Author's Note: Man, this chapter was hard to put together, but I think I landed on something interesting and that helps all the set-ups already in place, as well as laying out a few more to look forward to in future chapters. We're fleshing out Robbins' history a bit more as well as introducing another important character that is tied to him. What lies in store for this chapter? Start reading and find out ;)
This chapter takes place the day following Chapter 6. This is the day before the events of "The Mirror".
"13... 14... 15..." was Robbins' steady chant, his muscles tensed as he forced himself up on the pull-up bar securely fashioned above his bedroom doorframe. Sweat dripped from his brow, cheeks filled with air slowly released in a long steady exhale between numbers, as his chin tapped the top of the doorframe.
"16... 17... 18..." he continued as he shook with effort to reach his desired rep, a goal that seemed so far away now that he was exerting himself so much. Normally, he had a much more relaxed exercise regiment, one focused more on shaving off excess pounds and getting his heart rate up to a healthy pace. This usually entailed a walk along the beach, a few curls with his 30 pound dumbbells, a couple push-ups, and he was finished within an hour and a half. But today, he woke up with a vigor he hadn't had since he was in his 20s, back when he was still in the army.
"21... 22..."
Back then when he still had all his faculties, he reveled in pushing his body to its limits and he was in a location that strongly encouraged that behavior, which enable him to indulge in working out with a fiery intensity. He was never the bulging, rippling muscle guy, his body type was more lean than bulky, but that didn't stop him from developing as much strength and power as he could. And despite many of his fellow soldiers easily outweighing and outclassing him in the physical fitness arena, he was never considered a slouch. Even when he was promoted to Sergeant, he still maintained the rigorous routine, which made him one of the most athletic sergeants in his unit. Something he still looked back at with a twinge of pride.
"25... 26..."
Then, of course, after the shrapnel blinded him and he was dropped from active duty, he in turn dropped the regiments and routines that went with the army life. A bit too completely, he chastised himself as he grunted to summon the strength to pull himself up again. It was no surprise to anyone that while recovering and learning to adjust to life as a blind man, Robbins fell into a depression of a sort. All the things he used to find solace in and derive enjoyment from fell by the wayside as crushing reality set in. The only thing he held onto was his love of storytelling and reading and his dream of becoming a writer someday. And with literally nothing else he believed he could do, he pursued writing and the rest is history.
"28... 29..."
That became his entire world for several years, learning how to read and write in braille and completing a novel. There wasn't much time to focus on his body anymore, only his mind. So after spending a decade reestablishing his entire life and actually managing to publish a few works, that his doctors gave him the news. He was overweight and falling into the unhealthy habits that he'd managed to avoid in his youth, if he didn't make a serious attempt to change the way he did things, he'd wind up relying on 12 different medications and needing dialysis treatments. He realized they were more than likely being hyperbolic and dramatic to scary him into correcting his diet and exercise, but to their credit, it worked.
"30..."
Thus he jumped back into exercising, though without the vigor and force that he had. Robbins thought the spark would return in full force, that he'd have to be told to slow down by his doctors, that in 2 months time he'd be back to his old physique and the looming threat of overweight ailments would be a distant memory. But much to his surprise, the enjoyment of it all was gone. The need to push his limits, the desire to prove himself, the aggression required to build strength, it wasn't there. It was an obligation now, a thing he had to do that interrupted all the activities he'd rather be doing. That spark of determination that made exercising a worthwhile endeavor was just... gone.
"31..."
So Robbins had fallen into a comfortable lull with it, resigned himself to his limitations. He was well over 50—going on 60—he wasn't supposed to be an amateur bodybuilder anymore. He wasn't supposed to be in the nomination for the next WWF heavyweight star. He wasn't 28 anymore, and accepting that meant he needed to accept the fact that his youthful vigor and athletic energy was gone. Thus, he got used to walks on the beach, 30 pound dumbbells, and a couple push-ups being the best he can do.
And then he met Hudson, and that carefully accepted reality shattered like glass.
"32..."
Hudson, an unrealistically muscular specimen of a man, older than Robbins "by a considerable margin", having enough speed and strength to go toe-to-toe with an international terrorist equipped with advanced technology like MacBeth and beat him. Then the following night he walked around like nothing was wrong, like he hadn't even been touched during the encounter, like he hadn't even broken a sweat. It was incomprehensible. If it wasn't for the Scrolls of Merlin, MacBeth's threat, Scottish secret agents, and the enigmatic mystery that was Hudson's life, Robbins would have focused on it more. But with all of the sensational details thrown his way in the past few days, it's understandable that he's taken this long to really crystalize a coherent assessment of Hudson's shocking physical fitness.
"33..."
The man was a tank, there was no other way to put it. Despite the gut, the missing finger, and whatever awkward movements or habits Robbins could pick up on, Hudson was absolutely a force to be reckoned with. Perhaps that was part of the reason why he had such faith in him when he left to face MacBeth, unconsciously he knew Hudson was unbelievably powerful. And it wasn't from sitting around on the couch all day eating chips, the man had to work incredibly hard to keep up that physicality, he had to. Which meant he could. And if Hudson could, why then couldn't Robbins?
"34..."
The question was all that lingered in his mind when he woke up that day and finally, he felt it. After nearly 30 years of being uninspired, of resigning himself to never getting into that mentality again, or never regaining that essential piece of who he was in his youth, Robbins felt it. That spark of determination, that sense of vigor and aggression, that youthful vitality. It came rushing back after all this time, just like the muse. All thanks to the influence of that peculiar man he'd come to befriend. So there Robbins was, forcing himself to the limits he'd accepted long ago and straining himself as much as he could to break through them.
And with a guttural shout, one that startled poor Gil, he completed his set of pull-ups, "35!"
5 more reps than he'd normally do. It wouldn't seem like much to anyone else, but it was meaningful to him. It was a start, the beginning of regaining that part of himself after so many years thinking it was dead and gone. And it felt wonderful. The tightness in his muscles, the rush of breath heaving in and out, the pounding of his heart in his ears. It was refreshing, to say the least. Well, except for the persistent ringing that began as soon as he was about to grab his dumbbells.
"Perfect timing" he sighed as he rolled his eyes and headed toward the blaring phone down the hallway. With how amped up he felt, it seemed to take 2 second to cross the distance as opposed to the usual 10 or 15. Robbins shook his head at the exaggeration and plucked the phone off its mount before clearing his throat.
"Hello?" he huffed out, the exhaustion of the workout making itself known.
"Robbie, ya old goat, it's been too long!" the smooth, all too familiar voice shouted back, causing Robbins to exhale a weary laugh.
For the person on the other end of the line was a frequent caller, especially since his stories dried up 6 years ago. A man who's invested interest in Robbins' creative career bordered on obsession, calling at random times every month to check in and try to "politely" force Robbins out of his slump. And as welcomed as that effort was to the frustrated writer inside him, plagued with mental blocks, it was unbearably annoying to every other part of him.
You can't force the juices, you have to let them come in their own time, with the proper inspiration. Sometimes it can come from nowhere at all, sometimes it visits in dreams, sometimes it's found in another random work. And sometimes a Scottish secret agent washes ashore carrying a myriad of mysteries and questions that disrupts your normal routine and ignites that creative spark that you thought was long dead. However it happens, you don't force it, the muse visits in her own time. So to have a crass and sleazy editor call him up every month asking why he hasn't started his 13th book yet, was aggravatingly counterproductive. Which was why Robbins was dreading the rest of this delightful conversation he'd tumbled into.
"Fabian, is it that time of the month already?" he asked, not bothering with pleasantries.
"Now, now, don't be like that, Robbie. We're still friends, ain't we?" Fabian asked, a far too amicable tone in his voice.
"It's not that I don't enjoy your calls, but well, hmm..." Robbins dryly replied, hoping it would keep him from ever making such a claim again.
"Robbie, ya cut me to the quick!" Fabian cried, faux offense made dramatically clear. "It's my duty—and honor—to check up on ya and see where you're at in your creative process. Maybe even help ya get the juices flowin', if need be" he said, clearly leading.
Robbins sighed as he wiped the residual sweat from his brow, "And I'd appreciate it that much more if you were just a little less blunt about it".
"C'mon, it's part 'o my charm!" Fabian chuckled before coughing directly into the microphone, Robbins could smell the cigar smoke seeping through the speakers.
"Charm's a mighty strong word for you" Robbins said, clearing his throat. "Foible's more like it" he smirked.
"Ooh, someone's sharp today. Must mean ya got somethin', right?" Fabian surmised, causing Robbins' eyes to snap wide open. "C'mon, admit it. Ya finally got outta your slump and started on your 13th masterpiece" the editor practically sang, a smug but excited tune.
Robbins fell silent, floored by Fabian's sudden uncovering of his newly inspired project. In all the years he'd known him, Robbins didn't remember Fabian being so incisive. In fact, the opposite could be argued based on their history. The guy seemed like a typical corporate suit, business sense replaced common sense and creativity was just another resource to pillage and package into a product to keep the profit flowing. That was how he carried himself anyway.
But achieving such a clear read on Robbins when he hadn't let slip any details on the Merlin book yet, was a clear indication that there was more going on with the cigar enthusiast on the other end of the line. Perhaps being an editor at a publishing house like The Beacon Publishing Group should have clued the blind writer in on how insightful a man like Fabian could be. For all his faults, Robbins couldn't deny Fabian was good at his job, in all the years they'd worked together, Fabian made everything smooth and easy for him. And they had managed to make a fair amount of money together with no complaints or issues from any of the many people involved. Still, to be read so quickly by someone he'd failed to hold in high regard... it was a humbling experience, to be sure.
"C'mon Robbie, don't keep me guessin', the suspense is killin' me over here!" Fabian shouted eagerly, yanking him back to the present.
Robbins cleared his throat awkwardly and began to explain, "Well... actually—"
"Actually?" Fabian interrupted, impatient & ecstatic.
"As of late, I've been, uh... researching for a new story"
"Uh-huh, uh-huh!" Robbins could hear him nodding.
The blind writer leaned against the wall as he continued, "Yeah, it's only been a few days since I even began planning. So I don't really have much in the way of a timeframe for ya" he half-mumbled.
"Details, details, what's it about?!" the editor begged enthusiastically. "European folklore, Norse, Indian, African, what?!"
"Uh, European folklore" Robbins quickly answered, "And well, for now I'm thinkin' it'll be another biography of sorts. On Merlin" he dropped innocently.
Fabian slammed his hand on his desk, startling Robbins. "Merlin! Brilliant! With all the press about them Scrolls of his, this'll be a hit just on premise alone! Oh Robbie, that's good! That is good, hahahaha!" he cackled enthusiastically causing Robbins to chuckle along.
"Yeah, thanks Fabian. But like I said, I just started the first steps of makin' it, I'm not even writin' anything just yet, ya know" he warned, trying to reign in the rigorous enthusiasm of the unabashed editor. As if anyone could.
"Right right, I hear ya—But still Robbie!" Fabian shot back, brushing Robbins warning aside. "This couldn't have timed out better! With everybody goin' ga-ga over the Scrolls of Merlin and all that crap, a book about the guy from the same guy who wrote Gilgamesh the King and Grendel will dazzle the masses! They won't know what to do with themselves—eh, except buy the damn thing, obviously" he quickly clarified.
"Well, I guess that could happen, sure" Robbins shrugged, not wanting to commit to such an expectation.
"Oh trust me Robbie, it's gonna be a slam dunk hit! It could even outshine Titania's Oberon! Maybe even The Greene Waters! It'll definitely do better than Robbin Goodfellow!"
"Uh, I don't know about all that, those are some of my bestsellers. I wouldn't get your hopes up too high" he cautioned once again, hoping Fabian would get the message this time.
"Nonsense! All o' your stuff sells, Robbie! Sure, some do better than others, but ya always done well enough for book tours. Not everybody can say that"
"Well yeah, but—"
"But nothin'! You'll do great!" he assured before switching gears, "Now, when can I expect a first draft, huh?" The dreaded question that hung over the conversation like an obnoxious chandelier. Refusing to be ignored and demanding an answer, regardless of how uncomfortable it would be.
Robbins sighed deeply as he passed the phone to his other hand, then rubbed soothing circles on his temple as his thoughts gathered. Another moment of suspense, he remarked inwardly before smacking his lips open to speak. How to delicately explain the sensitive and unpredictable nature of the creative process to someone who has no personal experience with such a process?
"As I said, I just started workin' on the research a few days ago. I'm waitin' on the Scrolls of Merlin to be fully translated before I even start writin' this thing, considerin' they're the inspiration for the story. So it'll be a while" Robbins could only appeal to the logical, quantifiable aspects of the situation and hope that would be enough.
"What's 'a while'? A month? 2?" was his immediate reply. He fought the urge to smack his forehead.
Robbins huffed barely hiding his frustration, "It means a while, Fabian. The Met said it'd be several months before their findings would be ready to be shared" he regained his composure before continuing, "C'mon now, ya know I'm gonna do the best I can, but ya gotta gimme room to breathe. I haven't even asked for an advance or anything, so just relax"
"Okay okay, easy. I can take a hint" Fabian replied before falling silent for a beat. "Tell ya what: how's about I get ya first peek at them Scrolls?" he offered thoughtfully.
Robbins went rigid as board. "What?" was all he could manage.
"You heard me" Fabian said, self-assured grin clear in his tone.
Robbins struggled to formulate a sentence, still shocked at the unexpected offer. "But... but the Met is months away from—"
"Psh, that's for the masses" he waved off before clarifying, "I'm talkin' the premier of the Scrolls findings—or whatever—to a select group of professionals" he muttered confused, before regaining his composure, "Very hush-hush, very exclusive, and much earlier than the regular schmucks'll see 'em"
For a moment that seemed like an eternity, Robbins just stood there with his mouth agape in disbelief. Finally, the words just tumbled out of his incredulous mind, "You're joking, right?"
"Nah nah, I'm serious as a heart attack, Robbie! I got a guy from Simon & Schuster who owes me one, he can pull'a few strings and let ya be part o' the first group o' guys" Fabian explained smoothly.
"You'll be rubbin' elbows with archeologists, historians, anthropologists, professors of mythology and folklore" he lowered his voice"—ya know, nerds n' shit—but you can always pretend to be one of 'em. Ya got the credentials to be a mythology professor anyways" the editor casually assumed as Robbins gathered his thoughts once more.
"You... can get me a first look at the Scrolls?" he stammered for a second, then let it out, "You?"
"I mean, ya won't be gettin' a first look, literally" Fabian attempted to clarify, "Considerin' yer, uh—impairment and all—"
"Fabian, I swear to God, if you're playin' games right now—" Robbins interjected with malice.
"I swear, I can make it happen. IF..." the editor baited before he continued. "IF you can guarantee a speedy delivery on your 1st draft o' this thing. What're ya callin' it again?" he quickly inquired, probably embarrassed he hadn't asked yet.
After a beat, Robbins blinked and answered truthfully. "The Sword & The Staff: A Tale of Merlin"
"Mmm, catchy. I like it" Fabian added honestly, "Alright so, where's my money back guarantee?" he asked with a coy grin hanging on his every word.
Robbins gathered himself back to normal as he formulated his answer. "I... I'll do the best I can. I think I can safely promise a 1st draft of the first 5 chapters by the end of next month. Dependin' on what's in the Scrolls though, they'll be subject to change, but you'll at least be able to see what direction I intend to take the story"
Fabian hummed in thought, "Next month, huh?" he sighed, mentally chewing on the idea.
"Please Fabian, it's the best I can do. I won't ask for an advance, if that helps. We can talk price after you read the first 5 chapters" Robbins offered, trying not to sound desperate and failing.
If Fabian was telling the truth—which, now that Robbins thought about it, how would he benefit from lying about this?—then he had a very real chance to know what secrets the Scrolls of Merlin housed within them. And he would be among the very first to know, among an elite group of archeologists, anthropologists, professors of mythology and folklore, all people he'd learned so much from down through the years. They were the closest thing to idols for him, to be in the same meeting with them talking about his favorite subject in the world, it was more than a dream come true. It would be too good to be true, if Fabian wasn't the genie granting his wish. Which made Robbins all the more desperate to achieve it.
Fabian puffed on his expensive cigar a few seconds more before he finally replied, "... You're lucky you're my favorite fantasy writer, Robbie. October 27th. And I want you to personally come in and deliver those chapters on my desk, not a day later, ya hear me?" he commanded rather than asked.
"Okay?" Robbins answered unsure, as he blinked rapidly at the sudden demands.
"I mean it, my secretary's expectin' to see your ugly mug, don't you be disappointin' her, now" Fabian dramatically declared, causing Robbins' eyes to roll.
"Alright, alright, I'll come in personally. Satisfied?"
"For the first time in 6 years, Jeff" Fabian half-joked before catching himself. "Oh, and Robbie?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't embarrass me when ya get there. I can't go out on a limb like this just for you to cause a scene and get kicked outta the joint" he warned before stamping his cigar into the ashtray on his desk, the light tapping just under his voice clued Robbins in.
The blind writer scoffed, "Now Fabian, you know if nothin' else, I'm gonna keep my cool" Robbins assured smoothly, knowing full well he would geek out when he got there.
"Yeah, yeah, alright" Fabian chuckled a bit, "I'll call back when we're all set for the Scrolls premiere thing, but don't answer! I'll leave it on your machine so ya won't forget or nothin'. Get crackin', superstar"
"Will do, boss. And Fabian... thank you for this, I really appreciate it"
"Don't mention it, Robbie" Fabian said warmly, before clearing his throat, "Seriously, don't mention it to anybody else, we need to keep this hush-hush. If anybody asks when ya get there, you're a professor of European mythology & folklore at some bigshot college, understand?"
"Oh! Uh, sure, I understand" Robbins blinked back in surprise again, but rolled with the punches. What did you expect, it's Fabian after all, he reminded himself.
"Okay good, I'm gettin' another call, Robbie! Talk soon, good luck!" Fabian rushed before abruptly ending the call. Leaving Robbins holding the phone, his thoughts spilling all over the place.
"Wow... I'm going to be one of the first people to hear the translation of Merlin's scrolls..." he said aloud, trying to convince himself that he wasn't dreaming more than anything else.
Of all the things he could have expected from a conversation with Fabian, this was far from conceivable. An exclusive audience with historian giants all about the Scrolls of Merlin and everything hidden in their pages that everyone in the world wanted to know. Serendipitously bestowed on little ol' Robbins, a lowly and unremarkable writer, by the most unlikely of people in his life. Fabian D. Clark. Sleazy, greedy, and uncouth editor extraordinaire Fabian D. Clark.
The same Fabian that refuses to call him anything but "Robbie" despite his many protests. The same Fabian that tried to lowball him on his first book and admitted it when Robbins confronted him about it years later, as if it was nothing to worry about. The same Fabian that once coughed, sneezed, burped and farted at the same time? That Fabian somehow had connections at The Metropolitan Museum of Art, which just so happened to be the one museum in all the world that got first dibs on the Scrolls of Merlin. That also just so happened to be brought back to that same museum by Hudson the Scottish spy after being stolen by an international terrorist.
And once again, Robbins just happened to be caught up in it just enough to know the full story, the only person outside of the "clan" of spies and elusive millionaire criminal to know the whole story. It was enough to make his head spin.
What had he done to warrant such an insane chain of events to bring him to the point where he was now slotted to be given everything he could have ever hoped for on his favorite mythological character to write a story? Had his luck been used up in the past few days and he'll go back to being joe-schmo when this was all done? He couldn't help but wonder as he struggled to get a grasp on this entire situation. One thing was certain, Hudson was the harbinger of all his good fortune. If he'd never met him, never offered him his home, if he never helped him find MacBeth, none of this would be happening. Robbins just might have remained sitting in his love-seat, lamenting the loss of his creativity, like he'd done for 6 agonizing years.
He supposed it was true what his father taught him all those years ago: Never turn away a stranger in need at your door, they could be an angel in disguise. And while Hudson may not have wings, more and more Robbins was starting to believe he was indeed an angel of some sort. He couldn't help it, with all this insanely good fortune following him since that night, the evidence seemed to be conclusive.
Rather than dwell on that possibility, the blind author knew he had no time to waste, so he shifted gears and rushed to the other end of the hallway to speed down the stairs back to his study. Now that he had a deadline to adhere to, he realized he'd been overthinking his approach to the story. All the possibilities had crippled him a bit, hampered his ability to really kick the thing off. But now, with the panicked rush of a looming deadline hanging over his head, he had the motivation he needed to filter out the surplus of possibilities and stick with a select, manageable few.
The irony of it made him laugh aloud as he pulled out his trusty braille typewriter, placing it next to a stack of paper on his desk. The fact that Fabian was desperately calling for 6 years trying to forcibly inspire him to write to no avail. And only after Robbins had found the inspiration to write again, through forcing a deadline on him, Fabian was able to finally give Robbins the motivation to write. Or perhaps it wasn't irony at all, just a really weird way it all worked out. Either way, Robbins had to admit one thing about his surprisingly competent editor:
"Fabian, I guess you're not all bad" he said happily as he tapped the character on the keyboard, a welcomed chime that he thought he'd never hear again. That cathartic sensation on his fingertips, the smell of the shifting paper as it gets embossed, the slight shuffle of the platen after imprinting a character. It sent a rush through his entire system, that spark igniting every nerve in his body all roaring to life at once. He was back.
Robbins' fingers were a blur as the keys rose and fell in tandem with his commands, their melody akin to a chorus of angels to his hungry ears. The words that were always beyond reach and felt hollow whenever he did managed to catch a couple, were exploding from his mind directly through his fingertips at lightning speed. Creating beautiful and profound connections that lined up as the beginning of something truly exquisite. His smile grew wider as the elusive creative juices once again flowed through him.
"God, I missed this..." he moaned under his breath as the typewriter rang its bell for the final time and he smoothly snatched the finished page out of the slot and placed it delicately to the side, then slipped a fresh page in and clasped it into place before rolling it to the top.
It may have seemed like a chore to anyone else, a Braille 'n Speak computer would be leagues better for those people, but for Robbins, it was the exact opposite. While he couldn't deny the ingenuity and slick features like the refreshable braille screens and the oral explanation of the specific mechanical details of a given page, there was no substitute for the manual typewriter. The processes he had to go through to produce the finished pages was therapeutic, working with each precise, tangible mechanism was part of the experience of writing. Without it, he wouldn't be able to get the words out quite right, there would always be a disconnect with his work. Plus those automated voices creeped him out a little, he'd much rather have the instruments of the typewriter sing to him.
With his old, trusted typewriter, he had time to let his mind wander just a little as he wrote. Problem solve and plan ahead for whatever could come his way while he typed away blissfully. Which his mind often had the tendency to do, he admitted. For just as he started running on instinct, sliding the cursor along its track until it tapped against the left border, then proceeded with the next line of embossing, his thoughts focused on the museum and what that experience would be like.
He'd be in the presence of the intellectually elite, surely he could eavesdrop on any single conversation and glean jewels of knowledge and insight he'd never be able to dig up on his own. How would he measure up to these titans of scholarly pursuits? Could he even hold a candle to the intellectual powerhouses he'd be mingling with? Or would he just blend into the background, trying his best not to freak out and cause a scene, the precise thing Fabian warned him not to do?
Should he be asking questions about the Scrolls or would they not allow that during the presentation? He'd have to bring a new tape for his tape recorder to get everything exact, hopefully they'd allow that. If not, what were his other options? Pray they hand out detailed pamphlets about everything and get someone to read them to him later? Robbins scoffed at the idea, of course they wouldn't do that for an exclusive premiere of highly intelligent and prolific individuals. He supposed the next best thing to a tape recorder would be to have someone take notes for him and transcribe them to braille so he can use them. Maybe a museum attendant or—
And suddenly he frozen in place, breath caught in his throat, before he shot out of his desk chair as realization dawned on him. In all the excitement of getting back to writing, getting a private audience with the Scrolls of Merlin findings and having the opportunity to rub shoulders with the people he respected most in the world, he forgot about one crucial detail. The person who would be presenting these findings on the Scrolls at The Met. It would have to be the discoverers of the Scrolls of Merlin, the people who did the hardwork of bringing them to the States and studying them. And the individual Robbins had already had an uncomfortable conversation with in the museum and dreaded meeting again.
None other than Professor Lydia Duane, the looney anthropologist that tried to convince him magic was real. Robbins groaned as he buried his head in his hands, the realization weighed him down like an anchor. He wouldn't be able to slip past her, he went and made a strong impression already. Had he but known that Fabian would pull this blessing out of his behind, he'd never have gone to The Met that day and talked to that crazy lady. Why'd he have to be so impatient about the Scrolls? He could have waited, like literally everyone else in the city, but no! Once he heard the name Merlin, all reason and logic went out the window. Robbins shook his downcast head shamefully, as he slumped back in his chair.
What am I gonna do? I can't sneak into this thing pretending I belong there if the damn star of the show recognizes me... he lamented with his hand rising to his chin, his knee bouncing energetically as he ran through his options. Maybe I could wear a disguise or something? No no no, that's stupid. Could I just go back to The Met and smooth the whole thing over before the premiere? No, no I got lucky last time. I got no guarantee she'll even be willing to see me again, especially after how our last conversation went... dang.
Robbins huffed in frustration as he leaned all the way back and faced the ceiling, arms plopped on the armrests of the chair. Guess I've got no choice. I'll have to keep my distance. It's the only way, he reasoned, a disappointed frown adorning his face. But I'd need someone to run interference for me, somebody I can trust that's got no interest in the Scrolls at all... and suddenly, a candidate surfaced to the front of his mind, causing him to shoot up to his feet again.
"The kid! Eddy's perfect, he'll be drivin' me there anyway!" he exclaimed happily as Gilly trotted to his side, her paws stamping delicately towards him. "Whew, crisis averted, 'ey Gill?" he said, kneeling down to pet her. Gilly simply licked his cheek and nuzzled his face, causing him to laugh grateful for the affection.
"Yeah, we're gonna be alright..." he beamed, hoping his young companion would be able to put those baseball skills of his to good use and guard him from any awkward encounters with the magic enthusiast.
But he couldn't help but dwell on the peculiar woman he hoped to avoid and the last things she said to him. Try as he might, he couldn't forget them. The questions she posed...
The question isn't "do you believe in magic", rather, the question is 'do you wish to believe in it?'... I think if you want to believe in magic, if you truly wish to experience it, to find it... one way or another, it'll find its way to you. It's only a matter of time...
Robbins hated to admit it, but it was quite an interesting take on the concept of magic. Like it picks and chooses the worthy, not just anybody was allowed to know about it. Only the extremely special and imaginative qualify, the ones who could see the connections between everyone and everything could be granted the knowledge to manipulate those connections and make the impossible possible. Just speak the word and nature, the fabric of the universe, pure energy was ready to move accordingly. It appealed to the imaginative boy inside of him, the very creativity, imagination, and sense of wonder that fueled his entire profession.
And he was willing to admit that recent events have made him question essentially everything he thought he knew, including the existence of Merlin and other mythological characters connected to him and the exploits written about them all. Some he touched upon himself in some of his modest successes, he realized with a bit of a start.
Robbins shook his head as he found himself doing more and more often, then got back to the beckoning typewriter. Every time he thought about Professor Duane, his imagination would run away with him and distract him from what's really important. If the eccentric anthropologist wanted to believe in magic, he'd let her, who cares what an oddball like her believes in? As long as she can accurately translate the Scrolls, she could believe there's mutants in the sewers for all he cared. And if Eddy could run interference for him at the event and keep her away from him, Robbins wouldn't even have to pretend to care.
Though, as he began typing again, he recognized how well her perspective on magic would sound in a fantasy narrative, ya know a setting where magic was actually real. It was very good material and he'd hate for it to go to waste... with a sheepish grin, Robbins began immortalizing the quirky professor's sentiments on the page. I'm sure she wouldn't mind if I borrowed a couple things from her. Hell, she might even appreciate it if she ever reads it, he reasoned nonchalantly as he capped off another perfect page—
~...~
"Huh?" Robbins' rhythm broke yet again as he struggled to reconcile the strange sound the typewriter just made. For just as the cursor reached the last space on the current page, the bell failed to sound off. And if that was it, perhaps he wouldn't be so perplexed, once in a blue moon it happens. But that wasn't the end of it. Instead of hearing the faithful and resolute bell chiming, he heard something quite impossible. It took Robbins a moment to place it, but he could have sworn it was a musical instrument. A delicate, stringed instrument that played a quick flourish of a tune where the bell should have been.
Robbins swiveled his head around the room as he focused his ears for the tiniest hint of an explanation for this sudden musical accompaniment to make itself known. Perhaps he left the TV on and it was part of a commercial or something. But he couldn't hear anything from the TV, in fact he could hear the distinct lack of electricity pulsing through the old thing, which meant he didn't leave it on. Nor did Gilly mistakenly sit or lay on the remote and accidentally turn it on.
Perhaps it was someone walking along the beach with their boombox blasting a song. But Robbins couldn't imagine the type of person who carried a boombox, playing a song with that instrument in it, as the point of a boombox was indeed the "boom". Besides, it didn't explain how he could hear only that instrument so close and clear all the way inside his study.
Finally, he reasoned he'd test his typewriter and see if it made the odd sound again. He carefully took the finished page out of the slot and inserted a new blank page, then he clacked randomly at the keys until it reached the end of the line and the signal would ring out. As normal or as that ephemeral flourish, he wouldn't have to wonder as soon as he reached the—
Ding! rang the bell, same as always. Which only caused Robbins more confusion as to what he just heard prior. Was it just his imagination? Was he going senile? Or was it really just a strange one-time occurrence for his decades old typewriter that he'd started using again after 6 years of sitting on the sidelines? Robbins quirked an eyebrow up and slid the cursor back to the left margin and tried it again, typing randomly just to get to the end of the line.
Ding! he heard again, identical to the last line's finish. After a beat, Robbins shrugged and pulled the test paper out of the typewriter, balling it up as he did. Must've been my imagination, he reasoned as he slid the garbage pail close with his foot and dropped the crumpled paper inside. A soft crunch against the other papers assured him he didn't miss before he slid it back to the side of the desk and resumed his writing cycle.
As the night wained on, and the pages piled up, Robbins faded into the sweet haze of creative flow, with nothing but the clacking of keys, the furling of paper, the shifting of levers, and the ringing of that familiar bell chattering in his home. With the curious melody slipping into his study that night completely forgotten.
Author's Note: Wonder what's up with that "curious melody"? Could it be important? Nah, must be my imagination...
Hey, how about that new character, Fabian? He's the reason I was able to actually write this chapter, I needed to get Robbins out of his head for a little bit and fit in the idea of him getting to go to a super secret exclusive reveal of the Scrolls of Merlin findings. What better way to do that than introduce his editor with connections, Fabian D. Clark? Yeah, his name isn't a reference to anything or anyone, I just liked the sound of it XD Though his publishing house is a real world reference to a New York based publishing house, The Beacon Publishing Group, an independent publishing house, located in Hudson Yards which is 35-40 minutes away from Washington Heights. I checked with Google Maps just to be sure of how much of a drag it would be for Robbins to have to ride all the way out there to deliver his manuscript to Fabian. And I wonder if something will happen on that very long trip into the city? Hmm, we'll just have to wait and see, won't we? F3
Now, as far as the book titles being dropped in this chapter, I did those on purpose, if you can believe it XD It'll be more apparent when we get to a certain arc in the show, but pay attention to the titles and subject matters of Robbins' other books. They all serve a purpose and we'll get to explore each one later in the fic so for now, just keep an eye out for book titles. For now I can tell you the obvious one, Titania's Oberon is of course about Titania and Oberon's relationship, as Robbins imagined it. Whether or not he was accurate only time will tell. And Robbin Goodfellow is not the full title of the book, but it is a reference to the infamous imp Puck, who we'll get very well acquainted with in the next few chapters. Robbin Goodfellow is one of his aliases and was almost chosen to be his name in the show, but the crew thought better of it and used Puck instead.
And yes, as the title of this chapter suggests, The Sword & The Staff: A Tale of Merlin is Robbins' 13th novel. Grendel is his first and the rest of his works fall into a random order for the most part. There is a reason Fabian listed a bunch of different mythologies and folklore to categorize Robbins' newest book. So again, pay attention to Robbins' books whenever they are brought up, I promise I'm doing something with them XD
Robbins' love for working out is also not for nothing, but I can't really get into the why and how of that just yet. All I can tell you is it'll be very good to keep this newly recovered passion for physical fitness moving forward.
And of course I couldn't help myself with a few cheeky references here and there. Robbins joking about mutants living in the sewers was my favorite, as I haven't been able to reference Talon and the Mutates yet. But him thinking Hudson is an angel that lacks wings was a fun joke too.
Anyway, that about does it for this chapter. Next time, we're back to specific episode events with the world renowned show stopper, "The Mirror". One of my favorite episodes and I can't wait to fill in some blanks that I've always wanted addressed! So until then, see ya later C:
