A/N: Please forgive the historic references that are not 100% correct…artistic license
Reviews make the writing go quicker
Chapter 1
The first life was the hardest.
Merlin did not remember himself at first. His name was Nicholas, his mother's name was Katerina and they lived in Greece 340 BC. The first few years of his life were confusing. His mother often found him sitting alone, silently staring unseeingly into the distance.
He often succumbed to fevers and would lie shivering for hours on end, eating nothing and refusing to be touched. Katrina sat by his side, staring at her strange and beautiful son, marvelling at his pale skin and blue eyes, so unlike her own.
It was the dreams that brought the boy so much pain. His little body, his little mind, could not handle the random and disjointed images of a life he could no longer remember. He would wake up crying; body racked with grief and yet not understand why.
Women in their community, his mother's friends, would come and pray for him convinced he had angered the gods in a past life. He started to believe them, started to believe that he had done something to deserve the cold empty feeling in his little heart that left him breathless and wanting.
It took years before the disjointed images that plagued him at night begun to make sense, before he remembered names and places and who he was.
He was sitting on a straw mat his mother had made, watching the other children his age playing in the street. They had sticks and pretended to be warriors, chasing each other up and down the narrow space between their homes. He watched them play and he thought of another world, another life, where he had sat and watched a different group of boys. He remembered the sound their swords had made clashing against each other. He remembered Elyan's laughter when he bettered Sir Leon. He remembered Percival's strength against a stealthy Gwaine, teeth white in a wide grin.
He remembered the way the sun hit the back of his neck despite the snug neckerchief. He remembered the smell of the freshly cut grass and how the cloth in his hand felt as he used it to polish a sword.
His sword.
When he remembered Arthur for the first time, he crumbled to the floor and lay there sobbing until someone called for his mother. Katrina held her sobbing son, patting his back, begging him to breathe. He looked up at his mother and did not see the woman he was used to but someone else altogether; someone with skin as pale as his and straighter darker hair.
Hunith, he whispered and fell asleep against her.
It took months for Nicholas…for Merlin to speak about what he saw. It took years before he believed what he said. He was twelve when the dreams found him in his waking life, when he saw the faces that plagued him at night reflected in faces of the people he saw every day.
He learnt not to speak of it with anyone but his mother. He knew no one would understand. No one would believe that he had once been a great sorcerer; he had once been a friend to the greatest king to ever live.
He found Will when he was thirteen and wondering the outskirts of his village like he was prone to do. He almost ran into the arms of the shorter, skinner boy. He wanted to cry, wanted to tell him that he had missed him. Instead he offered him a drink of water from his canister and they spent the afternoon exploring and falling effortlessly into an easy friendship.
He spent every day looking after that. He needed to find him. He needed to find his king, his friend.
He met Gaius at a market a few months later. He was selling herbs and remedies and looked nothing like the old man he had grown fond of in his past life. He was younger, skin tanned and hair barely greyed but the eyes where the same.
He begged the older man to give him an apprenticeship, begged him to teach him and give him work. He tried not to come on too strong but failed. It did not matter in the end because this Gaius was just as kind as the last.
It seemed his life followed the same path as his last. He sometimes thought of his second life as a shadow of his first, as if he was simply following the footsteps of his former self.
He was not surprised when his magic found him again. He stood in front of a bank of water that he and conjured up when he felt desperately thirsty. He looked into the water and saw his golden yes staring back at him.
"This is what I was, this is what I am, this is what I will always be," he whispered.
He found Arthur when he was fifteen. He had heard stories of a great worrier; Alexander the Great. No child had escaped childhood without pretending to be the great commander with his friends, battling imaginary enemies with wooden swords and spears.
Gaius had been called into his service and Merlin had followed him, as he had before. When he saw him for the first time, he did not see the dark hair, did not see the tanned skin or older features. He saw his Arthur, he saw gold hair and aquamarine eyes.
His breath left his body, he felt his knees weaken. There he was, after all this time. There he was looking every bit the warrior and leader he knew him to be. A king, with all his loyal subjects surrounding him.
They spoke of Parysatis II of Persia, the beauty that owned the King's heart, but he thought of sweet Gwen with the soft locks and the sweet smile. They spoke of the mighty warriors by his side, he saw the Knights of the Round Table, his friends.
It was hard to be on the outside, to be seen as nothing but a servant. Despite the similarities between his old life and the new, not all was the same. He was not Arthur's confidant, he was not allowed into the folds of the inner circle. He stood always on the outskirts, supplying a helping hand when he saw fit.
When he was eighteen he thought maybe he had been wrong, he thought maybe his second life was not a mirror of the first, that there was no need to fear the loss of his king a second time.
But then he met Freya.
He had been visiting his mother after spending months by Gaius's side and in the service of the King. He had already lost Will to a plague and he could hardly bare to visit their childhood home without the loss leaving him unable to move, let alone breathe.
He was collecting firewood when he saw the remnants of a carriage littered across the ground. A wheel there splintered wood over there.
He heard her before he saw her, her cries soft and pained.
He dropped the wood he had been carrying and ran to the sound, knowing what he would find before he round the corner. It was not the first time he had seen a slave chained. It was a common feature, something he saw and swallowed and accepted almost daily.
But when he looked into the eyes of the young woman yanking fiercely at her chains, all reason left him. He did not see the still bodies of the men that had been transporting her, he only saw her. His Freya, needing his help again.
He approached her much like a man approached a wounded animal. He saw scratches on her dark skin, long and red and angry. He felt fear and anger flood him so suddenly he was panting with it. Freya looked up at him, eyes wide and scared. He knew she would not remember him, did not try to get her to see him just then.
He produced a hunting knife and edged around her slowly. He worked at her locks without breaking her gaze.
"I won't hurt you, I promise," he whispered.
She did not understand his language but could see the kindness in eyes. She allowed him to free her shackled legs and pour water over her wounded ankles. Merlin offered his hand and she accepted it without hesitation, as if something inside her already knew to trust him.
He took her home and treated her wounds as best he could. His heart was heavy and he tried his best not to cry. Was she doomed to be cursed in all her lives?
He fed her and gave her clothes, entertained her when she grew wary of him and her surroundings. When she leant in and placed a chaste kiss on his lips, he felt the rightness of it. As if he had been waiting all his life to feel that warmth.
He vowed not to make the same mistakes as before. He was to leave with her that very night, no waiting around for the worst to happen. He spent all of the next day gathering supplies and saying goodbye to his loved ones and friends without actually saying the words. He left money by his mother's bed, hoping she would understand with time.
He was coming home from the baker's, where he'd secured a few loaves of bread, when he heard the commotion. He found people gathered in a circle around a scene near his home. He held his breath, not again, he thought.
He won't recall dropping the bread and falling to his knees when he thinks about it later. He won't remember crawling to her still form, blood covering his hands and knees.
Later his mother will explain what happened while washing the dry blood off her son's hands. She will speak softly as if afraid to scare him off. He will find out that she was a savage girl found wandering alone. They caged her, planning to make a profit by trading her. They did not anticipate how wild and untamed she was. They say she reacted like an animal when officials came looking for her. She bit and scratched and almost took one man's eye out.
They say the only thing they could do was slit her throat right there.
Like an animal.
Merlin becomes resigned to his fate. He spends each day knowing and fearing what is to happen, who he is to lose. He is in the field harvesting the season's crop when he hears the news. Alexander the Great, undefeated in battle and considered the greatest commander Greece had known, had died in the palace of Nebuchadnezzar at the age of 32.
He had failed him again.
He had no doubt there was foul play at hand, even before the people began to speculate. If he was allowed within the king's inner circle, maybe he would have been able to warn him of Morgana, of Mordred, whoever they would be to him. Maybe he could have…but really he knows there was nothing he could do. Arthur had risen when his people needed a leader. Now he was gone.
Again, without him.
He wished for death after that; hoped his heart would crumble in his chest. It did not happen.
He lived long enough to bury his mother and mentor next to each other. He lived long enough to meet his father on a pilgrimage to new land. He shared a canister of water with him, listened to his stories of travel and adventure.
He wished he could ask the older man to hold him, tell him that in another life he was his son. Tell him that the love of his life died not but a month ago, and they had never met. He wanted to ask for advice, ask him why he was being forced to relive all this pain, why he was the only one to remember. Instead he asked him to tell him more about his voyages and about the family he was traveling to be with.
Merlin died naturally of old age. He died alone in a home full of books and memories. He left nothing but his story, in case he did not wake again. In case this was the last life.
His eyes drifted closed and he hoped for peace. He hoped for the brown eyes of his Freya, her warmth and love. He hoped, but he knew this was not the end.