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In a land of fog and a time of seven-thirty sharp, an old man wakes up to a pain in his shoulders, and the smell of something burning.
If you were to spot this man on the street, or while grocery shopping, chances are you’d be confused. Not because of the contents of his bags, which are usually rather mundane (eye of newt, wool of bat, milk of oat), but because of his youthful posture, maintained despite the burden. You might also note that he looks less clean-shaven than bare-faced; a phrase which here implies a doubt that there has ever been much to shave in the first place. There's been a mistake, you might think to yourself. After all, this old man can’t possibly be a day over twenty-five.
But Merlin’s youthful looks are not owed to a decrepit portrait hidden away in his attic, nor are they a product of a vigorous ten-step skincare routine. It’s quite the contrary, really, seeing as proper sun cream didn’t even so much as exist until he was well into his one thousand four hundred and thirties. Cosmetologists hate him, and so on.
(Though they probably wouldn’t hate him, really, if they only got to know him. Most people wind up fancying Merlin quite fiercely, despite lacklustre first impressions– a handful of bitter mortal enemies notwithstanding.)
His shoulders, however, do recognise the heavy consequences of his age. By the time Merlin indeed was only twenty-five, those same shoulders had metaphorically carried the fate of an entire kingdom; and quite literally carried all the hunting equipment and esteemed laundry of its king. This means not only that he is now used to waking up to an aching back, but that he has been used to it for quite some time. Granting someone immortality (which he never asked for, by the way) without also granting them an existence free of back pain (which he has asked for repeatedly; and would beg on his knees for, if those did not hurt too) seems vile and unjust, but nobody ever much cared for his complaints.
But even if the shoulder pain is nothing new, it isn’t every day that a man– young nor old– wakes up to the smell of smoke. And it is presumably even less common for the cause of it to be a recently awakened ancient king, in the process of nearly burning down the kitchen.
In fact, during all one thousand and five-hundred years of Merlin’s life, he has not once had to deal with this particular predicament. Which is just as well, he thinks grouchily, still half asleep as he rubs the corner of his eye, because this once has already been enough to convince him that he oughtn’t ever repeat it. He mentally adds “stove” to the long list of things that will have to go the way of the spinning wheel now that Arthur is in the flat, and to the count of one, two, and reluctant three, he valiantly enters the area of danger.
The said area, also known as Merlin’s kitchen, is large and airy, and could paint a lovely picture under different circumstances. The dim lamplight favours the gold of Arthur’s person greatly, in a fashion that embarrassingly still doesn’t leave Merlin impartial; though he is by now at least rather practised at hiding that from Arthur himself (and him alone). Which, upon some thought, is really not much of an accomplishment, since Arthur has the habit of being extraordinarily thick.
“Good morning,” Merlin says, though that does currently seem like an overly ambitious proclamation. He yawns, stretching one of his long skinny arms above his head. “What're you doing?”
Something on the stovetop makes a suspicious sizzle-and-pop sound, as though offering its own personal opinion on the matter. “Making breakfast,” Arthur says, unheeding the boil and toil of his analogical caldron.
Reluctantly, Merlin leans forward to look into the pan. He attempts to make out what he’s staring at, but promptly recognises that this will be a futile effort, and gives up. Scrambled eggs, maybe– or some thoroughly miserable pancakes. It could be either, and is, in any case, burnt quite badly.
“No,” he politely informs. “I don't think that you are.”
Arthur finally looks at him, and then back at the pan. A frown appears between his eyebrows as he critically inspects the char that he had been devotedly stirring. His shoulders slump. This of course looks awfully wrong, since he has been trained to keep an arrogant, straight posture since childhood– along with all the other skills he learned as a young boy, such as sword fighting, horseback riding, and being a pompous, condescending prat.
Merlin, too, dims at the sight. Although he devotes a lot of his time to keeping Arthur humble (a weighty duty for just one man), the difficulty of Merlin’s condition is that he equally hates to see him crestfallen. It's a delicate balance, but he knows how to maintain it. “Maybe I could pop down to the shop,” he suggests, since he does feel a bit peckish. And then, as all the other potential dangers of Arthur alone in the house rush into his head (flooding, electrocution, discovery of a repurposed biscuit tin which now conceals Merlin's maudlin poetry), he adds: “...Or we could go together. Make a day of it.”
If he weren’t busy feeling relief over the house not being in flames, Merlin might have taken a second to marvel at how a man capable of surviving weeks in the woods (inhabited by all the imaginary beings in Borges’ classification, unified in their desire to harm Arthur, specifically) might so easily be defeated by the comforts of a 21st century home. Though admittedly, Merlin’s house is hardly the best representative of the modern era. The entire place ticks with the sounds of enchanted objects: as if it were the inside of an elaborate clock tower, built on the crossroads of numerous different timelines.
And if the clock tower comparison fails to satisfy, it at the very least looks as though it was decorated by an early 20th-century eccentric, whose affection for antiquities and is rivalled only by his affection for steampunk futurism. This is showcased in the sitting room alone: where Merlin’s gramophone rests next to his radio, which rests next to his grand piano, which he hasn't tried to play more than ten times since he got it in the 17th century, but which he will get around to eventually, he swears. The radio was bought in 1932, but a year later a group of seers had begun using radio waves to broadcast their prophesying directly into Merlin's home, often in the middle of the night. Since Merlin had already had quite enough of prophesying an odd thousand years prior, he impulsively used a spell in an attempt to stop this – which worked, but since it was 3 AM and he was half asleep, he also accidentally enchanted the radio to only ever play records that contain at least one word of profanity.
The record player is still undoubtedly his favourite. He's fond of the soft static of its sound, as if reaching him from some faraway time. Perhaps one of the numerous late nights on which he stumbled back home from a party with his shirt undone; still light-headed from the wine, but steadily becoming heavy-hearted in the ticking silence. The audible passage of time only worsened his heartache, so he would usually put on some music in an attempt to chase it away. Nimbly bowing down to the sound of someone else's sorrows, he would ask his enchanted coat for the pleasure of a dance. Though the empty coat was a poor conversationalist, and smelled strongly of cigarette smoke, it can’t be denied that it made an elegant partner. All the hats and jackets must've been insanely jealous.
It sounds sad, in retrospect, but he didn’t see it that way back then. It was enough to keep his world spinning for another night, and that made it precious.
“I can manage without you,” Arthur insists. His princely petulance brings Merlin back to the present, and he politely refrains from pointing out that both historical evidence and Camelot gossip suggest otherwise. Besides, Arthur comes to the same conclusion even without his intervention; the shift is visible just by his facial expressions. “But yes,” he says at last, after a stretched-out silence. “We might do that.”
Merlin nods, satisfied to see the matter settled, and sparing only a second to longingly glance at his discarded copy of “Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrel”. He had hoped to read a chapter (or five) while drinking his morning coffee, since Arthur is usually rather fond of sleeping in, to the great surprise of no one at all. Alas, Merlin accepts his fate (as he does), and gives the pots and pans on the stove a stern, golden glare, after which they begin to wash and tidy themselves with diligence and enthusiasm. Thanks to the magnifying quality of his black-frame glasses, his eyes appear ever so larger. Whenever he does magic they come to resemble two impossibly bright moons.
Arthur frowns.
“I could have done that,” he argues.
Merlin raises an eyebrow: a Gaius-patented way of silently indicating that he very much doubts it.
“Have you, ever in your entire life, cleaned a burnt pan?”
This is a rhetorical question, of course. Merlin, of all people, knows that the only truthful answer is a resounding no. Which is why it’s very much unsettling when Arthur replies with: “All the more reason to learn.”
Merlin, as a prattler by both nature and trade, has a historically low record of statements to which he has failed to formulate a snarky reply. This one does give him a pause, though. To be perfectly honest, it never once occurred to him that Arthur might be bored.
It’s additionally odd that he is bored to the point of volunteering for house chores– given that this concept is as foreign to Arthur as Instagram infographics, or showing vulnerability outside of times of near-certain peril. After all, with everything that there’s still left to learn and process, how could he even manage to find any time to be bored? And yet, here he is, putting up a fuss. Maybe he came back wrong, or something, and Merlin just didn't notice until now. He considers introducing him to a new hobby, if only to lower the risk of a house fire. His still drowsy mind quickly tries to think of something that involves a minimal amount of life hazards.
“What’s that face for?” Arthur asks, instantly distrustful. There indeed is a scheming look on Merlin’s face; the effect of which is heightened by his bedhead, and the way it makes his black hair resemble a dark storm cloud.
“Hm? Nothing,” he says, unconvincingly casual. “...Do you reckon you’d be interested in bird watching?”
Arthur looks at him as though he has some sort of mental affliction, which is at least a familiar position to be in. “I see birds all the time,” he tells him, slowly. Which is, admittedly, true. Various songbirds frequently visit the little blue houses set up in their garden, hung on the branches of a hawthorn tree like colourful ornaments.
“Right,” Merlin concedes. Probably not that, then. “How about running? You love making yourself miserable by the means of physical extortion.”
“Running from…?”
“Just running. For recreational purposes. Though I could also conjure up a mandrake to chase you, if it'll help you get in the spirit of things. Or only a wildren to start, if you feel you've gotten out of shape. I'm sure it'll bring back fond memories, like that one time we nearly got eaten. Or that other time we nearly got eaten. Or-”
"Quit your prattle, if you can help it," Arthur instructs.
Merlin mimics the motion of zipping his lips shut, and then dips into a mock of a coursty: as a way to signify his obligeance, to a point, though mostly as a way to be cheeky and irritating. But when he gazes up at Arthur to check for a scowl, he finds only a smile. Exasperated, to be sure, but warmed by fondness nonetheless. The lamplight catches in his hair, just so.
That does it.
For one amber moment, Merlin forgets that he carries all the wonders of the world on his back. His shoulders slacken at the sight of something as weightless as a beam of light, and the atlas tilts ever so slightly out of its orbit. He realises then, with great urgency, how rare and precious it is to be safe, and to be bored, and to have indoor plumbing– which is at the moment unrelated, but always worth mentioning. Slightly mad with the sudden rush of joy, he feels so acutely aware of the life inside his body that he doesn't know what to do with it next. He asks the Universe, but it doesn't answer, that wanker. It never does.
So Merlin lets the moment pass (as moments are known to do, regardless of whether or not we let them), but keeps the light of it with him. He gets dressed, and lingers just a little longer than necessary while adjusting the collar of Arthur's coat. He then thoroughly insults him to compensate, and they head out for breakfast.
The Universe, in an unnoticed voice that sounds like raindrops falling against their shared umbrella, says: "That's not a bad start."
The nearest town is twenty minutes by car (blue 1960. Alfa Giulietta; severely haunted, but Merlin has other things to fret about right now) (besides, hellfire is much more environmentally friendly than regular car fuel) and populated by people who have by now begun to think of them not as Merlin and Arthur, their own entities, but as Merlin-and-Arthur, hyphenated. Of course, their opinions do vary on exactly what the nature of those hyphens is. There is a significant divide between those who need only take one knowing look at Arthur's choices of polo shirts, and those who self-assuredly assume that the two of them are just really (really) good mates.
Merlin doesn't mind being a part of Merlin-and-Arthur, hyphenated. It's a huge improvement from being Merlin, entirely alone.
He doesn't much care about the speculations, either. After all, nothing they come up with could ever measure up to the truth. Not when the truth is that they are destiny itself– at once reason and consequence, without beginning nor end, as ineffable (and yet as certain!) as the passage of time. Merlin can quote multiple sources to support this claim, including (rather mortifyingly) his own mum. But it's true. He had felt this tug of fate just as intensely back when he saw Arthur every single day, and back when he hadn't seen him in centuries. The former of which might be even more impressive than the latter, just for the fact that it's Arthur, who really is insufferable, shared destiny aside. But Merlin has experience at keeping the truth to himself, so at least his reputation, if not his luck or common sense, remains intact.
(And it makes sense, really; that he is destined to be by Arthur's side. Destiny, in Merlin's rather exhaustive experience, is often a bleak thing.)
Anyway. The people in the town generally like them. They like Merlin the way most people have always liked Merlin: who had lost some of his easy, sweet geniality throughout the years, but fought hard and persistently to gain it back. That now made the trait all the more charming, on the account of being deliberate. And they like Arthur too: who admittedly lacks finely tuned talents for sociability, but makes up for it doubly with his well-practised (yet painfully earnest) chivalry. Which, as much as it pains Merlin to admit, works in perfect tandem with his princely looks.
(Though Merlin knows from both personal experience and observation that when Arthur is truly determined to make someone his friend, he forgoes all gallantry and instead employs his time-tested method of being a horrible prick. At his worst, he begins such courtships by attacking people with melee weapons, and at his best, he resorts to liberally using the word simpleton, or some other equally saccharine term of endearment. He’s a lost cause, Merlin has been trying to tell you.)
Their reasons be what they may, it is favourable that the townsfolk should like them, as Merlin reciprocates the feeling wholly. Not only towards the people, but the place itself: with its' misty moorish backdrop, old stone paths lit up by golden gaslamps, and street musicians with their mahogny-coloured instrument cases. Sometimes, with his shoes clicking against the cobblestones, Merlin thinks about all the sorcerers who claim that nature is the only place where magic can still be found, or strongly felt. Quite frankly, he thinks such notions are nothing but tosh. What is true is that nature, by its design, always graciously nurtures the magic it has been given. But Merlin has now been alive for long enough to know that people, too, are capable of such a thing. Equally, in fact, as they are capable of the opposite. It's what you choose to do with what you’re given that counts, as it always has been.
Merlin should know. He has made more than enough bad choices of his own.
But those melancholy histories of roads-not-taken lead to some other mornings, and belong to some other times. Today, Merlin and Arthur enter the same café they always do, and sit at their usual table: near one of the frosted windows, but far away from the door which lets the frost inside. The café itself is situated in the old town centre, making it as bustling as a place in a small town can be. They are greeted by chatter immediately upon entering, as well as the busy whirring and clinking sounds coming from behind the counter. The place smells pleasantly of coffee and freshly baked bread, and Merlin's glasses fog up in contact with the warm air.
He orders a cup of hot cocoa, as well as a sweet walnut bun that is still steaming hot from the oven. Arthur orders a full welsh breakfast, because some jokes write themselves.
They already know their breakfast options by heart, but Merlin still finds a moment to halfheartedly glare at the barcode on the table, standing in the place where only a month ago used to be a perfectly functional physical menu. Arthur sees this as he returns from hanging their rain-splattered coats, and rolls his eyes.
"You could at least try to act younger than a hundred."
Easy for him to say. His second coming was into a world that had already been digitalised in his absence. Although Arthur can hardly use modern technology, or even reliably identify it, he at least has a relatively easier time accepting its existence– as a three-year-old might upon seeing a dragon. To him, a steam engine is as much of a novelty as a refrigerator. Merlin, however, is still recovering from the elation caused by the invention of the printing press.
But it's not as if he's a complete Luddite, or absolutely against all technology. He had given phones a fair try for a while, back when they still had antennas and keyboards. His efforts amounted to nothing but frustration. He was soon overwhelmed by the internet trolls (as in, literal trolls; the kind from under the bridge), who had an unfortunate desire to get in touch. After receiving his third SMS of the "FORWARD THIS MESSAGE TO FOUR OF YOUR CONTACTS, OR YOU WILL DIE HORRIBLY!!!" variety, and then having to spend his entire afternoon removing the curse (because he did not have four contacts), he very calmly and rationally blew up his phone with a lightning blast.
He hasn't looked back since, and he isn't going to look back now.
"I just don't see the point of it, is all."
"Be sure to tell them that," Arthur advises. "It might get us a senior’s discount."
Due to a momentary lack of a witty response, Merlin resorts to the ancient gesture of the middle finger. Arthur raises an eyebrow, in a manner that is spectacularly irritating.
"You ought to be more respectful. I died recently."
"Oh, come off it," says Merlin, who has heard this particular line far too many times for it to work. "Not that recent, was it? You're just as primordial as I am."
"The consequences of dying do tend to be rather permanent, Merlin."
"Yours being of the less severe sort, clearly,” Merlin notes, with a raised eyebrow, referring to the fact that Arthur is currently very much alive, and very much using the gift of life to be a nuisance. “Besides, I've died too! More times than you, even. When was the last time you paid me any respect? Roughly around the five hundreds?"
"I've died for longer," is the only thing Arthur deigns to say to that– and says it just as a waiter approaches the table with their orders, making it impossible for Merlin to reply without sounding like a complete nutcase. Not that he often allows that to hinder him.
Once the waiter turns his back, Merlin once again raises the finger– and Arthur once again rolls his eyes at the sight. Rather than argue, though, he pointedly picks up his book, as if to demonstrate that he is above such juvenile antics. It’s a history book, because those are nearly the only kind he has been reading since he returned. Not just because he wants to learn as much as possible about all that has happened since his passing, but because he genuinely enjoys them above all the others, the lunatic.
Merlin understands his curiosity to a point. To a man who was until recently obliged to stay vigilant during Sir. Leon's grain reports, even something as drab as the detailed history of Bismarckian Germany must not seem so dreadfully boring. At least, in comparison. But whenever Arthur asks whether Merlin is familiar with some fascinating event that he has discovered, Merlin regularly waves his hand around a bit, and only proclaims that he knows the major plot points. Certainly, Merlin knows that history is important: he has learned that through practice, in fact. But it's different and slightly strange, when important dates of history are often just random Tuesday evenings in your not-so-distant past. Or, you know: what can be constituted as not so distant in the context of Merlin's own, unique perception of time.
(Though it's worth mentioning that he didn't spend all of those years as a human– nor, indeed, even as a sentient being. Frankly, he would have gone entirely mad if not for the winters he spent flying south as a falcon, or the summers he spent braving the brisk river currents with fins and a tail. Sometimes to exist as a living thing at all seemed much too taxing: and thus he would turn himself into the first laughter exchanged between new friends, a ripple made by a coin thrown into a wishing well, or the sweet pigment that stains a child’s fingers after feasting upon handpicked berries. There were also the several centuries he lived through in the form of an oak tree, though you don't even want to know the kind of slanderous stories people later fabricated about that.)
And besides, history books seldom remember the things that Merlin fought the hardest to keep in his own memory. How long has it been since anyone but himself knew anything about Hunith, or Gaius? Nobody remembers Will’s mischievous schemes, nor how lovely the forest near Ealdor could be in springtime. They don’t write tales about how the composed and articulate queen of Camelot could be brought to a blush and a stutter– nor how brave and unflinchingly kind lady Morgana was, before the world finally managed to scare her into requiting its terror and cruelty.
Even the famed King Arthur, whose name has been written down in so many poems, and printed on ever so many bags of American flour. People do remember him, of course. They won’t shut up about him, in fact; which significantly complicates Merlin’s aforementioned task of keeping him humble. But even so. Despite all the Arthurian scholars and experts– all the academic books and research papers and paperback romance novels sold at airports for just two pounds ninety-nine– Merlin is the only one who knows him in earnest.
Although, perhaps it must be noted that Merlin has always known Arthur just a little bit better than anyone else. It is a privilege and a nuisance in equal measure, and one that Merlin has laboured hard (literally!) to obtain– so the least he can do for himself is to accept any ceremonials that come with it. Especially now that anyone who ever could have challenged him for the title is long gone.
(And if we're being quite truthful, was there ever really anyone who could? Indeed, it would be an understatement of the millennia to say that the knights all meant a lot to Arthur; Sir. Leon, for example, had been a rare friendly face in the reserved loneliness of his boyhood. But he was still their prince, and later their king. Gwen certainly has to be mentioned as well, a warm and treasured presence even before their romance had begun, yet even that... Well, never mind. That is a dangerous train of thought to take, and Merlin refuses to board it without any liquor on which to blame the motion sickness afterwards.)
All of this, in the end, is just a very longwinded way of saying that whilst King Arthur read his history book, making all of the land proud like the good and dutiful boy that he is, the great wizard Merlin (The Eldest Scholar of Magic, The Last Dragon Lord, The Bright Hope of Albion, The Wisest of Us All!) busied himself with a crossword puzzle. He bought a bunch of them a while back, with the idea to help Arthur warm up to the concept of standardised spelling, but soon discovered that he quite fancies them for himself– thus proving once more that at his core, he truly is an old man.
"Ha! Look at this," he exclaims, and pushes the crossword towards Arthur for inspection. He points and taps at number five, horizontal: something to do with a knight from Arthurian legends. A rather fit one, if Merlin’s memory serves him well– which it usually does, when such paramount matters are concerned. "I've met him once."
(This might be the right place to insert a brief digression, and to address the frequently asked question regarding Merlin’s memory. How is he holding up, really? The answer is just fine, thank you very much. Obviously. Memory spells are present in almost every grimoire, and there are many methods of preservation to choose from. Depending on your preferences, you may crush your memories into pigments, or translate them into sheet music, or knead them into dough, or bottle them up as perfumes. The most troublesome thing, really, is remembering where you stored which memory– though Merlin has devised a spell for this, as well.
Quite contrary to the concerns of the general public, he occasionally felt as though memories were the only thing he could keep. During those times, the entire world seemed to him made up of the precious things he had lost; and which he could now find only as traces in something else. As tall, dark and handsomely tragic as a hero of a Byronic poem, it sometimes seemed that oblivion and death were the only two powers which he could not summon.
Since his memories of Camelot were the oldest in his vast itinerary, they naturally coloured all the ones that came after. During all of the many years that followed its destruction, Merlin could always find something to remind him of a particular night that he spent at the tavern with Gwaine. The jokes that they told, the lively laughs that they shared, the warm weight of an arm around Merlin’s shoulders… all of these things reappeared time and time again throughout history, like leitmotifs in a play. But never again were they as vivid as they were back then.
It wasn't just the past that was marked by them, but the future as well. Whenever he felt particularly indulgent and hopeful, Merlin allowed himself to imagine how one day, someday, he would finally be able to take Arthur to a spot that he had grown to love. He also had an entire list of recipes to convince him to try, and an entire library of annotated books to force him to read. A mixtape, coincidentally containing the same tracks to which he danced with his empty coat. Point is, the signs of the past could be found in any place: including the future. Even when he was reminiscing about an opera he watched at the Duke’s Theatre in 1691., or about a night at a smoke-enveloped bar in Montmartre in 1935., he was almost always also indirectly remembering something about his days in Camelot.
So no. There was never any real danger of Merlin forgetting any of his oldest friends. There was most certainly never any danger of him forgetting Arthur, the blue of whose eyes he had stored into the oil paints of some of the world's most renowned artists. Were you not here while we discussed all the figures– mythical, historical and parental alike– who pointed out that the two of them are two halves of a whole? A very married sentiment, except that not even death could do them part– and so oblivion would be a fool even to try.)
Arthur peers at Merlin’s crossword over his book. It takes him a second to puzzle over the answer. Then, once it occurs to him, he frowns.
"I know," he says, as surly as a child. "It might be difficult for you to remember who was present at which memorable moment of your wholly memorable life, but I was, in fact, there."
Merlin looks at him strangely, and pulls his paper away. This happens, sometimes. Usually when Merlin implies behind-the-scenes knowledge of certain famous sonnets, reminisces about some World War II. mathematician, or insinuates an unspeakable relation to this or that writer. He doesn't think much of it, of course. Arthur has always been odd and ludicrous in this regard, so it presumably doesn't signify anything more than the consistency of his mystifying character.
(As we have already mentioned, though, not all are quite as jaded and pessimistic as Merlin. Francis– the ghost of a seventy-year-old woman who haunts the nearest Asda– certainly isn't. As a former scullery maid with a penchant for eavesdropping, as well as a prolific author of provokingly subversive bodice-rippers, Francis takes great interest in Merlin's tales about Arthur.
“It's all in your head,” Merlin frequently tells her, after one of her crass innuendos once again leaves him with a scorching blush, and makes him nearly drop his courgettes. She usually nods, as if to admit that this very well might be, since she is indeed closely acquainted with all the salacious and sordid treasures of her mind.
“Tis only a pity, my dear,” she told him on one such occassion, and really did sound as though it grieved her. “That there is nothing at all in yours.”)
"Don't be jealous," Merlin comments. Regardless of not believing the statement himself, getting a rise out of Arthur is his favourite pastime, and he has missed it sorely. Arthur, predictably, bristles.
"I'm not jealous," he says, with a fervour that contributes very little conviction to his argument. Merlin relents, shaking his head and biting back a smile.
"No, of course not; my mistake."
"Yes, I rather think so."
"Yeah. You're just always this tart."
Merlin barely even finishes the sentence before Arthur delivers a swift kick to his leg under the table: not hard enough to hurt, but enough to be irksome when done in quick succession. "No, ow, stop– all right, I take it back! Honest. You're so sweet, it makes people's teeth rot."
Arthur makes a disgusted face.
"How is that any better?"
"What? I'm only telling the truth," says Merlin, and dimples at him endearingly. Arthur opens his mouth– doubtlessly to say something stupid and uninspired– but then catches the sight of someone behind Merlin's back, and clears his throat.
Before even turning around, Merlin feels dismayed by the interruption.
It wouldn't be the first time somebody has approached their table mid-conversation, their intent set on chatting Arthur up. A part of Merlin can understand this. After all, he has exemplary posture– which is rare, since today nearly everybody spends far too much time sitting bent towards a phone or a computer. Not to mention that none of these suitors have ever heard him speak, which means that he still hasn't had the opportunity to ruin the charming illusion deftly crafted by his Ygraine-given features.
That, however, doesn't mean that Merlin has to like it.
Jealousy, as we have previously hinted at, isn't a new feeling. Unlike Arthur, Merlin can admit as much. He still recalls how coldly he treated Mithian, way back when; something she loved to recount in a jest later in life.
Gwen of course was a different case altogether: because she was Merlin’s best friend, and because she was the loveliest person who has ever lived, and therefore deserved all the equally lovely things the world had to offer. And if rather than any of those things she instead, due to some uncharacteristic lapse of judgement, decided that she wanted Arthur… Well. Merlin couldn’t think of anyone who could have made a kinder, more capable queen. The fact that the so-called Golden Age of Camelot took place during her rule is one he has frequently tried to turn into public knowledge, though sadly without much fruition.
All of this, however, doesn’t mean that he doesn’t occasionally pine and lament. The embarrassment brought on by the fact that the cause for these lamentations is Arthur, of all people, is lessened only by the fact that this horrid condition has (for some incomprehensible reason) befallen all the best of them. Case in point: Gwen, Mithian, elderly ladies in Merlin's whittling class, and Merlin himself.
When he turns around in his chair, he feels gleeful to realise that there are no suitors to rudely chase away. Instead, there stands a wraith-like girl of around sixteen.
The look she gives him is curious and bold– traits not shared by her friend, who she has left sitting at a table two seats away. He looks to be a few years younger, and is slowly but surely sinking down his chair, as though thoroughly embarrassed that she has gone ahead and approached Merlin’s table.
"Hello," says the girl, and firmly outstretches her gloved hand. She’s dressed in all black; a style that reminds Merlin of his brief goth phase in the nineteen eighties.
"Hello," he say, with a smile. "I'm Merlin."
"I know this," the girl confirms. "Also known as: Emrys, Ambrosius, Myriddin, et cetera." Never before had Merlin heard someone say et cetera out loud. "Magic Itself, Albion's Last Light, Our Hope Bright and Undying."
She stops, even though her eyes seem to say I-could-go-on. There is a brief moment of silence.
"Erm," says Emrys Myriddin Et Cetera, Our Hope Bright and Undying, and brushes a crumb from his sweater (which is otherwise very smart and stylish, rest assured). "Quite. I’ve not heard some of those before."
"It is what the prophets say," the girl claims.
Ah, Merlin thinks, wretchedly. That explains it.
The prophets were infamously overbearing even at the best of times, but it has gotten even more unbearable since Arthur came back. Letters intricately folded into the shape of brids flew to his doorstep; messages awaited him at the bottom of every cup; streetlights shouted at him in morse code. If he were truly as young as he looks– or even a few years younger, actually– he might have indeed stopped to hear them out. But he now knows that prophecies only ever bring questions, all of them somehow the exact wrong ones. And besides, he is filled with quite enough wonder and whimsy as it is.
“It's nice to know that they're still coming up with new material,” he cautiously allows, though only to be polite. Then he pauses, really thinking about that for a moment. “...I guess."
"Indeed; that is how the future works, generally," the girl states. "I'm Ana. A Pleasure to Have In Class, for now, but aiming for Our Lady of the Ravenous Dark. I've still quite a way to go, though."
"I've always found precocity to be overrated," Merlin says encouragingly. "Is that your friend?"
He motions towards the boy with a nod of his head, and raises his hand into an amiable little wave. The boy sinks deeper down his chair. Ana looks over her shoulder, rolls her kohl-lined eyes, and returns her icy gaze to Merlin.
"No,” she says, deadpan. “I found him abandoned in a cardboard box, and now he keeps trailing after me like a feeble wet cat." She raises a thin eyebrow at Merlin’s concerned expression. "I'm only joshing, of course. He’s my cousin; which is only marginally better,” then, without waiting for a response, she nods her head towards Arthur: “Is this your husband?"
Arthur, who had once upon a time evaded death on a weekly schedule, now nearly dies for a second time from choking on his tea. Merlin, who is as always the only force standing between Arthur and dark-haired magical adolescents orchestrating his demise, pushes a glass of water in his direction.
"Uh, no," he says. "This is Arthur. I found him in a lake."
The girl’s eyes widen. She looks between the two of them, clearly forming some sort of a connection. "I wasn't too far off, then,” she concludes with a satisfied nod. When Merlin fails to provide a timely response, she adds: “He is your other half, yes?"
Merlin shifts in his seat, sending a nervous glance in Arthur’s direction.
"Did the prophets say that?" Arthur asks while leaning forward, sounding genuinely curious.
"No,” says Merlin.
"Yes,” Ana informs.
"So!" says Magic Itself, with a jittery urgency. "What have you got in there?"
Ana looks down at what Merlin is referring to– a notebook clutched in her hands. "This is my grimoire," she says, solemnly, as she hands it over. On the first page, right next to a detailed spell, it says: maths homework due Tuesday. This is followed by: a spell that makes you understand trigonometry, punctuated with a question mark. "... It is also a bit of a commonplace notebook. Sort of."
Merlin flips through a few pages. He does his best to focus solely on their magical contents, and politely ignore the written down song lyrics, as well as all other creative forms of venting out teenage vexations. “Have you thought of these yourself?”
Ana lifts her chin proudly. “My cousin and I both. He is rather efficient at translating old druid spells.”
“That’s very impressive,” Merlin says, genuinely.
Ana gives him a flattered, childlike smile. “Well, not that impressive,” she notes. “There is nobody to ask for advice, so a lot of them don’t quite… work the way I’d like them to. But I thought if– if maybe I could ask you?”
She sounds sheepish now, for the first time. Merlin nods. He still remembers how confusing and scary magic had all been, at the very beginning. Of course, things were slightly more dire in his time. Parents these days complain a lot about all the things children might stumble upon on the internet, but at least the chance of having your morning walk spoiled by a public execution is considerably less probable, statistically speaking.
“Of course,” he says, and takes a pen out of the old-fashioned messenger bag hung over the back of his chair. “Here: you can give me a call whenever you have any magic-related queries.”
Ana leans forward to see the number as he writes it down.
"Why's the number so short?" she asks.
"It's my landline," Merlin explains. Ana raises an eyebrow.
"They still have those?"
"Sure," says Merlin. Then, attempting a compromise: "Scyring orbs are fine too."
Ana seems thrilled by this answer. She says that she does not have a scrying orb either, but raptly listens to Merlin’s instructions on how to make one out of an empty pot of jam (“Yes; I believe Biscoff spread should also be all right”). Arthur looks on with an odd expression on his face. When Merlin pauses with his explanation to raise a questioning eyebrow, he shakes his head, as if Merlin is the strange one. Then he reaches forward, silently pushes Merlin’s glasses up his nose with the end of the discarded pen, and once again leans back in his chair.
It's all very disturbing. Merlin only hopes he isn’t thinking about the whole husband ordeal.
Whatever the matter, he at least knows he can reliably blame the prophets. Some things, it would seem, never change.
We now return to the house, and to the subject of Merlin's aching back. In doing so we have two goals in mind: the first of which is to make sure that everyone realises just how present of a terror this backache represents in Merlin's life. The second goal is to elaborate why, despite that, he still sleeps on the sofa.
It's not because Arthur takes the bed, if that's what you're thinking. That one enlightening confrontation he had with Gwen, however many years ago, made permanently certain of that. And even if it had not, the lack of beds and bedrooms isn't a problem, as Merlin's house does not bother abiding by the rules of architecture, geometry, or any sort of reason. He altered its floor plan and moved its location so frequently that it now made it exceedingly difficult to navigate. The only feature that remained unchanged were the large windows of the sitting room. Not because of any especially remarkable feature of their own, but rather the view that could be seen through them. Regardless of the location, they always looked at the same thing: come rain or shine, it would come upon the silver water of a solitary lake.
The night Arthur returned, the windows shook from a raging storm. Once he managed to transport Arthur inside, Merlin made a move as if to draw the curtains, before realising that he couldn't. He wanted to have an undisturbed view of the lake for as long as the windows existed, and therefore never even thought about acquiring a curtain. Fortunately, this did not preoccupy him at that moment. Once the initial adrenalin rush had worn off, they were both so shaken and exhausted that they could barely stand upright– and thus crashed onto the sofa. It took a few days and nights, which had all blurred together, until they finally even tried to sleep in their respective rooms. This venture did not go over well.
Merlin was the first to wake. Mind overactive with worry, he was unable to settle until he laid eyes on Arthur; who, as it turned out, was having a nightmare of his own. By the time Merlin shook him awake, he was so damp and pale that he might have indeed been drowning, just as he had been in his dream.
Merlin ordered the tea to prepare itself, and methodically dried Arthur’s forehead with a clean cloth. He lifted his hands away once the task was over, but Arthur immediately took hold of them again, urgent and terrified. As if fearing that without someone's touch to moor him, he might float away again.
"Please,” he said, eyes downcast. “Just–"
Merlin did not wait for him to finish verbalising his request. Frankly, he didn’t know if he could stand to hear him say those words again– another thousand years would not make them any less painful. They drank their tea in the sitting room, and with their shoulders pressed firmly together, they at last fell asleep. That night they both silently agreed to sleep on the sofa, at least for the time being.
The sofa, yes, but not the bed.
Sleeping in the bed would certainly be a line crossed. Especially for Arthur, whose repression is maidenly even by medieval standards. Back in their shared history, the battlefield offered compensation aplenty, and you could fall into the arms of your fellow men just fine, as long as it was on the cold moss of the forest floor. In the absence of that, the sofa comes in hand: and is, comparatively, much more comfortable.
(Never mind that the bed is much larger, and offers a lot more room for two grown men– both of who are fairly tall, and one who has arms and legs as willowy as untended tree branches– to lay upon. It’s a matter of principles.)
And even though the balance is still delicate, Merlin feels that the once glass-sharp tension between them has gone softer. As though water and time– their respective graves– had combined to do what they do best, and smoothed it out. Tonight, the large windows of the living room no longer look at the lake. After so many centuries, the house can finally stop being a light tower, and learn how to be a home.
With the drop in the temperature which accompanies the farewell of daylight, the rain has turned into tentative snow. The living room is lit by the fireplace, within which a sentient flame is engaged in an entrancing dance for one. It changes its shape according to its own proclivities, and its drowsy spell is cast over the entire room, which also includes a film projector, a table, a sofa (as we’ve thoroughly established), and a few framed photos. There is also the custom made "Employee of the Millenia" plaque. It hangs right next to the portrait from Merlin’s visit to the Seelie court, unearthly in a dark suit made especially for the occasion; in the blackest shade of melancholy, tailored out of raven feathers and midnight mist. Arthur's eyes linger on it sometimes, but never for too long. Merlin occasionally wonders if it makes him uncomfortable. But then, his attitude towards magic seems to be chiefly positive, these days.
There is also a tall bookshelf that takes up an entire wall– as well as several piles of books that it could not fit. Merlin could, of course, very easily create more shelf space to accommodate them, or move them into one of his two vast libraries. The honest truth, however, is that he simply can’t be arsed. Archimedes sits at the top of the tallest book pile: the one which includes Lais of Marie de France, Byron’s “Manfred”, Goethe’s “Faust”, Proust’s “In Search of Lost Time”, the Necronomicon, Bulgakov’s “Master and Margarita”, and a heavily dog-eared copy of Julia Quinn’s “The Viscount Who Loved Me”. Archie sometimes spends hours up on this perch, as still as a gargoyle, and stares intensely at his surroundings.
Arthur meets his eyes for a long moment, until they both finally blink. Archimedes does so one eye at a time.
"He's rubbish at being cat," Arthur observes.
Much to his detriment, Archie enjoys staring at him even more than he enjoys staring at everything else. The persistence of his lovelorn glances is almost embarrassing, even if Merlin admittedly understands where his cat is coming from. He also understands that things would undoubtedly be ten times easier for him (and perhaps the world at large) if he did not.
Having just set their steaming tea onto the table (teaspoons of honey still stirring themselves into the cups), Merlin turns around and takes Archie into his arms– a fate which the cat graciously accepts, purring as he nudges against Merlin's hand with his soft head.
"Don't be a prat," Merlin says, scratching Archie underneath his chin. "He can hear you."
"He's a cat," Arthur points out, dryly.
Merlin lets out a triumphant “ha!” sound, and Arthur rolls his eyes.
“I merely said that he’s rubbish at it– not that he isn’t one at all.”
“He only needs a bit more practice,” Merlin defends, loyaly, for he cannot outright deny that Archie can sometimes be ever so slightly unsettling. But an adjustment period is only to be expected, given the fact that he spent several centuries as a snow owl, and only the last few decades as the white feline he is today. Merlin supports him, even if he also privately wishes that Archie would at least quit doing the one-eighty thing with his head. That truly is unnerving.
He places Archimedes on his lap as he sits down, but the cat immediately abandons his post in order to settle onto Arthur (ever the chosen one)– who acts as though he’s bothered by this, but instantly begins to pet the feathery fur of Archie’s head. Merlin looks to the side to hide his endeared smile, and thus catches the sight of an unfamiliar movie playing on the projector screen.
(This alarms him more than it rationally should, because he has lately gotten into a habit of avoiding romance movies like the plague. Not because he dislikes them, but because of that one time they watched “Roman Holiday”, and Merlin said something about the trials and tribulations of being in love with a royal, and Arthur asked him how he would know, to which Merlin said that they should talk about something else, and wanted very strongly to die.)
“Tonight was supposed to be my turn to pick the movie,” he points out, turning his head again so that he can send Arthur a doubtful look over his glasses. “Need I explain equality to you again?”
“I’d rather you wouldn’t,” says Arthur, seemingly unaware of the way that the haughty tone of his voice undermines his message spectacularly. “As I am sure even you must know, history remembers me in part thanks to my contribution to that very concept.”
“Yes, well. Historical misinformation must be reaching an all-time high, because I seem to remember you for being a pigheaded, pertinacious toad.”
“That’s a big word, Merlin. Are you sure you know what it means?”
Merlin shares with him a few other big words that he knows (and which describe Arthur very succinctly, if he does say so himself), but not before covering Archie’s ears with his hands. Then, with a snap of his fingers, the movie switches back to the one Merlin had picked out prior to going to fetch their tea. Arthur does not protest, but looks at the ailing man on the screen with considerable disapproval.
"In my day, we'd just walk that off."
"In your day, men died of the common cold by the age of thirty," says Merlin. "So, you know. Better quiet down and drink your tea."
For once, Arthur complies– though not for very long. “I have been thinking,” he proclaims, only some minutes later.
“I've been meaning to talk to you about finding a new hobby,” Merlin replies, flippantly. “Just don’t be discouraged if it takes you a while to get the hang of it. A beginning is always a delicate time. Killgharrah said that once, I think. Or was it Frank Herbert? It's easy to get them mixed up.” He then makes a shushing sound in anticipation of Arthur’s reply, and pushes his hand over his face. “Wait, hold on. This is the good bit.”
Arthur barely glances in the direction of the movie. He moves Merlin’s hand away from his face, but rather distractingly keeps a hold on his wrist. “He’s still dead,” Arthur notes. His tone implies that being killed and then actually remaining dead points to a serious skill issue. “I have been thinking,” he says again, this time with a greater degree of his posh emphasising. “About why I came back.”
At this, Merlin also removes his eyes from the movie. As if recognising that the attention of the people in the room is now focused elsewhere, the tone appropriately lowers itself of its own accord. Even the wind outside seems to hush itself to a whisper.
The subject of Arthur’s return– or rather, the part of the prophecy that implies that it will happen during a turbulent time– is still one they discuss with a dose of sensitivity.
Merlin knows that Arthur is troubled by it, and that he holds himself preemptively responsible for whatever is to come. Born of magic which killed his mother, and thus began a war that cost countless lives, a magical rebirth to a prophesied time of great need (yet to be more closely defined) was always destined to resurface some old doubts and fears. For his life to be a catalyst of tragedy that one time was already enough to mark his entire youth; for it to happen twice could very well be detrimental to his entire image of himself. Of course, for all his ingenuine (and genuine) insults, Merlin never for a second believed Arthur to be a harbinger of misfortune. No matter how many witty quips he makes at his expense (some merely for the sake of upholding old traditions, some indeed well-deserved), the true height of Merlin’s opinion has always been quite easy to see.
And yet he also knows that there have been moments when Arthur himself harboured such suspicions.
“I was wondering about what that girl said,” he clarifies. “About how there isn’t a lot of magic left, anymore.”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that, personally,” Merlin says, trying to think of the most concise way to explain it.
“The way I see it, magic isn’t gone so much as it’s dormant. Like, think about language, for instance: you’ve seen for yourself how much it has altered since you’ve been absent. It’s sort of like that, I think. Magic still exists, in the same way that old languages do, but very few people have been taught to use it– and most of the available books are quite a bit outdated. Like a language that is full of archaisms, but lacks many of the words that you might need for contemporary communication, if that makes sense,” he hesitates for a moment, considering. “Although, I reckon that at this point there really might be more people who speak Old English than those who can cast a simple spell. But still, I doubt that magic itself could ever die, or disappear.”
“It does make sense,” Arthur confirms. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, points out: “That’s what the girl called you. Magic Itself.”
“Lots of people have called me that," Merin says, not really seeing what significance this observation could have for the current discussion. "It’s probably not–”
“She also called you Albion's Last Light."
Merlin waves this away. Pish-posh.
“Right– that one is fairly new, I think. Not quite as catchy.”
Arthur halfheartedly rolls his eyes. “No,” he insists, as though attempting to establish authority over Merlin's nonsense. “I meant, what if I didn’t rise in the time of Albion’s greatest need? What if the time of Albion's greatest need comes because I came back,” here he stops for a few moments, as if checking whether Merlin is following along, but also as if deliberating whether or not it’s truly a good idea to continue. “Because I have the only remaining weapon that could destroy magic for good.”
If the wind had quieted to a whisper before, it now holds its breath entirely. Even their clock tower house stops the steady tick-tock polyphony of its heartbeat. Merlin’s own heart, meanwhile, takes on the pace of a hummingbird.
He thinks now of Excalibur; the legendary weapon sought by thousands, currently haphazardly stored in the umbrella holder in the storage room. He sets his now-cold tea on the table. Adjusting his position, he attempts to calmly and systematically catch up to the conclusions formed in Arthur’s head. He imagines that the list would look something like this:
- Arthur has seen Morgana die by a blade forged in a dragon’s breath.
- There are no more dragons, so Excalibur is the last sword of its kind– and therefore the only object that is capable of dealing Merlin a mortal blow.
- Arthur, as the once and future king, is the only one who can wield it.
- Merlin is all that is left of the Albion that once was; and if the prophets are to be believed (admittedly always doubtful), to kill him would be synonymous with killing magic itself.
Images flash in his head in a disorienting crescendo, without enough time or composure to form semantic wholes. Dragon flames and firebird ashes. An heir to the Pendragon line, born of the same magic that burned out the life of Ygraine Du-Bois. An ember of life, rising from enchanted cinders. The intermittent light created by the hearth dances across Merlin’s pale face, resembling a shadow theatre play of the thoughts going on inside his head.
In a way, was Arthur himself not forged in fire? Could there really be something in that trail of thought– in that sort of grim interpretation of the prophecies?
Merlin is destined to be by Arthur’s side, that much he knows. But if there is one thing that experience has taught him, it is that fate fancies a good bit of irony. After all, was Merlin not destined to be a dragon lord, as well? Possibly, then, that is the punchline of his fate. To be the protector of things that are to be his end; a branch cut down to fuel a pyre, only to ultimately be consumed by the oldest of his flames.
(Of course, Merlin has always been somewhat cognisant of the self-sabotage element contained within his personal history. It was quite difficult to overlook it: what with the way everyone urged him to protect Arthur in order to protect magic, but failed to anticipate that he would come to care for Arthur so dearly that he’d doom magic itself, as long as it meant keeping his friend safe. Or perhaps they hadn’t failed to anticipate it at all. Maybe Merlin was the sole butt of the joke, as per usual.)
(You were destined for me– perhaps as a punishment. Was it Dostoevsky who said that? Pity it wasn't Merlin.)
“You think…” he begins, but his voice trails off into uncertainty. Arthur nods.
“I think that they have given me one final trial.”
It isn't improbable at all. If there is one more thing besides irony that the fates love, it's making Arthur pass their trials. Which doesn't sound all that horrible, in theory. An occasional quest can be a fun way to fill a Saturday afternoon, and useful for keeping one's wits sharp, as well as making certain that one consistently re-examines their worldview. Arthur’s trials, however, very often come with an unadvertised additional price of someone’s life– which is, admittedly, not so jovial.
And this time, it would seem, it is the life of Merlin himself. A shame, since he has only just begun to value it again.
“Right,” he says, awkwardly. “So.”
Arthur frowns as he notices the look of questioning hesitance on his face. “I am not going to kill you, you great big dolt,” he clarifies, visibly distraught by the apparent necessity of voicing this. Needless to say, Merlin does not appreciate this expression of disbelief.
“Oh, well I’m sorry! The last time we breached this topic, you mentioned having mixed feelings about chopping my head off– so forgive me for being slightly concerned,” Merlin argues, because he is quite fond of his head, despite its magnitude of quirks. He’s even fonder still of its enviably firm attachment to his neck and shoulders, since he knows not everyone is so fortunate. Look no further than all the disfigured ghosts that suddenly appeared in the aftermath of the French Reign of Terror, or our very own Gwaine's misadventure with the Green Knight.
“My apologies,” Arthur says, frowning. His initial indignation is at once replaced by humility and conviction, and it is clear to Merlin that these words are something that he has given much thought. “You’re right. I can't be angry with you for having reasonable doubts, when I haven't doubted the reason of what I have been taught nearly as much as I should have. I can’t change that. But I can change the way that things are now.”
Merlin tilts his head. Arthur is still loosely holding onto his hand– and now that Merlin is no longer worried for his life (not any more than usual, at least) he is growing irritatingly aware of this fact. There really are far greater issues at stake (though not Merlin's head, small mercies).
But there are some things regarding which people never get wiser, no matter the years. The head might learn; but the heart only reacts. And beneath Arthur’s fingers, Merlin’s pulse beats just the same as it always has.
“How do you mean?” he manages to ask.
“Bring back magic,” says Arthur, without any preamble or delay. This does capture Merlin’s full attention. “We’d have to start with the basics, of course. Forming a community, teaching the people here; clearly, there are many who wish to learn, but lack the proper guidance. And then, later…” he’s talking rapidly now, clearly enraptured with the subject at hand. “There are all these books that I’ve been reading: queen Semiramais in the south, the Yngling dynasty in the north. There are so many myths and legends apart from our own. Surely, at least some of them must be true. Surely there must be others like us, with magic connected to sources other than that of Albion."
He speaks with all the hope-inspiring passion that had once made its impression on crowds of hundreds; be it within gilded halls or upon desolate battlefields. Even if Merlin had ever been so vain and presumptuous as to assume that his magic is the only kind in the world, he would now reconsider. Indeed, he has never met anyone like himself thus far, despite travelling all over the world. But then again, he has never really tried, either.
(We ought not to judge his lack of self-initiated attempts much too harshly. You’d be surprised by the time it takes to worry about just one person.
Also, you hardly need a thousand years of experience to know that loneliness often seems impossible to escape without the help of others. Which is inconvenient, since that is precisely what a lonely person lacks. When he felt like he could not enter the world by any other means, Merlin did the best he could to belong to it anyway: coloured it with his memories, and turned himself into a lingering taste of sweetness. It wasn’t an isolation born of apathy or eccentricity, but an ouroboros wound tightly around his chest, simultaneously a guard and an executioner.
Now, however…)
"You want to wake them," he says aloud. "The others."
"Eventually," Arthur confirms. "Perhaps some are already awake. Perhaps, if they wish to, we could form alliances. We could help bring about a new age of magic, all over the world. But of course, we’d first have to do the work here.”
His eyes are as steady and as open as the sea, or the sky. It is not cliché to think so, Merlin is sure, because no other eyes have ever actually contained the world within them. Or maybe its the other way around; since it was Merlin himself who filled the Iroise sea with the vast, stormy blue of Arthur’s gaze.
Arthur clears his throat, bringing Merlin back from his reverie. “Obviously, it's your call. I can only provide ideas."
Merlin's first instinct is to tease him, and to make a joke about how in that case, it’s safe to assume that they truly are doomed. But for once he bites his cheek, and keeps his mouth shut. Upon further thought, he discovers something remarkably true in Arthur’s words. After all, it isn't his weapon that the world needs now, as it wasn't back then. The story of the sword in the stone was merely a guise; a neat bit of fiction that Merlin had crafted in the spur of the moment. But in reality, it has all always been about Arthur’s courage, and his heart.
"Of course, even if there are others like us, they might not want any part of this,” Arthur allows, mistaking Merlin’s silence for hesitance. “But I know that I would. I don't want to live long in the minds of men, Merlin. Nor to be a figurehead for whatever battle someone else decides to wield in the honour of my legacy.”
Merlin nods at this. He understands the desire to take control of your own story. Probably better than anyone else, really. He also knows the dangers of approaching the future without any inquisitiveness; passively accepting the things that happen, or hoping only to conserve and rediscover the past. Thinking of the golden age as a time in distant history is often nothing but a comfortable trap– and even its comfort usually only benefits the privileged few.
“I know its a lot. But I'd be by your side, this time. Protecting you.”
This helps bring Merlin to the ground for a bit, if even for a moment. He raises an eyebrow.
“That's hilarious,” he says, dryly. “I'll be protecting you, as always.”
Arthur doesn't argue, even though he clearly wants to; Merlin can tell from the brief clenching of his jaw.
“Does that mean you'll consider?” he asks instead.
Something about his voice– the genuine hope of it, along with some other quality Merlin can’t yet allow himself to put a name to– makes Merlin feel aggravatingly misty-eyed.
This is not an odd occurrence, as Merlin often feels moved to tears. If anything, years of being exposed to tragedy have only worsened the poor tolerance he was born with. Still, he usually ends up looking away until it passes. Not because he's ashamed, but because Arthur is quite literally operating on medieval levels of emotional constipation, and would likely respond to the sight of tears by punching Merlin on the arm in one of his attempts to cheer him up. And although Merlin clearly has a problem of some sort, since he alarmingly finds this to be rather sweet (because, you see, the punch is just another way of reaching out), he still wouldn't opt for having to nurse both his feelings and his arm, if given the choice.
In truth, there has been a candescent, selfish fear lodged inside Merlin’s throat ever since Arthur returned. It became especially hard to swallow in situations such as the one this morning, when Arthur had attempted to make his own breakfast. Sure, it was a complete failure– but Arthur is an apt pupil, and with each day grows more and more accustomed to the modern way of life. In a few years, give or take, he will likely be more than capable of living on his own, and still very much young enough to form all sorts of new meaningful bonds.
Which is a good thing, of course. Merlin would be happy for him, if he decided set off and begin a life on his own.
Well, no, actually. He wouldn't feel happy at all. He's really not that much of a martyr. He might even curse all of Arthur’s new friends with permanent bloating and gas. But he would act happy, at the very least. It's just that he doesn’t know if he has the strength to be on the sidelines of Arthur’s story again. And after centuries of it, he doesn’t think he could bear even just one more day of being alone.
And now, it seems, he won’t have to. Because here's Arthur: alive, belonging to neither past nor future. Entirely in the present moment, and asking Merlin to spend it with him.
And, for the first time, with others like himself.
“Shut up,” Merlin says preemptively, once he realises that Arthur has noticed his tears. Then, because he is not accustomed to getting the things he wants, ever, but is very practised at actively working against his heart's most ardent desires, he adds: “You have a chance for an ordinary life, Arthur; that’s no small thing. I don’t want to–”
“Merlin,” Arthur interrupts. “Even if I did want an ordinary life, obviously I’d want you with me. In case you don’t recall, I spent most of my time with you even back when I thought you were but a complete idiot.”
“Very funny. And embarrassing, for you. I at least had the excuse of needing to keep you safe.”
Arthur's sombre expression implies that he, for once, agrees- and that his own reasons for encouraging their closeness really do remain a complete mystery, even to himself.
They sit in silence for a couple of minutes, while Merlin thinks about all they have said.
Out loud, he wonders: "You really think we could do it?"
Arthur nods, without a second of hesitation.
"I think that even trying will make a difference," he says, and Merlin can tell that he truly believes this. Then, more cautiously, he adds: "Only time will tell the extent of it, of course. But I'm willing to work and wait, if you are."
Merlin gives a small, one-shoulder shrug.
"Might as well. Turns out I'm rather good at waiting, when it matters."
Their eyes meet. A moment of static, before Arthur grins.
The sight of the expression makes Merlin feel as though he is ageing backwards through time. All of his youthful hopes and optimism and ambition seem to rapidly stretch out before him. It's the same smile from all of those years ago, entirely undiluted. The exact tilt of the lips that made Merlin’s entire world tilt, too, and caused him to trip all over his initial reservations: stumbling clumsily into his steady fall. And really, if they work side by side, with no lies or secrets to hold them back, why wouldn’t they be able to bring back sorcery?
If the world can contain this, then who's to say it can’t contain any other form of enchantment?
"Well," Merlin announces. "In that case, you're now officially a magician’s apprentice. Or a Ward of Witchcraft. A Wart, if you will."
"I won't," Arthur replies, politely but swiftly.
"Too late. You're stuck with it now, I fear."
Arthur sighs.
“There are worse destinies," he eventually allows. "Not many, to be clear, but–”
Merlin readily aims at him with a levitating pillow, which Arthur catches with ease. Archimedes lets out a startled sound of protest at this sudden disturbance of his peace; something between a meow and a hoot. They both let out scattered laughs, apologising to the cat with the greatest reverence, still a bit restless from that disorienting elation that sometimes accompanies consuming conversations. Merlin places a kiss between the cat’s ears, and Arthur watches on, plainly affectionate.
It would be too much, we must concede, to expect this day to end with anything so direct as a kiss between the two of them, or an outright declaration of feelings. It took them a thousand years of metaphors and disguises to get to where they are; and where they are is sitting close, still silently aware of the chaste contact of their knees. Thus, we shall graciously grant them the armour of ambiguity, and let them dance around their feelings for a little longer. They have all the time in the world to learn the proper steps.
It's strange, and almost unfamiliar: the impatient glee and curiosity that accompany that realisation.
After all that he's been through, it's easy to see why Merlin used to perceive life as a punishment, or a burden. But now that there's someone to help him bear it, to live seems like the bravest, most noble thing to do. A thousand years have gone; a thousand more will arrive- but today is singular, and he will use it well. He decides to ask no more questions of the Universe. He vastly prefers the answers he has to search for on his own.
And in turn, the Universe allows him the courtesy of no longer listening in. The snow resumes its gentle fall, like the close of a curtain concealing them from view.