Author's Note: My oh my, I feel like my old writer juices are flowing when it comes to this story! So many interesting developments and writing choices that just flow naturally during the ideation of this fic, it's honestly astounding. Let's hope I can keep this ball rolling for as long as possible. Enjoy everybody C:

This chapter takes place during the episode "A Lighthouse in the Sea of Time". Specifically during the epilogue, where Robbins finishes reading his newspaper and begins development on a new book.


Unexpected was the sound of Robbins's doorbell that afternoon, but not entirely unwelcome. After a full night of novel devouring with soft musical accompaniment, he was lulled into a false sense of security. That somehow he'd imagined the past 2 days, a mysterious Scottish soldier washing ashore, an equally mysterious, but far more chilling pursuer, an ominous air of danger and menace surrounding the whole ordeal, a sudden disappearance and reappearance act.

The apparent purchase of Fort Tryon, for the life of him he couldn't wrap his head around that one, it's like buying the Statue of Liberty. Just for a moment, a fleeting naive moment, he thought his overactive imagination had kicked in and he'd gone and created an entire tv show episode with him as the co-star.

But the old writer knew better, he had Hudson's thick accented voice stuck in his head, two teacups drying in his kitchen, the scent of old leather and stone still lingered in the easy chair across from him. It was real, all of it, including that curious feeling of confidence and faith that overrode all the doubts rattling around in his mind. Hudson was going to stop McDuff-Beth, he was going to come back, and Robbins was finally going to get some answers that would clear all of his confusion up. And that was that, as illogical as it seemed.

However, a doorbell was the last thing he expected to hear, seeing as Hudson just came right up to the study doors and knocked on the glass. An action befitting a straight forward, blunt fellow like him. So it couldn't be Hudson at his front door, which begged the question: who exactly was ringing Robbins's doorbell? Unlike the two file cabinets bursting at the seams with mysteries he couldn't answer alone, this query was all too easy to answer, which brought Robbins back to reality as he turned the knob and cracked the door open.

"Yes?" he answered politely, a twinge of that soldier trepidation in his voice.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Robbins! I've got your newspaper right here for you" a young, cheerful voice exclaimed just a bit too loudly for the veteran's tastes. The uncouth crinkling of plastic didn't help either, as Robbins opened the door wider, putting on his best fake smile.

"Oh, is it that time again already?" he laughed airily.

Of course, who else but the National Library Service for the Blind would send an overly bubbly youth to shout directly in his face? One would think they'd remind their workers that the handicap they service can't use their eyes, but their ears work just fine, so screaming? Not advisable. Which isn't to say he was ungrateful for their service, they were a great resource for people that shared his unique challenges. But, just like most governmental programs, tact wasn't their top priority.

"Yes sir! Here's your New York Times Weekly! Would you like me to read it to you?" the bubbly young voice offered as she handed the plastic wrapped package to Robbins.

He gingerly took it from her hands as he groaned a reply, "God no". But he regained his composure and attempted to salvage the situation. "I'm not ready to read it quite yet, and I'm sure you've got other deliveries to make, so..."

The sickeningly cheerful voice got more distant as the woman spoke, "Alright then, you have a good day, Mr. Robbins!" her footsteps almost as forceful as her volume. Robbins waved politely as he closed his door, before finally slumping his shoulder against the polished wood. Gilly sniffed at the newspaper, bumping it lightly with her nose as Robbins pinched the bridge of his nose in mild irritation.

"Mr. Robbins, Mr. Robbins. How many times do I have to tell them, it's just Robbins?" he grumbled under his breath. He swiftly bent down to Gilly's level as he thrust his hands above his head. "Just Robbins! It's not that hard, is it?" he left the question hanging, awaiting his companion's astute reply. All he got was a sloppy lapping of her tongue on his face, to which his irritation instantly evaporated as a wide grin lifted his cheeks up.

"Whatever, let's see what we got, shall we?" he said as he walked back to the study, his cane lightly tapping in front of him to ensure his path was clear. His feet glided in front of his worn leather chair as he ripped the newspaper free from its plastic constraints. With a satisfied sigh, he plopped down into his chair and unfurled the paper, raising his feet to the coffee table in order to have a semblance of a flat surface to place the paper on.

As his fingers danced around the familiar grooves and patterns, he could hear Gilly trot over to the opposite chair and leap on top, settling in for the afternoon. Or night, was more accurate, seeing as he'd just checked his talking watch a half hour ago. There were many benefits to living on the coast, the amount of time it took for deliveries to reach him was not one of them, though he wasn't one to complain about such a thing. He'd learned firsthand that patience was indeed a virtue.

"Now, let's see if there's anything about Hudson or MacDuff-Beth or Fort Tryon" he said more to himself than Gilly, as his finger tips traced the top of the first page. Again, he got another unexpected, but welcomed surprise. The headline read: "Mystical Scrolls of Merlin stolen then mysteriously returned", as shocking as a headline could have been, the blind writer supposed. He wasted no time diving into the story, it practically forced his fingers to trail over every line until he reached the end.

The last he'd heard about the Scrolls of Merlin were their discovery and subsequent relocation to New York's Metropolitan Museum of Art, a very intriguing development for Robbins, seeing as he was such a big fan of mythology, particularly European. Merlin was among his favorite characters in mythology, learning that he could have, in fact, been a real live person was breaking news enough.

But to learn that his hand written scrolls that were lost to time were discovered in some distant cave in Wales, it was such a shock he nearly fell out of his chair. Knowing that they were going to be in New York, right where he could have them read to him by the very archeologists that unearthed them, it was a dream come true. Of course, reading them himself would have been the ultimate dream, but he doubted Merlin wrote a braille edition of his scrolls. Nevertheless, it would have been incredible to know what was transcribed in the mystical Scrolls of Merlin the Wizard.

So, of course Robbins understood the temptation to steal them, beyond monetary value or the fanciful notion that real authentic magic spells were written on them, the all consuming curiosity would be too much for a man to bear. But it wasn't like the archeologists were hording the Scrolls for themselves, they were literally going to put it in a museum in one of the most densely populated cities in the world. The knowledge would be accessible to anyone and everyone who wished to know, which means there was no need to steal them for the only good reason Robbins could think of.

Leaving only the bad reasons, money and "power", though he supposed he shouldn't be too hasty in writing off the power motive. As far fetched as it seemed, Merlin's existence was up for debate right now, and it was entirely possible they could confirm him to be a real person. Which meant if Merlin the world famous wizard was or could have really existed, then so could his magic powers and spells. If he wasn't just a fantasy character, then surely the things he did weren't all fantasy, right?

Robbins shook his head in amusement, before continuing the story. He must be going senile, thinking honest-to-God magic is real, for even a minute, simply ludicrous. He delved back to the current story, which started on the very ship carrying the Scrolls across the ocean to New York. Apparently a group of mercenaries armed with cutting edge technology raided the ship and violently took the Scrolls from the archeologist's very hands, a Dr. Lydia Duane. Poor woman described her account as "the most frightening experience of her entire life", and according to her the mercenaries were "brutish, impetuous, and downright barbaric". Quite the inditement.

Her partner, Dr. Arthur Morwood-Smyth, claimed as he saw the mercenaries make their getaway via carrier jets, they struggled against the storm, though at the time he could have sworn he saw some kind of hang gliders or odd personal propulsion fliers interfering with the carrier jets. But admittedly, he was distraught and caught in a wild thunderstorm, so he must have been mistaken. A strange detail to add, Robbins noted, especially as he continued the story, which was conspicuously lacking in details. As in, it felt like the journalist writing it just, kinda forgot a giant section in the middle.

They went from the aftermath of the theft, wrapping up with a brief summary of the police report, then it picked back up with a young detective finding an anonymous tip of the Scrolls location. The blind veteran felt gypped, to say the very least. Who were those mercenaries working for, why did they decide to give the Scrolls back, or did someone steal them back from them? If so, where were they in all of this, why didn't they come forward and accept a reward for the safe return of the Scrolls, and just who unsealed the first scroll and what did they find when they opened it?

So many unanswered questions, some of which the very author of the article featured, like a git, but so very little in the way of answers. A feeling that was all too familiar to Robbins at this point, much to his chagrin. But suddenly, the wheels in his old noggin began to turn, synapses started firing, and connections were lining up like constellations.

The entire incident at sea happened not 4 miles from the coast, where Hudson washed ashore. The thieves used carrier jets to steal the Scrolls, the kind of equipment that only the military would have. Just like MacDuff-Beth's aircraft Robbins could still hear hissing in the back of his mind. The mercenaries were described as "brutish, impetuous, and downright barbaric", and while "brutish" and "barbaric" were up for debate, Robbins could very easily pin" impetuous" to ol' Lennox.

The canisters containing the Scrolls of Merlin were metallic, same as the canister Hudson asked about specifically before he left again. The sudden return of the Scrolls by an anonymous tip, something firmly in line with Hudson's shadowy, secretive nature. It all lined up, in theory, anyway.

A quick smack to the forehead brought the old blind man back to reality, as he breathed a sobering sigh and flipped to the next page of the newspaper. Come on, the Scrolls of Merlin had nothing to do with Hudson and MacDuff-Beth, there was no way. It just couldn't be... right? Robbins tried to bat away the idea, but it held so much weight he couldn't just ignore it. There must be some rational explanation to all of this, he reasoned within himself.

Sure, MacDuff-Beth has a similar aircraft and attitude as the mercenaries. Sure, the incident took place less than 4 miles off coast which means Hudson could have been involved and washed ashore on the beach. Sure, he had a metal canister that was very important to both him and MacDuff-Beth, and the Scrolls of Merlin were sealed in metal canisters too. Sure, MacDuff-Beth clearly has the capital to finance a like this and even discover a way to open the first Scroll of Merlin. And sure, the timing of all of this is incredibly suspicious.

But all of it was circumstantial, surely there was no hard evidence that could be added to the pile. More likely than not, he was just overreacting, his vivid imagination that served him so well once upon a time was just flaring up again. That must have been it, he nodded while moving on to the next story, one that hopefully left little room for interpretation.

Unfortunately, the headline "Unexplained destruction at Fort Tryon, clear signs of gunfire and explosions sighted" cancelled that carefully built up wall of rationality. This was what he was waiting for, the direct continuation of the mysterious Scotsman soldier's mission that led him to clash with the dangerous and unpredictable MacDuff-Beth.

And already, it was cause for celebration that the headline conspicuously lacked the words, "death", "bodies", "killed" and "murder". Which meant his unexplained faith and certainty that Hudson would be okay was now justified. Nothing about a bearded Scottish heavyweight lying face first in a pool of his own blood, thank heavens.

However, just like the Page 1 story, this story was also lacking in details and answers. For starters, it neglected to mention that Fort Tryon was apparently owned by a Lennox MacDuff, who Lennox MacDuff is, why the city allowed a private citizen to buy a historical landmark and public space, or where he was now.

All they mentioned on that was that it was being used for a private endeavor for some time which nearly left it burned to the ground at the beginning of this year. So it's the second time it nearly burned down in the same year and people wonder why its uncommon to allow private citizens to purchase historical landmarks? Robbins scoffed at the rhetorical question as the article went on.

There were multiple eyewitnesses that heard automatic weapons firing and saw the smoke clouds late last night and early this morning which brought it to investigators' attention, who wasted no time to check on the damage. Upon entering, they found the remains of a battlefield, "walls with scorched holes blasted into them, towers partially destroyed, a massive fire cauldron, and a bizarre chemistry set". Another odd detail to include, Robbins noted, the dilapidated remains of laser cannon turrets and the mysterious markings of a unique aircraft were much more intriguing.

Immediately upon reading that, Robbins linked it to the only other story in the paper that was worth talking about, and found it ridiculous that the two journalists didn't find the obvious connective tissue between their two stories. The aircraft remains, the automatic weaponry, the apparent owner of Fort Tryon, his goofy fake name, the signs of a battle, the timing of the whole thing, the disappearance of MacDuff-Beth after a battle. The two events were clearly linked, how did these rank amateurs get this past an editor, he nearly shouted out, but caught himself as he went back to the first story.

"Calm down, old boy. There are some details they couldn't be privy to that you are" he said instead, rereading the Scrolls of Merlin article once more, to see if he'd missed any details. But he couldn't help the excitement welling up in his gut, the energetic twitching of his feet, the smirk bubbling to the surface. This was beyond his overactive imagination, it was reality, fate handing him the event of the century on a silver platter.

Hudson, the old Scottish soldier, was wrapped up in the Scrolls of Merlin, along with MacDuff-Beth, the sinister terrorist, ending in a climactic showdown at Fort Tryon where both managed to get away from the other. Ending with the Scrolls returned to society, MacDuff-Beth going into hiding, and Hudson returning to the shadows with the public none the wiser.

It was almost too good to be true, like an action-adventure story brought to life, and Robbins was unwittingly smack dab in the middle of it all. All he did was offer his home to an injured stranger, he never dreamed it would be a national hero holding the Scrolls of Merlin the entire time. Oh my God, the Scrolls of Merlin were in his house for an entire night and he didn't even know, he gasped. Damn, if only Hudson could read ancient Celtic, he'd have his fanboy curiosity satiated before anybody else.

And then it occurred to him, the strange chemistry set of the Fort Tryon story, could it be what he was thinking? Swiftly he flicked back to the article and scanned his fingertips across the paragraphs, until he got to the section in question.

"As for the makeshift chemistry set, investigators couldn't make heads or tails of it. Rubbing alcohol, oil paints, hydrochloric acid, nitric, and several other bizarre choices were gathered together by a table in front of the massive cauldron. Authorities have assured that no bomb or lethal poisons could have been made from the materials, and have assumed that it had no connection to the attack". But Robbins knew better, to the layman there was no connection, but to a historical scholar and fan of ancient texts and archeology, it was as clear as day what was going on.

In the Middle Ages, seals were created using a mixture of beeswax & resin, or for the more wealthy or socially elite, a soft metal seal, called a bulla. Usually, the metal chosen was lead, but again, for the most wealthy or socially elite, gold was the preferred material. And Merlin would certainly qualify as socially elite in the 5th century, meaning his Scrolls had to have been sealed with ancient gold.

To attempt to break that seal like it was a regular wax one would result in the destruction of the parchment the Scrolls were made of. Not to mention there could have been some additional tampering Merlin did to ensure his writings were not misused by unworthy readers. Perhaps an ancient poison or some incendiary concoction to guard against the more persistent thieves, Merlin was a clever old wizard after all. Or, at least the 5th century author of the Scrolls, who was rumored to be Merlin, was clever.

So one would really need to know their Middle Ages customs and history to know the proper way to unseal the Scrolls without incident. And it would most certainly entail a special chemical mixture to nullify whatever safeguards were in place and also keep the parchment in tact. Such a specific concoction would have to be researched extensively, then the raw materials provided and finally, once the scrolls are secured and the specific seal is verified, the mixing of the concoction would be next.

Someone intelligent, knowledgable of historical customs and details, with the resources to accomplish the task, and the gall to follow through on the attempt. Someone like the nefarious MacDuff-Beth. Meaning his little chemistry set that no one could make sense of, was secretly the strongest piece of connective tissue with the Scrolls of Merlin theft.

Robbins was practically shaking at the influx of revelations, the story just kept getting more and more enthralling the deeper he dug. And what's more, it seemed only he was aware of just how many details were lining up, no one else, including the journalists who wrote the articles, knew the true tale. Only he was privy to such incredible information; him and the main players in the conflict, of course. It was too much, he couldn't contain the story in his mind, couldn't reign in his wild imagination running a narrative in his head without permission, he couldn't sit there another second with all that he pieced together about to burst open his brain.

And just like that, a shock ran through his system. He recognized this sensation, he'd been here many times before. This exhilarating feeling he hadn't felt in years, the unfocused energy that found release through the rapid bouncing of his knee, the all encompassing need to reach for that trusty recorder he abandoned on the corner of the coffee table. It was the blessed muse, visiting him once more after she abandoned him all those years ago, singing her sultry tunes in his ear. Guiding his every action to embark on a new journey, one he'd always wanted to go on, but never had her sacred blessing. Until now.

"Ya know, Gilly?" he called out suddenly, perking up his furry companion. "All this fuss about the Scrolls of Merlin has got the old juices flowing" he set the newspaper down, trading it for that wonderful lifesaver that made his modest successes possible. The tape recorder nestled comfortably in his palm, like shaking the hand of an old friend after years of separation.

"There may be another book in me yet" he added, virile clear in his tone. He quickly gathered his speeding thoughts, scarcely knowing where to begin this new epic he was embarking on. A title would be good, he chided himself, focusing his scattering ideas on the simple task. It was always like this, he wanted to rush into the actual story before doing the mundane but vital groundwork first. He couldn't very well call his great new story "To Be Determined: A Jeffrey Robbins Epic", now could he? After a few seconds of ruminating, he latched onto a perfect title, as well as the beginning line or the preface, he wasn't sure yet.

With a gruff clearing of his throat, he parted his lips and pressed the worn record button. "The Sword and The Staff: A Book of Merlin. Frontier's piece" he couldn't help the giddy smile that affected his voice. It really had been far too long since he'd felt like this. He cleared his throat again, in an effort to stifle the overwhelming excitement for the journey he was embarking on.

"The written word is all that stands between memory and oblivion. Without books as our anchors, we are cast adrift, neither teaching, nor learning. They are windows on the past, mirrors on the present, and prisms reflecting all possible futures. Books are lighthouses erected in the dark sea of time..."

Robbins rapidly blinked after he finished and clicked the record button again to stop the tape. That... may have been the greatest opening to any book he'd ever written. And it just flowed so naturally off the top of his head, like he was reading from an author that inspired him instead. But much to his surprise, it was all his brain child, a result of his creative juices lying dormant for so long before being violently electrified back to life. He laughed a bit and rubbed his eyes underneath his glasses.

"Heckuva opening line, don't ya think, Gilly?" he asked with mirth. She simply whined a relaxed growl in response, causing him to chuckle some more.

"I think that should be the preface, no sense trying to fit the rest of the story to it" he reasoned before hitting the record button again to quickly record that fact. Now the question became which of the many ideas his brain was teeming with to place first?

Would this connect directly to Geoffrey of Monmouth's Historia Regum Britanniae, which features Ambrosius Aurelianus's history and an incubus father? Or would it be better to use the Welsh poems of Myrddin, a man driven mad after witnessing the slaughter of the Battle of Arfderydd until he was granted sacrament by the Saint Kentigern, as a base? Or dare he be so bold as to create a brand new origin for Merlin, one that borrowed story beats from the others, but with a Robbins twist to make it fresh and exciting?

The first hurdle had finally presented itself, a challenge that Robbins was definitely looking forward to tackling as he gathered the books necessary for his research. It was gonna be another long night of vigorous study and he wouldn't have it any other way.

But just as he finished pocketing his tape recorder and began pulling out his braille copy of The Winchester Malory: A Facsimile, Gilly perked up and hopped down to the glass doors, barking merrily all the way. Robbins heart skipped a beat, as he made his way to her. He hesitated to even ask who it was, he already knew it was Hudson. No one else approaches his study without invitation, evident by the slightly vexing newspaper girl earlier that day.

"Robbins, it's me, Hudson. I've returned" the familiar gravelly voice spoke up pleasantly.

Robbins mentally added, also no one else forced him to ask "who is it?" before telling him who they were, which was baffling. He'd have thought it made more sense to announce and identify yourself to a blind person instead of forcing them to go through the trouble and nerves of asking themselves. It was quite annoying, now that he thought about it.

The blind writer gladly opened the door, letting the cool of the night seep into the room. "Welcome back, soldier. Gilly missed you" he remarked coyly as said dog was scrambling around the friendly visitor energetically.

"Aye, and I missed her" Hudson laughed in a low, comfortable inflection. "Who's a good lass?" he cooed, petting and scratching her lovingly, eliciting a joyful high pitched growl from the old girl. Man, she really did miss him, Robbins noted as he turned back to the study.

"Well, make yourself at home, I'll get us some tea" he instructed as he headed down the hallway, then popped his head around quickly to add, "Ah, a different flavor than last time, of course".

"Thank ye, Robbins, but ye don't need to trouble yerself. Really" Hudson replied politely, following behind him with heavy footfalls.

"Really, it's no trouble at all" Robbins assured, using the walls to guide him to the kitchen. A gentle, yet firm grip got ahold of his bicep, the rumbling of a barrel chest quietly sounded off by his side. That familiar earthy leathery scent wafted around him as Hudson spoke up again.

"At least let me help ye this time" he chided lightly, his doting touch helping Robbins along as he let go of the wall, merely tracing his fingers along the surface.

"Somethin' tells me if I don't let ya, you're gonna be restless all night" he teased, ending in a warm chuckle.

"There might be a grain of truth to that" Hudson grumbled a bit, as they maneuvered around an end table.

"Besides, it's a good opportunity for you to see the rest of the house" Robbins motioned to the living room the hallway connected them to. A careful hesitation in Hudson's grip and breath caught his attention as the old Scotsman formulated his response.

"Oh, well... I think it'd be best to save a tour for another time, if'n ye don't mind" he said, that experienced trepidation of a soldier just as clear as his manners.

Robbins shrugged. "Fair enough. Another time, then" His fingers reached the turn in the wall, which revealed their destination to him. "Guess the kitchen'll have to do".

Hudson's grip loosened completely as Robbins glided over to the counter closest to the sink, where the tea kettle was waiting patiently. A light turn of the knob and the faucet began filling the kettle as Robbins gathered the rest of the ingredients he required.

"It's quite lovely" Hudson complimented, his voice trailing off as he made his way through the modest space. He was no doubt studying the decorations littered across the walls and cabinets, knickknacks from over the years; some inherited, some he picked out, but most gifts he'd received from thoughtful friends and endearing family. All of it arranged in a way that was at least pleasing to the touch, if not the eye.

"Thanks. I'll pass your regards on to my interior decorator, she'll be glad to hear that" Robbins replied while ripping the tea bags free from their packaging.

" 'Interior'... 'decorator'..?" Hudson asked, steeped in confusion. Guess the concept is a bit more modern than the old Scotsman is, he reasoned before answering.

"The kind young lady who fixed this place up to look like it does. I'm good friends with her parents and they decided to do me this favor some time after I got back from 'Nam" he explained as he placed the tea kettle on the stove top, flicking the burner to life.

"So you've... never actually seen yer home b'fore?" Hudson asked carefully, as he picked up a knickknack, most likely the porcelain duck with floral patterns the girl insisted pulled the whole shelf together. She said it "drew the eye in", so it would make sense for Hudson to inspect it.

"Not with these" Robbins placed a finger on his dark glasses. "But I've run my fingers along every inch I could reach and gotten a fair lay of the land" he finished while quirking an eyebrow. The tea kettle finally began to whine, bringing his attention back to the task at hand. He shut off the stove and brought the tea kettle to a cup with a tea bag already waiting inside.

Robbins offered the first cup to Hudson, who took it very carefully, almost nervously, before Robbins offered him the sugar bowl, spoon already supplied. Once again, there was a nervousness to the older man's actions, as he opted to let Robbins hold onto the bowl and just used the spoon hastily before gently pushing it back to signal he was finished.

Robbins couldn't help but furrow his brow at that, while slowly filling his cup, using the sound to let him know how full it was. An uncouth slurp came from Hudson's lips as he sucked down the tea, followed by a low hum, a pleasantly surprised sound. At least we're doing better than last time, Robbins noted as he applied his sugar, which incidentally was much less than Hudson's whopping 6 spoonfuls.

"It really is quite nice" his gravely voice emphasized, a sad lilt to the end of his sentence. Robbins sighed in annoyance at the all too familiar inflection and placed the tea cup on the counter with a loud clack, startling the Scotsman.

"Now don't you go and start feelin' bad for me, Hudson. I've already made my piece with this a long time ago" he warned, serious as a heart attack. "Besides, for a few choice actions, sight is overrated" he said smirking, lifting his teacup up.

Hudson let out a deep sigh as he leaned against the refrigerator. "Forgive me, Robbins. I've never met someone like you before. To be honest, I don't quite know how to act sometimes" the sound of dry calloused skin rubbing against each other, which let him know Hudson was rubbing the back of his neck, a nervous tic.

Robbins took another sip of his tea before continuing. "Just don't heap loads of sympathy on me or play pranks and we're good" he offered amicably.

Hudson smacked his lips. " 'Pranks'?"

"Ya know, practical jokes. Mess with me on account of, well, ya know" Robbins motioned to his glasses in a lazy gesture, the memories of more than one dumb kid messing with him before he moved to the island flashed across his mind. And even more dumb adults who got way too comfortable around him were guilty of the same thing. It was enough to drive him crazy.

"Ack, I'm too old to be playin' jokes. I'll leave that nonsense to the lads in my clan" Hudson waved off dismissively before taking a big gulp.

Robbins carefully waited before he responded to him, knowing this would lead them into the meat of the conversation. The purpose of Hudson's follow up visit. He promised to shed some light on the past few days and with the knowledge Robbins had already accumulated on his own, it was time for some definitive answers.

"Your clan. Is that what you call your... group?" he asked trying to sound nonchalant and failing.

"Aye. It's a special group" Hudson answered deftly as he finished off his tea. "Very secret"

"How secret we talkin' here?" the blind author asked, setting his tea aside.

"So secret that only 10 other people than you in the world knows we exist" the Scotsman responded while stroking his beard, as the ruffling sounds indicated. Robbins was taken aback at the comment, how could he not be, only 10 other people in the world knew the man standing before him? Surely, it had to be an exaggeration.

"Are... are you serious?" he asked incredulous.

"Of course" Hudson replied calmly. "I told ya, I'm too old to be playin' jokes"

Robbins struggled to gather his thoughts into a coherent sentence. What does this new information mean exactly? Why would Hudson's very existence be such a big secret, why would his team—or clan—or whatever, why would they be so secret? What did this mean for him, was he going to be brought in for a debriefing tp some secret headquarters? Is that why Hudson promised to return, because he knew he would have to bring him in? It was all too much, he felt like the room was spinning.

"So... so then..." he struggled, while putting a stabilizing hand on his head. "You're... you're... Scottish secret agents?" he strained out stupefied. It sounded absolutely ridiculous and laughably outrageous, but... he really didn't have a better guess. Hudson was silent for a few moments before he spoke up again.

"Aye, somethin' like that" he said, shifting his weight. Robbins knew it wasn't the whole truth, but it was the closest he was gonna get.

And it explained quite a lot. Hudson's secretive behavior and pension for remaining in the shadows, MacDuff-Beth was some kind of international criminal with serious resources, definitely not a task suitable for normal Interpol or CIA operatives, the Scrolls of Merlin being returned with little explanation, heck, Hudson's strength, agility and his admission that he was still a soldier. All of it fit neatly into the reveal, though there were still details missing, left over puzzle pieces that didn't match the empty spaces. Still, it was the best he was gonna get, Robbins reminded himself.

"Fascinating... That explains why you went after that McDuff fella, and it was you and your team—er, clan, you said?—your squad that caused that commotion at Fort Tryon" Robbins said, working his way through it all. "Though it seems like that McDuff character is nowhere to be found, he even kept his name outta the newspaper" he scrunched his nose up at the name.

"Or was his name MacBeth?" he asked, lifting his head up to Hudson.

"Aye, t'was MacBeth" he confirmed.

"That can't be his real name though, right?" Robbins scoffed derisively.

"It does sound a wee bit far fetched, but..." Hudson trailed off a bit, lost in thought before he continued. "Stranger things have happened..."

"I bet; you being a secret agent and all" Robbins added, figuring that trailing off had to do with some collection of wild moments during his tenure as a... Scottish secret agent. That still sounded so goofy to him.

Though it did bring a very pertinent question to the forefront of his mind, one of many. But it might have been the most critical question he would ask that night. If Hudson was a secret agent under the employ of an organization that was so secret only 11 people, including himself, knew of Hudson's existence... then doesn't that make him a very obvious loose end? And the immediate follow up question... just how does an organization like Hudson's tie up loose ends?

For the first time since he'd met Hudson, Robbins felt a nagging fear, gnawing at his spine, causing his throat to dry and his palms to sweat. But he was no coward, whatever was coming next he would face it head on. Whether that was being taken to a secret facility to be interrogated and subsequently threatened into silence or being placed under surveillance for the next couple of years then having his name on file to refer to when something suspicious happens concerning him... or even Hudson having to put him in some underground prison for the rest of his life.

Whatever came next, he was going to face it like a man. So with a resolute clasping of his hands together and a steadying breath, he let it out.

"So... what does all this mean... for me?" he asked, his true emotions barely hidden under his stoic visage.

For a moment, Hudson didn't say anything, he merely petted Gilly eliciting soft breathing from the lovely girl. He probably expected the question to inevitably pop up before he arrived, he was probably dreading the answer, though not as much as Robbins himself was. But as he knew already, Hudson was an honorable soldier, no doubt respected by his men and depended on by his superiors. There was no way around this, both men knew that. So with a heavy sigh, Hudson finally spoke up.

"Well, that's just it. I've... been thinkin' aboot what we ought to do" he said, coming closer to Robbins, who's heart was caught in his throat now. "And I think it'd be best..." Hudson continued, reaching out to Robbins, the blind writer knew the feeling of a hand hovering closer towards him. He'd felt it too many times to ignore the telling sensation, it made his hair stand on end. Was Hudson going to... tie up the loose end, right here? In his own home? After calmly sipping on tea? No, he wouldn't do that, he had no reason to... right?

Hudson's hand landed on Robbin's shoulder, halting his train of thought from derailing into pure panic and fight or flight mode.

"It'd be best if we kept my nightly visits a secret" he finished, a definite air of mischievousness in his voice.

"Visits"? Robbins immediately latched onto the word, it didn't sound like a past tense usage of it. Rather, it sounded more like... a future tense. Did... did Hudson want to make his visits a regular occurrence? The large calloused hand currently planted on his shoulder definitely seemed to support that idea, though Robbins was still reeling from the thought of Hudson doing something... unspeakable to him, without warning. Though, Robbins was never a slouch when it came to recovery, as he found himself retrieving his bearings and formulating a response.

"How do you know I haven't already told people about my strange Scottish visitor on a mission to get the Scrolls of Merlin back from a Shakespearean terrorist? You have to admit, it'd make one helluva story for the neighbors"

Hudson's hand still lingered after his challenging comment. He knew he was gambling again, but he just wasn't buying it. There had to be a shoe ready to drop.

"Well, we..." Hudson began, searching for the words. "Secret agents have a sense about people" he finished, his hand retracted smoothly as he positioned himself next to Robbins.

"I know what manner of man I'm dealin' with the moment I see 'im" Hudson picked up Robbins's teacup and drained the rest of it. "And you, Robbins... are a careful man. Ye wouldn't tell anybody aboot me, if ye didn't know I'd be okay with it. Especially after MacBeth's little visit" he surmised, the thickness of his accent made itself known once more.

He placed the cups in the sink and turned the faucet on, clearing out the remnants of sugar-based foam from the porcelain as he continued.

"No, ye'd wait for me to return before ye made any permanent moves. Sense somethin' aboot me that'd tell ye what course of action ye ought not take. That's what you'd do" he finished, drying his hands with a nearby towel while settling beside Robbins again, as if they were old friends.

Robbins crossed his arms, feeling just a little embarrassed at how quickly he was figured out. "And what makes you so sure, secret agent man?" a playful edge to his tone.

"Because you and I know somethin' that only comes with age" the Scotsman said confidently. "We know how to wait" the smile clear in his voice.

Robbins sighed deeply, a resigned smirk on his face. "Damn, you really are some kinda secret agent, aren't ya?"

"I wouldn't lie to ye, Robbins. You can trust me" Hudson chuckled in a deep voice. And he believed him, he really did.

Just like last night, that baffling faith swelling up inside his chest towards this honorable old soldier beaming at him. Hudson had that strange effect on him, it seemed, instilling trust and confidence in him with seemingly no effort. That unshakable feeling that Hudson was a good man, a trustworthy, gentle man, worthy of faith and loyalty.

He realized that even though seconds ago he had that horrible idea of the massive Scotsman "taking care of him" with his bare hands, he didn't prepare to fight him off like he would have if it were, say Lennox MacDuff. He didn't feel the need to because he knew, deep down. Hudson wouldn't hurt him, he seemed incapable of doing so. And now the old veteran just felt silly for thinking otherwise.

"Then, can you explain what happened? At Fort Tryon?" he asked, wishing to distance his embarrassment in leu of answers to the many questions he still had. "I don't need every detail. But... if you can shed some light on just a little of what happened... I'll be satisfied"

Hudson poured more hot water from the tea kettle into their cups, plopping new tea bags into each one before slipping his arm between Robbins's and leading him back to the hallway.

"Aye, I could do that" he answered warmly, as they made their way into the study once more.

Robbins took note of just how massive Hudson's arm was, the muscles taut and built up over decades of routine battles, no doubt. It had to be the strongest arm he'd ever come across, and that included the absolute monoliths of men he met in the army. Former amateur wrestlers, some professional boxers, even one or two bodybuilders that felt their patriotic pride stirred and joined the cause.

Then there were a few friends of friends and miscellaneous members of his extended family that were particularly welcoming and embraced him in vice-like grips. Men who broke concrete and molded steel everyday, ditch diggers and furniture movers. Even younger men that had the privilege and opportunity to bulk up their bodies at gyms on a regular basis.

None of them compared to Hudson's powerful arm gently holstered in his own like a sling. Once again, he knew the man was massive and his hands were quite large and powerful. He even correctly surmised that his mass was mostly muscle and that unexpected swiftness he displayed the first night they met was indicative of impressive leg muscles if nothing else.

But he couldn't have expected what was currently leading him to his old study chair, it was startling to say the least. But Hudson was gentle, careful in his touch, almost to an insane degree, showing great control of his strength. He expected nothing less of an experienced soldier, strong enough to defeat the mighty MacDuff-Beth; still it was something to put on file.

The powerhouse in question nudged Robbins's knee with his teacup, letting him know exactly where it was and clacking the sugar bowl next to it, making it easy for Robbins to apply sugar to the drink and begin consuming it. Quite thoughtful, he remarked to himself with a small quirk of an eyebrow.

Hudson placed his cup on the table before he patted his lap, signaling Gilly to hop up if she wanted, and within seconds he heard her land gruffly on her guest's lap. Hudson merely chuckled his comforting laugh as he petted her absentmindedly. The stage was set, everyone was in their positions, the night was quite young; it was story time and Robbins was ready to hang onto every word.

"Ye've heard of the Scrolls of Merlin already, haven't ye? They were found some time ago, in Wales and they were being transported to a museum here in New York. The, uh, rumors said that they'd be full of magic spells and sorcery, something that entices the wrong creed..."

"MacDuff-Beth" Robbins added, bitting off the name with contempt.

"Aye, that creed. Knowing it would draw the attention of someone like that, my clan and I went in secret to the ship, just in case the escorts were not enough to protect the Scrolls. Fortunately, we were right to be paranoid, as ye already know. These two flyin' machines came swoopin' in like shadows in the night and made short work of the escorts. What did the lad call 'em? Carrier jets?"

"Yeah, that's right. Military grade stuff, they don't come cheap" Robbins helped again.

"Aye, that's a fact. Which narrowed the list of suspects down, though not by much. The thieves came out blastin' everythin' in sight, like a buncha hooligans, then they snatched the canisters the Scrolls were sealed in and made a break for it. I didn't let 'em get away so easily..." Hudson's mischievous grin seeped into his last sentence, before he continued his tale with vigor.

"I tussled with one of the mongrels just as he was takin' flight again. He tried flingin' me off the metal bird, but I wasn't gonna let 'im lose me. Not when I was so close to takin' back the Scrolls, and take 'em back I did. Or at least that boy's half of the Scrolls, my clan went after the other half in the other machine. But as soon as I grabbed hold of the canister, the blasted hoodlum hit a switch and shocked me with some kind of sorcery. I lost my grip and fell into the drink, but I didn't lose the Scrolls, thank heavens" he said with a sigh of relief at the end.

Robbins threw up his hands and nearly choked on his tea at the retelling. "You were knocked off of a carrier jet... in mid-flight, during a storm at sea..." his mouth hung open stupefied as his brain buffered. "And survived?" he blurted out louder than intended.

Hudson's corse hands went to rubbing again as he struggled to answer. "Well, uh... I was just lucky he didn't get that high up, I suppose. And the storm was over, right enough, so I was very lucky indeed. And then when I woke up, I met you which was..." the Scotsman trailed off, Robbins felt his eyes linger on him for a moment before the sensation died down.

"Well, I'd say the fates really smiled on me that night" he finished shyly, taking up his teacup for a sip, but halting to add a bitter footnote. "For once, that is..."

Robbins couldn't help but snort a quick laugh before focusing back on topic. "Alright, so you're a very lucky man. We met, talked for a while, then when dawn broke you disappeared. Was that—?"

Hudson interjected frantically, "Aye, I needed to... to, uh..." he nervously tried to piece together an excuse, but Robbins wasn't sure why. He already told him he was a secret agent, what more needed to be kept secret beyond that? So as was becoming habit of them, Robbins offered him a lifeline to keep the ball rolling.

"To check in with your team?—er, your clan, rather?" he swiftly corrected. "On a secret radio channel?"

Hudson slapped his palm to his forehead again, a light thwack peaking just above the crackling fireplace. "That's it. Ye figured me out, eh?" he smiled, no doubt grateful he didn't have to come up with that on his own.

Robbins simply smiled back as he nestled back into his chair. "I've had time to work it all out. But after you checked in, you disappeared for the rest of the day. So what happened there?"

"Ah, that..." Hudson said, a hitch in his deep voice as he stroked Gilly's fur. "I was gatherin' my strength back. To prepare to battle MacBeth, though at the time I didn't know it was MacBeth who was the thief. I assumed it was another schemin' man with dark ambitions. But ye got me sorted, right enough when I returned, which I'm still grateful for" he said genuinely, causing Robbins to blink rapidly in surprise.

"It was nothing, Hudson. Anything to help a fellow soldier out" he assured. Hudson exhaled through his nose, that same stifled chuckle that always followed a softened expression.

The Scotsman picked the story back up, "When I left here last night, I met back up with my clan at MacBeth's Castle—er, Fort Tryon, that is. We made our way into the fortress and battled his hired help, while he held one of the lads of my clan hostage. He and I went missing at the same time, only he managed to hold onto his flyin' machine"

Robbins gulped down the lump that was forming in his throat. "He's... okay now, though. Right?" he asked hopeful. MacBeth was no pushover if his flunkies could send Hudson floating in the ocean, he could only imagine how a younger man at MacBeth's direct "mercy" would fare.

Hudson grunted affirmatively as he slurped down the rest of his tea, then he answered. "Oh aye, right as rain, he is. After we handled MacBeth's hoodlums, we went for 'im directly, as he was readin' the Scrolls. Goliath, our clan leader, he managed to get the Scrolls back from 'im and sought to trade 'em for the lad's life. But MacBeth claimed the Scrolls didn't hold magic spells, just a diary of Merlin's life. Which meant they were of no use to—"

"Hold on, hold on, hold on..." Robbins interjected, waving his hands. "You mean to tell me, the Scrolls of Merlin... are actually detailed memoirs of his life? Written by Merlin himself?"

"Aye, that's what Goliath said"

"So you're saying... Merlin... was a real person?"

"I suppose I am. It certainly seemed to convince MacBeth and Goliath well enough and those two are quite learned when it comes to history"

"A real diary of Merlin's life..." Robbins couldn't help but marvel at that revelation. The newspapers failed to mention that groundbreaking detail. "My God, that's... that's unprecedented" he breathed out, a steadying hand propped up his head.

It truly was unprecedented. The initial findings on the Scrolls of Merlin were all in support of the idea that Merlin himself, or at least someone claiming to be Merlin who was alive during the 5th century, wrote the Scrolls on authentic Middle Ages parchment with era appropriate ink and sealing.

And the archeologists that discovered it claimed that a mysterious wind came out of the chest housing the scrolls as soon as it was opened, and with that wind a mirage that they swore bore a striking resemblance to a bearded man's face. At first Robbins just thought they were embellishing the discovery of the Scrolls, what better way than to propagate a mystical event surrounding them?

But now, he couldn't help but give credence to the tale, to the writing on the Scrolls. It was insane and too good to be true, but... Merlin the Wizard very well could have been real and now his memoirs were ready to be put on display in a museum not 2 hours away from where he lived. Him, an avid fan of all things mythological and a writer about to embark on his next great work all about Merlin himself. How incredibly extraordinary was this development? He couldn't begin to figure it all out.

"How could anyone not see the incredible value in the Scrolls?" he asked breathless.

Hudson snickered a bit. "Ye sound just like the lad, Broadway. He begged Goliath not to burn the Scrolls, because they were precious magic. He was really concerned about preservin' the Scrolls, and I agreed with 'im. Together, we managed to convince Goliath to not burn the Scrolls, which allowed us to return 'em to the rightful owners" Hudson finished, placing his cup on the coffee table with a light clack, Gilly shuffling in his lap as he did.

"And MacBeth just... let us go. Without a fight. The Scrolls, Broadway, all of us. He just let us all go and... disappeared. I'm still tryin' to wrap my head 'round that one. But when it comes to MacBeth, the questions are never answered in full" he mused aloud, a heavy weight burdening him, it seemed.

Perhaps he realized just how ironic that statement was coming from him, the secret agent who's apparently only known by 11 people in the world, including Robbins. Or maybe he felt responsible for MacBeth running free somewhere else. Perhaps he felt he could have put a stop to MacBeth but didn't for whatever reason. Maybe it was a combination of the two or neither one, the point was the tale of MacBeth wasn't over, but this particular chapter was. Robbins rubbed his temples, his eyes shot wide open at the sheer quantity of details he hadn't gotten from anywhere else.

"Incredible..." he breathed lightly. "Simply incredible..." he said staring off into space. What a story that turned out to be.

"Well, it weren't nothin'. We gave the Scrolls to our ally, a de-tec-tive, and she got 'em where they were supposed to go. And now, they're safe in a museum" Hudson wrapped up, focusing his attention back on the lazy fur ball nestled in his lap. Robbins was grateful for the breather, he needed it like he'd just come up for air after a 10 minute dive in the ocean. Slowly, he sorted through the information Hudson had graciously bestowed to him and finally reached one of many conclusions to come.

"So you and your, uh, clan, singlehandedly got back the Scrolls of Merlin from that terrorist... and ya didn't take an ounce of credit for it?" he inquired, an impressed lilt to his words.

Hudson stayed quiet for a moment before answering definitively, "It's not our way".

Robbins could hardly believe it, though he pressed on. "Well, on behalf of all of New York, Merlin fans, and the world at large, thank you Agent Hudson" he sincerely praised, whilst standing to his feet and giving Hudson a deeply respectful salute.

The Scotsman fumbled a bit, then cleared his throat. "Oh... well... ye don't need to thank me..." his gravely voice bolstered as he continued. "I was just doin' my duty, protectin' the castle and such" Robbins filed that comment away for further study, seeing as his file cabinets were running dangerously low on queries.

And speaking of those queries, one of them remained suspiciously unanswered. "But that still doesn't explain how you disappeared just before MacBeth got here. And it doesn't explain how you reappeared without warning then disappeared without a trace all over again to confront him. Care to explain that one?" he requested full of hope.

"That's a secret I'll have to be keepin', Robbins" Hudson answered back, a cheeky cadence to his voice.

"The kind where if you told me, you'd have to kill me? Hahaha" Robbins pressed lightly, hoping to bank on some secret agent humor.

But strangely, the Scotsman fell completely silent, a tension entered in the atmosphere. The loud squeaking of the leather bound chair across from him and Gilly landing on the floor revealed that Hudson had risen to his feet as well. Heavy, yet careful footfalls closed the distance between them as those familiar giant hands laid on Robbins's shoulders, a gentle warmth present in the touch.

"I... I could never kill ye, Robbins..." Hudson whispered softly, the gravel in his voice softened immensely, which shocked Robbins to his core.

Did... did Hudson not realize he was joking? Because he thought it was fairly obvious he was, on account of the laugh. But that earnest inflection, that soft, delicate touch to comfort him, the desperation coming off his whole demeanor... he actually thought Robbins was being serious. The poor guy, Robbins thought as he reflected the gesture back at Hudson, his hands resting on a metallic material. How unexpected, a pauldron or shoulder protector of some kind attached to his leather jacket, probably forgot to take it off before he got there, he reasoned.

"I was just kiddin', but good to know" Robbins assured trying to regain the light mood. "I won't press anymore. Just promise me you'll knock first before you come in. Otherwise, I won't be able to sleep or shower in peace ever again, hahaha"

"Ye have my word. I'll always knock" Hudson replied, his earlier tension completely gone, thankfully.

"Good" Robbins said letting him go, which gave Hudson the chance to do so as well before it got awkward.

A subtle thump against the rug beneath them and a slight breeze carrying Hudson's scent told Robbins his guest had just turned to the glass doors of his study. "Ack, it's gettin' to be late. I best be off soon" he said, his reluctance barely concealed as he walked towards the doors.

"Well, I don't wanna hold you, so I'll just ask one last thing" Robbins sighed, his diffidence barely hidden away as well, it seemed.

Hudson shifted in place. "Ask away" he said curiously.

Robbins began walking to the glass doors as he ventured on. "I know I offered before, but I realize that might have been presumptuous of me. And now that I know what you do for a living, it might not matter much at this point" he realized aloud, before shaking his head a bit. "But... I still wanted to ask... officially".

Robbins lifted his hands and placed them on his chest before continuing. "Would you like me to teach you how to read?" he sheepishly offered, fully prepared to be turned down. "Or would you rather find a teacher whose eyes still work?"

After all, it would only make sense for Hudson to use some of his vast, vast resources as a secret agent to find the best tutor suitable for him. And it would make sense if someone who still had all their faculties was chosen to teach him this vital skill, they'd be able to follow along with him and he them quite easily.

Now that he thought about it, he was incredibly shortsighted in suggesting he'd teach Hudson to read, he simply imposed on the man because the thought of someone not learning to read at their age was a reality he wouldn't let stand. So as much as he'd love to help Hudson out on that front, he realized he was far from the best or only option for him. It'd be fine if Hudson declined—

"Fancy that. I was just fixin' to ask you that very question before I left" the Scotsman declared, ripping the blind writer out of his thoughts once again. "Robbins, I would be honored if ye would teach me to read. There's no man better for the job" he said so impossibly earnest, it actually stunned Robbins for a minute.

Finally, after he found his voice again, "Well, I consider it an honor to be chosen as your teacher" he said warmly as he extend his hand to Hudson, to seal the deal.

But curiously, Hudson didn't take his hand. Despite the secret agent holding his arm to and from the kitchen, clasping his shoulders multiple times, and even taking his tea earlier. Though, now that he allowed himself to circle back to it, in the kitchen with the sugar bowl, he didn't take it from Robbins, he carefully used it without needing to. And his tea, once again, he took it very deliberately, making it impossible for their hands to interact.

Then when they returned to the study, he purposefully took Robbins's cup and placed it down on the table, using the porcelain to nudge the blind writer indirectly. All of it was carefully planned and meticulously carried out, all for the supposed purpose of... keeping their hands from touching.

Further adding to the strangeness, Robbins already knew roughly what Hudson's hands were like, at least one was missing a finger as a casualty of combat. His fingers were thicker and bigger than average, which matched Hudson's entire physique. They were corse and dry, but warm and gentle when he needed them to be. Hudson even grabbed onto his shoulder to lean on their first time meeting, so he had to know that Robbins knew what his hands were like already.

And most importantly, Robbins thought they had reached the point where that kind of thing didn't matter. They had become fast friends, much faster than either thought was possible at their age, he wagered. Hudson was this infinitely intriguing person, every passing moment he was learning more and more about him, yet he continued to come away with even more questions he was eager to find answers to.

He was a proud, honorable soldier, with a wealth of experience and confidence, hiding a childlike innocence and endearing old fashioned reservations. He was a dog person, a kind, gentle, warm man that didn't back down when his faults were laid bare. He was Hudson, his peculiar friend.

And Hudson was aware Robbins knew all of this about him, he could feel Hudson's desperation earlier to make him understand that he would never harm him, he had to be feeling what Robbins was feeling toward him. A few strange details on his appendages weren't enough to upset their newly secured applecart. So then... why would Hudson not take his hand? A very strange question, one he knew he'd have to hold onto for a while.

Awkwardly, he recoiled his hand and moved it to his neck, to help downplay the uncomfortableness. "Uh, come on by whenever you get a chance and we'll do a little here and there. It won't take long once you really start practicing" he encouraged, as Hudson opened the glass doors leading to the terrace.

Hudson turned back to Robbins. "Are ye sure I won't disturb ya? I know it's quite late whenever I come 'round, I wouldn't want to intrude—"

"Nonsense!" he practically shouted, interrupting Hudson. "I'll have you know I'm a proud insomniac, sleepin' when the sun's down is nigh impossible for me. And Gilly's already accustomed to your nightly visits, you wouldn't want to go and disappoint ol' Gilly, would ya?" he jokingly asked, kneeling down to tussle the old girl's fur and wrinkle her features in a faux sad frown.

A light hum escaped Hudson's throat, mirth clear in his tone. "Perish the thought..."

"You're welcome here anytime, Hudson. I mean it" Robbins replied, resting his hand on Gilly's head, who had to be grinning like crazy based on her breathing.

A quick breeze wafted that old leather smell his way as Hudson took another step onto the terrace. "Thank ye, Robbins. Fer... well, everythin' " he caught himself, knowing he'd said it before. "I'll come back soon, fer the lessons" he promised, his excitement clear in spite of the gravel in his throat.

Another quick motion of his leather jacket flapping taut in the wind, seemingly flung skyward, and then nothing, just like before. Gone, without a trace. How very peculiar, one of these days he was gonna figure out how he did that trick. Or at the very least, he'd tell him to stop doing it without warning, that disappearing act was starting to freak him out a bit.

Robbins snorted a low chuckle as he ruffled Gilly's soft fur, the dog licked his cheek in response, the cool night breeze wafting over the two of them as they set out on their nightly walk on the beach. He fished his trusty tape recorder from his pocket as he walked from his terrace to the peaceful sandy shore.

"Hear that, Gilly?" he asked in wonder, as the waves crashed in the distance. "We're gonna have a secret agent as a regular houseguest from now on"


Author's Note: I had to do quite a bit of research for this chapter, including the availability of braille newspapers in the 90s, who was in charge of that service, etc. Though admittedly, I added the comical idea of a delivery person that can double as a live newspaper reader, something that would particularly vex my soul if I were blind XD

Next up was, of course, all the Merlin information, down to the most accurate editions and manuscripts of some of his stories, as well as the liberties taken by those ancient authors all those centuries ago. And even the country of origin for these legends, the real life history that played a part in the creation of the myth, the oldest and alternatively most famous renditions of his mythos, etc.

Then, surprisingly I had to do a bunch of research on ancient seals used on historical documents, how to safely remove them, who used them and what for, all that jazz. I wound up adding the "booby trapped seal" bit, figured it'd be something that a wizard would do, or even an individual posing as a wizard would do. The inscription on the chest did say that "the seeker of knowledge need fear nothing here, the destroyer everything". So that does hint at some kind of booby trap or safeguards in place to keep ignorant people who'd just try and force the Scrolls open from gaining access to the information. A lot of research was done to get those details as accurate as I could, so I hope you all appreciated it. If not, well, that's okay, I mostly did it for me anyways XDDD

Incidentally, this is the last chapter that takes place during the Lighthouse in the Sea of Time episode. Hurray, we made it past Robbins's debut episode... and it only took about 56 pages to get here... welp, you should have already figured out by now that we're in for a long ordeal XD Hopefully that's your jam, because it's certainly mine and I can't wait to see where else I can take this fic. I've really fallen in love with Robbins and Hudson's characters, as well as the Gargoyles universe while writing this story and I will continue to do them all justice as best I can. So see you all for the next one, whenever that will be ;)