He wasn't even sure what the date was, what the year was or even what country he was in. He'd wandered, and somehow he was once again in some desolate place in need of help, the people he'd met along the way lay dead at his feet. Was he cursed for all he cared for to die? It seemed so, because Merlin was unable to keep any friends, not even enemies. He'd have even settled for a pet, but all of them died eventually. Some he saw to the grave, their hair white like a frosted morning and others he held onto as they breathed through shattered ribs, their hands slippery with blood and sweat.

Somehow, it had happened again. He'd fallen for a charming smile, wit and friendship. And for what he wondered, for him to outlive them again? He couldn't remember how many years it had been since the last of them had died, a few hundred perhaps? How many of them were now smouldering bones, picked free of all their flesh?

Merlin knew that over the time he had become hardened to death, hardened to killing. But, he knew he would never become so cold that he did not grieve. He knew, deep within himself, that if he did stop grieving, then he would have nothing better to live for. He had to grieve, to remember everyone.

To remember all the lovers he'd laid to rest, the children he had sired, none of whom had inherited his immortality. No parent should have to bury so many children. He had to grieve, but he had to hold himself together too. He couldn't forget, no matter what he might wish to. There had been good times, of course, but equally horrific one's. But they had made him up, had moulded him.

And, when Arthur came back, then it would be worth it. Merlin would protect him; he could grow fatter and old if he liked- Merlin wouldn't care, so long as he came back whole. So long as he came back at all.

A man, clearly thinking he could beat Merlin came forward, brandishing a sword. Merlin had two choices, kill him with a sword (much more time consuming) or kill him with magic (much easier). The second option happened so fast, the man was dead before he hit the ground, his last thought being about the odd golden sheen his eyes took on as he felt his neck twist…

He'd learnt how to fight with a sword; maybe when Arthur returned they could spar together. On equal footing at last? When he returned of course to the land of the living, since he could never join him in the land of the dead. He'd tried, god, how he had tried.

Poison was slowly, agonizingly, flushed from his system; he was left weak and in pain but still living. He'd been burnt at the stake once. His flesh had peeled from his bones, but he had still lived. His eyes flashing in agony. His head re-attached itself, his limbs re-arranged themselves, his spine would mend. He couldn't die, and it was a constant sort of agony.

He hoped that when Arthur returned he would forgive Merlin for changing, for the scars around his neck and throat, for the twitch he'd developed in his hand. He hoped that Arthur would not look at his face and see it young with the pain filled, old eyes. He hoped Arthur would understand, somehow.

Especially since he was about to make his latest attempt on joining him. Some God's said it was a sin to take one's own life, but how could they talk about keeping a life that held no worth. If Arthur had to return, why couldn't Merlin return with him, why was he not allowed rest? This desolate place had been but a whisper on the winds, a song that no-one wanted him to hear.

But, he'd had time, oh how he'd had enough of that, to find it. Today might actually be the day. It had been well hidden, and his friends, desperate to help, not knowing what it was, had helped. And had died before him again. But, he thought, if this worked, he could soon join them and apologise.

Concealed in a deep pocket of his robes was the vial, the size of his smallest finger. The liquid stoppered within was a black void of sludge like consistency, but was surprisingly heavy in his pocket. He supposed it was the weight of death. Slashing at an oncoming man, he stepped over a body. This man, this friend, had been alive and now he was dead. He reached down and carefully placed a finger on each lid and pulled them down.

Sweeping out from the alley where they had been ambushed, he saw the street being washed with blood. Sticky with the smell of death in the air, he cared not about the people that fell dead as he approached; they were dead before their swords had stopped swinging. Someone had once called him the Lord of Death. If he so wished, he could sweep through a crowded battlefield, and all his enemies would fall down around him. He hated that title, but it was only one of many.

His next real thought was when he had found the forest again. He had already stopped by the place he had been renting and picked up all his possessions. There weren't many; all his important things that he couldn't live without. But other things were stashed in other locations. His neckerchief and Camelot clothing was by the lake, buried in an impregnable chest. He thought of himself as Merlin, but usually he gave a fake name.

His favourite fake name was Arthur, with his close second and third being Lancelot and Mordred. On the occasions he was called upon to be a woman he went as Morgana. Each name was in remembrance of his failings. Each time someone talked to him was like a stab to the heart, which was equally unsuccessful.

The forest was peaceful, with no sound of the murder going on in the nearby city. This too was his fault, but he'd apologise to whoever needed it when he was dead. That was the compromise he had sealed with himself. Carefully pulling the vile from his pocket, he fell to the floor; what was a bruise when he was going to die?

The liquid moved sluggishly around in the container, it swirled and moved. Like it was alive, maybe it was. This was supposed to be half drunk, and half rubbed over the heart. The heart part being first. He supposed that people would normally be worried at this point or having second thoughts, or even saying goodbye. But he, he was ready to die.

So ready to die.

He unstopped it with one hand, and with the other unbuttoned the loose robes he was wearing. His skin was pale and crisscrossed with scars and burns. Taking a deep, very unneeded breath, he poured a decent amount of the liquid onto his skin. It was like sludge, sticking to his heart and burning. Taking another breathe he raised the bottle and toasted it,

"To Arthur, The Once and Future King…" his chest was burning. He downed the noxious liquid like it was a beverage and then let his arm drop. It was burning through him, like a dragon fire. Laying down on the grass, he realised it was wet, and the canopy above him was somehow turning gold.

It was burning, directing itself to the heart. Merlin was happy.

The canopy above him was dark, and he sensed the rain before he felt it crash onto his burning chest. It hadn't worked, and Merlin felt warm tears splurge down his cheeks, mixing with the smell of burning flesh. Not wanting to look, but knowing he had to, he looked down the length of his chin to see a large burning mess where his skin had used to be.

He screamed and the birds in the trees took flight in their fright.

The next time he woke up, it was dark still, but the stars were bright and somehow, he felt cleaner…better. A phoenix was perched over him, it's gossamer tears falling onto him.

Magic had saved him again, and he smiled as the bird flew away, his chest no longer smouldering.

It was a sign, clearly it had to be a sign.

Merlin couldn't die, so he would have to live.

And hope that Arthur came back again, or eventually he knew, living wouldn't be enough.

He'd have to send people with notes to him, and he knew, that when that time came, Arthur would have to rise again, and slay the beast that he had become.