And you dare me to be beautiful.
Merlin
As the night was fading away, Merlin got the strange feeling something was about to happen.
While the sun rose higher, Merlin shook the feeling. He hadn’t been able to trust himself for years; this time couldn’t be any different.
He got up from the couch in his and Arthur’s old bedroom, where he had spent the night grieving. Things needed to get done. He had to get them done.
There were so many little tasks involved in keeping up a city. Merlin used his magic for most of them, but there were a few he enjoyed doing by hand, like tending to the plants. They were the only living thing besides him in this godforsaken city. He would stay up a thousand-and-one nights to drag them from Death's doors if he had to, but he would not use his magic to keep them alive. He needed to feel the plants, remember that although it often seemed that way, he was not the only living thing in the world. He was not alone.
After taking care of the plants, Merlin climbed the highest tower of the palace and overlooked Camelot. Plants were taking over, and he let them. They were Camelot’s new inhabitants, and he, Merlin, was their ruler.
He was still looking out over Camelot, dreaming the day away, when he saw something stirring in the East, where Enedwaith and Minhiriath lay. The sun was in the West already, making its way down.
When the figure, which had the shape of a person, came closer and closer, Merlin began to feel alarmed. It was common knowledge in Middle-Earth that Camelot had fallen, which wasn’t surprising, considering it had been centuries. So what, Merlin asked himself, was this stranger doing here, if not bringing ruin and danger?
Merlin stood there, pondering what to do, while the stranger came ever closer to the wooden gates, which were shut. He could see the stranger was armed from where he stood, and, despite everything, didn’t much feel like meeting his death today.
On the other hand, Merlin did not know what the stranger wanted, and he desperately wanted to find out.
Merlin would never be entirely sure what came over him in that moment, but perhaps his loneliness and the idea of company pushed him inevitably towards the gates, to open them, despite the possible danger. What was the worst that could happen? After all, he thought to himself, he was an ancient sorcerer who had lived through indescribable pain and suffering. This couldn’t be much worse.
Merlin struggled to get the gates open, until he remembered he could spell them open. "Aliese duru rýne," he spoke loudly. The gates creaked open, slowly. They hadn’t been opened in years; Merlin used the small door in the gates when he needed to leave Camelot, but felt this moment called for something more spectacular.
Merlin walked over the pull-up bridge towards the stranger, cautiously in case they carried any long-distance weapons on top of the sword he had seen earlier.
“Greetings, friend. Are you?” Merlin yelled at the stranger, when he had come within hearing distance. The stranger, who stood about a metre and a half of the ground and appeared to be a dwarf, bearing a long beard and dwarvish fashion, didn’t say anything, instead putting his hand up in a greeting. That seemed positive.
Merlin tried again: “Are you friend or foe?” This time, the stranger responded. He had a deep, booming voice that reminded Merlin a bit of the Ents he and Gaius had gone to see one time, when they were in need of some plants that are native to Fangorn. “I’m a humble wanderer, looking for a place to rest,” the stranger said.
Merlin stared at him for a moment, thinking. He had never been one to deny requests like this, people in need of food and sleep. However, something held him back from inviting the stranger in. Maybe it was the sword he carried, or the way he stood, proudly, as if he had every right to be here.
His hospitality won. Merlin led the stranger to the town square, which felt like a neutral spot, and asked for his name. “Thorin, son of Thrain,” was the answer.
Merlin didn’t know many families in Middle-Earth, not having left Camelot in centuries, but this name stirred something in his memory. “Thrain…” he muttered to himself, “Thrain… certainly you don’t mean Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain?” “The very one,” Thorin replied, his face breaking open into a smile at the sound of his grandfather's name and righteous title.
“What brings the Prince under the Mountain to my city?” Merlin asked, his interest piqued. “Actually, I’m King under the Mountain now. It grieves me to have to tell you both my father and grandfather have passed on from this world.” Thorin replied.
Merlin shouldn’t have been as shocked as he was. Of course he wasn’t the only one who had lost people, but he felt so alone, always, that it sometimes seemed he was. Yet here was a stranger, proving to him he wasn’t. There were others who knew pain, loss, grief.
“My sincere condolences,” he said to Thorin, looking him in the eye, trying to let him know he too knew what it felt like to lose those closest to you. “May I ask what happened?”
Thorin seemed almost surprised at the question, like he hadn’t thought there was anyone in Middle-Earth left who was unaware of what had happened. Merlin also noticed some bitterness at the remembrance of what happened. He soon found out why.
“Our home was stolen from us.” Thorin said darkly. “One hundred and fifty years ago, the dragon Smaug,” Thorin spat the name out as if even keeping it in his mouth would poison him, “came from the North, bringing nothing but ruin. No dawn was redder than after he took Erebor. So much blood spilled, so many dwarves trapped in what was once their home and ruthlessly killed.” They sat in silence for a bit. Merlin felt deeply for this lonely dwarf, who, like him, had lost so unbelievably much. But still, he was wary. After all, he had no good reason to trust Thorin completely.
“And what happened after that?” Merlin asked, curious about how this all led to Thorin sitting here, in Camelot.
“The few of us who escaped turned to the Elvenking for aid. He did not provide any.” Merlin hadn’t thought it possible for Thorin to become any more pent up with rage, but the mention of the Elvenking did it. Still, he went on, taking deep breaths so as to not lash out. “So we roamed Middle-Earth, taking jobs wherever we could. I, a respected member of the royal family, had to become a blacksmith to survive and provide for my people. We built a life in the Blue Mountains, where some of our kinfolk live, but deep inside, I always kept longing for the vast halls and treasure within Erebor. And now, after so long, we’ve finally set out to do what should have been done ages ago. We will take the Mountain back.”
Merlin thought the explanation plausible enough, but still didn’t know what brought Thorin here. Camelot was nowhere near Erebor, and also, where was the “we” Thorin spoke off?
Merlin suddenly feared an invasion, a trick. Anxiously, he asked Thorin: “Where’s the rest of your Company then?”
Thorin must’ve sensed Merlin's worry and was quick to answer. “We were only able to spare me,” he said, sounding kind of disappointed, “the rest had to stay behind in the Blue Mountains to organise life there.”
Merlin saw no lie in Thorin’s eyes. His words implied he needed something from Merlin, though. Merlin wished he’d get to the point, so he could continue living his life.
“What does a single dwarf require of me? And, more importantly, how did he become aware of my existence?” He asked Thorin, a bit snappy now.
“We were not sure you actually existed. Some old records in the archives of the Blue Mountains, which are as extensive as anything, spoke of Camelot, and connected the Blue Wizards to the city. Since no one knows where the other Wizards reside, I figured they were our best chance. I need advice.”
Merlin was glad Thorin did not inquire further about there only being one Blue Wizard.
He thought about Thorin’s statement. Advice. He could provide that.
“So you need advice on how to fulfil your quest?” Thorin nodded. Merlin thought for a moment. What would other Wizards advice? He hadn’t seen any other Wizards in centuries, but still, he was able to guess what they’d say. Don’t go.
But that wouldn’t do. Thorin was going, no matter what Merlin said or did.
Suddenly, he thought of something. Gandalf the Grey had once mentioned something about hobbits. Funny little creatures, no one really knew they existed, but if what Gandalf had said was true, excellent burglar material. Which was exactly what Thorin needed.
Merlin explained all this to Thorin, who listened attentively, though there was some doubt in his eyes. “Hobbits don’t like adventures at all. In fact, they despise them,” Merlin recalled. “But there is one family you could try. The Bagginses. They’ve always been a bit queer, not like other hobbits.”
Thorin seemed satisfied with this. “Well, that’s decided then. To the Shire we will go. We’re leaving at first light. Meet me at the gates.”
Merlin thought he must’ve misheard Thorin. “Meet you at the gates?”
“But of course!” Thorin exclaimed. “Having a Wizard with me would greatly help matters. And what do you have to stay for?” This could be interpreted as hurtful, but Merlin could see Thorin was simply stating what he saw. And he was right. There was nothing here for him.
Long after Thorin had left, when dusk had come and gone and night had fallen over Camelot, Merlin was still up, thinking. What was he to do? He had no reason not to go, and a bit of adventure might do him good. He used to love adventures, always getting in trouble. On the other hand, leaving Camelot would be the hardest thing he had done in a long time. Merlin didn’t get a wink of sleep that night.
The next morning, the sun had risen quite a bit, and Thorin had made up his mind to leave without the Wizard, when Merlin stepped through the gates, carrying a backpack and a staff. He didn’t need the staff for magic per se, but it made him feel somewhat secure.
Merlin locked the gates while Thorin thanked him for coming, though sounding a bit grumbly about the time. Merlin couldn’t be bothered to apologise. Leaving had been hard enough.
And so, Thorin and Merlin set off. Towards the Shire, and after that, Erebor. Sitting on a beautiful white horse Thorin had brought, purely for Merlin to ride on, he felt the wind and smelt the beginning of summer. He felt almost at peace, though there was a pit in his stomach whenever he looked back to his fallen city. When Camelot disappeared behind the hill, Merlin took a deep breath and looked forward.