OH MORGANA. this is become, like, actual fic! (AGAIN. *flaily hands*)
arthur is in shock, which would be more amusing if he had someone to distract him, ground him in what he can recognize in reality. merlin can't do so, because this, this -- and arthur doesn't seem to notice.
he doesn't know where arthur spends his days, but he spends his soaking up narnia, soaking up the magic that clings to the land and the air and the water and the castle itself: this is a land of magic like albion can never be. he finds himself learning to read the stars from centaurs, the dances of fauns, speaking to selkies and mermaids on the seashore, laughing with dryads and naiads and oceanids.
"do you like narnia?" queen lucy asks while he's browsing amidst cair paravel's library, and merlin fumbles the book he's holding. it catches in mid-air and he grabs for it, a sharp flush of panic spreading over his face; magic comes easier to him here than it ever has in camelot. he doesn't need to think about it; it acts on its own.
she smiles at him, open and friendly and seemingly uncaring about his latest display of gifts he should not have.
"yes," merlin says after a minute. "yes, i do, very much. i've never seen anything like it."
"there is nothing like it," lucy says, and takes the book from his hand, replaces it on the shelf. she takes his hand in her callused one. "there has been a raven from my brothers; they are riding back on the lionsroad. do you want to go and meet them? there is more to narnia than just cair paravel."
"arthur --" merlin begins.
"we have servants of our own," lucy grins. "don't fear your prince; he shall be well accounted for. but i," she adds meaningfully, pulling him closer, "want some time with you. i think you love this place as much as i do, and i would you saw more of it."
"all right," merlin agrees, a little dazed, and lets lucy lead him out of the library and down cair paravel's wide, sundrenched halls to the stables.
no subject
arthur is in shock, which would be more amusing if he had someone to distract him, ground him in what he can recognize in reality. merlin can't do so, because this, this -- and arthur doesn't seem to notice.
he doesn't know where arthur spends his days, but he spends his soaking up narnia, soaking up the magic that clings to the land and the air and the water and the castle itself: this is a land of magic like albion can never be. he finds himself learning to read the stars from centaurs, the dances of fauns, speaking to selkies and mermaids on the seashore, laughing with dryads and naiads and oceanids.
"do you like narnia?" queen lucy asks while he's browsing amidst cair paravel's library, and merlin fumbles the book he's holding. it catches in mid-air and he grabs for it, a sharp flush of panic spreading over his face; magic comes easier to him here than it ever has in camelot. he doesn't need to think about it; it acts on its own.
she smiles at him, open and friendly and seemingly uncaring about his latest display of gifts he should not have.
"yes," merlin says after a minute. "yes, i do, very much. i've never seen anything like it."
"there is nothing like it," lucy says, and takes the book from his hand, replaces it on the shelf. she takes his hand in her callused one. "there has been a raven from my brothers; they are riding back on the lionsroad. do you want to go and meet them? there is more to narnia than just cair paravel."
"arthur --" merlin begins.
"we have servants of our own," lucy grins. "don't fear your prince; he shall be well accounted for. but i," she adds meaningfully, pulling him closer, "want some time with you. i think you love this place as much as i do, and i would you saw more of it."
"all right," merlin agrees, a little dazed, and lets lucy lead him out of the library and down cair paravel's wide, sundrenched halls to the stables.