AN:

Merlin has been alone for 1000 years. He's despondent, tortured by his solitude. He's watched Camelot fall and magic fade from the sight of the world. He's almost given up, until one cold night in a pub his loneliness is ended.

Just so we're clear, Merlin doesn't look like an old man in this story. He's found some way or another to stay twenty-something physically, and he's been going by Emrys. Also, the first chapter is kind of like an intro, telling how the whole thing begins, the second will detail the gap between the intro and the actual story, and the third chapter will be where everything kicks off and gets interesting.

Title inspired by Christina Perry's A Thousand Years. I wrote this before I thought about the song, and then I thought about the song, and then I laughed and named the story.

DISCLAIMER: Yep. It's official. I own nothing. Don't sue me.

1000 years…

1000 years was roughly how long he had been keeping me waiting. Sure, Arthur had never been particularly punctual in life, bit in death he was far surpassing ridiculousness.

So many times throughout the tiresome ages I had thought to myself, 'This is it. Camelot's need has never been greater than now. The King will rise once more and bring peace to Albion for good.' Somehow, it never was the right time. Not when Guinevere died, not when the truce across the land splintered, not even when Camelot itself finally fell, turning the whole world upside-down so that nothing was ever the same again.

So there I was, sitting alone in the corner of a quiet pub on a frigid night in 21st century London, watching magic dwindle out of existence altogether. If Arthur thought I spent all my time in the tavern before, he must have been spinning in his grave those days.

That was when the world righted itself for the first time in almost 10 centuries.

The bell above the door rang as it opened, granting entry to a group of four giggling young women, likely university students. A lot of those came to this pub. I didn't take much notice of them as I rose from my booth. They were simply more of the placeholders filling this world that tried to make sense of itself by invalidating mine.

Ben, the bartender, took my flask and turned to fill it while I stared blankly at the wall. That was the full extent of our relationship. Sadly enough, Ben was the closest thing I had to a friend those days.

As I mulled over that small, depressing fact I heard an all-too-familiar peal of laughter to my left that made my throat clench in horror, one that made me relax into a nostalgic smile when I processed the tone. It was one from happier, simpler times when the owner hadn't been consumed by power and hatred. A time when we had been friends, not mortal enemies. I brushed it off as more of the delusions that had been generating as I slowly slipped into a solitude-driven insanity.

Then Ben handed me my flask, which slipped through my fingers, clattered to the floor, and splashed drink over everything in a two-meter radius as I met the eyes of a ghost in the mirror behind the bar.

That ethereal green that I would never get out of my head no matter how much longer my earthly purgatory continued. My purgatory that no longer felt like a punishment.

The girl with long, black curls on the barstool next to me gasped and grabbed a bundle of towels off the counter, leaping forward to mop up the mess. I bent quickly to help her, stammering apologies for the alcohol on her green dress.

"Don't worry about it, I can be clumsy, too." She brushed off my every attempt to make amends. "I'm sure the stains will come right out," she assured me as she dabbed at the hem of her skirt.

"Here, let me help." I reached out with the towel, careful to keep my eyes low as I muttered a spell under my breath. When I removed my hand, her dress was as good as new.

When I finally met her eyes, she was gaping at me. "How did you do that?" she asked softly, but there was a hint of a demand in her tone, and more than a little pleading in her eyes. Those unearthly green orbs.

My mind was reeling. Did she know? Did she not know? Did she remember? Damn it, was she even real?

Centuries of hiding the truth answered for me. "My mother taught me a few tricks for sticky situations. Lifehacks, I guess you could call them," I lied through a smile. She didn't look convinced.

"I'm sorry, but do I know you?" she pushed, searching my face the way she always had when I was withholding.

I tried to resist, to tell her no with certainty. I tried in vain. "You do remind me of someone. Someone I knew a very long time ago."

She held out her hand, her friends at the bar and the mess at our knees long forgotten, and an older mess on the forefront of my mind. "I'm Morgan, Morgan Penn."

I took her hand grasping it like a lifeline to the old world. "I'm Emrys."