A/N: this fic was first posted on AO3 in November 2020.
It isn't him.
Merlin knows this.
Merlin also knows that a thousand years and more have passed, and rebirth must happen at some point.
(Mustn't it?)
Not-Lancelot orders a pastry and tea, inclines his head a little to look at the flowers on display, and still Merlin can't look at him directly, can't bring himself to confirm what he already knows. How many times has he made this mistake before?
It isn't him, and the man who isn't Lancelot wears his hair past his shoulders and speaks softly, and everything in Merlin aches, waiting for the moment that the illusion shatters. Sometimes it's in the cadence of the words, not quite ringing true; sometimes it's in the corners of the eyes or the face in its entirety. Sometimes it's in the flash of cruelty that no soul Merlin has ever loved should possess.
Merlin doesn't want to see the truth today. His heart feels heavy with the weight of another almost-reunion, another trickle of the past that leads him nowhere. Memory alone is all he can bear. Maybe memory is all he deserves.
The man who isn't – can't be – Lancelot pays, and Merlin steps out of the queue, back turned, eyes already burning.
And then he hears the word that no living soul has said to him in a thousand years.
"Merlin."