Those Who Waited (BBC Merlin)

Chapter 9: Blood Magic

A/N: Hello! I am usually updating this story every other week, but since it is my birthday today I am super excited and will update everything! Actually, to be totally honest, I'm more excited for TOMORROW because I'm seeing Death Cab for Cutie!!!!! But anyway, exciting week, so extra (and rare) updates for all! :) <3

Merlin suppressed a groan as he watched the four tiny glass vials, the one on the far right glowing brightly. He nodded to himself, shuffling back to sit on the wooden chair and grasped the pen in long, gnarled fingers to write in looping scratch, not all that unlike Gaius'. The old man chuckled to himself, in part impressed and in part sad that he could still remember his caretaker's handwriting after so long.

He grumbled when his back complained an hour later. He was in his 80's now—again—and after so long, he'd have thought he would grow used to it. But no, ten lifespans later (What else was he to call them? 'Regeneration' felt cold; 'lifetimes' was for reincarnations and thus not appropriate), and his bones still ached and he was still uncomfortable. He had started to look forward to his 100th birthday, since then he would wake in his younger body again.

Of course, he had made other improvements. His little home had grown, as over time the rest of the world developed new materials and tools: he now had a wooden bed with a cotton mattress that fit his body twice, cleaner and sturdier wood for the walls, glass on the windows, and both rooms were larger. It was still two rooms, the one with his bed and chest of clothing, and the other with a table, shelves, fireplace, and a longer slab of wood like a cook's counter. A few years after...after his last contact with someone he knew originally, he'd begun a better food system. He had dried meats and fruits—enough to be considered healthy, should anyone have commented, instead of just enough to survive.

There was also another chest in the back corner of his bedroom. It contained a simple pale blue tunic that would have been far too small for him, two soft blankets, a simple cornhusk-and-linen doll, and a hairbrush.

The middle of the seventeenth century, he mused. One thousand years. So much had changed, and yet, so much had remained the same. Although, to be fair, he was extremely removed from the world despite his attention to it, so while he knew about the people's progress and news, he experienced very little.

He did now have to use magic to hide not only himself and his home, but also the entire lake. Modest homes only a bit larger than his own had been built within a mile of the place, and he was sure that they would keep expanding. He had debated opening the lake and using the people's appreciation as protection for it, but mankind was fickle. People would want to live right next to the lake, and would continue to build and grow. And Merlin needed the place to remain intact and safe. One day it would be needed. One day. He still firmly believed.

He looked back at the vials. Despite it being mere hours since he'd looked, he couldn't help but catch himself checking several times a day. The one on the right was still the only one, but that wasn't necessarily bad. The three drops of Gwaine's blood, taken all those centuries ago from the man's sword, glowed to indicate that his friend was living another reincarnation. This was his fifth in the last thousand years, since the last time Merlin had seen him.

Merlin had the blood of Gwaine, Lancelot, Morgana, and, of course, Arthur. It had broken his heart each time to wipe the three drops off of swords (Morgana had actually had Lancelot's, but had never used it after her attempts to use him were thwarted, so the blood was kept for Merlin's later discovery). But he'd braved through the violation, since it would benefit them all in the long run. Even at the loss of Morgana, Merlin had shed a tear. The blood magic allowed him to know when each had appeared as a reincarnation, and the vial glowed until the lifetime ended. If he focused, Merlin could see flashes of scenes in the glass to see details. He didn't do this often, for it was rather saddening to see his friends—but not his friends—fighting in war, living happily, mourning a death of an elderly loved one, getting married. Occasionally, they became extremely close to meeting each other. Their lives were normal, but far away from him, and they knew nothing of his existence, while he measured his years in the times and lengths of their appearances.