Upon discovering the absence of the quill, Arthur panicked. He went running through the castle, asking where his quill had gone. After being assured that there were plenty of other quills he could use, Arthur realized that he was being a lunatic and there was absolutely no rhyme or reason for his actions, at least to everyone else. He was terrified that something had happened to the quill and if it were harmed in some way, the soul of the, theoretically-speaking, fourth child would be compromised.

It went unfound for several days until it showed up on his desk again, seemingly unscathed. A single note was scrawled on a pad nearby:

Merlin knows something isn't right with me. Or you. Try not to draw attention to me.

And so he didn't. He would continue to use the quill, but he wouldn't obsess over it as fervently. It was important that he not draw attention to the quill, at the risk of what it might mean for the future of the soul in the quill.

The quill still wrote on its own, now almost thirteen years after it had taken to doing simple tasks without Arthur's aid. And the longer it did this, the more and more sorrow Arthur had, saddened by the fact that a fourth child still had not made his or her appearance. Of course, there was still some promise that a fourth child would come along, but he knew that neither he nor Merlin would be young forever, so if they were going to have another child, it would have to be soon. The thought that maybe they wouldn't fulfill that destiny crossed his mind, but because that thought scared him (because there were a great deal of reasons why things could fall through), he tried not to dwell on it.

In all fairness, Arthur rather liked the quill. By now, the quill's personality had become quite distinct: talented, a little timid, but extraordinarily capable of getting the job done. The longer the quill remained in this state, the more and more Arthur longed to meet this child. A quill could only do so much.

Merlin seemed to notice Arthur's melancholia, but had attributed it to the coming anniversary of his father's passing. It would be fifteen years since King Uther had passed, and Merlin knew that Arthur viewed this more as a warning to him than a remembrance of his father. She had never truly known her father, and she fortunately hadn't lost her mother, so she didn't know how to support her husband beyond standing as his confidant, as she had done for nearly twenty years.

One evening, Arthur crawled into bed with Merlin, who was trapped under the youngest of their boys. Gareth, at age six, still had trouble with nightmares, and in his capacity to get around the castle with his eyes closed, had apparently made his way into his mother's bed without issue. Arthur tried not to wake her, but as soon as he pulled the covers down and settled down, she reached over and touched him. He nearly jumped out of his skin, but relaxed when he saw the moonlight reflecting off of Merlin's eye. "You scared me," he mumbled.

"Sorry," she whispered. "We have to be quiet… Gareth had some trouble with nightmares again."

Arthur gave a slight nod and snuggled underneath the blanket until he felt comfortable. Despite the fact that he was beside his wife and one of his sons, he still felt unsettled. "Merlin?" he asked after a few minutes of lying silently in the bed.

She hummed in reply, prompting him to continue. "Do you ever…?"

He hesitated. There was the distinct possibility that Arthur would say the wrong thing and he would let it slip that he was seeing animated objects where they shouldn't be. "Yes?" she asked.

"Do you ever feel like we are incomplete?"

"Incomplete?"

"You know… that something is missing."

Of the many questions her husband could come to her with in the wee hours of the morning, Merlin was not expecting this one. "Missing in what sense?"

"I don't know. I just keep feeling like there is something missing from our lives."

"A person, a place, a decision… what?"

"I don't think our family is complete," he finally asserted.

"You don't think our family is complete?" she echoed.

"No."

"Arthur, with all respect, I think our family is complete enough. You didn't have to go through childbirth."

He snorted quietly. "And don't get me wrong; I am extraordinarily grateful that the boys are happy and healthy. I'm saying that I think maybe we should try for another."

Arthur's heart sank when he heard Merlin give a disappointed sigh. "Go to sleep, Arthur," she finally said as she clasped his hand. "We will talk about this later."

He didn't want to talk about it later. They might not have much time now, and later, they would have even less time. Time was of the essence, and the sooner they acted on this, the sooner he could put his mind at ease. He loved his wife, he loved his sons, hell, he even loved his mother-in-law, but he also loved whomever the quill represented.

Arthur couldn't tell Merlin the truth outright. He'd sound mental. There had to be some way of telling her the truth without him sounding like a lunatic, before it was too late.