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Somehow, this is all Arthur's fault.
Okay, so maybe visiting the Himalayas in November hadn’t been Merlin’s most brilliant idea. But Arthur was the one who had insisted on them attempting to trek up Mount Everest, and Arthur was the one who left Merlin to pack supplies and reassure the locals that no, they weren’t going to get themselves lost and no, they were not going to die a horrible death, thank you very much for that vote of confidence.
To be fair, Merlin isn’t entirely sure that he is not about to cause Arthur’s horrible death.
“Let’s examine what we know,” says Arthur in a kingly, summarising manner, which is even slightly impressive until he continues, “We’re stuck in a cave in a blizzard with a hibernating bear.”
Merlin says immediately, “This is all your fault.”
Arthur crosses his arms and mutters, “I don’t see how the two sentences are logically related."
“No,” says Merlin. "No, you wouldn’t.”
Outside the cave the snow is a flurry of pure white, obscuring the range of mountains piercing the horizon. When he tries Merlin can feel tiny pinpricks of magic in the landscape, too far away for help even if they needed it. The sun will set in two hours and the blizzard will die off during the night. They could wait it out, but Merlin is tired and the yetis have the best fluffy pillows in Asia.
Arthur stalks around the cave. It is not actually a very big cave and a good part of it is occupied by a ferocious mammal, so he paces mostly around Merlin, rhythmic thuds and a scuff as he turns on the floor. Merlin lasts all of three minutes before he reaches out and yanks Arthur down next to him.
“Sit,” he says.
Arthur is too surprised to do anything but obey. Merlin reaches over and presses a hand to Arthur’s back. It takes a second and when he removes it Arthur’s clothes are warm and toasty dry, like Merlin’s have been for the past ten minutes. He doesn't bother telling Arthur about this petty revenge -- Arthur already knows, which is probably why he had been pacing in the first place. Being around Arthur always makes him childish again, and for a while he forgets his age.
“Thanks,” says Arthur, a little sourly.
Merlin sighs. The amount of guilt he feels is directly proportional to how unhappy Arthur is being, even when Merlin isn't at fault. This time he is actually partially responsible, so he gets up and walks to the mouth of the cave, sticks his hand out until he gathers enough snow, then balls it into lumps in his hands. He concentrates and in a moment he has two perfect scoops of ice cream in each hand, complete with cones and coloured sprinkles.
“Here,” he offers.
Arthur takes it without hesitation, but the line of his mouth stays flat. Merlin stares at him blankly for a while before he remembers, and barely keeps himself from rolling his eyes when he understands. He reaches out and tells the vanilla to become chocolate: tilting his head as the creamy white is overtaken by brown, spreading from the touch of Merlin’s finger, trailing gold.
Arthur turns to him. The corners of his eyes crinkle, and he smiles.
They sit, eating snow-made ice cream in the Himalayas to the howl of a blizzard and the steady breathing of a bear. On the list of strange things they have done, it’s not even in the top ten.
◆
“You know,” says Merlin conversationally. “I could always teleport us away.”
Arthur eyes the bear critically. The sun is about to set. Merlin could always conjure up mattresses, but - “Do you think it’d wake up?”
“No,” replies Merlin. “Hibernating bears are relatively sound sleepers, I think. You haven’t answered my question.”
“Do you think we could sleep on top of it?”
Merlin stares. “What?”
Arthur flushes. “I mean, it’s really big. And warm and furry. What if your magic wears off in the middle of the night and we freeze to death?”
Merlin purses his lips. “Ignoring your unfounded and hurtful lack of confidence in my magic, I feel the need to point out that yetis are also big and warm and furry, and are very, very cosy and probably much nicer to wake up to.”
Arthur looks at him in horror. “Have you slept with a yeti?”
Merlin turns a brilliant shade of scarlet. “Right, I’m going to forgive you because I don’t think you know what that expression means-”
“I know what it means, I watch TV-”
“-in that case, no I have not, you idiot, I can't believe you even-"
"You said-"
"-nothing that sounds any more dubious than you suggesting we sleep on top of a bear."
Arthur winces.
"So," says Merlin with exaggerated finality. "Teleport?"
◆
Merlin closes his eyes and reaches across the mountains. Five thousand meters above and a few more thousand to the left shines the bright warm glow of magic.
He moves.
◆
The wind whips through his hair.
“MERLIN,” shouts Arthur, aggravated inflection clear even in free fall - “WHAT THE HELL?”
“SORRY,” Merlin yells back. “I WANTED TO MAKE SURE I DIDN’T TELEPORT US INTO A TREE.”
The last time he was stuck in a tree was not amusing. Having no experience of the kind, Arthur evidently does not share this concern. Merlin could enlighten him; on the other hand, the ground is approaching at an alarming rate.
“DO SOMETHING,” screeches Arthur, and Merlin pouts.
“No need to shout,” he grumbles, and the ground ripples as they fall.
◆
They hit the ground and it flexes.
Next to him Arthur swears. Merlin grins like a maniac, and flings his hands outwards in glee. The ground stretches like rubber beneath their feet and Arthur grabs onto Merlin for dear life as the ground rushes upwards and they bounce, alive and flying and caught in the most unlikely trampoline in the world.
“You are mad,” says Arthur, once they’ve fallen up and down about nine times. After the initial terror has passed the view is spectacular. Arthur seems to have fallen into a sense of calm despite Merlin's recent attempts to teach him Newtonian mechanics, most likely because he's just been teleported and Merlin hardly ever obeys the laws of physics anyway.
Not mad, thinks Merlin. Just old. But it’s not something he can say, so he folds his hands behind his head and points out lazily, “You’re enjoying this, too.”
Arthur glowers, but doesn’t contradict him. Merlin chalks it up as a win.
When they run out of momentum Merlin hops off and taps the ground. It solidifies with a final ripple and Merlin pats it gently, giving the snow a tiny piece of his magic in acknowledgement.
“Where is it?” asks Arthur, dusting snow off his parka.
Merlin grabs his pack and dries it with a quick spell. He closes his eyes, and walks. When he opens them again he’s standing fifteen feet away and facing the smooth rock of the mountain.
“Here,” he answers, and places a palm against the surface. The mountain rustles in reply; Merlin listens, and laughs. He raises a hand and gives a sharp, magic-laden knock. Arthur’s footsteps crunch in the snow behind him, and Merlin turns around to look. Arthur peers at the flat stone and furrows his eyebrows. “Is that some sort of door?”
Merlin winks.
“Sort of,” he says, and grabs Arthur’s arm to pull him close. “Hold on.”
Arthur grips Merlin’s shoulder in disbelief. He has enough time to say, “What? Oh, not again--” as the ground opens under them and they fall, and fall, and fall.
◆
They land on a giant slide.
“I am a king, not a child,” Arthur protests half-heartedly, as though he isn’t clutching his cushion in semi-terrified exhilaration. Merlin laughs, and it echoes down the icy tunnel as they slip around the sides, and he waits.
He doesn’t wait long. The moment Arthur gives in -- the pretence of dignity abandoned as he blinks up at Merlin with a slowly spreading grin and throws up his arms -- Merlin lets his magic loose with a whoop. They speed along thrice as fast, racing and shrieking wildly at the turns, held steady by Merlin’s magic until the echoes of their laughter have them clutching their sides in an ongoing spectacle of hilarity. In between breaths Arthur manages, “Merlin - what the hell,” and then the tunnel empties out into the city and Merlin’s laugh doesn't even have the time to make it out of his throat.
The mountain is vast and scintillating in its various crevices, glittering with ice embedded in finely carved rock - a city hewn under the mountain and held unmoving with colours and lights and magic. Merlin slows them down and Arthur clambers to his feet and leans over the edge, eyes as wide as saucers as he looks down and up and across.
“It’s beautiful,” whispers Arthur. The words are a quiet condensation white and fading in the air. He looks surprised at himself for having said it.
Merlin is distracted. The mountain is resplendent and ablaze, but it’s been a while and he's automatically cataloguing the ways it has changed. He measures the sheer faces of rock and wisps of gold against his magic-tinted memories, and finds the present wanting for a reason he can’t quite place. Maybe it’s because this time, Arthur is at his side: Arthur who is brighter than anything, and Arthur whom Merlin would move continents for if he asked -- how could a mere mountain compare to his king?
"How many times have you been here?" says Arthur, burning in his curiosity, and Merlin's unease evaporates in the face of it.
"I'm not sure," answers Merlin. "A few times. Mostly in the nineteenth century."
Arthur arches an eyebrow at him, and opens his mouth. Then - unexpectedly - he shuts it, and blinks and looks away.
Merlin says warily, “What?”
“Nothing,” says Arthur, falsely light, and Merlin knows that tone of voice.
“Arthur-” he begins, and then the entire mountain lights up in streams of light -- Welcome Emrys!!! it spells out in runes, and Merlin groans -- and his words are lost to its brightness as they slide to a stop.
“Come on, Merlin,” says Arthur, moving with an outstretched hand. Merlin wants to dig himself in and stop time until he wrangles it - whatever it is - out of Arthur, but the anticipation in Arthur’s eyes is genuine, and Merlin yields.
“Later,” he promises, and allows Arthur to pull him to his feet.
Arthur smiles ruefully. “Later.”
◆
The corridor that Merlin walks through is lined with yetis, who despite their shaggy and intimidating appearance are actually terrible gossips, and they break out into frantic whispers as Merlin and Arthur pass.
The door at the end of the corridor is shut. Merlin raps twice and strides in, closing the door with a tiny shove of his magic, and the yeti inside looks up from his desk and drops his pen.
“Merlin!” it says, and grunts something incomprehensible.
“Oh! Wait, hang on,” says Merlin, scrambling in his pack for his phone. He mutters to himself as he scrolls through his notes. “Teleportation.. Transfiguration.. Translation - ah, there we go.”
His eyes gleam, and he tucks his phone back into his pack.
“As I was saying,” continues the yeti, “Welcome back."
“Hi!" grins Merlin, flinging his arms around the yeti in a hug, or at least in an attempt to do so, since his arms barely reach its sides. “Sorry, I forgot about the translator. Stormageddon, meet Arthur. Arthur, meet Stormageddon.”
“Arthur Pendragon?” says Stormageddon with obvious interest, and Arthur looks at Merlin.
It wasn’t me, mouths Merlin. And it was even true this time! Their names were myths a millennium old, passed down in children’s stories and tossed through the magical community like marvellous confetti. It wasn’t Merlin’s fault that every ancient creature knew about prophecies and destiny and could probably give an abridged account of Arthur's life offhand.
Nevertheless, Arthur shakes his head, plainly unconvinced of Merlin's assertion. This is because Arthur is an egoistic prat, but at least his princely upbringing has imbued him with diplomatic good manners. He extends a cordial hand and says, “Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise,” says Stormageddon, gruff and deep as his storm grey coat, and he shakes it for a fraction too long.
Oh, for the love of Camelot, Stormageddon cannot possibly be a fan of Arthur Pendragon.
Merlin is not dealing with this. “Okay, we’ll just be going then,” he begins, and Stormageddon stops him with a single well-raised eyebrow. Merlin tries not to wince at the sight, but judging by the expression on Arthur’s face, he isn’t very successful.
“Merlin,” Stormageddon says mildly. “You haven’t dropped by in the past century, and not because you were stuck in Avalon. Don’t you have anything to say?"
Merlin looks at Arthur pleadingly. Arthur shrugs, the traitor.
“I, er,” says Merlin. He rummages in his pack and pulls out a bag full of colours. “I brought Pantone swatches?”
Stormageddon looks around at his desk, paint-filled and splotched with remnants of magic, and the sad, fading colour wheel on the side. He sighs, and Merlin barely refrains from punching the air in victory. "Oh, alright then. Leave the swatches and run along. I take it your old quarters will be sufficient?"
They kept it?
His thoughts must show on his face. “Of course we kept it,” says Stormageddon in exasperation. “No one could open the seal.”
◆
Once they’re out of earshot, Arthur asks, “Stormageddon?”
Merlin hesitates. He lowers his voice and says conspiratorially, “Dark Lord of All. I think he’s your fan.”
Arthur snickers.
“I’m not joking,” protests Merlin, but at the expression on Arthur’s face, starts to laugh anyway.
◆
Even after a hundred and fifty years of absence, Merlin still remembers the route to his chambers. He winds through twisting corridors and leads Arthur away from the sections of the floor that open to a sudden fall and an icy slide, because amusing though the transportation network can be, Merlin has an agenda and he intends to keep it. They pass by pale blue doors and softly musical rocks embedded in the ceiling, glowing with swirling colours as they approach. Several passageways open only with concealed levers and knocks, and Merlin leads them through it all.
At the end they reach a tall door. Merlin traces the carvings and whispers, and the seal flares golden beneath his fingertips, a shining thread snaking up through the rock that burns his magic into the door. It opens with a soft sigh.
On the threshold, Merlin hesitates.
“Um,” he begins.
Arthur says impatiently, “Well, what are you waiting for?”
Merlin fidgets. “It’s a bit...” He makes several expansive gestures that could convey anything from it’s a bit of a mess to it’s actually a gigantic wine cellar housing the last dragon in existence, so naturally Arthur walks straight up to the doors and thwacks Merlin on the back of his head along the way.
“Honestly,” he says, and pushes the doors open.
He stops short.
Merlin rubs the back of his head. “I did tell you.”
Arthur says slowly, “You waved your arms around. Which part of waving your arms around adequately conveys that your room, kept for you by magical yetis in the Himalayas, is messier than your room in the flat - even though it’s bigger than my chambers?”
Merlin says firmly, “It’s not my fault you don’t understand my hand-waving.”
Arthur glances at the wreckage. "Is there anything else I need to know? A baby dragon hiding in here somewhere?"
Merlin shakes his head. There are a few in Romania, though, but Arthur doesn’t precisely need to know about that. Merlin steps around the various trinkets and parchments until he reaches one of the equally messy tables, and casually sweeps the entire stack onto the floor.
"Merlin!" says Arthur disbelievingly.
Merlin shoots him a beatific smile, and promptly goes for the jugular. "So what was that about? When we arrived at the city, I mean."
Arthur freezes. "We're talking about that already?"
Merlin shrugs his shoulders. "I have some beer, if you want." He does actually have a cellar in one corner of his chambers. It's not very big, but contains more than sufficient alcohol to get two human-sized creatures drunk enough to have a decent conversation.
"Yes, that would be helpful," says Arthur miserably.
◆
They sit around the recently cleared table. Around them Merlin’s collection of knick-knacks and toys spin dizzyingly, excited by his proximity. The stone walls of the room are steeped in the gravity of the mountain and the warmth of magic, and Merlin lights the torch on the wall with a single flicker of his eyelids.
"It's - it's stupid," says Arthur, knocking back his glass in a single gulp. "Oh, this is good beer."
The best way to drink yeti beer is without moderation. Merlin drains his glass and pours them both a second round in the same breath. Both the glasses and the pitcher are freshly made from solid ice; Merlin has long since learnt the enchantment to prevent melting and he handles them with the coolness of familiarity, glad for something to occupy his hands.
Arthur says, "I was thinking about how much you'd done while I was - away. You really waited all this while, didn't you? I'm glad you got out and saw the world. But I guess... I guess I wish I was there with you."
Arthur drains his second glass. His voice is unsteady and he continues, "I know you had fun, and I wouldn't... I don't begrudge you that. I just- oh, screw it. Did you miss me?"
Merlin's throat tightens. He’s not very sure of what he just heard - but if he heard what he did, then, well. Arthur takes one look at Merlin’s expression and immediately buries his face in his arms.
"I really just said that, didn't I?" he mumbles into the table.
"Arthur," says Merlin, blinking fiercely, "Arthur, look at me. You ridiculous girl, of course I missed you. I waited a thousand years for you, more than that, do you even know how many centuries it took me to leave the lake for more than a day?"
"Oh," says Arthur.
“Yes, ‘oh’.” Merlin manages a wobbly smile. “That’s what worried you? That’s all?”
Arthur clutches his glass and thinks hard. "I think so.”
Merlin takes another swig, and laughs in relief as he sets his glass down. "You're right," replies Merlin, eyes sparkling around a mouthful of beer. "It was stupid."
Arthur scowls.
Merlin beams and raises the bottle. “More beer?”
◆
A while later, Arthur suggests, “Since we are going to get ourselves drunk anyway, is there anything else you need to tell me?"
Merlin isn't actually that far gone yet. He's had a thousand years to fortify his liver, and the mountain still hangs around him, familiar yet not, sobering in its foreignness. He’s kept things from Arthur before, and he will again, and he is nowhere near drunk enough to start spilling his deepest secrets.
Arthur is looking at him through squinted eyes, though, as if he knows what Merlin is thinking, which he never does.
Merlin gives a practiced, awkward smile and confesses, "I've been tweeting about you."
"What?"
◆
“Another thing,” asks Arthur, when they have all but depleted Merlin’s entire top shelf. “Why would, why would he want those colour things? Pant- pants? Pantene? Pentane?”
Merlin frowns.
Arthur clarifies, “Storm- storma- the Dark Lord of All.”
“Pants-? Oh, Pantone! The swatches. Um,” Merlin squints, and tries to come up with an explanation, but he honestly doesn’t think he is capable of finding the adjectives for it. “You’ll find out tomorrow. Or tomorrow tomorrow.The day after. Soon.”
“Tell me,” whines Arthur, rather unattractively.
“It will be a surprise,” says Merlin solemnly, wobbling a little bit as he pours them another drink.
“Never any nice surprises,” mutters Arthur.
Merlin looks at him in regret.
“It’ll be a nice surprise,” he promises, patting Arthur's back, and swears to himself to make it true.
◆
The next morning they wake up bleary eyed and in unreasonable pain. Merlin fumbles around in his drawer with magic for his stash of hangover potions and tosses one to Arthur, who makes a face and swallows it anyway.
"Gah," says Merlin, sticking out his tongue in disgust. He's had centuries to experiment with hangover cures, but even now all of his concoctions taste foul. It's probably some sadistic remnant of balance and the Old Magic, but Merlin doesn't like to think about that.
Arthur pulls the blankets over his head. "G'way," he mumbles.
Merlin would shake his head just to make his point, but his world has only just recently stopped hurting, so he sighs and drags himself up to get them some breakfast. Some things never change.
◆
"This is our workshop," says Stormageddon, pushing open the double doors, and Arthur nearly gets hit in the eye with a flying blue aeroplane. Merlin deflects it with a flick of his wrist and gives Arthur an impish smile.
"Careful," reminds Merlin, and Arthur immediately retorts, "That was hardly my fault."
Merlin hums noncommittally in response. He can feel Stormageddon's gaze, so he turns his attention to the workshop instead.
And oh, the workshop.
Merlin can feel the enormous network of tunnels and paint and toys and the yetis at work, bustling with magic from when they began almost two centuries ago. He extends tiny feelers of his magic into it and gasps at the sensation. He’s forgotten how good it feels: the rush of magic and the chance to use it without compunction or recrimination. To the patches where the factory is wearing down Merlin absently sends a splotch of his magic until it glows with a brilliance equal to his memories, humming like clockwork. He fixes and fixes, until Arthur whispers, “Merlin.”
Merlin turns, gold flaring in his eyes and trailing from his fingertips. Arthur reaches out as if to touch the light. The workshop shimmers in the brush of Arthur’s fingers against his.
“Merlin,” says Arthur again. Merlin inhales sharply, and lets the magic go.
He looks up at the workshop. The yetis are staring now, mirroring the expression on Arthur’s face: wonder, fascination, concern. The toys are bright and the paints are thick and vivid, colour streaming through the air, and Merlin suddenly realises how much magic he’s spent. He blinks, and says quite faintly, “Chair?”
In a second Stormageddonhas raised one from the stone floor.
“Thanks,” says Merlin gratefully, and sinks down. He shakes his head in embarrassment. “Sorry. I didn’t expect it to be that taxing.”
Stormageddon says gravely, “Thank you, Merlin.”
Merlin waves his hand. “It was no trouble.”
“Clearly, it was,” deadpans Arthur, and Merlin gives a start. Arthur’s mouth twists unhappily, and Merlin grimaces.
“Sorry,” he apologises, “I forgot myself. I still have plenty of magic left, so there’s no need to worry.”
Arthur mutters, “I wasn’t worried.”
Merlin says fondly, “Yeah, you were,” and Arthur turns away with a huff.
◆
Four winding corridors later, Arthur stops walking. He whirls around and faces Merlin, and his face is cast in the faint light of the swirling ceiling stones, something strained and serious.
"Don't do that again," he commands.
Merlin bows his head in acknowledgement, but remains silent. Stormageddon has not stopped for them. Arthur sighs, and they walk on.
◆
Three caverns and sixteen passageway twists later, they arrive at the painting room.
“What…?”
Arthur trails off, and looks at Merlin, and looks back at the room.
The cavern is, like all the others, made of rock, only there is hardly any rock to be seen. All the surfaces are swathed in vivid, powdery paint. Patches of red and green and blue clothe the sides in a messy palette, and across the room streams of colour twist through the air like smoke, reaching down like a diffuse ribbon from the ceiling to below, where the yetis wield their brushes like swords. In the air at the top the droplets shimmer in the light of the sun, a fine mist of colour coalescing into solidity as the magic weaves itself into strands of rainbow below.
"A good surprise, isn't it?" says Merlin admiringly.
Arthur nods, still speechless, and Merlin allows himself a tiny smile. He thinks, For all the surprises past and those yet to come, at least there will always be this.
Stormageddon clears his throat. “The painting room. The light splits into colours whichmix into streams of paint. We can guide the streams to paint large sections of the toys, but for the finer details - that's where most of the work is done by hand."
"So that's what the brushes and palettes are for," says Arthur.
"Indeed," affirms Stormageddon, walking them towards one of the yetis, "Here, this is Phil."
Phil is wide eyes and a large mess of colour. The original grey of his coat has long since been lost, covered instead with layers upon layers of thin stains, like a riot of spray paint. As he shifts tiny particles dislodge from his fur and hover like glitter above the matted surface. Arthur puts out a hand and swipes some of it from the air, and the blue dust of the paint settles itself into a fractal along his fingers.
"Hi,” greets Phil, setting down his paintbrush. “I'd shake your hand, but I’m all covered in paint."
Merlin says, smiling, "No, that's fine, we could wash it off anyway. Besides Arthur’s already gone and got some of it on his hands.”
Arthur looks up at the mention of his name, and says happily, “Well then.”
Before long both their hands have a colourful Phil-handshake imprint along their palms and the back of their thumbs. Arthur raises his palm and Merlin laughs; they high-five each other and watch in delight the ensuing puff of sparkling paint. Some of it lands in Arthur’s hair, and Merlin’s pretty sure his nose is turning purple, but it’s worth it to see the joy on Arthur’s paint-streaked face.
They grin at each other for a while, and Phil picks up the toy he's painting and offers it to Merlin. "Orange or yellow for the ears, d’you think?"
"Red," supplies Arthur from the side.
Merlin can’t help a smile. "Arthur, I recognise you have a weakness for Camelot red, but firstly this is not Camelot and secondly, the rest of the toy is bright blue."
"So?"
"So, in this case, this shade of red and this shade of blue makes it look like someone deliberately bled on it to be as obnoxious as possible."
Arthur jerks indignantly. "You used to wear red and blue."
Merlin inspects his fingernails with interest. They are actually quite interesting at present, serendipitously streaked with red and gold. "Did I? I’m afraid I don't recall."
"Yes, you did. And your ridiculous neckerchief-"
"The folly of youth," says Merlin loudly. "I was exposed to your presence daily. I cannot be held accountable for my actions."
Arthur cracks a smile. "I never wore red and blue.”
"You also had a hundred more tunics than I did. And I picked out your clothes." Merlin gives his fingernails a little flick, and some paint dislodges into the shape of the Pendragon crest. The dragon wiggles and stretches its wings.
Arthur opens his mouth to protest, but since what Merlin said is completely true, he is forced to shut it again.
"You were still a terrible manservant," he mutters.
"That I was," says Merlin agreeably. "If you don't count all the times I saved your life."
"Ahem," interrupts Stormageddon, raising an eyebrow. They wince. Evidently, listening to them bicker has stripped him of any fan-worship he may have had for Arthur, which Merlin finds is actually wonderful, because he’s pretty sure Stormageddon stopped treating him like a legend by the second day they met too. "While I am happy to witness this stunning example of destiny in play, I would also like to remind Merlin of something that he has brought for Phil."
"What?" says Merlin. He’s slightly occupied with his virtual paint-dragon, which is now flying around free of the crest and accumulating more gold paint.
Stormageddon looks like he is making a valiant effort not to roll his eyes, and only succeeding by dint of years of practice. "This," he says, and produces the Pantone swatches from the depths of his shaggy fur coat.
"Oh!” exclaims Merlin. “Oh, yes. Surprise! I thought it might be useful. If not for you then for the kids who can't tell a primary colour from a secondary colour, so you don't have to go around correcting their colour schemes all the time."
“Thank you, Merlin," says Phil sincerely.
Merlin beams. The dragon returns and curls around his elbow, golden and serene.
◆
“How do we get the paint off?” asks Arthur on the walk back.
“Magic,” says Merlin, completely straight-faced, and paint rains down from his hair as Arthur cuffs the top of his head. Merlin laughs until they reach the rainbow light of the stone overhead, then he spreads his arms theatrically and says, “Well, it’s like this.”
His eyes glow and then the stone glows, and the paint rises off their faces and fingers and clothes. In the dance of the spiralling light the dragon around his arm begins to unwind, but Merlin presses a hand to it and it stills. Arthur looks on, eyes wide.
“You’re keeping that?”
Merlin says simply, “Yes.”
◆
"Stormageddon has really impressive eyebrows," begins Arthur, once they're back in Merlin's cavernous chambers. During the walk back Arthur had been quiet, and Merlin wonders if he should have laughed it off as a joke: I wanted to keep a paint-dragon around, ha ha, paint-dragon, pendragon, get it? But that was not actually funny nor a good pun, and the dragon is still warm and golden against his arm.
Merlin shuts the door and whispers to it with a sigh, and it glows shut.
"I know. They were the first things I noticed about him. It reminds me of Gaius," he says, suddenly wistful. The toys and shards of light dangling across the room sweep in low, slow loops across the floor. "Stop that," Merlin tells them, and they retreat, chastised, back to the ceiling.
Arthur pads over to the cellar, deftly avoiding the scattered remnants of Merlin's experiments lying on the floor. The air is cool and Arthur extracts a bottle, flipping the cap off with scarcely a glance at the label.
"That's mine," says Merlin half-heartedly, but levitates a pair of glasses towards the table anyway.
"How was Gaius?" asks Arthur. "After- I mean."
Merlin walks over and takes a swig straight from the bottle. Arthur makes a face.
"This is chhaang," says Merlin, out of nowhere. "We can't drink it like this."
He stands up and opens his arms. Two large pots and two wooden straws zoom from hitherto unexplored corners of his room towards his hands. He sets them on the table with a heavy thunk.
Merlin pours the chhaang into the pots.
"Here," says Merlin, once he's done. "The Nectar of the Gods."
Arthur takes a sip. He says, "Ahh."
"Good, isn't it?" smiles Merlin. "It ordinarily doesn't keep very long, but," he shrugs, and jerks his head towards myriad of spinning objects above their head. "Magic."
"Useful," observes Arthur. They drink for a while, and then: "Are you going to answer my question or not?"
Merlin sucks on his straw. Loudly.
“I didn’t go back,” he says, and closes his eyes. “Not until- not for years. I couldn’t. How could I- how could I face your people, and tell them I couldn’t save you? Face Gwen?”
“Oh,” says Arthur, taken aback. “But it wasn’t your fault.”
Merlin laughs bitterly. “More things are my fault than you realise, Arthur Pendragon.”
“No,” says Arthur firmly. “It wasn’t your fault.”
Merlin stands. He walks and stops and holds his head in his hands, and the spinning toys droop.
“Yes, it was. But there’s nothing I can do about that now. No, don’t-” he says, as Arthur starts to get up, his chair scraping discordantly against the floor. “I can’t- if you. Just shut up and sit and drink your chhaang. Please.”
Arthur sits.
“I went back because Gwen called. Using magic,” he adds, and doesn’t turn to see Arthur’s face. “It’d been - it’d been long enough that she’d manage to find a court sorcerer to do it for her. And. She called because - because Gaius was dying.”
Arthur rises again. This time Merlin doesn’t stop him.
“I went back. It was- I was so stupid,” swallows Merlin. "He- it'd been years, and he just- I didn't know how to teleport, yet, and when I walked in - the first thing I saw was the bowl, of chicken soup. Left for me, like he promised. He waited, Arthur. And I never came back. And when I did - do you know what he said? He said - he said Merlin, it's not your fault.”
“When I first came to Camelot I was nobody. I had no purpose. No one even knew I had magic, except Gaius. Gaius told me-" that I wasn't a monster - Merlin chokes on the memory, and forces the words out of his throat, "that he was proud of me. And despite all that I made him wait until his dying breath before I came to see him again. And even then - all he could think about was me. He was worried. For me!"
"It's not your fault," whispers Arthur again, with an expression so helpless Merlin knows it is mirrored on his own.
"But it was," cries Merlin, and suddenly he's a child all over again, wishing for his mother and his fathers, and Arthur steps up and embraces him with such determination on his face that it would be funny in any other circumstance, but right now he’s clinging to Arthur's shirt and leaving tear stains on the shoulder and he mostly can’t find it in himself to be anything but sad instead.
He stays like that, for a while.
In the press of Arthur’s shoulder, he finds himself thinking of home. Maybe it is Ealdor, or Camelot, or the lake, or the dozens of apartments he’s run through in the dozens of lives he’s lived; or maybe it’s the people far more than it’s ever been the fields and spires and water -- and here, there is a friend who will hold him when he cries.
When his tears have exhausted themselves, he takes a deep, shuddering breath. Arthur gives him an awkward pat.
"There, there," says Arthur, hilariously uncomfortable, and Merlin pulls back.
"'There there'?" he says incredulously. "Where did you learn that?"
“Er,” hedges Arthur. “Bad television?”
“Too right,” mutters Merlin, and scrubs his eyes with the heel of his palm. He catches sight of Arthur’s shirt and grimaces. He extends his arm. “Sorry. I’ll just...”
“It’s fine,” says Arthur, waving Merlin’s hand away before he can dry Arthur's shirt. “Not the first time I’ve had a lady sobbing into my shoulder. Though next time you could use one of your neckerchiefs instead. You do have one lying around somewhere, don’t you?”
The insult rolls off him like water. Merlin bites his lip as they navigate back towards the table. “Probably,” he says. “Somewhere. Neckerchiefs are cool.”
“Neckerchiefs are not bowties,” replies Arthur. “And you are definitely not the Doctor.”
Merlin has a long drink and decides to take offense at that. “If you’re implying that I am neither cool nor old enough to be the doctor, I’ll have you know that I bought one of Hitler’s paintings and I totally can see the future sometimes.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“And - and, I am obviously old and wise.”
“I would say that you were drunk but you’ve hardly had anything to drink, so I’m left to conclude that you are simply deluded.”
“Very comforting," sulks Merlin, even though he knows exactly what Arthur is doing and would actually be grateful for it, if Arthur would stop insulting him.
"I am a beacon of comfort," says Arthur seriously, then hesitates. "Are you- okay now?"
Merlin stares at his reflection in the bowl of beer, and looks up at Arthur's golden, worried face.
"Yeah," he says, and thinks he might even be telling the truth. "I am."
◆
In the morning, Merlin drags Arthur out of bed.
"Mmfgghk," says Arthur, and pulls the blankets down with him. He starts to snuggle into the quilt.
Merlin yanks it away sunnily.
"Rise and shine," he chirps, forcing a bottle of his hangover cure between Arthur's lips and tipping it forward. Arthur chokes and coughs himself awake, glaring murderously at Merlin, still incapable of speech.
"Come on," says Merlin, utterly unaffected. "Don't you want to watch the sun rise?"
"You woke me up before dawn?"
"Oh, hush," says Merlin, patting Arthur's head fondly. "I promise it'll be worth it."
"Why do I put up with you," mumbles Arthur, and finishes the rest of his potion.
◆
"Does Stormageddon know you're doing this?" asks Arthur, as Merlin attempts to commandeer a lift. They are dressed in jeans and T-shirts and couldn't be more suspiciously attired for mountaineering if they tried.
"Strictly speaking, no," says Merlin, as he sends tiny investigative sparks into the system. Most of the yetis are asleep, but even if they weren't, the lift isn't something that's usually guarded, because the lift is not something that can generally be operated by a lone yeti. "But I'm sure he wouldn't appreciate being woken up just to send us up to watch the sun, when I can do it without his help - ah, there we go."
The door clicks open. Merlin pokes his head in and takes a look, before beckoning Arthur in.
"Come on," he says impatiently. When Arthur steps in he seals the door shut.
"You said this was a lift?"
"Lift, elevator, giant rising platform that will bring us to the summit of Mount Everest - call it what you like," dismisses Merlin. "Now hang on and don't touch anything. I need to figure out how to get this thing to move."
"How is this a lift? It's gigantic. It could fit a plane."
"Yes, and it could also fit a million toys. It's lighter than usual so I should be able to move it, if only you'd shut up and let me concentrate."
Arthur folds his arms and looks on disapprovingly. "Alright, but if you collapse again I'm knocking you out and locking you in your chambers until Stormageddon can get to you."
"You know he's not actually Gaius, right?" says Merlin, then raises a hand. "No, don't answer that."
Merlin spreads his palms against the lift. The walls are made of the rock of the mountain and they sing with the magic of the yetis. Merlin shuts his eyes and rests his forehead against the cool stone.
"Up," he commands, and the lift shudders, and creaks, and rises.
"Merlin," says Arthur. "You're glowing again."
Merlin looks down at his hands. Flecks of gold spring from his fingertips and rain on the floor, fizzling into the stone.
"I am," he agrees. "How quaint."
"You don't usually glow."
"No," agrees Merlin. "I don't."
Arthur frowns.
"Relax," laughs Merlin, and the lift rumbles to a stop. "We're already here."
◆
"Welcome," says Merlin, spreading his arms theatrically, "to the summit of Mount Everest. The highest place on Earth."
Arthur blinks. "I can't really see anything."
"Yeah, the sun hasn't risen yet. We're not exactly right at the top, yet, but there's a ledge somewhere around here that's more comfortable than stumbling around in the dark. Hang on, I'll make a light."
At the sight Arthur makes a small choking noise.
"Hm?" says Merlin, sweeping the snow off a rocky ledge. The snow feels strange: texture without the cold. If he held it in his hands it wouldn't even melt. His magic shimmers still, and he glows faintly even without the ball of light in his palm.
"The light," says Arthur. "That was you, too?"
"I'm not sure what you're talking about."
"When you were sick, in the caves--" Arthur cuts himself off. "Never mind. It's not important anyway."
"Okay," says Merlin. He sits, and Arthur slides onto the ledge next to him. He kicks his feet and watches the snow fluff beneath his shoes. The horizon glows with the pale light that the sun throws out beyond itself, soft signal before its arrival.
Arthur doesn’t notice. He gestures to Merlin’s light. "Can I hold it?"
Merlin drops it into Arthur's palm wordlessly. Arthur holds it up to his face and peers at the swirling vapour inside.
"It's warm," he says after a moment.
Merlin lets him hold it for a while, and extinguishes it with a slow breath.
"Hey!" says Arthur indignantly. "I was looking at that."
Merlin elbows Arthur lightly. "Shh."
Arthur furrows his brows, then looks across the world.
Light creeps over the curve of the Earth, and Merlin hears Arthur suck in a breath. It rolls down the valleys and crests the white heights of the distant mountains, and falls and rises with the dips in the earth’s silhouette. Slowly, unfailing, the tip of the sun emerges, and the rays hit them with enough splendour that Merlin has to shield his eyes. He looks to the side and sees that Arthur is doing the same: one arm raised, half a gaze on the world underneath, the other on Merlin.
Arthur is golden and shining, the tips of his hair crowning him with light, and it makes Merlin wants to kneel and swear allegiance all over again.
“Merlin,” says Arthur, strangely, and Merlin wonders if Arthur can tell - if there is something in his eyes that gives him away: his desire to show Arthur the world and to give it to him, piece by shining piece.
“Shhh,” he whispers.
They stay quietly until the sun has lit the terrain. Then they walk up, slowly, to the top of the world.
◆
They stay two more days. At the end of it Merlin considers his room and the scattered parchments and the spells they contain, and his mouth sets in a determined line. He seals his room as Arthur watches, magic sparking through the stone as he weaves a protection even tighter than the one he unlocked, just in case.
“Are you coming back for Christmas?” asks Stormageddon, when Merlin shuffles into his office, shouldering the pack he brought with him on the first day. “The sleighs miss you.”
Merlin glances at Arthur. He misses the sleighs too, but there are so many things to do - places to go and a new life to live - and he answers, as honestly as he can, “We’ll try.”
Stormageddon nods sagely. “Where will you be going, then?”
Merlin still doesn’t know. He’s met hundreds of magical creatures over the years, and without television to fuel his interest Arthur seems to have no particular preference. The Mariana Trench is ten kilometres deep, the Grand Canyon is four hundred and forty eight kilometres long, and the earth has a surface area of five hundred and ten million kilometres squared.
Merlin tells him, “We’re off to see the world.” Together.
It goes unspoken, but from the way Arthur’s eyes snap to his he hears the declaration regardless. Merlin gives him a tremulous smile. Arthur’s eyes are sky wide and blue and the world is open before them - and maybe one day they will be called upon to save it, but for now they are boys on a grand adventure, and they stand side by side.
“Goodbye,” says Merlin, and Stormageddon raises a furry hand in farewell.
Merlin closes his eyes, and they disappear.
◆
EXTRA:
◆
In December Arthur stumbles across Christmas advertisements and, after half an hour on Wikipedia, emerges practically rubbing his hands in glee.
"Merlin," he drawls, and the back of Merlin's neck prickles at his tone. "Isn't Santa's workshop supposed to be in the North Pole?"
Merlin sets down his book. He says carefully, "The Himalayas is a much more practical location. Very central."
“I see,” nods Arthur.
When nothing else seems forthcoming, Merlin picks up his book and resumes his reading. He holds the book between them to block his face from Arthur’s line of sight, and peers surreptitiously underneath. Arthur's feet do not budge, and Merlin rereads the same sentence three times before he gives in.
He lowers the book into his lap and scowls. Arthur is still looking at him like Christmas come early, which is frankly quite disturbing.
“Do you mind?” snaps Merlin. “I’m trying to read.”
Arthur settles himself on the table and levels an unimpressed look at Merlin. Years of acquaintance with this look tells Merlin that no amount of snapping is going to dissuade Arthur from pursuing this line of investigation, and even before he opens his mouth Merlin knows with a pained certainty what’s coming:
“Are you Santa?”
Merlin is glad he’s already put down his book, otherwise he might have thrown it right at Arthur’s face, just for the sheer amount of mirth he sees in Arthur's eyes.
“Yes and no,” he grits out.
Arthur folds his arms. Merlin twitches, and caves.
“Alright, so I started it,” he admits. “We were on sleighs, I stopped time, we sent the kids gifts. It’s been blown out of proportion. Can I go back to my book now?”
“Certainly, Merlin,” says Arthur magnanimously, and walks away. Then he turns. “Although, isn’t it fascinating how all the stories you’re in seem to portray you as an old man with a beard?”
This time, Merlin does throw his book. Arthur dodges, laughing all the way out of the room. He picks up the book and tosses it back good-naturedly.
“Prat,” smiles Merlin, and finds his page, and reads in peace.
◆