Archive of Our Own

His mother always used to tell him what an imaginative sort he truly was. Magical freaks didn’t need to interact with the masses, and they certainly didn’t need to be playing with other children.

Neither did bastards, for that matter.

And so, he learned to play a very different game. Merlin first started playing with his own mind when he was hardly even able to understand the concept, running through the woods by his village as distant music played.

In his own head, he explored castles alongside a group of (friendly) re-occurring knights. He had a little brown horse – Mage, as she was last known, but her name changed so many times over the years depending on the new people young Merlin would meet or something he read about in a book.

And that’s how he was known, for many years. The boy with the book, “Probably stolen from some nearby traders”, “thinking he’s so much better than us because he can read scribbles on a scroll”.

But it wasn’t just a scroll, not to Merlin it wasn’t. He poured over the few his mother had been sent, and only once got into trouble for colouring in the diagrams with the smashed up remains of some old berries mixed into the family ink pot.

Even when he met Will, when he was ten, he still could never let his dreams die. Even if everyone had thought he would now that he had a friend.

He had never truly thought – even if his conscious brain disagreed with him – that his imaginings could ever become true, honest reality.

Even if it was much darker than he had ever expected.                    

Years later, he would say he predicted the future.

***

Perhaps it truly was that he was meant to meet the old bookseller in the market stall, just before he met the blond-haired man that would change his life forever.

He was a rickety old man, perhaps even more so than Gaius. Worn out breaches, and a flowing tunic that looked as if it could have once been owned by royalty, if royalty had worn such styles a hundred or so years ago.

But he was a special man, both alike and not how Merlin himself was special.

Special not in the way that he granted wishes, or made things fly.

He had a gift much more important than anything Merlin had.

Books did not simply come into his purchase to sell; he was the only person in Camelot who created them.

Merlin had sat with the man for hours. Watching as he wrote and re-wrote the same pages over and over with a neat hand. Watched as he laced every copy with leather and glue, binding them in hide and placing them on a shelf.

He had never seen the names stamped, before.

The exactness of every perfect and repeated copy from the pile of pages that had been sent to him by an author that morning.

Silent and precise as he worked, a little smile on his face and the gentle explanation of his actions to the willing ear.

If Merlin had a choice, he would always have said that was the true, real magic. What it should be.

***

There was a space under Merlin’s floorboards. Originally used to stuff down his magic books and hide the eclectic piece of incense or sigil he picked up on his way.

It wasn’t until he had bought back the wrapped-up staff that he had known.

The floorboard was eased back, and the staff was dropped down.

And it fell.

Merlin could only stare in disbelief as it kept falling into the darkness, finally making one loud clunk.

He eased the loose floorboard off fully, stretching his hand down as if hoping to be able to pull it up out of wherever it had fallen. Only to find a space. His had waved below the floor, hitting something sharp and wooden poking out.

Something with layers and rises and falls, as far as Merlin could feel.

Carpentry tools were easy enough to come across. He had never used them before, but a guess could always be made as to how one would yank up the floorboards that lay around him.

One. Two. Three floorboards removed.

The space was larger than he ever would have thought. His previous possessions lucky enough to be tucked just shy of the opening into the dark cavern.

Four. Five. Six.

The candle he grabbed could see down clearly, the straight drop into blackness.

He reached his hand underneath, feeling the lumps that seemed to protrude a little away from the wall.

He doubted he had ever felt such relief that Gaius was away for several sunsets, and that Arthur had finally left him alone to go hunting.

The look on their faces at the borderline deathtrap in his room would be quite comical.

Seven.

It was a ladder.

Old and broken down as it was, when Merlin pushed it lightly with one hand it did not move. When he looked further, he could see the many long nails securing it to the wall of the hole beneath his room.

He pressed a palm against the first rung. He half expected it to break beneath his hand, as he had expected the ladder to stumble and shake like a great beat trying to remove it’s coat.

And yet, it held steady.

Clinging to the side with one hand, he pressed down on the second rung. And then the third, as far as he could reach.

The tips of his fingers could hardly even touch the fourth.

Every inch further he dared hold his single candle, it just seemed to be swallowed in the darkness.

Occasionally, another rung or two appeared.

Did he dare?

His staff sat at the bottom somewhere. Could it have broken? The magic set free, as Gaius always warned that it could with this kind of thing?

Merlin levitated the candle behind him as he turned to climb.

Three rungs down.

The ladder groaned beneath him.

Five rungs down, the candle behind him flickered. Goosebumps broke out across Merlin’s flesh.

He tested every new rung beneath him with his foot. One was missing. One groaned more than the others.

And the coldness grew.

Had Gaius known about this place? Had anyone?

His feet met solid ground, orienting himself.

Lights all across the room came on, flaming torches lighting one after another until they illuminated the entire room in a warm, welcoming light.

A large fireplace at the end of the room, carved with runes of old, sparked to life.

Child of magic itself, the universe favoured him. The only possible reason that he ever could have been so lucky – a word that had never before been used to describe Merlin – as to find a place such as this.

It was an old sitting room, deserted and dusty through age.

His staff lay in the middle of the floor, and yet Merlin did not go to pick it up.

A large, stretched out plush chair lay against one wall, big enough for several people and dusty enough to prove it had not been used for many years.

The shelves mapping the walls were empty, also covered in a thick layer of white time.

Scattered papers lay across the floor, and Merlin picked up one and blew on it. He choked on the dust that came off.

The writing was illegible, faded too far with age and scrunched beyond recognition.

Without even thinking about it, he walked around the room, picking up every crumbling sheet with far more care than he had ever used in Arthur’s chambers. His hands were full of the stack holding them lightly as they seemed to bend.

Even with all the time at the booksellers, he had never seen paper this old and broken down. Every few pages a word was visible, and his heart leaped in hope, only to find out that the rest of the page was completely illegible.

‘dignity in tack’

‘as Elowen had said as such’

‘in the time of many myths’.

He still did not give up hope, as he probably should have done, brushing the dust off of each one with more care than he knew he possessed.

When he finally held each page in his hands, he was unsure of how much time had passed but knew he had been there a while.

There was a stray ribbon he had found on the floor, and he fastened the pages together with it, without bothering to try and put them in any kind of order.

The paper was placed neatly at the bottom of one of the shelves, in a large wooden box that seemed the perfect size. Like it had been made for the purpose, rusty and old though it was.

The stray cobweb he had to brush out from within told him as such.

Every second his eyes looked, the more he seemed to see. The little copper anchor nailed firmly into one of the walls.

The bright colours of the pillows on the chair that spoke of royalty.

The rich, dark pigment of the walls. The mural painted in a flowing hand on one of them, the beautiful image of a woman with flowing red hair, piercing blue eyes, and a man’s golden crown upon her brow.

Her red dress revealed status.

Her calloused hands, pomegranate juices crushed between them told otherwise.

She seemed to stare straight at Merlin. Merlin had never seen anything that looked so expensive, not even Prince-Pratnesses own chambers.

But, then again, Merlin would not have been surprised if he was the sort of person who hated artwork of any kind. Especially in this form, which seemed to question the monarchy in every way that existed.

Faded and cracking as it was, he could hardly believe that Uther would have allowed it to exist within his own castle.

But the room spoke of being left for much, much longer.

There was more towards the back of the room, against the wall that adjourned the fireplace.

The desk that sat there was large, mahogany even, with another plush chair to go with it.

Merlin opened each individual draw, stiff as it was, and found more worn-down paper. A quill that had been run down to the stick. A few pots of ink that seemed to have evaporated over-time, until just the edges were dried up and black.

He made sure to close up everything before he left. But he couldn’t resist moving all of the old things, forcing open the old wooden box and placing everything remaining of whoever held this place before within.

Merlin doubted that they would be coming back for it.

The sun was gone when he rose back through the floor, finally feeling the residing warmth from the physicians rooms. Sensing the dust in his hair.

He paid off a local salesman the next day to give him some hinges, and newer nails.

He moved his bed, just until he could buy a rug.

His muscles strained in such a way that they never had before, to the point even carrying armour around the castle ached something deep within him.

If he could say so himself, he made a good trap-door.

Because, for the very first time, that space was well and truly his.

At least, it would be, after it was clean.

***

“You know, I had always assumed I would enjoy you thinking quietly to yourself from time to time. However, it just makes you more annoying.”

“Is that so?” Merlin scrubbed Arthur’s floor with wild abandon.

“Your mind is wandering everywhere these days, more so than usual.”

“Really?” Merlin answered mildly, still scrubbing. A thump came from behind him, and Merlin knew that Arthur had slammed his cup down on the table.

“You are the most annoying man I have ever met.”

“I could say the same, but then again I know Cassian.”

“Who?”

Merlin blinked, realising that he had slipped. Because Cassian wasn’t a real person, only a certain man from his imaginations that he had made in entirety to practise insults on when Arthur wasn’t there with him.

He hadn’t meant to say that.

But then again, Arthur always did have a way of making words slip out of Merlin’s mouth that he didn’t mean to say. It was genuinely a shock that his magic had remained hidden as long as it had.

“Turn of phrase, from Ealdor. Slang meaning a foolish person.”

“Ah, country boy shenanigans. I can only hope for your sake that you weren’t speak of such to the Prince of Camelot. Would be treason, after all.”

Prat.

***

He visited the bookbinders again, soon afterwards. The old man had smiled as he entered, waving him through to his office, knowing that Merlin would never seek to damage anything that lay within.

Knowing Merlin enough that he would be careful.

“You can clean up some of the leather, if you would like,” the old man said, and Merlin felt his old toothy grin come over his face.

The two men worked in the flickering firelight, the old handwriting, and the young cleaning and organising.

At the start, they mostly worked in silence, barring the old man’s hacking coughs. And then, they began to speak.

The old man read aloud, and Merlin found himself enthralled by the tale of a group of men finding a sea of mermaids, with perfect faces and veins of black running up their skin.

And the noise that came forth from them was something far from human, a moaning, screaming wail that came from perfect lips. A tail flicked, splashing the shore in one huge wave.

And the men stood, transfixed, even as the water licked their feet and threatened to swallow them whole. 

“You could do this yourself, one day,” the old man said, startling Merlin out of his imaginings.

Merlin looked up in pleasant surprise, he hadn’t really done much to the old man’s work, barring polishing a little binding leather and cleaning up spilled glue.

“Thank you.”

The old man shook his head.

“Ay, not my job. Though I do suppose if you wished it, you could make it happen. No, you are a writer if ever I did see one,” The old man nodded, “And you should write.”

Merlin shrugged.

“Maybe someday. I’m not that good.”

“You may think so. But, in my time, only the very worst of the writers think their work is anything worth celebrating. Bring it to me, if you do.”

Merlin nodded at the old man and went back to polishing.

“And, before you go this evening, reminds me to give you one of the copies of this book. I rather think you might enjoy it.”

The leather had never felt so strong in his hands. And that night, he realised, he never truly had experienced the scent that was a new book.

***

Merlin had no idea what to do with a small child, especially one who could not seem to talk or really move. He was no physician and had no idea what to do with a real infection.

He was quite sure Gaius would scoff at his efforts.

Morgana certainly had no idea what to do with him, and Merlin could not ask anymore of her than he already had. She was the one planning to sneak him out and everything. He couldn’t put more on her.

So, when she had left him alone with the boy, he had acquiesced immediately.

He had never been around a boy so young, certainly not as a child. He only, really knew himself at that age. Himself and his knights.

But he couldn’t take the silence anymore.

“Did anyone tell you stories? At your camp?”

‘Sometimes’. The words came clearly through Merlin’s head, just as they had done during the initial rescue.

“Would you like to hear one?”

‘Yes’.  

He searched his person, before realising that he didn’t have a book on him. Not even his trusty small version that the bookbinder had made him a few weeks before.

He thought he took it everywhere.

Looking at the boy desperately, he had already promised the boy a story. And he could hardly leave him alone in order to rush back to his chambers and grab one of his books.

Too much of a chance that Arthur would come back and really look behind the screen out of some (not entirely unjust) sense of duty.

He racked his memory for a story that he remembered that he could tell the child. He had to remember at least one of them. At least.

But his mind came up blank.

The child was looking up at him now, big blue eyes that reminded him almost too closely of another set of blue eyes. One he could only say no to in a joke.

The woods.

“Has anyone ever told you of the knights of Azorath?”

The boy shook his head, and Merlin chucked and forced a wide smile. As if he didn’t feel that the most intimate parts of himself were being revealed to this small child.

“I’m not surprised. They only exist in one place, see,” Merlin tapped his forehead, and relaxed as a small smile cracked the boy’s face.

“Well,” he swallowed hard, “there was a woodland by their kingdom, and walking through it one day, they found a small boy with dark hair and a big smile. A very, very special boy. Or, at least, they thought so. For, you see, this boy had some very special talents.”

***

Even running with the rope, Merlin questioned everything he was doing.

The dragon had told him no. That this little boy, as insane as it might seem, would grow up to be the one who killed Arthur.

But surely, Merlin convinced himself as he pulled the grate, if this young boy remembered their kindness. Merlin telling him stories. Arthur saving his life. Then surely, he wouldn’t betray them in such a way.

And maybe Merlin would be able to stop him, even if he did.

Arthur passed the child to him, quickly going over to grab his horse. The small hands clutched onto his tunic. Nervous.

Merlin couldn’t blame him. Even though his mother raised Knights to be the feature of his nightmares, it was only his own imaginings that had saved him. This little druid boy had never had that.

Merlin pointed. “Look! I think that she might have a different name, but do you know who that really is?”

A shake of the head.

“Mage the pony! King Azorath’s own horse. Big enough to safely carry three men, and special enough to fly away into the sky. Remember?” Merlin put as much enthusiasm as he could into a whisper. It was worth it to see the smile. And how the little boy relaxed as he was passed back to Arthur.

In the back of his mind Merlin could have sworn he heard a ‘Thank you’.

The prat and the druid boy rode away into the night with a racket of hooves and Merlin suddenly felt the cold air hitting his face.

Now, he reminded himself, what did happen next in that story? They all seemed to blend each into each other as he walked back through the night, but even in his weary state he was quite convinced that there the most heroic of the night never had blond hair or blue eyes.

Come along, let’s go on an adventure.

Merlin ducked behind a pillar as a guard walked past.

And adventure indeed. Mount and be ready to ride. No time to waste, boy.

***

“You did the right thing, Merlin.”

“I’m really not sure, Gaius.”

“No matter what he might do, he is just a child now. We cannot blame him for the actions of his potential future self. Besides, who knows what Uther would have done to Arthur had he found that both of his charges had been involved in such a coup?”

Merlin sighed, looking down at the herbs being broken in the pot below him.

“You know Merlin,” Gaius said after a long period of silence, “this space is your home to, as much as it is mine. As such you may use anything in here, provided it will not directly impede our work with the people.”

Gaius made an odd gesture with his hand, and Merlin realised he was gesturing at the paper.

How had he known?

“Thank you.”

Gaius smiled.

***

Morgana wasn’t subtle when she handed him a bag of money later. She muttered something about being thankful to help, something about how she always knew he was on her side, even if no one else was.

He walked down to the market, trying to look as casual as he could. He had counted and re-counted the coins, added in his own to be sure.

The man selling rugs was a jovial sort, a big grin on his face, and willingness to slip down the price once he heard Merlin’s name.

He bought a red rug, circular in shape and reminded him of a ruby lake.

It seemed only fitting when he covered the trapdoor.

A ruby lake had always been one of those ideas that plagued his mind. Although whether he wanted it to be a magical place, or simply a pool where the crystals had grown beneath it – magical in its own way, he could never decide.

***

There was something about the trip to Ealdor that rang differently within Merlin’s heart. He had no idea how long he had been laying on the ground, staring at the stars.

He knew Arthur was with him, snoring as obnoxiously as he usually was. So was Morgana (although she never snored) and Gwen (who drew in the occasional small gasp of breath).

But Merlin was the only one who could never relax his mind, not fully. The stars twinkled from above him, and the nearby trees seemed to whisper to him in the wind.

They were at the edge of the same forest that Merlin had played in as a child. Although, he had never made it that far though. It felt so very wrong to just lie there without running around, casting spells to make the wind whip behind him like he really was riding a horse.

Arthur’s packed bag lay right behind his head, and with a quick check of the sleeping man, he opened it up and rifled through.

He doubted that he would make it through the night if he started running and singing and laughing.

At best, he would wake everyone, and they would look at him stranger than they already did.

At worst, the bandits would become aware of their location and launch a surprise attack, completely outnumbering them.

He was in luck.

Arthur had known he would need to write some kind of speech and had packed the paper needed for it.

It was a tricky thing to balance the paper on his knees and hold the quill without spilling the ink. His handwriting was illegible, and most likely crossed over itself over and over as he was writing in the darkness of night. Without even a candle to guide him.

And yet, he just wrote.

The sound of the carriage wheels was monotonous. Enough to lull him to sleep if he was not so alert with apprehension. One of the bits of flooring creaked slightly whenever he moved her foot across it, which he did often as drive seemed to drag into the early hours of the morning.

The book he had been reading had been closed a long time ago, having reached a bit which he found incredibly dull (something about hag like women – ghastly business). His eyes may or may not have drifted closed a few times but had jolted open quickly. He refused to go to sleep although the carriage driver had lightly suggested it a few times, he had continued to ignore him.

Elliot – Merlin pulled a random name from his mind, had a job to do. And it was so much more than sitting in the carriage of a posher man than himself.

By the fifth page, the carriage had been attacked, and Elliot had to try and pretend that his noble nature superseded and kept him calm.

By the seventh, Elliot's assassin training had nearly reared it’s ugly head. He was hear to kill the King, not have playful arguments with some random bandits.

Arthur stirred besides him, and Merlin froze. It was dawn, the end of the sun just peaking over the horizon.

Standing up, he glanced down at the rolled-up paper in his hands. He worked fast, closing Arthur’s bag and collecting all the water containers they had thought to bring with them.

From there, he followed the sound of running water, kneeling beside when he found it.

He dropped the scroll into the river and watched it float away, until the paper dissolved and disappeared forever.

Merlin tried not to care.

He knew it wasn’t good. Not in that way that the Bookseller read to him. Not in the way he liked to read.

Even looking back, he wasn’t sure why he had started trying to write in the first place.

What a strange idea. Who needed a boy that fanciful? Certainly not him hometown, that was being attacked.

***

In all honesty, Merlin hadn’t thought he would want anything to remember his visit to Ealdor. Not after everything that had happened.

If he had to see another funeral pyre in his life, it would be too soon.

But Merlin had made his way back to Will’s hut afterwards, running his hands over the objects that seemed so familiar.

Nothing had changed, not since they were small boys. Not the cracked, dusty window. Not the clothes strewn around on the floor.

And not the little incense burner – fanciest sort one could get out in the country, with a slot to place a stick and a dish and rounded end in which to burn the scent into the air.

After finding out about his magic, they knew it could help to channel it with the use of a soothing incense. It had taken them years to collect just three sticks, as it was so hard to find and near impossible to afford. It was so bad, that they had only ever burned one of them. The rest of what they owned was loose, scrambled together leaves.

He slipped the burner and sticks into his bag, alongside the little pouch of loose leaves.

And later, when they arrived in Camelot, he heaved open the door down to his now clean, secret room.

He hadn’t been there in a while, other than to grab his magical books when he needed them. They did look lovely on his bookshelves. And his staff, on a few occasions – although he still hid that in a wooden box, unwilling to risk the chance of someone seeing and stealing it away.

Or sentencing him.

The little burner looked lovely wherever he put it, but he decided on the top of the fireplace in order to leave the desk free.

He lit one of the sticks and leaned back in the plush desk chair.

It smelt of friendship. And of the forest.

***

Merlin had read about unicorns when he was a very young man. How they were attracted to purity of soul, kindness of heart, and granted gifts to whoever they deemed worthy.

He remembered one time, running through the woods, he imagined finding a dead one and nursing it back to life.

But when the real unicorn was shot in the side and dying, Merlin had no idea what to do. He didn’t know anything about field medicine for animals. All he could do was hold it when it fell.

They were going to be cursed. Their entire kingdom left in ruin for such a crime. And yet, all Merlin could focus on was the dying being in his arms.

I am so, so sorry. You didn’t deserve this. You didn’t do anything wrong.

I hope you aren’t in pain.

Merlin would never admit to being relieved when the guardian appeared. He had no idea how he would even begin to explain such a curse to Arthur without him calling it superstitious nonsense.

But nothing seemed to help the dryness on his lips and the creak in his throat, when they arrived back in Camelot.

No food, no water. Dead animals. Arguments breaking out down throughout the palace and the town.

Even though he was quite convinced that it was more due to the dehydration as apposed to anything the curse was doing.

Write what you know, the bookseller had once told him, and yet Merlin did not.

Who would want to read about this anyway?

Or, at least, Merlin thought so. But in the moment when Arthur fell to the floor, drinking his own demise, Merlin thought his world was ending.

His real and fictional one. Gone as soon as that man collapsed.

Until he awoke again, the story of his life didn’t even feel like his anymore.

***

After everything was over, Merlin always liked to tell everyone that Arthur had only learned to overindulge. The Prince had never gone hungry before, and he was unwilling to ever be so again.

Arthur liked to drink wine, late into the evenings. He always said it was to relax after a long day, but Merlin really didn’t know why that required the most expensive of watered down red.

It also didn’t help that the blond had the most annoying habit of slamming the cup down on the table over and over to make Merlin re-fill the damn thing.

He was clearly too much of a prat to ask, or forbid, do it himself.

But if Merlin was being honest with himself, seeing that crooked grin made everything more than worth it. Somehow.

“You tried to die for me.” Arthur’s voice was slurred, having finally consumed enough to be considered drunk.

“You’re the prince.”

“And your Merlin.” Arthur’s look only gave sincerity.

“I got that far on my own, thanks.”

“You are not like that. I offer to die for people. You tell stories to children and hum songs and whatever else goes on in your idiotic brain.”

“You’re just jealous cause you don’t know how to tell a story.”

“I can!”

“Really?”

“Well, as the Prince of Camelot, my life is interesting enough that if I simply re-told a part of it, your tiny little noggin would be unable to hold it.”

“If you say so, Sire.” Merlin was trying very hard not to laugh, knowing that Arthur had a much shorter fuse for it when he was drunk.

Who knew what sort of nonsense he would be spouting afterwards?

“I do!”

“And what make you think that? In case you have forgotten, I was there for most of your ‘big events’ and all I remember about you is that you like to order around helpless servants and walk around the castle drunk, and without trousers.”

“I am the Prince of Camelot, I do not have to answer to the likes of you.”

“You’ve used that one already.”

Arthur dramatically shook his fist at Merlin, although it came out sloppy and disjointed due to the amount of wine within his system.

“One might think that you were never told one as a child, with how much you’ve hyper fixated on mine. It wasn’t that good.”

“They didn’t.”

“Huh?”

“Tell me stories, that is. Not appropriate for a prince, and most that seemed even slightly interesting were filled with magical nonsense. Not something a prince could expose his malleable mind.”

“You seem bitter.”

“The Prince of Camelot is not bitter.”

“Really? Cause it sounds like your bitter.”

“What interest would I have had in such insipid things? Especially as you seemed to enjoy them.”

“And so do you, if what your saying has anything to do with it.”

“Merlin?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

***

He met the man that would become his father in a rickety little carriage, just past midday.

He was a strange old man, a face full of white and small blue eyes that seemed pale enough to be ignored completely. He wore a coat of thick, brown leather obscuring almost him in entirety, and carried a rectangular box on his back, that Alaric had quite convinced himself was a cupboard in disguise.

When he reached a handout to pick up the bowl of stew, he revealed a hand of golden rings, and long burns down each arm.

A little brown dog sat at the mans feet, cuddled up in sleep.

There had been something about what Arthur had said about never being told a story, not really, that struck at some part of Merlin’s heart.

It was like a small corner of his brain had been unlocked, and the ideas simply would not stop.

He watched as the old man hobbled away from the carriage, tiny dog plodding along beside. With some great force that Alaric had never seen such a man possess, he hoisted the enormous bag over his shoulder.

The old man gave a breathy pant.

“Would you like some help sir?” Alaric found himself asking, already half climbing out of the cart. He knew he was thin and small, but he was still younger than the poor man. Able to help.

“No, no laddie. I’ve quite got it managed. But if you wouldn’t mind…”

The man began to pass him things, seemingly out of nowhere from the depths of his coat. An old horn, decorated in gold. A small wooden lockbox.

A golden goblet.

The nib of his quill was shaking, worn from use. The tale suited the two of them in a way. Arthur would hate every part of it.

A tap came at his shoulder. Alaric jumped and spun around in surprise, only to see the old man standing before him.

“If you will excuse me, young man, it seemed you have forgotten something.”

A small set of keys was held out to him, a bit of leather tied around one end.

His new homes keys. He had placed the pouch that contained them inside his bag earlier.

He could have sworn they were larger than that, and that there was only one.

“I don’t think…”

“Nonsense! They were left with my belongings that you had held.”

With that the set of keys was shoved into his hand. The old man was hobbling away, before Alaric even had the chance to speak.

If the keys to his room were in his pocket, what had the man just given him?

His ink was running low, even borrowing all of it from Gaius as he did. He would go to town the next day, and purchase more just for him. Maybe the bookseller would have more to give him.

He would have loved to know that Merlin was writing.

Merlin couldn’t help but love it too.

There was a little indent in the leather, words scratched in with a knife.

It didn’t read like anything he had ever seen before.

The woman on the wall started down at him. If her lips could move, Merlin rather thought that she would have been smiling down at him.

The good thing about fathers was, it was the one thing he really didn’t know.

***

Once he started, it was like he couldn’t stop climbing down to that room in the night.

After a long day of work, where he came out covered in grime and whatever else, something about holding the quill in his hand changed his mind about the quality of the day.

Once he had truly learned how mindless cleaning could be, his mind truly began to wonder.

He had begun to write his notes on Arthur’s paper, hiding it in a small scroll he could tuck into his waistband when they were together.

Never to truly write, but to scribble down every random thought that came into his head for his little story. Every chapter title. Every line he thought he needed to include somewhere, even if they ended up in a different form than what he had planned.

It was in Arthur room’s that he came up with Odele, the love interest of the tale. 

Where he came up with some the details of the magical world which Alaric had discovered. The rooms that smelled of wishes, and the gardens made entirely of crystals.

But he Arthur’s room was never to write in, that was reserved specially for when he was in his own little office. At his own desk, with the red-haired woman staring down at him, and the fire permanently flickering with magic.

And, on very special occasions, when he wrote very special scenes, with incense burning.

He sometimes laughed at the irony. For, as it was, it was when he was organising the pages for that story that he heard it Morgana's voice.

The only downside he had ever found about that room was that sometimes voices from the outside would echo in, no matter how deeply underground he seemed to be.

And, it was only because of that he learned she had betrayed them all, in a way deeper and colder than he had ever experienced.

Years later he only had a vague memory of dropping his quill, of running and nearly falling off his ladder in an effort to get up. Because everything was wrong and hateful, and the King needed his help.

Arthur needed his help.

He didn’t dare go back to his place. Nothing felt safe anymore, nothing sacred.

And by the time she left, she really left, the many piles of paper were little more than a memory. Washed away alongside another friendship.

Another person he thought that he could trust.

***

It was ironic really, as Merlin truly had no idea how much he had been writing until he stopped. His days were filled with a thousand other things to deal with the betrayal, and yet still he found himself in the quiet moments reaching for the scroll. It still gave him a jolt every time he realised it wasn’t with him.

And even when his days were filled with nothing but good will and joy, he could hardly bring himself to go down that rickety old ladder, let alone to stay.

He had even started keeping his possessions back in the little ledge that had been there before.

The only exception was late at night, when his eyes could never quite close and visions of Alaric and Odele came to mind, and the old man with the little dogs. The father.

It was like they haunted him.

There voices seemed to play in the back of his head, telling their story. Bits of worldbuilding would pop into his head at seemingly random points. And all he could think was how cool of an idea that it truly was.

And he had to let it rest. He hadn’t restocked his supply of paper in months.

His little bag of coins flourished without the constant purchase of ink. He even saw the sellers staring at him strange when he walked past every morning, doing some errand for Arthur.

He told himself that he didn’t have time to visit and sit with the old bookseller. That it would be a waste of time when he could be tracking, hunting Morgana. Protecting his people.

And yet still his mind plagued him.

***

“You are right Merlin, this is the sunniest, most fragrant, most beautiful day I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Is that so?”

“My skills will be tested to the very limit today, Merlin. My very sense of valour and honour and my strength as a man.”

“Indeed, you are very skilful, getting people to do things for you.”

“It is your job. But today, my job is to woo.”

“To…what?”

“To woo. I am going to make a proclamation of my love! By the end of today, I will have won my lady.”

“Right. What will you tell your father?” Merlin started adjusting the collar of Arthur’s jacket, fiddling with the ties. The man was dressed. Something that had never happened in all his years of service.

“What does my father matter in the name of true love!”

Merlin took a cautious step backwards.

“Well that’s one way of approaching things.”

“So, I need your help in expressing my…feelings.”

Merlin stared at him gormlessly for a few moments, before Arthur jumped a little and clicked his fingers. What in the name of a fool….

“How do I express my feelings?” Arthur prompted.

“Oh I see…feelings.”

“Feelings.”

“Girls.”

“Girls.”

“A, um, token?”

“Excellent! Maybe I should send a note?”

“Great idea!”

“Something deep, something meaningful, something from the heart. You’ll think of something.”

Merlin nodded enthusiastically – this was going even better than he ever could have imagined.

Arthur spun on his heel and grabbed a small leather-bound notebook and shoved it into Merlin’s hands.

“The token! Ah, the token of my dearest desire of my heart. Choose one! Or two, or even three! Make sure to make them good ones! Only the best for my love.”

With a heavy hand on Merlin’s shoulder, he was gone.

“Wait! Which maiden are we talking about…” Merlin’s voice faded as he realised the door had already slammed behind Arthur.

Merlin raised a single eyebrow. What was he supposed to do? Walk around Camelot and hope to find a girl that looked to be Arthur’s type? What even was Arthur’s type?

Merlin had never known him to be interested in anybody. Besides, what was he supposed to do with a book of pre-written love letters?

Merlin sat on the bed, letting his shoulders slump, and opened the little book.

And then, he froze.

He flipped the page once, twice, three times. His breath caught in his throat.

These were no love letters. Not of the kind typically known anyway. These were drawings. Arthur’s drawings, all signed in a hand so recognisably his that Merlin could hardly remember to breath.

Arthur had drawn the forest in quill, and a woman with no face in charcoal. Horses and knights, the unicorn in a detailing drawing, alongside another page just showing it’s horn. To Merlin’s shock there was even a page of a detailed drawing of Sophia. A full body portrait of Uther and Gaius. Of Leon.

It showed their adventures, as Arthur saw them.

It documented almost everything in detailed, precise strokes of the equipment of choice. The beauty reverberated out of every page, making Merlin smile.

There was nothing of Merlin. Not that he would have expected there to be. But every other one of their friends, and even brief acquaintances seemed to be shown within.

But not Merlin, never Merlin.

He eventually selected two pages from the book, both charcoal pictures: one of a rose, and the other of lavender. He could put some kind of note on the back, if he was careful enough.

After a moment of hesitation, he neatly tore out a third picture, and held it behind the others. Just out of view.

He spent the rest of the day wandering around aimlessly, staring at all the different women who walked past. Would she be the one who held Arthur’s heart? His attention? His passion?

Gwen ended up receiving the images, anonymously and without a note.

She was his safest bet. Objectively pretty, and Arthur knew he well enough to know how lovely she was.

If Arthur wanted it done differently, he should have done it himself.

He sighed.

Merlin held the third picture in his hands. It was rougher than the others, scratched with charcoal in a hurry. It felt raw and honest. A display of some bookshelves that travelled as far as the eye could see. Roses and thorns grew up the side in a tangled display.

Surely, surely, nobody would care if he just…took this one. It would be stealing, by every technicality. But from the moment he had seen it, it had hit something deep in his soul. Perhaps it was the way it reminded him of Alaric and Odele.

Perhaps it was the way it reminded him of himself.

He had to put it in a place nobody would be able to find it.

It was easier than he thought, descending down the ladder once more. Luckily enough for him, had had a frame that was admittedly a little to big (it had been destroyed by an attack once, and Arthur had given it to him to fix. Merlin had, but he just…hadn’t given it back).

It took a while to get it in place, but eventually he placed it next to the incense burner. Two of his old friends, right next to each other in his special little room.

He scattered some loose leaves, lit the small flame in the candle below, and breathed in the scent.

For the first time, it felt like home.

He stared into the picture until the flame went out, and the sky was dotted with tiny stars.

***

“Arthur! Arthur, this isn’t you. You need to snap out of this before you are killed. I’m serious!” if Merlin was strong enough, he would have grabbed Arthur by the collar and forced his head down. Smacked him in the face.

Wake up you supercilious fool.

As it was, Merlin placed both hands on Arthur’s arms, pining them to his sides as best as he could.  

“You have to listen to me, dollophead. If you go out there, you will die. You are not in your right mind. This is no way for peace. I can’t let you do this to yourself. Not after everything we have been through.”

Merlin stared into those deep blue eyes. They seemed to bare in his with an intensity that he had never seen before. Love, love for the Princess Vivian who loved him back and everything around him was falling to ashes.

And then, Arthur blinked.

And he grunted in pain, Merlin’s grip loosening on his arms.

“Arthur?”

“What’s going on? Why am I in a tournament tent.”

“No time to explain! Long and short of it is, you greatly offended one of the Kings, engaging in a few acts of impropriety, to which he challenged you to a fight to the death. You are currently loosing. Now, get out there and save yourself!”

Arthur blinked at him a few more times, as Merlin forced a sword into his hand, and the helmet on his head.

“Go!”

Arthur turned and left, tent flaps sliding closed behind him.

A sign of affection from his true love. Merlin gave a deep sigh, somewhere deep in his chest.

Now he would have to go around asking who had been in the tent before him.

He couldn’t stand this nonsense Arthur had started when it came to that sort of thing. 

***

After Uther died, Merlin stayed outside Arthur’s quarters for hours. He stayed until the sun rose. He stayed until the man shuffled out of his quarters, under eyes bruised and sunken with grief.

“I didn’t want you to feel that you were alone.”

Arthur nodded, seeming drowsy and tired.

“You’re a loyal friend, Merlin.”

Merlin could only manage a small half smile. If only Arthur knew. Knew what he had done.

He would never be called a friend again.

Let alone a loyal one.

Sorcerer! The voice cried in his head. Monster!

Even with Arthur smiling at him, in the tired, miserable way that he was, Merlin felt the urge that he hadn’t felt since he was a very small child: to run through the woods with his Knights. To storm the castle that only contained people who were truly evil.

He doubted he could ever believe so again.

Somehow, watching Arthur be crowned King was the worst moment of Merlin’s life. Not because Arthur didn’t deserve it, but because Merlin knew it shouldn’t be happening. Not now, when his King was so young.

He deserved more time.

He thought he wasn’t ready.

And Merlin had no idea how to fix it. A book he could rip apart, start anew. A bad book binding could do the same.

Human’s were not that simple.

***

Humans, of course, made even less sense when he returned to his chambers the next day, only to find a full set of flowers sitting in a vase on his bedside table.

No note.

No indication of who could have sent them.

He carried them down the ladder without much thought, placing them on his desk with the hopes it would get rid of some of the smell that seemed to surround the room on particularly humid days.

Who would send him flowers?

He went back up the ladder to grab Gaius’s poison testing kit. He really should have started with that.

***

Something in Merlin chanced after the fully decked out frame was in his private room. There was something about the way in looked in the firelight, with the incense that he really needed to purchase more of in the background, that made it seemingly sing behind his eyes.

It captivated him, like he could never look away.

It happened slowly. Instead of lying back down in his bed and sitting in silence as he was so used to, he would climb down the old ladder, and sit on the floor and stare at the picture, warmed by the fire.

Sometimes, when he was too tired to re-climb the stairs, he would simply sleep on the large, plush seat. Or on particularly cold nights, in front of the fire.

And, inevitably, something else changed as well.

He had never really packed away his old novel, the half of it he had written. The pages and pages of notes scattered around his desk like the kind a ship’s captain would have.

There was something about Arthur’s sign of creativity, that made him want.

Sitting back down at the desk, as much as he had used to love it, seemed like some insurmountable obstacle.

When he did, the seat didn’t seem to fit him quite the same. The chair was cold. His hands ran along the pages, the loose quills and the open bottles of ink.

Then he stood up and walked away, immediately climbing the ladder and escaping into his small room.

The next day he sat and organising all the papers into the correct order, catching only a few words as he sorted.

The next he moved all of his things back down to his little office.

And the next, he began to read all his old work again. And it…wasn’t as bad as he feared that it would be. He could clearly see himself improving throughout.

And as such, he could hardly help the notes he made. He stopped reading after the first page to throw every thought he had over the last few seasons, or as far as he could remember them.

And then, when so many of the pages were full, and his hands shook from holding the quill. He began to read.

He read everything, every word. He wrote in the margins, scribbled corrections directly on the page.

Over and over again he thought about every detail. Every spelling mistake that could not stay.

And, like lightning had hit him, he knew where he had gone wrong.

With a wave of his hand, he brought Arthur’s little picture over to him, staring at the little library depicted within.

Starting from the beginning once more, he began to re-write.

He had so much to think about.

The story was going to be at least twice as long as he had originally imagined, maybe thrice. He needed more ink. And much, much more paper.

***

Dearest Alaric,

As I am sure you have realised, there is so much more that is going on. Thing that was had no idea about.

We have been betrayed. I know not by who, but no-one else knew our route.

Brings those god damned keys. After they made a door appear out of nowhere, I have been able to think of little else. Alas, we must. We must not be distracted by the….dare I say magic you have been given.

We have a lot to discuss: Meet me at the usual place, at that time we once discussed. I cannot say more.

Love,

Odele.

PS: Find that old man. As vague and frustrating as he is, he may be the only one who would be able to help us.

Even with just her warning ringing in his ears, he clutched the letter in his hands, brining it to his chest. If he knew for sure he would be in private, he would have kissed it.

But…no. He could not risk it. She loved him, he knew she did, but not in that way. Not in the way he needed.

And besides, that was hardly the most pressing matter of the situation. He doubted he had ever penned a response faster in his life. 

Odele,

I shall. See you tonight.

I will not divulge to much in letter form myself either, but I have come to agree with your theory. We have much to do. Much to accomplish.

The keys will come.

Something tells me we might need to use the magical escape.

With adoration,

Alaric.

PS: I have been trying. The last I heard of him, he was at a tavern and making his way into the forest. I will track him at dawn.

***

The tournament flags flew in Camelot. Foreign knight after knight flocked in, bearing arms and shields emblazoned across their chests.

It was the first tournament Arthur had held since he had becoming King, not including the ceremonial one that happened the day after his coronation. A chance to show the strength of the new king.

Merlin had dressed him in his armour, running his hands over his chest and shoulders, muttering about how he could massage it later if that was what Arthur wanted, knowing that all put together it would sooth him.

It worked.

Arthur stopped jittering. His normal toothy grin had emerged on his face, and Merlin felt himself relax as well.

Ever since the day Uther died, Merlin had been moved into the royal box in the stands. Merlin really didn’t know why, but it worked well enough. It gave him a better view than he had ever had from the sides.

It allowed him to cheer louder as well, when it felt that for the first-time people could see him.

In fact, he felt comfortable enough, that he pulled his shoddily manuscript out of his bag and began to work with it on his knees. Only after he was assured of Arthur’s win, of course.

He focused on noting down different elements of the current scene, knowing now that he could just re-write and replace that page, as opposed to the entire thing.

Perhaps working on a book that featured magic so prominently wasn’t the best idea during a tournament in Camelot, but Merlin found himself relaxing into the familiar feeling. The noise melted away from around him, and he only just remembered to cheer whenever he heard the name “Pendragon!” shouted across the stadium.

He didn’t even need to check whether or not Arthur had won.

“Did you write this?”

Merlin jolted out of his seat, head spinning to the side, only to see Lancelot sitting beside him in the royal box, having been unable to compete due to a temporary shoulder injury he sustained a few weeks back.

“I did, yes. It’s nothing.”

Lancelot jabbed his finger at the page Merlin had just turned from.

“No! No, it’s not! I didn’t know you were a writer. Do you have a book?”

Merlin slowly shook his head.

“Well, you should! Seriously, Merlin this is amazing!”

To his surprise, Merlin found himself nodding along to Lancelot’s words. He would be lying if he said he had never sat for hours imagining his little (or rather, long) story as bound in a real book, being read by real people. The magical beauty the bookseller told him about all that time ago.

“Maybe. One day, perhaps.”

***

Once the idea had been placed in Merlin’s head, it seemed like it would never leave. It played on every thought. Nothing else seemed like it could take priority. It was clouding his judgment, and yet he could hardly blame himself.

Every night he spent hours going over his novel, now sitting at hundreds of double-sided pages. Every word he nit-picked. Every sentence, every character, every arc.

He read it over and over, every time finding something wrong with it.

Foolish as it was, whenever he was going to town, he would carry the manuscript in his bag. Almost as if he would walk it down to the bookseller.

Like he would have the courage.

Like it really was good enough to do such a thing.

It seemed inconceivable, the very thought. The idea of a book, a real book that people could read, with his name on the cover.

Anyone seeing him must think he would look foolish, sitting for sometimes hours (sometimes even long enough that Arthur would ask him where the hell he had been that day) just sitting outside the booksellers building. Waiting. He would sometimes go over and over his story.

Was it finally good enough?

Would it ever be?

Would it even be safe to show anyone in Camelot a book that featured magic so centrally in his work? With his very name stamped across it?

The decision, as it always was in the end, was taken from his hands.

The day had been clear and bright when he made his way out in the early hours, moving to sit in his usual spot.

But just before he could open his manuscript to edit some small detail, the heavens opened.

The rain hit him harder than he could imagine, soaking him in seconds.

And yet, that was far from what troubled his mind. His book. There was no chance of casting a protective spell, not here where the whole town could see him.

When he finally opened the door to the booksellers shop, and dashed inside, the decision wasn’t really his.

His clothing dripped on the floor, and he panted.

The elderly man looked up at him, giving him an up and down look that could rival even that of Gaius.

“If you are not careful, you will dampen all the books. You are better than that Merlin.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you are. But I am glad, very glad indeed.”

“Sir?”

“It seems you have finally made a decision, out of your hands or not. I’d had quite enough of all that porch sitting. Really, boy, if your face was not quite so memorable, people would think you a beggar.”

The old man reached out one hand, and Merlin knew full well what he was asking for.

With a shaky hand, Merlin wiped his wet hand on a nearby piece of fabric, and pulled out his (thankfully dry) manuscript.

He pressed it into the old man’s hand, some part of him squirming at the small smile on his old face.

“The Ivory Land.” Merlin answered simply, unwilling to admit how long he had spent on the name of his book, eventually giving up and naming it after the core of his stories magic system, and the birthplace of the “father” character.

“Very good, very good. Sit.”

Merlin did, placing himself down on his usual stool. If he happened to pull himself a little closer than usual, it was not mentioned.

The old bookseller brushed aside his other works in progress, placing them on the ground, before passing Merlin some cloth for which to dry himself, and another to wrap around his shaking shoulders.

His breath caught as he saw the man reading through the first few pages, an even larger smile breaking out across the wrinkled face.

Reaching across his desk, the old man pulled across some spare sheets of paper and began to print out Merlin’s work.

Merlin had always admired how he was able to do so many at once. He never just worked on one book, always at least ten, taking turns printing the same word over and over again, exactly the same.

Merlin knew his book was long. Longer than he had ever seen the man print before, and he had once watched the man bind the laws of Camelot, and the recorded history, all in a single volume.

But the old man always said that he never skimped on the number, unsure of just how many people would want the thing.

Merlin watched in silence all afternoon, watching the man’s incredible speed.

Even knowing he would get in trouble, he assigned George to Arthur for the next few days, instead coming in to watch his books be created.

He watched as the man made twenty, thirty, forty copies.

The third day Merlin came in, two other scribes were at work, helping to make even more copies. Merlin very nearly started as Geoffrey gave him a welcome nod.

The bookseller looked him in the eyes and said that some people in Camelot had more than a few favours to pay off.

It seemed almost strange to be so transfixed, especially as the man never bothered to read it aloud anymore. Merlin knew it had only even been for his own benefit anyway.

But, as always, his favourite part was the binding.

The old man did that quite alone, with Merlin assisting where he could.

The lacing, the leather and the glue was all familiar to his eyes. But never in a million summers did he ever think that it would be his work being bound.

And yet the old man had known all along.

His favourite part was the cover, a simple printing of the title and his name.

None of it felt real, living in this quiet world within the shop, sitting in silence as the quills scratched and leather was bought in bulk.

None of it felt real, until a copy was pressed into Merlin’s hands.

“Your author copy.”

He stroked over the cover with the tip of his fingers.

The Ivory Land By Merlin Hunithson

It was real. It all was.

***

A day of mucking the stables later, everything seemed back to normal. Regular. Just his average, everyday life.

Until, of course, the day after that when he walks into Gaius’s chambers, aching from a day of hard work, and saw a copy of his book on Gaius’s table.

It was marked about halfway through, and Merlin instinctively knew where in the tale it was.

He looked up at his mentor in shock, seeing a warm smile over his face.

“Would you care to sign it for me?”

Merlin found himself blindly nodding, feeling the quill being pressed into his hand, before he hastily scribbled his first ever signature into the title page of the book.

To the best Uncle in the world, thank you for everything. I hope you love this.

Merlin Hunithson.

“Oh, and make sure to get that one I bought for your mother as well. She was most interested when I told her of this new development.”

Merlin dramatically gulped but could not stop the huge smile from spreading across his face.

***

“Excuse me? Excuse me?”

Merlin turned around to a young woman rushing up to him, with streaming brown hair and a huge smile on her face. He immediately folded Arthur’s shirt more neatly across his arm.

“Are you Merlin Hunithson?”

Merlin awkwardly nodded, already mentally preparing answers to all the regular questions. I am sure King Arthur is in the castle. Yes, you can go look for him. Yes, he is taken petitions at the moment. Yes, I can take you somewhere. No, I can’t help with chores, I’m too busy – maybe another time?

“I love your book!”

Merlin froze, feeling the hair prick up on the back of his neck.

“Really?”

She nodded her head enthusiastically.

“I loved it! It hit me in all the emotions. It was like I could see and feel poor Alaric and Odele. And that scheming old man!”

A smile spread across Merlin’s face.

“I have thought the same on many occasions.”

“I’ve never even thought of the idea of keys opening magical doors to different worlds, and the idea of the Ivory lands being the centre of it all? I loved it, but I suppose you hear that all the time.”

Merlin shook his head.

“I don’t, no. You’re the first one, I think.”

He leaned against the wall of the castle, intrigued to hear what else this girl was going to say.

“Merlin!” Arthur’s voice rang through the castle.

“Oh, I’ve got to, y’know,” Merlin made a vague gesture to were he assumed the voice was coming from.

“He sounds…mad.”

“Not yet. You should hear him when he’s really gunning for it…”

The second, louder scream echoed through the castle walls.

“Like that, really.”

***

The bookseller had sent word through the town that he was looking for Merlin.

At first, as it had so many times before, the fear had struck something deep within him, that he had decided Merlin’s book had been a mistake all along.

That he would never make another.

That it really wasn’t good enough.

He was a pit of nerves when he arrived, even more so when the man gestured him over to sit on his normal stool.

A piece of paper was pushed towards him, in the man’s gruff way.

Merlin knew it immediately.

Merlin had been given a contract. A contract for at least one more book.

He could do it all over again. The deadlines were reasonable, longer than he would ever have thought. He needed to hand in a summary and first chapter by a certain date, the first chapter by another…

His name was scrawled across the bottom without much thought.

***

Merlin had elected to never tell Arthur that he had seen his artwork, to afraid he might double question the missing pages within his sketchbook.

It had taken everything in him to not go back for a second look. To not hold that little leather-bound book in his hands, running his fingers over and over every piece like it was some limited edition, fancy book.

But still, sometimes, he rather thought that Arthur knew that he knew, would sometimes make comments around leaving charcoal marks around the room by mistake, and asking if he could clean it up.

Being as protective of his secret hobby as he was, Merlin never would have thought that Arthur would flaunt it so obviously in a way he had never done before.

It was…confusing to say the least.

He took it out on Arthur’s armour, mostly.

He had found a new space for polishing, uninterrupted. Mostly because if he wasn’t careful, the cold iron would burn his skin and he didn’t need the knights seeing that. Or seeing that he was borrowing Lancelot’s gloves in order to do it safely. Behind the red curtain that none of the knights seemed to notice, was his special little spot.

The only one he had, outside of his office.

But he knew the other servants knew about this one. Never uniquely his.

He liked listening to them all come back in after training, having their casual conversations and jovial banter as they always did. But mostly, he listened for Arthur. He always had the most joyful voice after coming in from training, even tired as it was.

“If my manservant didn’t slack off so often, perhaps I would be out of my armour already, Sir Gwaine. Lazing around just as you are doing now. You’re just as bad as him sometimes.”

Merlin couldn’t help but peak around the edge of the curtain, watching from his little corner.

Ridiculous as he could sometimes be, Merlin had never known Gwaine to slack off.

Unfortunately, although maybe not fully, all he could see was the shirtless form of Arthur staring down at the beginning of a mop of black, sweaty hair.

Majestic, as he always referred to it as. Nobody else bothered.

“And what is that you are reading?”

Merlin thought his heart was stopping as Arthur lunged forward and came back with what was undeniably and utterly his book.

“Utterly useless use of changing time. You have a shift soon. I mean, what interest could you possibly have in the…The Ivory Land by Merlin…” Arthur seemed to freeze in his own thoughts.

“By who?” A voice clearly came from the other side, and Merlin immediately identified it as Percival.

“Merlin! Clumsy manservant Merlin!” Gwaine piped up. “He’s quite the writer really. Not surprised at all that he managed to get this one published.”

“Merlin published a book.”

“A fiction one, yes!” Lancelot piped up, “I’ve not finished mine yet, but I am a slow reader by nature. It is really good.”

From what Merlin could see of Arthur, he looked rather like his brain was about to explode out of the side of his head.

The rag was now polishing the armour on it’s own.

“Well…I will be…confiscating this for the next few days, until you learn your lesson about dallying around while on duty.”

Merlin winced as Arthur tucked his book under his sweaty arm and going to walk out of the room, before remembering that he was half nude and managing to pull his tunic on back to front.

If the situation was any less dire, Merlin would have laughed.

With any amount of luck on his side, the prat would have been enchanted to forget how to read overnight.

Merlin could whisper his speeches to him.

***

Merlin didn’t see Arthur for the rest of the day. He had edged himself up to Arthur’s chambers, but found it locked when he tried to enter.

He knocked.

The resounding “Go away Merlin!” that echoed through the corridor was enough to have him turn on his heel and walk away.

Arthur had figured it out, then. It wasn’t difficult, not many people would be willing to write an entire book that featured magic (albeit a different kind) and expect not to loose the people close to them.

His mother would call him a fool.

He would have to tell her she didn’t have too.

Walking down the corridor in silence, he dutifully ignored everyone whose path he crossed. The contract flashed in his mind, and he sighed deeply.

He had signed up for another book. How was he supposed to write another? Knowing that his friendships would be more and more battered each time?

At least he would have Lancelot, and Gwaine, if not his life.

He kept waiting for the guards, but they never came.

If he was allowed to stay in Camelot (alive) then how could he even start to write another? He would need the money.

He stalked past Gaius, who tried to speak. Merlin blocked it out.

The rug was ripped away from his trapdoor by his magic, long before he reached it. He hardly even cared about the noise as he travelled down, down, down.

He nearly fell on the missing rung, something he had not done for so long. Since the very beginning.

His little office was filled with papers and his own copy of his book.

Holding it in his hands, gripping the leather with a white-knuckled grip, he thought of throwing it into the fire. Calling all other copies to him and burning them all. Tell everyone they must have imagined it, or that it was some kind of dark trick that they had all fallen into.

Looking at his name on the cover, he found he didn’t have the strength.

Not anymore.

***

Percival was the one who made him go back. After almost a day and a half locked in his private room, he soon found that he missed the food and light and space from the outside.

Even his safe space felt like he was suffocating. But he couldn’t shake the fear that going up the ladder would be as good as walking straight into the pyre. That guards would be waiting at the top, smoking him out.

His room was empty when he stuck his head out.

Voices were coming from the main physicians chambers, and Merlin walked through. He wouldn’t hide like a coward.

But, instead, Gaius sat with Percival, dabbing at a nasty scrape across his knee.

“Merlin!” For a man out to kill him, he sure seemed happy to see him. “Where have you been? Arthur’s been searching for you all day.”

“I bet he is.”

Percival gave him a warm smile, and Merlin’s shoulders sunk in relief.

“I should go and see him,” Merlin said, making his decision in a moment.

“I rather think you should, yes.” Percival winced as Gaius dabbed at his leg with some herbal concoction.

He strode out of the physicians rooms.

Arthur would normally be in his chambers at this time, and so Merlin travelled. He felt in a daze. Like his very world was moving around him, whilst he was completely still.

He knocked on Arthur’s door, deeply unsure of whether or not he would be welcome.

“Come in.”

Merlin edged open the door, staring through with what he hoped was a friendly, if slightly uncomfortable look on his face.

Arthur was lounging on his bed, legs outstretched and crossed over one another as he always did when there was something suitably dramatic, he wanted to say. His long, soft white tunic splayed out around him.

With the sunlight shining on him, he could have been mistaken for an angel. Or the sun itself. Not that Merlin would ever say such a thing to him.

He was already far too pig-headed.

“Sit.” Arthur gestured to the end of his bed.

Merlin did, hands in his lap.

Arthur picked up his book from the bedside table, rolling it around in his hands with little care.

“I stayed up and read this last night. Since you decided to slack off and not turn up.”

So arrogant.

Merlin stayed silent. You could have been a little more subtle with the whole magic thing y’know. Made it harder for me to banish you. Fantasy Arthur spoke in his head, remarks cutting him to the core.

“You’re quiet today.”

Merlin nodded.

“Just tired, I suppose.”

“With all that slacking off, I doubt that’s true. Unless you spent the whole day at the tavern, or as I suppose is more likely, writing.”

Merlin shrugged again.

“Listen, Merlin. You might be incapable of keeping a secret but I…if you must know I greatly enjoyed your little story. You must tell no one that I thought so.”

“I would never dream of it,” Merlin said, words rushed and confused.

“Are you…writing another?”

“I have a contract with the bookseller.”

Arthur nodded with a serious expression on his face.

“Did you plan on telling me you wrote the thing?”

“I didn’t really feel the need to. It all happened a little…sudden, really.”

Arthur gave another nod, before a wide grin stretched out across his face.

Suddenly, Arthur lunged for Merlin and he froze, before he was pulled into a headlock and hair wildly ruffled as Arthur laughed. His own book was pressed into the side of his ribs and he found himself jokingly begging Arthur to stop.

As if nothing had ever happened to them.

Perhaps the pighead had too much credit. Blind as a bat, really.  

Merlin gasped for air as Arthur released him.

“No use complaining, Merlin,” Arthur said while standing up, “that’s what you get for abandoning me yesterday and for not telling me.”

The grin Merlin gave was infectious.

“No need to smile yet. All the knights left their muddy boots down in the armoury. I think that should be your job today, don’t you think?”

***

That night, Merlin almost dashed down the ladder.

Arthur had liked his work. Arthur wanted him to write more.

No amount of squelching, bad smelling mud could make that fire disappear.

The ideas poured out of him onto the paper, just notes for now. Random lines that had come to mind, random elements of his new world and characters and places.

He had been so convinced that he would never be able to write anything as good as The Ivory Land. That no ideas could ever be so interesting. That he could ever get so invested.

He soon realised that he was wrong.

Write what you know.

The new main character came to mind, more vividly than anything else. A man with a stony personality, but the warmest, softest heart of them all. A man who always saw the best in people, trusted with his whole heart even when he shouldn’t, and loved with every bone in his body.

And blond hair, of course.

***

“We must hurry! We must!” The dark-skinned girl had grabbed hold of his hands, looking up with dark, pleading eyes. Brown piercing through blue.

“I am so sorry. What’s going on?”

“She’s infected you!” Her hands tugged him forward. “We have to go, before it gets worse!”

“Infected? With what?”

“When you tried to bring your mother back to life, you accidentally pulled the witch of old through. She has cursed you, cursed you so she can find you.”

“Find me how?”

“Your bones. They are turning to glass. We must run now, before you cannot run anymore. Every time she gets closer, you will bend and creak and shatter.”

“And if I wish to fight?”

His hands cupped her face, brining up her chin.

“You can’t.” Hand grasping his, they breathed together.

***

The strange thing was, Merlin started to see his book spearing everywhere. On random market stalls. Both men and woman would sit on the fountain with the book open in their laps.

On one notable occasion, Merlin saw a man trying to hold it open and herd sheep. Upon seeing the heartbreaking confession from Alaric to the old man upon the page, right near the end, Merlin found he couldn’t blame him.

Sad as it was, it was the scene he had re-read most.

When he went to pick up his earnings up from the bookseller, he almost staggered under the weight of the pouch.

He stumbled through the streets with it in his hands, looking left and right as if someone else would sense the small fortune that had been pressed into his hands and steal it right from him.

Instead, he went straight to the middle of the marketplace, right down near to a traveling merchant that had just arrived.

“Excuse me? I would like to see your incense offerings.”

***

Merlin rarely knocked on Arthur door, at least if you ignored recent events.

The exception to that, of course, was when he had something very important to ask.

“What is it?” Arthur knew the deal.

Walking into the room and swapping out the bleu tunic slung over the changing screen with a red one, Merlin sighed.

“I need some time off.”

“For what?”

Merlin froze. This was already going better than expected.

“I’m behind on my deadline for my next work. I need some time to catch up, is all. Just a few days.”

Merlin didn’t say that George would be able to take over for the next few days. He dare not risk his chances of Arthur taking it all back after that.

“Alright then.”

Arthur strode out from behind the screen and Merlin immediately began to work free some of the ties on the front.

Arthur looked down on him, giving him a strange look and shoved his hands away.

“What are you still doing here? If I have to wait longer to read your next book, I might kick you out myself. Be off with you!”

A grin spread across Merlin’s face as he turned and sprinted out of the room.

He heard a thump and as a playfully thrown cushion was chucked across the room.

***

When Merlin finally made his way back up the ladder, later than night, and more than ready for sleep, he nearly fell back down again.

On his desk sat another little bouquet of flowers (purple this time: lavender). For just a moment he assumed that they had been left by Gaius, especially when he saw the parchment laying on top, giving him some kind of instruction on how it should be prepared.

But no, it was bound very specifically with a luxurious leather wrap, just as his first set was.

For a moment he hesitated, wandering if they were perhaps some trap from Morgana to murder him.

He grabbed the note first.

Good luck on your writing stuff. You can come and talk to me about it, just so you don’t annoy Gaius to death.

Arthur.

Arthur had sent him flowers. Arthur had sent him flowers more than once.

If Merlin had ever thought he knew what true happiness was before, everything seemed to pale in comparison.

No matter what he said, Arthur was easy to see straight through, even in letter form.

He wanted Merlin to come and talk about his next book.

He wanted to see Merlin.

All the tiredness seemed to fall straight out of him. He had never felt more alive.

Well, Merlin did live to please.

***

This time, Merlin didn’t knock.

Arthur was already in bed, waiting for him. A smile crossed his face as he saw Merlin enter.

“Merlin.”

Like an excitable puppy, Merlin bounded over the bed to sit besides Arthur. Unlike his friend, he stayed about the covers.

“Is there a particular reason you are taking up half of the king’s bed?”

Without any further wait, Merlin launched into a full-blown explanation of his next book. Giving as few spoilers as he possibly could, of course. He told Arthur of the characters in his mind, the evil witch who was hunting them down. The curses, the castle, about how his two protagonists were thieves who had bitten off more than they could chew when they uncovered an ancient magical object that was supposed to bring back the dead. About how he was excited about this book because he was finally writing something from both character perspectives.

And soon he was hardly talking about the book at all, but instead all the little behind the scenes things. About possible title combinations and some of the background of writing his first book.

And through it all, Arthur sat in silence. Staring directly at him, with a relaxed look on his face.

“Where is it exactly that you write again?”

Merlin paused, confused.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just…you weren’t in your room. And whenever anyone sees you writing in Camelot you have at least half a draft. So. Where do you write?”

Merlin hesitated.

He hadn’t shared his hidden spot with anyone, not even Gaius. Not Lancelot. Hadn’t even mentioned it to his mother.

But, well, hadn’t Arthur always been the exception to every rule anyway?

Without quite managing to stop himself, Merlin grabbed Arthur’s hand, feeling it warm and comforting within his own.

“Come with me.”

In his nightshirt, Arthur trailed after Merlin down the corridor. If he even noticed that they were holding hands and staring at each other like a courting couple, he didn’t say anything.

“It’s a special place to me. I’d never seen anything like it before.”

The halls were dark and quiet, lit by just enough moonlight to call it intimate.

Through some corridors they ran, giving each other a look and sprinting with clasped hands.

Through others, Merlin led him quietly by the hand.

They snuck together past a sleeping Gaius, shooting grins. Arthur looked a little confused. Merlin fought back a laugh at the sight of his face.

When they finally reached Merlin’s room, he looked even more baffled.

“In case you forgot, Merlin, this was about where you wrote outside of your room. Providing that was actually what you were doing today.”

Merlin pressed a finger to his lips, before pulling away the carpet to reveal the trapdoor.

Arthur went silent as Merlin creaked it open.

“There’s one rung missing near the end, I’ll go down first and tell you when.”

Merlin shimmied down, feeling the shake in his arms and legs. He had already known after he removed the rug that there would be no going back, but this felt deep, intimate.

And so, so right.

Merlin did as promise and called out the missing rung, glad that the torches and flame had lit themselves before Arthur made it to the bottom.

When he arrived, he stared around.

“Here it is. My little writing cave.”

The sharp intake of breath was all the feedback he needed. Merlin was glad that he’d had the sense to hide away any of his magical items long before.

Arthur walked around slowly, stopping in front of the painting of the woman and reaching up a hand to trace gently over her face and juice-soaked hands.

He stopped at the desk next, peering over as if to spot some hidden spoilers. Luckily enough, Merlin’s note made little sense to anyone other than himself. Still, Arthur reached out as if to touch, running the tips of his fingers over the soft feather of the quills.

Moving to the fireplace next, the crouched immediately to look at all the small engravings.

And it was then Merlin realised that he had forgotten to hide something very, very important.

Sure enough, Arthur was looking up at the decoration that he had placed on top of the fireplace. The stunned disbelief was clear on his face.

“That’s one of mine,” Arthur said, a slight rasp to his voice.

“Yes.”

“You had it framed.”

“Isn’t that what you do with art you like? You frame it?”

The smile Arthur gave him was blinding.

“And that’s what mine is? Art you like?”

Merlin nodded.

“Course it is. Wouldn’t have put it up if I didn’t.”

Arthur nodded sincerely, looking in more detail at the picture in the frame.

“How come you were poking through my sketchbooks anyway? That low on inspiration?”

“You should be the one saying that! All of yours were just stuff we’ve done or things we’ve found in Camelot.”

Merlin didn’t expect the little chuckle that would cause.

“Do you have any more of mine?”

“No?”

“I rather think we should change that, shouldn’t we?”

***

Things changed after that first night spent together in Merlin’s office. Something beautifully unspoken between them.

Something peaceful.

Merlin had always known that Arthur hated always being viewed in the public eye. Hated that everything he did seemed to be watched and judged. Hated that even in the privacy of his own quarters that he had a role to play.

That anyone could find him, come to speak to him.

So perhaps it wasn’t so much of a surprise when the day after Merlin looked up from the start of his manuscript to see Arthur climbing down the ladder.

Under his arm was tucked a little, leather book. And in a pouch at his waist, lay as few sticks of charcoal.

“You mind?” Arthur had asked, shifting on his feet. Merlin simply gestured him to the large chair.

Blond hair leaned right against the head of the woman, so much so it looked like he was wearing the crown himself, Arthur drew.

He didn’t tell Merlin what exactly it was that he drew. Merlin never told him what he was writing. They both knew that at some point they would know, and that was more than enough for both of them.

Night after night Arthur came back. He always sat in the same spot, without so much as looking up towards Merlin at his fancy desk.

Merlin found a strange new bout of inspiration at having Arthur with him during these times.

After all, it wasn’t everyday that the man you modelled your main character off of was just sitting in the room so that you could just write what you saw.

That was the only reason, of course. The only reason that writing the sweet scenes between the two love interests made even more butterflies in his stomach when he looked up, and his cheeks seemed to flush red.

The only reason it seemed to get worse every time Arthur lightly teased him on whether or not he was writing a naughty scene.

It was so childish, so immature.

And so, so perfect.

***

It seemed every time that they got themselves into a routine, something changed.

Or, rather, Arthur changed. Merlin was rarely ever the one who initiated change in anything. Despite what the dragon said, Merlin felt no need to change that.

He was perfectly content to let the world happen to him.

And, so, when Arthur abruptly stood up and placed his notebook down, Merlin didn’t even look up from his work. It wasn’t unusual for him to need to stretch his legs.

Arthur moved to stand behind him, hands resisting on Merlin shoulders.

Merlin moved to cover his work with his arm.

“I’ve told you before, Arthur. No spoilers.”

“Not why I’m here.”

And then Arthur began to dig his fingers into his shoulders. Merlin relaxed with a long groan.

“You know, most people don’t have their shoulders permanently resting up by their ears. Although I suppose it’s easy for you with just how much they do seem to hang down.”

“Hey,” Merlin protested weakly.

“Hey yourself,” Arthur said distractedly.

He rubbed his two thumbs in circles over the sore spots on his shoulders and back. Merlin couldn’t help but sink into the chair.

“You damn writers.”

Merlin laughed.

***

A few days after that, Arthur was sick.

It wasn’t uncommon, not in Camelot, to get sick as the winter months drew closer.

But the whole city seemed to have caught the same slight chill, and the streets were dead and quiet.

Arthur was suffering particularly.

He had thrown everything he had into helping with the sick, and yet he had not the immune system of a physician. He was down with the illness within a day.

“You feeling any better?” Merlin asked, pushing open the door and going to sit on his bed.

Arthur looked awful, and probably felt worse. His skin was pale, and nose red and inflamed.

“Obviously, yes. Right as bloody rain. Congratulations on your incredible observation skills. Very well done. So glad you are training to be a physician.”

“I was trying to be nice.”

“You failed.”

Merlin rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be so sure! I bought something to cheer you up.”

Arthur looked dubiously at the food tray in his hands.

“I’m not hungry.”

“No I didn’t think you would be,” Merlin said, putting the tray down next to the bed anyway, “I bought something else.”

From inside his jacket, Merlin fished a little, threaded, stack of paper. He lay it on the bedclothes next to Arthur.

“What’s that?”

“First chapter of my new book. Or, at least, one of the drafts. Probably not what the final version will be but it’s as good as I could get.”

Arthur pushed himself up, gesturing Merlin out of the room.

By the door, out of the corner of his eyes, Merlin saw Arthur make a grab for it.

***

A few days later, everything was back to normal.

Arthur was sitting quietly in their office together, scribbling away with his charcoal. It was a comforting familiarity to Merlin, who had been forced to work without it for a few days.

He had forgotten how that room could echo the outside sometimes.

If he was being honest with himself, he would say that the sound of Arthur drawing gave him comfort.

That even the noise of the outside couldn’t touch him here.

Arthur ripped the page out of his book with an almighty movement, slamming the book closed after that.

He bounded up to Merlin’s desk, huge smile on his face.

The paper was slammed on top of his notes, leaving a line of ink on his manuscript.

His mouth opened to complain, before he saw the drawing.

It was his two characters, as described from the first chapter of his story. Of his second book.

“Arthur.”

“C’mon, it’s not that bad. I mean, they are at least recognisable, yes?”

They were far more than recognisable. Every single line had clearly been drawn with extreme levels of care. Carefully mapped out to create the two people that had consumed Merlin’s mind for the past few seasons.

“It’s beautiful, Arthur.”

Arthur drew in a harsh breath.

“Of course it is, Merlin. I drew it, remember?”

“Of course. Of course you did Arthur.”

Arthur nodded and began to walk back to the chair.

“Arthur?”

“Yes Merlin?”

“Thank you.”

Arthur nodded again. And then turned and smiled.

***

There little routine was changed by Arthur again, just a few days after that.

Ever since the little drawing Arthur had obviously worked far harder on than he would ever admit had been placed in another little frame, the atmosphere seemed even more jovial than before.

It came from Arthur, most of all.

He mostly lay out only just propped up on the large chair as he drew, more often than not facing Merlin as he did so.

On particularly good days, Arthur would hum under his breath. On even better ones, Merlin would recognise the tune and either hum along or loudly start singing the words. It startled them both when he did that, to the point where they both ended up near breaking ribs from the amount of laugher that left them during those times.

One day, after Arthur had sent him all over the castle doing ridiculously useless for a few hours, Merlin returned to find the rug kicked away and the trapdoor left wide open.

Arthur had never gone down first.

Hesitantly, Merlin moved his way down, rather unsure of what he should be waiting for. As dumb as it might have seemed to someone on the outside, Merlin still felt nervous allowing Arthur anywhere alone where he could uncover anything magical.

He only took comfort for the fact that he had spelled the touches and fireplace to be off constantly now. He now had to light them by hand.

Annoying, but not impossible.

He need not have worried.

The first thing he noticed, before he even turned around was that Arthur had lit one of his favourite sticks of incense.

And then, he turned around.

Arthur had (somehow) bought a small table from somewhere down to the office, on which he had covered in a little red cloth. On it rested a jug with two goblets, right next to the two-person chair.

A few sets of florals decorated the room, some in vases and one on top of the fireplace.

Many more candles had been bought in and lit, covering different spots on the floor. It illuminated the woman’s face in warm light.

The crown on her head sparkled.

Rose petals lay scattered about at Merlin’s feet.

“Arthur?”

“Merlin.” Arthur stood up from where he had been sitting on the chair. He gestured Merlin over.

In a daze, Merlin stumbled towards him, allowing his hands to be taken and led towards until he was sitting down.

Arthur had already poured them each a goblet of wine, pressing one into Merlin’s hand.

Merlin drank his back immediately.

“What is all this?” He gestured widely to the room.

Arthur took a deep breath, looking down into his full goblet.

“If I am wrong, please do forgive me.”

Arthur placed his goblet on the table.

Merlin waited a long, painful second.

Before Arthur turned directly to him, cupping his chin in his calloused hand.

And then, he kissed Merlin.

It was chaste, gentle. Soft as the fluttering of fairy wings.

A gentle brush, so light that it could have been imagined.

It was safe to say, Merlin kissed back with considerably more force.

***

“Sire? Where is Merlin?” Leon was awaiting by the front of the castle, the other knights in tow. Arthur had sent word just that morning that they would all be riding out that afternoon on a hunting trip – just a few hours.

“Oh? Merlin’s not coming with us.”

“May I…may I ask why, Sire?”

Arthur rolled his eyes.

“That fool is so far behind on the deadline for his next book. I’ve locked him in his office until he’s finished the next chapter. I’ve set the guards with the rule that they need to see actual proof that it’s done before they unlock the door. With all likelihood, I will be the one to unlock it when we get back.”

Arthur mounted.

“Are you ready to stop dallying and go?”

A few moments later all the knights kicked off together.

And if someone happened to be listening, ear pressed to the ground, one might have heard the angry words of a frustrated manservant, and the ever-present scratching of a quill.