Merthur Oneshots

I'm Gone Without You, Could It Be Forever? (No, Not Anymore)

A freezing gale whipped through the bare branches of the scraggly trees circling the lake, whistling and howling as it buffeted Merlin's little car.

Trust that little wreck to break down here of all places, and on Christmas eve, no less.

Merlin wouldn't go so far as to say that he really celebrated the holiday, being what youngsters now days called an 'atheist', but still he couldn't deny that there was something extremely exciting about a festival so massively celebrated all over the world. With countless traditions extending from singing carols to chopping down and decorating trees, to gift-giving to both near and dear and strangers alike, there was something magical about this time of the year the likes of which Merlin never experienced before (and that was saying something considering that he had once been known as the most powerful sorcerer to ever walk the earth, and still could be, probably; he was sure that the occasional sparks of magic he could coax out of his fingers was more anyone else in the world could).

But it seemed like he might have to miss it this time.

Groaning loudly, Merlin leaned forward, dramatically throwing his head onto the middle of the steering wheel, where the car emitted an ear-shattering scream, followed by the annoyed squawking of the birds who hadn't had the sense to go somewhere warmer. Well, at least the honk of his car was working. Merlin was sure it was the only thing that was. Could his day get any worse?

An abrupt sharp clunk! echoed through the interior of the car. Merlin frowned, before leaning his head upwards, so that his chin rested on the centre of the wheel.

Another clunk! followed the first. A little louder, perhaps, but the edges of the sound were a little squashy.

Merlin sighed. He supposed he deserved it, really, with what complaining that his day couldn't possibly get any worse. Apparently, it could, as he was currently stuck with a dead car in the middle of nowhere on Christmas eve, and if there was any God out there, they certainly were a sadist, as they also had to stick Merlin with a hailstorm which sounded like it would turn into blizzard very soon.

Completely cutting off the chances that he might be rescued before the night was over, as if they had already not been low enough, with it being Christmas eve and so all workers would have let off early at work and would be in their toasty homes, eating roasted geese and guzzling down wine.

Merlin's stomach growled. Okay. No thinking about food then.

The hail was getting faster now, a loud clunk! coming every other second as spheres of ice crashed against the roof of the car; the bonnet and the trunk. Merlin gazed outside the window. The hailstones splashed against the water of the lake of Avalon, hitting the surface like stones and sinking, leaving bobbing ripples in their wake.

Merlin sighed. Across the water, a solitary hill rose from the ground, the ruins of a once-magnificent tower silhouetted against the eerie grey glow that has only come in the last few decades, with artificial light made of chemicals and whip-quick electrons taking place of fire torches that had once been used, diffusing through the smoke that had spread like a blanket all over the world.

The Lake of Avalon, once an unimaginably sacred site for pagans across Britain and later on the land upon which a dozen Christian settlements had been erected, was no longer the majestic lake it had once been, the resting place for Kings and the proletariat alike. No longer anything more than a marshy swamp now, it was now the home of millions of insects that Merlin was sure would make his car their permanent home before the night was over.

He sighed. There was a reason that he had been avoiding this place.

It had been sometime in the last three centuries when Merlin had given up hope of him ever returning to take his place back at Merlin's side, after twelve hundred years of fruitless waiting and searching. His hope had been slipping for a long time, which had been visible by the way he had returned to this place less and less frequently as the decades, nay centuries, stretched on and on.