Chapter Text
“Hurry up, you idiot! If we're late they won't let us in till intermission, and you know Aithusa will be devastated if we miss her part!”
Merlin was fussing with his clothes in front of the bedroom mirror, looking horribly uncomfortable in the suit Arthur had ordered for him. “I know, I know,” he said in a huff of exasperation, fiddling with his tie before trying to get his jacket to sit properly on his shoulders. “But we wouldn't actually tell her we'd missed it. It's not like we haven't seen her practice a hundred times. And with all the kids in their mice costumes you can't tell who is who anyway. I tried to give Aithusa a high five after the dress rehearsal, but it was Kara, staring at me with such a frightened look you'd have thought I was about to cut off her head or something.”
Arthur snorted from where he was standing in the doorway, ready to haul Merlin out to the car forcibly if he didn't hurry it up. “That Kara is a strange girl, always angry about something. She spit on my shoes when I told her she couldn't eat in her costume.”
“She did not!” Merlin stopped messing with his jacket.
Arthur reached his arm around Merlin's shoulders to direct him out to the car before he could delay any longer.
“She did! And the other little mice all laughed about it. You should have seen Eira and Sefa cackling like it was the funniest thing they'd ever seen!”
Merlin burst out laughing. “The Great Arthur Pendragon, brought low by a group of seven-year old girls.”
Aithusa had turned seven this year, so was finally old enough to audition for the Camelot Ballet’s Nutcracker. The Camelot Ballet was an amateur company based out of the Camelot Academy of Ballet. While not a professional company, the older students practiced over 20 hours a week. Many of them went on to become professional dancers at companies around the world.
The Camelot Academy was the best (and the most expensive) school, so when Aithusa turned three-years old and begged to be a “bawaweena”, she was enrolled immediately. It was the same school that her Auntie Morgana had attended (only the best for any child of Uther Pendragon), and their cousin Morgause had gone there, too. Aithusa had seen videos of them in their pointe shoes and tutus, dancing with the “handsome pwince” and couldn't wait to be just like her aunties.
Arthur sometimes worried that she'd become too much like her aunties, who while beautiful, were cunning and manipulative and got whatever they wanted. At least Aithusa didn't share any Pendragon DNA, having been a foundling. Merlin had pulled her out of a garbage can on a snowy Christmas morning, a tiny bundle with wispy silver hair and angry red cheeks, screaming as loudly as her baby lungs could manage. Which wasn't loud at all, but Merlin had always been uncommonly perceptive. He later said it felt like she had been calling just for him and he had known exactly where to find her.
It had taken awhile before Merlin and Arthur had been allowed to officially adopt Aithusa. There were a lot of hoops to jump through. Her original parents had to be searched for (but were never found). Then Arthur and Merlin had to prove they'd be competent parents. Just because Merlin had found her, he didn't get automatic first dibs. But they worked to convince the authorities, and around the time Aithusa was six months old, they were allowed to bring her home. She had had them wrapped around her little finger ever since.
Arthur finally got Merlin into the car and headed to the Camelot High School Auditorium. He knew the way well. Parents were required to volunteer backstage for at least six full-length practices or performances, or their children would not be allowed in the show. Arthur had wanted to refuse—he was an important and busy man, and he had a major international company to run—but Aithusa had turned her ice-blue eyes to him, a tear ready to fall out of each one, lips wobbling in despair. “Daddy! Please! I've been waiting to be in the Nutcracker my entire life! If I can't, I will surely die!”
Arthur had run his fingers through her hair, chuckling, and said, “Don't you think you’re being dramatic?” This had just made her angrier, and she had devolved into a crying wreck of a girl. Arthur couldn't stand it any longer, and pulled her into his lap.
“All right, Thusa. If it means that much to you, I’ll do it. Though I will expect a big thank you in the form of excellent behavior.”
She had thrown her little arms round his neck and shrieked, “Yes! Yes! Oh thank you, Daddy! I promise I'll be an angel!”
Her promise didn't last long. Once the casting list came out and Aithusa found out that she was going to be a mouse and not have a tutu or any kind of pretty dress at all, she threw a horrible temper tantrum. She had always been a fiery little girl. But at least she didn't break anything and eventually calmed down. Arthur tried telling her how Auntie Morgause had been the Mouse King one year, and had a great time in her mouse costume swinging her sword around, but Aithusa was not convinced. In the end, Merlin saved the day by showing her pictures of the actual mice costumes, complete with gray hoods sporting mousy ears and a long swishy tail. Aithusa thought the tail looked like fun, and suddenly everything was sunshine and lollipops again. Ah, the life of a seven-year old girl.
They arrived at the parking lot, but had to park a long way from the entrance. The two of them jogged to the door, hoping not to be locked out. Arthur groused as he ran. “This is all your fault, Merlin! If you hadn't been so late—”
“Oh, shut it, clotpole. I don't see why you wouldn't just let me wear my normal clothes anyway.”
“Because, idiot, people dress up to go to the ballet.”
“I was dressed up!” Merlin adopted the best pouty face he could while huffing to catch his breath. He never had been in as good a shape as Arthur.
“Jeans without holes in them is not dressing up, Merlin. How many times do we have to go over this?”
They arrived at the entrance and Merlin slowed to a halt, searching his pockets for the tickets. He muttered to himself, “Sometimes I wonder why I ever married such a clotpole…”
Arthur had stopped behind Merlin, who was distracted by the tickets. It was easy for Arthur to throw his arms around Merlin from behind, surprising him with a fierce hug. “It's because you love me.”
Merlin nodded, but broke away in a rush. “But you'll never get me to admit to it, at least not in public. Now come on!”
They presented their tickets and hurried inside, sliding into their seats just before the bells announcing the impending start of the show sounded. Arthur saw that the rest of their party had already arrived: his parents, Morgana and Leon, Morgause and Cenred, Gwen and Lance. Gwen had once danced the role of the Sugarplum Fairy with Lance as her cavalier. They had been in love ever since. Thank God Morgana didn't get together with her dance partner that year. She had been cast as the Snow Queen, and her consort had been some creepy guy named Mordred who had impenetrable eyes that always stared at Arthur. The boy was a good dancer, and he practically worshipped Morgana, but that couldn’t make up for the fact that Arthur suspected him of planning his demise from the day they had met.
The lights in the auditorium started to dim, but that didn't stop Gwen from gushing about how adorable Aithusa was going to be in her Nutcracker debut. Lance smiled at her and placed his hand on her tummy, no doubt imagining their own peanut dancing in the Nutcracker in eight years or so. Grandma Ygraine and Grandpa Uther (and Arthur still felt strange calling them that, even after seven years of parenthood) were sitting next to Morgana, a bouquet of roses resting in his mother's lap. She pointed at them and mouthed to him “for Aithusa” just as the light vanished.
The Camelot Symphony was providing live music for the show, and Arthur could hear the sounds of various instruments tuning. Once the auditorium was dark, it was easy to see the small lights over the music stands, slightly illuminating the faces of the musicians. The conductor came out to a surprisingly large applause, and the overture began to play. Except for the dim lights coming from the orchestra, it was completely dark.
He could hear a child asking his mother why there wasn't any dancing yet, but Arthur rather enjoyed the dark. It had been a very tiring production week. He had worked his normal grueling hours at the company, but then had gone straight to the auditorium each day to help with the dress rehearsals. He had been in charge of keeping the mice in line, ferrying them to get makeup and costumes at the appropriate times. Except for Aithusa, he had had no experience with children and had found it a tiring endeavor.
Merlin, the lucky bastard, had experience as a stagehand, so had been conscripted to help with the lights and special effects. Arthur would much prefer to be the one to make it snow or to turn on the fog machines. But he had been relegated to being a glorified babysitter. The whole experience had been exhausting.
Arthur took a deep breath and closed his eyes, willing away the stress of the past week. Now was the time to relax, to enjoy the one show he didn't have to help with, to watch Aithusa in her moment in the spotlight. Sure, she had to share that spotlight with a stage full of other mice, rats, and toy soldiers. But don't tell her that. As far as she was concerned, she was the star of the show.
The music swelled as the song reached its climax. The overture to the Nutcracker had always struck him as a magical song. It reminded him of snow and happiness and Christmas. He had complained about it loudly each year when he had been taken to see his sister in the show, but he still remembered the feeling of magic that enveloped him once the show began.
A feeling of deep relaxation came over him and he shifted back in the chair, slouching a little. He rested his right hand on Merlin's left knee, all thoughts of snotty children washed away. Merlin leaned towards him, brushing a quick kiss to his lips before pulling away. Arthur opened his eyes briefly, smiling fondly. Merlin grinned back mischievously, barely visible in the gloom. For the tiniest moment, Arthur thought he saw Merlin's eyes flash gold, but decided his vision hadn't adjusted to the low light. He closed his eyes again.
The overture finished to the applause of the audience, but Arthur couldn't muster the energy to clap. The stage lights came up, turning the inside of his eyelids pink. Arthur knew that on stage, guests would be arriving for the Stahlbaum’s Christmas party. But his eyelids were heavy, and Aithusa wasn't in this scene anyway. No one would notice if he didn't watch but just listened to the music for awhile.
As he fell closer to sleep, strange images flitted through his head. He saw dancing chocolates and cartwheeling candy canes. A fire-breathing Chinese dragon hurtled past the sweets, exploding in a burst of flowers. Tiny bonbons jumped out from their hiding place underneath a giant woman's skirt, dashing and whirling in a million directions. They were chased away by a snowstorm that howled with malevolent voices. . . .
When Arthur woke up, he was alone on the stage. The set looked like the parlor in the manor where he had grown up. There were portraits of his ancestors hanging on the walls, and a fire was roaring in the stone fireplace. Had that been there before? He looked around frantically, thinking he was missing someone, someone important. But he couldn't remember . . . it was slipping through his mind like water through his fingers.
He turned around, confused, to find his parents there. Uther was yelling at him to be ready, the guests were going to arrive at any moment. Ygraine put her hands on his father's shoulders, urging him to relax. “Everything is ready, husband. It's going to be a lovely Christmas party. The maids have taken care of everything.”
Arthur looked around some more, realizing that yes, the grand parlor had been decorated for Christmas. A sweet-smelling fir tree was laden with glittering ornaments and sat protectively over a pile of presents like a hen over her eggs. A few musicians were gathered by the fireplace, ready to play throughout the party. His sister Morgana came spinning into the room, twirling out the skirt of her lacy white dress. She looked like a dancing snowflake, reminiscent of the weather outside.
There was a swell of music and then the doorbell chimed. The room filled with guests in colorful outfits, bearing gifts to place under the tree. Children began to frolic underfoot, a whirlwind of energy. Arthur saw his friends—Percival, Elyan, Gwaine, and Leon—but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing somebody important.
The maids stayed busy serving refreshments while the adults chatted and scolded naughty children. Morgana was the princess of the party—the children deferred to her, the adults doted upon her, presenting sweets and tokens of affection. No one gave anything to Arthur. Instead, Father repeatedly expressed his displeasure about how the boys were too rowdy and it must be Arthur's fault.
When it was time for presents, the parents gathered to watch the children rip the packages open with shrieks of joy. The girls received new dollies, with eyes that could open and shut. The boys got toy swords, and quickly brandished them as they ran round the room. Arthur, remembering his father's chastisement, quickly organized his "knights” into sword practice in a corner of the room, away from the rest of the party. Hopefully they would be left in peace.
But Morgana soon came over, wishing to join in the sword fighting, and many of the other girls—Morgause, Gwen, Freya—followed. Morgana seized Arthur's sword and rushed at Leon with a fierce yell. The “knights” lost the little discipline Arthur had managed to instill and charged at the girls, fake swords slashing through the air. The girls ran away screaming. Uther came and gave Arthur a swat on the bottom, as if it had somehow all been his fault. Morgana, who was quite the actress, had tears flowing down her cheeks and was enveloped in their mother's arms.
Arthur was made to sit alone on a chair, forced to watch the other children continue their games. Morgana smirked at him from time to time, clearly reveling in the fact she had caused Arthur's misfortune. She always had gotten her way with everything.
As the clock struck eight, the front door burst open in a rush of icy wind. Arthur's godfather Kilgharrah stood there, enveloped in a sweeping black cape and dragging a mysterious trunk behind him. The children shrieked in joy, swarming Kilgharrah and demanding to know what marvels were contained in the trunk. He laughed at them and slammed the door behind him. The children yelled all the louder as Kilgharrah pulled the chest to the middle of the room. He held an elaborately carved black staff, which he banged on the floor three times, calling for attention. And then he opened the trunk and pulled out a life-sized doll.
The guests ooh-ed and ah-ed over how realistic the doll looked, with long dark hair and dress and lips the color of fresh blood. She stood like a statue until Kilgharrah called out in his booming voice, “Nimueh! Dance!” He banged his staff three more times, and the doll began to move.
She danced slowly at first, but moved faster as the musicians increased the tempo. Arthur couldn't believe the precision with which she jumped and twirled around the room. It was a true marvel that a mechanical doll could do such things. If Arthur didn't know better, he would say it had to be magic.
The audience would never tire of such a sight, but Kilgharrah soon returned Nimueh to the trunk. The adults began their own dances, the children occasionally joining in with a gallop of their own. But Arthur was in no mood for dancing, and remained in his chair till Kilgharrah called for him. Puzzled, Arthur went to see his godfather, who had pulled out a wrapped package from his mysterious trunk. Kilgharrah held it out for him, and Arthur reached for it, eagerly pulling the wrappings away. Inside was the strangest wooden nutcracker he had ever seen. Most nutcrackers were dressed like soldiers, and while this one did have a sword in one hand, the other held a long wooden staff with a blue gem in its headpiece. The figure had dark hair, pale skin, brilliant blue eyes, and the plainest clothes Arthur had ever seen on a nutcracker, a blue shirt with a red scarf round the neck. For some reason, Arthur's heart leapt with joy when he saw it.
“For you, my son. Treat him well.” Before Arthur could even say thank you, Kilgharrah had stalked off to the grown-ups with a swirl of his cape.
Arthur wandered around the chaos of the room, examining his gift. He admired the mechanism of the jaw that allowed it to crack nuts, but at the same time he vowed never to put it to such a mundane task. He wondered why someone who was not a soldier, if the clothing could be trusted, carried both a sword and what appeared to be a magical staff. Perhaps he was so incompetent with one he thought he'd fare better with two? For some reason this struck Arthur as both exceedingly funny and highly likely.
He was so lost in his contemplations that he didn't notice that Morgana had come over to see what he was staring at. When she saw the wooden figure, she snatched it out of Arthur's hands, held it aloft, and then ran away shrieking. Arthur gave immediate chase, but for some reason Morgana could slip easily through the crowd of dancers, while Arthur was frustrated at every turn.
He had just about caught her when she tripped over an abandoned sword. The nutcracker went flying out of her grasp, skidded across the slick wooden floor, and hit the wall with an audible crack. Morgana ran weeping to their mother while Arthur examined the nutcracker, horrified to find it had split into two pieces. He gathered them up carefully, a surprisingly deep sorrow lodged in his chest. He wasn't sure why he felt so deeply for a toy that only had been his for a quarter-hour, but something about its broken body stirred great feelings of grief inside him.
Of course his father had not seen Morgana steal or break the nutcracker, but had only seen Arthur chasing after his sweet little sister. This time when his father pulled him out of the parlor, he received a lot more than a swat on the bottom. Then he was sent to bed for the rest of the night, the broken nutcracker left abandoned on the floor near the Christmas tree.
Arthur couldn't sleep, but stewed at the injustice of the blatant favoritism his father showed towards his sister. He lay on his four-poster bed, listening to the sounds of the party slowly dying away as the guests took their leave. The music stopped, and at last he heard his parents and sister come up to bed.
He waited until he was sure they slept, then snuck back down to the parlor. The Christmas tree was still lit, and leant an eerie glow to the otherwise darkened room. Kilgharrah’s mysterious trunk had been left by the antique grandfather clock, which was puzzling. His godfather had always kept it close.
Arthur found his nutcracker tucked under the tree with the rest of the children's presents. He held the two pieces of it with great sadness. Tired and heart-sick, he curled up in an armchair next to the dead fire, clutching the pieces of the nutcracker to his chest. His eyes slipped closed.
The scurrying of tiny feet across the wooden floor roused him. The fire in the grate, which Arthur had thought completely out, flared suddenly. The skittering noises increased, coming from all around him. He thought he saw the whip of a tail and the flash of sharp teeth rushing by.
The grandfather clock began to toll the hour, its chimes reverberating deep into Arthur's bones. Was it his imagination, or was the Christmas tree growing taller with each stroke of the clock?
At the twelfth chime, there was a great flash of light from the top of the clock, and smoke rolled through the room. Arthur thought he saw his godfather perched on top of the clock, cloak billowing out behind him like wings. Arthur had the impression of fire spitting from his mouth, but then Kilgharrah’s trunk burst open and the mechanical doll flew out in a whirl of limbs. She spun around the room in a dizzying sequence of turns, though no music played. She segued into a series of whipping fouetté turns, mesmerizing in their precision. When she finished, balanced in a perfect arabesque, her hands were no longer empty. Instead they held a silver chalice which seemed to glow slightly. It seemed sinister to Arthur, who immediately recoiled from the sight and didn't know why.
The doll—Nimueh, he recalled—held out the chalice to Arthur, who felt strangely compelled to take it. She walked towards him with the graceful yet predatory steps of a poisonous spider. Arthur stepped closer, fascinated by the sight in front of him. . . . He reached out to take it, but his mother was suddenly there, stepping between him and the goblet. This struck him as wrong, somehow. He wanted to protest, but his father appeared, pulling him away from his mother, who looked at him longingly, raised the chalice and drank. Her scream echoed through the manor, and in it Arthur could hear the cries of the innocent being burnt alive. He swore he could see flames rising from where his mother had fallen, but when he looked again it was as though she had never been there. Arthur turned in despair, searching for his father, but he had also vanished. He looked in horror at the doll, who twisted her bright red lips into a series of indecipherable words, guttural and sinister.
Out of the lingering smoke, Arthur could see shapes creeping towards him, dark gray blobs with snapping teeth and clawing paws—mice the size of children. He could hear them snarling as they circled around him.
Arthur's toy sword ought to be under the tree with the rest of the presents. He wasn't sure how much help it would be, but otherwise he was completely defenseless. He dashed towards the tree, but was immediately swarmed by mice tearing at his night clothes. He lunged for the armchair instead and climbed up as high onto its back as he could manage to escape the ripping claws. He held the nutcracker close. It gave a strange comfort in the face of this nightmare.
Arthur had given himself up for lost when there was a sudden explosion from the fireplace. A dark shape as large as a man appeared, a golden crown upon its head. But it was no man that stood there. Arthur could see wild fur, giant whiskers, a snake-like tail, and a gleaming sword in its hand. The mice surrounding Arthur immediately fell to the floor, prostrate, and dragged their bodies across the floor till they surrounded their king. They lifted their tiny arms over their heads, then bowed down repeatedly, a grotesque mass of writhing mouse bodies.
Arthur ran to the tree, looking for a sword. He found the toy one he had received at the party. It was little more than a flimsy wood stick, but it was all that he had.
The Mouse King motioned for its minions to rise, then pointed at Arthur. The mice quickly overcame him, biting and clawing, pulling him to the ground. The toy sword was ripped from his hand, the nutcracker flung away, crashing into the grandfather clock. Of all the things he could worry about, Arthur felt the most regret that the nutcracker would always be broken. He edged backwards till he hit the clock, hemmed in by mice on all sides.
With no warning, Arthur’s godfather leapt down from the top of the clock, cloak swirling all around him. When he stood up, he held his black staff in front of him and banged it on the floor three times. The mice, startled, scurried away from Arthur and hid behind the enormous Mouse King, chattering in fright.
Nimueh, who had been watching the scene with a triumphant smirk on her mechanical doll face, rushed towards Kilgharrah in alarm. But he held up his staff and she came no further.
Kilgharrah pounded his staff again. This time there was an explosion of light and smoke from the bottom of the clock, where the nutcracker had lain. Arthur's heart jolted in worry, even as part of his mind told him it was silly to be so concerned for a toy.
When the smoke cleared, Arthur could hardly believe what he saw. His nutcracker was there, whole again. It had also grown in size till it was as tall as a man. The wooden figure began to take jerky steps towards Arthur, hesitantly at first, but then more quickly as if his limbs were remembering how to move. The sword and staff that the nutcracker carried were no longer made from wood, but appeared both genuine and deadly.
Nimueh screamed in rage, and the Mouse King charged at Arthur. The mice followed, a menacing swarm. . . . But the nutcracker raised his staff high into the air, and a brilliant blue light flooded out, illuminating all the corners of the room. There was a sudden flurry of motion, then dozens of life-sized wooden toy soldiers appeared, some swinging swords, others with lances on horseback.
The fight that ensued was intense. The mice jumped and clawed and bit; the soldiers swiped and slashed and kicked. The nutcracker stormed his way through the room, waving his staff and occasionally swinging the sword. Arthur crouched behind a sofa, watching, but unsure of how to help.
Nimueh had regained her composure and lifted her hands in a haze of yellow light. She shouted loudly, and the light flew from her hands and struck the nutcracker in a fiery explosion. The nutcracker was knocked over by the force of the blow. Arthur feared the worst. Nimueh cackled in triumph.
But, miraculously, the nutcracker rose from the floor, his chest blackened and smoking. He held up his staff, which glowed electric blue. Then lightning shot out from the gem and blasted Nimueh from her feet. Her mechanical body was crumpled and utterly still.
The nutcracker stumbled, and Arthur darted out from his hiding place and ran to hold him up. As he did, the battle between the mice and the soldiers intensified. Snowflakes began flying through the air. The walls of the parlor faded into the snowstorm, pine trees slowly appearing as if they had always been there. The wooden floor crunched painfully under his bare feet, and looking down, Arthur saw that it was snow.
The participants in the battle were changing, too. The wooden toy soldiers were taking on more human features. Soon, Arthur could recognize some of his friends among the chaos, fighting with swords as if they had trained all their lives. There were Leon and Percy, facing off against a horde of squealing mice. Over where the Mouse King was commanding its forces, Arthur could see Gwaine and Elyan standing back-to-back, swiping mercilessly at any mice that came too close.
Some of the mice had also changed. Several had transformed into screeching black ravens that plummeted from the sky to peck at the soldiers’ eyes. Some turned into ferocious creatures resembling tiny dragons, with red eyes and horns atop their heads. Wyverns, Arthur thought, although he wasn't sure how he knew.
One mouse turned as white as the snow that stung against their faces. She grew scaly wings and bony protuberances on her back. Aithusa, Arthur thought, and wondered how he knew that name. He felt a strange reluctance for her to be hurt, but when she charged at some of the soldiers blasting fire as she went, he knew they would have to engage her in the battle. Aithusa came closer to him, then snarled and spit fire from her elongated snout, causing Arthur to haul the nutcracker behind some evergreen bushes for cover.
Unlike the toy soldiers, who were all now truly alive, the nutcracker remained wooden, its chest still smoking. It seemed to be dying, if it were possible for something not truly alive to die. The snowstorm intensified, the battle raged, and the Mouse King stood tall amidst the chaos, shaking its arms at the sky, as if commandeering the storm to its baleful cause.
Arthur peeked from his hiding place, squinting to see through the thick snow. He thought he saw new combatants rallying to the Mouse King’s call. And then, standing so close to the Mouse King that they might be embracing, there was a woman. She wore a lacy white gown, a sharp contrast to the brilliant red of her lips and the dark ringlets of her hair. On top of her head rested a heavy silver crown, glittering with icy diamonds, the Queen of the Land of Snow.
She was exceedingly familiar and completely foreign. Terror began to creep into Arthur's heart as he realized who it was—Morgana, but not the Morgana who was his spoiled, selfish sister. This Morgana was fully grown and exuded cruelty. Even through the fog of snow and battle, Arthur could feel it.
Next to Morgana, a step or two back, stood a slim figure with pale skin and dark hair. He wore a dark green cloak. Arthur felt uneasy looking at him, though he couldn't remember ever seeing him before.
There were no longer any mice. Those that had not transformed into malevolent creatures had changed into human soldiers, wielding swords and axes and maces. The toy soldiers were all human knights, equipped with armor, swords, and shields. Arthur felt strange when he saw them, nostalgic for impossible memories. It felt wrong to cower behind a bush when his men—and since when were they his?—fought bravely against such insurmountable odds.
Arthur looked again for the Mouse King, but it was no longer there. Instead, an armored woman stood arm-and-arm with Morgana, her helmet removed and her long blond hair whipping in the breeze. She still wore the Mouse King's golden crown. It took longer to recognize her. Morgause, he thought, but not his cousin Morgause . . . a Morgause of great power and evil intent.
The nutcracker next to Arthur lay still, propped against a tree trunk. Arthur hadn't paid him much attention for the past several minutes. He was horrified by how far his condition had deteriorated. The knights were falling back towards their position as the enemy advanced. Soon the battle would come upon Arthur, who was barefoot, half-frozen, and defenseless. He looked frantically for a way to defend himself and the fallen nutcracker. His eyes fixed upon the nutcracker's sword, golden hilt protruding from a stone-gray scabbard. He reached for it and pulled, but it did not budge. Alarmed, he tried again, yanking harder, but still nothing came of it. Furious, he howled his frustration into the whirling storm.
There was a startling flash of fiery light from behind him. Arthur spun around to find his godfather Kilgharrah there, enormous black cloak flapping wildly in the wind. Arthur ran to him, but stopped when he realized he was leaving the nutcracker to his fate. Kilgharrah nodded to him, then said in a deep, gravely voice, “Fear not, young King. You are but one half of the whole.” Kilgharrah drew in a deep breath and blew out a golden mist. It curled past Arthur, who watched it linger over the nutcracker. Arthur turned back to question his godfather, but Kilgharrah was gone. Searching furiously, he saw no trace of the man, though he thought he saw a golden dragon gliding away through the storm.
Despairing, Arthur turned back to the nutcracker, but the wooden figure was no longer there. Instead there stood a man, nothing more than a boy, really, with wild dark hair and a mischievous and joyful grin. Arthur gaped at him, heart pounding furiously. It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize that this boy was wearing the same outfit the nutcracker had, only it was no longer mere paint but made from actual cloth, the red scarf threatening to come undone in the fierce breeze.
The boy grinned again, so brightly it felt like Arthur's heart might break. He approached Arthur, bowed low, them stood and slowly pulled the golden-hilted sword from its scabbard, presenting it to Arthur with reverence.
Arthur took up the sword, noticing its perfect silver surface was inscribed with runes he did not know how to read. But the voice of his godfather echoed in his head: “Take me up. . . . Cast me away.” A feeling of peace and rightness settled upon Arthur like a cloak. He looked down to find he was now wearing armor and it felt as normal as breathing. He looked to the battle to see his knights fighting just as he had taught them to do. He glanced back at the grinning boy—Merlin!, his heart remembered. The boy held up his staff, the gem on top pulsing a brilliant, blinding blue.
Arthur raised his sword high, then yelled, “For the love of Camelot!” Together, the two of them charged into the battle, Arthur's sword cutting through the enemy as if through butter. Merlin's staff called down lightning from the heavens, and all in their path fled in fear.
Arthur's knights rallied around him, calling “To the king!” They fought through the chaos, inching ever closer to victory. The snowstorm howled in anger, but they would not fail.
As they advanced towards the center of the battle, the knights peeled off to deal with the enemy soldiers along the way. So it was that only Arthur and Merlin remained to challenge Morgana and Morgause. They charged forwards, Arthur's sword raised, Merlin shooting lightning from his fingers. Morgause went flying through the air. Arthur could hear a sickening crunch as she collided with a tree. She did not rise again.
Morgana—the Snow Queen—screamed. The fury of the blizzard around them increased a hundred-fold, making it impossible to see. Arthur called for Merlin, suddenly frightened in a way he hadn't been before. The cold and the ice and the wind hammered at him, leaching away the last of his warmth, the last of his energy. He fell to the ground, collapsing onto a drift of snow. He could feel his life draining away, and wished desperately to find Merlin. . . .
He thought perhaps he should keep his eyes open, but the snow obscured all vision and he was growing so tired. . . . He couldn't feel his body anymore. He knew this should bother him, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Although his eyelids were closed, he could see a silvery light, beckoning, promising warmth and safety, calling fervently. . . . He felt great sadness to not have at least said good-bye to Merlin, to not have thanked him for all that he had done, but the light was calling. . . .
He heard a voice, sounding a lot like Merlin's, but deeper and more powerful, almost frightening in its intensity. The words it spoke were nonsense, and Arthur was too tired to try to decipher them. The silver light pulled at him more insistently now. . . .
As he took a step towards the light, golden fire sprang up to block his way. It was so hot Arthur jumped back, lest he be burnt. The heat scoured its way through his blood, till all parts of him stung with the intensity of it. He threw open his eyes to find himself surrounded by flames, Aithusa right in front of him, still spitting fire. Arthur felt a moment of regret. Burning to death would probably be more painful than freezing. . . .
An incongruously joyful voice shouted, “Arthur!” He spun around, searching, and found Merlin striding towards him, the flames parting for him, curling into themselves, almost as if frightened.
“Merlin!” he yelled. Arthur sprang to his feet easily, as if he had never been cold. “The dragon!” But Arthur needn't have worried. The white dragon bent her head down, looking almost bashful, and certainly not like a dreaded fire-breathing monster.
Merlin rushed up to Arthur and threw his arms round him, grinning from ear to ear. “Don't ever do that to me again, clotpole! If Aithusa hadn't been here. . . .”
Arthur wanted to protest that he hadn't done anything, but Merlin had pressed his lips against his, and he was suddenly much too occupied. The kiss felt like coming home . . . and as he thought that he struggled to recall where home was. He thought it a fancy manor, filled with portraits and antiques, but was suddenly certain that home was in fact a gleaming white castle upon a hill. There was an echo of memory that spoke of a tiny blonde girl twirling around a sleek kitchen in her new ballet tutu, but that world was the most distant of all….
The world spun around them, a whirl of flames and snowflakes, and Arthur squeezed Merlin as close as he could, fearful of losing him again. The swirling chaos made him feel ill, and he closed his eyes to shut it out.
Everything went still, peaceful and warm. He opened his eyes to see Merlin gazing at him, eyes shining with pride . . . and love. Yes, that was definitely love.
Arthur pulled away. “Merlin. . . . What?”
Merlin stepped back, then bowed low. “Your kingdom awaits, your Majesty.” He swept his arm out, indicating for Arthur to look. They were in a great throne room, filled to capacity with all manner of people. The knights were all there, looking crisp and exuberant, not at all as if they had been recent participants in a deadly battle. He noticed his friends in the front row, Gwaine giving him a mischievous wink. Perhaps that kiss had not been as private as he had thought.
There were a great many others present as well. Servants, townspeople, lords and ladies, children. Arthur looked back to Merlin, who stood now with an old man on one side, a young and joyful-looking couple on the other. The lady wore a lavender gown. She had dark ringlets and a kind smile, her eyes as sweet as sugarplums. Her companion was dark and handsome, radiating nobility. All three of them were achingly familiar. The lady—Guinevere, his memory supplied—swept him an elegant curtsey, then rose. “Welcome, your Majesty.”
The cavalier at her side—Lancelot, he somehow knew—bowed low, then said, “We have been expecting you. All is in readiness.” He clapped his hands loudly, and one of the knights appeared, carrying a red velvet pillow bearing a golden crown. At first it appeared to be the Mouse King's crown, but upon second look seemed much too shiny and cheerful.
Merlin lifted the crown with both hands and held it high in the air, for all to see. He whispered to Arthur to kneel. He did. Merlin spoke clearly, so that even those in the back of the room could hear.
“Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the Peoples of Camelot according to their respective laws and customs?”
Arthur bowed his head and responded, “I solemnly swear so to do.”
Merlin spoke again. “Will you to your power cause Law and Justice, in Mercy, to be executed in all your judgments?”
“I will.” Arthur bowed his head further, in recognition of the solemnity of the moment.
Merlin proclaimed, “Then by the sacred laws vested in me, I crown you Arthur, King of Camelot!”
The people applauded and cheered in a wild frenzy. At Merlin's urging, Arthur stood and faced the crowd. The knights began shouting, “Long live the king!” and all in attendance quickly took up the chant. Arthur was overwhelmed by the intensity of emotion displayed, and felt his eyes prickle in response. He turned back to Merlin, whose eyes appeared suspiciously shiny as well.
Guinevere must have felt pity for them, because she and Lancelot stepped forwards and announced to the crowd, “Let the feast begin!”
There was a rush of activity, and Arthur found himself sitting at the head of a table, Merlin sitting at his right hand with the old man next to him. The man seemed familiar in the way that so many others had, and he remembered: he was Gaius, Merlin's guardian and the royal physician. He wondered how he knew this . . . he felt like he had never seen the man before, and also like he had always known him. At Arthur's left hand sat the Lady Guinevere, with Sir Lancelot on her other side. Everywhere he looked, people relaxed at tables set around the perimeter of the room, chatting and laughing, drinking and eating, joy apparent in every face.
Arthur turned to Merlin, who laughed and joked with all who came to visit. He looked radiant, happiness personified. Arthur wanted nothing more than to take him into his arms and never let him go. He wondered if it was too early for them to leave. . . .
After the dessert, the Lady Guinevere rose again and announced that guests from foreign lands had come bearing gifts in honor of the new king. From Spain came a party bearing chocolates. They presented them to Arthur with a flourish. He tried one, and it melted into velvet as soon as it touched his tongue. He couldn't help grabbing another and placing it to Merlin's lips. Merlin licked his lips with uncharacteristic hesitation, but then opened them so Arthur could feed him the chocolate. Merlin looked as enraptured as Arthur felt.
The visitors from Spain performed a dance before withdrawing. The women wore crimson dresses with skirts so lush that when they spun, they resembled red roses. Some held fans, others castanets. The men wore black suits, and one carried a guitar. When the dance began it was a frenzy of energy, feet stamping, fingers snapping, skirts flying. The audience was amazed at the spectacle and cheered loudly once it was finished.
A group from Arabia paced into the room slowly, drawing the attention of all. They struck Arthur as mysterious and foreign in a way the Spanish hadn't. The men were bare-chested, wearing flowing pants with turbans upon their heads. The women wore skirts and little more. They offered bags of pungent brown beans —coffee, they said. It was yet another thing that Arthur found familiar while having no recollection of ever seeing it before.
The Arabian dancers performed so sensually Arthur thought the floor they undulated upon would burst into flames. The women performed feats of extraordinary flexibility, eliciting gasps of disbelief from the audience. When the haunting music faded away, the room fell into a stunned hush before breaking into wild applause. After that spectacle, Arthur felt an even more intense desire to be alone with his Merlin.
Next came travelers from the Orient. They were dressed in brilliant colors, golden thread embroidered extravagantly through the flowing silk. They said their land was named China, an ancient land of dragons and magic. Merlin perked up at this, and inspected the dried tea leaves they brought as their gift. When they danced, the men held aloft a serpentine paper dragon, moving it in impossible patterns. The women carried red silk umbrellas, which they placed and spun with startling precision.
After the Chinese finished dancing, men from Russia bounded into the hall, wearing red jackets over loose-fitting pants, scarves tied round the waist and furry black hats upon their heads. They pulled a wheeled chest full of tiny red-and-white striped canes, then bowed to Arthur and swept their hands towards the guests. Arthur nodded, and the men scattered around the hall, presenting the small candies to all in attendance. Then they performed a rousing dance filled with gravity-defying leaps before sprinting away.
The final envoy announced was from Holland, a number of shepherdesses in frilly dresses, bearing gifts of marzipan. One played upon a reed flute while the others glissaded and pirouetted daintily around the hall. They seemed to float as if their feet never quite managed to alight upon the ground. The ladies in the crowd gazed at them with looks of envy and admiration.
After the applause died down and the shepherdesses flitted away, an extremely tall woman with lurid makeup and an enormous hoop skirt waddled slowly into the hall. She carried a large silver platter laden with gingerbread and bon bons. As she crossed the room towards Arthur, small children dressed as clowns burst out from under her skirt in an explosion of cartwheels and somersaults. They dashed around the hall, spinning and flipping and snitching sweets from the plates of the enraptured audience. Some of the guests even held their plates out to the children for easier access.
It took awhile, but eventually the mother gathered all her children together and they left, the little ones waving enthusiastically and bestowing cheesy grins on everyone they saw. Arthur turned to give his own cheesy grin to Merlin. When he did, he noticed a thoughtful look in Merlin's eye.
Merlin shook his head slightly, as if coming to a decision, then stood and announced to the room, “If it pleases his Majesty, I wish to provide some entertainment as well.”
Arthur nodded, and Merlin’s face illuminated with joy. It was the last thing Arthur saw before Merlin's eyes flashed gold and the hall plunged into darkness. There were gasps of surprise from the people in attendance.
A star flashed into existence near the ceiling at the center of the room. It leant an eerie glow to the surroundings. Music began to play, though no instruments were touched, a sprightly waltz that gladdened the heart. The brilliant star flashed and split apart into a multitude of smaller lights that swirled around in the air, dancing in time to the music. The lights slowly turned from white to a whole rainbow of colors, sprouting elegant petals as they did. Soon the air above their heads was filled with whirling flowers, red roses, blue violets, orange tulips, purple irises. . . . There were too many to keep track of. They gathered into groups, flew apart in brilliant sunbursts, swirled and swayed, hopped and dipped and spun ever faster. At the very climax of the song, Merlin clapped his hands and the flowers coiled into a whirlpool which spiraled several times before exploding into a rain of petals. Other flowers landed all along the tables, affixing themselves to outfits, nestling in the ladies’ hair. When the light in the room returned to normal, there were fragrant-smelling flowers adorning the entire hall, a bouquet of daisies laid out for the Lady Guinevere, and a particularly large bunch of red roses on the table in front of Arthur. A tremendous applause reverberated through the room, causing the windows to shake and Merlin's smile to grow impossibly brighter. Arthur couldn't help himself—he reached over and pulled Merlin into his lap, laying his head upon his shoulder, squeezing him fiercely, as though trying to press the two of them into a single being.
The ever tactful Lady Guinevere took that moment to begin the courtly dancing that all could participate in. She whispered to Sir Lancelot, and the cavalier led her out to the middle of the hall. The musicians began playing a dramatic and sweeping melody. The Lady Guinevere and Sir Lancelot performed a traditional dance, but somehow turned the familiar movements into a heated and sultry affair. After their opening dance had finished, all were welcome to join in, and most did, inspired by the combination of great joy and plentiful wine. The foreign guests added to the spectacle, great energy and passion spinning out of their colorful costumes. The revelry and merriment in the hall would last long into the night.
After many an hour of drink and dance, Arthur grew weary. He was surprised it hadn't happened sooner, considering he couldn't remember the last time he had slept. . . . Come to think of it, he couldn't remember where it was he normally slept. He knew he must have a place, but the only home he could remember was Merlin, and Merlin wasn't a bed. Though getting Merlin into a bed was an appealing idea. . . .
He yawned, and Merlin gazed fondly at him. “Tired, then, lazy daisy? Let's see what we can do about that. . . . “ Merlin grabbed his hand and pulled him away from the festivities. A few people clapped and bowed for him, but most were sunk too far into their gaiety to notice.
Merlin led him out into a long corridor lined with windows. There were statues and pieces of furniture at occasional intervals. The two of them walked and walked, but the corridor never seemed to end. There was a skittering sound of claws over wood, and Arthur thought he saw a worm-like tail disappearing behind a tall grandfather clock. Outside the windows the snow began falling in gusty flurries, increasing so rapidly that the dimly lit trees were quickly obscured from view. Arthur felt the stirrings of anxiety when he noticed the first snowflakes flying into the passage. Soon they were surrounded by snow and shards of ice, scraping their exposed skin like tiny blades. Arthur could barely see Merlin, though he held on desperately to his hand with both of his. The floor was covered with drifts of snow, the walls vanished as if they had never been. As they walked on, Arthur could make out dark shapes in the murk. He heard again the sound of reed flutes, but the strands of the melody twined together mournfully, as though fearful of being pulled apart. . . . A dragon's roar exploded through the air with enough force that the snow cleared for a moment, revealing a glimpse of a vast and lifeless plain. . . . There was an answering roar that cracked with age and reeked of despair.
Arthur had his arm round Merlin's shoulders now, clutching furiously, determined not to lose him. . . . He could feel the gale trying to rip him out of his arms. The first dragon roared again in fury, scattering the snow just looking enough for Arthur to see a large slug-like creature hurtling through the air straight into Merlin's face. Arthur screamed and tried to yank the creature away, but it was stubborn and would not budge. He realized that he was still dressed in his armor, which had seemed as comfortable as silk all through the celebrations at the castle. The sword Merlin gave him was hanging at his waist. He drew it now, and pierced the giant slug with it, then flung it as far as he could manage. He turned frantically back to Merlin, who had collapsed into the snow.
“Merlin!” Please be all right, please be all right. . . .
Merlin tried to focus his eyes on him, a dazed expression on his face. “Arthur,” he whispered. “My magic . . . I can't feel it. . . . “ Arthur pulled Merlin into his arms, muttering all sorts of encouragements to him. “Don't worry . . . we can fix this . . . it's all going to be okay. . . .” But as Arthur held him, Merlin's body seemed to fade away into nothingness. Merlin whispered, with great strain, “Love you . . . so much . . . clotpole. . . .”
Tears sprung to Arthur's eyes, and he screamed Merlin's name in a voice that could command the heaven themselves. The echo of his scream mixed with the lament of the dragons’ cries.
As Merlin disappeared, the snow cleared, revealing the dimness of perpetual twilight. Arthur found himself on that great, lifeless plain, utterly alone despite the army that had appeared at his back. Ahead of him, in front of her own army, roiling with anger, stood Morgana. Next to her stood the slim figure in the dark green cloak who Arthur had seen in the battle in the Land of Snow.
Morgana tossed her dark hair, leaving it in even more disarray. She cackled and called to Arthur, “Missing someone, brother dear? Emrys is quite unable to save you now.”
The name Emrys was unfamiliar to Arthur, but he knew who he was missing. A terrible ache filled him, so acute and agonizing it felt as though he had lost half of his own self. He was suddenly certain that it was Morgana who had sent that creature to attack Merlin. The fury he felt boiled over into a ferocious battle cry. Behind him there was an answering cry from the army, hundreds of men ready to defend Camelot to their deaths.
Arthur raised his sword and charged. His men followed, and they hit the enemy line with a tremendous crash of armor and weapons. Battle cries quickly turned to death screams, yet Arthur fought on, determined to enact his vengeance upon Morgana. The battle raged for hours, the land painted red with the blood of the fallen. Arthur lost all sense of self, or of time . . . all of existence was reduced to the agony of losing Merlin and the rhythm of his sword, slashing through all obstacles that kept him from his revenge.
At last he reached a clearing in the battle. Morgana stood there, her snow-white dress now nearly black with the grime of war. She pulled out her sword and flashed him a smile filled with insanity and hatred. In that moment Arthur realized that she was truly mad and felt no remorse for what he had to do. He rushed ahead, ready to strike, but just before he reached her, another sword blocked his way. Arthur's sword hit it with a tremendous clang, and a fierce duel commenced.
The sword belonged to the figure who had been with Morgana, the one with the green cloak, though the cloak had been discarded and all that remained was armor coated with dirt and blood. The fight was intense, the two combatants evenly matched. Morgana stood nearby cackling and gloating.
After a time, Arthur realized he was tiring and couldn't keep up the battle for much longer. He noticed flashes of lightning at the edges of his vision. He couldn't look properly, unless he wanted his head to be cut off, but he thought it peculiar, an unusual time of year for lightning. A few minutes later, he noticed that Morgana had disappeared, though he had not seen her go. Arthur's movements were slowing as exhaustion set in. He was growing sluggish and clumsy, but his opponent still seemed fresh, almost magically so. Magic. . . , Arthur mused. I could really use some magic right about now. . . .
The lightning flashed ever closer. Arthur could hear screams following each strike, but couldn't fathom why. His breath was coming painfully now. His arm had stopped burning and was now completely numb, making it nearly impossible to control. Hold on, he thought, just keep going. . . your people need you. His thoughts turned to Merlin, wondering if he were dead . . . if he were, maybe death wouldn't be so bad . . . maybe they could be together again. . . .
Arthur was distracted by thoughts of Merlin, and that would prove his undoing. His arm reached at the wrong angle with a speed too slow to allow for corrections. His opponent's sword sliced through his armor and into his chest. It burnt so acutely that for a moment he thought he had been hit by a lightning bolt.
Arthur had just enough momentum left to plunge his sword into the other man's chest. The man had let down his guard, thinking victory his. In a way it was, but it was the last victory he would ever earn. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Arthur collapsed too, trying to breathe despite the pain destroying his chest. He didn't want to look at the damage. He stared blankly at the dull sky overhead, which now only occasionally flashed with the strange lightning. The storm seemed to have calmed down. Arthur tilted his head to try to see how the battle fared, but he couldn't manage it.
His eyes had drifted shut when he heard the sound of footsteps crunching over the rocky ground. Merlin!, he thought, heart jumping, but when he looked up it was Morgana standing over him, a cruel smile on her lips.
“What a joy it is to see you, Arthur. Look at you, not so tall and mighty now. You may have won the battle, but you've lost the war. You're going to die by Mordred's hand. But don't worry, my dear brother, I won't let you die alone. I will stay and watch over you, until the wolves gorge on your carcass and bathe in your blood. . . .”
While she gloated, Arthur noticed movement behind her, though it was difficult to see in the gloom. He saw a faint sheen of something metallic being lifted into the air. There was a sudden rush of movement, then Morgana's eyes grew wide with shock. Arthur could see Merlin behind her, yanking Arthur's sword out from Morgana's body as she crumpled to the ground.
Arthur felt dazed with bittersweet joy. The battle had been won, Morgana was defeated, and Merlin—his Merlin—was alive. His chest throbbed painfully, but he felt at peace. Merlin was embracing him now, begging for him to hold on, but Arthur was floating away. . . . It'd have all been quite peaceful if the pain in his side would stop pulsing so sharply. It seemed to be growing sharper as time went on, confined to a single point on his ribcage, almost like someone was poking him repeatedly with a very bony finger. . . .
Arthur jerked back into wakefulness. There was a bony finger poking him. It took a moment to register the agitated voice that accompanied it, whispering, “Arthur! Wake up! If you miss seeing Aithusa dance, she'll never forgive you!”
Arthur popped his eyes open to find that it was still dark, but it was the darkness of a theater, not of a bleak battlefield. The stage was brightly lit, calling his attention. There was a girl in a white nightgown cuddling her broken nutcracker doll underneath the Christmas tree, but no signs of mice. Thank God he hadn't missed Aithusa dance.
After a minute more, the first mouse scurried onto stage. The mice mostly crawled on hands and knees (which hurt, Aithusa had whined) and it was impossible to tell who was who. Arthur had seen enough practices to know roughly where she would be at any given point, so just kept his eyes on those places, noted that all the mice were doing an excellent job of crawling and clawing and bowing, and knew it would be no lie to tell Aithusa that she had been fantastic. He didn't have to point out that he couldn't tell her apart from Eira or Kara or any of the others.
The battle between the mice and the soldiers was over quickly, and Aithusa disappeared offstage. As the scene shifted to the journey through the pine forest to the land of snow, Arthur had a moment to catch his breath. As the Camelot Youth Choir sang their part to the Waltz of the Snowflakes, he noticed that he was sitting straight up, the tension causing his teeth to clench, a headache forming at the base of his skull. The Snow Queen this year was a tiny blonde dancer, nothing like Morgana, but Arthur closed his eyes and looked away. When he did so, the dream rushed back with a fury that made him ill. He snapped open his eyes, but this time he focused solely on Merlin, living, breathing Merlin. He slid his arm round Merlin's shoulders and leaned his head against his neck. Merlin gave him a concerned look and whispered, “You okay?” Arthur merely leaned in closer, relishing in the warmth and the knowledge that Merlin was here with him. His parents were both here too—Nimueh had not actually killed his mother. Neither Morgana nor Morgause were actually evil witches (though sometimes they gave a good impression of one). And most importantly, Aithusa was a sweet little girl merely playing at being a mouse. Speaking of Aithusa. . . .
“It's time to collect the star of the show,” Merlin said as the curtain fell for intermission and the auditorium lights came back on. Children who were only in the first act were allowed to come sit with their families to watch the second. Arthur and Merlin headed straight for the children’s green room. When they entered, there was a mob of kids, some running around in full makeup, looking for ways to pass the time while waiting for their scenes; others were trying to find their parents in the chaos, shouting out “Mom!” or “Dad!”, which was not very helpful in a room full of parents; and the rest were greeting their families—loudly. Arthur worried it'd be impossible to find Aithusa in time to make it back for the second act. But then she was there, throwing herself into his arms, shrieking, “Daddy! Daddy! Did you see me? Wasn’t I great?”
Arthur suddenly didn't care about the noise or chaos, nor about disturbingly realistic dreams. His arms were full of his beautiful, exuberant daughter, his husband by his side.
Arthur stroked Aithusa’s straight silvery hair, which had been removed from the braids that had kept it hidden under the mousey hood. “You were amazing, sweetheart! Just brilliant. In a few years you'll be the star of the show.”
Aithusa stuck her lower lip out in her trademark pout. “I was the star of the show!” she announced, but still kissed him before pulling away to throw herself into Merlin's arms. Arthur rolled his eyes at her antics, before hurrying them back to the auditorium.
Arthur didn't pay much attention to the second act. Instead, he held Aithusa on his lap and hugged her close. She seemed perfectly content to be hugged, as long as he didn't block her view. She sighed and gasped at all the right places. Arthur adored seeing the wonder on her face as she watched the talented dancers perform their variations.
Arthur did look up when he heard the waltz that dream-Merlin had conjured for his magical flowers to dance to. Onstage, dancers in brightly colored costumes were twirling and leaping, but they were nowhere near as lovely as Merlin's flowers had been.
Soon enough the ballet had finished. The members of the company bowed and curtseyed, while the audience stood and cheered. When the lights came up, Grandma Ygraine rushed to Aithusa, presenting her with the bouquet of red roses. Aithusa squealed with excitement, then spent a long moment sniffing her flowers. She looked over to Arthur and said, “See, Daddy? I'm a star! I got flowers!”
There were lots of congratulations and hugs from everyone, and they all went out for ice cream. On the car ride back to their house, Aithusa fell asleep in the back seat, clutching her flowers in both hands. Arthur wasn't sure if it could be possible to contain anymore love than he did right then. Then he looked over at Merlin, who looked on the verge of falling asleep himself, and knew that he had been wrong.
Arthur carried Aithusa into the house and put her straight into her bed still wearing her pink frock. He gazed around her room, which was filled with stuffed animals, books, toys, art supplies. . . . She had a little desk that she used for art projects. He went to see what she had been working on recently, and was startled to see a crayon drawing of a white dragon on a black background, the orange fire shooting from its maw a stark contrast in color to the rest of the piece.
Arthur felt his heartbeat increase, but told himself sternly that it had been just a dream. He quickly kissed the sleeping Aithusa on the forehead, turned off the light, and fled to his bedroom. Merlin was already in bed, as exhausted as Arthur from the busy week they'd had. Arthur crawled under the covers and snuggled up to Merlin. Merlin opened his eyes, frowned a little, then asked, “Is everything all right? You've seemed a little . . . melancholy . . . tonight.”
Arthur pulled Merlin into his arms, and they cuddled as close as Arthur could manage. After a moment, Merlin nudged him with his chin.
“Arthur?”
“It's nothing. I was just having a strange dream when you woke me up at the show. It was the most realistic dream I've ever had.”
Merlin hummed in acknowledgement, then asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Arthur sighed and shook his head slightly. “Not really. It just seemed so real. All the people that I love were there, but . . . some of them wanted to kill me.” He said that last part in a rush, not quite comfortable with the memory of it. “And in the dream, Aithusa was a vicious white dragon, fighting against me.”
Merlin snorted. “That’s what people tell me the teenage years will be like.”
Arthur gave him a playful bat on the head before continuing. “And just now, in her room . . . she had drawn a picture of that very same white dragon.”
It was physically impossible for Merlin to pull Arthur any closer, but he tried. “Are you afraid our daughter is going to turn into a white dragon and try to eat us?”
Arthur laughed. “It sounds ridiculous when you say it like that! Besides, she wouldn't eat you. In the dream, you could yell at her in a strange language, and then she did everything that you told her to. A lot like now, actually. She always does listen better to you.”
Merlin pulled back, looking startled. “You say I was in this dream, and able to control dragons?”
Arthur nodded his head into Merlin's shoulder, saying, “It sounds silly, I know.”
“No, no . . . It really doesn't. I have dreams too. . . . Sometimes it feels like I've more memories of you than one lifetime could hold.” He sounded thoughtful.
Arthur squirmed till he was in a position to hold Merlin's face in his hands. He rubbed his thumbs along his cheekbones and looked into his eyes, overcome with longing for that which he already held. He leaned his forehead against Merlin's, then whispered, “I could fight my way through a thousand lifetimes, as long as you were there with me.”
He pressed their lips together. And although they were both exhausted—Arthur felt as if he'd been awake for nearly a thousand years—it was a long time before either one got any sleep that night.