Drawn To Any Good (Or, The Education of Lord Arthur Pendragon) - Part 5/7
Part Four
- - -
My dear Merlin,
You said I may write to you from the country estate, so here I am in the study, penning my first of what shall no doubt be many letters. All is just as I remembered it here - the countryside is quite lovely and the entertainment is quite lacking. I do wish I were back in London with you, or at the very least, that I could have brought you along to join us, as improper as it may have been. I can picture you so clearly here when I take my walks through the woods - your shirtsleeves rolled up and cravat askew, getting quite messy as you dug up herbs and mushrooms to examine later, nattering on about this and that. I can see you as well in the study with me, thumbing through the vast collections of histories we have. Of course there are no books that speak to your special, if esoteric, passions, but I have no doubt you would be content and that, in turn, would satisfy me.
But it is an idle wish, I am sure. No doubt made stronger with the letter that arrived this morning for Morgana saying that Gwen and her new bridegroom Lancelot shall vacation for a week with us in a fortnight's time. How I wish the five of us could summer together! It seems so terribly unfair that you must be stuck in the bustle and boom of the city while we lounge about like royalty in the countryside. Is it not strange that such a selfish desire has caused me to re-consider your asinine stances on class difference and social justice? I suppose that fresh air does do strange things to a man.
Do write back to me soon with all the goings-on of the city, and from your little shop. Pass my best along to Gaius, and do try to stay out of trouble, at least as long as I am not around to save you.
Yours always,
Arthur
P.S. Morgana has insisted that I include some pressed herbs that she claims Dr. Gaius has requested. Why she cannot mail them herself, I do not know.
Dearest Arthur,
What do you wish to hear? A bit of an Indian summer has descended upon London and my cravat itches worse than ever. I spend many hours torn between my desire to jump into the Thames and my fear of contracting some terrible disease if I were to lose my mind enough to do so. I am working on a less traditional solution to my problems, but controlling the extremity of temperature is proving to be quite an issue. I have accidentally frozen several beakers of water, causing them to shatter. Gaius, as always, despairs of me.
You do have a talent for making the most wonderful of situations sound like a terrible burden! The description in your letter of the woods, paired with your stories and the smell of the herbs Morgana sent have made me terribly homesick. (Do tell her that Gaius was very pleased to receive them, and has sent along a book on herbs with notes written in so she knows which ones are the most useful to collect.) I am sure you will not be shocked in the slightest to know that I spent much of my childhood in exactly the manner you described, though I fancy I am more sedate in my adulthood. That being said, there is an itch in my veins as of late that makes me long to go back to then, cavorting through glades with you and Morgana, uprooting plants and throwing pine cones at you - it seems I've slipped into a bit of fancy myself!
I do miss you terribly. Do not let your head swell - I simply have found no one with whom I may debate the matters of the day and garner a similar sense of satisfaction. Perhaps we shall do it through the post? Are you caught up in the latest serial work of Dickens? As always, I am riveted by it.
Sincerely,
Merlin
Merlin,
Of course I haven't read it! You know my feelings on that man's work - he spins a good tale, no doubt, and he should be commended for the great service he has done to the poor by illuminating the desperation of their situation, but his tendency towards preaching, over-romanticism, and his use of five words when one could do perfectly well will forever make his work unreadable to me. I hear from Morgana, who is getting snippets mailed to her by Gwen, that this not one of his finer pieces.
If you must know, there is one great joy that comes from returning to the country - my pair of bays, Llamrai and Hengroen. They were the first thing I purchased for myself after university and they are my pride and joy. I cannot in good conscience bring them with me to town when they are far happier her in the country with space to run. Perhaps one day you may meet them, though I would suggest you remain clear of Llamrai - she can be quite possessive of me and has torn several of Morgana's blouses for stepping too close. Hengroen, however, is a true gentle giant who perhaps would not maim you too terribly. I have spent nearly every afternoon riding through the countryside alternating between them, and I do believe they missed me nearly as much as I missed them. That is the problem with horses - you cannot write them a letter.
Speaking of swimming, it is slowly growing warmer here and Morgana is beginning to speak of dips in the lake with great longing. Last summer, she gave the poor cook's assistant quite an eyeful in her damp petticoats, and he mooned after her like he was even more half-witted than you, picking wildflower bouquets and leaving them wilted in front of the door to her chambers. I gather he has never seen a moderately good-looking woman before, because her personality leaves much to be desired.
I do hope you have perfected your technique for cooling. If so, please send it along in your next letter so I may give it to Morgana and prevent another spectacle this year.
Yours,
Arthur
Dear Arthur,
I must say your letter has arrived at the worst possible time. The heatwave has hit London and with heat, as usual, comes a wave of illness. It fills me with such a helpless anger. Every day I see children crying out for clean water and sweltering from fever and weather both. I cannot perfect my cooling technique - Gaius says it is useless for me to try now, he says I am far too emotional and any hope of control is long gone. And yet I cannot sleep for thinking about it, thinking about what I could do if only I could focus. I feel as if my talents are meant for something larger, greater, and yet so many things are keeping me from doing them.
It feels so much worse this year, and I feel as though I'm going mad - every time someone comes to the door I'm convinced it's you, come to whisk me away to Cornwall or for a walk. If I pass a man with light hair and a top hat, I am convinced until I look again that it is you. I wish so terribly it was - I need some sort of distraction, any sort of distraction.
I know I torture you so with my affections, and I apologize. I cherish your letters and friendship above all else, and I know I play with your heart mercilessly when I get like this. Please know it is not my intention and I remain, as always, your dearest friend.
Merlin
My Merlin,
The greatest pain I feel reading your letters is that I am too far away to aid you. I have enclosed a parcel of herbs that Morgana gathered when I told her of your situation - she hopes that Gaius will be able to use them to cure the ill. The sachet tied with blue ribbon is for you. Morgana says that carrying it will help clear your mind and aid you in sleep - she claims it is a duplicate of the one Gaius has made for her. Seeing first-hand the change a good night's sleep has wrought on her I can only implore you to do as she says. You must know how terribly I worry for you, how difficult it is for me to be separated from your side when you are not feeling well. If I cannot take care of you myself, I pray you will do an adequate job for me, for my sanity if nothing else.
Things are at a slow bustle here - Gwen and Lancelot are to arrive soon, and while Father has always viewed Morgana and Gwen's friendship as not entirely befitting of Morgana's station, he is most pleased that Gwen has married a fellow military man, and I dare say he is somewhat jovial about a chance to discuss military history with someone who does not, as I do, find the subject dreadfully dull. Dueling with pistols and fencing is all very well and good, Merlin, and I enjoy first-hand accounts as much as the next red-blooded fellow, but the dryness of memorizing troop movements and dissecting marching formation! I do not know what about it intrigues father so, though I have sat through his monologues on it so many times I feel I ought to have some sort of idea by now. I do hope that Lancelot continues to be as good and patient and saintly as Morgana and Gwen make him sound - he shall certainly need all those qualities to survive the week here.
I continue to wish, foolishly, that your profession were not what it is, or rather that my father was not aware and I could pass you as an acquaintance of Gwen's, a simple physician's assistant whose conversation I merely found stimulating and with whom I enjoyed passing leisurely days. Do not misread me, I know what joy your work brings you, and I would never wish to take that from you. It is your talent, your calling, and I only wish I knew mine as clearly as you seem to know yours. I only balk at the injustice. It seems every day I stumble upon a new thing I believe would bring you joy - a hidden glade I used to play in as a child, the sweetness of Llamrai and Hengroen's new foal, the fresh fruit growing around the estate (raspberries and watercress and the very first apples) that we have every day. I long to bundle this tiny slice of idyll and impart it upon you, who so desperately needs and deserves it. Instead, I can only pray that Morgana's tiny satchel works similar wonders, and count down the days until I return to London, where I plan to see after your diet personally. I simply cannot have you wasting away - you look disreputable enough as is.
Please be well,
Your Arthur
Sir Arthur, my unduly protective shining defender,
Perhaps I am quite as lackwitted as you claim, for the thought of such a satchel had never ever crossed my mind! Please tell Morgana that it has helped me immeasurably.
In my highly emotional state, I hope I did not give you the impression that people are dropping dead left and right all along the streets of London. It is a summer illness brought on from eating food that rots faster in the heat, and regular illnesses exacerbated by the temperatures. The heat makes it impossible to maintain anything that resembles sanitary conditions, and it is worse this year because of the unusually high temperatures. We have many factory workers coming to us plagued with heatstroke and dehydration. Gaius remains stoic and says it is only to be expected - he has weathered far worse summers. It is, however, the worst summer since I have arrived in London, and I have yet to steel my heart against two or three mothers dying a day in childbirth, when they may have lived if only their baby was born at a more auspicious time, or if they could afford clean linens, or stand to heat water hot enough to be truly adequate. In total, I estimate that somewhere between fifty to a hundred have died from this heat. I know in the grand scheme of the population of London it is nothing, but it still troubles me. Nevertheless, I have made it a point to take walks to the parks along the Thames, to watch all the children running and happy. I find it soothing and, in a certain way, cathartic.
My cooling technique has improved somewhat. It still turns things to ice - far too harsh to ever use on a human subject unless I wished to explain unseasonable frostbite away to the authorities - but I have been able to provide a new confection for cranky children - shaved ice. It usually is too horrifically expensive for more destitute mothers to afford for their children, but my freezing technique has afforded me a unique opportunity. I take the sweet peaches and plums that are so wonderful at this time of year and squeeze them for their juice, and then mix them with water, a little sugar, and some corn syrup to make them thicker. I freeze a bowl full of it (Gaius has given me a metal one just for this purpose - he is quite tired of shattered glass) and then shave it and put it in cups for children who stop by. As you can imagine, we have become quite popular. Do not fret - I have made sure to license myself with the proper authorities. (They were no hard to convince at all, especially after tasting my shaved ice!) It has been a nice piece of supplemental income for the shop, even though new impostors are popping up every day. I am not boasting, however, when I say that ours remains the best. The syrup secret has yet to be discovered by others, and without it their confections are entirely too watery. Though there is a vendor who has set himself up where Hyde and Green Park meet - you know the place - who has come up with the brilliant idea of cooling sugared cream. His charges are high, but I hear it is worth it, perhaps we should visit him when you return, if the weather is still fine enough for him to peddle his wares.
I tell you this for several reasons. Firstly, it is a matter of small pride that my fumbles should have amounted to something - my first magical discovery! It is not a great one, and it shall not save lives or cure the ill as Gaius' did, but I am determined that my next discovery shall perhaps be a little greater. Yet also, it is a source of frustration. I had such hopes for this, such a conviction that my first step would be greater, that I could truly alleviate suffering instead of giving children a small treat.
Finally, I tell you this because I know otherwise you would refuse the gift of a pocket watch I have enclosed as a belated birthday present. Please accept it. It is nowhere as fine as the old one I am responsible for drowning, but it is quite affordable on my currently augmented income, and I am quite sure it will serve you faithfully.
I remain, as ever, yours,
Merlin
My dearest nitwit,
I must apologize to you. If earlier this week you sensed your honour slighted from somewhere in the direction of Cornwall, I was the quarter from whence such objections came. I had cursed you out as ten types of idiot for not patenting your freezing technique. Think of the fortune you could have made! While Father may have frowned at the frivolity and magical nature of how you made your fortune, had you enough, he would have welcomed the Shaved Ice King of London to our country home, be it grudgingly or not.
Morgana, however, upon hearing my diatribe, has informed me (with, of course, a roll of her eyes) that minor workings of a magical nature are impossible to patent, which is why Gaius is not rolling in a grand fortune. I suppose you do not know the feeling of being confident in your own worldly knowledge, only to have it systematically stripped from you, but I assure you it is an extremely uncomfortable experience. I feel as though over time I am not becoming more informed, but merely more aware of exactly how uninformed I am. Please, refrain from smart remarks. I assure you Morgana has made them all while Gwen poorly contained her laughter.
Under duress, I accept your entirely too generous gift of a pocket watch. While not gold or an heirloom as my old one was, it is far less fiddly and of exceedingly good quality, for all that it is made of copper and tin. I am unaccountably fond of it. I also suspect you have charmed it, for it bears that certain sense of oddness that all such objects that encounter your particular talents have. You have exposed it to the full gamut, I suppose - gears that do not rust or become bent, an ever-winding dial, a charm not to become lost or stolen from my person? I have seen peddlers promising the same thing for no small fee, though coming from you, I have some faith these charms may actually prove their worth.
Your gift was by far the best received on the occasion of my birth. As you know, Lancelot and Guinevere were on their honeymoon on the actual date of my birth and Father is never in the mood to celebrate the occasion, so Morgana declared that we would celebrate such things upon Lancelot and Guinevere's arrival to the countryside where I could properly be showered with gifts and good cheer. From Gwen and Morgana, the usual hankies and cravats, from father the usual naval history. Dinner was lovely, though. Lancelot and I shot some particularly excellent partridges that our cook prepared with great skill, and the cake was a rich chocolate layered together with fresh fruit - simply divine. Lancelot, if I may say, is a perfectly lovely addition to our little group, and I am quite pleased with Gwen's choice in him. He is perhaps a little too good - one cannot help but feel wicked by comparison simply when you are in his presence, but the same can be said of Gwen, and they are a very happy couple. While Gwen and Morgana natter on like fishwives, he and I have been enjoying great sport hunting and fishing, and our dinner table has never been finer under the fruits of our labours. I fear I shall not fit in my waistcoats if I continue to eat so well. We shall have to take a great many long walks to work this country food off of me.
If I may be maudlin with you, my dear fellow, reflection on the subject has led me to conclude that I have received the greatest possible gift this year to mark turning seven-and-twenty; the knowledge that I am secure in your affections as your friend and confidante, and perhaps one day (with your permission) more.
I can assure you that you remain secure in mine.
Yours always,
Arthur
My good lord prat,
I must confess, at first I was quite surprised you did not know such magical patents existed! Though I suppose I should not be surprised. Morgana knew nothing when she first came to us. Why she didn't even know... wait, I'm getting ahead of myself, as, you well know, I am wont to do when a subject catches my interest.
Before I go further I must allay your fears - what I am about to explain, while not explicitly illegal, will no doubt upset your father, as it is of a magical nature. I have taken some precautions and cast a cryptos charm on it. To anyone but you, this letter will appear to be a missive about something innocuous - a walk in the park, an account of a dinner party, and only you may receive the true message. If, however, you wish to burn this letter before continuing further, I would understand completely.
You have, I assume, been educated on the idea that our planet is cocooned in layers of air known as our atmosphere. We are also wrapped in a layer of what can only be described as magical matter. (We do not know if this atmosphere is limited to our planet or encapsulates the entire universe, or exists on our planet and others -but again, I digress!) Every living being on earth is connected to this infinitely thick blanket by a thread. Each thread varies in thickness, color, material... no two are alike, just as no two beings on this planet are alike.
Despite what your father would have you believe, there is nearly nothing that binds two magic users together in likeness. The depth of their talents, what their talents are for, each varies. It is much like saying one has a talent for music without specifying if it is with their voice, or in the field of composition, or an instrument, and if it is an instrument, which one. Gwen, as I am sure you know, for instance, is quite skilled at playing the piano yet cannot carry a tune for the life of her. Much like any ability, it is inborn and some, like you, dear Arthur, are born with none at all. There is, however, one thing that unites all magic users, and that is the ability to sense the presence of another magician, or their thread, if you will. (You have mentioned on occasion you can sense me, dear Arthur. I should inform you that this does not mean you are magical - it is not unusual for someone without any magic to be able to tell if a great deal of magic has be performed around them. Since you never sensed Morgana, (and she is powerful in her own right, certainly something a magician would sense!) it seems that you, like most, can sense particularly strong magic, or have learned to recognize my magic the way some people learn to recognize another's scent, or the cadence of their footsteps. It is also possible that you have ascribed a certain sense about me to magic simply because you know I posses it.)
If a child has received a rudimentary education, they are usually extremely quick to understand that their sense about other people means that they posses some magical ability and are therefore prepared when it begins to manifest itself. When Morgana came to us utterly unaware of this very elementary fact and unsure of what this feeling meant, I was, I must admit, quite shocked. It is not unusual for children too destitute to have been educated to not understand, but for a young woman as well-reared and educated as Morgana to not know baffled me. Upon further reflection I suppose that your father paid your governesses or educators to neglect certain parts of your education. Let it not be said that money cannot buy anything, including ignorance!
I do apologize, was that unnecessarily cruel?
What Morgana alluded to is that when one performs a Great Working, it can be sensed by other magicians, as it creates a disturbance in the magical fabric. It is as if... imagine each magician is connected to this fabric by a thread - if they have tugged theirs with too much force, and creates, for a brief moment a run or hole in the fabric that all magic users can trace or feel to the person who performed it by following the tugged thread, until the hole closes itself back up. That is the difference in classifying a Great and minor work. A minor work, such as my little freezing trick, is so inconsequential that it cannot be detected. As much as your father wishes, there is no power in the world that can force minor workings to cease, for they are impossible to be noted unless directly observed.
I could go on for pages and pages on magical theory, but I feel that is enough for your first lesson. If you wish to continue your education, I am more than happy to suggest readings. And if you wish to send me information of a sensitive nature, ask Morgana to perform this charm upon your papers before you write on them. She knows how - she has borrowed a great number of books from Gaius for her holiday that I have needed to consult and been quite unable to.
I remain your faithful tutor,
Merlin
My esteemed imbecile,
I still think it was entirely too risky to send me your latest missive, as fascinated as I was by the information therein. We shall have to continue discussing this matter when I return. But quite seriously, as little as I know of magic, I do know that so long as there is a stronger enchanter, there is a way to break the enchantment. I know you are strong, Merlin, but I fret that you are growing too comfortable in your (not inconsiderable, I know how proud you are, darling nitwit) strength.
Gwen and Lancelot have left, and with them any source of interest around the estate. Fall is most decidedly in the air, and while there is excellent game aplenty in the woods, there is only so much meat three people can eat, or that I can bring to our less fortunate neighbors. Shall I fascinate you by telling you that we have quite an excellent harvest this year? Or how Llamrai's foal Passelande looks as though she shall be even finer than her parents? I cannot even spend my time for Morgana, for she is burying herself in books. I thank you for your explanation on concealing objects by making them appear boring, I was mystified as to what she found so engrossing about handicrafts of the Himalayas.
Regale me with tales from London, I beg of you. I miss you terribly and I count down the days until I can join you in the city, and when thoughts of taking up knitting just to stave off the mind-numbing boredom will be far behind me.
Yours in great misery,
Arthur
Arthur, my ever-petulant friend,
You worry entirely too much, my dear fellow. What you say about stronger magicians is true, yet none exist in Britain. (If you do not believe me, ask Gaius - there are ways to determine the depth and breadth of one's magical ability, and it is not pride to say that mine exceeds any we have yet encountered.) The cryptos charm that so worried you is a rather unique and handy bit of magic. There is a great deal of theory used to explain this that has to do with the fact that each person's magical thread, to continue the metaphor, is unique. Breaking a personalized enchantment, no matter how strong one is, requires one to have something bearing the unique magical signature of the person the spell is aimed at, and this is assuming that the magician is strong enough to determine who, exactly, the spell is aimed towards. Unless you are suggesting that perhaps the fellow in charge of delivering the post is some sort of great enchanter of previously unknown stature, sent to intercept our missives for the sole purpose of reporting back to your father, who has given him an item of yours that bears your personal signature (if you are a magic-user, it can be something your magic was used upon, but for non-magical people such as you, it would have to be something that had been on your person for a very long time, and very recently - I imagine any such object would be noted by you to be missing).
It is for this reason that in the wars against Napoleon the cryptos charm was wildly popular, and I suspect your father employed it frequently, considering his high rank in the army, though I am sure he would deny such a thing vehemently. Nevertheless, if you think such a nefarious plot is still possible, I contend that your paranoia has reached levels which are, quite frankly, concerning, and I shall have Gaius examine you the second you set foot in the city again.
I do, most felicitously, have a great story to relate to you! A couple of days ago, I was hired for a rather informal dance to perform the usual gambit - keep ice sculptures from melting, keep plates warm, produce flowers for ladies shyly standing by the walls and say they are from nervous admirers ogling them across the room, a display in the middle of the night while people catch their breath... I needn't run through a full list, you have seen me do these tasks before. Late in the night, however, I was approached by a most charming man named Mr. Morris, who is making a bit of a name for himself as a rising barrister. I had sensed him the second I entered the room, for reasons I have related to you, for he has considerable power. It is usual at these sorts of gatherings to have a handful of people who can perform simple charms, but I was surprised to note another user of considerable strength. He approached me because, aside from learning basic theory in his schooling, he has never had a more practical grounding, and was most impressed by my displays. He wishes to engage me as a private tutor for skills of a magical nature, which I immediately agreed to with no small degree of enthusiasm, as you can imagine. Mr. Morris was quite coy and bashful about his reasons for choosing to engage a tutor now, and so circumspectly (after all, it is hardly unusual for one to engage in a bit of recreational charm-work as a pastime, if one has the ability), but he only flushed and said that he believed it would help him have an advantage to stand out from a crowd of gentleman if he had something up his sleeve (pardon the pun!), and that all knowledge is knowledge that ought to be gained. I agree with his second point, though I cannot help but wonder at his first. He is a very eligible, handsome man - perhaps not conventionally good-looking, but certainly pleasing to the eye and in possession of a fine temperament. I cannot believe that, should he set his mind to charming a certain someone, he would need magic to aid him.
But I care not! At long last I have my very first prospective magical student! I have never had someone to teach for my very own - I have only assisted Gaius. But to have such a fine gentleman with such a quality of talent to myself, to intimately mold him into a fine magician! I have been most happily engaged in dreaming up lessons.
Send my affections to Morgana,
Merlin
My dearest Merlin,
I am a miserable man - miserable regardless of if I hear from you or not. Miserable, lonely, petty, jealous, snobbish - I am every fault you have accused me of and more. How is it you write me, how is it you put up with me in such a state as I am now? For I feel I am half a man without you. And yet my unworthy heart is yours - has been since you dunked me in the pond, or perhaps from the moment I met you. I was so jealous, so very jealous, I see that now. I apologize. I apologize for everything I have ever done to hurt you, every pain I have caused you. I apologize for not being what you deserve. You deserve the greatest of all men or women, a king or a queen. And yet I love you. Pathetically, yes, but I do, and I cannot keep myself from speaking of it any longer. I cannot keep it inside. I may be slightly drunk on scotch and sentimentality, I may be lonely beyond the telling and longing for your company, but every piece of my heart that you have awakened, the parts I did not know existed, that I did not know could feel, they are all yours. I am all yours. Every last useless bit of me belongs to you utterly.
How can you doubt I love you? This question keeps me awake at night. I would heal if you did not love me, I would soothe any fears you had, change any part of myself you found disagreeable. Yet you doubt I love you. You doubt my loyalty, and yet, it is with great irony that I feel that is all I may promise you. I may promise you that I, Lord Arthur Pendragon, will love you until the day I die. I will love you more than any creature has loved another, I will continue to love you passionately, helplessly. If forced to I will worship you from afar. You are to me the sun, the moon, every star that hangs in the sky. Damn! I've gone rather maudlin and pathetic on you, dear boy, I know (Morgana says that liquor makes me as sentimental as a hysterical woman, yet she is of the fairer sex and has never been emotional in her entire life, hysterically or otherwise, so her judgment matters not to me!), and yet I think of you and I think of every bit of tripe I have ever read, every ode that a schoolmaster forced upon me, every sonnet I sniggered over, and I think they must have been about you, I must have been too stupid at the time to know, to understand the exquisite pain of being in love with the most fantastic creature ever to be beheld.
There is not enough scotch in the world to make me commit to paper the wonder of your form, your face, even your ears. (Yes, darling man, your ears!) It is safe to say that I am helplessly enamoured with them all, that I desire you in ways that would make even the bawdiest of men blush. And it is not for your beauty alone that I love you (yet oh, how your beauty haunts me here, especially since I cannot look upon it - torture!), but for your goodness, your power, your laughter and how you make me laugh in turn. You humble me as no one ever has, you make me wish to worship you utterly. I adore the way your hands move when you speak. I ache with emotion when I think of you, asleep on one of your tomes again, or humming and lost in thought.
I do not know if it is absence or simply the passage of time that makes me fonder of you each day, all I know is that I wake up every morning even more in love with you than when I went to bed the night before, aching and heartbroken at the thought of spending one more minute parted from your side while you engage attractive young men in discussions of magic I could never hope to understand, sure that I could not love you more than I do or I would explode, and yet I wake up the next morning inexplicably even more enraptured by the thought of you. I love you. I adore you. I could wear down my pen writing all the ways how. I count down the days until I can see you again - just see you. Naturally I wish to gather you into my arms and embrace you, to kiss you a thousand times and then a thousand times more, to never let you go, but if I could gaze upon you just once more I feel I could die a happy man.
I am yours, yours, forever yours. I wish to be no one but yours.
Arthur
Merlin -
Woke up with a terrible hangover and a vague recollection of sending a most inappropriate letter to post, yet by time I had made myself presentable, Morgana had already sent it out along with a few of her missives. I apologize most desperately.
Yours in great embarrassment,
Arthur
Arthur -
I feel it is best that we discuss the matters of your recent missives when you return.
- Merlin
- - -
When Arthur was six years old, his father had decided he needed company of his own age, and therefore had sent Arthur to summer with his mother's sister, Anna, and her four boys. No doubt he had meant for Arthur to bond with his cousin Agravaine, who was seven at the time, but he and Arthur loathed each other on sight. Agravaine was whiny, he detested Arthur with increasing vitriolic jealousy any time he was shown the slightest kindness or favor, and he would get into all sorts of trouble and then lay the blame squarely at Arthur's feet. (He had not grown out of it, either, and Arthur took great care to avoid his cousin whenever he came into town.) The twins, Gaheris and Gareth, were three at the time, and Arthur, though he was fond of them, found absolutely no amusement in their company. Instead, Arthur had fallen utterly in love with his cousin Gawain. It was not a romantic love, or even a true love, but the kind of worshipful adoration young boys experience when faced with a fascinating older boy they want desperately to impress. And Arthur had desired nothing more than to impress Gawain, to be like him in every manner possible. If Gawain refused his peas at dinner, Arthur refused his peas at dinner. If Gawain wore a brown coat, Arthur wore a brown coat. Arthur spent hours staring at himself in the looking glass in his room frowning because his complexion was not freckled, his hair was flat and straw-like instead of springy and copper, his eyes were boring blue instead of a twinkling hazel that held all the wisdom that eleven years of age can bring (which, at the time, seemed like quite a lot of wisdom to Arthur).
Luckily for Arthur, Gawain doted on him, thrilled to finally have a younger brother figure who worshiped him the way Agravaine never did (and, as he believed, was his due, a belief Arthur shared wholeheartedly). Gawain let Arthur follow him everywhere. They picked berries behind the manor and ate them all until they were nearly ill and their clothes had been irreparably stained, they caught giant insects and left them in Agravaine's bed, but most of all, they went fishing on the lake, which usually consisted less of fishing and more of Arthur and Gawain taking sick delight in spearing worms on hooks and Gawain awing Arthur with stories of his prowess that Arthur later learned were entirely untrue.
One day in mid-July, the fish were not biting (not that they ever bit), and it had been too hot for Gawain to think up any more tales, so he had turned to Arthur and said, "Hey, you can swim, right?"
Arthur had, at that point in his life, become quite proficient in dog-paddling in the shallows of the lake, and he certainly wasn't going to tell Gawain that he had never been brave enough to venture into deep water. "Of course," he had said, affronted. "What kind of idiot can't swim?"
"Excellent," Gawain had beamed, and started stripping out of his shirtsleeves and trousers. "Agravaine's such a girl, he's afraid of deep water." And since Arthur would rather have died than admit to Gawain that looking into the inky blue depths frightened him too, or that it looked nothing like the clear greenish water in Cornwall, so he obediently stripped to his underthings and dived in after his cousin.
The first few moments were not too difficult. They were exhilarating, in fact. Arthur paddled frantically to keep himself vertical, weightless and infinite feeling. But his arms soon grew weak, and his head dipped under the water further and further until he could remain upright no longer and was weighted down, down... The only reason Arthur was alive to remember such a sensation was because Gawain had fortuitously turned around to call to Arthur and seen him slip under, grabbed Arthur's tiny body and heaved him into the little rowboat, crudely thwacking the water out of Arthur's chest.
"You... clod...!" was the first thing Arthur remembered coming out of Gawain's mouth. "I thought you said you could swim! You could have died!" Arthur had started crying then, hiccuping little wails until Gawain patted his shoulder awkwardly and went, "there, there".
"I can swim! I swim in shallow water all the time!" He had sobbed in between giant stomach-aching hiccups. "I didn't want you to think I was a baby!"
Somewhere between all the yelping and hiccuping and drying off and swearing not to tell any grown-ups, Arthur and Gawain's tentative friendship went from circumstantial to lifelong, was enough for them to scrawl childish letters to each other through the years ("lessons are dull and Morgana is stupid. Father let me shoot his rifle!"). Arthur knew Gawain remembered the incident because it was his favorite to recall when introducing Arthur to new friends of his, often re-told in a way that cast Arthur in an unfavorable light. Arthur, however, rarely thought of the incident, though in recent weeks, it had come back to him in full force.
Being separated from Merlin was like nothing he had ever experienced, save the feeling of drowning. The initial stages of attraction, of infatuation, and then love resembled nothing more than the feeling of euphoria at being suspended over deep water. Metaphorically, Arthur had dabbled in the shallows, yet being with Merlin was akin to being thrown overboard with no instructions, beautiful and terrible and dangerous, so very dangerous. He could remain afloat so long as he was in Merlin's presence, but to be parted from him was impossible. Arthur felt constantly weighted, depressed, as though he were struggling for air. He could barely contain his impatience on the long ride back to London, and it grew shorter, as did his temper, the nearer they became. He was in such a foul state that neither Morgana nor his father questioned his claim of a vicious headache or his purported need for some fresh air and time alone. He could not even bear to take a hansom, instead running like a madman to Pall Mall, past it, slamming into Gaius' shop like a thing possessed.
"'Ello your eminence," Will said cheekily when Arthur burst through the door, gasping for air from his exertion. "Run back from Cornwall, did you?"
"Needed...exercise," Arthur gasped out, straightening up when the stitch in his side abated. "Nearly mad... from the drive."
"Ah," Will nodded sagely. "You're 'ere to see Merlin, ain'tcha?"
"He is here?" Arthur asked. He had the sudden terrible thought that Merlin was out, that he would have to wait longer, but luckily Will nodded.
"In 'is room," he said, pointing upwards for clarity. "New magic tome from Prussia got approved for translation or summat, 'e's been studying something mad up there."
"God bless you," Arthur breathed, sprinting for the door.
"I don' know what you did with the real Arthur, but I like the new one a good deal more!" He heard Will shout after him, but he didn't care to spare breath to reply, getting to Merlin's attic room was more important.
Merlin was indeed in his room sitting in his bed and murmuring over a new-looking book. Arthur had to knock on the doorway very vehemently several times before Merlin took any notice of him. "Oh, Arthur!" He smiled up at him, eyes crinkling in genuine joy. He shoved the book off his lap and stood. "I didn't know if you'd feel up to visiting me the day after such a long journey, what a pleasant surprise!"
"Merlin," Arthur breathed for the first time in weeks. God, how had he lived six weeks without this man? How could six weeks have passed without the sweep of Merlin's eyelashes, his wide, dimpled smile, his hands, long and elegant? His chest ached, he couldn't live without striding across the room and taking Merlin in his arms, burying his nose in the nape of Merlin's neck and holding on like a drowning man. Merlin gripped him just as passionately, stroking Arthur's back, his hair, checking to see if Arthur was truly whole and wrapped around him. "I missed you," Arthur choked out. "God, I missed you so."
"I know," Merlin's voice was just as husky and affected as Arthur's. "I missed you as well."
"Never again," Arthur swore. "I cannot bear to be parted from you for this long ever again. I will make excuses to my father. I don't care. If I ever leave you for this long again I will die, I cannot..."
"Sh," Merlin soothed. "Arthur, you needn't. I know."
Arthur pulled back and gripped Merlin's face in his hands so he could study those familiar features, drink him in. "In the letter I sent," he asked finally. "What was the matter with it? Did I tell you that I loved you?"
Merlin blushed. "Quite thoroughly," he murmured, looking down.
"And you had no objections to my professed feelings?"
"Only that you were lackwitted enough to send such a -" Whatever reprimands Merlin may have been intending say were swallowed by Arthur crushing their lips together. He needed Merlin, and kissing him was dizzying, intoxicating, like inhaling pure oxygen after he had been choking for air. Merlin was an anchor, a boat to hold on to in a raging storm. He was dear, so dear, and Arthur loved him more than he was sure any human had ever loved another in all of recorded time. And Merlin was kissing him back just as fiercely, making soft noises against Arthur's mouth that undid him completely. Arthur could feel that he had lost control utterly, that the only things left in his head was need and love and mine. Some detached part of him protested his body backing Merlin up against his bed, scolded him for hungrily undoing Merlin's waistcoat and un-tucking his shirt, brushing against bare skin, but he did not care. He was too drunk with Merlin's scent to notice anything save how Merlin pushed into his touch, trembling and eager, how no one had ever done that for Arthur before, how lovely he was, how he had to unbutton Merlin's shirt, he had to have more. Arthur was jolted out of his fever when Merlin gasped and pushed him away at the feel of Arthur's fingers on his shirt buttons. "No," Merlin said hoarsely, gathering his waistcoat from where it had been tossed carelessly aside and shrugging it back on, attempting to make himself respectable again. "Arthur, no."
Arthur forced himself to look away from Merlin's mussed hair and kiss-bruised lips, to think on what a great mistake he had very nearly made. "I'm sorry," he said hollowly, smoothing his own hair into place. "I was... overcome. That is not, however, an excuse for such untoward and unwelcome advances."
"Oh, don't be such a massive horse's arse," Merlin snapped, and Arthur looked back at him, shocked and very nearly amused. "You know that wasn't the reason I made you stop."
Arthur blinked at him a few times before he managed a small, choked, "indeed?"
"Indeed," Merlin sighed, sitting back down on his bed and gesturing for Arthur to take the wooden chair in the corner. "They were more... well, perhaps untoward is the correct term."
"I do not understand," Arthur said after a moment's thought. "how my actions could be one, yet not the other."
"Because," Merlin said bitterly, "this is a game we are playing with ourselves, believing this may ever amount to something more than it is."
"This is no game!" Arthur exclaimed, jumping from his chair and kneeling at Merlin's feet, trying to catch his eyes, but Merlin would not indulge him. "Merlin, I love you," he insisted. "Living without you for six weeks only confirmed to me that I love you more than I ever knew I did. I will do anything, anything to make you happy."
"Then stop," Merlin's voice sounded broken. "If you will not protect your heart, stop loving me for the sake of mine."
"You know very well that is not possible," Arthur said gently, turning Merlin's face to his with a nudge of his index finger. "If you wish for me to leave you, I will, but I will not stop loving you."
"Nor I you," Merlin confessed, taking Arthur's hands. "It is just... it is painful, to read letters or have you here looking at me as you are and know..." He gave Arthur a sad little smile. "You are very difficult, Arthur Pendragon."
"Should I be sorry?"
"No," Merlin shook his head. "Though I would appreciate if you could perhaps, in the future, not tempt me when my mind is not made up?"
"Very well," Arthur sighed and started to edge back to his chair, but was abruptly stopped by Merlin's arms wrapping around him and holding him tight.
"I apologize," Merlin whispered. "I am very difficult, I know."
"I know," Arthur whispered back. "Would you believe I missed it?"
"I always knew you were touched in the head," Merlin laughed humorlessly, but he did not let Arthur go. Instead they knelt there embracing longer than was necessary or comfortable, like two men drowning.
- - -
Part Six
- - -
My dear Merlin,
You said I may write to you from the country estate, so here I am in the study, penning my first of what shall no doubt be many letters. All is just as I remembered it here - the countryside is quite lovely and the entertainment is quite lacking. I do wish I were back in London with you, or at the very least, that I could have brought you along to join us, as improper as it may have been. I can picture you so clearly here when I take my walks through the woods - your shirtsleeves rolled up and cravat askew, getting quite messy as you dug up herbs and mushrooms to examine later, nattering on about this and that. I can see you as well in the study with me, thumbing through the vast collections of histories we have. Of course there are no books that speak to your special, if esoteric, passions, but I have no doubt you would be content and that, in turn, would satisfy me.
But it is an idle wish, I am sure. No doubt made stronger with the letter that arrived this morning for Morgana saying that Gwen and her new bridegroom Lancelot shall vacation for a week with us in a fortnight's time. How I wish the five of us could summer together! It seems so terribly unfair that you must be stuck in the bustle and boom of the city while we lounge about like royalty in the countryside. Is it not strange that such a selfish desire has caused me to re-consider your asinine stances on class difference and social justice? I suppose that fresh air does do strange things to a man.
Do write back to me soon with all the goings-on of the city, and from your little shop. Pass my best along to Gaius, and do try to stay out of trouble, at least as long as I am not around to save you.
Yours always,
Arthur
P.S. Morgana has insisted that I include some pressed herbs that she claims Dr. Gaius has requested. Why she cannot mail them herself, I do not know.
Dearest Arthur,
What do you wish to hear? A bit of an Indian summer has descended upon London and my cravat itches worse than ever. I spend many hours torn between my desire to jump into the Thames and my fear of contracting some terrible disease if I were to lose my mind enough to do so. I am working on a less traditional solution to my problems, but controlling the extremity of temperature is proving to be quite an issue. I have accidentally frozen several beakers of water, causing them to shatter. Gaius, as always, despairs of me.
You do have a talent for making the most wonderful of situations sound like a terrible burden! The description in your letter of the woods, paired with your stories and the smell of the herbs Morgana sent have made me terribly homesick. (Do tell her that Gaius was very pleased to receive them, and has sent along a book on herbs with notes written in so she knows which ones are the most useful to collect.) I am sure you will not be shocked in the slightest to know that I spent much of my childhood in exactly the manner you described, though I fancy I am more sedate in my adulthood. That being said, there is an itch in my veins as of late that makes me long to go back to then, cavorting through glades with you and Morgana, uprooting plants and throwing pine cones at you - it seems I've slipped into a bit of fancy myself!
I do miss you terribly. Do not let your head swell - I simply have found no one with whom I may debate the matters of the day and garner a similar sense of satisfaction. Perhaps we shall do it through the post? Are you caught up in the latest serial work of Dickens? As always, I am riveted by it.
Sincerely,
Merlin
Merlin,
Of course I haven't read it! You know my feelings on that man's work - he spins a good tale, no doubt, and he should be commended for the great service he has done to the poor by illuminating the desperation of their situation, but his tendency towards preaching, over-romanticism, and his use of five words when one could do perfectly well will forever make his work unreadable to me. I hear from Morgana, who is getting snippets mailed to her by Gwen, that this not one of his finer pieces.
If you must know, there is one great joy that comes from returning to the country - my pair of bays, Llamrai and Hengroen. They were the first thing I purchased for myself after university and they are my pride and joy. I cannot in good conscience bring them with me to town when they are far happier her in the country with space to run. Perhaps one day you may meet them, though I would suggest you remain clear of Llamrai - she can be quite possessive of me and has torn several of Morgana's blouses for stepping too close. Hengroen, however, is a true gentle giant who perhaps would not maim you too terribly. I have spent nearly every afternoon riding through the countryside alternating between them, and I do believe they missed me nearly as much as I missed them. That is the problem with horses - you cannot write them a letter.
Speaking of swimming, it is slowly growing warmer here and Morgana is beginning to speak of dips in the lake with great longing. Last summer, she gave the poor cook's assistant quite an eyeful in her damp petticoats, and he mooned after her like he was even more half-witted than you, picking wildflower bouquets and leaving them wilted in front of the door to her chambers. I gather he has never seen a moderately good-looking woman before, because her personality leaves much to be desired.
I do hope you have perfected your technique for cooling. If so, please send it along in your next letter so I may give it to Morgana and prevent another spectacle this year.
Yours,
Arthur
Dear Arthur,
I must say your letter has arrived at the worst possible time. The heatwave has hit London and with heat, as usual, comes a wave of illness. It fills me with such a helpless anger. Every day I see children crying out for clean water and sweltering from fever and weather both. I cannot perfect my cooling technique - Gaius says it is useless for me to try now, he says I am far too emotional and any hope of control is long gone. And yet I cannot sleep for thinking about it, thinking about what I could do if only I could focus. I feel as if my talents are meant for something larger, greater, and yet so many things are keeping me from doing them.
It feels so much worse this year, and I feel as though I'm going mad - every time someone comes to the door I'm convinced it's you, come to whisk me away to Cornwall or for a walk. If I pass a man with light hair and a top hat, I am convinced until I look again that it is you. I wish so terribly it was - I need some sort of distraction, any sort of distraction.
I know I torture you so with my affections, and I apologize. I cherish your letters and friendship above all else, and I know I play with your heart mercilessly when I get like this. Please know it is not my intention and I remain, as always, your dearest friend.
Merlin
My Merlin,
The greatest pain I feel reading your letters is that I am too far away to aid you. I have enclosed a parcel of herbs that Morgana gathered when I told her of your situation - she hopes that Gaius will be able to use them to cure the ill. The sachet tied with blue ribbon is for you. Morgana says that carrying it will help clear your mind and aid you in sleep - she claims it is a duplicate of the one Gaius has made for her. Seeing first-hand the change a good night's sleep has wrought on her I can only implore you to do as she says. You must know how terribly I worry for you, how difficult it is for me to be separated from your side when you are not feeling well. If I cannot take care of you myself, I pray you will do an adequate job for me, for my sanity if nothing else.
Things are at a slow bustle here - Gwen and Lancelot are to arrive soon, and while Father has always viewed Morgana and Gwen's friendship as not entirely befitting of Morgana's station, he is most pleased that Gwen has married a fellow military man, and I dare say he is somewhat jovial about a chance to discuss military history with someone who does not, as I do, find the subject dreadfully dull. Dueling with pistols and fencing is all very well and good, Merlin, and I enjoy first-hand accounts as much as the next red-blooded fellow, but the dryness of memorizing troop movements and dissecting marching formation! I do not know what about it intrigues father so, though I have sat through his monologues on it so many times I feel I ought to have some sort of idea by now. I do hope that Lancelot continues to be as good and patient and saintly as Morgana and Gwen make him sound - he shall certainly need all those qualities to survive the week here.
I continue to wish, foolishly, that your profession were not what it is, or rather that my father was not aware and I could pass you as an acquaintance of Gwen's, a simple physician's assistant whose conversation I merely found stimulating and with whom I enjoyed passing leisurely days. Do not misread me, I know what joy your work brings you, and I would never wish to take that from you. It is your talent, your calling, and I only wish I knew mine as clearly as you seem to know yours. I only balk at the injustice. It seems every day I stumble upon a new thing I believe would bring you joy - a hidden glade I used to play in as a child, the sweetness of Llamrai and Hengroen's new foal, the fresh fruit growing around the estate (raspberries and watercress and the very first apples) that we have every day. I long to bundle this tiny slice of idyll and impart it upon you, who so desperately needs and deserves it. Instead, I can only pray that Morgana's tiny satchel works similar wonders, and count down the days until I return to London, where I plan to see after your diet personally. I simply cannot have you wasting away - you look disreputable enough as is.
Please be well,
Your Arthur
Sir Arthur, my unduly protective shining defender,
Perhaps I am quite as lackwitted as you claim, for the thought of such a satchel had never ever crossed my mind! Please tell Morgana that it has helped me immeasurably.
In my highly emotional state, I hope I did not give you the impression that people are dropping dead left and right all along the streets of London. It is a summer illness brought on from eating food that rots faster in the heat, and regular illnesses exacerbated by the temperatures. The heat makes it impossible to maintain anything that resembles sanitary conditions, and it is worse this year because of the unusually high temperatures. We have many factory workers coming to us plagued with heatstroke and dehydration. Gaius remains stoic and says it is only to be expected - he has weathered far worse summers. It is, however, the worst summer since I have arrived in London, and I have yet to steel my heart against two or three mothers dying a day in childbirth, when they may have lived if only their baby was born at a more auspicious time, or if they could afford clean linens, or stand to heat water hot enough to be truly adequate. In total, I estimate that somewhere between fifty to a hundred have died from this heat. I know in the grand scheme of the population of London it is nothing, but it still troubles me. Nevertheless, I have made it a point to take walks to the parks along the Thames, to watch all the children running and happy. I find it soothing and, in a certain way, cathartic.
My cooling technique has improved somewhat. It still turns things to ice - far too harsh to ever use on a human subject unless I wished to explain unseasonable frostbite away to the authorities - but I have been able to provide a new confection for cranky children - shaved ice. It usually is too horrifically expensive for more destitute mothers to afford for their children, but my freezing technique has afforded me a unique opportunity. I take the sweet peaches and plums that are so wonderful at this time of year and squeeze them for their juice, and then mix them with water, a little sugar, and some corn syrup to make them thicker. I freeze a bowl full of it (Gaius has given me a metal one just for this purpose - he is quite tired of shattered glass) and then shave it and put it in cups for children who stop by. As you can imagine, we have become quite popular. Do not fret - I have made sure to license myself with the proper authorities. (They were no hard to convince at all, especially after tasting my shaved ice!) It has been a nice piece of supplemental income for the shop, even though new impostors are popping up every day. I am not boasting, however, when I say that ours remains the best. The syrup secret has yet to be discovered by others, and without it their confections are entirely too watery. Though there is a vendor who has set himself up where Hyde and Green Park meet - you know the place - who has come up with the brilliant idea of cooling sugared cream. His charges are high, but I hear it is worth it, perhaps we should visit him when you return, if the weather is still fine enough for him to peddle his wares.
I tell you this for several reasons. Firstly, it is a matter of small pride that my fumbles should have amounted to something - my first magical discovery! It is not a great one, and it shall not save lives or cure the ill as Gaius' did, but I am determined that my next discovery shall perhaps be a little greater. Yet also, it is a source of frustration. I had such hopes for this, such a conviction that my first step would be greater, that I could truly alleviate suffering instead of giving children a small treat.
Finally, I tell you this because I know otherwise you would refuse the gift of a pocket watch I have enclosed as a belated birthday present. Please accept it. It is nowhere as fine as the old one I am responsible for drowning, but it is quite affordable on my currently augmented income, and I am quite sure it will serve you faithfully.
I remain, as ever, yours,
Merlin
My dearest nitwit,
I must apologize to you. If earlier this week you sensed your honour slighted from somewhere in the direction of Cornwall, I was the quarter from whence such objections came. I had cursed you out as ten types of idiot for not patenting your freezing technique. Think of the fortune you could have made! While Father may have frowned at the frivolity and magical nature of how you made your fortune, had you enough, he would have welcomed the Shaved Ice King of London to our country home, be it grudgingly or not.
Morgana, however, upon hearing my diatribe, has informed me (with, of course, a roll of her eyes) that minor workings of a magical nature are impossible to patent, which is why Gaius is not rolling in a grand fortune. I suppose you do not know the feeling of being confident in your own worldly knowledge, only to have it systematically stripped from you, but I assure you it is an extremely uncomfortable experience. I feel as though over time I am not becoming more informed, but merely more aware of exactly how uninformed I am. Please, refrain from smart remarks. I assure you Morgana has made them all while Gwen poorly contained her laughter.
Under duress, I accept your entirely too generous gift of a pocket watch. While not gold or an heirloom as my old one was, it is far less fiddly and of exceedingly good quality, for all that it is made of copper and tin. I am unaccountably fond of it. I also suspect you have charmed it, for it bears that certain sense of oddness that all such objects that encounter your particular talents have. You have exposed it to the full gamut, I suppose - gears that do not rust or become bent, an ever-winding dial, a charm not to become lost or stolen from my person? I have seen peddlers promising the same thing for no small fee, though coming from you, I have some faith these charms may actually prove their worth.
Your gift was by far the best received on the occasion of my birth. As you know, Lancelot and Guinevere were on their honeymoon on the actual date of my birth and Father is never in the mood to celebrate the occasion, so Morgana declared that we would celebrate such things upon Lancelot and Guinevere's arrival to the countryside where I could properly be showered with gifts and good cheer. From Gwen and Morgana, the usual hankies and cravats, from father the usual naval history. Dinner was lovely, though. Lancelot and I shot some particularly excellent partridges that our cook prepared with great skill, and the cake was a rich chocolate layered together with fresh fruit - simply divine. Lancelot, if I may say, is a perfectly lovely addition to our little group, and I am quite pleased with Gwen's choice in him. He is perhaps a little too good - one cannot help but feel wicked by comparison simply when you are in his presence, but the same can be said of Gwen, and they are a very happy couple. While Gwen and Morgana natter on like fishwives, he and I have been enjoying great sport hunting and fishing, and our dinner table has never been finer under the fruits of our labours. I fear I shall not fit in my waistcoats if I continue to eat so well. We shall have to take a great many long walks to work this country food off of me.
If I may be maudlin with you, my dear fellow, reflection on the subject has led me to conclude that I have received the greatest possible gift this year to mark turning seven-and-twenty; the knowledge that I am secure in your affections as your friend and confidante, and perhaps one day (with your permission) more.
I can assure you that you remain secure in mine.
Yours always,
Arthur
My good lord prat,
I must confess, at first I was quite surprised you did not know such magical patents existed! Though I suppose I should not be surprised. Morgana knew nothing when she first came to us. Why she didn't even know... wait, I'm getting ahead of myself, as, you well know, I am wont to do when a subject catches my interest.
Before I go further I must allay your fears - what I am about to explain, while not explicitly illegal, will no doubt upset your father, as it is of a magical nature. I have taken some precautions and cast a cryptos charm on it. To anyone but you, this letter will appear to be a missive about something innocuous - a walk in the park, an account of a dinner party, and only you may receive the true message. If, however, you wish to burn this letter before continuing further, I would understand completely.
You have, I assume, been educated on the idea that our planet is cocooned in layers of air known as our atmosphere. We are also wrapped in a layer of what can only be described as magical matter. (We do not know if this atmosphere is limited to our planet or encapsulates the entire universe, or exists on our planet and others -but again, I digress!) Every living being on earth is connected to this infinitely thick blanket by a thread. Each thread varies in thickness, color, material... no two are alike, just as no two beings on this planet are alike.
Despite what your father would have you believe, there is nearly nothing that binds two magic users together in likeness. The depth of their talents, what their talents are for, each varies. It is much like saying one has a talent for music without specifying if it is with their voice, or in the field of composition, or an instrument, and if it is an instrument, which one. Gwen, as I am sure you know, for instance, is quite skilled at playing the piano yet cannot carry a tune for the life of her. Much like any ability, it is inborn and some, like you, dear Arthur, are born with none at all. There is, however, one thing that unites all magic users, and that is the ability to sense the presence of another magician, or their thread, if you will. (You have mentioned on occasion you can sense me, dear Arthur. I should inform you that this does not mean you are magical - it is not unusual for someone without any magic to be able to tell if a great deal of magic has be performed around them. Since you never sensed Morgana, (and she is powerful in her own right, certainly something a magician would sense!) it seems that you, like most, can sense particularly strong magic, or have learned to recognize my magic the way some people learn to recognize another's scent, or the cadence of their footsteps. It is also possible that you have ascribed a certain sense about me to magic simply because you know I posses it.)
If a child has received a rudimentary education, they are usually extremely quick to understand that their sense about other people means that they posses some magical ability and are therefore prepared when it begins to manifest itself. When Morgana came to us utterly unaware of this very elementary fact and unsure of what this feeling meant, I was, I must admit, quite shocked. It is not unusual for children too destitute to have been educated to not understand, but for a young woman as well-reared and educated as Morgana to not know baffled me. Upon further reflection I suppose that your father paid your governesses or educators to neglect certain parts of your education. Let it not be said that money cannot buy anything, including ignorance!
I do apologize, was that unnecessarily cruel?
What Morgana alluded to is that when one performs a Great Working, it can be sensed by other magicians, as it creates a disturbance in the magical fabric. It is as if... imagine each magician is connected to this fabric by a thread - if they have tugged theirs with too much force, and creates, for a brief moment a run or hole in the fabric that all magic users can trace or feel to the person who performed it by following the tugged thread, until the hole closes itself back up. That is the difference in classifying a Great and minor work. A minor work, such as my little freezing trick, is so inconsequential that it cannot be detected. As much as your father wishes, there is no power in the world that can force minor workings to cease, for they are impossible to be noted unless directly observed.
I could go on for pages and pages on magical theory, but I feel that is enough for your first lesson. If you wish to continue your education, I am more than happy to suggest readings. And if you wish to send me information of a sensitive nature, ask Morgana to perform this charm upon your papers before you write on them. She knows how - she has borrowed a great number of books from Gaius for her holiday that I have needed to consult and been quite unable to.
I remain your faithful tutor,
Merlin
My esteemed imbecile,
I still think it was entirely too risky to send me your latest missive, as fascinated as I was by the information therein. We shall have to continue discussing this matter when I return. But quite seriously, as little as I know of magic, I do know that so long as there is a stronger enchanter, there is a way to break the enchantment. I know you are strong, Merlin, but I fret that you are growing too comfortable in your (not inconsiderable, I know how proud you are, darling nitwit) strength.
Gwen and Lancelot have left, and with them any source of interest around the estate. Fall is most decidedly in the air, and while there is excellent game aplenty in the woods, there is only so much meat three people can eat, or that I can bring to our less fortunate neighbors. Shall I fascinate you by telling you that we have quite an excellent harvest this year? Or how Llamrai's foal Passelande looks as though she shall be even finer than her parents? I cannot even spend my time for Morgana, for she is burying herself in books. I thank you for your explanation on concealing objects by making them appear boring, I was mystified as to what she found so engrossing about handicrafts of the Himalayas.
Regale me with tales from London, I beg of you. I miss you terribly and I count down the days until I can join you in the city, and when thoughts of taking up knitting just to stave off the mind-numbing boredom will be far behind me.
Yours in great misery,
Arthur
Arthur, my ever-petulant friend,
You worry entirely too much, my dear fellow. What you say about stronger magicians is true, yet none exist in Britain. (If you do not believe me, ask Gaius - there are ways to determine the depth and breadth of one's magical ability, and it is not pride to say that mine exceeds any we have yet encountered.) The cryptos charm that so worried you is a rather unique and handy bit of magic. There is a great deal of theory used to explain this that has to do with the fact that each person's magical thread, to continue the metaphor, is unique. Breaking a personalized enchantment, no matter how strong one is, requires one to have something bearing the unique magical signature of the person the spell is aimed at, and this is assuming that the magician is strong enough to determine who, exactly, the spell is aimed towards. Unless you are suggesting that perhaps the fellow in charge of delivering the post is some sort of great enchanter of previously unknown stature, sent to intercept our missives for the sole purpose of reporting back to your father, who has given him an item of yours that bears your personal signature (if you are a magic-user, it can be something your magic was used upon, but for non-magical people such as you, it would have to be something that had been on your person for a very long time, and very recently - I imagine any such object would be noted by you to be missing).
It is for this reason that in the wars against Napoleon the cryptos charm was wildly popular, and I suspect your father employed it frequently, considering his high rank in the army, though I am sure he would deny such a thing vehemently. Nevertheless, if you think such a nefarious plot is still possible, I contend that your paranoia has reached levels which are, quite frankly, concerning, and I shall have Gaius examine you the second you set foot in the city again.
I do, most felicitously, have a great story to relate to you! A couple of days ago, I was hired for a rather informal dance to perform the usual gambit - keep ice sculptures from melting, keep plates warm, produce flowers for ladies shyly standing by the walls and say they are from nervous admirers ogling them across the room, a display in the middle of the night while people catch their breath... I needn't run through a full list, you have seen me do these tasks before. Late in the night, however, I was approached by a most charming man named Mr. Morris, who is making a bit of a name for himself as a rising barrister. I had sensed him the second I entered the room, for reasons I have related to you, for he has considerable power. It is usual at these sorts of gatherings to have a handful of people who can perform simple charms, but I was surprised to note another user of considerable strength. He approached me because, aside from learning basic theory in his schooling, he has never had a more practical grounding, and was most impressed by my displays. He wishes to engage me as a private tutor for skills of a magical nature, which I immediately agreed to with no small degree of enthusiasm, as you can imagine. Mr. Morris was quite coy and bashful about his reasons for choosing to engage a tutor now, and so circumspectly (after all, it is hardly unusual for one to engage in a bit of recreational charm-work as a pastime, if one has the ability), but he only flushed and said that he believed it would help him have an advantage to stand out from a crowd of gentleman if he had something up his sleeve (pardon the pun!), and that all knowledge is knowledge that ought to be gained. I agree with his second point, though I cannot help but wonder at his first. He is a very eligible, handsome man - perhaps not conventionally good-looking, but certainly pleasing to the eye and in possession of a fine temperament. I cannot believe that, should he set his mind to charming a certain someone, he would need magic to aid him.
But I care not! At long last I have my very first prospective magical student! I have never had someone to teach for my very own - I have only assisted Gaius. But to have such a fine gentleman with such a quality of talent to myself, to intimately mold him into a fine magician! I have been most happily engaged in dreaming up lessons.
Send my affections to Morgana,
Merlin
My dearest Merlin,
I am a miserable man - miserable regardless of if I hear from you or not. Miserable, lonely, petty, jealous, snobbish - I am every fault you have accused me of and more. How is it you write me, how is it you put up with me in such a state as I am now? For I feel I am half a man without you. And yet my unworthy heart is yours - has been since you dunked me in the pond, or perhaps from the moment I met you. I was so jealous, so very jealous, I see that now. I apologize. I apologize for everything I have ever done to hurt you, every pain I have caused you. I apologize for not being what you deserve. You deserve the greatest of all men or women, a king or a queen. And yet I love you. Pathetically, yes, but I do, and I cannot keep myself from speaking of it any longer. I cannot keep it inside. I may be slightly drunk on scotch and sentimentality, I may be lonely beyond the telling and longing for your company, but every piece of my heart that you have awakened, the parts I did not know existed, that I did not know could feel, they are all yours. I am all yours. Every last useless bit of me belongs to you utterly.
How can you doubt I love you? This question keeps me awake at night. I would heal if you did not love me, I would soothe any fears you had, change any part of myself you found disagreeable. Yet you doubt I love you. You doubt my loyalty, and yet, it is with great irony that I feel that is all I may promise you. I may promise you that I, Lord Arthur Pendragon, will love you until the day I die. I will love you more than any creature has loved another, I will continue to love you passionately, helplessly. If forced to I will worship you from afar. You are to me the sun, the moon, every star that hangs in the sky. Damn! I've gone rather maudlin and pathetic on you, dear boy, I know (Morgana says that liquor makes me as sentimental as a hysterical woman, yet she is of the fairer sex and has never been emotional in her entire life, hysterically or otherwise, so her judgment matters not to me!), and yet I think of you and I think of every bit of tripe I have ever read, every ode that a schoolmaster forced upon me, every sonnet I sniggered over, and I think they must have been about you, I must have been too stupid at the time to know, to understand the exquisite pain of being in love with the most fantastic creature ever to be beheld.
There is not enough scotch in the world to make me commit to paper the wonder of your form, your face, even your ears. (Yes, darling man, your ears!) It is safe to say that I am helplessly enamoured with them all, that I desire you in ways that would make even the bawdiest of men blush. And it is not for your beauty alone that I love you (yet oh, how your beauty haunts me here, especially since I cannot look upon it - torture!), but for your goodness, your power, your laughter and how you make me laugh in turn. You humble me as no one ever has, you make me wish to worship you utterly. I adore the way your hands move when you speak. I ache with emotion when I think of you, asleep on one of your tomes again, or humming and lost in thought.
I do not know if it is absence or simply the passage of time that makes me fonder of you each day, all I know is that I wake up every morning even more in love with you than when I went to bed the night before, aching and heartbroken at the thought of spending one more minute parted from your side while you engage attractive young men in discussions of magic I could never hope to understand, sure that I could not love you more than I do or I would explode, and yet I wake up the next morning inexplicably even more enraptured by the thought of you. I love you. I adore you. I could wear down my pen writing all the ways how. I count down the days until I can see you again - just see you. Naturally I wish to gather you into my arms and embrace you, to kiss you a thousand times and then a thousand times more, to never let you go, but if I could gaze upon you just once more I feel I could die a happy man.
I am yours, yours, forever yours. I wish to be no one but yours.
Arthur
Merlin -
Woke up with a terrible hangover and a vague recollection of sending a most inappropriate letter to post, yet by time I had made myself presentable, Morgana had already sent it out along with a few of her missives. I apologize most desperately.
Yours in great embarrassment,
Arthur
Arthur -
I feel it is best that we discuss the matters of your recent missives when you return.
- Merlin
- - -
When Arthur was six years old, his father had decided he needed company of his own age, and therefore had sent Arthur to summer with his mother's sister, Anna, and her four boys. No doubt he had meant for Arthur to bond with his cousin Agravaine, who was seven at the time, but he and Arthur loathed each other on sight. Agravaine was whiny, he detested Arthur with increasing vitriolic jealousy any time he was shown the slightest kindness or favor, and he would get into all sorts of trouble and then lay the blame squarely at Arthur's feet. (He had not grown out of it, either, and Arthur took great care to avoid his cousin whenever he came into town.) The twins, Gaheris and Gareth, were three at the time, and Arthur, though he was fond of them, found absolutely no amusement in their company. Instead, Arthur had fallen utterly in love with his cousin Gawain. It was not a romantic love, or even a true love, but the kind of worshipful adoration young boys experience when faced with a fascinating older boy they want desperately to impress. And Arthur had desired nothing more than to impress Gawain, to be like him in every manner possible. If Gawain refused his peas at dinner, Arthur refused his peas at dinner. If Gawain wore a brown coat, Arthur wore a brown coat. Arthur spent hours staring at himself in the looking glass in his room frowning because his complexion was not freckled, his hair was flat and straw-like instead of springy and copper, his eyes were boring blue instead of a twinkling hazel that held all the wisdom that eleven years of age can bring (which, at the time, seemed like quite a lot of wisdom to Arthur).
Luckily for Arthur, Gawain doted on him, thrilled to finally have a younger brother figure who worshiped him the way Agravaine never did (and, as he believed, was his due, a belief Arthur shared wholeheartedly). Gawain let Arthur follow him everywhere. They picked berries behind the manor and ate them all until they were nearly ill and their clothes had been irreparably stained, they caught giant insects and left them in Agravaine's bed, but most of all, they went fishing on the lake, which usually consisted less of fishing and more of Arthur and Gawain taking sick delight in spearing worms on hooks and Gawain awing Arthur with stories of his prowess that Arthur later learned were entirely untrue.
One day in mid-July, the fish were not biting (not that they ever bit), and it had been too hot for Gawain to think up any more tales, so he had turned to Arthur and said, "Hey, you can swim, right?"
Arthur had, at that point in his life, become quite proficient in dog-paddling in the shallows of the lake, and he certainly wasn't going to tell Gawain that he had never been brave enough to venture into deep water. "Of course," he had said, affronted. "What kind of idiot can't swim?"
"Excellent," Gawain had beamed, and started stripping out of his shirtsleeves and trousers. "Agravaine's such a girl, he's afraid of deep water." And since Arthur would rather have died than admit to Gawain that looking into the inky blue depths frightened him too, or that it looked nothing like the clear greenish water in Cornwall, so he obediently stripped to his underthings and dived in after his cousin.
The first few moments were not too difficult. They were exhilarating, in fact. Arthur paddled frantically to keep himself vertical, weightless and infinite feeling. But his arms soon grew weak, and his head dipped under the water further and further until he could remain upright no longer and was weighted down, down... The only reason Arthur was alive to remember such a sensation was because Gawain had fortuitously turned around to call to Arthur and seen him slip under, grabbed Arthur's tiny body and heaved him into the little rowboat, crudely thwacking the water out of Arthur's chest.
"You... clod...!" was the first thing Arthur remembered coming out of Gawain's mouth. "I thought you said you could swim! You could have died!" Arthur had started crying then, hiccuping little wails until Gawain patted his shoulder awkwardly and went, "there, there".
"I can swim! I swim in shallow water all the time!" He had sobbed in between giant stomach-aching hiccups. "I didn't want you to think I was a baby!"
Somewhere between all the yelping and hiccuping and drying off and swearing not to tell any grown-ups, Arthur and Gawain's tentative friendship went from circumstantial to lifelong, was enough for them to scrawl childish letters to each other through the years ("lessons are dull and Morgana is stupid. Father let me shoot his rifle!"). Arthur knew Gawain remembered the incident because it was his favorite to recall when introducing Arthur to new friends of his, often re-told in a way that cast Arthur in an unfavorable light. Arthur, however, rarely thought of the incident, though in recent weeks, it had come back to him in full force.
Being separated from Merlin was like nothing he had ever experienced, save the feeling of drowning. The initial stages of attraction, of infatuation, and then love resembled nothing more than the feeling of euphoria at being suspended over deep water. Metaphorically, Arthur had dabbled in the shallows, yet being with Merlin was akin to being thrown overboard with no instructions, beautiful and terrible and dangerous, so very dangerous. He could remain afloat so long as he was in Merlin's presence, but to be parted from him was impossible. Arthur felt constantly weighted, depressed, as though he were struggling for air. He could barely contain his impatience on the long ride back to London, and it grew shorter, as did his temper, the nearer they became. He was in such a foul state that neither Morgana nor his father questioned his claim of a vicious headache or his purported need for some fresh air and time alone. He could not even bear to take a hansom, instead running like a madman to Pall Mall, past it, slamming into Gaius' shop like a thing possessed.
"'Ello your eminence," Will said cheekily when Arthur burst through the door, gasping for air from his exertion. "Run back from Cornwall, did you?"
"Needed...exercise," Arthur gasped out, straightening up when the stitch in his side abated. "Nearly mad... from the drive."
"Ah," Will nodded sagely. "You're 'ere to see Merlin, ain'tcha?"
"He is here?" Arthur asked. He had the sudden terrible thought that Merlin was out, that he would have to wait longer, but luckily Will nodded.
"In 'is room," he said, pointing upwards for clarity. "New magic tome from Prussia got approved for translation or summat, 'e's been studying something mad up there."
"God bless you," Arthur breathed, sprinting for the door.
"I don' know what you did with the real Arthur, but I like the new one a good deal more!" He heard Will shout after him, but he didn't care to spare breath to reply, getting to Merlin's attic room was more important.
Merlin was indeed in his room sitting in his bed and murmuring over a new-looking book. Arthur had to knock on the doorway very vehemently several times before Merlin took any notice of him. "Oh, Arthur!" He smiled up at him, eyes crinkling in genuine joy. He shoved the book off his lap and stood. "I didn't know if you'd feel up to visiting me the day after such a long journey, what a pleasant surprise!"
"Merlin," Arthur breathed for the first time in weeks. God, how had he lived six weeks without this man? How could six weeks have passed without the sweep of Merlin's eyelashes, his wide, dimpled smile, his hands, long and elegant? His chest ached, he couldn't live without striding across the room and taking Merlin in his arms, burying his nose in the nape of Merlin's neck and holding on like a drowning man. Merlin gripped him just as passionately, stroking Arthur's back, his hair, checking to see if Arthur was truly whole and wrapped around him. "I missed you," Arthur choked out. "God, I missed you so."
"I know," Merlin's voice was just as husky and affected as Arthur's. "I missed you as well."
"Never again," Arthur swore. "I cannot bear to be parted from you for this long ever again. I will make excuses to my father. I don't care. If I ever leave you for this long again I will die, I cannot..."
"Sh," Merlin soothed. "Arthur, you needn't. I know."
Arthur pulled back and gripped Merlin's face in his hands so he could study those familiar features, drink him in. "In the letter I sent," he asked finally. "What was the matter with it? Did I tell you that I loved you?"
Merlin blushed. "Quite thoroughly," he murmured, looking down.
"And you had no objections to my professed feelings?"
"Only that you were lackwitted enough to send such a -" Whatever reprimands Merlin may have been intending say were swallowed by Arthur crushing their lips together. He needed Merlin, and kissing him was dizzying, intoxicating, like inhaling pure oxygen after he had been choking for air. Merlin was an anchor, a boat to hold on to in a raging storm. He was dear, so dear, and Arthur loved him more than he was sure any human had ever loved another in all of recorded time. And Merlin was kissing him back just as fiercely, making soft noises against Arthur's mouth that undid him completely. Arthur could feel that he had lost control utterly, that the only things left in his head was need and love and mine. Some detached part of him protested his body backing Merlin up against his bed, scolded him for hungrily undoing Merlin's waistcoat and un-tucking his shirt, brushing against bare skin, but he did not care. He was too drunk with Merlin's scent to notice anything save how Merlin pushed into his touch, trembling and eager, how no one had ever done that for Arthur before, how lovely he was, how he had to unbutton Merlin's shirt, he had to have more. Arthur was jolted out of his fever when Merlin gasped and pushed him away at the feel of Arthur's fingers on his shirt buttons. "No," Merlin said hoarsely, gathering his waistcoat from where it had been tossed carelessly aside and shrugging it back on, attempting to make himself respectable again. "Arthur, no."
Arthur forced himself to look away from Merlin's mussed hair and kiss-bruised lips, to think on what a great mistake he had very nearly made. "I'm sorry," he said hollowly, smoothing his own hair into place. "I was... overcome. That is not, however, an excuse for such untoward and unwelcome advances."
"Oh, don't be such a massive horse's arse," Merlin snapped, and Arthur looked back at him, shocked and very nearly amused. "You know that wasn't the reason I made you stop."
Arthur blinked at him a few times before he managed a small, choked, "indeed?"
"Indeed," Merlin sighed, sitting back down on his bed and gesturing for Arthur to take the wooden chair in the corner. "They were more... well, perhaps untoward is the correct term."
"I do not understand," Arthur said after a moment's thought. "how my actions could be one, yet not the other."
"Because," Merlin said bitterly, "this is a game we are playing with ourselves, believing this may ever amount to something more than it is."
"This is no game!" Arthur exclaimed, jumping from his chair and kneeling at Merlin's feet, trying to catch his eyes, but Merlin would not indulge him. "Merlin, I love you," he insisted. "Living without you for six weeks only confirmed to me that I love you more than I ever knew I did. I will do anything, anything to make you happy."
"Then stop," Merlin's voice sounded broken. "If you will not protect your heart, stop loving me for the sake of mine."
"You know very well that is not possible," Arthur said gently, turning Merlin's face to his with a nudge of his index finger. "If you wish for me to leave you, I will, but I will not stop loving you."
"Nor I you," Merlin confessed, taking Arthur's hands. "It is just... it is painful, to read letters or have you here looking at me as you are and know..." He gave Arthur a sad little smile. "You are very difficult, Arthur Pendragon."
"Should I be sorry?"
"No," Merlin shook his head. "Though I would appreciate if you could perhaps, in the future, not tempt me when my mind is not made up?"
"Very well," Arthur sighed and started to edge back to his chair, but was abruptly stopped by Merlin's arms wrapping around him and holding him tight.
"I apologize," Merlin whispered. "I am very difficult, I know."
"I know," Arthur whispered back. "Would you believe I missed it?"
"I always knew you were touched in the head," Merlin laughed humorlessly, but he did not let Arthur go. Instead they knelt there embracing longer than was necessary or comfortable, like two men drowning.
- - -
Part Six