Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin, its characters, settings, or events; all rights belong to their respective creators.
"A wise man will make more opportunities than he finds." – Francis Bacon
Arthur had never considered himself a romantic person, and he knew for a fact his girlfriend held the same opinion. He'd never been great at picking out gifts of any kind, let alone "thoughtful" ones (Guinevere always said it didn't matter what he got her as long as it had "meaning"), and he didn't know that he'd ever actually remembered an anniversary of any sort on his own.
But this year was different.
Because this year his girlfriend had dragged him to a museum to show him a painting that she loved and had called it "poignant," which Arthur figured was close enough to "thoughtful" to count, and a painting of people that could be them had to have meaning, especially when she'd gushed over it and used a lot of adjectives that basically meant that it had meaning.
This was his chance to get Guinevere a thoughtful, meaningful, romantic gift for once.
And he had a vague idea that they had some sort of anniversary coming up sometime soon, too, so the timing was perfect.
All he had to do was track down the owner of the painting and convince him to sell it, which Arthur should have had no problem with, and figure out when exactly their upcoming anniversary was without letting on to Guinevere that he was getting her something special this year.
His family influence and wealth got him the address of the owner, but all the museum had had for a name was "the Balinor Estate." Still, it shouldn't be hard to go to the address, find the owner of the Balinor Estate, and use the many persuasive means at his disposal (mainly money and charm) to convince them to sell.
He hit a snag much earlier in his plan than he expected.
Driving out to the address he'd been given—a little cottage on the heavily wooded shore of a lake—was the only easy part.
The door was answered by an old man with a hunched back and long white hair and beard and a deep scowl that quickly melted into open-mouthed surprise when he saw Arthur on his doorstep.
For a long moment, Arthur shifted uncertainly under the old man's wordless stare, before finally asking, "Are you the owner of the Balinor Estate?"
And with a choked growl, the old man promptly slammed the door in his face.
Arthur's own mouth fell open as he blinked in surprise in an unintentional imitation of the old man, then snapped shut as his anger rose over any other emotion. He pounded heavily on the door.
He waited an unreasonably long time for something to happen and was about to pound on the door again when it was suddenly flung open by a much younger man, probably a bit younger than Arthur even, with dark hair and big ears and an idiot's grin that didn't change at all, even as he took in Arthur's obvious irritation.
This time Arthur didn't wait. "I'm looking for the owner of the Balinor Estate," he said firmly, in his most commanding voice; if that voice could get all the grey old men on the board of his dad's company to listen to him in spite of his age, it would definitely get a scrawny boy to give him the answers he was looking for.
It didn't.
"What for?" the boy asked with a puzzled frown, head tilting to one side.
"I don't know why I should tell you," Arthur bit out. Then he added mockingly, "Are you the owner of the Balinor Estate?"
"Kind of," the boy answered with a shrug.
"That's a 'no,' then," Arthur decided. The boy shrugged again. "Is it the old man that answered the first time then?" The boy seemed a little unsure how to answer that, confused maybe, so Arthur explained, "I was given this address at the museum, but I don't know who I'm looking for."
The boy nodded seriously, considering Arthur for a moment.
Then he shut the door in Arthur's face.
Arthur had just worked past his shock and pounded on the door again when the door finally creaked slowly open; it was the old man, this time, scowling again.
Arthur waited a moment for the man to speak, hoping he would explain why everyone in this house had a need to slam doors in people's faces for no apparent reason or that he would maybe even answer Arthur's question finally. But since the people in this house had no manners whatsoever, he, of course, did neither. Instead, when he finally spoke, all Arthur got was an impatient "Well?"
Arthur fought a sudden urge to slam his head into the door frame repeatedly, every scrap of patience he had ever possessed snapping completely. Carefully enunciating each word, he finally asked, for the third time, "Are you the owner of the Balinor Estate?"
The old man didn't visibly react to Arthur's tone, but shot out "Might be" in the same waspish tone.
Arthur took a moment to breathe deeply. Very deeply. In and hold and out.
Then he answered. Calmly. Mostly.
"I'm looking to buy a painting."
"Painting?" the old man asked sharply.
"Yes," Arthur said rather forcefully. It would be wrong to shake an old man just because he was the most irritating old man in existence, wouldn't it? Like, morally, or something?
"What painting?"
There was nobody in sight, Arthur had checked; nobody would ever have to know if he shook the old grouch just a little.
Breathe, Arthur.
"It's called If He'd Come Home." The old man drew in a sharp breath and fixed an equally sharp gaze on Arthur's face. Arthur continued, "You've got it displayed in the museum downtown."
When the old man finally answered, he spoke more slowly than he had since answering the door the first time. "That's a special painting."
Arthur was finally satisfied that the old man was actually giving the conversation due consideration, and his tone mellowed accordingly as he acknowledged, "It is." Then he added, "It's very special to my girlfriend and I."
"Girlfriend?" Well, now the old man just sounded nosy and downright gossipy, as if he'd suddenly transformed into a teenage girl.
"Yes," Arthur answered warily, "my girlfriend. I'd like to give the painting to her as an anniversary gift."
The old man snorted suddenly, then turned it into a cough; Arthur frowned, not at all fooled, but not sure why the old man was laughing at him. He could feel his frustration rising again, and the old man apparently caught on because he politely cleared his throat.
"You want to give it to your girlfriend?" he asked. "Well, then. I'd better meet this girlfriend." He nodded and hummed to himself; Arthur's frown deepened.
"What?"
"Like I said, special painting," the old man answered, then added with a wheezy little laugh at some joke Arthur wasn't aware of, "Let's hope she's a special lady, eh?"
And then he shut the door in Arthur's face.
When a knock sounded on his door late in the afternoon, Merlin sighed. Most visitors to his little cottage by the shores of the lake of Avalon fell into three categories, none of which he enjoyed dealing with. First, there were the local boys who teased each other with the old story that an immortal man lived there who maintained his extended lifespan by eating people, mostly children, and dared one another to knock on his door; this superstition had worried him at first, but he found that the children soon grew into adults who laughed it off as impossible. Second, there were door-to-door salesman, who, he had long ago discovered, could find and reach any residence regardless of obstacles; luckily, these visits had died down with the invention of the telephone. Third, there were the religious visitors, mostly Mormons; he'd seen so much trouble stemming from religious beliefs reaching the fanatical over the years that he was always wary lest any of them should decide to start burning people for witchcraft again, no matter how polite and friendly they were, and often sent them away quite rudely and a little guiltily. He had found that, whichever of these visitors came to his door, his best defense was his guise of a possibly crazy and/or senile old man who may or may not be incredibly deaf and was most definitely quite rude, so he hastily muttered the spell and scowled fiercely.
Then he opened the door.
It was Arthur.
In the blink of an eye, he forgot everything because it was Arthur.
It was Arthur standing on his doorstep with the late afternoon sun on his hair like a fiery golden crown.
Arthur, exactly as he remembered him, but for the clothing.
It was Arthur, alive and well, but something was wrong. There was something missing from his eyes that Merlin couldn't quite put his finger on, something about the set of his smile that was a bit too formal for Merlin's comfort. He was starting to look a bit peeved at Merlin's scrutiny, which was definitely familiar, but still . . .
"Are you the owner of the Balinor Estate?" Arthur asked in a politely distant voice, and Merlin choked on the realization of what was missing.
It was Arthur, but he didn't know who Merlin was.
Suddenly, Merlin found himself falling against the inside of his now-closed door, sliding down to the floor and riding out the overwhelming wave of emotions with fingers clenched in his white hair so tightly they nearly matched it in color. Joy and hope and crushing loss and defeat and mourning and rage at the world and terror and despair and so many more that he couldn't even begin to name crashed into him almost tangibly.
A heavy pounding on the door physically shook him and jarred him from his daze.
That was Arthur, he registered distantly.
Then, I should open the door.
But he didn't.
He couldn't.
Just now, he found he couldn't even move.
Come on, Merlin, he told himself, it's Arthur. What's your problem? What are you afraid of?
The answer to both questions, of course, was summed up perfectly in those same two words: it's Arthur.
Arthur who didn't seem to recognize him, who didn't remember. That was the reason he felt like he'd just lost Arthur all over again, the reason he felt a little like maybe he'd lived this long for nothing, the reason he was so angry at the world and destiny right now, because why? Why would they bring him back without his memories? Would he ever get them back, or was Merlin doomed to live a shadow existence alongside his other half once more?
He had spent every day since his king had died in his arms waiting—longing, hoping, praying, crying, begging, living, waiting—for his return. He had tried to prepare himself for every possibility, had even considered this one more than once, but that didn't make this any easier.
Because Arthur was standing on his front doorstep, but he still hadn't gotten his beloved friend and king back.
Oh, yeah. Arthur was standing on his doorstep.
And Merlin had slammed the door in his face.
Knowing Arthur, he was probably pretty angry about that.
He should open the door and see what he wanted.
But first, he couldn't help changing into his younger, more familiar form and the clothing that went with it, glad he'd learned how to make the transformation easier and faster centuries ago; he told himself not to hope, but he couldn't help it: Arthur was more likely to remember this form than the other. If he remembered at all, that is; what a depressing thought.
But even if it did nothing for Arthur, Merlin would feel better dealing with this as himself: on the other side of that door, his destiny stood once more, and Merlin knew his life would change again the moment he started down that path, wherever it led.
All it would take was opening that door.
So he took a deep breath—preparing for the worst, but hoping for the best—and opened the door on whatever the rest of this lifetime would be before he could change his mind.
Arthur looked incredibly irritated, but he couldn't find it in himself to be bothered because that was just so Arthur. Even for the second time, the sight of him standing there stole his breath for a moment.
"I'm looking for the owner of the Balinor Estate," Arthur said immediately in what Merlin used to call his "king voice."
Merlin frowned in confusion. The "Balinor Estate" was the name he used for his banking and property ownership things, so that he could maintain his funds and properties through the ages without anyone questioning his identity; he went through the charade of "inheriting" it from himself every few decades, but it had been a while since the last time. How exactly had Arthur come across that and why did it bring him here? He was suddenly a little worried that Arthur worked for the government and had found something suspicious about the estate. It would be just like Arthur to get all observant only when it would be most inconvenient for Merlin, but on the other hand, Arthur didn't look suspicious, just frustrated and determined. Why would he be looking for the owner of the Balinor Estate then?
"What for?" he asked, tipping his head.
"I don't know why I should tell you," Arthur bit out. "Are you the owner of the Balinor Estate?" Well, not having his memories hadn't changed him that much then; he was still capable of being a complete prat when he wanted to be, Merlin noted.
But Merlin was still faced with a bit of a quandary over how to answer that particular question. Not only was Merlin not entirely sure how to answer the question of "the owner of the Balinor Estate", as he hadn't actually "inherited" it from his older identity yet, but he also felt the old need to stand up to Arthur when he was being a prat rising up in him—plus, how dare Arthur show up on his doorstep out of the blue like this with no memories and still be a complete prat? On the other hand, he didn't want to drive Arthur off without knowing how to find him again. "Kind of," he settled on, with a nonchalant shrug thrown in for good measure.
"That's a 'no,' then," Arthur said; he sounded really certain and Merlin knew immediately that he wasn't going to change the former king's mind now that he'd made it up, so instead he simply shrugged again. "Is it the old man that answered the door the first time then?" Arthur asked. For a moment, Merlin was stumped as to how exactly he was supposed to answer this second question now, reluctant as he was to have to lie to his king again, then Arthur said, "I was given this address at the museum, but I don't know who I'm looking for."
Merlin nodded as an idea formed in his head: since Arthur seemed as determined as ever to think of this form as an idiot, and since he was convinced that the old man who had first answered the door must be the owner of the Balinor Estate, it'd probably just be easier for both of them if Merlin shifted into his older form again to talk to Arthur; Arthur would be satisfied that he was talking to the right person and Merlin wouldn't really have to lie. At least not outright. Or verbally, anyway. For now. Anyway, he shut the door and went about changing his appearance and clothing back to the way they'd been the first time he opened the door for Arthur.
Arthur, of course, had no more patience than he'd ever had and soon pounded on the door again; Merlin shook his head fondly and was tempted to slow down just to be irritating, but decided that he had lived too long to be so decidedly childish and run the risk of losing Arthur again.
When he was good and ready, both physically and emotionally prepared, he braced himself again and opened the door.
Only to realize immediately that he'd completely lost track of what he should and shouldn't know between his two quick changes and had no idea how to "start" this conversation.
Merlin waited for Arthur to speak first, but unfortunately, Arthur also seemed reluctant to speak, in spite of his obviously growing impatience; for a long moment, they simply scowled at each other. "Well?" Merlin finally prompted.
Arthur's jaw clenched and Merlin could see all the familiar signs that he was restraining himself from some kind of violent action. When he finally spoke, each word was carefully pronounced through a stiff jaw and mostly clenched teeth, "Are you the owner of the Balinor Estate?"
Merlin fought simultaneous urges to roll his eyes in exasperation at the former king's childish behavior and giggle hysterically at how little Arthur had changed; instead, he measured Arthur's temperament and decided on a testy response of "Might be."
If Arthur was as much like his previous self as he had so far seemed to be, then he would take something as confrontational as that as a personal challenge and would be more determined than ever to follow through on his goal, whatever that was, which meant Merlin had the opportunity to ensure Arthur stuck around longer. Plus, he had to admit that verbal sparring had always been more fun for him when Arthur was on the other side of it and he had dearly missed their interactions in the past centuries.
As expected, Arthur's chin came up and his feet planted more firmly as soon as Merlin spoke, and Merlin almost grinned to see him taking deliberately deep breaths as he prepared for battle, so to speak; he had absolutely no intention of walking away until he was satisfied. Merlin himself took a deep breath in relief.
"I'm looking to buy a painting," Arthur said, in his forced-calm voice.
"Painting?" Merlin asked.
"Yes," Arthur nearly growled, looking even closer to violence than before. Merlin hadn't intended that question to be provocative, but Arthur was clearly too angry already to realize that Merlin was merely asking for clarification.
"What painting?" he tried again.
Arthur struggled with his anger a moment longer, trying to moderate the violent urges Merlin could still see in his eyes, but finally gave the specification Merlin had been looking for.
"It's called If He'd Come Home," Arthur said, and Merlin couldn't help his sharp intake of air at the name. Did Arthur know or suspect that it was him and Gwen in the painting? Were his memories closer to the surface than Merlin had feared? Did he have an idea what exactly the painting was a reference to?
Arthur continued on, something about where the painting was displayed, but Merlin wasn't really listening as he studied his friend for clues as to his interest in the painting and dealt with the tangle of emotions that came with the painting itself and with the idea of Arthur discovering it.
The scene depicted was a happy one, but the fact that it had never actually happened was so sad; he'd loved the subjects with all his heart—he still did—but he hated that they'd died and left him alone, even as he knew it wasn't their choice. That painting brought up his loneliness and sorrow, as so many of his other paintings did, but also brought up the two-fold guilt of having failed both Arthur and Gwen so completely in one fell stroke. It brought up every dream he'd ever had of the future in those days when Arthur was king, with all their hope, and it brought up the despair that Arthur had never lived to see their destiny completed. When he'd loaned that painting to the first museum, ages ago, he'd had a number of reasons: it was too painful to keep around, but too precious to get rid of; he'd wanted to share the truths of the story that had by then become barely-recognizable legends, in whatever small ways he could; and, yes, he'd half-hoped that somehow, somewhere a reborn Arthur would see it and find him. But he'd given up that hope long ago—mostly—and the fact that it was that painting that had brought Arthur to his doorstep now filled him not only with wonder and hope that Arthur's memories may yet return to him—maybe someday soon— but also with sadness that that was the first part of his first life that this Arthur had stumbled on to.
"That's a special painting," Merlin finally said, slowly, carefully.
"It is," Arthur said. "It's very special to my girlfriend and I."
"Girlfriend?" Merlin couldn't help asking, even though he knew his interest was bleeding through and now Arthur was looking at him like he wanted very badly to call him a girl. He had tried to stop himself from hoping over the centuries for the return of anybody other than Arthur and if it was Gwen that Arthur was talking about, this was truly a gift; he could barely contain his excited interest to that single one-word question. He wanted to ask so many: Was it her? Had she really come back too? How long had they been dating? How long had they known each other? Was Arthur planning to marry her in this life too? What did his father think of her this time?
"Yes, my girlfriend," Arthur answered slowly, squinting in suspicion; Merlin stowed his questions for another time. "I'd like to give the painting to her as an anniversary gift."
Merlin snorted before he could stop himself. Arthur had remembered an anniversary? And had actually put effort in to seek out a gift? A big gift, even. All on his own. Arthur was still glaring at him, even though he'd tried to hide his laughter in a cough, but Merlin was having trouble stopping after such a whirlwind of emotions as this conversation had provided. Until a sudden thought brought him up short: what if the girlfriend Arthur was putting so much effort into wasn't Gwen?
He cleared his throat as politely as he could manage and asked, "You want to give it to your girlfriend?" It wouldn't do at all for Arthur to give a painting of him and Gwen to another girl, and an idea struck him. "Well, then," he decided. "I'd better meet this girlfriend." This way, if it were Gwen, he'd get to meet her too; and if it weren't, then he could send her packing without the painting—and determine if she deserved Arthur at the same time. Plus, Arthur would have to come back. Yes, better all around that Merlin meet the girlfriend.
Arthur didn't seem to think so. "What?" he asked with an incredulous frown.
"Like I said, special painting," Merlin answered. He laughed a bit breathlessly at that; very special, to have brought Arthur back to him, and maybe Gwen, too. It had better be Gwen. "Let's hope she's a special lady, eh?"
Then he shut the door in Arthur's face, content knowing that he'd opened a door into Arthur's life that wouldn't be nearly so easy to close. He wouldn't let it.
"My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me
"So huge, so hopeless to conceive
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of Heaven
And all we need of Hell."
-"My life closed twice before its close" by Emily Dickinson
So the title comes both from the physical door repeatedly slamming in Arthur's face and Merlin's struggles with opening the door, and from the metaphorical door being closed to Arthur buying the painting and being opened to Merlin getting a chance to be close to Arthur again. It's also poetic and balanced, kinda like two sides of the same coin.
Thanks for reading! As always, comments, critiques, and constructive criticisms are most welcome as I am always looking to improve!
Have a lovely day!
M1ssUnd3rst4nd1ng
