History was littered with stories about how Emrys had served this king or deposed that one, ended this war and toppled that kingdom. He had a tendency to find the great heroes and villains of an age and find a way to interfere one way or the other.
Only people didn't say interfere, because that had bad connotations and most of the time Emrys's intervention was for the better, and even when he made mistakes, people didn't like to bring it up.
Surprising how destroying a few castles with a couple of muttered words made people hesitant to irritate you.
Arthur used to love reading the stories when he was a boy. When his nurse asked him which one was his favorite, though, he told her he hadn't found it yet. He was still looking.
The nurse had asked him what he was looking for.
"The one with me in it."
The nurse had laughed. Of course a five year old would want a story in it where he was a great hero fighting alongside Emrys.
Arthur wasn't joking, and when she tried to make one up, he told her flatly that she was doing it wrong.
It was cute, in a five year old. In a twenty year old man it would be viewed differently, which was why Arthur kept his mouth shut.
He knew. He remembered.
He was starting to wonder if he was the only one who did.
In not a single book was he ever mentioned.
Camelot was, but it was a Camelot after his time, a Camelot where the grandchildren of everyone he had known would have been dead. It appeared only scarcely, more mentioned than anything else, and the details were blurry and contradictory.
Like when people had asked him about it, Merlin's memories had been fuzzy, and he hadn't cared enough to try and get them back.
He was always Merlin in Arthur's head. Calling him Emrys made him feel the same way he had when Merlin had sarcastically called him "sire". It seemed more hurtful, almost dehumanizing, than respectful. If he was Emrys, he was untouchable, nearly all powerful. If he was Merlin, he was funny and brave and loyal and a bit of an idiot.
And, apparently, forgetful.
Arthur couldn't blame him, he supposed. He had been only one in a long line of warriors and kings Merlin had fought alongside. He hadn't been anything special, except for the fact that he thought he might have been the first. Time would have dulled the memories. It was understandable.
Or maybe Merlin remembered all too well and didn't want to talk about it. Maybe he was embarrassed. The stocks weren't quite as glorious as most of the tales after all.
And whose fault was that? a small voice hissed.
. . . Probably not Merlin's.
He decided Merlin didn't remember, because that hurt less. Loss of memory was natural and unavoidable. Suppression was deliberate and unlike him besides.
It was just hard to admit to himself that someone who was still so important to him no longer even thought of him enough to care at all.
He didn't go looking for Merlin. Well, he tracked his movements constantly, but those were pretty much public record. He didn't try to meet him though. It wasn't the near impossibility of the task that stopped him - he caught himself longing for the challenge, actually - but it had nearly killed him in his first life to look at his father and realize the man had no idea who he was. If Merlin did . . .
That was the plan. Avoid Merlin. Try and find the others. Avoid throwing things as much as possible.
Then some idiot - not Merlin - unearthed Cornelius Sigan again, and Arthur was throwing a lot of things, mainly at reanimated gargoyles, until he managed to get his hands on a proper weapon. At the end of the day, the city managed to hold off the sorcerer until Merlin got there and finished him off, and Arthur had distinguished himself as the man who had organized the resistance and saved a lot of lives. It was decided he should be rewarded with a medal.
