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They say seven is a magic number, a number chosen by the universe to mark something special. It figures again and again in mythology, in tales of magic, in old religions no longer honoured by the world.
So here, in seven parts, is the tale of Merlin and his Arthur, or Arthur and his Merlin, and their seventh incarnation during the age that humanity knows as the twenty-first century. It is no longer a time of dragons and castles and swords; humanity has found far more deadly weapons to murder itself with.
It is not, however, one of these weapons that Merlin chooses to attack himself with. His weapon of choice is an antique dagger he’d bought at a flea market, convinced of its worth despite Arthur’s scepticism. As if, even though the Camelot of old is gone, erased from history and passing into legend, in his heart there are still dim memories of an earlier age.Arthur grips the steering wheel tightly, trying to block out the noise of blaring horns in the late evening traffic. Peak ( ... )
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Present dayArthur sits in the sterile, colourless corridor, his fingers clutching his own hair, his head bowed. Lance and Gwen are on either side of him, are talking quietly over his head, Gwen’s hand gently stroking his hair and Lance’s hand on his knee, strong and sturdy ( ... )
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