Chapter Text
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| Poster by eos-rose. |
The early days of their reign were dedicated to the cause of peace and the building of a new kingdom, prosperous and beautiful. There were bridges to be built, roads to be mended, memorials to be dedicated, and alliances with neighbouring kingdoms to be forged. “So much to do, so little time,” the two kings were often heard to complain, but they were smiling when they said it, and their people shared in their ambition and simplistic joy.
For reasons of politics, Arthur the Magnificent and Merlin the Wise were never formally wed. From far and wide, prospective brides came calling—the Duchess of Ettinsmoor, the King of Archenland’s two sisters, the daughter of the Governor of the Lone Islands, a long string of Princesses from Calormen—to further the interests of their lands and their families, but the girls were always returned to their families unwed (and rapturously in love). These courtesies were looked on with some amusement by the Narnians, particularly once it became apparent that the primary reason the courtships continued so long was because King Merlin seemed to delight in baiting his co-monarch to all-new heights of possessiveness, which usually led to King Arthur attempting to beat him at his own game and— Well, rumour had it than when the girl-of-the-month would return home, the young men would lock themselves in their chambers for days, hardly emerging long enough even to eat.
Ah, young love.
Now, it so happened that some fifteen years into their reign, the two kings received word that the great White Stag had been spotted wandering the Western Woods. It was well-accepted as fact that anyone who managed to capture the White Stag would be granted one wish, though no one could ever recall anyone having succeeded in doing so.
Arthur—never having lost his passion for the hunt, though his time in the other world seemed little more than a distant dream by then—could not resist such a challenge.
“Come on, Merlin!” Arthur hissed, shoving his way through the brambles of an overgrown copse. The stag had gone this way not long ago. The crushed foliage at his feet, the broken branches along the barely-traversed path, the fresh prints in the mud: all signs indicated that they were close. So close. “It went this way. Hurry, or we shall lose it!”
Merlin fell through one of the bushes behind him, no doubt having tripped over something ridiculous (like, say, his own feet), panting and scowling and flailing his arms for balance. Once he was solid on his feet again, he stood there sulking and brushing brambles from his soiled tunic. He didn’t notice the twig tangled in his curls.
Arthur suppressed a grin, choosing instead to cling to his previous ire (and, really, it was unfair that after all these years Merlin could still tame him with a single look). “Bumbling oaf,” he sniffed with exaggerated hauteur, “if you ruin my chance to have my wish, I shall never forgive you.” Taking Merlin by the wrist, he pulled him through the last of the brush toward the clearing ahead.
“Umph!” Merlin complained noisily as he was propelled forward. “I do believe that you said I was your only wish and desire, so what is the point of this again?”
“I would never say anything so trite or soft!”
“You said it just last night!”
“I recall no such thing. You must be mistaken.”
“Have I told you lately that you are a prat? Because you are. Why do I put up with you again?”
“Because you are a girl, and you cannot get enough of my manly— Oh.” Arthur stopped, stumbling a bit as they finally exited the brush to find a black curiosity sprouting from the ground. “Well, here is a marvel. I seem to see a tree of iron.”
“I say,” said Merlin, brushing by with a look of awe, “it is a pillar of iron with a lantern atop. Why would anyone wish to place such a thing in the middle of the wood?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Arthur, circling it. “By the Lion’s Mane, a strange device. Never before have I seen...such a thing. Or I hadn’t thought so... Somehow, as I look on it, this lamp strikes me as oddly familiar, as if I have seen it in a dream, or in a dream of a dream. Perhaps we have come here before? Long ago?”
“Yes, perhaps,” Merlin agreed, and stroked his beard as was his habit when deep in thought. “I have the most peculiar suspicion that if we pass this post and lantern either we shall find strange adventures or else some great change of our fortunes.”
“Yes,” Arthur nodded, pensively. “The same foreboding sits with me.”
“I don’t like this. I propose we return to our mounts and pursue the White Stag no farther,” Merlin said, but from the tone of his voice he already knew turning back was not an option.
“No,” Arthur refused. “Go back if you must, but I am no coward. Have I not driven back the Northern Giants? Have I not conquered over distant lands and wild people? Have I not cowed the werewolves, hags, and devil spirits into obeisance? Have I not defeated the White Witch? To be so daunted now smacks of the worst sort of cowardice. If an adventure lurks around the corner, then I will meet it, come what may.”
“You know that I will follow where you lead,” said Merlin, troubled but determined. “I will not be left behind.” His concern twisted into a wry grin. “You’d get yourself killed within five minutes without me, and you know it!”
“Such blasphemy!” Arthur huffed, but smiled anyway, feeling the anxiety he hadn’t realized had been knotting up his insides coming undone. “Let’s go, then, and not waste another minute.”
And so Arthur offered his arm in exaggerated gallantry, and Merlin accepted it primly, with a humorous roll of his eyes, and they followed the White Stag’s tracks into the unknown.
So ended the Golden Age of Narnia.
One moment Arthur and Merlin were pushing their way through branches, the next they realized they were pushing through a row of fur coats. Then, before they had time to truly process the implications of the change, they were falling out of the wardrobe and bruising their knees on the hard stone floor.
“Oh,” Arthur said, sitting back on his knees, wide-eyed with shock. He raised his hand to his face, feeling the smoothness of the skin, the lack of laugh-lines and crows-feet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Merlin was doing the same, searching for the beard that wasn’t there. They were young again.
They were just as they had been when they’d stepped into the wardrobe.
Even their clothes had reverted. The old style felt utterly foreign.
He was a stranger in his own body.
“You realize,” Arthur said slowly, catching Merlin’s eyes, “that no time at all has passed since we...” He glanced back at the wardrobe. It stood tall and immovable—impressive, but with no sense of magic to it any longer. Somehow he knew that if he walked back into it, he would find nothing but mothballs and the coats. He swallowed thickly, throat going tight and achy. “...since we stepped into that wardrobe.”
“I—I—” Merlin stuttered. There was something broken and forlorn in his voice. “Yes. It’s— Yes. We are... Everything is... just as it was before.”
“Merlin...”
Merlin shook his head, shrugging away Arthur’s outstretched hand, and pushed himself to his feet. He stood there, arms folded as if to protect himself from the world, and Arthur was struck by the knowledge that all those years of easy bickering, friendship, and love had come to an end. In the back of his mind, he’d always known it would come to this. Narnia had dulled his memories of their origins, of Camelot, but—
His dreams lately had been plagued by dread. Now he knew why.Deep down, he’d never forgotten that one day he’d have to look Merlin in the face and again pretend they were nothing more than master and servant.
By the Lion’s Mane, how had he—they—managed before?
It all seemed so cold.
“Oh, Merlin.”
“Don’t,” Merlin admonished quietly, dodging Arthur’s second attempt to pull him close just as efficiently as the first, “make promises you can’t keep.”
Arthur was prepared to argue, but he’d forgotten one little thing: the reason he and Merlin had entered into the wardrobe in the first place.
Princess Jolecia.
She had impeccable timing, as always.
“My Lord Arthur!” she simpered from the doorway, painted lips pursed into an over-enthusiastic smile, despite the confusion lurking behind her (terrifyingly) batting eyelashes. “Here you are! I’ve been looking all over for you! You disappeared so suddenly. I worried. I was surprised when I was informed you’d headed to this wing.” She darted her eyes between Arthur and Merlin, clearly expecting some sort of explanation.
Arthur opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Merlin jumped in, bowing low and grovelling in a way that made Arthur’s hackles rise. It wasn’t right. “M’lady, please forgive me. It was my fault that Arthur left so suddenly. It’s just that I got lost and stumbled across this fantastic wardrobe while trying to complete my chores, and I really wanted to show it to him. Please don’t blame him, m’lady. I was out of line. My master is very kind to humour me.” As Merlin spoke, head bowed and properly subservient, the faint traces of tension in the princess’s brow began to ease, her lips curling in a haughty manner.
“Yes,” Arthur chuckled hoarsely, nearly choking on the lie. “He was under the mistaken impression that I might care about something as mundane as a clothes closet. Granted this is impressive workmanship, but it’s hardly worth pitching a fuss over. Still, I find it is sometimes easier to indulge Merlin’s eccentric notions. It makes him more... pliable.”
“Oh, you silly boy,” she said condescendingly. “Your master really is much too lenient with you.” She turned to Arthur, floating over to him with a careful swish of her skirts to cling to Arthur’s arm, resting her head familiarly against Arthur’s shoulder. Merlin’s head remained bowed, but Arthur knew him well. He had already been hurting, but then this spoiled, selfish bitch had come along to callously rub salt into an open wound. “Perhaps you should beat him,” the princess suggested. “A good beating has always worked well on the servants of Benwick.”
If Arthur were in the habit of hitting women, he might have just then.
“He doesn’t mean any harm,” he said. “He’s just a little naive. Why don’t you go on ahead to the garden and I’ll meet you by the fountain after I... have a talk with my servant.”
Anyone else would have noticed the tightness of his tone. Princess Jolecia did not. Vapid creature that she was, she merely trilled and simpered at him until he gave her a carefully restrained push toward the door. He couldn’t strike a woman. It would be wrong.
Suddenly, he really missed Morgana.
Morgana was not known for putting up with the antics of brainless twits like this princess. And, unlike Arthur, she had no respect for gender-roles. It might have been nice to see the insipid creature knocked flat.
Arthur looked to Merlin.
The poor boy stood stiffly, hurting and in need of something only Arthur could give—and his shoulders were shaking slightly now with the force of his sorrow. One tear trickled down a shaven cheek and Arthur was done for.
He couldn’t do this.
He couldn’t pretend nothing had changed.
He had changed.
Keeping Merlin his dirty little secret wasn’t an option. Not anymore.
“Wait!” Arthur said, more loudly than he had intended, just as the princess was leaving. She turned to him, head tilted in curious expectation. Merlin was looking at him to, confused and perhaps a bit alarmed. He straightened under the scrutiny, nodded briefly at the princess, marched over to Merlin, and pulled the baffled young man off balance and into his arms for a thorough kiss. Then, when he was sure Merlin was too dizzy with breathless shock to make any protest, Arthur parted reluctantly from his lover’s mouth, titled his head to face the bug-eyed and stammering princess, and said, “Actually, we lied. It was my idea to come up here. I haven’t had a chance to properly enjoy my lover since arriving in Benwick and had hoped that an unused wing would guarantee some privacy. My mistake.” He smiled pleasantly.
The princess blinked. Turned. Walked away in a daze.
Arthur turned his full attention back to the man in his arms, who was looking at him with such awe that he was humbled.
“You really are magnificent, aren’t you?” said Merlin.
Arthur grinned, heart catching in his throat. “I’ve been telling you that for years. Are you just now catching on?”
“No, I’ve always known how wonderful you are. I just wasn’t sure you knew—not really.”
Arthur kissed Merlin again (or maybe it was the other way around) drunk on life and love and the possibilities. Before the day was out, all of Benwick would know Merlin was his. Before the week was out, Camelot and his father would know the same. A few might guess that the opposite was also true, though most would not.
There would be hell to pay for his transgressions.
He didn’t care.
Aslan had once encouraged him to remain in Narnia in order to make Merlin happy, and also to enjoy a love that would not be condoned in this world. He had wanted the easy acceptance the Narnians offered and the chance to love without shame for himself just as much, if not more so, than he’d wanted it for Merlin. He’d been afraid and uncertain and unready to face the ridicule he knew would await him back home should anyone know of the relationship he held so dear. Narnia had seemed the perfect solution: a chance to be himself, if only for a while.
Now, faced with the prospect of shoving his desires back into the shadows, he found that all his previous insecurities didn’t matter anymore. This wasn’t something he needed to fear or be ashamed of. He’d sooner cut off his own sword arm than lose the only true friend he’d ever had. And lose him he would if Arthur went back to shoving Merlin into a proverbial box as he had been. What was a little ridicule or even his father’s blinding rage compared to a lifetime of emptiness?
This was love. Love was worth fighting for.
The book appeared on his worktable one morning as if by magic.
Gaius was mixing an ointment for the aging Sir Gilbert’s joint pains at the time and nearly broke his pestle and mortar in alarm, but recovered quickly. He’d been living with Merlin too long for anything to truly shock him—not even books that mysteriously manifested themselves out of thin air.
Setting his work aside, he reached for the book, flipped to the first page, and sputtered: “Herein lies the wondrous works of King Merlin the Wise, Master of the Olde Magicks.” The words, emblazoned in gold, seemed to catch fire before his eyes before burning themselves away.
Blinking in confusion, suddenly wondering why he was pouring over something so mundane as a blank book when he had work to be doing, Gaius set the book aside and returned to his work with a dazed mumble. Perhaps he would give the book to Merlin when the lad returned to Camelot. It would be perfect for taking notes. The gods only knew how anyone could read the cramped scrawl the boy penned haphazardly over the scraps of parchment he’d managed to procure thus far.