Apologies for the obscenely long wait, this chapter has been the hardest to write by far. Thank you for your follows, favourites, reviews, and your patience.

The Crystal Cave

~29th March, 1942…

"It's not much further," Merlin called into the trees behind him, pausing when he realised his companions were trailing again.

"You said that an hour ago." Came a reply that could have been either of them.

"Yes, well, the last time I came here I was a lot younger. And faster."

They had been trekking for an hour or so now, and the woods were lit up with mid-morning sun. Albus Dumbledore had conjured two walking sticks and was leisurely navigating the bracken, whilst Martha stabbed around a little further behind with a fallen branch for support. She had been feeling a little queasy after her first port-key, but as usual had dusted herself off with little complaint. Merlin admired it.

The old warlock had led the way mostly in silence, and his manner was correctly interpreted by his friends as needing to be left alone. He had a lot to take in.

The moss that carpeted tree roots, the sunken paths, the thick smell of leaf mulch… it made something deep within him ache in a way he couldn't express. He felt as though he made each new footprint in the shadow of one of his fallen friend's, and there wasn't an inch of the forest that didn't try to draw him back into the past they had shared here.

He felt similar in these woods as he did when he visited Freya, at Avalon. He'd always taken such visits alone, and that explained a lot of his discomfort with the presence of his companions.

It wasn't that he didn't trust Albus and Martha, or that he thought they shouldn't have come… just that it was strange to mix anything about his life in Camelot so closely with his current adventures.

They didn't play well together, in the old warlock's eyes, but he suspected he was going to have to get used to it. He'd be a fool to think their journey today was just an errand. If the crystal only needed taking back to the cave, he could have done it alone, without Martha or Dumbledore.

He'd come close to it. At least four times he'd made it all the way to the threshold of Pennethorne road with the crystal stuffed in his pocket, fully intending to ignore what the dead weight had demanded of him. But each time he'd given in, and taken the slow walk of shame back to his study, like a child who'd been caught in the act of something he knew he shouldn't be doing. He was conflicted.

Three of them had seen the vision, and three of them had to fulfil it. Deep down, he knew this. But it would place Merlin at the mercy of the crystal cave, and that terrified him. There, the old religion had the power to reveal everything.

Was he selfish, wanting to avoid that? He liked his friendship with Albus and Martha. He'd forgotten what it felt like to have friends, and he didn't want to jeopardise that. If the truth came out, could he trust them to separate reality from the myth and the legend? Compared to the great figure of Merlin, he could only disappoint. And if they knew, nothing could be the same again.

He could make excuses about their work and the winter and the logistical nightmare of the portkey, but he knew why so many months had passed after their meeting in September: he had been stalling. Who could blame him?

It was Freya's words that finally convinced the old warlock to take the plunge. She'd told him two summers ago to reach out for support. She'd made him question his dedication, all these years, to secrecy. He had been brave enough to tell Martha and Dumbledore so much already. He could be brave again, if it would help Tom. If Freya thought he still had good to accomplish in this world. The only thing that held him back was his own fear. A thousand years of it. And he would try to face it in an afternoon.

Even so, he would be a liar not to acknowledge that there was a part of him that had already made its peace with the idea of the truth coming out. It was the part of him that had stopped on the threshold each time he'd tried to take the crystal on his own. It was the part of him that actually wanted his friends to know; the part of him that didn't want to hide anymore.

After so long avoiding the notion it felt almost… thrilling to let it in. He was wary, because the idea scared him more than he could express… but if the truth was going to come out today whether he liked it or not, he could try to embrace it.

Still, it was easier said than done. All he knew how to do was hide, and the consequences of revealing his identity could be catastrophic. He'd grown so used to privacy…

The old warlock pulled a hand across his face, trying to release the many furrows in his brow. He groaned; he was going round in circles. They were drawing close to the valley now, and he couldn't work out if his whole body was tingling with dread… or anticipation.

Unaware of Merlin's inner turmoil, Martha and Dumbledore chatted inanely somewhere behind him. They'd grown rather close, and Martha seemed to bring out the parts of the often steely professor that Merlin most enjoyed. When they spoke, Albus' respect for the spirited woman filled the earnest notes of his voice and hung in his attentive silences, and they talked of small joys and simple pleasures. He caught them pointing out small flora and fauna to each other in the undergrowth, and he wished he could bring himself to join in.

Back in Camelot, Arthur would tease him when he was brooding like this, but Martha and Dumbledore let him be. He'd grown more comfortable with silence over the years, but he wished for a moment that the King would appear behind him now, to ruffle his hair with a little too much strength and force his heavy mood to lift.

"Your life would be so much easier, Merlin," he'd say playfully, "if you weren't such a worrier. You're worse than Gwen!"

"Well, someone's got to worry about keeping that pretty head of yours on its neck." Merlin muttered under his breath as he stepped over a fallen log.

"What was that?" Dumbledore had caught the tail end of his murmur, and it pulled him and Martha from earnest conversation.

"Nothing," Merlin said smiling, then pointing above his head, "look up."

From behind him Martha let out a gasp. Ahead, the sunken path narrowed; its mossy banks turned to stone and then descended into a steeply cut valley. Guarding the entrance were two limestone giants, eight or nine men high. They were almost submerged in moss and vines, as nature attempted to take back the stone of their bodies, but they clasped their grey hands around their swords so tightly that it was hard to believe something mortal could pull them free. A faint mist hung around their feet and it seemed as though they towered above clouds.

Eerily, the statues slept, but in a thousand years Merlin had never managed to shake the feeling that he was being watched.

"The Valley of the Fallen Kings." The old warlock said, with no attempt to hide his reverence. It gave him chills.

"I can't believe this is just… here." Dumbledore murmured, eyes up above him. "It's utterly untouched."

"Like many sites of the old religion, the magic here keeps most people away." Merlin replied, pausing a moment before nonchalantly adding, "And I put out periodical warnings to the tourist board about rock falls and unstable ground in the area."

Albus brought his eyebrows back together tightly, but he seemed to agree the place was best left undiscovered. He could probably feel the force of the magic here; the earth was absolutely steeped in the caves' trickled-down power.

"My reports weren't totally wrong, either," Merlin said, beginning to step down between the stone kings, "so stick close to me now, and watch your footing."

His companions followed quickly, travelling in single file with Martha in the middle. Merlin's senses felt further sharpened, not just by the presence of familiar magic, but also his instinctive wariness of the bandits who'd frequented the valley a thousand years ago. Some habits died hard, and his constant readiness to save his friends from peril was one of them. There were no crossbow wounds to worry about these days, but the old warlock's sense of foreboding never left him.

The crystal in his satchel began to thrum like a heartbeat, interacting with the magic in the valley. Like a call and response, every step he took toward the cave, the louder the two would sing. It was a good sign, but Merlin was still anxious: here at her birthplace, magic had a mind of its own.

He was almost grateful when the narrow chasm opened out into the hollow where the cave entrance lay. His head had begun to ache now from the crystal's deafening calls, but the air felt marginally clearer here. On the other side of the hollow, the path descended steadily until it was swallowed by darkness and earth.

Like Avalon, it seemed the cave had barely changed. A thousand years ago, he had stood here more vulnerable than he'd ever felt in his life, without his magic… then again without Arthur. Once the cave had returned his hope, and once it had taken it away. There was no telling how it would change him. He hoped for answers to Tom's vision; how exactly his path (and the path of the old religion) was tied to the boy. But he wasn't optimistic. He'd been let down before.

Albus appeared beside him, and he had to pull his gaze from the darkness, shaking his head to clear the whispers and the memories. The professor seemed serious, which wasn't unusual… but there was something deeper when he spoke, and his words lost their eloquence for a moment.

"What is this place?" He murmured, almost inaudibly. He could sense the magic here too, and it would be older and more present than in anything he'd felt before. The astute professor, who was usually so in command of his surroundings, seemed utterly humbled by it.

"This is the birthplace of magic itself." The old warlock replied quietly, "Few sorcerers have seen it. Fewer muggles still."

Albus glanced behind him. Martha was standing a few paces away, her eyes closed and her palm against the trunk of a great yew tree. Merlin couldn't help but recall it was the place Gwaine had saved his life from a group of bandits. It was the last time they'd spoken, and the Knight had wished him well.

"I hope you find what you're looking for."

He'd never seen his mischievous friend again.

"I can feel it, Mortimer!" Martha called. Dumbledore started toward her in alarm, whilst Merlin tried not to look so distracted. Albus was remembering how touching the crystal of Nehatid at their last meeting had shaken Martha, and Merlin schooled himself that he too needed to be more focused on his present company. They were trusting him to keep them safe.

"She's alright. It's not dangerous." He reassured them. Martha was not easily phased, not even by the power of the old religion, it seemed, and Merlin would do well to take a leaf. Worrying about all the times he'd failed to protect his old friends wouldn't save his new ones. He collected himself.

"Are we ready?"

"If you are." Martha said. Dumbledore nodded.

Merlin started moving without answering that. Martha's faith in him was a wonderful and terrifying thing, and he had the sudden sense that if he didn't keep her close it would all unravel. He took her hand firmly, and she squeezed it once as if to say: It's going to be alright. She linked her spare hand with Albus', holding tightly to both of them as they descended. Merlin found he believed her.

The leaf mulch beneath his feet became stone. The light vanished. The air turned cold.

He didn't need a light. He was inexplicably drawn through the darkness until a blue glow began to touch his cheeks, and the passage opened up into a cavern that had only ever taken the old warlock's breath away.

It was as if the rock was in bloom with a thousand glass flowers. Water, dripping down from the ceiling, formed shallow pools that distorted and reordered perfect reflections with each new drop. The sight could have been blinding, but the ambience of the cave was soft and cool and tempting.

Everywhere he looked, his face reflected back at him. Whispering, calling, threatening. He felt very trapped, all of a sudden.

"It's… beautiful." Martha said quietly from behind him, as though words could do it justice.

Merlin looked away from the cave, to his companions. He had almost forgotten they were there, and they grounded him. He could breathe again.

"It's terrifying." He replied.

Albus didn't speak, though his mouth was open. He had never seen so much wonder in the wizard's eyes. The papers claimed the war with Grindelwald had taken it out of him, but it was there now, clear as day.

"Why are you scared, Mortimer? Do you think you'll see more visions?"

"Oh, I think we all will," he replied, but he had his focus now on the back of the cave, where he'd spotted movement, "I'm just not sure if we'll like it."

He made his way down from the entrance ledge, stepping over one of the pools to reach the main floor of the cavern. He realised his comment had alarmed his companions, who stuck very close to him. He tried to console them, and himself, unconvincingly.

"I hope I'm wrong."

There was movement again at the back of the cave, and the warlock pointed it out once he realised what it was. A bright blue butterfly was making its leisurely way toward them. On closer inspection it had a slight translucency; an ethereal glow much like the crystals it flitted between. It danced lazily about the trio before landing in Merlin's outstretched hand.

He remembered the moment he had conjured one just like it; his magic returned to him. Even the events that had followed could not dull his memory of the joy. The relief.

"What does it mean?" Albus said, finally finding his voice.

Merlin smiled, some of his worries lifting. "To me, it means hope." The swell in his chest died a moment later when an echoing voice called out.

"Greetings."

Three heads whipped round in surprise.

An old man was approaching them. His white beard framed large, dark eyes that pierced Merlin's very soul, and also seemed to gaze somewhere else, far beyond. He was shrouded in many layers of tattered cloaks, and if it weren't for the blue light that clung to him, he might have fitted seamlessly into the moss-carpeted forests above. The blue butterfly abandoned the raven-haired sorcerer and landed on the man's shoulder.

Merlin's stomach dropped. It was Taliesin.

Martha let out an "Oh!" of surprise, and the seer regarded her calmly.

"Do not fear, Miss Cole. I am not the Dorocha."

"Restless souls of the dead." Merlin murmured in clarification, not taking his eyes off the apparition who knew exactly who he was. He willed Taliesin to keep his mouth shut. He wasn't ready yet. Just a few more minutes. Maybe another century.

"It's an honour to… meet you." Albus said, lifting his hat. The professor seemed uncertain. He had seen the mistrust in Merlin's expression, but he wanted to be polite. How did you greet someone who might not be real?

"Yes," Merlin chimed in, seeing an opportunity to set his boundaries, "my name is Mortimer, and these are my friends, Albus and Martha." He gestured to each of them in turn, looking pointedly at the slightly translucent seer, hoping he would catch on. I'm not Emrys here.

Taliesin smiled knowingly, like the warlock's discomfort was amusing to him. Merlin sighed, it probably wouldn't make much difference. The cave would have its way with him.

"You have come to return the crystal of Nehatid… Mortimer?"

"We have." Merlin replied, and he opened his satchel to retrieve the leather pouch that had been calling out restlessly. He let the crystal fall from it into his hand and immediately its whispering and thundering heartbeat were silenced. It had a soft, mauve glow, and it seemed duller than its siblings in the rocks around them. It was happy in Merlin's hand, but there was another place, still, it wished to go.

Taliesin gestured for him to come forward. He was reluctant to leave the proximity of his friends, and he felt oddly trapped again as he followed the seer. It was as if the crystals compressed all the air in the cave and made it harder to breathe. He let go of Martha's hand, that he hadn't realised he was still holding, and stumbled blindly forward.

Taliesin had halted by the cave wall, where an unusual hole became noticeable. It was small enough perhaps for a bat, or a bird to make a nest, but its purpose was clear.

"Thank you for keeping her safe," the seer said, but Merlin wasn't sure how good of a job he'd actually done, "I trust you can return her home." He gestured to the crevice.

Aware of Albus' fascinated gaze, Merlin fumbled in his pocket for his wand. Taliesin reached out to stop him.

"No, Emrys," he said softly, and Merlin whipped his head round to make sure his friends hadn't heard, "with your hands."

He turned back to the translucent seer with a pleading whisper.

"I don't want them to know." His throat was tight and dry. He felt small, his confidence vanished.

"You must trust them."

"I do! But it changes things... I'm not… I'm not that man anymore. I can't be that man anymore." The words felt silly and selfish, as he struggled to express a thousand years of hiding in one desperate plea.

Taliesin spoke clearly now, so that Albus and Martha could listen.

"You cannot lose what you are, Mortimer. You may have forgotten yourself, but you would not be here if you were not ready to remember."

Merlin tried to tune out the presence of his companions in an attempt to ease the mounting pressure, but it was impossible. The magic here sharpened his senses almost to the point of pain. He could hear their breaths, feel their heartbeats, see the tiniest movements in their expressions. Every little drip of water from the cavern roof was deafening, every breath of air was suffocating. He tried to focus on these things, instead.

It took all of Merlin's concentration to gingerly place the crystal into the rock, but when he summoned his own magic to seal it there, a sudden stillness overtook him. He was reminded of the simple beauty of his powers. He was reminded, maybe, of himself.

His eyes burned, his fingers trembled softly and then grew perfectly still. He moulded the rock around the crystal of Nehatid as if it were clay, and it sang with delight. The air felt lighter in his lungs as the old warlock at last allowed it to mix with his own. The two forces were not so different, after all.

The crystal was home, and a part of Merlin too.

He turned to his companions, at last feeling some semblance of control.

"Your eyes." Dumbledore whispered, making such piercing contact with them that Merlin had to look at the floor. Albus could do that to you. He saw through you. Merlin's comfort vanished.

The professor's fascination made him uneasy, as being observed always did, but the fact that Albus was his friend made it more so. It was always harder with those he was close to, because he cared so much how they saw him.

"You've never seen them before?" Martha said, sensing Merlin's discomfort. She was trying to make him feel a little more normal.

"No, they're… incredible." And then he asked the dreaded question: "How?"

"To answer your questions, Albus Dumbledore, you would need to go back to the very beginning." Taliesin interjected. He gestured with his staff to the crystals around them, and they lit up with furious whispers. The cave swam with a thousand possible images. A thousand years of memories.

He pointed an enthralled Albus and Martha to the newly returned crystal of Nehatid, where a single image had come into focus. A castle with deep blue turrets and smooth stone battlements, set into the country-side and pasted against a clear sky. It was idyllic, just as Merlin remembered those summer days in his youth. The lump in his throat broke when he realised what Taliesin had in mind.

Not like this.

"No!" He raised his voice, slamming his palm into the wall of the cave to shatter the seer's hold on the crystals, surprised when he managed it. The image of Camelot disappeared. He had control again. "Let me do this."

Taliesin looked for a moment as if he was going to protest, but something in Merlin's furious gaze stopped him. He nodded, yielding Merlin the floor.

The warlock turned back to his companions, and they too seemed taken aback by his expression. He looked for his reflection in the pool at his feet. He saw his golden eyes; his anger.

And he was angry. After all these years the old religion thought he was a pawn. Still believed his life and his memories and his feelings were theirs to use. They were not.

"This is my story to tell." He said firmly, but he softened what he could of his presence. He didn't want to scare his friends, he wasn't angry at them.

Martha nodded, "When you're ready, Mortimer."

Maybe it was the last time he would hear her say that name.

"I don't think I'll ever be ready," Merlin said with the hint of a smile, "but I'm close."

As if in answer, all the crystals around them lit up again with images. It was overwhelming at first, but Merlin's more experienced eye began to pick them out, and he directed his companions. He braced himself for the journey he suspected he was about to take them on. He braced himself for the truth.

The opening of Wool's Orphanage seemed like a good place to start. It had to start somewhere.

A rosy cheeked young boy and a slightly older girl were cutting a red ribbon tied round the front gates. Merlin remembered their names: Jonathan and Matilda. A small crowd of adults (the staff, other donors and officials) and more orphans stood around the pair and smiled for a photo. It had appeared in the local paper.

Separate from those gathered for the photo was an isolated man with raven hair and a smart, familiar grey coat. He was smiling.

Martha had recognised him. "Is that your father?"

"No," Merlin took another deep breath, "that's me."

"But I thought your father built the orphanage, and died in the Great War..."

"My father died long before the war. I opened the orphanage in 1895."

"But that would make you-" Dumbledore began, but Merlin cut him off by pointing to a new image. He struggled to say it himself, so his memories would have to do the talking.

Now they looked in on Diagon Alley, which had changed little in the years since the memory. Wizarding society was like that. There was a huge crowd in front of Gringotts bank, its pillars bent at an awkward angle over clusters of wizards and goblins. Merlin spotted himself, conversing with one. He had worked for Gringotts in the two years before.

"The day Gringotts bank was handed over to the goblins." He said. Martha and Albus squinted at the image closely, and Martha's eyes lit up after a moment. She had seen him.

"When was this?" She asked.

"Before I was born." Dumbledore murmured, confused. Something was dawning on him.

"I'm… older than I look." Merlin confirmed. It was an understatement.

The images shifted with less direction now, pulsing gently with the flow of Merlin's memories and then landing more heavily with his strong emotions.

He had no idea what to show them now. How could he convey all the years, the pain, the wandering? What would they think of the way he had spent all his endless life? How could he justify the loss of his purpose? The crystals settled on an answer.

A dry, yellow field in the summertime. Hot, prickling grass and village children in worn, leather shoes. A blazing pyre.

"Summer, 1691." Merlin said, shutting his eyes. He'd seen this day enough times, in restless, haunting dreams. "Witch burnings."

Martha didn't speak, but when Merlin reopened his eyes, Dumbledore found his gaze and whispered hoarsely, "You were there?"

"They burnt a muggle girl. I was there too late."

The image vanished silently, they couldn't bear it any more.

"They signed the Statute of Secrecy the following year."

"Were you there, too?"

"No," Merlin said, remembering, "it was too painful for me. I… it represented to me a collective failure, a failure of our human compassion… but also a personal one. I had failed." Merlin recalled his helplessness. After all his work to bring magic back to Albion; everything Gwen and Camelot had built in the years after Camlan, the cycle of violence had come round again to flatten it. For a few dark years, he'd thought all the world knew was hatred, and he'd given up. "I still walk in the shadow of those days, I think."

"You do so much good, Mortimer, in a world of darkness." Martha said softly, touching Merlin's arm. The contact shocked him for a moment; Martha was so kind. Another image appeared in response. A makeshift stretcher in heaps of tufted grass and mud. A man laid on it, groaning, with an arrow through his thigh. An angry haze of helmets and swords and battle raged behind him.

Someone in a brown cloak came hurtling out of the madness toward the wounded man. In an instant he was crouched over the soldier's leg, his hood falling back as he took out a bundle of herbs. There was a bright light in his eyes as he murmured words neither Martha or Albus understood. The sorcerer was Merlin.

"You were a medic in the war?" Albus asked.

"Depends which war."

It took the professor a moment to understand. He was likely unfamiliar with how muggle warfare had developed over the centuries. They didn't use swords anymore.

"Well, which war is this?"

"The War of the Roses… covered the best part of the 15th century." Merlin replied.

"Merlin's beard..." The man in question cringed. Dumbledore watched in awe as the vision of his companion eased the arrow head out of the man's leg and closed the wound without so much as a wand or a stitch.

Then he turned to Merlin with new eyes. Studious, scrutinising, reverential. He wanted to understand the old warlock, not as a person, as a concept. It had dawned on the professor that he had no idea what Merlin was. Merlin wasn't sure he knew the answer either. Being examined like this made him feel hot and uncomfortable. In many ways, surely, he was still just an ordinary wizard.

The vision shifted, to try to prove this.

A stadium filled with wizards cheering and booing. A Quidditch pitch. All manners of chaos colliding at once. The figure of Merlin amongst the crowd, a rare smile on his face, enjoying the mischief and mayhem of it all.

"The first final of the Quidditch world cup. 1473, I recall." He narrated.

"Ah yes," Albus observed with amusement, "I believe every possible foul was committed within the single match."

"Can you do that?" Martha asked incredulously. She'd said before that despite the wonder of wizarding society, no one could deny the absolute ridiculousness of it at times. Merlin couldn't agree more.

"Yeah, it was chaos, but so were most sports back then. You know how football began." The nonchalance with which he said "back then" drew Dumbledore's intense gaze back to his features, like Merlin was some artefact from times lost.

"So you are, how old?" He asked very seriously.

"That's not a thing to ask a gentleman, Albus." Merlin smiled, trying to make jest. The professor gave no sign he was amused.

"And your eyes…"

"Let me put it this way," Merlin said, realising the barrage of questions was worse than just coming out with it, "old magic… it's not just something I study as an academic. It's the magic I was born with. It comes to me as naturally as breathing. In a way I am it. Or at least its final refuge." There was a certain loneliness to his power, even here.

Dumbledore's questions were silenced. There wasn't much further back Merlin could take them, now. The journey was drawing to its dreaded beginning.

"And this damn stick," he added, digging out his wand and waving it about, "I barely even know how to use." This earned a smile from his companions, easing their awestruck gazes. They'd seen at last quite how different he was from them.

He'd tried for years to be an ordinary wizard, to connect to each life he'd led with the same strength as the first, as if nothing more meaningful had come before it, but it didn't work. Maybe Taliesin was right; that the only way forward was to stop trying to forget himself.

He wasn't like other wizards. He knew it, and now his friends knew it, and he didn't have to hide anymore.

Was that relief, cresting his wave of realisation?

"You've seen so much death." Dumbledore said, finding his voice. There was such a heaviness in his expression, the jokes could not last long.

"It doesn't get easier." That fact was half the reason Merlin had spent so much time avoiding people. "It's been a long time since I've had friends. On principle I avoid things that I wouldn't want to lose. When you've been around as long as me, you learn that you always lose everything, eventually. It's funny to me that people can be so obsessed with the idea of immortality- of keeping everything, forever- when it's such a lie. A thousand years… and I've never felt as satisfied as I did when I thought I was mortal."

"Why now, then?" Albus asked. "Why us?"

"I was hoping by coming here I might find out. Tom awakened something in me. Purpose. He's given me so many things to lose."

"Are you scared?" Martha laid a gentle hand on his arm. The look she gave him felt his pain, shared his grief, calmed his soul. Martha didn't pity him- after all, she worked with orphans. No, she cared about him. His happiness was her happiness, and her pain was his in turn. And Merlin feared that above all.

"Yes, I'm terrified."

"Was there a time before, then? When…" Albus trailed off.

"When I had something to lose? There was. There was a time when I was mortal. I think."

"Are we going to see it?"

Merlin was silent for a long moment. A certain peace falling upon him.

"No." And then he continued with growing confidence, "No, that life… that first life… It's mine. You see me more truly now than anyone has in nearly a millennia, and knowing about that life won't change anything for the better." He'd shown them who he was, and he felt like they understood him. Arguably, revealing his name and his life in Camelot would take his companions further from his truth, their views would be marred by myths and expectations that he could not meet. "My past follows me everywhere, I can't ignore it, but that life is already lived. I am trying to exist in the moment again. The here and now is what is most important to me."

Martha nodded, of course she could accept this. Merlin turned more nervously to Dumbledore.

"We are all entitled to our secrets." The professor said with a knowing look in his eye. He was no stranger to secrets, after all, and pain in his past. With Grindelwald at large, the ministry and the press were constantly trying to uncover what had happened between them, and suddenly the exhaustion of it all was plain on the professor's face.

Albus, too, revealed himself. And he stopped looking at Merlin with that studious glint in his eye. The old warlock was not something beyond his understanding. In many ways, they were the same.

"Thank you for telling us this." Martha said earnestly. "It can't have been easy."

"I hope this doesn't change things between us." Merlin replied.

"I've always had a great respect for you Mortimer," Albus reassured him, "nothing has changed." The words were a weight off his old heart.

"You're welcome to ask questions. I can't guarantee I'll answer everything."

"Does Tom know?" Martha asked.

Merlin shook his head, looking at the ground.

"Probably for the best." Albus added, and though he was right, it pained the old warlock. Would Tom ever know? His ears tuned back in to the whispering of the crystals; they held the answers.

"We should head back, before it gets dark." He said, beginning to usher Martha and Dumbledore toward the cave exit and then hanging back.

"Aren't you coming?"

"You two go on." He said. "Wait for me in the hollow. I need a minute."

"How will we-"

"Fromum feohgiftum.*" Merlin whispered softly into the air around him, which came together on his command in a small, swirling sphere. "Follow the blue light."

Martha looked for a moment like she wanted to protest leaving him all alone down here, but he gave her a reassuring nod, and she relented, following Merlin's light as it left the cavern. She sensed the pain this place held for him.

Alone, the cave felt colder, stiller. Too still. Like something was waiting with baited breath to strike.

There were no more whispers. No more visions in the crystals. From every angle they watched, shining his own face back at him.

"I'm angry, you know." He whispered into the chilly air. He longed to shout, to scream, but he couldn't be sure Martha and Dumbledore were out of earshot. He didn't want their first memory of the immortal warlock to be his anger.

The crystals let his words bounce around a moment before sending them back upon his own ears. They listened, as always, but when had they ever really answered?

"Is this what you wanted?" He breathed deeply, trying to stay composed for no one's sake. "I try to be like Taliesin, I really do. I want to serve the old religion, pass on its practices, help in its time of need…" But he hadn't come here to do the bidding of the crystals. He'd come here despite it, in the hopes he could learn more about Tom's future.

"I used to think magic was the only thing that made me anybody," he called out into the silence, "now I'm not so sure. All these years, all the awful things I've seen, I have been losing my faith. I'm here because I hoped you could guide me again. Can I save Tom? Is this the purpose I've been looking for? Is that why you're tied to his fate?"

Again, there was no reply.

"Taliesin!" He shouted this time. "Don't hide from me, I came here because you forced me to." It frustrated him that the seer could act so bold as to try to reveal his identity, and then disappear when it was time to answer for it.

"Your questions do not have simple answers, Emrys." Taliesin appeared at last behind him. "Yours and Tom Riddle's fate is not set in stone."

"No, no I'm going to need more than a cryptic sign this time." Merlin took two involuntary strides toward the old seer, emotion screwing up his features as it all came out. "You know what I have suffered for you. You must have shared my loneliness; felt my pain after they burnt all the Druids and their customs on sticks! I blame you, you know, for my agony. Maybe just because it's easier…" He trailed off, the anger falling from his voice.

"I came back here, after Arthur died." He admitted. "I wanted something, no, I needed something to hold on to. Some kind of sign. I wanted to know that in the end he was coming back… and you couldn't even give me that. You were silent." He had never told anyone this. Not even Gwen. Especially not Gwen; she had needed Kilgharrah's promise to give her hope. But Merlin had too.

"Is that not the very idea of faith? To be uncertain, but to believe anyway?" Taliesin finally spoke.

"Maybe. But I have been losing my faith. I didn't see it at the time, but I deserved better. From you, from Kilgharrah. I am not your long-suffering Aeneas, and I should never have allowed myself to be. I wouldn't have, if it weren't for Arthur." His voice dropped, defeated. "He's not coming back, is he? That was just a merciful lie."

"You were never so bitter, Emrys."

"I wasn't. I've spent all day in the footsteps of who I was. And yes, he was foolish and clumsy and awful at doing what he was told… but he was happy. He had a purpose. He was good. And I think when Arthur died so did he. I've been trying to find him again ever since, and I think I have. In my friends, in Tom. But it's been so long since I've had so much to lose. I'm scared. I'm trying to put my faith in you again… but you've got to give me something."

"We understand your pain, Emrys. We feel it." Taliesin replied with an odd echo in his tone, as if he spoke with a thousand tiny voices. There was a deep sadness in his eyes, and it touched Merlin. "It is a lonely road for both of us, for all kin of the old religion. To give you the answers you seek, perhaps it is not my face you are looking for." Merlin opened his mouth to reply, but all of a sudden Taliesin had vanished.

A taller figure emerged from the crystals, with long, dark hair dappled by silver flashes and bushy brows that sheltered deep blue eyes.

"Father?" Merlin choked. The miraculous figure of Balinor didn't reply, instead cupping his hands to his mouth and murmuring something into them. He conjured a blue butterfly, and smiled at Merlin the way only a father could. Merlin knew the dragonlord was just another face of the crystals, but his heart thawed at the sight regardless.

"My son," He said softly, carrying the butterfly over to him, "I can't offer you answers, Merlin, I'm sorry, but I can offer you this: look into the crystals."

Balinor was close enough to him now that if he were alive Merlin might've felt the warmth from his body and smelled the smoke and pine in his hair. Enthralled by the feeling he had missed all his life, he did what his father asked of him without a moment's hesitation.

"What do you see?" Balinor murmured in his ear, and Merlin peered deeper into the glassy void.

"Nothing." He said after a moment, conflicted. "Nothing but my own reflection." He felt almost embarrassed; he'd believed that his father could show him anything more than Taliesin had, but they were both part of the same cryptic facade.

He gasped in surprise when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. The image of his father had lost its transparency. There was a faint smell of pine.

"You see yourself."

"How can you-"

"You say you are losing your faith. My son, you are a creature of magic. You want faith in that magic? You must have faith in yourself." Balinor placed his hand over Merlin's heart, and he felt his magic erupt beneath it. "You must forgive yourself."

The spark inside the old warlock flickered a little. Balinor seemed to feel it, and he frowned.

"What's wrong?"

"I can't forgive myself for losing Arthur. I failed that destiny, and if helping Tom is a new one, it won't forgive the mistakes I made." He pulled away from his father. "Just look at the image the world has of me and compare it to reality! I can't get over the sense that I was always the wrong man to be Emrys. I want to be good enough to save Tom. I want to be." Even if he didn't see forgiveness in his quest, he saw some kind of purpose, and he held onto it desperately. Tom's destiny was far bigger than his. It wasn't fair to the boy to think of him only as a means of Merlin's redemption. He wanted things differently, this time, and he insisted it to Balinor. "I can't save him if we aren't on the same page."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that Taliesin was wrong to try to force my hand today, and I draw a line. I don't know whether you are my father, or just the cave with another face, but I won't suffer for you or the old religion anymore. This is my life, and you are either with me…"

"Or I shall lose you." Balinor finished with a sad smile. "I understand."

"I don't want to." Merlin said, his voice losing its authority for a moment. "I hope this," he gestured to the strength of Balinor's presence, "means what I think it does."

His father only smiled.

"Are we agreed?"

"We are."

Now it was out of his system, he felt oddly peaceful leaving the cave. The light from the crystals no longer hurt his eyes and their whispers faded into the background, like the wind through leaves. The darkness of the narrow passage didn't press in on him, and the sunlight on the outside was warmer than he remembered. For now, his little outburst made him feel free.

This was by no means the end, but he wasn't a child anymore, like he had been in Camelot, and he wouldn't let the old religion toy with him, like Kilgharrah often had.

He drew in a long breath of fresh air, his eyes closed, feeling that golden current of magic in the earth and his veins. He loved it, he really did. He was happy to serve it, like Taliesin had, but he still toed the line. If the seer really wanted Merlin to forgive himself, he had to set him free.

Thanks for reading :)

* This is the spell Merlin uses in 1x04, but he actually spends that whole episode muttering lines from Beowulf, so the translation isn't relevant.

I struggled a lot with this chapter, and tackling Merlin's immortality in general. The man's twenty-five-going-on-thirteen-hundred, which is incomprehensibly old, and it's hard to imagine exactly his relationship with that fact. I almost copped-out and thought about a Dumbledore POV, but decided in the end that this one had to be Merlin. Will hold on to Dumbledore for another time.

It's been ages, but Merlin and Tom are back together in the next chapter!