When Will moved to Cornwall to take up his job at Celemion, Merlin did his best to wish him well. He hated how he always had to have a stiff drink in his hand whenever Will wanted to talk to him about the ruins or what he believed to be their history. He hated that his own hangups were slowly but surely driving a wedge between him and the best friend he'd had in over three centuries. But, as he did with everything that brushed with his memories of Camelot, Merlin allowed himself more room to be the bitter old man he'd hidden for so long in his heart. It wasn't just mental, either. He'd started turning grey (again), streaks in his beard and hair thickening with silver reminders of his antiquity. He only hoped Will wouldn't notice.

The afternoon when Merlin drove Will to the train station, they party ways with a stale goodbye. Will had begun to sense Merlin's ill moods from the beginning, but he was undsure as to what brought them on, and too scared to ask. He left Merlin at the station lobby with a halfhearted but hopeful smile, leaving the warlock to drive an hour back home accompanied only by his thoughts.

When he arrived at his home with a mouth still tasting of vinegar, Merlin put down his keys and walked silently down the single hall of his house. He opened a small closet door that stuck slightly in its frame, exposing a dutifully humming water heater. He maneuvered carefully around it so that he could face the back wall of the cramped room. With a sigh, he willed himself to stop wishing for whiskey and pressed his palm against the wall and pushed. His eyes flickered for a moment, and the drywall shifted. The whole wall swung backward in a puff of insulation and plaster dust. A sleepy fluorescent bulb flickered to life and buzzed at him as he passed it to the spiral staircase beyond. The closet door closed behind him as he descended downward.

Merlin willed to see, and with another flash of magic across his eyes, a long hallway of lamps turned on, illuminating an equally long hallway of bookshelves.

He began walking down the hall, turning on lights as he went. The lights were dimmer and older as he travelled further. Florescent, incandescent, cotton filament, gas lamps, oil lamps, candles, torches. The books grew older and darker, the floors wearier, creakier. It was like travelling back in time. And in a way, he was; he was traveling back through centuries in the physical manifestation of his too-long memory.

At the very end of the hall, there was a locked door. It was the only door Merlin bothered to keep a key for, because it was the only door that Merlin had made nearly impossible for anyone – himself included – to open with magic. Sighing, he took out a noisy ring of keys and found the plain silver key that no one ever asked about. He slid it into the lock and turned it open with a click. His hand paused on the handle, mind rushing back to how long it'd been since he'd last stepped in this room, wondering if it was as horrible idea this time as it had been last time. He felt another hair on his head turn grey. He pushed the door open in a flutter of cobwebs.

He'd kept it all, all of these years. Everything that he could get his hands on, everything he could carry out before the Normans came with their axes and torches. Before the Welsh took up the long-forgotten standard of his home and called it Cymru, before the castle was reduced to a ruin and stripped of its name. Before William Crayder was sent to dig up and decorate the corpse of Merlin's oldest memories.

It all looked the same. The same books and shelves, the same cloaks, swords, and banners. The colors were fading and the leather was cracking, and the book pages smelled of ink older than most of the modern world could remember. But it was all here. Merlin lowered himself onto a footstool that had once been Gaius' bedside seat and picked up old book sitting in pieces on a shelf. He flipped through the well-worn pages and sighed at the charcoal drawings there. They may not have been the most accurate portraits he'd ever drawn, they were all done from memory. But he didn't want to forget. He wouldn't let himself. He came across the largest in the book, a two-page spread of figures seated around a large round table.

"I'm getting to old for this," He whispered to them, and meant it. "I really, really am." His voice cracked, and Arthur should have teased him for it. Instead, he sat there, immobile and emotionless. Dead as ever. Merlin slowly let the book slip from is hands to the floor, putting one hand on his head. "God, I'm just too old."

Elsewhere, Will the Squib was wishing he was a bit older than he was. It was one thing to assert yourself as a soon-to-be PhD graduate at a small university. It was another thing to assume the directorship of an ongoing excavation and restoration of a national heritage site that had been in the works for almost as long as Will had been alive.

It would have been easier if he'd had at least a dusting of grey in his hair. As it was, he lowered the average age on site by about twenty years. This, mixed with his limited field experience and the fact that he knew none of the team and none of the team knew him made for an awkward transition. He'd started growing a beard in order to fit in, just a little. He couldn't tell if it was working or not.

The work itself was enjoyable. The castle was magnificent (if Will had cried the first time he'd seen in in person, he'd hidden it well and made a show of taking his allergy medications afterward) and the unruined parts that were to become Will's pride and joy were beautiful. The eastern side of the castle was largely destroyed, courtesy (or so the head archaeologist told him) of the Normans' overzealous transition into Cornwall's countryside. The western wings had fared somewhat better. Luckily, this western half included what they were calling "The Great Hall", what may have once been a throne room or reception hall.

It was still a mystery what king or lord had ruled here. The historians were scratching their heads over the scarce artifacts that the archaeologists had brought them: a crown, a medal, and a chest (or the metal bands of a chest). All of them were embossed with the emblem of a roaring dragon. It didn't make sense, they said. The Welsh dragon should not appear this early, so the king could not have been Welsh. But to date, no one had found record of a king who lived here, much less under the banner of a roaring red dragon (the chemistry of trace elements on the crown had revealed that the enamel once painted there had been ruby-red). What then, had they uncovered here on their hilltop site in Cornwall?

Will related all of this to Merlin in a rather long-winded email, spending a considerable amount of time on the nature of the artifacts they'd found and the dragon emblem that puzzled them so.

If you have any time, Will wrote, I wanted to ask if you knew anything about this coat of arms. It has our historians completely stumped.

Attached to the email at this point was a photograph of a dirty, corroded metal plate. Merlin's heart leaped.

Suddenly, he was back there, and he'd dropped the plate – maybe that very one in the picture – on the floor and spilled Uther's dinner everywhere. Arthur had rolled his eyes and Uther glared, Gaius pretended not to know him. Gwen had helped him clean it up. He'd rubbed the dents and scuffs out with his own tunic.

He was back in the present, and he slammed his laptop shut. He couldn't deal with this. He couldn't. He'd had flashbacks before, but never when he was awake. He shoved his macbook away and stood, cursing, and stormed into the kitchen. Shoving the heels of his palms into is eyes, he went to the kitchen and dove into a forgotten old cupboard, digging through unused and broken kitchen appliances until he found a shoebox. Hand shaking, he threw the lid off and grabbed the pipe and tobacco there.

"You damn squib," he growled, shoving leaves into the bowl and sticking the tip into his mouth, "Damn Cemelion. Damn excavation." He lit the pipe and coughed on the first puff. "Damn Arthur!" Merlin sunk to the ground, hands in his hair, banging his eyes into his knees, disregarding the hot wooden pipe that sent smoke into is eyes. "I'm too old for this," He said as the flashbacks grew and stuck fists through sixteen hundred years of memory to drudge up whatever muck he'd managed to forget. Smoke hit his eyes and made him start crying. When he threw the pipe away, coughing, he didn't stop crying. "I'm too old for this."

Will stroked his new beard and glowered at his laptop, which displayed an email inbox that hadn't received any new emails for nearly two days, save for a few old newsletters that refused to understand what 'unsubscribe' meant.

"Your 'expert' friend ever get back to you?" One of the junior conservationists (one of the few team members that was around Will's age) leaned his head in the door.

"No," Will admitted annoyedly. He closed his computer and slid it across the folding table. He'd set up office in a room of the unruined side of the castle. He was told this was likely once a bedroom. It was the warmest room in the castle and offered a decent view of the courtyard. Since he was director and nearly lived on-site even as the archaeologists moved out, he was allowed to set up a temporary office in here, complete with folding-table desks, camp chairs, a cooler, and a blanket.

"Aw, that's too bad," said the curly-haired conservationist. "Look, the chaps over in safety want to talk to you about the second story stuff. We're at basecamp, when you're ready."

Will sighed. "Of course, I'll be right there." He glanced at his computer. He opened it again and wrote email me when you can. The cursor blinked on and off three times before he deleted it and closed his computer again. He shuffled off to the basecamp outside the castle, thoughts occupied with Merlin and his inexplicably cold shoulders.

Working at a castle like Celemion was the sort of thing that Will had been dreaming of since he was an undergraduate. It was, however, still work. He spent his days in meetings about blueprints and minimally-destructive steel reinforcements and figuring out how to scrub moss out of one thousand year old grout. He wore hard hats and didn't always get more than a shower a week and was beginning to wonder if the popularity of beards among his colleagues was a matter of taste or a matter of a collective unwillingness to shave regularly using handheld mirrors. Either way, every man on site had one and every woman on site teased them about it, and together it created community.

With finalized plans well underway and a growing amount of waiting on the to-do lists of the historians and researchers, Will and the more intellectual crowd stepped back to let the construction workers do their job to make sure hard hats wouldn't always be necessary on site. A few of the most outspoken and protective archaeologists and conservationists stayed behind to keep the builders and their equipment in check, but the majority of Will's team was given time off to take a break, go home, sleep, and perhaps take a shower. Will himself was taking time off, too, after having been reassured about three times over by his assistants that they had things handled.

So Will packed his things, got on a train, and went home for a brief respite. He did his laundry and took a long shower and even ironed his shirts. He ate good food and made tea and enjoyed the sound of falling rain from the safety of a watertight, solid roof rather than a tent. He awoke on a cloudy Tuesday morning, trimmed his beard, gathered his things, and found his way to Hoffi Coffi, not really knowing if he should hope for anything or not.

"Will! Sut ydych chi?" Kate beamed at him over the espresso machine. Will smiled back at her.

"Dw i heb dy weld ti ers talwn!" Will smiled at her. "And I'm doing well. I see you've held down the fort admirably," he said, setting his bag down on a barstool.

Kate poured a latte, hardly having to look. "I almost didn't recognize you with that beard, Mr. Man," Kate teased.

Will blushed. He fancied Kate, though wouldn't have admitted it. "Not too many good opportunities to shave out on the field," he lamented, a little self conscious. "Though it does keep my face warm - Cornwall is rather breezy this time of year," he stroked his beard in mock regality. Kate chuckled at him.

"Well, I'll have to thank Cornwall's climate for your trouble. It suits you handsomely." She said. He blushed again and probably wouldn't have come up with anything intelligent had she not spoken again, "You like orange scones, Will the Beard? On the house."

"That sounds lovely, and you are an angel."

Kate brought him a plate, scone still piping from the oven. "Falch eich bod yn ôl, annwyl."

Will would be alarmed later that the pet name felt normal, and that he returned it. "Chi hefyd, cariad." He bit gratefully into his scone and let Kate go back to her work with the other customers. As he ate, Will glanced around the room. There were a few regulars, a few teenagers, and a couple. But there was no Merlin.

"Kate, have you seen M- er, Dr. E around recently?"

As he asked, Kate turned around as if she'd been waiting for him to mention it. "No!" She said, and set a teapot down more harshly than she needed to. "I haven't seed hair nor hide of the man for weeks, and I'd like to thrash him for it." She sighed frustratedly and came over to him at the bar, crossing her arms angrily. "You know, he has not missed a Tuesday here since I was ten years old. Ten! I don't know where he lives, and he doesn't have a mobile as far as I know, but I really hope he's okay." She did sound concerned as she looked out of the window. "If you see him, tell him that he owes my nerves an apology."

"I see," Will said after her rant was over. He finished eating his scone and stood.

"Leaving so soon?"

"I think I might be able to find Dr. E for you," Will said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "I can text if you if I find him. Give me your mobile number?"

Kate smiled a touch coyly. "He finally asks," she muttered, pulling out her phone. Will blushed once more, and as before, his beard did nothing to hide it.

"Merlin?" Will had no way of knowing, but he was the first human being in three hundred and sixty two years to use the doorknocker on Merlin's front door. He was making the best of it, slamming it repeatedly. "Merlin! Are you in there?" He waited for a beat again. "Merlin! Kate's on a warpath to make sure you're alright, you'd best be glad she doesn't have your address." Another silent pause. "Oh come on, Merlin, what is wrong with y-"

The door opened. Will shut his mouth and peered hesitantly around the corner. "…Merlin?" he called. He took a careful step over the threshold. "Merlin, are you home?"

"You're bloody loud, Squib." Merlin drolled from the living room. Will came over and looked down at the great Emrys, who was slung across his ancient couch like a binging seventeen year old, the tv on and unattended, empty teacups everywhere, along with a healthy amount of dirty plates and fast food wrappers. There were also a few empty bottles that smelt of various types of alcohol, but Will was trying to ignore them.

"Good god, Merlin, what happened to you?"

Merlin was not looking at him. "Nothing has happened to me, it's only been a few months. That's like minutes long in my brain - been around for a while, you know, quite a while, little bit to long of a while, I make a museum of any room I walk into." Merlin hauled himself up into a sitting position so he was sitting toward the back of his couch, looking at Will and trying very hard to look conscious. "But it must seem like a eon to you - how is Cornwall? When did you get a beard?"

Will continued to stare at Merlin. "When did yours get so grey?" He asked, examining Merlin's haggard appearance and wondering if he'd always looked this old. Merlin said nothing, so Will shook his head and began wading through litter to sit on an arm chair. "Cornwall is…" he laughed, not sure where to start. "It's great. Um." He glanced up at Merlin. "I have… I have sent you emails about it. Did you not get them?"

"My computer is down. I haven't fixed it yet, sorry," Merlin lied. It sometimes bothered him how easy it was for him to lie.

"Oh, okay," Will smiled, looking relieved and very much like a puppy in Merlin's eyes. He thought about the unread messages in his perfectly functional inbox in his perfectly functional macbook. God, he was a terrible friend. "Well, it's been fantastic. I honestly couldn't have asked for more - okay, well, the living conditions are rough, but it's so worth it! I really wish you could be there, I've been wanting to ask about so much, the site is amazing - I really need to know what it looked like in it's heyday, so do you think you could sit down at tell me sometime…"

"Would you like tea?" Merlin stood. "I'll make tea."

Will continued talking. Merlin sighed to himself, and knew that he couldn't turn a cold shoulder forever.

Merlin was only half listening to Will's raving. He didn't need to listen - he knew everything about that site. Every stair step, every window, every room and every scratch on the walls from Arthur's bootheels thrown at his head.

"…and I really wanted to ask you what it is because it's not in any of the heraldry books and it's driving the historians mad trying to nail it down, and… Merlin?"

Merlin blinked and reappeared from his reverie. "Yes, what is it that you wanted to know?"

"The shield," Will was saying, apparently not bothered by the obvious fact that Merlin was not paying much attention. "It's got this… this coat of arms on it - well, we think it's a coat of arms, but it's so simple that at first we thought it was just one knight's emblem. But we keep finding it on everything, so it must be something big."

"What does it look like?" Merlin asked, already knowing the answer.

"Oh, um…" Will said, pulling out his phone and flicking the screen a few times. "Here," He said, turning the screen around. "This is on the shield I mentioned. It's the most intact image we have. The others weren't engraved like this one, and the paint is gone. But you can see the outline of a dragon, facing left in profile, just here," Will gestured with his fingertip and handed the phone to Merlin.

Merlin looked at it and was surprised at the lack of emotion he felt. Had it been Arthur's? Gwaine's? Lancelot's? He couldn't remember. He didn't recognize it through the rust and dirt. It was too old - or was he too old? "Ah, yes." Merlin said, not sure what else to say. Will's face lit up.

"You recognize it?"

"Yes," Merlin said, a little pained.

"Well what is it?" Will was too eager, and had no idea what he was asking.

Merlin looked up at Will's hopeful face and felt bitter. He shouldn't be so bitter, but he was. But here was Will, so young, and so hopeful, and so sincere. He trusted Merlin, and he'd made Merlin's life so much brighter. And there he was, marching on Camelot's heart and not knowing it. Did Merlin not want him to know? Did he not want to tell him to tread carefully? It was Merlin's longest-kept secret, but like all of his secrets, it had an expiration date. He just hadn't expected Will to be the one to cash in on it. Merlin sighed and stood, kicking a path through his trash, which he made a mental note to clean up later.

"Come with me," he called to Will, and led the way down hall. He opened his hall closet.

"Is that a water heater?" Will asked, nonplussed.

"William Creyder," Merlin said, not looking at him, "Nothing is ever just anything in this house." He moved around it and pressed a hand on the wall. "And that dragon is not just acoat of arms."

A/N:

Welsh translations (keep in mind these are rough translations, apologies to any native speakers)

Sut ydych chi? - How are you?

Dw i heb dy weld ti ers talwn! - Long time no see!

Falch eich bod yn ôl, annwyl. - Glad you're back, dear.

Chi hefyd, cariad. - You too, love.