Work Text:
Sleeping Beauty:
For as long as he could remember, Arthur liked to make his own clothes; he enjoyed picking out the fabric and creating his own designs. Sometimes he would dress up as his favourite characters from the books he read, especially those stories featuring great warriors, gods and ancient heroes.
His father did not share his passion. In fact, Uther Pendragon had banned all sewing devices from the kingdom of Camelot. Arthur just wanted to be himself and resented his father’s interference and schemed to sew in secret.
Arthur could not know what drove his father’s obsession, he only saw a tyrant who wanted to burn anyone in possession of a pair of fabric scissors and a needle and thread. Arthur knew nothing of his parents pact, of the dangerous magic that had brought him into the world.
Twenty-one years ago, Queen Ygraine and Uther had longed for a child; a handsome, golden-haired boy, who would be a fierce warrior and a noble king. Yet Ygraine could not have what she wanted, despite trying everything she was barren. In desperation, Uther consulted the witch Nimueh and begged her to help his wife conceive a child; nine months later, Prince Arthur was born.
The kingdom celebrated for three days. The King and Queen’s joy knew no bounds. Their focus was solely on their newborn, they neglected to acknowledge Nimueh's role in the birth of the new prince or even invite her to the festivities.
The witch was livid, she burst into the throne room, shattering the windows and scooped the babe from his cot. She held the baby prince aloft, pointing a crooked finger at Uther.
“Your child will be all that you ever wished for; he will be fair and handsome, kind and just, a fearsome warrior and a noble leader…”
Uther’s fear subsided a little and a flicker of a smile curled at his lip – but it was premature.
“And it will all crumble to dust, slip through your gold-encrusted fingers. Your beautiful boy will be taken from you, wrenched from your hearts at his peak, mark my words! Uther, I curse your child. When you least expect it, Prince Arthur will prick his finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel and die!” she cackled, disappearing in a cloud of putrid green smoke.
Queen Ygraine rushed to catch the falling babe, gathering her child in her arms and sobbing into his blankets.
There was a small cough and Gaius, the court physician, stepped forward. “All may not be lost my lady, Nimueh’s magic is powerful and I cannot undo it but I may be able to modify it.”
“Anything, Gaius, by any means” King Uther urged.
“I think I can change the spell so that Arthur merely falls into a deep sleep.”
“That’s wonderful Gaius -”
“No Sire, it’s nothing of the sort. Arthur will be unconscious and will remain so until one pure of heart can awaken him with true love’s kiss.”
“He will be a prince, Gaius, he will be desirable.”
Gaius pinched the bridge of his nose and pursed his lips. “Spell work is a delicate matter, Sire, all may not be as simple as it seems.”
Uther’s face became scarlet. “Then we will purge Camelot of all sewing devices, build a pyre and when I’m finished there will be nothing left that can harm my son. Guards, round up all the tailors and seamstresses!”
The years passed without incident and Arthur grew into a fine young man; a knight who knew no equal with a sword. He was strategic in battle, blessed with golden locks and an athletic build. Prince Arthur was not just handsome, he was desirable in the extreme and had no shortage of admirers.
True to his word, Uther rid Camelot of all spinning wheels and anything associated with the evil practice of sewing. Needlecraft became an underground activity, an illegal practice that the King’s own son and heir secretly engaged in.
Arthur hated the clothes imported from neighbouring kingdoms of Mercia, Caerleon and Nemeth, they did not fit right. There was insufficient room across the shoulders when he swung his sword and he’d lost count of the number of times his crotch seam split when he made a lunge on the practice fields. Dissatisfied with what was available Arthur subtly modified his own clothing to his personal specifications – he had a talent for it. Arthur longed for the day when he could be himself and show off his more flamboyant creations, he vowed when he became king he would pardon all imprisoned tailors and seamstresses and allow knitting, crochet and needlepoint back into the city.
A great feast was planned for when Arthur came of age at twenty one. He strode down the corridor in his chainmail and the finest and swishiest scarlet cloak.
Something lightly touched his shoulder.
A tall, slender, woman in a blue turban and red dress, replete with blue accessories, stood before him. She was pretty enough, he supposed, but not really his type.
“Prince Arthur, forgive me but I couldn't help but admire the craftsmanship of your cloak.”
He’d not expected that! A flush spread over Arthur’s face and he prepared himself to deny any involvement. To admit he’d changed the neckline was treason.
“I…”
The women seemed to sense his discomfort. “It’s ok,” she hushed, “I won’t say anything. I dabble a bit myself.”
“You do?” Arthur asked cautiously. He found this hard to believe, given the ragged hem of her dress.
The woman grasped his wrist forcefully. “I have a spinning wheel.”
Well, this changed everything. Arthur had never seen a real spinning wheel, only illustrations in books from the restricted area of the library.
Alarm bells should have rung in his head, but Uther had neglected to specify the reason for the sewing ban. Education and some thimbles would have gone a long way to averting the disaster that was about to happen.
Arthur had no appreciation of the danger he was in. He followed the lady.
They walked up a winding stair that Arthur had never seen before. It led to one of the turrets – here, he did become suspicious.
Arthur clasped his sword, “I say, where are you taking me?”
“Oh, you won’t need that my, lord. Here we are.” The women opened a door and gestures inside. “Behold.”
There, gleaming in the light from three small windows, was a golden spinning wheel. Arthur rushed in to the room and could not resist running his fingers along the shiny surface.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Oh, it’s much more than that.”
“Ahh!"
A sharp pain shot through his finger. Arthur recoiled his hand and examined the digit. A small bead of crimson blossomed in the centre of his index finger.
He drew his hand toward his face, to suck his finger but it was difficult to focus, his head became muzzy and there was a loud booming in his ears. He reached out to steady himself, knocking over the spinning wheel and crashing to the floor, unconscious.
The woman through back her head and laughed. “Farewell, Arthur Pendragon. Did your father and that goat of a physician think they could outwit me?” She paced up and down, twirling a bejewelled dagger whilst addressing the body on the floor, even though it was quite clear Arthur could not hear her.
“For years I have worn the same ragged dress all because of Uther’s fruitless vendetta against seamstresses, for what? I could kill you now, as you sleep, plunge this dagger in your heart. His purge has done nothing to protect you, from me, Nimueh, the High Priestess!” she declared dramatically, pointing at her chest.
Nimueh stopped abruptly, pointing her hands at the floor. Her eyes flashed amber and she muttered something incomprehensible under her breath. A stone plinth rose from the ground; the witch used magic to place the prince’s body upon it.
“Handsome indeed.” She gloated, “No one will ever see, there will be no true love’s kiss to break my spell, they will all perish trying to find you. Gaius has meddled and now the whole kingdom sleeps and whilst they slumber, the forest will grow tall, twisted and impenetrable. Camelot will be covered in thorns and the roses will be red from the blood of all those who try and fail to find it.”
She disappeared in a ball of acid green smoke, her disembodied laughter bouncing off the walls of Arthur’s tomb.
A forest of thorns grew, covering the castle. Rumours spread about the sleeping prince and the powerful witch who destroyed the once beautiful and thriving kingdom of Camelot.
They came in droves at first; maidens, knights and sorcerers, their quests all thwarted, none could penetrate the magical barrier.
The years passed, and with them the facts about what really happened. Centuries went by and only a few remained who believed that Camelot ever existed. Some tried to find the mythical city but they never could. The story was told from word of mouth and with each telling it became more embellished and changed, somewhere along the line it was decided a story about enchanted princess would make a better tale than one about a prince. The story became a legend, then a mere fairytale.
Merlin loved fairy tales, stories about dragons and knights, witches and warlocks. His favourite was Sleeping Beauty. To Merlin it wasn’t a pretty princess who slept trapped in a castle but a handsome prince.
As Merlin got older he still dreamed of the prince with golden hair and chiselled features, the image was so clear and it never changed – always the same man, in the same posture. The background altered a little, each year more cobwebs, more thorny vines encroaching, more cracks in the walls of the dilapidated castle.
Could it be real?
It was a magical tale, but Merlin had magic – powerful magic. His mother had always said he was born with it for a purpose. Merlin hated the thought of someone being captive, condemned to sleep for years. Could it be that he was the one who was meant to free the prince?
Many had failed before him, strong knights, clever maidens and skilled sorcerers. Why should a weedy eighteen-year-old warlock succeed when so many had not?
‘Because you are Emrys and it’s your destiny,’ a voice would say in his head. A voice that got persistently louder and he told no one about.
The voice started to nag and it was driving Merlin to distraction. ‘Fine, I’ll go!’ he said to himself.
‘Follow your feet,’ the cryptic voice said helpfully.
Merlin waved goodbye to his mother. He told her he was going off to find a special friend. She smiled, pinched his cheek and told him to always be careful.
Merlin walked for three days, following his internal compass and that bloody annoying voice.
Over the brow of a hill he came across a huge dark mass – a forest. Could this be it? The forest from his dreams, Camelot? It looked the same.
On the road ahead walked two knights; one was impossibly large and muscular the other had long hair poking from beneath a bandana. Their clothes were ripped and dirty, each supported bruises, cuts and scratches.
“Hello!” Merlin called, waving. “Are you alright?”
The two men stopped.
“Had a run-in with a thorny tree!” the shorter one said. “Where are you headed?”
“I’m trying to find Camelot.” Merlin declared.
The men laughed. “Hoping to rescue a princess are we?”
Merlin blushed. “Prince,” he mumbled.
The shorter man extended his hand. “I’m Gwaine, this here is Percival. Take my advice and turn back. The path ahead is impassable.”
Merlin grimaced and scratched his neck. “I’m sure there must be a way.”
“No my friend, there is not. We are knights, we are good at what we do – the best. But Percy lost the sleeves from his mail, torn straight off by those vicious thorns.”
“Gwaine lost some of his hai—”
“We said we would not speak of it” Gwaine snapped. Then recovered his easy manner. “Seriously, if you think you can get through that lot to the princess then good luck to you. What did you say your name was?”
“Merlin.”
Gwaine undid the cap from his water skin and took a deep swig. “To Merlin, the bravest and most stupid man I know.” He patted Merlin on the shoulder. “Last chance now, Percy and I are headed to the Rising Sun for an ale – why don’t you join us?”
“Maybe later?” Merlin offered, waving them on their way.
The forest was dark and foreboding, not a sliver of light was visible. Thorny branches covered the path and extended well beyond the height of any dwelling.
It was silent. Most woodland contained life, the noise of creatures that inhabited it going about their business. Nothing lived here, only the unnatural plants that formed a magical barrier against the outside world.
Pieces of armour and rotten fabric were the only evidence that there had ever been any human presence, none of it successful.
Merlin had not been successful either, his magic would not work in this place. Spells to blast a path or get rid of thorns merely backfired and more branches grew in their place, bigger and stronger than before. It was as if it craved magic and at this rate it would suck him dry.
As it was, Merlin’s cloths were now ragged and dirty. He sported cuts and scratches along his limbs that ached from exhaustion.
He watched a butterfly flit from flower to flower. It did not venture into the forest – it had more sense than to try.
There was a magic, a complicated and difficult magic that he could try. It would drain his energy and leave him vulnerable, but it might work.
Merlin closed his eyes and concentrated. He felt the golden core of magic that resided inside him as hot and strong as any furnace. He willed it to do his bidding, he willed his limbs to transform into his namesake, to become a bird, to become a Merlin.
It worked.
Merlin stretched out his wings and flew. He soared above the forest and through the thorny boughs. He twisted and rolled with a grace he did not possess as a human, the barbed branches tried to whip him but he was too quick, too agile.
Merlin landed on a turret that was almost completely covered with brown foliage. It seemed to pulse with life, rhythmically rising and falling but what was that god-awful smell?
Sulphur.
Crap! It was not the forest that was alive. It was a dragon!
A real life dragon! He’d never seen one before – it was huge. After all he’d been through, now he had to fight a bloody dragon! The creature was curled up and asleep but its sharp claws and teeth were clearly visible.
What was he supposed to do? He was exhausted and weak, the dreams never featured a dragon. Maybe it would not notice him and he could dart by unscathed.
A large eyelid opened and a golden iris stared at him.
Damn it!.
“Ah, young warlock, you have finally arrived!”
Merlin nearly fell off his perch. The voice! It was that raspy ancient voice that played in his head.
Merlin tried to speak but all he made was a series of shrill chirups. Warm sulphury air blew in his face and felt his limbs ache and transform back to arms and legs.
“Come now, Merlin, you have a job to do. Prince Arthur has been asleep for over a thousand years.”
“How do you know my name!” Merlin squeaked, gathering his thoughts. He was thankful that his clothes had been restored along with his humanity.
“Need we go through this every time? You are Emrys, the greatest warlock to ever walk the earth and it is your destiny to unite all the Kingdoms with Arthur. It is Arthur’s destiny to be the greatest king that ever lived.”
“Right,” Merlin replied, slightly stunned. It was a lot to take in.
“Go!” the dragon growled, becoming inpatient.
Merlin climbed through a broken window. The vines made no attempt to attack him this time. The room was just as it was in his dream. There in the centre lay Prince Arthur – stretched out on a stone plinth and as handsome in life as he was in Merlin’s dreams.
Merlin approached carefully. He tentatively put a hand on the prince and shook him. “Time to wake up.”
Nothing happened.
“Rise and shine!”
Still nothing, not a murmur.
"Wakey, wakey lazy da-”
“Are you a complete idiot?”
Merlin jumped, turning towards the window where a large yellow eye was judging him.
“You need to kiss him,” the dragon stated in an exasperated tone.
“Right.” Merlin swallowed and licked his lips, “Okay then.”
He hovered over the prince. “Are you going to watch?”
There was a big sigh and the eye moved away from the window.
Merlin leaned towards the prince. His lips tingled as they brushed Arthur’s and he gave him a tentative kiss.
He felt the magic leave him in a warm gush. He watched as an inner light seem to pass through the prince and the thorny tendrils that had invaded the room recoiled and retreated.
Prince Arthur stirred, his eyes slowly opened to reveal beautiful blue irises.
“Who are you?” He said, sitting up and rubbing his head. “What’s going on?”
“I’m Merlin.”
“What are you doing here, Merlin?”
Merlin’s mouth was dry. The prince was quite intimidating when he stared like that. “I rescued you.” He stammered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I rescued you.” Merlin repeated, picking at his fingers. “There was a spell, a wicked witch cursed you. You pricked your finger on a spinning wheel and fell into an enchanted sleep. A forest of thorns grew around the castle, knights, sorcerers and maidens attempted to rescue you but they all failed and you’ve been unconscious for over a thousand years.”
Arthur rubbed his finger as if it still hurt after all this time. He frowned “Let’s get this straight. You,” he waved a dismissive hand in Merlin’s direction, “were successful when all these other knights and whatnot failed?”
“Yes.”
“That makes no sense.”
Merlin was starting to get annoyed now, a little gratitude would not go amiss. “I have magic, powerful magic.” He announced.
“Oh.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No. Not at all. It’s just… you seem…” Arthur shrugged.
“What? Too scrawny? Too young? Too weak?
“No I did not mean—”
“I’ll have you know, I’m very good at what I do” Merlin snapped. His eyes flashed gold and a little fire dragon appeared, flapping around the room until it dispersed in a shower of sparks.
“I have walked miles, been scratched and torn by malevolent thorns and turned myself into a bloody bird to get here, the least you could do is show some appreciation!”
“Alright” Arthur said lifting his palms in a placating gesture. “It’s just all come as a bit of a shock that’s all. All I remember is this woman showing me a spinning wheel. I’d never seen one before, father banned them you see. He despised anything to do with needlecraft – I guess that makes sense now.”
“Not all people who sew are evil, Arthur.” Merlin said the anger slipping away in a wash of sympathy.
“You really think so?”
Merlin smiled.
“So how did you break the spell then?”
“I kissed you.”
“Oh.” Arthur nods, “Must have been some kiss.”
Merlin blushed. “I can do it again if you like.”
So they did.
After a rocky start Merlin and Arthur were very happy. Camelot thrived once again and Albion was built between them. When Arthur became King he renounced the ban on sewing and the people were free to make their own clothes, knit and crochet. Arthur and his mighty warlock became a legend that the people never tired of hearing about or reinventing.
THE END