Chapter Text
“The poor man shall be satisfied in his end: Habitation; and the gentleman not hindered in his desire: Improvement.”
(Polanyi 1957: 36)
The cobblestone path beneath Arthur’s feet is worn and weathered. It winds its way through ornate archways, wraps itself around white sandstone, passes oriels and crenels, spires and turrets, then meanders in the shadows of gnarled chestnut trees.
Camelot breathes history.
Arthur knows places like this all too well. Dusty suits of armour were his childhood companions, ancient halls hung with tapestries his school grounds. He is painfully familiar with the weight tradition can carry, the pressure old ghosts can exert.
And yet, this place feels different. Untarnished, perhaps, or unburdened. The sky is bright blue, the sun still warm, the breeze fresh and crisp.
Arthur takes a deep breath, then adjusts the strap of his leather holdall. He turns left on the path, which cuts diagonally across a pristine emerald lawn before ending at a crossroads, where a myriad of walkways fan out in all directions.
He follows the pull of the people around him, most of them heading towards the entrance of a squat building to the left. A lettered banner is hung above its gate, the wind tugging at the red cloth: Freshers’ Registration.
There’s a sizable crowd in the entrance hall, where a long line of tables has been set up for the time-consuming process of getting hundreds of new students settled.
Arthur seeks out the right queue – letters N-Q – then sets down his holdall, pushing it between his feet for safekeeping before looking around and soaking up the buzz.
Some, he sees, have come prepared for the wait. A girl in front of him has headphones on, nodding along to music only she can hear, a walkman stuffed haphazardly into her coat pocket, while one queue over, a bloke in a leather jacket has his nose buried in a dog-eared paperback that, judging by the bare-chested man on the cover, isn’t exactly academic.
Arthur smiles.
Somehow, he expected a more refined crowd at a time-honoured institution such as Camelot University. Young men in bluchers, women in fitted skirts, the sort of people that are invited to Father’s garden parties. There is a strange thrill in being proven wrong, one that makes him mess up his neatly combed fringe and push back the sleeves of his white dress shirt before shoving his hands into his trouser pockets.
At ease in a way he never feels, he moves forward in increments, kicking his holdall along with him as he listens to the scraps of conversation floating his way, inconsequential small talk about where everyone’s from and what they’ll be reading at Camelot.
It is only when the woman behind the table finally beckons him close and demands his name that a tendril of apprehension worms its way past the apple of his throat. Like everyone else, he has come here with little more than an admission letter to his name.
His name, however, is exactly the problem. “Pendragon,” he says, after clearing his throat. “Arthur Pendragon.”
The woman doesn’t even look up, her finger tracing the list as she goes hunting for the letter P.
Arthur relaxes.
“Pendragon, Pendragon,” she murmurs, then, “There you are.” She reads out a number Arthur isn’t sure whether he is supposed to recognise, then starts handing him an impressive stack of forms and papers from the baskets in front of her, rattling off all sorts of information about matriculation, acquiring his student ID, and registering with the health centre.
Arthur fails to follow her rapid pace, hoping he will find all that she is saying repeated in the papers he is holding, though there is one piece of information he absolutely cannot miss.
He has yet to find out which college has accepted him. He has heard good things about many of them. Gwaine seems happy enough at Orkney Hall, while Leon is just entering his third year at Knight’s College and keeps singing the praises of the other students and the Master there. Really, as far as Arthur is concerned, any college will do, as long as it isn’t—
“Pendragon Hall,” says the woman – and the air is punched straight from Arthur’s lungs.
“What?” he croaks.
At last, the woman looks up. “Pendragon Hall,” she repeats, then glances back down at her list. “Oh, I see.” She chuckles. “What a strange coincidence. Any connection?”
Arthur has to force out the response. “Yes, but I thought—”
“You’ll feel right at home, then,” the woman interrupts, shoving a final piece of paper at him. “Make sure to report directly to the porter when you get there. Have a good start.”
With that, he is despatched. Already, she is beckoning the next person, throwing Arthur an impatient look when he doesn’t immediately move to the side. Clearly, there is no point in arguing.
Arthur has no choice but to bow down, shoulder his holdall and make for the door.
Outside, the wind has picked up, tearing at the papers Arthur is still clutching. Shivering, he turns his back into the breeze, flattening the top sheet with one hand.
Pendragon Hall. A strange coincidence indeed, seeing as he made sure to give it the lowest possible priority on his application form. Unlikely that all other colleges rejected him. It is either that some administrator saw his name and thought they were helping – or…
Well, it hardly matters now. Arthur glances at the poorly-copied map at the bottom of the sheet, then heads back towards the crossroads.
Somehow, Camelot looks drearier than before, her white turrets shrouded in grey. The wind must have brought more clouds, the sun waning.
Arthur pulls his coat from his bag.
It is neither a long walk nor an exhausting one. Everything is close here, a whole city turned campus. Still, the fifteen minutes drag on like a small eternity.
When Pendragon Hall finally comes into view, Arthur can’t help but notice how tall the walls surrounding the college are. It is practically a citadel. There is a gatehouse at the front, flanked by two turrets. An all too familiar dragon emblem is chiselled into the stone, looming above the wooden doors in fading red and gold.
Arthur tightens his grip on his holdall and enters the building.
The porter’s office is easily spotted, its door ajar. The inside is hazy and smells distinctly of smoke. It is a fairly large room, with rows of numbered pigeon holes covering the back wall. At a rickety desk at the front sits a man with fading white hair, who looks far too old to still be working.
“Excuse me, sir?”
The man looks up. His eyes are a strange amber colour, though perhaps that’s just the smoke obscuring the light. His tone is dismissive when he grunts, “Yes?”
Despite everything, Arthur aims for a polite smile, ingrained manners taking over. He holds up the top sheet of his stack and says, “I was told at freshers’ registration that I should—”
“Name,” the man cuts him off.
“It’s Pendragon.”
The porter lets out a dry laugh. “Yours, lad.”
Arthur tries not to grimace. “It is. Arthur Pendragon.”
The porter blinks, then smirks. It doesn’t look friendly. “Ah. Why, of course. Should’ve seen it. Uther’s boy, are you?”
Arthur’s voice catches in his throat. The smoke must be getting to him.
Fortunately, the man doesn’t seem to expect a response. He gives Arthur a quick once-over, then starts to rummage through a drawer in his desk. He grabs a key, seemingly at random, and tosses it at Arthur, who only just manages to catch it.
“New Court, Third Staircase,” says the man. “Sheets and towels in the hallway closet. Cleaning on Wednesdays. You’re expected to adhere to the rules posted on the notice board. No overnight visitors, no alcohol—” He grins, exposing yellowed teeth. “—no smoking.” Clearly, the irony isn’t lost on him. He jerks his head towards the door. “Off you go.”
Arthur hesitates.
“What,” says the man, “waiting for a servant to come and fetch your bag?”
Arthur flushes. Forcing out a thank you, he turns away, unnerved. Strange that a porter would care who Arthur’s father is, though he supposes the man looks old enough to have been around back when Uther attended Camelot.
At this very college.
What a strange coincidence, the womanʼs voice echoes through his mind.
Arthur pushes down a swell of messy feelings, exiting the gatehouse through the back and stepping out into the courtyard, on the lookout for New Court. It turns out he has to cross the square, then walk through two archways, passing what he assumes are First and Second Court.
New Court, as the name suggests, is a modern building, bleak concrete rather than dreamy sandstone. A couple of students are standing by the edge of the lawn outside, talking and smoking, throwing Arthur curious looks as he passes them on his way inside.
Arthurʼs gait stiffens. They don’t know your face yet, that’s all, he thinks. Relax.
He finds Third Staircase easily enough, glancing at the key tag for the right number as he squeezes past other students moving in. The door of his own room is already unlocked when he tries the handle. It swings right open.
Arthur learns two things at that moment:
First, his isn’t a single room.
Second, his new roommate is an inconsiderate slob.
The room is a mess, every available surface covered in stuff. There is a tipped-over plastic suitcase on the bed by the window, the clothes spilling out onto the mattress unfolded, and an unzipped holdall on the other, containing what looks like camera equipment, rolls of film and different-sized lenses scattered on the bed. The desk by the window is occupied by two boxes filled with yellowed books and odd knickknacks, the one across claimed by a faded leather knapsack covered in dozens of button badges, half of them lewd or political.
Arthur scowls.
Clearly, he will have to have a strong word with whoever it is he got stuck with for the year; judging by those badges, a communist with a taste for anarcho-punk.
As for now, he sees the state of the room as a challenge. He looks over the beds, then the desks, deciding that he prefers to have his desk near the daylight and his bed against the wall.
He grabs the rolls of film and lenses, unceremoniously tossing them into the bag, then dumps the whole lot next to the suitcase on the other bed before freeing his desk from the two boxes, which he drops on the floor.
Satisfied, he sets down his own bag and starts unpacking.
Soon, his clothes are stacked neatly in the chest of drawers next to his bed, his pens and notebooks lined up on his desk, the empty bag stored away. He has packed light, only the bare necessities. Morgana promised to bring two more boxes of things when she drives by Camelot with Morgause on their way to the Isle next week. This way, he could take the train.
Otherwise, it would have been Father’s driver or, gods forbid, Father himself bringing him – unthinkable.
The sound of someone opening the door distracts him from his thoughts. It has to be his roommate, and Arthur whirls around, prepared to give him a piece of his mind about leaving the room in such a state, really put the slob in his place.
“Oh, hi there!” says a bright voice. “I was wondering if you’d be here by the time I came back.”
Arthur’s roommate is smiling. It is, quite possibly, the widest smile Arthur has ever seen, exposing a perfect row of white teeth. The grin dimples his cheeks on both sides and his eyes are crinkling so much they near-disappear.
“I’m Merlin Wyllt,” he goes on, with just a hint of an Escetir accent, and sticks out a hand. “Well, Myrddin, technically, but we don’t talk about that.”
Arthur does not shake Wyllt’s hand. He takes a step back instead, blindsided by the sunny smile, his eyes dropping to take in a cheap blue shirt and baggy jeans on a tall, lithe frame. There’s a tear at the left knee, a patch on the right one, and the hems are frayed. The white trainers – knock-offs, by the look of them – are covered in scuff marks.
When he looks back up, Wyllt’s smile has dimmed. “What’s wrong?” he asks, retrieving his hand to run it through his hair instead, making it stick up in odd places.
Arthur bristles. “What’s wrong?” he scoffs. “Do you really need to ask?” He gestures around. “This place was a pigsty when I came in!”
The last remnants of Wyllt’s smile melt away. He draws up his shoulders, pushes his hands in his jeans pockets. “Sorry,” he says, though it sounds petulant to Arthur’s ears. “I was in a hurry. There was a meeting nobody told me about and I—”
“I don’t care,” Arthur cuts him off, crossing his arms. “You can’t just walk in here and spread your things all over. We’re supposed to share. Haven’t you been taught any manners? Were you raised in a barn?”
Wyllt’s eyes narrow. It looks entirely different to the way they do when he smiles. “Right next to one, actually,” he says. He pulls his hands from his pockets, juts out his chin as he gives Arthur a pointed once-over, his eyes tracing the perfect crease in the slacks before taking in the shine of Arthur’s loafers. Arthur, stupidly, finds himself wishing he had changed. “Alas, we can’t all be born in a castle with a golden spoon in our mouths,” Wyllt adds, derision oozing from every syllable.
Arthur’s hands curl into fists at the jibe. “I expect you to keep our room clean in the future. Is that understood?” He knows he is starting to sound like Father, and hates it.
Wyllt sneers. “Why, of course, my lord,” he drawls and gives a mocking bow. “Your wish is my command.”
Hot liquid pools in Arthur’s stomach, but before he can think of a comeback, Wyllt has stilled, his eyes widening as he looks past Arthur’s shoulder to the bed by the window. “What have you done?” he gasps and pushes past him.
Arthur stumbles to the side. When he turns, Wyllt is on his knees by the bed, his hands on the camera bag. His hands are shaking slightly as he pulls out the lenses, turning them over in his hands to inspect them before he looks over his shoulder.
The heat of his glare has Arthur stop short.
“Don’t ever,” Wyllt growls, “touch my equipment again!”
Somehow, his anger makes Arthur’s own fizzle out. He raises two hands. “It was all over the bed,” he explains. “I didn’t think—”
“Don’t touch it again!” Wyllt repeats, cradling the lenses close to his chest.
“Look,” Arthur says, grimacing. “If I scratched anything, of course I’ll pay for it—”
Wyllt lets out a harsh sound and gets to his feet. “You rich types are all the same,” he spits. “You think anything can be fixed if you throw enough money at it.”
And just like that, Arthur’s anger flares to new life, bubbling upwards and spilling right into his mouth, burning hot. “At least I have money,” he retorts.
“Oh, is that how you got into Camelot?” Wyllt taunts. “Did your daddy hand a nice big cheque to the chancellor and say pretty please?”
Arthur sees red. “He did not!” he explodes, the words much too loud, too shrill.
Wyllt smirks. “Hit a nerve, did I?” He lifts his chin. “Cheers, by the way. That cheque is probably paying for my scholarship, too. Must have taken a fortune to get an ass like you into Camelot.” He turns away.
It is probably better that he does. Arthur is seconds away from punching him.
He closes his eyes, swallowing against the acid burning in his throat. He is feeling raw, chafed by Wyllt’s words sliding right past his armour to reach soft, vulnerable flesh. Arthur can’t remember the last time someone managed to rile him up so thoroughly, so quickly.
The knock at the door is a heaven-sent.
A girl sticks her head in. “Arthur Pendragon?” she asks.
Arthur turns. “That’s me,” he says, the words stiff.
“The Master wants to see you,” she replies. “He’s in his office.”
Arthur frowns. “Now?”
“Yup,” says the girl and is gone.
Arthur stares at the spot where she just stood. Why would the Master want to see him?
“Pendragon?” Wyllt says from behind. The incredulity is tangible. “Seriously? That’s your name?”
Arthur makes for the door, telling him, “Shut up!”
“Arthur bloody Pendragon!” Wyllt’s grating laugh follows him out of the room. “Of bloody course.”
Arthur slams the door shut.
The Master’s office is on the top floor of First Court, an imposing room with stucco ceilings, stained-glass windows and a massive, ornate desk, behind which sits Godwyn Gawant. He is wearing his academical gown, making Arthur wonder if he should have donned his own.
Gawant is sipping tea from a delicate porcelain cup, a fatherly smile on his face. A smile Arthur is painfully familiar with.
“And how is Elena?” he asks, having been drilled in the art of small talk from a young age.
“Good, good,” says Gawant. “She’s just made the Olympic Equestrian team, can you believe it?”
“Of course I can,” Arthur replies, trying not to fiddle with his own cup. “Her horsemanship has always been impeccable. The last time I won a race against her I was seven, I think.”
Gawant lets out a good-natured chuckle. “Ah, yes. I remember those days.” He sighs wistfully, then gestures at Arthur. “And look at you now. All grown-up and studying at Camelot.”
“Yes.” Arthur clears his throat. “I didn’t know you were the Master here at Pendragon Hall, sir.”
“Just took over last term,” Gawant replies. “A dream come true, of course, for an alumnus.” He offers Arthur another kindly smile. “And a dream come true for you, I’m sure, to have been accepted here, and continue the legacy.”
For one moment, Arthur considers telling him the truth. Considers asking for a transfer, if such a thing is even possible.
Instead, he forces on a smile of his own, says, “Yes, sir,” and takes another sip of tea before the smile can turn into a grimace.
“I’m sure you’ll be very busy for the next few weeks,” Gawant goes on. “Settling in, making new friends…”
Something about his tone has Arthur tense. “Yes, sir,” he repeats, carefully lowering his cup.
“Your father,” Gawant says – and Arthur’s stomach twists itself into a knot. “He asked me to set up some – well, connections, I suppose.” Gawant puts down his tea, reaching for a piece of paper. “There’s some people here at Camelot that you should know. Professors, fellows, older students…”
Arthur’s fingers curl so tightly around the handle of his cup he is afraid it might break right off. “Oh?” is all he manages.
Gawant nods, holding out the paper. “I’ve written down some names. Have tea with them some time, why don’t you? Thereʼs always Formal Hall, too. Your father would appreciate it.”
Arthur puts down the cup and accepts the paper. It feels heavy in his hand.
“Well, I don’t want to keep you,” Gawant adds. “If you need anything, if there’s any problem at all, come straight to me. I’m sure something can be arranged.” He chuckles. “Uther would have my head if I didn’t look out for you, and rightly so.”
Arthur gets up from his chair, clutching the paper. “Thank you, sir,” he forces out, his tongue leaden in his mouth.
“No trouble, no trouble at all.” Gawant waves him off.
Arthur walks back to New Court in a strange daze. It is late afternoon now, the sun long disappeared behind thick, grey clouds. There will be rain soon, he thinks. A storm, even, judging by the way the chestnut tree he passes is swaying in the wind.
By the time he has made it up Third Staircase and back to his room, fat raindrops are pelting the window panes.
Wyllt is still there, sitting on his bed right underneath the windows. There is a stack of polaroids on his lap, some of which he is sticking to the wall. Arthur catches a glimpse of a younger, ganglier Wyllt, his arm slung around a mate’s shoulder, another of Wyllt and a woman who looks like she could be his mother.
He looks up when Arthur closes the door, his face hostile. He jerks his head towards Arthur’s desk. “Special delivery for you,” he says, his voice scathing.
Arthur frowns, looking at the desk, where a telephone has appeared. It looks brand-new. “Where did this come from?” he asks.
“How should I know?” Wyllt retorts, his eyes already back on his photos. “Some bloke came in and installed it.” He lets out a derisive chuckle. “Reckon it would be too much to expect Your Highness to use the payphone in the corridor, like the rest of us peasants.”
Arthur scowls. “I’m sure I told you to shut up, Wyllt,” he says.
Wyllt flashes him two fingers.
Arthur wonders if Gawant would approve a change of roommate. Before he can contemplate the thought further, the phone starts ringing.
“My, someone’s important,” Wyllt scoffs.
Arthur is sorely tempted to call him something very unsavoury. Unlike Wyllt, however, he isn’t some straw-sucking yokel from the barns of Escetir.
He picks up the receiver, turning his back towards Wyllt. “Hello?”
“Arthur,” comes Father’s voice.
Arthur straightens where he stands. “Sir.”
“I see my gift has arrived,” Father says, sounding pleased. “How are you settling in at Pendragon Hall?”
Arthur reaches out to curl his fingers around the back of his chair. “Well,” he forces out. “Thank you.”
“Have you spoken to Godwyn yet?”
Arthurʼs knuckles turn white. “I did.”
“Good. I expect you to meet him for tea once a week. Tell him how youʼre progressing.”
Arthur closes his eyes. “Yes, sir,” he says.
He listens to Father’s instructions for several minutes, a litany of Yes, sirs spilling from his lips. By the time Father hangs up, he feels drained.
Outside, the world is nothing but a thick, grey sludge, the wind howling around the building. Arthur’s eyes flicker downwards to where Wyllt has finished with his photographs. He has settled against the head of his bed with a book, his dark hair a stark contrast to his pale face. His fingers, Arthur notices, are long and slim where they are wrapped around the spine.
“Who was that, then?” Wyllt asks, never looking up from the page. “The prime minister? His Majesty the King?”
Yes, Arthur thinks.
“For the last time, Wyllt,” is what he says out loud. “Shut up.”