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Gravel crunches under the tyres of Arthur's car as he parks in front of the cottage that is to be his home for the next six months. Morgana's BMW already sits in the driveway with both doors open, like it's about to take flight. The front door of the cottage is open, too, and as Arthur gets out of his car, Morgana comes out on the steps.
"I just talked to the estate agent," she says. "This really is the countryside, isn't it? He came by to see if everything was okay. Charming country manners!" She leans into the BMW and pulls out a large potted palm. Carrying it up the steps, she calls over her shoulder: "He said something interesting though - did you know this house is haunted?"
Arthur opens the boot of his car. "He told me when I signed the contract." He picks up his laptop and a rucksack full of books and follows her into the house. "He stared at me expectantly when he said it, and I didn't know if I was supposed to gasp in horror or whoop with joy. Probably the latter, or I wouldn't have wanted to rent the property."
Morgana has already placed the potted palm between the two bay windows of the living room, where it looks as natural as if it's always been there. "It didn't deter you, though? The haunting thing?"
Arthur shakes his head. "Why would it? I don't believe in ghosts. I didn't think you did either."
"Maybe not. And I do see why you'd choose to ignore it." Morgana points out the window, past fields and copses of November-pale trees to a hill with a tower at the top. "Smashing view of the Tor. Was that why you picked this house? Because otherwise I don't understand it. Any of it." She turns and looks at him. "You're not a country boy, Arthur. You've never been Mother Nature's son. And why here, of all places? You could easily have found a pretty cottage much closer to London."
Arthur gives his sister a long-suffering look. "I'm sure I could, but the whole point is I don't want to be close to London. I just need to be far away from anything and everything I know, and focus on my writing. And…" He stops and wonders how to say this. "I know it sounds weird, but as soon as I arrived here, it felt like… home. I mean, not this house per se, but this area. The Tor and everything." It sounds vague and more than a bit silly, but the feeling that he belongs here had been very strong - still is. Like he has roots here, a tree finding good soil where it can grow and stretch against the sky to soak up the light.
He can't say that out loud, even if he is a writer. Perhaps he could write it, but if he says it to Morgana he'll sound like a nutter. A really pretentious one.
"Well," Morgana says, "now that I've made sure you have some creature comforts like Egyptian cotton in your bed and champagne in your fridge, I'm heading back to London." She reaches up and kisses him on the cheek, and he hugs her, realising for the first time how utterly alone he will be here. Not lonely, though, he hopes. He doesn't know anyone around here, and for the time being, it sounds like heaven.
"You should get a dog!" Morgana calls before slamming the car door and leaving in a cloud of dust.
Shaking his head, Arthur smiles and proceeds to make himself a cup of tea.
***
Arthur isn't a natural recluse, far from it, but after he left Pendragon Corp to be a writer that's in effect what he's become. Writing is solitary work.
Letting Morgana take over his position at Pendragon Corp was the best decision Arthur ever made. It had just come to him one day: that he'd had enough. He was good at what he did but his heart was never in it, and his lack of enthusiasm meant he'd never excel - unlike Morgana. Identifying opportunities and pushing through a deal doesn't excite him like it does her, and it's not like he needs the job anyway. He has enough money to spend the rest of his life lazing around on a beach if he chooses to.
It had been time to write that novel he'd been thinking about for years.
Now, as the author of two successful historical novels, he can truthfully say he's never once regretted his choice.
He's always been interested in Arthuriana, mostly thanks to his name, and he's toying with the idea of setting his next novel in Arthurian times. So here he is in a house with a great view of Glastonbury Tor. Staying in the Vale of Avalon - at Camelot Cottage, no less - appeals to his sense of romance.
Despite the house being advertised as a "cottage" it's a sprawling, whimsical Victorian structure with strange extensions, whitewashed with a red tile roof and a myriad of chimneys, half covered with climbers and creepers dyed blazing red with the brushstrokes of autumn. Arthur had fallen in love with it on the spot. His contract is initially for six months, with the possibility to extend. The owner, the estate agent explained, is travelling in Australia.
A haunted house! Ridiculous nonsense. A marketing ploy to cater to tourists' fascination with gothic romance.
***
A few weeks into his stay, Arthur has settled into a routine. He gets up early and goes for a run, showers and has breakfast before working on his story until late afternoon. Discipline is a good tool for a writer, and actually producing words every day brings him a certain satisfaction, however bad those words turn out to be. It gives him a sense of accomplishment nonetheless.
A couple of times he's been to the nearest pub, The Sword and Stone, for Sunday roast or just a pint and a chat with other guests - or with the tall, fit barman named Percy. Something tells him Percy wouldn't be entirely uninterested if Arthur made a move, but the motivation isn't there. When did he get so boring? The thing is, he isn't bored at all and it's not as if he's completely uninterested in sex, but it feels like he's waiting for something. Something, or someone.
It occurs to Arthur that he's felt this way more or less his whole life - like he's waiting for something undefined but life-changing, something that might come one day, and everything he does is only temporary employment in the meantime.
What could that something possibly be, though? Arthur sits at his desk watching the silhouette of the Tor over the top of his laptop screen, sighing at the thought. Why is he wasting his life waiting for something that might never happen, or someone who might never turn up?
He takes a deep breath and writes another two hundred words he already knows he'll delete the next day.
***
It's a chilly morning and Arthur's breath comes in clouds as he completes his morning run, but the sun is coming out and will burn through the mist before noon. He does his stretch routine on the front steps before going back inside. The small hallway feels dim and dark, unwelcoming. He's wiping mud from his shoes on the doormat when the sense that he's not alone makes him look up sharply. Someone is standing in the shadows at the other end of the hall, barely visible in the sparse light apart from his long, white hair and beard. Arthur squints, straining his eyes. The old man looks like a wizard straight out of a story - a Dumbledore. A Gandalf. A Merlin.
"Hello?" says Arthur hesitantly. "Can I help you?"
The man doesn't reply, only stares at Arthur with wide eyes. He takes a step forward, then another, until light falls on his face. If he's the ghost that haunts this house, he has none of the wispy, semi-transparent look Arthur would have expected - but then Arthur's concept of a ghost could be hopelessly clichéd. And if this is the ghost that haunts this house, he's either not a very frightening one or Arthur is impervious to the effect.
If anything, the old man seems more shocked by the sight of Arthur than Arthur is by the appearance of a ghost. He lifts a gnarled, trembling finger and points at Arthur. "No," he says hoarsely. "No, it can't be. Not in… Not after all this…" He draws a shaky breath. "No no no. No."
Then he's gone, vanished into thin air, and the hallway is as empty as if he's never been there at all.
***
Arthur's mind whirls with questions all day. Was this the ghost of Camelot Cottage? If it wasn't, how could the man just vanish? Do ghosts speak? What was the "no no no" about?
Perhaps, if Arthur stays long enough, he'll find out.
***
Arthur stops and gets his breath, shading his eyes against the weak winter sun. The view from up here is stunning. On the way up on the Tor he only met a few people - a couple of tourists in hiking gear; a few locals walking their dogs. Maybe Morgana is right and he should get a dog, too.
The thought appeals to him and he mulls it over as he slowly turns 360 degrees to take in the views. If he gets a dog - what breed should it be? Morgana claims that all dogs and their owners eventually begin to resemble one another, so Arthur might just anticipate the event and get a golden retriever.
He grins to himself, then frowns. Something about this place feels inexplicably oppressive. The view, breathtaking though it is, makes him melancholy. Many fields are still green, there are wintergreen hedges of box and yew, and here and there autumnal colours still burn like torches, but there are also bare trees and stretches of brown earth. There's a gloom about it, despite the sunshine. Perhaps it's the season. The sense of impending winter.
Arthur identifies Camelot Cottage in the distance before starting his journey back down the hill. He'll definitely get a golden retriever. A faithful companion who will run with him in the morning, sleep at his feet while he works and always be up for a game of fetching sticks.
***
That night, Arthur dreams about a lake at the foot of the Tor. The fields are gone, replaced by a vast mirror of water. It's beautiful but the view chills him. There's something ominous about the stillness of the water, as if something terrible is waiting to break the surface.
He blinks and the water is gone, leaving a cold sense of sadness and regret, of unbearable emptiness. Tears run down his cheeks.
He wakes up. Or does he wake up? Everything is hazy and dim, real and unreal.
The old man with white hair and beard is sitting by the bed. Arthur doesn't even jump at the sight of him. He pats Arthur's hand gently, nods and says: "Yes, yes, that's the way it is."
Then he is gone, too, gone like the lake.
***
Next time the old man appears, Arthur is in the garden exploring the deserted vegetable beds. There's kale he could use for one of those irritatingly healthy smoothies Lance and Gwen always make.
The crunch of frost on the grass and the starry patterns of ice crystals on the kale leaves call up an image in his mind of a wintry castle with towers and turrets and colonnades, adorned with snow under an icy blue sky…
"Oh, it's beautiful, isn't it?"
Arthur whips around. The man is standing right behind him, peering at him from under the brim of a dark woolly hat, his cheeks pink with cold and his eyes bright blue.
"Can you read my thoughts?" Arthur blurts.
The old man laughs, a dry little laugh that ends in a cough. "No, I can't, but I can put them in your head."
"Put them… What do you mean?"
"Like your dream of the lake. Like the image of the castle. That was Camelot you saw just now."
Arthur draws a breath. His heart is hammering. "What are you doing putting images in… Did you say Camelot? How do you know what it looked like? And why would you do that - interfer with my dreams?"
"To jog your memory."
Arthur touches his lips. They feel cold with more than the wintry day. "Who are you?"
"My name is not important. Not now. Not yet."
"Are you a ghost?"
He sounds like a prat.
The old man eyebrows furrow and he scoffs. "A ghost. A ghost!" He waves a dismissive hand. "People like to say this house is haunted. Slow-witted, simple-minded creatures!"
In broad daylight like this, he looks solid and real. His eyes are clear, there's frost in his beard, and Arthur can see every stitch of yarn in the woolly hat.
"If you're not a ghost, how come you appear and disappear into nothing? Are you a dream?"
This whole thing feels a little like a dream, like he's lost his moorings and is drifting into unknown waters, like he's hanging suspended between… he's not sure what. Two worlds. Two realities.
Arthur shakes his head to clear it. He doesn't know what made him think that. As far as he knows there's only one world, one physical world, and as for the spiritual world… well, this weird old man just said he isn't a ghost.
"You turn up here," says Arthur with heat in his voice, "and say no no no or yes yes and then vanish, and you claim you're not a ghost or a dream. So what are you? Who are you?"
The man looks amused by the questions. "Well… do you believe in magic?"
Arthur rolls his eyes. "Oh, god. Magic? Really? You're going to tell me you're Merlin next."
The old man laughs out loud. "That would be a bit steep, wouldn't it? That'd be a stretch of the imagination!"
Arthur glares at him. It seems impossible to get a straight answer. "You're really annoying, I do know that much."
"Oh, now we're getting somewhere. Back on old, familiar ground! We'll get there. We'll get there eventually." With that, the old man vanishes, leaving Arthur to swear under his breath and forget all about the stupidly healthy kale.
***
"Oh, hello," says a chipper voice in Arthur's ear as he's absent-mindedly skimming the headlines of gossip magazines in the queue at the supermarket. "I hope you're enjoying your stay here?"
It's the estate agent; Arthur has already forgotten his name. "I am, thank you."
"The house to your taste?"
"It's a very nice house. Look, I've been meaning to ask you - who's the owner? If you can't give me that information, could you at least tell me whether he's an old man? Very old?"
"Oh, no," the estate agent says. "He's quite a young man. I'd say he's about your own age, Mr Pendragon. Why?"
Arthur frowns. "Oh. Well, no reason. Thanks."
***
The story is stuck.
Arthur has a number of tricks when that happens: switch POV, go somewhere else and write... Today, he leaves the laptop on the desk and writes longhand at the kitchen table. Sometimes writing longhand helps. It does today - at least it's slightly better than the laptop, and he actually manages a thousand words. His neck is getting stiff and his brain tired, so he stretches, yawns, rubs his eyes and decides he needs coffee. When he opens his eyes again the old man is sitting on the other side of the table, watching him.
This time, Arthur jumps a foot and nearly falls off his chair. "Don't do that! You could have given me a heart attack. I'm not a young man any more."
"All of thirty, are you?"
Arthur glares at him. "Of course you know that. You seem to know things about me. It creeps me out."
Once again, he thinks how solid and un-ghostlike the man looks. Arthur can see every hair in his beard, every raised vein on his gnarled hands, every little crease at the corner of his eye.
"I sense you're a bit stuck with your writing."
"A bit, yeah," Arthur grudgingly admits.
"So go ahead and make that coffee you were thinking about."
Still glaring at the old man, Arthur gets up from his chair. "I thought you said you couldn't read my thoughts."
"I don't have to read your thoughts to know that. It's written all over you."
Reluctantly, Arthur smiles. "Fine."
"Make it and then sit down, because I'm going to tell you a story."
***
"Once upon a time," the old man predictably begins, "a very long time ago, there were two young men whose paths happened to cross. Or perhaps they didn't happen to; perhaps their paths were destined to cross, over and over again.
One of the young men was a prince - tall, blond and handsome. The other was dark and… let's call him quirky-looking.
He ended up being the prince's servant and quickly found the prince was a prat."
"A what?"
"A prat. Later, the servant found that the prince also had a noble heart and a desire to do what was right and just.
The prince in his turn found that even though his servant wasn't all that great as servants go, he was faithful and dedicated and true.
They risked their lives for each other countless times, and the servant saved the prince's life countless times, too - without the prince knowing."
"How could he do that without the prince knowing?"
"Well," says the old man, "the servant had a secret; a huge and dangerous one: he had magic, which had been banned by the king and was punishable by death. Although the servant only ever used his magic to protect the prince, he didn't dare tell the prince about it."
"Eventually, the prince became king, and ruled with kindness and wisdom. The servant was still by his side." The man's gaze is lost far away, in a time long gone, sadness darkening his eyes. "Once, they were out in the woods," he continues in a low voice, "just the two of them, hunting or searching for something, I don't re- I mean, I don't know. In the evening they sat by the campfire talking until the king fell asleep where he sat. His servant watched him sleep with tenderness and dread. He didn't want to lose the king, but deep down, he knew he would.
And he did.
When it happened, it was because the servant failed to protect his king. He had sworn to protect him, and failed to keep his promise.
The king took days to die, and his servant failed to save him.
Not until the very last minutes of his life did the king find out his servant had magic.
And not until the very last minutes of the king's life did the two men acknowledge their love for one another."
The old man's eyes are brimming with tears, and Arthur says gently: "It's a sad story, knowing they could have had so much more, and been so much more for each other if they had spoken out sooner. What happened to the servant when the king was dead?"
"He wandered the world," says the old man bleakly. "Someone older and wiser than himself had once told him the king would return, and he waited faithfully for that day to come. He waited years, decades, centuries… He became the loneliest man on earth."
"Centuries? How could he live that long?"
The man's smile is sad. "Because of his magic. His magic was connected to the king - how, I do not know. And as far as I know, he is roaming the earth still, waiting for the king to return even after a thousand years."
"A thousand years." Arthur sighs. He had just started to get invested in the two young men who were in love. "So this really is a fairytale. A slightly unconventional one."
The man leans forward and fixes Arthur with his gaze. "Magic is real," he says sternly. "Magic is real and alive in this world, and if you have your wits about you, you must have guessed by now that I'm talking about king Arthur and the great Merlin."
"Well," Arthur says, "isn't that a fairytale? If not a fairytale so at least a legend. With a grain of truth at its core, perhaps, but..."
"More than a grain, much more than a grain. Remember where you are. This is the land of myth and magic, of Camelot and Avalon, of Arthur and Merlin. This is where it all comes together. This is where they'll meet again."
"So you mean to say - " Arthur begins, but the old man shakes his head.
"No more," he says. "No more today."
And with that, he's gone.
***
Arthur dreams of a field wet with dew, of burning pain and icy fear, and a pair of arms that hold him close, a forehead leaning against his own. He dreams about a love revealed, of secrets uncovered, and the terrible realisation that it's all too late.
***
One morning in December, Arthur wakes to a world of sparkling white. As he sweeps the snow from the front steps, a man comes hesitantly up the driveway. He's about Arthur's age, with a mop of unruly black hair and cheekbones to die for. He smiles as he approaches, dimples appearing in his cheeks. He's not someone Arthur has ever seen before, but something about him is familiar enough to make Arthur's heart trip in his chest.
"Hello," says the man. "The estate agent said you'd asked about the owner of the house? That'd be me." He holds out his hand and Arthur takes it. "Name's Emrys."
"Arthur Pendragon," says Arthur, dazed. His chest is tight and he can't take his eyes off Emrys, because this is the man from his dream, the man in the field who held Arthur in his arms, the man whose tears fell hot on Arthur's skin.
But there is something else as well: he resembles the old man who claims not to be a ghost. They have the same eyes, clear and relentless and sapphire blue.
"I… I've had... someone's come to visit me here," Arthur says. "An old man who seems to… come and go. There's a certain likeness between the two of you. A relative of yours, perhaps?"
Emrys smiles though his eyes are sad. He nods slowly. "Yes, I suppose you could say that. A relative. A very close one."
Arthur steps aside and gestures towards the door. "I feel a bit silly saying this since this is your house, but - would you like to come in?"
The smile is more genuine now. "It's your house for the time being. Yes, thank you."
When they sit by the fire with a cup of tea, Emrys turns to Arthur. "Do you believe in magic?"
The question startles Arthur. Then he laughs. "What is it with this place and magic? Your elderly relative talked about magic, too. No, I don't. I really don't. I don't believe in magic any more than I believe in ghosts."
"Oh." Emrys leans back. With firelight sculpting his face, casting shadows beneath his cheekbones, he's so gorgeous Arthur has to look away.
"What seems more plausible to you," Emrys asks slowly, "ghosts or magic?"
Arthur needs to shake the ridiculous feeling he's had ever since Emrys walked up to the house: that this is it. This is it; this is what he's been waiting for all his life. The moment he set eyes on Emrys, something fell into place. Like he'd had a buzzing noise in his ears without knowing and now it's stopped, leaving every sound clear and sharp. Like a vague pain that's vanished. Like mist blown away by the breeze, revealing the shape of the world.
"I suppose if I had to pick one or the other, I'd go with magic."
"Good," Emrys says. "That's good, because magic does exist. I'm going to show you something now, and then I'm going to ask if you can guess my real name."
He stands up slowly, holding Arthur's gaze while he murmurs a string of strange words. His eyes flash gold, and Arthur is on his feet too, face to face with the old man with long, white hair and beard.
A thousand years, echoes around Arthur's mind. A thousand years. Still waiting for the king to return.
Arthur swallows and reaches out to steady himself against the table, dizzy with realisation as he is: "Merlin. You are Merlin."
Merlin's eyes flash gold again and the young version of him is back. "I am. I am indeed Merlin, and I have found my king."
"Whatever do you - "
"You are Arthur."
Arthur wants to laugh, because of course he is Arthur, until the implication of Merlin's words sinks in. "Do you mean…"
"I do mean." Merlin leans forward with tears in his eyes. "You are Arthur, you are my king, and I swore to be your servant until the day I die. You came back, and I found you."
For a moment, the only sound in the room is their breathing and the gentle hiss and crackle of the fire.
"You don't remember yet," Merlin whispers. "But you will. One day soon, you will."
Arthur's head is spinning. "I think," he says slowly, "that there's a lot you need to tell me."
***
"You waited for me," Arthur whispers. "You waited all this time. All these years."
All these centuries.
He's still dizzy. He's glad he's sitting down. Even though he doesn't remember everything yet, he knows with every fibre of his being that Merlin's story is true.
Merlin is smiling through tears. "When I saw you here for the first time, I couldn't believe it. I didn't dare believe it - that you'd be here in my cottage. You have no idea... no idea how many times through the years I've believed I saw you, only to find it wasn't you. When I got closer or you turned around, it was never you."
"I'm sorry," Arthur murmurs awkwardly. "Why did you choose to appear as an old man though? In front of me, I mean. Because you didn't with other people, or at least not all the time. The estate agent told me the landlord was a young man."
Merlin shrugs. "Sometimes it was easier to be an old man. I liked to check on my cottage now and then, and if I popped up out of nowhere looking like Gandalf, people would believe it was a ghost they'd seen." He looks down. "Sometimes that was how I felt - like a ghost. A shadow walking the earth. I wouldn't be real until you came back." His eyes return to Arthur's. "And now you have."
Arthur gets up then, walks over to Merlin and kneels down in front of him. "I think perhaps I didn't properly appreciate you back then. I think maybe I owe you so much I'll never be able to repay it. But here and now, I swear you absolute loyalty as you did me back then. For as long as I live." He grins up at Merlin's astonished face. "And die, and live again, I suppose."
He isn't surprised in the least when Merlin leans down to kiss him. It feels like coming home.
***
"I've met someone," Arthur tells Morgana over the phone. He can't keep the smile from his voice.
Morgana practically squeals. "You have? Oh, Arthur, I'm so happy for you! You sound all smug so I'm assuming you have lots of sex. What's his name?"
"You won't believe it, but… his name is Merlin."
Morgana's laugh is so loud Arthur needs to hold the phone away from his ear. "Merlin and Arthur! A match made in heaven. When can I meet him?"
"Later," says Arthur. "Let's not scare him away."
***
It's getting close to Christmas, and Arthur needs to make a decision. Does he go back to London to spend Christmas with Morgana and Uther, or does he stay at Camelot Cottage?
The decision isn't all that hard.
When Merlin is out looking for holly and ivy, Arthur calls Morgana again. "I'm sorry, sis, but I'm going to stay here over Christmas."
He can hear her pout. "Really? Must you? Dad will be disappointed if you don't come back to London - and so will I. God, Arthur, just think of me and Dad facing each other over that horrible, enormous, shiny dining table of his!"
Arthur bites his lip. "How about…how about you coming here instead? Bring Leon, too. Merlin will be here." He feels his face heat when he says it and grins at himself. He might be thirty but he acts like a teenager. "Come on, Morgs - it'll be nice! Christmas in the country? No shiny dining tables?
"Alright," says Morgana softly, "but only because you sound so happy. I hate the country. So many insects getting caught in your hair."
"It's December," Arthur points out dryly. "Not a whole lot of insects around."
Morgana laughs. "Oh, fine! We'll come down to you, then. Only because I haven't heard you sound like that for a long time - if ever. I want to see the look on your face."
Warmth spreads through Arthur's body, centering in his chest. Morgana is right: he really is happy.
When he turns around to look out the window, Merlin comes up the drive with a smile on his face and his arms full of mistletoe and holly. At the exact moment their eyes meet through the window, it starts snowing. Merlin stops and turns his face up, catching a snowflake on his tongue. Perhaps it is magic. Perhaps Merlin made it snow.
"We'll bring the food if you get the booze and the tree," says Morgana.
"Mistletoe," Merlin says in the doorway as Arthur ends the call. "Mistletoe to keep dark magic out and good magic in. And of course, to kiss underneath." His arms are full of plants, his cheeks and nose are pink with the cold and his eyes are laughing.
Arthur gets up from the window seat and crosses the floor. "Nice cue." He leans in over the mistletoe and kisses Merlin on the mouth. His lips are icy. "Underneath the mistletoe, above it, across it... It works any old how."
"Was that Morgana on the phone? Will they be here for Christmas?"
"Yeah. They don't trust us with the cooking, which is... understandable, I suppose. Realistic, even. But I think we can manage a tree?"
"With a twinkling star at the top," Merlin agrees.
"Christmas magic?"
"In every sense of the word."
Arthur nods towards the window. There's still a bit of pale sunshine, making the snowflakes glitter in the air. "Was that you?"
"Was what me?"
"Did you make it snow?"
Merlin laughs and puts his armful of holly and mistletoe on the table. "It could have been me, but as it happens, it wasn't. This is the magic of nature."
"Everything's well with the world, then." Arthur seeks Merlin's eyes, and for a moment there's nothing in the whole world except the two of them. "Isn't it?"
Merlin draws a shaky breath and closes the distance between them. The kiss is gentle at first, with heat slowly building. "Yes," he whispers. "Yes, it is. Everything's well with the world."