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"Beautiful, isn't it?"
Dr Merlin Emrys, Director of Collections and Learnings, locked eyes on the Museum of London’s latest acquisition—an artifact being placed onto the velvet cushion that was to be its temporary home.
He pulled on his white gloves, steadying himself against the rim of the display case and breathing heavily. It had taken Merlin months of string pulling to secure the object on loan, which was even more magnificent in person than he’d remembered it being.
"Are you all right, Dr Emrys?" his coworker asked, looking him over as she angled the horn to showcase its carvings. "You look as if you're about to faint?"
“I'm fine, brilliant." Merlin gulped. "It certainly is. Beautiful, I mean..."
"I thought you would say that. When it comes to the Museums collections, nothing peaks your interest quite like the medieval artifacts," the woman replied.
It was true that Merlin rarely left the confines of his office for anything less. After three years at the museum, he could recite from memory every new piece he'd secured, but only five of his coworkers names.
"Yes, well, they are my specialty," Merlin replied, adjusting his glasses for a closer look. "And this piece in particular is... priceless. Early sixth century."
“It is. Do you know what its purpose was? The accompanying catalog on the horn is rather vague and I was hoping to put together a paragraph for the display today."
Merlin ran his fingers gingerly along the horns slope, corrected the positioning, and then snapped the display case shut. "It’s a ceremonial relic of Beltane, celebrating the season of light. The druids believed that during this season, the horn had the power to summon the spirits of their ancestors from the dead."
The coworker chuckled, pulling off her gloves in a fluid movement. “Impressive. Dr Emrys, sometimes I'm half-convinced that you’re from the medieval times yourself and take a time machine to work every morning."
"Imagine that.” Merlin grimaced. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, will you be able to handle the rest of the relocation process, Dr, um..." The woman’s name eluded Merlin. He paused, wrestling for it until the silence between them became awkward.
“Of course.” The woman finally blushed, turning away from him. “I’ll take over from here.”
Merlin moved on autopilot. He didn't know how he'd arrived back at his office on the curatorial floor, but once he was locked inside, he slumped into his chair, his whole body shaking.
The last time he had seen The Horn of Cathbhadh it was being hidden in the bowels of Camelot’s vaults. He had laid the relic to rest himself, and this was the same horn, no mistaking it. Every detail matched down to the silver filigree on the rim.
Call it coincidence, fate, or -- Merlin's personal favorite -- destiny; by any name, the meaning was still the same. The Horn of Cathbhadh was within his grasp, and the decision to pilfer it was an easy one to make.
Merlin waited until nightfall. He worked late every day, so his presence after-hours garnered little attention. He nodded politely to the night guards, busy chatting amongst themselves, and lurked through the gallery floor until he spotted what he’d come for.
Muttering an incantation, Merlin slipped the horn through the display case as easily as if it were water. He conjured a fake in its place, letting the horn fall smoothly into his coat pocket.
The guards wished Merlin well as he left the Museum. He jumped into his car, wrapped his sweaty palms around the steering wheel, and listened to his heart clamor in time with the bass on the radio.
He’d taken one step closer, and could make it to his destination in only an hour and a half if he ignored every speed sign.
The pendulous formation of rock known to the Druids as The Great Stones of Nemeton had a new name now: Stonehenge.
Merlin had visited The Great Stones only once since the sixth century, during a university holiday. The drive to the West Country had been pleasant, but the metal gate befouling the view and paying thirteen pounds for entry and an audio guide full of lies had soured the trip for him.
There was no room for magic in the twenty-first century, he had learned, and more often than not Merlin felt as archaic and misunderstood as those mighty ruins.
He drove into the empty tourist lot, parking diagonally across two spaces. A short jog through the exhibition area and a trek across a damp earth bank reunited Merlin with the ritualistic circle.
The Great Stones stood black against an inky-blue sky, an entire galaxy of stars welcoming Merlin back. Traces of old magic tingled through his veins, their footprints so strong that Merlin had to clasp his hands tightly under his biceps to keep his own magic from bursting free to join it.
Crouching low, he spotted the fluorescent macs of the perimeter guards glowing radioactive in the night. Merlin fell to his knees, watching the slow passes of their torches. Once he was certain that he wasn’t going to be ambushed, he spread his fingers, shouting a spell that had the guards as frozen in place as the monument they patrolled.
The young men would be fine come morning, sunlight the cure for their curse.
Merlin pulled the horn from his coat pocket, visualizing the face of the spirit he wanted to conjure. Every freckle and strand of blond hair pooled liquid from his memories.
Would Arthur welcome this intrusion? Would he even want to see Merlin, after all this time?
The silver mouthpiece burned cold against his lips. There would only be one way for Merlin to answer these questions. Heaving the air out of his lungs, Merlin blew until his face was red and the horn cried out in alarm.
The sky vibrated, tearing open in a loud gash.
Night had swallowed Merlin, whole.
He clawed at the air, eyelashes fighting against a stinging white tide.
A familiar voice wafted gentle as a breeze through rushes.
"Open your eyes, Merlin.”
It was the sensation of being reborn.
Merlin gasped, and the light bled from his vision. Arthur flicking naked and golden before him.
Merlin longed for nothing more than to dive into him. To feel Arthur’s soul shimmering around him, but the warlock settled with a blundering, "I… I know what you must be thinking, but I couldn’t wait any longer."
The merry light that had glimmered behind Arthur's eyes in life was now a sunburst, radiating through the translucent film of his body.
"Is that so?" he teased, materializing beside Merlin. “I thought I told you to get rid of that horn decades ago."
Merlin licked his lips. “I was always rubbish at following your orders."
Arthur's full laugh made the lifetimes between them weightless. He draped his gauzy arms around Merlin and they were young men again, the two of them finally whole.
There were promises pledged and vows born to be broken. Kisses begging forgiveness against tear-stained mouths.
"We won't have long,” Arthur warned, releasing a misty kiss. “The veil is slipping.”
"We have all the time in the world," Merlin replied. He tried to pull Arthur closer, but just like in his dreams there was nothing solid left of his king to hold onto. “I'm staying in the underworld… with you."
Arthur recoiled, but Merlin made no effort to placate him. He had made up his mind the moment he'd touched the horn.
"Don't be an idiot.” Arthur said, in perfect parody of his former self.
"I lost you once, Arthur, I'm not making that same mistake again." Merlin countered.
"Go, Merlin. That's an order!"
"No!” Merlin met Arthur’s gaze, raising his chin defiantly. “I’m not afraid to die by your side, it's living without you that terrifies me! Can't you understand that?"
The darkness flexed around them like a cat stretching out of deep sleep. The veil was sealing, and Merlin wondered idly if the encroaching black would crush or suffocate him first.
"Death is a vestment all men wear eventually, even kings." With the tremble in Arthur’s voice came a tremble of form, as if it took all of Arthur's resolve to hold together his human illusion.
"It never did suit you," Merlin said evenly.
"And apathy suits you even less.” Arthur placed a hand at either side of Merlin's face, fingertips smooth as beach-glass against Merlin's skin. "You are my North Star, Merlin, I will always find a way back to you if you keep your light on for me. You must stay strong, for the both of us."
Charcoal-black clouded the edges of Merlin’s vision.
There was a whistle in the air as the bright light returned, Arthur dissipating in Merlin’s arms. He shouted into the fog of Arthur's flesh, but it did no good, his king was gone again.
Merlin curled into a ball, shuttering his eyes. He had too many regrets to trust himself not to search blindly for Arthur. To drag Arthur’s incomplete spirit into the modern world with him, all because he couldn’t bear to look away.
When he awoke it was to water dripping down his cheeks, not tears, but dewdrops.
Merlin was crumbled beside the cratered Heels Stone at the outer edge of the circle, though how his body had traveled this far, he could not say. His sopping coat was as heavy as the rock behind his back, muscles aching as if he'd run for days.
He elbowed his way into a sit, relieved to find the horn and his keys still inside his pockets.
Daylight climbed in the northeast, breaking in a crescent above the stone where Merlin rested. This poetry of nature was a message, one that Merlin was finally ready to listen to. He had mourned the dark days of his past for far too long. If he wanted to welcome Arthur home, he would first need to turn on the lights.
Twelve years later
"Will you be joining us for lunch, Dr Emrys?”
Merlin put his computer to sleep, glancing out his office window to the patrons queuing outside the museum.
It was an uncharacteristically balmy weekend and families were taking advantage. While most Londoners eyed the sunny day with incredulity, Merlin basked in it. Today marked not only the beginning of summer, but also the opening week of the “Camelot Found” exhibition, his current pet project.
Each artifact in the exhibit had been carefully selected, and Merlin had overseen every re-creation himself. Though reviews from his contemporaries ranged from genius to sideshow, Merlin couldn't have been more pleased with the results; he was finally sharing Camelot's story with the world, and on his own terms.
Smiling broadly, Merlin left his desk. "Of course, Dr Larkin, I'll join everyone as usual after I see to something."
"The Camelot exhibit? You're like a proud papa, you can’t keep away from it." She chuckled.
He wiggled his fingers. "You've caught me. I wanted to take a quick look, make sure that everything's perfect and people are enjoying themselves.”
“I’ll leave you to it. See you soon.”
*
Merlin entered the exhibit, blending in with the children and short-wearing tourists. He let his magic off its leash, grinning as it snaked through the air, absorbing the patrons’ enthusiasm.
To his surprise, it vibrated, almost giddy, as it reached an instillation housing a precise replica of Excalibur.
Merlin trailed his magic to the source of its excitement.
A young boy stood at the case, nose flat-pressed against the glass.
Merlin sighed inwardly. He’d have to wipe down that smudge later with his neckerchief. “Fascinating, isn’t it?” he asked, gauging the youth’s interest in the piece.
The boy pulled his face back, staring up at Merlin with the same crystal-blue eyes that haunted his every dream. “It’s a fake, you know,” he said haughtily.
There were a million insightful things Merlin had planned to say at this crucial junction. Epic speeches he had crafted over decades, should he be blessed enough for this opportunity to arrive.
Instead, Merlin crossed his arms and blurted, “And how would you know? What are you, eight?”
“I’m eleven,” the boy replied, rolling his shoulders back.
Merlin couldn’t help but laugh. It was Arthur, all over. Straight down to the condescending tilt of his head and the holier-than-thou tone he’d missed so much.
“All right, if you’re the expert, tell me what makes it a fake.”
The boy licked his lips, thinking. He looked back to the case. “There are no dents on it, not even a scratch. A real sword would have seen battle, wouldn’t it? The metal looks light too, like a toy.”
“That’s surprisingly astute,” Merlin replied.
“Anyway,” the boy huffed. “All this king Arthur stuff isn’t real.”
"You think so?”
“Of course. He's only a stupid fairy tale.”
Merlin closed his eyes, and with a whisper the room around them melted into forest. Camelot glistened on the horizon, but it was the royal on horseback who shone brightest.
"Let me be the first to enlighten you.” He smiled, the boy riveted where he stood. “King Arthur was as real as you and I, and he ruled not only with his sword, but with this," Merlin said, briefly touching his temple. "But, mostly, he governed with his heart. He was a softhearted prat, come to think of it. But you’d do well not to blaspheme him, if you know what’s good for you.”
The boy’s shocked gasp broke Merlin’s illusion. He spun around to face Merlin, his pupils blown wide. "Did you... How did you do that?"
A middle aged woman zigzagged frantically through the displays, catching Merlin’s eye.
"Arthur? Arthur where have you gone?"
"Off with you," Merlin chided. "It's rude to keep your mum waiting."
He turned the corner, watching through his peripheral vision as mother and son reunited.
When the woman pulled Arthur into a hug, ruffling his hair as she scolded him, Merlin rubbed at an aching spot in his chest. Fate had been kind to this young Arthur. He had a mother who loved him and, by all appearances, a good life. Time would tell what kind of man this Arthur would grow into, or if the threads of their lives were destined to interweave again.
But Merlin had a sneaking suspicion that the cosmic loom had just been set, and he was, if anything, a patient man. He had waited a thousand years for his king already.
He could manage a few more.