Arthur was tired. Tired beyond words, beyond belief, beyond possibility. He had fought for a long time, fighting anything that moved in this dark, twisted reality he called his abode. Purgatory.

Arthur sat by the stream, sharpening his sword with a whetstone. The repeated, familiar action had calmed him all these years, reminding him of happier times, though all the while filling him with nostalgia for friends long left behind, or lost. Merlin, Gwen, Morgana, Father, Leon, Lancelot, Gaius, Gwaine… It had been hundreds of years by now, but the pain was still there. Still there, after all this time, along with all the regret, the guilt.

Shhhhnk. Shhhhnk. Shhhhnk. He held the blade up to the depressingly grey light and inspected the razor edge, wondering how long it had been since he had heard his best friend's voice, or felt the loving touch of his wife, or seen his sister smile. It does not do you well to dwell on these things, Arthur. He chastised himself, but couldn't keep the thoughts from his head. Just focus on getting through another day. He snorted at his own thoughts derisively. I don't think there's even a such thing as a day here.

He heard a crackling in the brush nearby, he pocketed the whetstone, and raised his sword. Here we go again.

-000-

"Merlin…" A raspy voice called. "Merlin…" Beckoning him. "Merlin…" Reminding him. "MERLIN." The voice roared, and Merlin sat bolt upright in his bed, shaking and sweating. He fell back on the musty-smelling mattress, and turned the iridescent alarm clock towards himself. 5:52 AM, it read. Merlin sighed, and dragged himself out of the motel bed, thinking for the third time that week how much he missed his little cabin, and pondering as to who the voice in his dream could be. He fumbled around in the dark for the light switch, and headed to the bathroom to get ready for another probably disappointing day.

Merlin looked in the mirror, studying his face for any signs that the youth potion was fading. He pressed the towel to his damp raven-black hair, and thought how odd it was after all these years, he had had to come to America of all places to save Arthur. The place hadn't even been discovered when he and Arthur had been in their prime. Well, when Arthur was alive, at least. These Americans may speak the same language but Dear God if I can't even understand some of the things they say. Merlin had had a hard enough time adjusting to modern technologies back home, but America was just so similar, yet different, it gave him a sort of cultural vertigo. Like peanut butter. How did they come up with that? Did some extraordinarily fat person accidentally sit on some peanuts and say "Oh hmm! Let's put that on some bread and have that for lunch!"?

Which wasn't to say that Merlin simply disliked America per sé, just that he had a hard time understanding some of the things they did. Merlin sighed and packed the last of his things into the small roller-luggage thing he had brought with him. He shrugged on his dark jacket, and stepped out the door. He stuffed his pack into the back of the near-decrepit Volkswagen bug he had rescued from a garbage lot, and headed for the open road to find his long lost friend.