Chapter Text
Merlin curled his numbing fingers tightly around the coins in his hand as he climbed up the stairs from the tube station.
Not for the first time, he wished that he had some proper gloves. He had checked the donation box at the shelter for three consecutive weeks now, but had only been able to snatch a pair of fingerless ones, the kind used for cycling.
It had been a miserable autumn so far, uncharacteristically cold and wet. Now, it looked like winter would be making an early appearance. The thermometer on the screen above declared it minus three degrees at two in the afternoon, and the little grey cloud in the corner of the display did not bode well for the night.
If he was caught out in the snow, he might actually freeze to death.
Grimacing, Merlin climbed the rest of the stairs, his breath rising in little white clouds above his head as he stepped out into the busy street. Again, he squeezed his coins, making sure the money he had scrounged off the commuters was still there.
He didn’t like begging—hated it with a passion, in fact—but he was cold and the security men of Camelot City had no qualms about removing the homeless from places they didn’t belong. Even tube stations were no longer a sanctuary, thanks to the new mayor. It was either Merlin bought himself a spot in a coffee shop, or he lingered in one of the larger department stores, hoping nobody would throw him out or call the coppers on him.
Merlin vastly preferred the coffee shops. The bigger chains usually didn’t mind a scruffy guy lingering in the corner, as long as he was clutching a cup with the right logo on it and didn’t bother the other patrons. If he was lucky, he might even snatch up someone’s discarded sandwich or pastry. Most important of all, he would be warm.
As if on cue, a particularly sharp gust of wind whistled down the street. It bit right through the fading fabric of Merlin’s cargo trousers, sending a shudder through his body. Goosebumps rose all over. Merlin curled in his shoulders, burying himself in his parka to try and keep the worst of the cold at bay. Urgently, he glanced around until at last, he spotted what he was looking for on the far corner of the nearest crossroads.
A minute later, he was queueing for a hot drink. Irritating pop music filled his ears, but the coffee shop was sparsely peopled and well-heated, which was all Merlin cared about. As his shivers slowly subsided, he scanned the menu above the counter, which turned out to be unnecessarily complicated.
He was still trying to figure out if three quid was enough for a large white coffee when it was his turn. An impatient cough from behind propelled him forward and he decided to err on the side of caution, ordering a medium black. The girl manning the till gave him a suspicious look, though dutifully rang up the order once Merlin handed over his coins, which added up to be just enough.
As he waited for his coffee, Merlin fiddled with the leather band around his left wrist, wondering when everything had got so bloody expensive. It used to be that three quid could buy you a decent lunch, though perhaps not in Camelot City. He wouldn’t know, he realised, because at uni, he had lived in a catered hall and later, Cenred had been in charge of the money.
In charge of everything, really.
The sound of his name being called shook Merlin out of his dreary thoughts. Quickly, he grabbed his drink off the counter, then slipped onto a bench in the farthest corner of the room, warming his hands around the styrofoam as he looked about for a clock. Two hours, then he would have to leave. If he didn’t get in the queue on time, he might not get a spot at the shelter for the night.
He took a sip of coffee, savouring the burn on his tongue. Once his fingers no longer felt like they were about to fall off, he reached inside the pocket of his parka and pulled out a creased copy of Llyfr Taliesin, then rummaged around for his pencil, only to find he must have lost it, or left it at the shelter.
No taking notes, then.
Not that it mattered. It wasn’t like he would be writing any papers on mediaeval literature ever again.
Sighing, Merlin opened the book to the elegies in the back, trying to find his spot. It took him a moment to get back into the flow but soon, the music started fading into the background and he got lost in the language of the olden days.
When he looked up next, it was well after four and growing dark out. Slate-grey clouds were hanging low in the sky and throngs of evening commuters were starting to stream towards the tube station.
Cursing under his breath, Merlin stood, downing the rest of his cold coffee while shoving the book back into his pocket. He tossed the cup into the nearby bin, then snatched up his shoulder bag before dashing from the cafe, brushing past a group of chattering twenty-somethings and out into the icy air.
The wind had worsened considerably, bad enough now to instantly redden Merlin’s cheeks. Quickening his steps, he pulled at his beanie to cover his ears—and ran straight into a brick wall.
Or at least, that was what it felt like.
With a loud oof, Merlin bounced backwards and into another, softer obstacle before he fell, landing painfully on his tailbone. Scowling, he looked up, only to find that the brick wall was actually a giant of a man and the second obstacle a blond toff in a fancy suit, the lapels of his camel coat now doused in the coffee the toff had been holding.
“What on—can’t you watch where you’re going, you idiot?”
The man’s tone immediately set Merlin’s teeth on edge. Quickly, he scrambled to his feet, retorting, “Can’t you watch where you’re standing? You don’t own the pavement, you tosser!” He fingered the strap of his bag, making sure it was still around his shoulder, then made to dash off.
“Oh no, you don’t! Percival!”
Before Merlin knew what was happening, a massive hand had grabbed him by the collar of his parka, holding him back.
Immediately, Merlin started struggling. “Let me go!” he demanded, but Percival had at least ten stone on him and barely even blinked when Merlin shoved his elbow into his side, trying to get him to let go.
“What do you think you’re doing, running off?” the toff asked incredulously. “You’ve made me stain my coat! Paying for the dry cleaning should be the least of it!”
Merlin let out a sardonic laugh. “I’m afraid I left my magical money bag at home,” he said. “But let me see if I can’t get out my golden cheque book.”
Merlin’s bite gave the man pause. For the first time, it seemed, he gave Merlin a proper onceover, his eyebrows climbing all the way up to his coiffed fringe as he took in Merlin’s unkempt hair, stubbly chin and dirty clothes.
“Ah,” he said, and that one, drawn-out syllable conveyed enough condescension to make Merlin want to punch the man right on his turned-up nose.
Glaring, he tried to shake off Percival again, but the man was a boulder, completely unfazed by Merlin’s valiant efforts to fight him off. He had to be a bodyguard, or some other hired muscle.
“Well, you owe me an apology, at least,” the posh git drawled.
It wasn’t an entirely unreasonable demand, but his supercilious attitude made Merlin refuse on principle. “Not a chance,” he sneered.
For some reason, that seemed to amuse the man. He smirked. “I’m afraid Percival here is not going to let you go until you do.”
“Who do you think you are, the King of Camelot?” Merlin exclaimed, anger flaring.
His ire was only stoked by the man’s widening smirk. “Something like that,” he replied self-importantly.
“You’re not the police! You can’t arrest me!”
They were starting to draw an audience. Pedestrians were slowing down, looking up from their snacks and phones to take in the commotion.
Rich bloke seemed to be noticing it, too. He frowned at a curious passerby, then waved at Percival. “You had better let him go,” he conceded, only to add, “before you catch lice.”
Percival did as he was told, and Merlin immediately took a large step away from him. Sneering, he righted his parka, then brazenly flipped them a two-fingered salute and took off. A dozen steps or so down the street, he threw a look over his shoulder, half-fearing he would see Percival chasing after him, only to catch a glimpse of both men disappearing into a luxury car parked at the kerb.
Shaking his head, Merlin focused back on the busy street before him. He should really watch where he was going, lest he ran into another arrogant prig.
What a complete arse that man had been, thinking himself so much better than a homeless bloke barely scraping by! Exactly the sort of person who had voted Charles Aredian into City Hall. Merlin could just imagine that posh voice drone on and on, complaining about how the punks and drug addicts were sullying the shiny streets of Camelot, and was still fuming when his eyes caught on the digital clock at the chemist’s across the street.
The sight stopped him short: it was already quarter to five.
With a gasp, he broke into a run, realising the confrontation and subsequent brooding had cost him precious minutes he should have spent standing in the queue at the shelter. At this rate, he might not make the cut.
Sure enough, when Merlin finally made it to Lower Town, his lungs burning in the cold, the queue was already snaking all around the building and down the road. Merlin’s stomach gave a nervous lurch as he took in the sheer number of men waiting. Clearly, the imminent snow had drawn more people than usual to the shelter.
Still panting, he started counting heads, his stomach knotting up when he realised how very many there were.
He queued up anyway, hoping despite all odds that his estimation was off, or that the shelter would make some more space, given the deadly weather. Already, the first snowflakes were glistening in the light of the street lamps, only just flickering on as the last of the daylight vanished.
One hour later, it had started snowing in earnest and Merlin knew he would not be getting a bed for the night, or even a hot meal. Shivering and overwhelmed, he watched the man at the front of the queue argue with the staff at the door, though he quickly turned and walked away when it looked like the argument might turn violent.
No way he was sticking around if there was a chance of the coppers showing up.
He started aimlessly walking the nearby streets, looking for a place for the night that would protect him from the snow, but the few dry spots had already been claimed by other men rejected at the shelter.
Sniffing, Merlin shoved his aching fingers underneath his armpits and made for the nearest tube station, only to catch sight of three baton-swinging security men shoving a group of junkies out of the tunnel and up the stairs. Clearly, the mayor was spending more than just a bit of taxpayers’ money on keeping Camelot “clean”.
He tried the foyer of a bank next, hiding behind the twenty-four hour cashpoint, but he was soon discovered and kicked out. The library was closed, as was the court building a few streets down.
Briefly, he tried begging again, hoping to buy himself a few hours in a fast food chain with a cheap burger, but the snow had driven most people off the streets and the rest were hurrying past him with their faces hidden in their hoods.
Trying not to despair, Merlin checked a few more spots around the area, only to find them all occupied, shut, or covered in a thick blanket of snow. By then, he was shaking all over, his cap and parka soaked and his fingertips white from the cold.
All he could do was keep walking.
He left Lower Town, crossing through Avalon Park to head uptown, barely paying attention in which direction he was going, too busy glancing around for anything—a projecting roof, a steaming vent—that might get him through the night. But there was nothing, only shuttered shop fronts and then endless rows of sleek high-rise buildings.
Eventually, his body signalled that it was done. A leaden tiredness had taken a hold of him, weighing down his legs and slowing his steps to a crawl. When he was sure he was about to collapse, his icy legs trembling, he stumbled towards the nearest building and tucked himself into a nook, where he was half-shielded from the snow.
The ground was frigid, but at least it was dry. Merlin knew it was neither safe nor warm enough to stay here, but he hadn’t eaten since breakfast and his whole body felt like it was encased in a block of ice. He was exhausted. Already, his eyes were drooping, his thoughts turning fuzzy.
As he slumped in on himself, he only just managed to tuck his arms around his bag, wondering if it would still be there when he woke up tomorrow—if he woke up tomorrow. There was every chance he might die in this weather.
Didn’t even make it a full ten months on the streets, he thought, his eyes falling closed.
But there was always a good side to everything, he supposed: at least they had been ten months without Cenred.
