Lines of Silver and Gold

In the last fifteen hundred years of his life (give or take a few centuries), Merlin had only been arrested three times.

(If one didn't count unofficial detainments, some of which were more pleasant than others, of course.)

After each incident, he swore that it would be the last.

But somehow, some way, somebody always found him.

…

When he woke up, the back of his head was throbbing.

From somewhere, bright white lights glared at him, boring through his eyelids into his skull. Rolling his shoulders, he raised his head from the table he was slumped over.

He was handcuffed to a metal bar in the center of it.

Compared to the last time he was arrested, they were awfully tight and were digging uncomfortably into his skin.

But maybe that was the point.

He narrowed his eyes. So this wasn't one of those "we found you passed out drunk at a bus stop and took you to the police station" moments.

Which, embarrassingly enough, had happened to him after a particularly rough evening.

Not his finest moment, but it would have made Gwaine proud.

The thought sobered him, so he turned his mind to something else in an attempt to figure out where in the blue blazes he was.

Aside from the table, Merlin's chair, and the one opposite him, the room was bare. A door separated him from the other part of the building.

Pathetic was the first word to come to mind. He wasn't even drugged, so it would take him three minutes tops to escape from this one.

They were more creative during the Salem Witch Trials.

But he wasn't going to think about those right now, either.

Footsteps from the hallway outside drew his attention.

The door clicked and opened to reveal a man, tall, thin, wearing sunglasses and a black suit. In his ear was a neatly tucked earpiece.

Merlin was fairly certain that he'd never met him before in his life.

"Am I under arrest?"

"You have been detained for suspicious behavior." The agent crossed his arms.

As far as anyone should have known, he was simply a young recluse living off in the woods who came into town for food every once in a while. A rather young recluse, perhaps, but that was none of their business.

The last thing he had been doing was crossing the grocery parking lot with a shopping cart. The most suspicious thing about that was the possibility that he'd forget to return the cart.

"What suspicious behavior? I've done nothing wrong. If anyone's acting suspicious, it's you."

In the past few decades, he had maybe gotten a little lax about making sure no one saw him use magic, but he couldn't think of anything recently.

"You have to let me go," he complained. "You never even told me my rights. Aren't you supposed to give me a lawyer or something?"

He was fairly certain he did, but it was sometimes difficult to keep track of all the addendums they kept making to the law since the time of Camelot…

"You have no rights here."

"That explains a lot, actually." He gave a pointed look at the handcuffs.

Arthur had done a better jaw at enforcing the law that this clotpole.

"We've been keeping an eye on you, Mr. Ethans."

"Evans."

"If that's what you want to be called." The agent threw an envelope down onto the table.

In case he hadn't received the message the first time, Merlin made a show of shaking his shackled hands. "Want to loosen these a bit for me? They're a little too tight."

The agent ignored him in favor of pulling out the chair opposite him and sitting down. Without breaking eye contact, he slit it open and pulled out a stack of papers.

Frowning, Merlin leaned forward.

Photographs.

The agent held up the first one. It was black and white, and the date along with the location was written in pen in the bottom left-hand corner.

1922, some carnival over in the United States that Merlin vaguely remembered liking until it was shut down for illegal activities that he had most certainly not been involved in.

Circled, in a red marker, was himself.

He was standing by a carousel, slightly turned, a slight smile on his face and his hands in his pockets.

But there was no denying that it was him.

He was screwed.

If there was one thing he had picked up working for Arthur under Uther Pendragon's nose all those years, however, it was how to bluff his way out of a situation.

"I don't get it. What am I supposed to be looking at?"

Ignoring the question, the agent pulled out another photograph.

Boston, 1919, the Great Molasses Flood, some street with a small crowd of onlookers. The image had been zoomed in to focus on his face.

"Do you remember any of these, Mr. Emerson?"

"Do I look one hundred years old?" Merlin frowned. "You really need to get your head checked. I think all this secret agent business is messing with your mind."

The agent removed another paper, this time a sketch. 1775.

"What do you have to say about this one?"

"What an awful haircut," Merlin grimaced. "Why didn't you think his friends clued him in on it?"

Before he could react, the agent reached forward and hit him.

Dazed, Merlin straightened. Turning his head to the side, he spat blood onto the floor from biting his cheek.

"What was that for?" he demanded, glaring. His face throbbed. "Assault of a prisoner in custody is illegal, you know."

"We aren't the law, and we don't think this is a game, Mr. Ethans."

"Evans."

"Perhaps this one will spark your memory."

The agent placed it directly in front of Merlin so he didn't need to squint to see it.

1945. Inside a tent, three soldiers were reading newspapers with the emblazoned headline HILTER DEAD.

He was in the center, holding and reading one of said newspapers.

He remembered the two other people in it but not the picture ever being taken. The whole period of time was a fog in his memory, muddled with smoke, blood, and metal.

Barbed wire.

Fire.

Death. So much death.

So many faces, so many people he had tried to save and failed. Because despite his power, he still wasn't strong enough

So many.

Freya. Lancelot. Gwaine.

Arthur.

Arthur.

His bound wrists throbbed.

He repressed a shudder, but something must have slipped past his guard and shown on his face because the agent smiled.

"Is your memory returning?"

Merlin swallowed. "No."

"We have dozens more like these. Some of them are far older." As if to prove his point, he dumped the rest of the envelope out on the table in front of Merlin. "Different names and different identities, but always the same face. We have one question for you, Mr. Ethans. Who are you?"

"Marvin Evans. I'm a zoologist, I live in a cabin in the woods by myself, and I have no idea what you're talking about."

Making a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat, the agent selected one of the photographs and held it up.

"France, 1806."

"Do you think I have a bunch of long-lost cousins who look like me? I've been on the internets before-"

"It's called the internet. You are not helping your case."

Merlin winced. "The internet, right. That. I live in the woods. I don't use it a lot. But I'm sure you'll find plenty of stories of people finding photographs of people who look like them. You can't kidnap someone for looking like someone in a picture. I think the police will agree with me on that."

His wrists were really starting to bother him - his fingers were growing numb and called his mind back to places or things he would rather forget.

The agent stood.

Although Merlin was expecting to be hit again, the other man began pacing. "We've seen traces for years, but we've never been able to catch you. We've heard stories of things that shouldn't be able to happen but have."

"Maybe you should stop watching so much television."

"We researched you. Your current name is fake. You have no birth certificate. You owe no property."

Merlin tried to twist his wrists but stopped when he felt a small trickle of blood.

"You've been asking everyone you meet if they've met anyone named Arthur Pendragon."

"So what?" Merlin raised his chin. It was hard to tell with the sunglasses, but he hoped he was looking his captor right in the eye. "Is that a crime?"

Spinning around, the agent braced himself against the table. "It is when Arthur Pendragon is a myth from over a thousand years ago."

Merlin could see his own reflection in the blue panes of the sunglasses. He looked small, thin, tired.

Sometimes, the world grated on him.

His face also was starting to bruise.

"And here you are." Still leaning against the table, the agent leaned forward. "We're going to ask you again, Mr. Emmons. Who are you?"

"Evans," Merlin gritted out through clenched teeth. "My name is Evans."

"Who are you?"

"I told you, Marvin Evans-"

"We don't want a cock-and-bull story. Who are you really?"

"Marvin Evans!"

"We have methods," the agent spat out. "If you refuse to cooperate. Being stubborn will only lead you to more pain."

He closed his eyes.

Oh, he knew. He had been "interrogated" before, by people who had meant very well but had done terribly wrong.

Magic frightened them.

He frightened them.

He knew all too well.

This man, however, had yet to figure that out.

Now, he could no longer feel his hands, and the back of his head was starting to throb again as a headache built. He wanted to go back to his cabin in the woods, make some tea, and curl up with a book. He wanted to continue his wait for Arthur.

He wanted to be alone.

He whispered something.

"What was that?"

Opening his eyes, Merlin raised his voice. "I said no."

"You are being obstinate."

"It takes two to tango."

The agent swore. Turning away from Merlin, he spoke rapidly into his earpiece, probably asking for someone to come and help facilitate his cooperation.

It was too bad Merlin wasn't going to be there.

When the agent turned around, Merlin was no longer handcuffed.

"What in the-"

"Sorry, I was getting a little sore." Holding one wrist in the other hand, he flexed his fingers. "This has been lovely, but I'm afraid that I have to leave."

Without warning, his eyes flashed gold.

With his magic, he threw the agent against the wall. In a heap, he slumped to the ground.

Casually, Merlin picked up the photographs of himself and looked at them for a moment.

So many different places, different times, both good and bad.

With one word in the old language, he set them aflame.

As they started burning, he walked over to the agent - whatever his name was - and stood in front of him as he started to stir.

"We will find you, Mr. Evans," he wheezed. "You have no right-"

"Emrys. And I have every right. I would highly recommend you forget ever seeing me," Merlin told him. "Next time, I won't be so polite." He walked towards the door. After opening it, he paused. "Give my regards to your superiors."

As he left, no one tried to stop or follow him.

Dollopheads.

...

A fire crackled in the hearth of the cabin.

Even though Merlin was sitting in front of it, he felt cold. Flame made him uneasy.

But putting it out felt like too much effort.

A cup of hot tea was sitting on the arm of his chair, steam wafting up from its serene surface even though it had been forgotten about.

He massaged his left wrist.

It was yet another reminder that magic was still somewhat of a taboo even though so many years had passed. It would always be held as some mysterious force of fantasy novel or fanatics. The golden age of magic was over.

No one would ever truly understand.

His body was a testimony to that.

Under the light of the fire, criss crossing and overlapping scars from centuries and hours past looked like silver lines on his wrists.

Even though he was free now, he was still bound in a way.

He was still waiting.

Until Arthur returned, he was alone.

(Totally and utterly alone.)