Pairing/s: None. (Pre-slash?) If you squint you will find Merlin/Arthur. If I continue this, there will definitely be Merlin/Arthur.
Character/s: Merlin, Arthur
Summary: He has wandered for a long time, waiting for something he does not remember.
Word Count: 460~
Prompt: #142 Wanderlust
Author's Notes: Maybe not exactly what the prompt said? but this is what came to my mind after I saw the prompt (also thanks to digthewriter for choosing such an awesome prompt!) Its basically from Merlin's point of view and I have a headcanon where Merlin does not remember his life in Camelot (because I can barely remember my life a year ago I don't expect him to remember something from 1000 years ago).
Late afternoon blankets the field with a warm yellow glow. Blades of grass sway lazily on the wind that carries a sweet scent that reminds him of home, of faraway places and people that he doesn’t quite remember. But he misses them anyway.
Someone once told him to wait, a long time ago. Someone great and old and wise, and who might have been a friend. He has waited, is still waiting. He doesn’t remember how long he has waited, or how much longer he needs to wait. And he doesn’t remember what he’s waiting for.
This place, he thinks, it could have been home once. There is something about this place; he can’t quite put a finger on it. There’s something that makes him think of warmth and love and friendship. Maybe this is where he started his endless travel; maybe there was a time when he looked over his shoulder at the white walls and battlements he’s now walking towards. Maybe this is the place he left to travel, or to find home, or just to feed his wanderlust.
He doesn’t remember this place, but he thinks he should. He thinks that he had memories here once. Maybe he had friends here, people he loved and who loved him too.
Now, more than ever, he wants his memories back. He wants to remember what this place meant to him, or what the people here called him. He does not remember what he was called and he knows it’s his own fault. Maybe he should have written his memories down and kept it close. But you never really think that you’re going to forget the present, not quite so completely.
There’s a man standing at the far end of the field with a kind of a stupid expression on his face. A quick check of his surroundings tells him that the man is staring at him. He walks slowly, in no hurry, and stops only when he’s a few feet away from the man. He seems familiar, somehow, not his face, but—but something about him is familiar.
The man’s eyes are wide and slightly unfocused, his lips parted into a small ‘o’ and there is colour high in his cheeks. His golden hair sticks to his forehead.
Arthur, he thinks inexplicably, and the man’s head jerks. The man straightens and swallows, clears his throat. It’s almost as if the man read his mind.
“Merlin,” the man breathes after a moment and it’s like the world stops for a second before it starts again.
Merlin, he mouths the word to himself a few times. Vague flashes of a time long past come back to his mind.
“Arthur,” he says, this time out loud, and it feels a bit like coming home.