magog_83

Modern AU featuring Immortal Merlin and loosely based on one of my favourite childhood novels ‘Daddy Long Legs’ by Jean Webster.

Arthur is at last reborn but, when he is still a baby, he is left orphaned and alone in the world. Fortunately for him he always has Merlin - even if he doesn’t always know it.

Beta’d by the wonderful vensre – without whom this fic would be at least 600 words shorter, so thank you!!

Dear Idiot

Arthur was five years old when he first learned he had a guardian. His aunt and uncle, who he had always known were not really his aunt and uncle, called him in to tell him that they had had a letter and that he would be starting school in September at the big school at the other end of the drive. Arthur had not really thought much about school before then but the school at the other end of the drive was as familiar to him as his own back garden. His aunt worked in the kitchens there and his uncle was grounds man and they lived, the three of them, in the small brick house by the big gates. For as long as he could remember Arthur had played among the wide avenues and neat playing fields of the school, retreating when it rained to the warmth and noise of the kitchen where food compensated for the loss of freedom. But now it seemed he was to join the crowds of children who he watched every morning through his bedroom window, and all thanks to the mysterious guardian.

"Why doesn't he visit us?" Arthur had asked when his aunt had finished detailing the bewildering amount of Things To Do Before September.

"Who?"

"My guardian," Arthur had said, not really interested in the state of his sock drawer at this rather auspicious moment, "Why haven't I seen him?"

His aunt smiled, distracted, and ruffled his hair, even though he was five. "It's a long way for him to travel dear, and I don't suppose he really wants little boys under his feet."

From which Arthur concluded his mysterious guardian must be really, really old.

Hence his first letter to his guardian went something like this.

Dear guardian,

Thank you for sending me to school, I'm enjoying it very much.

Love,

Arthur

PS. I'm sorry you're so old.

Which Arthur sent, along with a picture of the school he had drawn himself and tried his best to colour in with somewhat frayed and faded felt tip pens.

A week later his aunt passed him an envelope which contained a brand new packet of felt tip pens and a post it note which read,

Thank you for your sympathy, age is indeed a great burden.

Arthur immediately asked his uncle what 'burden' meant and, upon being told it meant 'carrying a great weight', wondered if his guardian was quite fat as well.

……......................

After that Arthur didn't really think about his guardian for a while. It wasn't until the following December, when Arthur was seven, that the subject came up again. His best friend Tom was going to his grandparents’ for Christmas day because, as Tom explained, you were supposed to invite people around at Christmas. Arthur thought about this for a while, looked at his felt tip pens again, and finally asked his aunt if they were going to invite his Mysterious Guardian for the holidays.

"I don't think so sweetheart," his aunt said as she measured ingredients into the large bowl on the kitchen counter.

"Because he's so old?" said Arthur confidently.

His aunt laughed, brushing back a loose strand of greying hair with a floury hand, "Old? Goodness me no, whatever gave you that idea? He's not old!"

Arthur had not expected this at all. He frowned and waited for his aunt to fetch the eggs out of the fridge. "Why is it too far for him to come then?"

"He travels a great deal, I understand," she smiled. Arthur watched the eggs break, one at a time, disappearing into the bowl.

"Where does he travel?"

"I don't think even he knows, most of the time."

Which comment led, quite naturally, to Arthur deciding his guardian must in fact be a spy.

When he returned to school in January he shared this revelation with Tom, who agreed it was the only possible explanation. As January turned into February Arthur and Tom were often to be found in the library researching the exciting life of his guardian (which Tom thought must be a code name). Once they had exhausted the library's (admittedly limited) information on secret agents the two boys then spent several rather more thrilling weeks carrying out secret missions around the school. Unfortunately their adventures came to an abrupt end when their attempts to prove that Mr Havers, the Latin master, was in fact an enemy agent resulted in them being caught on the roof of the science lab in full view of the staff room window.

The fuss that followed led to Arthur's second letter to his guardian - after the headmaster, Mr Drake, sent his own report of the incident.

Dear guardian,

Tom and me were being spies and we got caught on the roof. But Mr Drake has already told me off so you don't need to.

Love,

Arthur

Ps. Are you a spy?

Four days later a small parcel arrived.

Dear Arthur,

I am not a spy, and I disapprove strongly of your spying attempts. To that end I enclose a pair of binoculars and a bottle of invisible ink. Try not to get caught next time.

Love,

Your guardian.

But then, Arthur mused as he unpacked his new belongings, that was probably what a spy would say anyway.

........................

The first time Arthur met his guardian he was nine years old. Unfortunately his memories of the visit were somewhat hazy. It was the last week of the Easter term and his aunt and uncle had gone to Scotland to visit a friend of his aunt's, leaving Arthur to board for two weeks at the school. Arthur had been looking forward to this for quite some time and felt it was most unfair that his cold chose that particular week to develop into flu. By the Tuesday he was ensconced in the school sanatorium under the watchful eye of the Matron and feeling really very sorry for himself, his days passing in a haze of fever, hushed voices and the uncomfortable scratch of blankets on his overheated skin.

Until, when Arthur had quite lost track of the days, he awoke in the night to darkness and a cool hand on his forehead.

He coughed, a little, and managed to croak, "Am I dying?"

Somewhere to his right a man laughed softly and the hand on his forehead withdrew briefly to return with a wet cloth. "You're not dying, Arthur."

"Oh," said Arthur. He sniffed, pitifully, "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," said the man, smoothing back sweat-soaked hair.

Arthur thought about this for a moment. "Are you a doctor?"

"No."

"Then how do you know I'm not dying?"

This seemed to amuse the man even more. "Still a terrible patient I see."

Arthur didn't think this was very sympathetic at all and he found himself hoping for a second that he would die, just to prove the man wrong. Only he supposed he wouldn't be around then to appreciate the fact. So he only glared a little bit in the direction of the man and complained that he was thirsty.

The man took the cloth away then and slipped an arm around his back, helping him to a sitting position and letting him sip gratefully from a glass of water. The man smelled of outdoors and rain and Arthur looked to the window to see water streaming down the panes, glittering in the weak glow of the outdoor lights. When Arthur had drank all he could and was lying down again the man pulled the blankets more comfortably around him and looked across to the clock on the wall.

"Are you going?" asked Arthur in a small voice, before he could stop himself.

The man looked back at him and smiled, just a quirk of movement in the darkness. "Don't worry; I'll stay with you until you fall asleep."

Arthur struggled with himself for a moment, "Promise?"

"I promise. Go to sleep Arthur, you'll feel better in the morning."

In the morning the man was gone and Arthur, sitting up in bed and feeling hungry at long last, asked matron who he was.

"Your guardian," she replied easily, "We couldn't reach your aunt and uncle so Mr Drake thought it best to contact him instead. I must say," she added with a smile, "you're looking a lot better this morning."

"I am," said Arthur. Then, "Has he gone? My guardian?"

"Yes, he left earlier this morning."

Left alone Arthur stared at the chair at his bedside and the glass on the bedside table and tried, desperately, to remember the man - but all he could recall was the quiet voice and the pattern of the rain on the windows, and the knowledge that he had stayed.

.......................................

When he was eleven Arthur discovered a talent for sword-fighting, or, more specifically, fencing. This wasn't entirely surprising given that Arthur had already shown himself adept at most of the outdoor and active pursuits his school had to offer. But fencing felt different to Arthur. From the moment he first held the foil in his hand he felt as though he had re-discovered a part of himself that he hadn't even known was lost. His attempt to do justice to this in his letters met with mixed success. But where words failed, Arthur could always rely on illustrations - illustrations which mainly involved a victorious stick figure Arthur and, in case his guardian had missed the point, he added a stick figure Tom and Owen on the floor at his feet surrounded by rather a lot of red pen. To one, particularly vivid letter, his guardian replied with a book entitled 'Emergency First Aid', several rolls of bandages and a photocopied page from the School Handbook with several large arrows pointing to the section headed 'Violence against fellow students will not be tolerated.'

Perhaps he had gone a little overboard on the red pen.

.........................................

The first time Arthur had to write to his guardian for permission he was thirteen and his friend, Owen, had invited him to spend part of the summer holidays with his family in Northumberland. It was, Owen informed him, to be a shooting party - the one outdoor pursuit Arthur had never tried. Despite Arthur's excitement for the trip his aunt and uncle insisted he write to the Mysterious Guardian. Arthur duly wrote the letter, posted it and then had to wait an entire week before he returned home from school to find a package waiting for him on the kitchen table.

It contained one rather battered looking video, entitled 'Bambi' and a post it note which read:

Watch this first!

PS. If it's white, don't even think about it.

Arthur stared at the note, then at the video which sported a rather dubious looking front cover featuring cartoon animals frolicking in a forest glade.

It was another two days before he could sneak into the computer labs after school and put it on (his aunt and uncle's interest in modernity extended to one ancient television).

An hour and a half later he switched it off and mentally added baby deer, talking rabbits, skunks and birds to his list of things he could not shoot (after Anything White).

In the end he didn't shoot anything at all, just to be on the safe side.

.......................................

When he was fifteen Arthur fell in love. Sophie was in the same year as him, in the girl's school on the other side of town, and he thought she was perfect. Arthur had never really thought too much about girls before, although he became aware as he grew older that girls apparently thought a lot about him. But Sophie was different. She was mysterious, aloof and Arthur found himself, for the first time, having to work for someone's attention and to be unsure of his reception.

Not that he wrote any of this in his letters of course. There were some things he just couldn't write about - but if her name appeared, with increasing frequency, as time went on then that was something he couldn't help. His guardian never mentioned it, or her, and when Arthur wrote that he and Sophie were going camping together at the coast, in the Easter holidays after his sixteenth birthday, he only wrote, Take care, and send me a postcard.

For the first two days Arthur was too caught up in the good weather and Sophie to think about home. But on the third day he spotted a rack of postcards outside a small kiosk on the promenade and picked two which showed Sophie's favourite view of the beach. He wrote them sitting outside in the evening sun, waiting for her to finish a phone call to her father. By the time she returned he had finished the first one to his aunt and uncle and was half way through the second.

"Who's that for?" Sophie's voice made him jump.

"It's for—" Arthur stopped, since there wasn't an easy word to describe who it was for.

"Ah ha!" Sophie snatched the card. "The mysterious guardian who never bothers to visit."

Arthur flushed, "He has visited, he just... I think he's away, you know, he travels a lot."

"Or so he says," said Sophie archly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Arthur tried to grab the card but Sophie danced out of his reach, reading aloud in a sing song voice, "Hi, Sophie and I are having a great time at the beach; it's really warm here—" She broke off with a giggle, "What is this? A travel log?"

"Give it back!"

Sophie stepped out of reach again and grabbed a pen, "How about I improve it? Dear mysterious guardian, perhaps you could explain why I haven't seen you in at least seven years?"

Arthur lunged for the card and yanked it out of her hand, scowling as Sophie raised her eyebrows mockingly.

"Oh dear, did I touch a nerve?" She flopped down in the chair. "I was only teasing. You need to lighten up, Arthur."

Arthur shoved the cards into his rucksack, his face hot. After a few minutes of silence Sophie rose gracefully from the chair and slid her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

"I really was only teasing. Your mystery man can stay a mystery for all I care."

Arthur looked down at her and her easy smile. "I know." He swallowed, and said, “It doesn't matter, just forget it."

The next day he posted the card to his aunt and uncle - but the second one stayed half finished and in his bag.

In the end of course it turned out Sophie had been teasing him all along. Six weeks later she was gone, leaving Arthur for the older, and apparently more exciting, captain of the sixth form rugby team. It was two weeks later, when Arthur was packing for Glastonbury Festival - Tom's apparently 'failsafe' method for Getting Over That Witch - that Arthur saw the postcard again, squashed and stained at the bottom of his rucksack. He pulled it out and stared at it for a long moment before putting it in the drawer in his desk with the pile of letters and post it notes that no longer stuck to anything. But when he came home, muddy and happy, four days later he remembered to print off a good, and not too drunken, photograph, writing neatly on the back, 'Me and Tom at Glastonbury Tor', and wrote a short letter.

And this time, he posted it.

........................................

It was perhaps a little ironic that his trip to Glastonbury should fuel a sudden interest in Arthurian history - given that his A Level module in Arthurian Literature had already fuelled a succession of increasingly unfunny 'Arthur' jokes and inspired Tom and Owen to always save him the only circular table in the sixth form common room. But even with this interest Arthur still surprised himself, and everyone else, when his essay won his year's prize for literature in his first year of sixth form. It wasn't that Arthur was bad at English as such; it was rather that his teachers had long assumed his talents lay outside the classroom, or in 'hitting people with swords' as Owen cheerfully put it.

It was while his aunt was still trying to decide where to hang the certificate in the tiny living room that his uncle suggested he send a copy of the essay to his guardian.

"I understand he's something of a scholar himself."

"Really?" Arthur was so surprised by this he looked away from the frame he was holding up, which resulted in his aunt very nearly nailing his thumb to the wall.

"Well," his uncle continued when his aunt had finally been persuaded to put down the hammer, "I couldn't say for certain, but he's always seemed a very learned man."

As usual Arthur pressed for more information, and as usual his uncle had no more to say on the subject. But Arthur remembered the conversation and the following week he photocopied the essay, entitled 'The Legacy of Arthur in British History and Literature' and sent it with a cover note (after removing the highly embarrassing photo from the school paper his aunt had tried to sneak in to the envelope).

Five days later he received a postcard.

I very much enjoyed your essay but I think you forgot about Merlin!!!

To which Arthur replied,

I did not forget him. King Arthur was probably based on a real figure, Merlin is almost certainly no more than a mythological construct.

Two days later Arthur was woken by the doorbell ringing at 7.30am. Stumbling to the door he wrenched it open to find the postman, looking annoyingly cheerful for such an early hour, and holding out a large parcel. Ripping off the brown paper Arthur found himself staring at a huge book boldly titled 'MERLIN: THE MAN AND THE LEGEND' above what looked like a medieval depiction of Merlin turning someone into a toad. A post it note had been affixed to the front cover, complete with an arrow pointing to Merlin's face and the comment,

I don't think the rubbish beard is historically accurate.

Flicking through the first few pages Arthur discovered his guardian had also taken it upon himself to underline the word LEGEND several times in quite thick pen and put a star next to the chapter, 'Merlin - greater than Arthur?' on the contents page.

The next day he found a left over postcard of Arthur in a heroic pose, bought at a shop in Glastonbury, and wrote,

Are you actually suggesting Merlin was a real wizard who could turn people into toads?

Two days later a postcard arrived featuring Merlin 'imparting wisdom to King Arthur' (if the small type on the back was to be believed) and bearing the message,

You Arthurs are always so sceptical.

Which, Arthur thought as he put the card away in the drawer, was quite a strange comment to make, all things considered.

….....................................

It was, however, a rather more well-thumbed copy of the book that he took to university with him just over a year later, stacking it neatly on the shelf above his desk - next to the worn copy of Malory and the brand new copy of the Historia Brittonum of Nennius that had been a leaving present from his aunt and uncle. They'd left not long ago - after his aunt had smoothed the bedcovers, checked the kitchen and bathroom and hoovered the already pristine carpet and could, finally, find nothing else to keep her there. Arthur had waved them off cheerfully enough but once their car had disappeared he had trailed slowly back up the unfamiliar staircase and stood in his room. He looked at the box of books still to be unpacked, at the half open suitcase and the bare walls and felt, for a moment, as if this whole university idea was too big for him. He could hear someone's music playing somewhere in the distance and the sound of voices in the car park, girls by the sound of it, shouting to each other over the roar of car engines.

It was so noisy that he almost didn't hear the knock at first. Even when he did he dithered for a second, wondering if Tom would actually die laughing if he could see the confident Captain of the Football Team, hovering nervously on his own doorstep. It was this that finally made him stride forward, before he could think better of it, and pull open the door to find a dark haired boy poised, one hand raised and ready to knock again.

"Hi," the boy said awkwardly after a slight pause. He looked a little flushed and Arthur wondered if he had been standing there a while too, waiting to knock, and the thought made him feel better somehow.

He attempted a smile, which may or may not have been successful. "Hi, I'm Arthur." Belatedly he held out a hand and the boy took it, looking relieved, and grinned.

"I know," When Arthur looked confused the boy hurried on, the tips of his ears red, "I mean, I think someone from Allocations mentioned you would be arriving today."

"Oh," said Arthur.

"I'm Merlin by the way," the boy offered, then laughed at Arthur's expression, "I know, don't say it. Evidently someone in the Halls Office has a warped sense of humour."

Arthur laughed at that, and shook his head disbelieving, "Please tell me you're not doing English."

"Would you believe me if I said I wasn't?"

Arthur looked at him for a second, eyes narrowed at the suddenly angelic expression. "Actually I don't think I would."

Merlin sighed dramatically, "There goes the acting career. I guess I'll have to sign up for English after all."

Arthur rolled his eyes and Merlin grinned again and said, "A few of us are going down to the student union if you— I mean, if you haven't got anything you need to be doing and want to come along?" When Arthur hesitated for a moment he added, "You don't have to, if you're busy, I just thought—" He stopped and looked so hopeful that Arthur found himself saying, without thought. "No, I'll come. It's only unpacking," he gestured round the room, "Nothing that can't wait."

He grabbed his coat and wallet and followed Merlin down the narrow corridor to where a group of five or six people were chatting self-consciously.

"Thank you, by the way." Arthur said, as they neared the group, "I wasn't sure what to—” He broke off, feeling a bit of an idiot, "I just mean, it's good to meet someone from my course." He had an awful feeling he'd gone red.

But Merlin just beamed at him, looking ridiculously happy for someone who'd just started a three year degree course. "I know," he said, "And you're very welcome."

.....................................

In his first term at university Arthur sent three postcards to his guardian, and received one in return.

October 19^th

As you can see I made it here alive. The course is going well so far (I think). As improbable as it seems I have met a real-life Merlin, a fellow English student. Our flat was even renamed Camelot by my next door neighbour Lucy - until real-life Merlin threatened to turn her into a toad in a way not unlike your favourite book. But I think you'll be pleased to hear that he seems to have made it a point of honour to defend his name-sake against any and all criticism. It makes for some interesting seminars!

Arthur

November 12^th

We had the first lot of snow here yesterday so I hope this card gets through. Merlin says it usually gets worse, but I don't see how it can get much colder than this! Unfortunately it means rugby and football are off for now - but fencing club carries on as normal, provided we can make it to practice with no broken bones. I even dragged Merlin along last week, after he tricked me into attending a poetry evening at the union bar. It turns out he is absolutely rubbish with a sword, and should not be allowed near weaponry of any kind. I've decided to claim that as a victory for King Arthur, whatever Merlin says!

Arthur

December 6th

I hope you're well? I still haven't heard from you. Things continue much the same here. Merlin was right about the snow - for which he was insufferably smug through most of November. But it's stopped being a novelty now and all most of us can think about are essays and the January exam. Lucy has bought in an industrial sized jar of coffee and settled in for the duration and even Merlin is quieter than usual. I think he managed a whole thirty minutes without speaking when we were working in his room yesterday. I did wonder if perhaps he had fallen into a coma, but sadly not. Luckily we have Nick (who lives downstairs) to drag us to the pub when he feels the levels of work have become unacceptably high.

Arthur

December 11th

Dear Arthur,

I'm sorry for not writing back to you for so long. I think we should meet. I will be in town on Thursday at 4 o'clock by the west gate of the college.

Your guardian.

.....................................

Arthur was nineteen years old when he first learned that he used to be a King. Afterwards he would remember the sting of winter air on his face, the darkening sky and the falling snow. But most of all he would remember Merlin. Merlin who stood up, a dark bundled figure against grey stone, and watched him slip and slide his way along the narrow path. Merlin whose voice shook as he spoke, his words falling into silence until there was nothing but the swirling snow, the glow of the street lamp and the anxious face before him. Then Merlin gripped his hands and there was knowledge too, a dizzying rush of memories – the flicker of candlelight on stone, the ring of steel and the smell of horses, of wine, blood and magic and the shape of snow on older walls than these.

And after, when it was done, he would remember the way Merlin looked at him - laid open, so honest and pleading and Merlin, that he would wonder how he ever mistook this familiarity between them for something new. All his life, he had thought, and remembered another, darker, night, the glitter of lamplight on rain washed windows and a cool hand on his skin.

Afterwards he would remember the words Merlin had spoken, “I’m sorry” and “I couldn’t tell you” and the way he had twisted his red scarf round and round in his hands, until it was impossibly tangled, until Arthur had had to reach out and stop Merlin’s cold hands with his own. Afterwards he would remember it all, but in that moment he only thought of the dark and the cold and Merlin - untidy, clumsy Merlin who left his books all over Arthur’s floor and was always late.

“All this time,” he had said, and the words had seemed so small next to the enormity of that knowledge, that his life could change so completely and yet not at all. He had thought, then, that he could remember another time, another moment like this – but the memory was dim and fleeting, just a snatch of gold, a voice and Merlin so uncertain before him. So he thought instead of that night, years before, of the smell of the sickroom, the scratch of blankets and the memory of the figure by his bed that had faded into something insubstantial in the days that had followed. Until, when Arthur had almost forgotten, his aunt and uncle had returned at last to take him home, in a flurry of apologies. How lucky, they had said, that the letter had reached them, and how kind of his guardian, his aunt had added, fussing over his blanket, to visit in their absence. And when Arthur was safe and warm and home, blankets worn and soft and no longer rough against his skin, he had asked for the cards and letters in the drawer, spread them across his bed and known that it was real. He needed that, he’d realised, watching the snow drift across the wall, settling in Merlin’s dark hair - needed to counter the unreality of this with the certainty of home. To open the drawer in his desk, take out everything, all of it - to spread it out and look for Merlin there.

So that night Arthur went home to the brick house at the end of the drive. In his old room, at the top of the stairs, he opened the middle drawer of his desk and took out the pile of letters, postcards and curling post-it notes. He spread them out on the floor and looked at them for a long time, smoothing out creases and frayed edges and thinking. He thought of the way he had left Merlin earlier that night, Merlin who had nodded so earnestly and said “It’s ok, of course you need— Of course. I’ll be here, don’t worry”, but who had watched him, a slight dark figure in the snow, until Arthur was out of sight. He thought of the empty chair at his bedside, of invisible ink and long afternoons in the college library with Merlin, a warm presence by his side. And he thought of the smell of leather and steel and the way the orange glow of the street lamp had looked like firelight on Merlin’s skin. He thought of a red scarf and pale hands, of old stone, new paper and Merlin, always Merlin, until he could no longer tell where one memory ended and another began. And then he smiled, because it was not so hard after all, to make it real.

As the clock on the wall ticked softly onward he gathered the papers and cards together again and put them back in the drawer. From downstairs he could hear the murmur of voices and the low buzz of the television, the whistle of a kettle and his aunt’s footsteps on the kitchen floor. Tomorrow he knew there would be questions to ask, and perhaps, to answer. But for tonight, he had one last letter to write.

Dear idiot,

As you will see from the postmark I really am at home and not doing any of the melodramatic things you have no doubt been imagining. It seems Kings, and anyone who has managed to live with you, can cope with almost anything. And really, perhaps I should have known all along. Bambi, Merlin? Seriously? I may never forgive you for that.

The next time you decide to withhold my memories from me out of some misguided sense of honour I will borrow stocks from the British Museum and see you are locked in it for at least the next three hundred years (and don’t think I don’t know you’re immortal).

I also think we need to have a serious discussion about your worrying preoccupation with your own legend.

Love,

Arthur

PS. This does not mean I’m speaking to you.

PPS. I’ll be back on Monday.

…............................….

After that Arthur never wrote to Merlin again, and Merlin never wrote to Arthur – but then, they were so rarely apart, it was hardly necessary.

THE END.

All constructive criticism very welcome!

ps. All views expressed here with regards to Merlin being a mythological construct were made up by me for this story. I am not an Arthurian scholar (and i'm sure Arthur changes his mind anyway...). Apologies to any experts out there!

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