Flowery Reincarnation

ㅤ

Merlin had recently found himself lost in thought, mulling over a myriad of topics that seemed to clutter his mind endlessly.

During his latest swordsmanship sessions with Father, he couldn't help but notice how detached he felt, though he masked it well, allowing his subconscious to guide his movements with precision. His body flowed naturally, mimicking the rhythm of a well-rehearsed sword dance, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

There were far too many loose threads, too many steps ahead that he should have been considering at the moment but lethargy had set in, an odd laziness that he couldn't quite shake. If he were honest, it wasn't unlike the kind of indulgent idleness he had known as the Magus of Flowers.

Amid the swirl of distractions, one thing in particular gnawed at him: the inconsistencies in his memories. Or, more accurately, the strange voids within them. Whenever he tried to recall certain events, he was met with a blank, an unsettling emptiness. It wasn't the absence itself that bothered him—that much he could rationalize—but the feeling it left behind. It was a foreign kind of frustration he'd rather not have. He was Merlin, after all. His memory, sharp as a blade, had never failed him. Yet at times, it felt like pieces of himself were slipping away, leaving him grasping at a mist he couldn't hold.

He winced.

The thought unsettled him in ways he couldn't fully articulate. At first, he dismissed it, chalking it up to the oddities of his reincarnation. But the longer it lingered, the more it gnawed at him, and he eventually decided to seek advice from someone he trusted—or rather, someone who wouldn't dare repeat his words to anyone else.

"Miss Lilia," he said one quiet afternoon, his tone casual yet laced with uncharacteristic seriousness, "I can't seem to recall certain memories from a few years ago. Do you have any thoughts as to why that might be?"

Lilia, standing nearby with her usual composure, froze briefly at his question, blinking at him like he said something mystical. Her brow furrowed, betraying a moment of confusion, before she swiftly changed into a more professional demeanor, making him smile. Merlin respected her control; it was rare to find someone who didn't leap to conclusions.

"If I may ask, Master Rudeus, what exactly seems to be the issue? Without knowing more, I'm afraid I won't be able to provide you with a clear answer."

Merlin hesitated for the briefest of moments. He couldn't exactly tell her the truth that the gaps in his memory weren't those of a young boy, but of a being who had walked the ages, raised kings, and crafted legends.

Or could he?

Nah.

Instead, he chose his words carefully, crafting a plausible narrative that would suffice for her understanding. He explained his problem in broader terms, weaving a tale of fleeting memories and vague frustrations that he hoped sounded convincingly human.

To his mild surprise, Lilia didn't seem particularly shocked. In fact, as he spoke, she regarded him with an unsurprised look. It was as if the matter he described was something she expected.

Wait, why did that sound like she didn't consider him human? Even stranger was the fact that she didn't seem bothered by it.

Oh, right. She'd thought of him as a demon before, and he was pretty sure her opinion hadn't changed much since then. Well, aside from maybe deciding he was a good demon. And yep, that worked for him. She wasn't exactly wrong, after all. In a way, it was oddly relaxing not having to keep up the act around her.

He wondered if it would even matter if he told her the truth. Would she take it with the same calm indifference, or would she give him a more heated response?

When he finished, she sighed, her calm response caught him off guard. "Master Rudeus," she began, her tone measured, "it is not unusual for memories to fade over time. For humans, this is simply a part of life. The mind lets go of what it deems unnecessary to make room for what is essential. It is... normal."

Normal. That word struck him, though he gave no outward sign of it. Normal was not something he had ever been. As an incubus-born cambion, his mind had always been perfect, retaining every detail as though he were archiving the world itself. Yet here she was, explaining away his frustration with such simplicity, such human reasoning, that it almost felt insulting—and yet he felt comfort upon hearing her words.

Merlin allowed himself a small laugh. "I see. Thank you, Lilia," he replied softly. "You've helped me a great deal." With that, he left.

Her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, as if she wanted to say more but bowed her head and excused herself.

Once he was out of her sight, the puzzles put themselves together in realization.

Previously, he had been an existence untouched by the concept of "forgetting," merely hearing about it from others, like some distant tale or whispered lament. It was a word that had held no meaning for him. No place in his reality. Why should it? His mind, unbounded by the limitations of non-phantasmals, had been a perfect archive.

It was a vessel that could hold all things without decay. He could perceive the world's present in its entirety, nearly every corner of the celestial sphere unfurling before his sight as if it were etched into the fabric of his being. Knowledge was rarely something to be sought or cherished; it simply was, stored effortlessly, layer upon layer, forming the foundation of what made him one of the most dangerous individuals in the world of magi. That's why he liked so much to be surprised by something he didn't know.

And yet now... he was beginning to forget.

The thought clawed at the edges of his mind, unsettling in its novelty. Could it be that his memories...

—Centuries of life, a chronicle of time—

...were beginning to unravel, slipping through the cracks of the mortal shell he now occupied? The sheer fragility of it all was absurd, almost laughable. And yet, here he was, forced to confront the inevitable truth: this human body he had been reborn into, this imperfect shell he enjoyed, came with a price.

"No, I wouldn't call it a price. It's more like something that comes naturally with such a drastic change in circumstances."

Merlin hummed, staring at the floor beneath his feet, his thoughts separating into a strange mixture of resignation and curiosity. If this was the cost of being human, or rather, learning to be one, then so be it. Forgetting, he realized, was an intrinsic part of humanity. It was what allowed them to grow, to move forward, to endure.

Was he now subject to the same rules? Had it robbed him of his once-boundless certainty? Or was this merely another piece of the grand design, a reminder that all things, no matter how immortal they claim to be, must bend to the limits of a fleeting world?

The thought made him chuckle faintly, for there was a sense of joy in it. Everything had its expense, and he, the Magus of Flowers, was no exception to that rule.

But it didn't matter.

Merlin wouldn't trade any of it for what he had now.

ㅤ

ㅤ

"What?" Merlin tilted his head, wondering if he heard correctly, "Say that again?"

"I said," Paul repeated, scratching the back of his head, "I want you to have it, Rudy. I think it'll be more useful to you than it ever was to me."

Zenith, standing beside Merlin, nodded her agreement with a soft, approving smile, though there was a glint of amusement in her eyes at seeing Paul stuttering with his words like that.

"That's..."

Merlin blinked, glancing down at the obsidian sword now resting in his hands. It was a blade he'd seen countless times as Paul's constant companion, almost an extension of the man himself. He studied his father with a mix of incredulity, widening his eyes as if Paul had just grown a second head.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Father?" Merlin quipped, tilting the sword and trying to sense any illusion.

Paul threw his hands in the air, "I swear, it's nothing like that!"

Zenith giggled.

Paul sent her a betrayed look.

Merlin leaned forward, his tone teasing yet exaggeratedly earnest. "No, this is impossible. You've had this sword with you everywhere. Training, hunting, and even bathing. And I'd bet my life you cuddle it at night."

Paul's face turned a shade of red that could rival the ripest cherry, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

Zenith bit back a laugh, stepping in to rescue her husband. "Rudy, perhaps you shouldn't antagonize your father any more than you already have. I'm afraid he might collapse from embarrassment at this rate." Her tone was light, but her words only fueled the mischief in Merlin's eyes.

"Too late for that," Merlin replied, leaning on the sword. "I think he's about to dig himself a grave right here in the living room."

Paul groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Alright, enough! I'm being serious here!"

The laughter faded, though the grin on Merlin's face remained. He shifted his grip on the sword, feeling its weight and balance. Despite his flippant demeanor, he recognized the significance of the gesture. "So why the sudden decision?" he asked, his tone softening.

Paul straightened, his embarrassment giving way to sincerity. "I saw you with it during the battle. The way you handled it... the way it seemed to respond to you. I've had this sword for years, Rudy, but I've never seen it shine like that before. It's like it was meant to be yours."

Not really, he was sure the blade was just that desperate to acquire the new wielder.

Merlin stared at his father, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, with uncharacteristic solemnity, he bowed his head. "Thank you, Father. I'll cherish it as much as possible."

Paul's face eased, and for a brief moment, the proud father broke through his usual bravado. "I'm glad. Take care of it to the fullest of your abilities, alright?"

Merlin nodded, a flicker of warmth passing through his body and sending a pleasant tingle down his spine, "I will."

A brief silence settled over them before Merlin tilted his head again,

"Father... you're crying."

"Am not!" Paul barked, refusing to acknowledge any of it.

Zenith covered her mouth with her hand, "Oh, Honey, you really do make this too easy for him."

Paul groaned again, this time with the weariness of a man who knew his wife would never let this live down. Meanwhile, as Merlin admired the sword in his hands it made him think back to his near-death experience.

As the faint sound of Zenith's laughter drifted through the room, Merlin's focus remained on the obsidian sword in his hands. Its polished edge caught the light, sharp and unforgiving, a stark reminder of how close he'd come to losing everything.

The cold sting of blood spilled from his stomach, the moment his body gave way to weakness of mortality.

It was more than pain; it was clarity. He had been careless, too comfortable in the belief that his wit and knowledge would be enough to get him through this new life.

His hand brushed against his abdomen, fingers tracing the spot where the blow had landed. The wound wasn't visible anymore, but he could still feel it. A phantom ache, a reminder of blood flowing from his mouth.

He was weak.

That truth was harder to accept than the pain. He'd been too complacent, on his magical expertise.

Merlin shut himself away in his room, determined to work without distractions. Illusion dispatching to reveal a prototype of a magus workshop.

As he moved toward his desk, the Bounded Field around the room flickered briefly, confirming its activation. It encased the space, a spell woven with intricate layers of illusion and mind suggestions. Anyone who dared to enter would see exactly what he wanted them to: Merlin lounging on his bed with a book or an empty room without him, prompting another to think him leave for outside activities. It was just enough to keep the curious eyes of his family from lingering.

The air inside his workshop felt heavier now, charged with mana and the faint, earthy scent of magical.

"Alright," he murmured, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow as he looked down at the shimmering brew before him. "That should do it."

The concoction was a creamy mixture infused with Vatirus flowers. It glowed faintly, pulsing with the magical energy he'd channeled into it. The flowers' natural ability to store mana made them rare and temperamental to work with, but Merlin's touch had been precise.

He stripped down to his undergarments and started painting unreadable-looking symbols across his body.

Merlin worked with practiced precision, his movements deliberate as he traced the first rune onto his arm. The sharp lines and curves began to form different symbols.

O Power that is locked in the bones of the earth.

"ᚠᚱᛟᛗ ᛏᚺᛖ ᚱᛟᛟᛏᛊ ᛟᚠ ᛇᚷᚷᛞᚱᚨᛊᛁᛚ, ᚷᚱᚨᚾᛏ ᛗᛖ ᚦᛖ ᚠᛚᚨᛗᛖᛊ ᛟᚠ ᚡᛁᛏᚨᛏᛁᛚᛁᛏᚣ. ᚠᛖᚺᚢ, ᚨᚲᚹᚨᚾ ᚦᛖ ᛋᛏᚱᛖᚨᚭᛏᚺ ᚹᛁᛏᚺᛁᚾ."

Incomprehensible whispers echoed through the empty room, reality seemed to shake for a moment before silence overtook it all.

Fehu. A rune of prosperity and strength. It pulsed with mana as he whispered a faint incantation, binding its meaning to his own body.

Unlike Magecraft, which often relied on shortcuts and diluted principles, the Runes of the Age of Gods demanded respect. Each line carried weight; each mark had its purpose. Once inscribed, the Mystery within the rune activated instantly, channeling its power with no delay. This efficiency made them dangerous, but also incredibly taxing.

"ᚹᛁᚾᚷᛊ ᛟᚠ ᚦᚨᚷ, ᚱᛁᛊᛖ ᚨᚾᛞ ᛋᚺᛁᛖᛚᛞ ᛗᛖ. ᚨᛚᚷᛁᛉ, ᛚᛖᛏ ᚾᛟ ᚺᚨᚱᛗ ᚲᚱᛟᛊᛋ ᛏᚺᛁᛊ ᛒᛟᛏᛁ."

He moved to his chest, drawing Algiz over his heart. A symbol of protection, its branching lines resembling an outstretched hand warding off danger. The rune flared briefly before dimming, its magic settling into his core.

"ᚦᚢᚱᛁᛋᚨᛉ, ᚺᚨᛗᛗᛖᚱ ᛟᚠ ᚷᛟᛞᛊ, ᚺᛖᚾᛏ ᛗᛖ ᛋᛗᛁᛏᛖ ᛗᚣ ᛖᚾᛖᛗᛖᛊ! ᛚᛖᛏ ᚲᚨᛟᛊ ᚨᚾᛞ ᚱᚢᛁᚾ ᚠᛟᛚᛗ ᛁᚾ ᛟᚢᚱ ᚹᚨᚲᛖ,"

"ᚷᛖᛒᛟ, ᛋᚨᚲᚱᛖᛞ ᛒᛟᚾᛞ, ᚢᚾᛁᛏᛖ ᚦᛖ ᚠᛟᚱᚲᛖᛊ ᛟᚠ ᚦᛁᛊ ᚱᛖᚨᛚᛗ. ᛚᛖᛏ ᚦᛖ ᚷᛁᚠᛏ ᛟᚠ ᚺᚨᚱᛞᛟᚾᚢ ᛒᛖ ᛗᚣ ᛋᛏᚱᛖᚨᚭᚺ."

On his shoulders, he painted Thurisaz, paired with Gebo. Together, they formed a binding pact with the world around him: the promise of triumph in exchange for his strength.

Each rune served a purpose. Some reinforced his body, acting as shields against physical and magical attacks. Others enhanced his offensive capabilities, amplifying the raw power of his spells. A few were experimental—a touch of Merlin's own creativity—crafted from years of magical research.

The most intricate and difficult work came last. Across his back, Merlin used his momentary clairvoyance and painted a sprawling Bounded Field, its framework constructed entirely from interconnected runes. The runes shifted subtly, lines moving like flowing water as they responded to the mana in his body. The field would act as both a shield and a reservoir, reinforcing his body while amplifying his spells.

When the final rune was in place, Merlin stepped back, examining his reflection in the mirror of water he conjured. The runes painted across his skin glowed faintly, their light flickering like distant stars. The blend of Nordic, Celtic, and forgotten symbols created an intricate tapestry across his skin, each rune a story woven into his being.

"This should do," he muttered, flexing his fingers and feeling the mana hum beneath his skin. The runes responded instantly, their power rippling outward like waves in a still pond.

Merlin couldn't help but chuckle. "Maybe a little overkill... but I've never been one for half-measures."

ㅤ

ㅤ

It had taken Merlin several hours to perfect the runes, making sure that none of them would cause him to explode the moment an opposing spell struck. He had to admit that the process was both taxing and rewarding.

The realization that he could use the runes here, in this foreign world, filled him with a sense of satisfaction but also quiet contemplation. His connection to the Garden as curious and complex as it was, seemed to play a role in their proper function. Even though he could recreate the symbols down to the last curve and imbue them with the same magical meaning as in another reality, it didn't change the fact that most of them were indirectly tied to divinities that resided on the Reverse Side of the World.

Of another world.

It was an odd thought, but Merlin liked it that way. The strange, uncharted aspects of magic always intrigued him, like discovering a new facet of a well-known gem. Perhaps it was connected to the fact that the Garden lie on something in between the Reverse Side and The World itself.

With a soft exhale, the wizard looked up to the sky, watching the still-high sun shining at him. A sudden flicker of movement caught his eye, a familiar sight of a grumpy horse that made him smile.

"Well, look who decided to show up," Merlin said, walking toward him.

Emrys lifted his head, trotting over, his hooves kicking up dust.

"You've been busy, huh?" Merlin teased as Emrys stared at him. "Yeah, I get it. You've been waiting for me."

The horse gave a low snort, ears flicking back.

What took you so long?

"Forgive me, my friend." Merlin approached Emrys with a playful grin, reaching up to pat the horse's mane. "Had to finish some important work. You know, runes, magic... power-scaling stuff. No big deal. I could hardly leave it all unfinished. You understand, right?"

Emrys huffed.

Merlin smirked. "I know, I know. I'll make it up to you." He gave Emrys a scratch behind the ears. "Ready for whatever the village has in store for us next?"

Emrys tilted his head slightly as if considering Merlin's words.

"Ah, yes, a true understanding of priorities," Merlin said with a wink. He gave the horse a gentle pat, then stepped back, "Ready for our next adventure, then? I promise, this time I'll be the one doing the heavy lifting for the villagers."

Emrys snorted and nudged him in the ribs.

"Alright, alright," Merlin laughed, stepping back. "Let's see what trouble we can get into today."

I'll follow your lead as always.

Merlin chuckled and stroked Emrys' neck. "Right, right, the silent hero. You know, you've got quite the personality, my friend. Too bad you can't teach others some humility."

Like you?

The horse nickered, clearly unbothered by Merlin's jabs, whose face feigned a scandalized expression.

Later that day, Merlin, though the villagers still mostly knew him as Paul and Zenith's son, found himself standing at the edge of the village, watching the villagers go about their work.

The day had been long, and Zenith's punishment made sure that Merlin's usual routine was a lot more grounded than he was used to. Helping out with the day-to-day struggles of the villagers was a far cry from the free time he once knew.

Next up was a simple task. Well, it should've been. Borys' roof had collapsed after a storm, and the wizard was asked to help fix it. Borys, a big guy with a thick beard, was nervously scratching it as Merlin approached.

"Uh, Rudeus… it's not much, but we really could use your help," Borys said, his voice unsure, like he wasn't quite sure how to ask for magic. It was clear they knew him as Paul's son, but there was still some hesitation when it came to actually asking him for help. After all, he wasn't exactly the kid they knew personally.

Merlin flashed him a lazy grin. "Don't worry about it. I'm here to help. No big spells today, promise." With a wink, he raised his hand, calling on the mana around him.

One fixed rooftop for Mister Borys. Merlin thought playfully, trying to somehow brighten the utterly boring job. The air shimmered, and before anyone could blink, the broken beams of the roof started to move, snapping back into place like they were guided by an invisible hand.

Borys stared, his mouth hanging open. "By the gods, it's really... it's true then," he said, completely amazed.

Merlin dropped his hands, dusting himself off. "There we go. No charge, of course."

Unfortunately.

He couldn't help but feel his face heating up when villagers sang praises for him, even though it was such a small thing compared to what he used to do.

Borys clapped him on the back, still looking a bit stunned. "You've saved us, Rudeus. I don't know how to thank you."

"No need to thank me but next time, let's hope the roof doesn't try to fly away again, yeah? It was pretty badly made, I think."

As Merlin walked away, Borys stood there, shaking his head in disbelief. The villagers still saw him as Paul's son, a young boy who was still getting his footing, but they were starting to respect him more. Word had gotten around about how he helped defend the village from monsters, and it had earned him a bit of admiration.

...

A few days later, Merlin found himself helping out again, this time healing a few villagers who had fallen sick. The village healer was out, so Merlin had to step in with his magic.

One woman, pale and shaking with fever, lay in front of him. The young wizard placed his hands over her he wove a healing spell through the air. Slowly, the woman's color returned, and her breathing steadied.

"There you go," he said, pulling his hands away. "You should be feeling better soon."

The woman blinked up at him, still surprised. "Thank you," she said dumbfounded at how easily her illness had been taken care of.

Healing was easy, but the fact that they trusted enough to call him first made it feel good.

...

The next day Merlin found himself sitting with a group of kids, teaching them how to read and write. It wasn't his idea but Zenith who he was sure was trying to make his life worse now.

How could you, Mother!?

Anyway.

Before diving into letters and words, he had encouraged them to draw pictures first. He handed out scraps of parchment and bits of charcoal, urging them to sketch whatever came to mind. May it be a favorite animal, a family member, or even just random shapes.

"Drawing is like the first step to writing," Merlin explained as he watched their tiny hands scribbling furiously. "Before you learn the letters, you need to get used to letting your imagination flow and mind to work. Besides, who wouldn't want to see a masterpiece or two?"

The children giggled at his words, some proudly holding up crude drawings of cows or stick-figure families, while others laughed at their messy attempts. One child even tried to draw Merlin, though the exaggerated nose and overly long hair caused the group to burst into laughter.

"It seems you've managed to truly capture my essence," Merlin said with mock seriousness, holding up the sketch for everyone to admire. "I shall treasure this forever!"

Once the children had loosened up and grown comfortable, he shifted their attention to writing. "Now let's give those drawings a name," he said, moving to the next step. "Start with something simple—just a letter or two to describe what you've drawn."

He patiently guided them as they scribbled out their first shaky attempts at letters. When one of them struggled with forming a particular symbol, Merlin gently took their hand, helping them trace the shape.

As he worked, a memory surfaced unbidden. It was one of Artoria, back when she was still a young squire. He had, in a moment of pure genius—or laziness depending on how one looked at it—deliberately left Sir Kay and Sir Ector with the daunting task of teaching her to read and write.

"A wise magus shouldn't waste his brilliance on menial tasks," he had told them with a flourish as he vanished into flower petals, leaving the boy and man to deal with Artoria's fierce determination and even fiercer handwriting.

Now, guiding these children, Merlin let out a low chuckle. "Ah, sweet karma. I see you haven't forgotten about me," he muttered under his breath.

The children looked up at him curiously. "What funny, Ruwdy?" one of them asked, their words stumbling over the name like a newborn calf finding its legs.

"Nothing, nothing," he said with an innocent smile. "Just reminiscing about the last time I avoided—uh, I mean, helped someone learn this. Let's keep going, shall we?"

The children were eager to learn, their focus unwavering as they practiced. By the end of the session, some were proudly writing simple words, their drawings now labeled with charmingly misspelled captions.

"Will you teash us moar tomowwow?" one asked, their small voice full of hope and a bit of a lisp.

Merlin smiled, ruffling their hair. "Of course! But don't forget—practice what you've learned today with these parchments I have given you. And if anyone wants to bring me another drawing of my beautiful face, I won't mind."

Laughter filled the air as the children scampered off, their parchments clutched tightly in their hands. Merlin leaned back, feeling a rare sense of contentment. Teaching the kids might not have been as exciting as battling monsters or crafting spells, but in its way, it was just as rewarding.

"Perhaps I should have taken the time to teach Artoria properly back then."

ㅤ