by Sword Stone Table- Old Legends, New Voices (retail) (epub)
But who she was isn’t who she is.
She’s ready to find herself again.
There’s a greengrocer’s awning nearby, and she stops beneath it so she can send a text without destroying her phone in the rain.
I don’t think we should see each other anymore.
She slips the phone into her bag and steps out from under the awning. She doesn’t care what he texts back. The rain drenches her instantly, and if she had been crying—or still is—it’s impossible to tell.
That’s all right. She’s not far from home, not anymore, and there are warm, dry clothes and a cup of tea waiting for her. She’s ready for a quiet evening in, by herself, and a night without a single dream.
After all, she has work in the morning.
Once (Them) & Future (Us)
Preeti Chhibber
When Merlin woke in the crystal caves, something was different. The first thing he noticed was the lack of any pain. His joints, his shoulders, his neck: everything felt fine. A little stiff but fine. He opened his eyes and raised his hands and found a young man’s elastic white skin in front of his face. He scrambled up—when was the last time he had scrambled anywhere?—and made for the entrance. It was open. How long had it been since it was last open?
Merlin stumbled at a shaft of sunlight. He landed on his knees, and for a moment, he forgot who he was. For that moment he was blank and moved only by tiny stars of dust in that golden light.
Then he came back to himself. His skin felt warmer than it had been in eons; the rays sank into his very bones and he had energy. So long he’d been a prisoner, not just of stone and crystal but also of fatigue and an old man’s exhaustion.
He rose with long-forgotten ease and a new determination. Arthur. He needed to find his king.
First, he would need to acclimate to this new world. No, not world. Time. It was still the same island on which he’d lived and slept and woke and imagined a perfect future. The same isle on which he’d served the greatest king ever born. The greatest king he’d ever had born. When Merlin was young, a crow, dark feathers and slashing beak, came to him in a dream. It sang of a king; it sang of a promise. It sang of prophecy. It sang, Merlin remembered, of Avalon. Not of the isle, no, but of the ideal.
His only purpose, from then on, was in service of creating that ideal, of creating that future. He listened and he schemed, he pulled the magic out of his heart and into his hands. So it was Merlin who found Arthur’s would-be parents, who spoke the spells to push them together. And when Arthur, who would be king, came mewling into the world, it was Merlin who caught him. His king grew, surrounded by Merlin’s wisdom and his magic.
There were remnants of that magic now: a few leagues from the cave, he charmed a woman and she gave him all of her son’s clothes straight out of a basket. When he’d opened his mouth to speak to her, he was surprised to find his lips making strange shapes, with sounds he’d never heard before tumbling out. A guiding hand on his tongue, he thought. There was something bigger at work here. It was how he knew Arthur must live.
But that didn’t mean a fast reunion: thirty turns of the sun and moon passed as Merlin searched, following the signs of breath and bone and sounds of the earth as they led him south. And that didn’t mean it was easy. It meant sleeping on rough grass, eating what he could find. It meant hiding from well-meaning strangers and some who looked to take what little he had. It meant learning new and unlearning old without losing himself. Was he losing himself? There were seemingly random stretches where he’d disappear into the back of his mind, unable to remember who he was or how he’d come to be. He imagined these terrifying interludes were punishment for leaving his prison, for now he’d become prisoner in a new way, surrounded by a thick fog. Here he had no body, no skin to cut on shards of crystal, no mouth or memories to shape the sounds of spells for help. No air to breathe into a scream. Merlin-who-was-not-Merlin would list in space, each time feeling a just little less real, a little less of substance. Until he woke, back in tenuous control of his body, often surprised by new surroundings and unclear on how much time had passed. If this was not punishment, he wasn’t sure what else the reason could be.
But all he could do was hitch his pack on his shoulder and button his coat. Was push on. Knowing that once he found his king, all would be clear.
The sun turned.
He found he didn’t mind Britain’s new stone and metal buildings, or the flat, strong roads. He was often quite in love with this world. But every now and again, he missed the simplicity of the forest that had been, of the ease of a dirt path surrounded by trees in which to duck and chase. He found himself remembering past days, days that must be thousands of years gone now, days spent playing on his own in a wood near his mother’s home.
He was walking down a street in a city named London when the reminiscences hit. So Merlin stopped and sat, and he thought of his childhood. He was very young, sitting at the fire in his family’s home, at the feet of his grandmother. His mother was tending a boiling stew that smelled of meat and salt and roots from the forest at their door. He felt the weight of an old, heavy hand on his head, fingers running their gnarled joints through his curls. A great man, your child will be. A great man who makes great change. He could almost hear the graveled tenor of his grandmother’s voice.
Now that he was young again, these memories would pop into his head at the strangest moments. The experience with his mother and her mother at the hearth was one of the earliest he could remember. Perhaps it was a reminder of his cause. Great change, she’d predicted. Or perhaps the youth of his body was pulling these thoughts forward. It was strange in this new time, feeling young. His hair was black again, not white, hanging around his ears instead of down his back. He had no aches and pains as he had in his later years. It had been so long. He still held on to an old man’s nostalgia for being young, and it played at odds with his self-determined rationalism. But even while being in this body he’d once known so well could be exhilarating…still he felt unbalanced; he felt like an interloper.
Merlin shook his head to clear out these philosophical ramblings. He realized he was sitting atop a wall outside a massive university. He looked around, hoping for inspiration in the multitudes of people. There were just so many people. Far more than he could have hoped to see in his entire life, once. Perhaps the random chance in the crowds would provide an answer for where he needed to go to find Arthur. Since waking, he’d followed his own teachings: he’d listened to nature. Whether it was hunting through viscera for signs from the Gods or listening to prophecy from the sharp-edged beak of a crow, Merlin had always sought answers from the world around him. And what were these crowds if not borne of the Earth? Looking down at the mass of people, he was reminded of looking for answers in a swirling mist above a fire of leaves and grass and the odd animal bits, divining Arthur’s true path.
Then, among the cacophony of sounds, a voice broke through. Merlin turned and looked over his shoulder at a young man and woman passing below him.
“I keep having these bloody dreams. It’s like I’m in a Lord of the Rings movie. I don’t even like Lord of the Rings.”
There was something familiar in that voice. Something unmistakable in its deepness that vibrated along the back of Merlin’s neck. He turned his body and hopped off the wall directly into the path of the two students.
The voice belonged to a handsome young man with an unruly mop of black hair, a deep brown face, and broad shoulders. “Oi!” he said, stumbling backward; the girl just looked at him appraisingly. Merlin ignored her; he shuddered at the thought that he might be seconds from coming face-to-face with his king. He lifted his head.
“Hello. I’m Emrys.” He wasn’t sure where the unfamiliar name had come from. It wasn’t one he’d heard before, and the sound of it felt awkward as he said it. It was a name that was not anywhere in his histories. And yet, it felt like it had been s
itting inside him, waiting to get out into the world. But he would have to ruminate on it later. There were more pressing matters now. Like this boy who could be king.
“…Okay.” The boy edged farther backward. Merlin frowned; he’d hoped for recognition. Was this him? But all he found in those brown eyes were confusion and distrust. He looked into this face, so foreign to the one he remembered, for any hint of the man he needed.
Instead it was the girl who put herself forward, who answered. “Hello, Emrys. I’m Morgan. This is my brother, Arjun.”
Merlin nearly choked. Morgan. He’d been so focused on his king’s voice, he hadn’t thought the girl worth his attention; now he looked at her. She was still beautiful, with long dark hair and wide hips. It was her eyes, though, that gave her away. Far too knowing for the face that held them. He’d loved her once. Why was she here? He couldn’t let her, or whatever she was attempting to do, divert his attention.
“Morgan.” Arthur was looking at her like he couldn’t ascertain what she was up to, a feeling Merlin shared.
She shrugged in response. “He’s harmless, Arjun, look at him. And he’s interesting.” Morgan’s eyes glinted.
Merlin thought it might be time to assert himself. “I am both harmless and interesting. And in need of new friends. I’ve just moved here.” He’d been traveling for long enough to get a sense of how young people of this age spoke. Or, based on the strange looks he was getting, maybe not.
Arthur—Arjun tentatively held out a hand. Merlin met him halfway. The moment their fingers touched, his blood buzzed and he forgot himself again. He was only Emrys, Emrys who was holding on to someone important. Merlin was nothing and no one.
Then in the space of a breath, Merlin returned to himself. It was a blessedly short, if terrifying, intermission. What was happening to him? Was it this Emrys, forcing him into unbeing? Taking Merlin’s time?
He resisted the urge to pull his hand back, to run it along his own arms, reminding himself of his own tangibility. He needed to feel.
For his part, Arjun’s face shifted just the smallest bit. He’d felt something, too—Merlin was sure of it. Any doubts he had were laid to rest. This was Arthur. After thousands of years. Unexplored lifetimes upon lifetimes of lost moments while he’d been sleeping, imprisoned. Merlin had found him, and they could begin their work anew, heading toward the utopia of Avalon.
He considered, briefly, if that was Morgana’s reason for being here. Avalon had been her dream, too. A place for magic and love and equality. With no pain, or hunger, or people downtrodden in the name of power. A place of balance and truth.
He let the hope of it wash over him, and he couldn’t help the grin that pulled at his cheeks. After all this time. At last.
* * *
—
Merlin studied Arjun as they walked. How people moved around him, as if in deference. Arjun sent a subtle nod to people who cleared the path, and Merlin realized that Arjun noticed, that the confidence in Arjun’s step expected it. He wondered again how much this new Arthur knew.
“So, Emrys, where did you come from?” Morgana’s voice curled into his ears. Merlin kept moving forward, eyes trained on Arjun’s back, even as her whispers moved through him, crawling up and down the back of his throat, until his mouth betrayed him, pushing his secrets out into the open air.
“The forest. A cave. You know, Morgan.”
She laughed. It was true, he realized. She did know. That was disconcerting.
“That’s a weird thing to say, Emrys.” Arjun glanced back at him without slowing his stride.
“A very weird thing to say, Emrys,” Morgana agreed wryly.
He feigned nonchalance. “What can I say, maybe I’m just weird.” He punctuated his words with a shrug.
“I’d say so, judging by your look alone. Where did you even get that jacket—1955? Are you a time traveler?” Her voice was light and teasing, but Merlin felt his hackles rise. She was too clever by half, asking questions she was forcing him to answer truthfully. Biting his tongue to maintain a semblance of independence, he shrugged again before answering.
“Perhaps.” It would have to do.
“Okay, Morgan, stop pestering the new kid if you want him to stay. You’re on the verge of being Quite A Lot.”
Merlin was still a few steps behind the two of them, and Morgana threw a look back to him, smiling wide. He swore he could see every gleaming white tooth in her mouth. He remembered a Morgana who would stop at nothing to win, who betrayed him and Arthur. The last time they’d seen each other had been on the incline leading to the caves.
“Morgana, you swear it: I’ll find Arthur’s salvation here?” Merlin had been half mad with grief, his king laid empty eyed and hollowed out in the fields of battle, a testament to Merlin’s own failure. He’d walked without purpose, stumbling through rocks and dirt, and found himself at the mouth of a deep hold carved into the hill, only to turn back and see his former student, now enemy, steps behind him. Her hair flew in the wind, framing her face and making her look as if on fire. Her armor was stained-rust colored. “Go in and save your master,” she’d said.
“You’ve been friend and foe, Morgana; how can I trust you? After all this?” He gripped his staff, his mind working at spells in case this went wrong.
“I am not sorry for telling Mordred of Arthur’s weaknesses; I am not sorry for taking what I needed to grow. I am not sorry that you were unready for what I would become. Power is a necessary currency; you taught me that.” He made to interrupt her, Merlin recalled now. But he had stopped short at the flash of frustration on her face. “But I swear, on the lady herself, you’ll find what you need for Arthur and for Avalon within the caves.”
Something in her tone made Merlin trust her again—not magic, but desperation. She had looked so certain, and her oft-flashing eyes were pleading, her face pale with worry. So he’d walked inside to find himself stuck inside a shimmering cage. He’d walked inside and abandoned his king.
That same voice broke into his memory with new words now, bringing him back into the present.
“He knows I don’t mean anything by it, don’t you, Emrys?”
Merlin gave her a short nod, not trusting himself to speak. He could still feel her tendrils in his jaw, inching their way along the roof of his mouth, binding around his tongue.
Arjun didn’t bother turning to confirm whether or not Merlin cared, instead making a sudden veer to the right into some kind of shop, Morgana quick on his heels. Neither waited for him to follow; he could see them join the queue through the glass of the door. Merlin had passed a few of these places in his travels to London but hadn’t gone in, not having anything to his name in the way of payment. But where his king went, he followed. He took a deep breath and pulled on the handle.
“I’m getting a chai tea.” Morgana’s voice sounded normal again, no magic laced into her words.
“Morgan, I’m going to murder you.” Arjun ran a palm over his face, clearly exasperated. She laughed in response.
Merlin still had to get used to playful banter taking the form of idle threats.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, standing behind them, keeping a careful distance.
“Morgan knows that chai means tea in Hindi, so what she’s asking for is, effectively, a tea tea. And it’s stupid. And she knows it irritates me.”
Hindi, Merlin thought. The sound of it echoed a long-lost language of his past. A land he never visited, but he remembered stories of it told around a campfire. Sitting at a nurse’s lap, maybe.
“Ah, funny.” He cracked a wry grin. “I think I’m starting to see how this relationship works.” Empty words to maintain a careless facade. His mind was racing, trying to connect the pieces of the Morgana he knew with the one he saw here. What was her goal? Why was she with Arthur?
Arjun looked at him sidelong, and Merlin saw his hi
gh forehead, strong nose, and full lips in profile. A weak chin, though. So unlike the Arthur he remembered, except for something in how he held his head. How he lived his height. Then he started speaking and broke Merlin’s focus on his features.
“I don’t know how much I like the sound of that, new friend.”
At that Merlin laughed. That was like Arthur. Cautious but amiable. Morgana had already moved ahead to ask the woman at the counter for her tea. “So, a forest? A cave, you said?” Arjun’s mouth was turned up at the corners, but Merlin could see a wariness in the small lines around his eyes, in the slight furrow of his brow.
“Weird, I think I also said.”
“Fair enough,” Arjun responded, and looked toward the counter as someone called for the next customer. His king letting something go so quickly was new. Or, perhaps as Arjun he’d learned patience.
“Emrys, I picked you up a chai as well. A gift for our new tagalong.” Morgana had come up behind Merlin, and before he could blink he found a drink shoved into his right hand and a vise grip on his left wrist. “Come on, let’s find a table and sit while Arjun waits for his special coffee that will take forever for the poor staff to prepare.” As she spoke, Merlin heard an exclamation from behind the counter. Someone had spilled an entire gallon of milk.
He let her pull him toward an empty table tucked into a corner. He dropped himself into the chair closer to the door, ready to bolt if anything went wrong. He knew who Arthur was now; he could trail from a distance if he had to. He wouldn’t trust Morgana so easily again.
She gracefully settled into the seat opposite and took a sip from her cup before saying anything.
“Merlin.”
He saw no reason to dissemble. “Morgana,” he replied.
She leaned forward, hunger in her gaze.
“You do remember! I knew it. When did you get back, where did you come from, how did you find him? Us?”
He was surprised that he didn’t feel the current of her words. There was no spell this time. He wondered again at her reasons for being here. At her lack of anger. She’d been so angry. He saw her again, in his memory, hands raised and face red in the moonlight: Will you not consider the place of a woman at the Table, Merlin?
