as much as I do lol
In other news, I suppose it's time you know that I will be going on hiatus soon. Come the middle of January, I will be leaving home to go in service of my church for about 18 months. As such, I won't be updating and more than likely won't be writing at all. So, yeah, there's still time, but I highly doubt that this story will be finished by then, so I figured I should tell you! When I come back from the mission, I can't honestly guarantee that I will immediately come back to this story, but as of right now I intend to try. Anyway, that's where I'm at, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!
Old
Rowan had never thought much about it before. His father was slender and tall, with dark hair and clear skin. With the exception of clumsily tripping over random things (his own feet, sometimes), the man never seemed to have trouble getting around the castle, attending councils and feasts, entertaining visitors, assisting anyone who could use a hand, or whatever else he happened to be doing. He seemed to have an endless vitality to him, and Rowan had never really thought about it before. The strangeness of it. By all rights, his father should be.. well, old. Queen Guinevere was about his age, and though she was still strong, her face was wrinkled, and her hair was gray. Sirs Percival and Leon were also old and gray and had essentially retired from their knights' duties long ago despite keeping seats at the council table.
Rowan was starting to go a bit gray, himself. It had all struck him very suddenly that morning. Having spoken to his father the night before, he held a lingering image of his face in his head along with the remnants of their conversation when he awoke. He was feeling an unpleasant soreness in his joints, and when he happened to look at himself in the mirror, his notice of a couple of wrinkles and gray patches of hair made him feel as though his world had flipped because, well…
He looked older than his own father.
It was all so very strange and wrong, and he simply had not thought much about it before. Suddenly, he needed some kind of confirmation, something or someone to prove that this was real, that it was really happening. Something was wrong—this could not be natural. He sought out his father. He found the man traversing the castle. He did not know his purpose or destination, but at that moment, Rowan did not much care.
"Father!" he called.
The court warlock turned at the sound of his voice and smiled at the sight of his face. Rowan hurried to meet him, almost panting from his search and sprint. His father continued walking, and Rowan matched his step easily enough, regaining his energy and wits.
"It occurred to me that you look very young," Rowan remarked, inwardly reprimanding himself for how silly he sounded.
"Um.. thanks?" dark eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
Rowan had never really felt envy towards his father before, but just then, he felt that he was being mocked by the decidedly not-gray hair on his father's head. He felt more sorrow for himself than anger at his father. He tried to put this aside and continue in his line of commentary.
"For a man of your age, I mean."
At this, his father's step hesitated and almost halted, but only briefly. He raised an incredulous and inquisitive brow at Rowan as he continued down the corridor.
"Rowan, I'm not sure whether you're trying to compliment me or insult me right now, but I can assure you that whichever it is, you are doing it very poorly."
Rowan could not help but agree with that assessment. He needed to gain some tact, and quickly.
"Sorry," he paused, trying to figure out how to salvage the situation, "but I wasn't really meaning to do either of those things."
"Oh?" Rowan could sense both the irritation and amusement behind that one word.
Rowan huffed and decided that he had already failed spectacularly at any semblance of delicacy, so he had better just get to the point, "Are you using some kind of magic to stay young?"
This time, his father's stride actually did cease, and Rowan stopped with him. His expression was some kind of combination of shock and sorrow.
"Rowan, no," his voice was pained, and his hands seemed to want to reach out, but he held them back as he sighed heavily, "I—no."
Rowan found that he did not entirely believe his father, so he pressed, "I never really thought it strange before—you looking so young. It just sort of hit me this morning because I looked in the mirror and realized- well- I look older than you. I look like I could be your father. Don't try to tell me that you've just lucked out with your inheritance because I won't buy it. All your friends look old; even I'm getting old, and you're still.. the same."
His father's frown deepened and he sighed again, momentarily closing his eyes and perhaps gathering his thoughts, "Rowan.. I'm not doing this on purpose. It's difficult to explain, really."
"I'm listening."
His father's eyes met his and Rowan watched as they became impossibly old and sad in the middle of his young face. Then the older man looked away and resumed his walk, albeit a bit slower than before. Rowan followed. He wanted answers.
"You may already know this, Rowan, but I'm not your average sorcerer. I'm not even a normal warlock. I am Emrys, a figure from an Old prophecy, meant to be the protector of the Once and Future King in addition to being the most powerful warlock to ever walk the earth."
It was strange to hear his father so plainly state that he held incredible power. Rowan knew it was true, of course, but he also knew that his father was not very comfortable speaking about it. The fact of his great power was usually only mentioned for the purpose of intimidating a foe, or, sometimes, if the queen or one of the other knights wanted to praise him about it. It was not something brought up in casual conversation, especially by him.
"I am a creature of magic, Rowan. I am not a human born with, or of, magic, I am magic, stuck into a human body. It took me a long time to figure it out, myself. Prophecies are funny things, aren't they?" he laughed humorlessly, and his voice began to grow tight with emotion, "I can fake it, you know? I can disguise myself to look old, but it doesn't mean anything. If I could choose, I would grow old and eventually die just like everybody else, but I can't. I don't get to choose."
This time it was Rowan who stopped walking. His father wiped a sleeve across his face and increased his pace. Rowan left him to his thoughts, due much in part to the fact that he needed to sort through his own. Apparently, it was some kind of magic that kept his father young, but it was not something that he necessarily wanted. The implications of what had been said were quickly starting to overwhelm Rowan. He had claimed to be inhuman, to be magic incarnate. It sounded… well, it sounded like he was claiming to be immortal. But that could not be right, could it?
Rowan refocused on his father's retreating back until the man turned and swept out of sight. He would not joke about something like this, and Rowan was quite sure that he would not declare it if he were not already certain. It was obvious that the man was not aging, and it was obvious, too, that he was sad about it. If Rowan were a younger man, he might think it silly for his father to be upset over it. He had often heard of immortality being a wonderful, coveted thing that many actively sought. Yet, here was a simple, humble man who already had it- free of charge- and probably wanted little more than to be rid of it. Any envy that Rowan might have felt was replaced with an unprecedented sorrow. His poor father, forced to watch as his friends- his own son- grew old without him, died without him. Rowan wished that there was something he could do to help ease that pain, but a growing pit of despair was telling him that nothing could be done.
Rowan's appearance in her chambers made Guinevere feel sad, just as seeing him often did. It was by no fault of his own, but whenever she saw his graying whiskers, she could not help the melancholy that spread through her. It was almost the same as the feeling that swept over her whenever she looked at Merlin these days. Merlin, who was still young, after all these years. She wished that there was something that she could do to help him, but it was hard enough to get him to admit that he was hurting, never mind trying to find some way to assist him in his impossible situation. Looking at Rowan made her realize just how terrible the coming years would be for Merlin as he would be forced to watch his child grow old while he himself remained young.
"What troubles you, Rowan?" she asked, reading the conflict in his eyes.
"My father," he readily admitted.
She sighed, "He troubles me as well."
Guinevere smiled and offered him a seat at her table. He accepted the offer, sinking into the chair with a sense of heaviness.
"Your father has been a great friend and trusted advisor to me for many years. I will be happy to help you in any way I can."
"It's… his apparent immortality," Rowan spoke slowly, as if he was still coming to terms with his own words, "that bothers me. I never even noticed until recently that he was still so young. I'm ashamed by my lack of observance."
"Merlin has never been one for the spotlight. He sometimes takes elaborate measures to remain unnoticed even by those who care for him."
Rowan raised his eyes to meet hers, and she noted the sorrow in them as he spoke, "My father is a lonely man. He has no-one.. except for us, and soon enough, he will not have even that. I worry for him. When I spoke to him, he told me that he has no choice in it. He will be alone, and I cannot stand to see him that way, my lady."
"Nor can I," she agreed.
His business-like demeanor melted away, and his voice cracked under his emotion as he asked, "What can we do? How can we help him?"
Her eyes stung as she answered, "I don't know. All I am sure of is that we can be here for him while we are still alive."
She grabbed his hands across the table, squeezing them comfortingly. A few tears slipped down his cheeks, and she could tell that his jaw was clenched.
"I love him," Rowan bit out, "I do not wish to see him suffer."
She squeezed his hands again, "I feel the same."
Guinevere stood and walked to the other side of the table. She pulled the aging knight to his feet and swept him into a hug. In the safety of this embrace, they two took a few minutes to mourn the trials of their dear friend.
On an unrelated note, my sister started watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I catch snatches while she watches, sometimes as much as half an episode at once, so I vaguely know what's going on. When I first saw Rupert Giles, I immediately recognized him, and I was like, "who is that man? I know him!" So I looked him up and it turns out he's Anthony Head, aka King Uther. I was so excited to discover this. Let me tell you, it is so backward to watch this man performing magic and stuff. But I have decided that he is the sweetest, most innocent darling that needs to be protected at all costs, and I find his wardrobe and his stutter to be utterly endearing.