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Dec. 23rd, 2011 11:05 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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merlin_holidaysTitle: The Spirit of Christmas
Recipient:fluffssnowflake
Author:tourdefierce
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: 22,500
Warnings: Sex, language, fast and loose treatment of religious holidays, consent issues (magical sex, authority problems and alcohol), unprotected sex, humour that borders on crack at times and I also took the liberty of inventing a whole new Leon for my nefarious purpose.
Summary: This is the story about how Arthur the Elf got his groove back.
Author's Notes: I hope you enjoy this,fluffssnowflake as I vastly enjoyed writing for your prompt: a reluctant adult Arthur has to sit on Father Christmas’ lap. I'm so pleased that I got the opportunity to write for this year's fest and that the mods here are very patient people. A huge thanks to L, my beautiful beta and cheerleader. Without the help of S, I wouldn't have finished this, either and so I am forever grateful for her existence.
Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavour.
It wasn't that Arthur didn't believe in Father Christmas.
That wasn't it at all.
However, to say that the season was trying his patience also fell short.
"Mr. Pendragon, it's London! London is properly London," a particularly clueless individual moaned across the line.
"I'm aware of your location, Elf."
"Then you'll understand that it's not yet—"
Arthur sighed. He really did not have time for this. "I lived in London my entire life, until I was promoted to run the toy plant in America three years ago. I understand that London is London, I can really see why you're still so far up the corporate ladder with such stunning observation skills. But in the five years I ran that plant, it was never off schedule and the elves that worked there were so full of cheer that they cried tears of red and green glitter. So you'll have to excuse me if I don't take 'London being London' as a sufficient excuse."
He paused for a breath, swivelling his chair around to face his computer properly. "If your quotas aren't made up in the next three days, I will do something about it, Mr. Valiant and it will be more than just making damn sure your name gets moved to the Naughty list."
He rang off and immediately went to rub at his eyes.
Where was he?
Right.
It wasn't that he didn't believe in Father Christmas, it was just that Halloween had just ended and he had to put up with Morgana, who was supposed to be his elfin sister but ran around with enough ghouls and demons that it was literally like being related to Halloween itself—seriously, she was dating Satan's sister—and just, The Spirit of Christmas felt so far away at times like these.
Usually, it was the Spring months that got Elves down, with the rush of Christmas ending so abruptly and the thought of summer leaving them all in foul moods. But Arthur generally enjoyed the small vacation February allowed, letting the harmless Cherubs run the season with ease before he was back on March 1st, planning out the next Christmas season.
For Arthur, it was the muddy days of October and the first few weeks of November that really rubbed him the wrong way. Maybe it was because he spent way too much time in America, where they did indeed have another holiday to deal with before Christmas. (And if Arthur had to be involved in one more Turkey Protest negotiation, he was going to slay them all himself.) However, when Arthur ran the London toy factory, Christmas cheer was in excess and even though, yes, it was bloody London, there was still that hidden thrill of excitement that rang through everything and everyone.
The Christmas Spirit.
Nowadays, though, it felt thin.
If he really examined it, there might be a bit of him that missed London desperately. It wasn't that New York wasn't lovely at Christmas, but it just wasn't the same. Honestly? It was too easy. Most Americans took a shine to Christmas and the elves in the factory worked diligently all through November, barely even stopping for Thanksgiving celebrations, before throwing themselves into December's rush. But the thrill and the challenge of London was lacking here. About this time in London, Arthur would be holding high-powered meetings with Harrods and bickering bitterly over their window displays. He'd be bribing grumpy store owners to put up fairy lights earlier and earlier until the whole of London was humming on November 1st with the subtle under-current of Christmas. Tasteful and subtle but ultimately still there by Arthur's hand. The stiff-upper lip of London's finest Christmas Scrooges were the best challenge of the Christmas season and an honour to take on as an elf—and frankly, Arthur missed it.
Here, he took one withering look at Macy's human executive and he crumbled, giving into all of Arthur's demands and practically begging for Arthur to bend him over right there.
It was embarrassing.
"Sir?"
Arthur blinked and brought himself back to the present. The calendar read November 2nd, he was still in America and running one of the largest, most successful toy factories in the entire world. He was the best elf Christmas had ever seen and he was proud. Hell, he should be grateful.
"Yes, Leon?"
There was a cough. "Your father—"
"Leon, we're still calling him Lord Pendragon, if you've forgotten," Arthur interrupted but with little heart. It was not a secret that Leon, a Reindeer farmer that Arthur had wooed away with pound signs and Italian leather, wasn't a fan of Arthur's father.
He blamed Lord Uther Pendragon for Arthur's unhappiness, and although he wasn't completely wrong, Arthur took responsibilities for his own decisions. Bloody fishwife.
"Very well, sir. Lord Pendragon has had that evil little prick of a secretary," Leon's flat tone came across pretty scathing.
"I believe Geoffrey prefers Personal Assistant."
"He's a twat, sir."
"You were saying?" Arthur fought back a smile. If there was a thing that brought his humour up, it was Leon's dry voice barking across the line. He sounded like the PA of a high-powered executive but he looked like a reindeer farmer stuffed into a suit. Seriously, lumberjacks cowered in the face of his beard last Arbor Day.
"Lord Pendragon has scheduled a lunch for the two of you tomorrow and I've had to reschedule the meeting with the Fairy Union, which they were really pleased about by and by, for next Tuesday."
Dammit. It usually didn't bother him that his father took the liberty to rearrange his schedule whenever he was in the city, being a jet-setting elf himself, but the Fairy Union wasn't a group to be trifled with. Last time there was an issue, Arthur had to deal with no less than four and half sex scandals, a shortage of mistletoe and a rash that Arthur and Leon had come to a mutual agreement never to speak of again. In short, Arthur was feeling perturbed.
"The Fairy Union will just have to cope," Arthur sighed. "Send them a Lightning Bug Basket or something."
"Because lightning bugs are easy to find at this time of year," Leon muttered. "I'll take care of it and the updates will be sent to your Blackberry at the usual time. I'm going to have to do some rearranging."
"There's nothing for it. Is there anything else, Leon?"
Arthur swore he heard a snort. "Nothing that can't keep, sir. Although, we'll need to deal with the Secret Santa gift exchange."
"Hmm," Arthur hummed as Leon rang off.
Secret Santa, indeed.
<3<3<3
Arthur's flat—er, apartment—was a glorified office. Yes, he'd been there a few years but after his Uncle Agravaine had well and truly run the American factories into the ground, Arthur had been doing some major rebuilding, leaving little room for creature comforts. His apartment was an open plan, new and shiny, with modern appliances and pretty much everything anyone would desire if they were young, successful and rolling in coin.
Arthur loathed it.
"This is properly fucked," he cursed at the telly. His satellite feed was wonky and the universe was well mistaken if it thought he was going to miss the friendly between England and Spain today. Torres might be a pretty vampire but half the squad called up was Elfin today.
He was going to give up and walk down to the horrible excuse for a pub (In its defence, they didn't call themselves a pub. It was a "sports bar".) when his telly chirped.
"Accept call," Arthur grumbled. The Skype icon bounced a few times before enlarging on the screen. It was blank for a few moments before Morgana's mug filled the screen.
"Brother dear," she said, smirk firmly attached to her lips. Arthur was almost positive that she hadn't stopped grinning like an evil villain since she came of age, realized she had Elfin magic and fucked off to play house with Sorceress Morgause (Satan's sister) and that Poltergeist, Nimeuh. "I thought you'd be watching the pre-match yammering."
Arthur scowled. "The satellite is being stubborn."
"Poor thing. Such a hardship."
"Did you have a reason for this call?"
She tucked a stray hair behind ear. "I just wanted to see how things were going, I hear Father is coming into town."
"Do I even want to know how you found that out?" Arthur said, hardly resisting rolling his eyes.
"Scrying isn't against the law, Arthur. Don't be such a spoilsport," she replied, rolling her eyes with vigour because she liked to act as if she was raised by humans. "Besides, Morgause has shared some news about Father Christmas, but if you're going to be such a bloody twat about it all—"
Arthur tried to quell his excitement but it was no use, he felt the excitement churn through him and before he knew it, he was a glowing faintly gold around the edges. He might not have Elfin magic like Morgana, but the Christmas spirit still managed to live inside him and that was magic.
"Are you taking the piss?"
"No. Are you going to be nice to me?"
Arthur arched an eyebrow. "Are you going to stop trying to get on the Naughty List? You know how much it upsets Father."
"You like it."
"Morgana." Arthur did not whinge. "What did Morgause see?"
For the first time in a long time, Arthur saw Morgana's Christmas Spirit shine straight through her eyes. She was just as excited as he was and no matter how much she denied it, this was something so ingrained inside her that no matter what sort of devil worship she was involved in—Santa Claus was above that.
"She thinks they'll be opening up the North Pole in time for The 25 Days," she said with glee. "Arthur, can you imagine! We might get to see him, at least on the Elfin network and oh, Arthur! I bet he's lovely. They've been in choosing for so long."
Arthur let out his own hysterical laughter. Gods. The North Pole had been closed since February 1st, when the previous Father Christmas had stepped down, claiming that earlier that morning, the Sleigh Bells hadn't rung for him and his time as Father Christmas was over. There had been a mad clamour around the community because he had only been ruling for ten years.
The last Father Christmas had ruled for five hundred.
"There were rumours that they'd chosen back in August," Arthur replied, mind wandering.
"I know and I think they might have. I have a friend who was working out of the South Pole, really strong with Elfin magic, and he was called up to the North Pole in September. I haven't heard from him since, which makes me think that they've got everyone on lock-down for a reason. He wouldn't have been called up for the choosing, he's not that strong yet, but he was supposed to be working for the next Father Christmas."
Arthur frowned. "I thought you weren't speaking with Mordred anymore."
"He's twelve, Arthur. I'm not going to completely—"
"He tried to kill me!" Arthur exclaimed, leaning forward and trying to ignore the mantra of Father Christmas that was playing on repeat in his mind.
"I would have too if I thought you were trying to perform an exorcism of my magic."
Arthur snorts. "Morgana, what twelve-year-old jumps to that conclusion? Seriously. I only asked him for a bloody biscuit."
"Whatever you may think of Mordred, and yes, I admit that he might be a bit of a freak but he's powerful," Morgana said with a bit of a smile. "Besides, you're just jealous because you've never been called to the North."
"Neither have you," Arthur said petulantly.
Because he was jealous, dammit, of anyone who got to go to the Pole. It was the only thing he had ever wanted—to go to the North Pole and work side by side with Father Christmas. It was the ultimate position for an elf. It was a life-long post, appointed only by Father Christmas himself and only the very best elves in the entire world were called up.
It was the chance of a lifetime.
"Wait," he said, looking at the calendar on his Blackberry. "The first of December?"
"Yes, little brother. So if you think you have a chance, you better sort it out, yeah? Morgause thinks it's going to be some sort of Elfin duel for twenty-five days but I think she's just being dramatic." She smirked as she said it, turning from excited about the prospect of a new Father Christmas to her regular infuriating self.
"Don't off yourself when you don't get called up," Morgana said mockingly. "He might just prefer elves that aren't full of themselves and just, you know, not general pillocks."
Arthur sneered. "Don't sell your soul to any demons for the chance to even see him, you harpy."
"Fuck off."
"Bitch."
She rang off with a sneer that reminded him of his own.
The blank screen Morgana left suddenly buzzed to life with England running onto the pitch but Arthur couldn't be arsed—they could all be naked and pronouncing their desire to have an orgy with him and he wouldn't even notice.
Father Christmas.
Father Christmas!
<3<3<3
The story goes like this:
Way up north, all the way up, up and away where baby seals and polar bears live, where it's too cold for anything but endless days of snow, there's a place that is more magical and special than anything in the whole wide world. It's a place where joy originates, where Christmas lives bright all year long and where the heart of the Spirit of Christmas glows bright gold.
The North Pole.
In the heart of all the snow, there is a stillness and in the belly of that stillness is a vast wonderland of toy factories. It is the biggest toy factory in the entire world, magical realms and human ones, where they make the best toys for all the good little boys and girls. It's a place only fairytales graze because it's too fantastical to truly describe.
When Arthur was a boy, his mother used to read the Polar Express to him in the warmth of his bedroom. It was a battered copy, the cover a frayed maroon cloth that smelled like musty books and his mother's hand lotion. Every night, she would ask him what story he wanted for bed and his hands always strayed to this book. A story about an ordinary boy who asked for the sleigh bells of Father Christmas and that long after the journey, long after the faded winter nights turned into the hazy summer days—after all that, he could still hear the Christmas Spirit, worn but sturdy, ringing in the bells.
The night Arthur failed to come alive with Elfin magic, she read him that story. Over and over again, she'd read it until her voice turned frail but her hands stayed steady in his hair because she loved him.
"Don't worry, child. You'll be called, no matter how little magic you have inside of you. I believe in you, Arthur. You're the best elf in the whole realm—the bravest, most beautiful elf that I've ever laid my eyes on. You'll be the heart of Christmas, someday, when Father Christmas needs you—and he will—he'll call for you and I will miss you terribly when you go but you'll be exactly where you belong. No matter what, my love."
No matter what, she loved him.
The next morning, she was called to the North Pole.
Arthur didn't remember her leaving. He didn't remember the rows Uther had with her, screaming from the study or the way her blonde hair shimmered with Elfin gold when she left. He didn't remember the shattered months when she was gone. He didn't remember the funeral or how it felt when Geoffrey sat him down and told him that his mother, Ygraine, wasn't coming home at all.
He only remembered pressing the book to his face, breathing in the lingering scent of his mother and sobbing—wishing desperately that he had gone with her.
The story goes like this:
Arthur believed with all his will that he belonged in North Pole, just like his mother, and no matter how old he got, no matter how crazy it sounded coming out of his mouth, no matter how illogical it was... he still hoped. That eternal light that his mother had fostered in the best five years of Arthur's life—that light was made for the North Pole.
No matter what.
It was his destiny. He was sure of it.
<3<3<3
Arthur was positive that a trip to the dentist was in order now that he'd ground his teeth all the way through lunch. It wasn't anything particularly new. His father had a habit of ignoring Arthur's other obligations when he came to America and it wasn't for anything important, other than to do his usual lectures about how Arthur was too sophisticated for the North Pole and didn't he know? The future of elves were based in Pendragon Toy Factories and someday, when Uther retired, it was going to be Arthur's job to take over the company that would be known as the company that put Father Christmas out of business.
Just another lunch spent having his hopes and dreams crushed.
No big deal.
Afterwards, his father strode to the car with a jaunty little wave that made Arthur want to stay at the Italian bistro they lunched at and drink his company's worth in wine. Instead, he tipped the waiter more than he should and walked back to the office with his hands stuffed deep inside his pockets. He'd forgotten his gloves on the table but he couldn't be arsed to go back to retrieve them.
When he got back to the office, Leon was holding two cups in his hands.
"Coffee or tea?"
Arthur squinted. "Will you judge me if I say whiskey?"
"You should just go home."
"I can't, Leon. That report is due in and we haven't even talked about Hanukkah yet."
Leon glared over the two cups, pursing his lips in such a fashion that they disappeared into the bristles of his bushy beard and made it so that Arthur was positive that he was indeed, going home.
"Arthur, we'll start on all eight of Hanukkah's crazy nights as soon as I learn how to spell it. Every year, it's a problem and I need to make myself feel better about my dismal spelling skills before we start on a part of the holiday season that lowers myself esteem," he said with a sternness that meant that Arthur should just give in already.
Instead he said, "It has two 'k's in it," and walked into his office.
"You are by far the worst elf I have ever met," Leon said soundly from the doorway. "Now please go home because I'm about one more Pendragon daddy-issue argument away from leaving you for my reindeers."
Arthur paused in sitting. God, he really could use a bit of telly and an early night in. Maybe a take-away.
"I think I'll head home."
"Good idea."
"Right."
He didn't walk home because the car was already pulled up in front of the building when he got there. The fact of the matter was, Leon was most likely going to be there until seven that night, making sure that everything Arthur skipped out on would still keep. He was actually insanely competent and despite his feisty demeanour, he was the best personal assistant Arthur had ever met. What he was doing herding reindeer for the majority of his life, and enjoying it, was beyond Arthur. He was far more useful to the world here, by Arthur's side.
At least, that's what Arthur told himself. The thought of Leon actually chasing down such enormous deer was incredibly frightening. (Lumberjack beard or not, some mental images are just too extreme.)
Arthur was installed in the couch before half three and in a blissful telly coma by the time the clock struck four.
<3<3<3
November passed.
Arthur spent most of his time on the phone, making sure all the toy factories in America were making the proper quota for actual toys being produced and Christmas Spirit levels were high. As always, it was an uphill battle. (Arthur blamed the excess of turkey in the country.) By the time Thanksgiving arrived, Arthur was more concerned with just how many elves insisted on having the Friday after off. After no less than four rows with Leon (complete with cold coffee and terse emails), he finally gave in because the power of Black Friday was enough to make Leon actually shout two days before the holiday, instead of just growling mutinously from his post. Why the country couldn't just behave and have Boxing Day sales was beyond him. But that was no matter, he made it out of the Friday after Thanksgiving with minimal disasters, only one minor catastrophe with a Santa who wasn't actually supposed to be out on patrol yet (some shopping centres really needed better background checks) and even managed not to stab the Internet when Cyber Monday dawned bright and early.
It was business as usual.
Except, if Arthur was being completely honest with himself, he was feeling a bit... different.
Yes, Thanksgiving was the most ridiculous holiday to have to slog through, given that he couldn't understand why any country would celebrate the beginning of what would become one hell of a genocide—but that was neither here nor there. Something about him was different.
During the day, he was less prone to bouts of insanity and that was something worth noting. But the extent of his holiday cheer was very high and didn't seem to be dissuaded by the threat of strike from the Snowmen (and women) or the frantic blinking of the fairy lights Leon insisted promoted a less hostile working environment. Even Morgana's thinly veiled clues about Father Christmas couldn't manage to break his cheer, which was incredibly odd.
Not to mention the dreams.
For the past few weeks, Arthur had been woken every morning feeling warm and golden, the feeling of crushed velvet on his skin lingering on the edge of his mind and his cock curling against his belly, having already broken free of his boxers and leaking all over his sheets. It certainly wasn't a wet dream, but it was reoccurring, the same glowing warmth of velvet on his skin that had him coming into his fist half a dozen strokes after waking. It wasn't unpleasant by any means but it was unsettling.
"Did you do anything for Thanksgiving, Leon?"
Leon glared over his thermos of coffee. "I'm Canadian."
"Ah."
"Yes, Arthur. Now, everything is squared away with the Secret Santa for each of the factories and all the holiday parties are scattered up until the 20th of December."
Arthur nodded and signed his name to a few documents, handing them back to Leon. "And the on-call situation?"
"I'm fairly sure it's going to work out," he said. "All the schedules have been sent out and all 50 factories are due to report back before the first with any changes, just in case I've messed up which elf from Wisconsin is Jewish and which one celebrates Kwanza."
"Wonderful," Arthur replied, dreading the first, when all the corrections would pile through and how the days following would be full of endless names and forty tabs open trying to remember when each holiday fell. Leon still had trouble remembering if Christmas was the 24th or the 25th of December.
"Now, it's five and I've got plans for the evening that involve a bottle of wine and a bucket of ice cream. So, the only thing left is this." Leon leant down and pointed to a small marker on Arthur's desk calendar.
When Arthur clicked on it, a little bubble showed up with bright red lettering: 8pm Living Room.
"I have a meeting in my living room?"
Leon shrugged. "At eight this evening it seems. I tried to find out when it had been booked but I can't find any trace of when or why I pencilled it in."
"Leon--"
"Don't get mad at me! I even tried to delete it but it won't budge. Seems like whatever it is, it's meant to be happening. So do try and be dressed, just in case. I don't really feel like dealing with the fall out of you showing up to a meeting without your pants."
Arthur blinked. "You know, it's still difficult to get used to pants meaning trousers around here. That sentence has a whole other meaning..."
"I'm not listening to this conversation anymore."
With a smile and a wave, Leon was out the door to do whatever it was that he did.
"Right then," Arthur whispered, turning off his computer and then the lights. He grabbed his laptop bag and took the stairs down to the car.
<3<3<3
Dinner was a pasta bake, which was followed by a bottle of wine and two episodes of Gavin and Stacey (reruns, but not the Christmas special, he was saving that bit). But as the clock ticked closer to eight, Arthur began to feel that warmth in the pit of his stomach. It was similar to the kind he felt in the morning but the arousal was taken out of it—it was only that slow, warm glow, like he had eaten a biscuit fresh out of the oven or indulged in piping hot mead.
Not only that, but by half-seven, Arthur was glowing.
Supposedly, only elves that posses magic could glow but ever since Arthur was found to have almost zero traces of magic in his blood, he's always glowed that shimmering gold when he was excited, or aroused or when something affected his Christmas Spirit. His mother had glowed all the time, not blinding, but her skin seemed to shimmer whenever the light hit her in the right way. (Arthur did remember the one time he'd made the mistake of letting his magic glow in front of Uther. The clear pain over his father's face was not something Arthur was likely to forget.)
And so it was, Uther Pendragon, the only elf in the world who hated magic—who blamed magic for killing his beautiful wife by making her leave—would have a son who glowed only some of the time. Uther hated magic for a very simple reason: magic killed his wife. Beautiful Ygraine was killed by a twist of fate on her way to the North Pole but Uther saw magic as the driving reason, as if magic itself caused her ankle to twist and her heel to get caught, pulling her in front of the most powerful train ever invented. From his perspective, she would have been home with him and his magic-free son if she hadn't had magic... if she hadn't been called. But she was called or rather, the light inside of her was called and she obeyed it, as she had dreamed that Arthur too would be called North.
Arthur stared at his hands, the shimmering gold of his fingers kept catching on his thumb ring. His heart thudded in his chest, as if it was trying to break free, his breath came in short, staccato beats that swelled in his ears until that was all he could hear. He vaguely thought he should get changed, maybe into something he hadn't worn all day, but he couldn't move. He seemed paralysed with the overwhelming thought that this might be it. This might be the moment that everyone talks about, when the light inside wakes up and demands to be taken.
He tried to calm his breathing, however he only seemed successful at gripping the arm of his sofa until his knuckles turned white.
That's when he heard very disturbing sounds coming from his faux fireplace.
When Arthur had let the apartment, his realtor had boasted about how the developer had kept the original chimney from the old building but that they had blocked it off so that it wouldn't leak heat. Apparently it was terribly trendy to have such a fireplace.
Right now? It was ruining Arthur's life.
He heard the muted struggle of someone who sounded like they were trying to squeeze into jeans two sizes too small. Not that Arthur could really hear more than the occasional curse and the way the wall seemed to bulge with his struggle.
"Um, hello?"
There was another muted curse and what sounded like a swift kick. The plaster of Arthur's wall trembled.
"I," Arthur started before he got up and forced himself to walk on coltish legs toward the fireplace. "I have a sky-light in the toilet."
There was a shout and then nothing.
Arthur jogged to the bathroom, tripping over his feet on the way there and barely managing to keep himself upright with the doorjamb.
When he arrived, his normally spacious toilet was dwarfed by a man so massive that he looked like Godzilla getting ready to crush the world beneath him.
"Who are you?" Because Arthur was now doubting his decision not to call the police. The man was colossal.
"Oh! Sorry, mate," said the behemoth of a man, who was definitely English, although from a place riddled with Council flats and cans of Strongbow. "Those dodgy chimneys are a real 'mare. Gwaine was supposed to make a scout of it and all but he's not done celebrating—been into the mead all week long. Fond of Thanksgivin' isn't he?"
"What?"
Arthur was a little distracted by the sheer girth of the man's arms or the particular roundness of his head. He looked like a Greek god, all tanned and rippling muscles, and there was something particularly unsettling about the breadth of his shoulders (not to mention Arthur's fleeting but clearly inappropriate thoughts about resting his thighs there) but the man wasn't dressed in any traditional dress that Arthur recognised. This man didn't look like an elf. He looked like an attractive troll. He was dressed in a dark grey t-shirt and dirty jeans. Although, the filthy jeans might have been the fault of the chimney.
"Sorry," the man said, grinning a little sheepishly and extending his hand toward Arthur. "Me name's Percy, innit?"
Arthur took his hand gingerly, but Percy just shook it hard and fast, practically pumping it up and down so swiftly that Arthur could already feel the soreness in his shoulder.
"Arthur Pendragon," Arthur replied in turn after Percy had let go of his hand.
"I would sure hope so! If not, I'd doing a regular ol' B&E and I can't imagine Merlin would be a big fan of that, not after last time."
Arthur felt his head spin. "Last time?"
"Never mind that," Percy said with a wink. "I've got a letter to be deliverin' to ya and then I best be on my way."
Arthur blinked and felt something inside him twist. "You could have just dropped it into the letter box."
"Not this, mate. Sensitive, innit?"
Then he stuck his gargantuan hand into his pocket and retrieved an implausibly pristine letter, holding it out to Arthur and wiggling his eyebrows. Distantly, Arthur thought that this man, no matter how attractive he was, resembled an overeager puppy.
"It should give you most of the details, but one of us will be there to collect you lot at the station and get you through the turnstile."
Arthur fingered the sharp but undeniably delicate edges of the letter.
"Turnstile?" he asked but his mind was elsewhere.
"Yeah, it's a tricky bit, innit? Always get lost on my way out of London and I grew up there," Percy said with a huge grin and a shrug.
"I'm sorry," Arthur replied, voice caught in his throat. "Am I to be going somewhere?"
This time, Percy stepped forward and leaned down until he was more or less level with Arthur. "Mate, you're going North! I reckon that's quite a surprise with you being non-magical and all but I hears you're a special elf, ain't ya," he said with a feverish excitement that pierced the fog of Arthur's mind. "Sorry, but I've got five other stops. Cheers."
With that, he jumped up and wiggled himself through and out the skylight. Arthur didn't even have time to ogle the sliver of skin exposed between his shirt and his jeans. Mostly, this was because he was having his own slight mental breakdown.
When he got the presence of mind to move, he carefully unsealed the letter in his hand.
Arthur Pendragon, you have been summoned by
Father Christmas to report to
Victoria Coach Station, toilets between platform 15 and 16 at 0900 on December 1st
to board the Polar Express calling at The North Pole.
Please bring this invitation, as it will be the entry ticket required.
If you have any questions, please refer to Elf Gwendolyn Smith, who is handling all secretarial duties of Father Christmas henceforth.
If you have any special arrangements that need to be made, please inform us before the 30th of November
Yours Faithfully,
Elfin Council of the Poles
Happiness seemed like such a small word to describe what Arthur felt, fingers tracing over the gold lettering. This was everything he ever wanted, to work there—to be summoned as one of the best elves in the entire world. And yet, holding the letter in his hand was so surreal and although, yes, he did feel elated, there was something else. A lingering sadness seemed to swell, taking over the joy for being chosen; the glee at being able to rub this in Morgana's face when she realised that he'd been chosen as the first non-magical elf to work for Father Christmas; the relief of leaving his father's aspirations behind; the anxiety of what he was going to pack, of what this meant for his life, for his factories, for Leon—all of that faded into a dull, grainy focus.
In fact, all Arthur could truly feel was regret that his mother wasn't there to see him now.
<3<3<3
The joy of being asked to join Father Christmas didn't leave, but it certainly faded to a dull roar in the back of his head when he realised what preparing for a permanent move was going to be like in two days.
The call to Leon hadn't gone well.
("You don't have magic, you asshole. You are supposed to be boring and stable and loaded, but not getting summons to the North Pole two days before the biggest—"
"I'm trying not to be offended."
"—you are such a bitch, Pendragon. And you're going to be a nightmare to move. I imagine you fold your socks and oh no, if this is going to be anything like that trip to Iceland, you can just deal with it on your own."
"I am sorry to bother—"
"I'll be over in twenty and you better have some damn good wine, sir.")
But as it was, Arthur was staring at his packed up flat and wishing Leon had given him the tranquillizer that he was threatening earlier. (Why Leon kept so many aspects of his previous life as a handy way to threaten pain was a question that scared Arthur.)
Tomorrow, he was moving to the North Pole.
He was going to ride the Polar Express, see the exact place where his mother died and then he was going to go be the best elf in the entire world to prove to his father that this was his destiny and for his mother—well, she'd be so happy if she was here. If she was able to see him right now, with his boxed up flat and his suitcases and wow.
He was going North.
Also, his mobile was ringing.
"Hello, Morgana."
"You know, I'm surprised you're even answering your phone."
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Because?"
"I thought you'd be jerking off to your invitation or having an asthma attack, like the first time you sat on Santa's lap and got an erection," she said, casual as ever and just as scathing as usual.
She swore she'd never bring that up again. Horrid woman.
"You're charming."
"You're a tool," she said brightly. "Are you excited?"
"To leave a company and a home that I quite liked to Lance, who admittedly is good at his job but not anywhere near ready to take on such an immense task of running the American factories? Or am I supposed to be excited about Leon screaming at me for clothing and throwing day planners at my head, whilst simultaneously threatening to pulverize me into reindeer feed? Or maybe..."
"So father called?"
Arthur sighed. "Worse. He sent Geoffrey."
"That fucking cunt."
"Morgana, I don't really want to speak about it."
"Arthur! What the hell are you talking about? Our father sent his personal assistant, who happens to be the most unpleasant man in the whole universe, to tell you what, that he was disappointed? That he hoped you fell into a snow drift and froze to death?"
The sad thing was, she wasn't far from the truth.
"He couldn't retract the trust fund or change any of our shared accounts but I am no longer the heir of Pendragon Corporation," Arthur said as smoothly as he could. He wasn't bitter. It wasn't like he needed the job anymore, being summoned was a full-time and life long position, but still. It stung having it ripped from him with so little as a 'congratulations on meeting your ultimate life goal, only son'. Retrospectively, Arthur knew that 'I'm happy if you're happy' was never going to be a phrase employed by his father, but still—Geoffrey?
"Oh, Arthur."
He shook his head. The heavy dose of pity in her voice wasn't something he wanted.
"It's nothing. You should have seen the look on Leon's face," Arthur said, moving on. "He was murderous."
"Arthur—"
"And if it wasn't for Geoffrey being a slippery bastard, I'm fairly sure Leon would have knifed him with that horrible hunting thing he keeps sheathed on his ankle. I think I should—"
"Arthur—"
"No," he said, clipped and just this side of desperate. "I won't let this ruin my life, Morgana. He's our father but the North Pole is my destiny. I was made for this and I won't have his prejudices against magic and—"
"It's all right. I understand, Arthur."
Arthur wiped his face. He hadn't even realised he was crying.
"Yes, well," he said awkwardly, trying to calm his trembling chest. "Anyway, I leave tomorrow."
"Indeed you do."
She didn't sound nearly as cold as suspected. Arthur felt his own paranoia rise. "Did you get an invitation?"
"No, Arthur. I won't be ruining your big day."
"Why don't you sound more upset?"
He swore he heard a small laugh over the phone.
"Morgause thinks that Father Christmas is trying to move away from tradition by following the more fantastical whimsy of the Christmas Spirit."
Arthur didn't like the sound of that. There were traditions in place that were there for a reason. They weren't just flights of fancy by the Elfin Council, they were part of their heritage.
"I'm not sure I approve of that or even know what that means."
"You're such a fucking bore, Arthur. And a bit ungrateful, if it wasn't for Father Christmas' following of the Light, you wouldn't have been called in the first place," she said, this time her tone was just as scathing as expected. "What he's doing for you and for the rest of the world is beautiful. I've seen it."
He didn't even try to contain his sharp gasp.
"You had a vision?"
The last time she had a vision, his mother died.
"Yes but I'm not supposed to talk too much about it, especially to you. My only advice is to try not to be an enormous dick to everyone and remember, he chose you and he's got more Light in his pinky finger than you have in your entire body."
"Morgana, I can't believe you'd presume I would be—"
"Just, leave your fantasies at the door, Arthur. This is real and you can't control everything in your pathetic little life," she said softly, without heat. It almost sounded like advice instead of an insult. "Get some sleep."
"Yeah, I just... yeah. Thanks."
"Whatever."
It was a long time before he was able to fall asleep that night.
<3<3<3
It was rare that Arthur travelled by Elfin magic. Mostly, it was because Elfin magic left strong traces and that would mean Arthur would glow, an act he liked to think was private, and that it was recorded. Lord Pendragon would have had a fit if he found Arthur's name on the registry before now. But since his relationship with his father was in a shambles and he was undoubtedly going to be glowing as soon as he got near the Polar Express, it seemed better than suffering through a plane ride.
Not to mention he was short on time.
Port-Tunnels worked rather a lot like the Tube. There were set stations all over the world and after purchasing and registering, you would walk to the station, find your platform and at the exact moment on your ticket, you'd start walking. A five minute walk would have you on the other side of the world and safely at your destination.
"This is madness."
Arthur fiddled with his suitcase and ignored Leon's bitching.
"Stop ignoring me or I'll hit you with my clipboard," Leon said, sounding bored as ever but the redness in his cheeks gave him away.
"Leon, are you nervous?"
The look on Leon's face was as if he'd sucked on a particularly sour lemon. "Behave, Mr. Pendragon, before I reroute the shipment that has the rest of your things to the South Pole."
"Hurry along, then," Arthur said, picking up his pace and rounding the corner to the station. 5am in New York was a busy time.
"I'm just trying to understand why we're up at five in the fucking morning, when we're travelling by magic, or really why I'm here at all, since I'm not the lunatic that was called to the North Pole."
Arthur smirked. "Are you honestly trying to tell me that you don't want to go?"
"If I see a polar bear, I'm telling them you taste a lot better than you look."
Twenty minutes later, they were walking through Victoria Station and Arthur was resisting the urge to plaster himself to the dirty floor of the station and kiss it. He was never more grateful to see so many bloody pigeons indoors in his entire life.
"I need coffee," Leon said, appearing next to him as he stared at the vast expanse of the station. "And we'll go through some points."
Arthur could only nod.
Nestled in a corner with some truly heaven-sent M&S coffee, Leon started waving his clipboard around again. Arthur vaguely wondered what they looked like to the rest of the world: Arthur in his three piece suit in muted colours except for his blood-red tie, black luggage rolling behind him with the air of business making sure to blend him into the rest of the London travellers; Leon in atrociously bright yellow, green and pink plaid shirt, rugged jeans, and a rucksack so beaten and frayed that Arthur was fairly certain he could see teeth marks from where reindeer had actually gnawed on the edges.
They were quite the pair.
"We'll arrive at approximately eleven tonight, if there aren't any delays, although I've heard a lot of rumours that there will be some famous passengers on this ride, so who knows," Leon said, rolling his eyes. "Your massive amounts of shit will have already arrived and I've hired some people to unpack for you. Your lodging isn't going to be exactly to your liking, sir, but seeing as how there are five hundred other elves living in the North Pole, you'll just have to make do. When we get there, I'll pick up keys and go register your snowmobile—"
With that, Leon made a pissy face.
"What is wrong with—"
"It's a noisy pollutant that scares the animals, disrupts nature and smells awful. I hate them. I hate you and you should be very grateful they let me have a part-time gig at the reindeer stables because I don't think I could handle you full-time in the North Pole, sir. I'm not joking about the polar bears," he growled out and made a very aggressive mark on his clipboard.
"Right. Would you rather I ski to get around? Maybe you think I would look particularly attractive with snowshoes?"
Leon stared at him blankly before moving on as if Arthur hadn't even spoken.
"There is a welcome breakfast the following morning and then a meeting with Father Christmas at 10:45, which I hope doesn't conflict with this breakfast thing," Leon said with a frown. "You elfin bunch tend to loiter at breakfast."
Arthur shook his head. "Wait, I'm meeting with Father Christmas tomorrow?"
"Sir, I know this may come as a shock to you, but you're an elf and you are going to work in the North Pole. It's been your lifetime goal, you're obnoxious about it and you want to give me a raise," Leon deadpanned.
"It's just the first I've heard of it," Arthur replied. And it was. God, meeting Father Christmas so soon? What could that mean? Was he getting his invitation retracted? Fuck, what was he going to wear?
And how embarrassing was it going to be if he glowed through the entire meeting?
"I got the email this morning, so don't yell at me. Now, after that I've got just as many meetings as you. I'll be giving you twice a day updates to your Blackberry and we'll have weekly meetings to go over your schedule, but for the most part, you'll be meeting with Gwendolyn Smith as your primary contact and general manager."
"Isn't she Father Christmas' secretary?"
"She's one of ten, sir. Don't get smart with me, alright?" Leon brandished his pen at Arthur. "She'll give you all the information you need to know about your assignments in the Pole. You'll be meeting with her just after your meeting with Father Christmas."
"Fine. What about Lance?"
Leon rolled his eyes and Arthur reached into his bag to grab some pain killers.
It was going to be a long morning.
Part 2
Recipient:
fluffssnowflakeAuthor:
tourdefierceRating: NC-17
Pairings: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: 22,500
Warnings: Sex, language, fast and loose treatment of religious holidays, consent issues (magical sex, authority problems and alcohol), unprotected sex, humour that borders on crack at times and I also took the liberty of inventing a whole new Leon for my nefarious purpose.
Summary: This is the story about how Arthur the Elf got his groove back.
Author's Notes: I hope you enjoy this,
fluffssnowflake as I vastly enjoyed writing for your prompt: a reluctant adult Arthur has to sit on Father Christmas’ lap. I'm so pleased that I got the opportunity to write for this year's fest and that the mods here are very patient people. A huge thanks to L, my beautiful beta and cheerleader. Without the help of S, I wouldn't have finished this, either and so I am forever grateful for her existence. Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavour.
It wasn't that Arthur didn't believe in Father Christmas.
That wasn't it at all.
However, to say that the season was trying his patience also fell short.
"Mr. Pendragon, it's London! London is properly London," a particularly clueless individual moaned across the line.
"I'm aware of your location, Elf."
"Then you'll understand that it's not yet—"
Arthur sighed. He really did not have time for this. "I lived in London my entire life, until I was promoted to run the toy plant in America three years ago. I understand that London is London, I can really see why you're still so far up the corporate ladder with such stunning observation skills. But in the five years I ran that plant, it was never off schedule and the elves that worked there were so full of cheer that they cried tears of red and green glitter. So you'll have to excuse me if I don't take 'London being London' as a sufficient excuse."
He paused for a breath, swivelling his chair around to face his computer properly. "If your quotas aren't made up in the next three days, I will do something about it, Mr. Valiant and it will be more than just making damn sure your name gets moved to the Naughty list."
He rang off and immediately went to rub at his eyes.
Where was he?
Right.
It wasn't that he didn't believe in Father Christmas, it was just that Halloween had just ended and he had to put up with Morgana, who was supposed to be his elfin sister but ran around with enough ghouls and demons that it was literally like being related to Halloween itself—seriously, she was dating Satan's sister—and just, The Spirit of Christmas felt so far away at times like these.
Usually, it was the Spring months that got Elves down, with the rush of Christmas ending so abruptly and the thought of summer leaving them all in foul moods. But Arthur generally enjoyed the small vacation February allowed, letting the harmless Cherubs run the season with ease before he was back on March 1st, planning out the next Christmas season.
For Arthur, it was the muddy days of October and the first few weeks of November that really rubbed him the wrong way. Maybe it was because he spent way too much time in America, where they did indeed have another holiday to deal with before Christmas. (And if Arthur had to be involved in one more Turkey Protest negotiation, he was going to slay them all himself.) However, when Arthur ran the London toy factory, Christmas cheer was in excess and even though, yes, it was bloody London, there was still that hidden thrill of excitement that rang through everything and everyone.
The Christmas Spirit.
Nowadays, though, it felt thin.
If he really examined it, there might be a bit of him that missed London desperately. It wasn't that New York wasn't lovely at Christmas, but it just wasn't the same. Honestly? It was too easy. Most Americans took a shine to Christmas and the elves in the factory worked diligently all through November, barely even stopping for Thanksgiving celebrations, before throwing themselves into December's rush. But the thrill and the challenge of London was lacking here. About this time in London, Arthur would be holding high-powered meetings with Harrods and bickering bitterly over their window displays. He'd be bribing grumpy store owners to put up fairy lights earlier and earlier until the whole of London was humming on November 1st with the subtle under-current of Christmas. Tasteful and subtle but ultimately still there by Arthur's hand. The stiff-upper lip of London's finest Christmas Scrooges were the best challenge of the Christmas season and an honour to take on as an elf—and frankly, Arthur missed it.
Here, he took one withering look at Macy's human executive and he crumbled, giving into all of Arthur's demands and practically begging for Arthur to bend him over right there.
It was embarrassing.
"Sir?"
Arthur blinked and brought himself back to the present. The calendar read November 2nd, he was still in America and running one of the largest, most successful toy factories in the entire world. He was the best elf Christmas had ever seen and he was proud. Hell, he should be grateful.
"Yes, Leon?"
There was a cough. "Your father—"
"Leon, we're still calling him Lord Pendragon, if you've forgotten," Arthur interrupted but with little heart. It was not a secret that Leon, a Reindeer farmer that Arthur had wooed away with pound signs and Italian leather, wasn't a fan of Arthur's father.
He blamed Lord Uther Pendragon for Arthur's unhappiness, and although he wasn't completely wrong, Arthur took responsibilities for his own decisions. Bloody fishwife.
"Very well, sir. Lord Pendragon has had that evil little prick of a secretary," Leon's flat tone came across pretty scathing.
"I believe Geoffrey prefers Personal Assistant."
"He's a twat, sir."
"You were saying?" Arthur fought back a smile. If there was a thing that brought his humour up, it was Leon's dry voice barking across the line. He sounded like the PA of a high-powered executive but he looked like a reindeer farmer stuffed into a suit. Seriously, lumberjacks cowered in the face of his beard last Arbor Day.
"Lord Pendragon has scheduled a lunch for the two of you tomorrow and I've had to reschedule the meeting with the Fairy Union, which they were really pleased about by and by, for next Tuesday."
Dammit. It usually didn't bother him that his father took the liberty to rearrange his schedule whenever he was in the city, being a jet-setting elf himself, but the Fairy Union wasn't a group to be trifled with. Last time there was an issue, Arthur had to deal with no less than four and half sex scandals, a shortage of mistletoe and a rash that Arthur and Leon had come to a mutual agreement never to speak of again. In short, Arthur was feeling perturbed.
"The Fairy Union will just have to cope," Arthur sighed. "Send them a Lightning Bug Basket or something."
"Because lightning bugs are easy to find at this time of year," Leon muttered. "I'll take care of it and the updates will be sent to your Blackberry at the usual time. I'm going to have to do some rearranging."
"There's nothing for it. Is there anything else, Leon?"
Arthur swore he heard a snort. "Nothing that can't keep, sir. Although, we'll need to deal with the Secret Santa gift exchange."
"Hmm," Arthur hummed as Leon rang off.
Secret Santa, indeed.
Arthur's flat—er, apartment—was a glorified office. Yes, he'd been there a few years but after his Uncle Agravaine had well and truly run the American factories into the ground, Arthur had been doing some major rebuilding, leaving little room for creature comforts. His apartment was an open plan, new and shiny, with modern appliances and pretty much everything anyone would desire if they were young, successful and rolling in coin.
Arthur loathed it.
"This is properly fucked," he cursed at the telly. His satellite feed was wonky and the universe was well mistaken if it thought he was going to miss the friendly between England and Spain today. Torres might be a pretty vampire but half the squad called up was Elfin today.
He was going to give up and walk down to the horrible excuse for a pub (In its defence, they didn't call themselves a pub. It was a "sports bar".) when his telly chirped.
"Accept call," Arthur grumbled. The Skype icon bounced a few times before enlarging on the screen. It was blank for a few moments before Morgana's mug filled the screen.
"Brother dear," she said, smirk firmly attached to her lips. Arthur was almost positive that she hadn't stopped grinning like an evil villain since she came of age, realized she had Elfin magic and fucked off to play house with Sorceress Morgause (Satan's sister) and that Poltergeist, Nimeuh. "I thought you'd be watching the pre-match yammering."
Arthur scowled. "The satellite is being stubborn."
"Poor thing. Such a hardship."
"Did you have a reason for this call?"
She tucked a stray hair behind ear. "I just wanted to see how things were going, I hear Father is coming into town."
"Do I even want to know how you found that out?" Arthur said, hardly resisting rolling his eyes.
"Scrying isn't against the law, Arthur. Don't be such a spoilsport," she replied, rolling her eyes with vigour because she liked to act as if she was raised by humans. "Besides, Morgause has shared some news about Father Christmas, but if you're going to be such a bloody twat about it all—"
Arthur tried to quell his excitement but it was no use, he felt the excitement churn through him and before he knew it, he was a glowing faintly gold around the edges. He might not have Elfin magic like Morgana, but the Christmas spirit still managed to live inside him and that was magic.
"Are you taking the piss?"
"No. Are you going to be nice to me?"
Arthur arched an eyebrow. "Are you going to stop trying to get on the Naughty List? You know how much it upsets Father."
"You like it."
"Morgana." Arthur did not whinge. "What did Morgause see?"
For the first time in a long time, Arthur saw Morgana's Christmas Spirit shine straight through her eyes. She was just as excited as he was and no matter how much she denied it, this was something so ingrained inside her that no matter what sort of devil worship she was involved in—Santa Claus was above that.
"She thinks they'll be opening up the North Pole in time for The 25 Days," she said with glee. "Arthur, can you imagine! We might get to see him, at least on the Elfin network and oh, Arthur! I bet he's lovely. They've been in choosing for so long."
Arthur let out his own hysterical laughter. Gods. The North Pole had been closed since February 1st, when the previous Father Christmas had stepped down, claiming that earlier that morning, the Sleigh Bells hadn't rung for him and his time as Father Christmas was over. There had been a mad clamour around the community because he had only been ruling for ten years.
The last Father Christmas had ruled for five hundred.
"There were rumours that they'd chosen back in August," Arthur replied, mind wandering.
"I know and I think they might have. I have a friend who was working out of the South Pole, really strong with Elfin magic, and he was called up to the North Pole in September. I haven't heard from him since, which makes me think that they've got everyone on lock-down for a reason. He wouldn't have been called up for the choosing, he's not that strong yet, but he was supposed to be working for the next Father Christmas."
Arthur frowned. "I thought you weren't speaking with Mordred anymore."
"He's twelve, Arthur. I'm not going to completely—"
"He tried to kill me!" Arthur exclaimed, leaning forward and trying to ignore the mantra of Father Christmas that was playing on repeat in his mind.
"I would have too if I thought you were trying to perform an exorcism of my magic."
Arthur snorts. "Morgana, what twelve-year-old jumps to that conclusion? Seriously. I only asked him for a bloody biscuit."
"Whatever you may think of Mordred, and yes, I admit that he might be a bit of a freak but he's powerful," Morgana said with a bit of a smile. "Besides, you're just jealous because you've never been called to the North."
"Neither have you," Arthur said petulantly.
Because he was jealous, dammit, of anyone who got to go to the Pole. It was the only thing he had ever wanted—to go to the North Pole and work side by side with Father Christmas. It was the ultimate position for an elf. It was a life-long post, appointed only by Father Christmas himself and only the very best elves in the entire world were called up.
It was the chance of a lifetime.
"Wait," he said, looking at the calendar on his Blackberry. "The first of December?"
"Yes, little brother. So if you think you have a chance, you better sort it out, yeah? Morgause thinks it's going to be some sort of Elfin duel for twenty-five days but I think she's just being dramatic." She smirked as she said it, turning from excited about the prospect of a new Father Christmas to her regular infuriating self.
"Don't off yourself when you don't get called up," Morgana said mockingly. "He might just prefer elves that aren't full of themselves and just, you know, not general pillocks."
Arthur sneered. "Don't sell your soul to any demons for the chance to even see him, you harpy."
"Fuck off."
"Bitch."
She rang off with a sneer that reminded him of his own.
The blank screen Morgana left suddenly buzzed to life with England running onto the pitch but Arthur couldn't be arsed—they could all be naked and pronouncing their desire to have an orgy with him and he wouldn't even notice.
Father Christmas.
Father Christmas!
The story goes like this:
Way up north, all the way up, up and away where baby seals and polar bears live, where it's too cold for anything but endless days of snow, there's a place that is more magical and special than anything in the whole wide world. It's a place where joy originates, where Christmas lives bright all year long and where the heart of the Spirit of Christmas glows bright gold.
The North Pole.
In the heart of all the snow, there is a stillness and in the belly of that stillness is a vast wonderland of toy factories. It is the biggest toy factory in the entire world, magical realms and human ones, where they make the best toys for all the good little boys and girls. It's a place only fairytales graze because it's too fantastical to truly describe.
When Arthur was a boy, his mother used to read the Polar Express to him in the warmth of his bedroom. It was a battered copy, the cover a frayed maroon cloth that smelled like musty books and his mother's hand lotion. Every night, she would ask him what story he wanted for bed and his hands always strayed to this book. A story about an ordinary boy who asked for the sleigh bells of Father Christmas and that long after the journey, long after the faded winter nights turned into the hazy summer days—after all that, he could still hear the Christmas Spirit, worn but sturdy, ringing in the bells.
The night Arthur failed to come alive with Elfin magic, she read him that story. Over and over again, she'd read it until her voice turned frail but her hands stayed steady in his hair because she loved him.
"Don't worry, child. You'll be called, no matter how little magic you have inside of you. I believe in you, Arthur. You're the best elf in the whole realm—the bravest, most beautiful elf that I've ever laid my eyes on. You'll be the heart of Christmas, someday, when Father Christmas needs you—and he will—he'll call for you and I will miss you terribly when you go but you'll be exactly where you belong. No matter what, my love."
No matter what, she loved him.
The next morning, she was called to the North Pole.
Arthur didn't remember her leaving. He didn't remember the rows Uther had with her, screaming from the study or the way her blonde hair shimmered with Elfin gold when she left. He didn't remember the shattered months when she was gone. He didn't remember the funeral or how it felt when Geoffrey sat him down and told him that his mother, Ygraine, wasn't coming home at all.
He only remembered pressing the book to his face, breathing in the lingering scent of his mother and sobbing—wishing desperately that he had gone with her.
The story goes like this:
Arthur believed with all his will that he belonged in North Pole, just like his mother, and no matter how old he got, no matter how crazy it sounded coming out of his mouth, no matter how illogical it was... he still hoped. That eternal light that his mother had fostered in the best five years of Arthur's life—that light was made for the North Pole.
No matter what.
It was his destiny. He was sure of it.
Arthur was positive that a trip to the dentist was in order now that he'd ground his teeth all the way through lunch. It wasn't anything particularly new. His father had a habit of ignoring Arthur's other obligations when he came to America and it wasn't for anything important, other than to do his usual lectures about how Arthur was too sophisticated for the North Pole and didn't he know? The future of elves were based in Pendragon Toy Factories and someday, when Uther retired, it was going to be Arthur's job to take over the company that would be known as the company that put Father Christmas out of business.
Just another lunch spent having his hopes and dreams crushed.
No big deal.
Afterwards, his father strode to the car with a jaunty little wave that made Arthur want to stay at the Italian bistro they lunched at and drink his company's worth in wine. Instead, he tipped the waiter more than he should and walked back to the office with his hands stuffed deep inside his pockets. He'd forgotten his gloves on the table but he couldn't be arsed to go back to retrieve them.
When he got back to the office, Leon was holding two cups in his hands.
"Coffee or tea?"
Arthur squinted. "Will you judge me if I say whiskey?"
"You should just go home."
"I can't, Leon. That report is due in and we haven't even talked about Hanukkah yet."
Leon glared over the two cups, pursing his lips in such a fashion that they disappeared into the bristles of his bushy beard and made it so that Arthur was positive that he was indeed, going home.
"Arthur, we'll start on all eight of Hanukkah's crazy nights as soon as I learn how to spell it. Every year, it's a problem and I need to make myself feel better about my dismal spelling skills before we start on a part of the holiday season that lowers myself esteem," he said with a sternness that meant that Arthur should just give in already.
Instead he said, "It has two 'k's in it," and walked into his office.
"You are by far the worst elf I have ever met," Leon said soundly from the doorway. "Now please go home because I'm about one more Pendragon daddy-issue argument away from leaving you for my reindeers."
Arthur paused in sitting. God, he really could use a bit of telly and an early night in. Maybe a take-away.
"I think I'll head home."
"Good idea."
"Right."
He didn't walk home because the car was already pulled up in front of the building when he got there. The fact of the matter was, Leon was most likely going to be there until seven that night, making sure that everything Arthur skipped out on would still keep. He was actually insanely competent and despite his feisty demeanour, he was the best personal assistant Arthur had ever met. What he was doing herding reindeer for the majority of his life, and enjoying it, was beyond Arthur. He was far more useful to the world here, by Arthur's side.
At least, that's what Arthur told himself. The thought of Leon actually chasing down such enormous deer was incredibly frightening. (Lumberjack beard or not, some mental images are just too extreme.)
Arthur was installed in the couch before half three and in a blissful telly coma by the time the clock struck four.
November passed.
Arthur spent most of his time on the phone, making sure all the toy factories in America were making the proper quota for actual toys being produced and Christmas Spirit levels were high. As always, it was an uphill battle. (Arthur blamed the excess of turkey in the country.) By the time Thanksgiving arrived, Arthur was more concerned with just how many elves insisted on having the Friday after off. After no less than four rows with Leon (complete with cold coffee and terse emails), he finally gave in because the power of Black Friday was enough to make Leon actually shout two days before the holiday, instead of just growling mutinously from his post. Why the country couldn't just behave and have Boxing Day sales was beyond him. But that was no matter, he made it out of the Friday after Thanksgiving with minimal disasters, only one minor catastrophe with a Santa who wasn't actually supposed to be out on patrol yet (some shopping centres really needed better background checks) and even managed not to stab the Internet when Cyber Monday dawned bright and early.
It was business as usual.
Except, if Arthur was being completely honest with himself, he was feeling a bit... different.
Yes, Thanksgiving was the most ridiculous holiday to have to slog through, given that he couldn't understand why any country would celebrate the beginning of what would become one hell of a genocide—but that was neither here nor there. Something about him was different.
During the day, he was less prone to bouts of insanity and that was something worth noting. But the extent of his holiday cheer was very high and didn't seem to be dissuaded by the threat of strike from the Snowmen (and women) or the frantic blinking of the fairy lights Leon insisted promoted a less hostile working environment. Even Morgana's thinly veiled clues about Father Christmas couldn't manage to break his cheer, which was incredibly odd.
Not to mention the dreams.
For the past few weeks, Arthur had been woken every morning feeling warm and golden, the feeling of crushed velvet on his skin lingering on the edge of his mind and his cock curling against his belly, having already broken free of his boxers and leaking all over his sheets. It certainly wasn't a wet dream, but it was reoccurring, the same glowing warmth of velvet on his skin that had him coming into his fist half a dozen strokes after waking. It wasn't unpleasant by any means but it was unsettling.
"Did you do anything for Thanksgiving, Leon?"
Leon glared over his thermos of coffee. "I'm Canadian."
"Ah."
"Yes, Arthur. Now, everything is squared away with the Secret Santa for each of the factories and all the holiday parties are scattered up until the 20th of December."
Arthur nodded and signed his name to a few documents, handing them back to Leon. "And the on-call situation?"
"I'm fairly sure it's going to work out," he said. "All the schedules have been sent out and all 50 factories are due to report back before the first with any changes, just in case I've messed up which elf from Wisconsin is Jewish and which one celebrates Kwanza."
"Wonderful," Arthur replied, dreading the first, when all the corrections would pile through and how the days following would be full of endless names and forty tabs open trying to remember when each holiday fell. Leon still had trouble remembering if Christmas was the 24th or the 25th of December.
"Now, it's five and I've got plans for the evening that involve a bottle of wine and a bucket of ice cream. So, the only thing left is this." Leon leant down and pointed to a small marker on Arthur's desk calendar.
When Arthur clicked on it, a little bubble showed up with bright red lettering: 8pm Living Room.
"I have a meeting in my living room?"
Leon shrugged. "At eight this evening it seems. I tried to find out when it had been booked but I can't find any trace of when or why I pencilled it in."
"Leon--"
"Don't get mad at me! I even tried to delete it but it won't budge. Seems like whatever it is, it's meant to be happening. So do try and be dressed, just in case. I don't really feel like dealing with the fall out of you showing up to a meeting without your pants."
Arthur blinked. "You know, it's still difficult to get used to pants meaning trousers around here. That sentence has a whole other meaning..."
"I'm not listening to this conversation anymore."
With a smile and a wave, Leon was out the door to do whatever it was that he did.
"Right then," Arthur whispered, turning off his computer and then the lights. He grabbed his laptop bag and took the stairs down to the car.
Dinner was a pasta bake, which was followed by a bottle of wine and two episodes of Gavin and Stacey (reruns, but not the Christmas special, he was saving that bit). But as the clock ticked closer to eight, Arthur began to feel that warmth in the pit of his stomach. It was similar to the kind he felt in the morning but the arousal was taken out of it—it was only that slow, warm glow, like he had eaten a biscuit fresh out of the oven or indulged in piping hot mead.
Not only that, but by half-seven, Arthur was glowing.
Supposedly, only elves that posses magic could glow but ever since Arthur was found to have almost zero traces of magic in his blood, he's always glowed that shimmering gold when he was excited, or aroused or when something affected his Christmas Spirit. His mother had glowed all the time, not blinding, but her skin seemed to shimmer whenever the light hit her in the right way. (Arthur did remember the one time he'd made the mistake of letting his magic glow in front of Uther. The clear pain over his father's face was not something Arthur was likely to forget.)
And so it was, Uther Pendragon, the only elf in the world who hated magic—who blamed magic for killing his beautiful wife by making her leave—would have a son who glowed only some of the time. Uther hated magic for a very simple reason: magic killed his wife. Beautiful Ygraine was killed by a twist of fate on her way to the North Pole but Uther saw magic as the driving reason, as if magic itself caused her ankle to twist and her heel to get caught, pulling her in front of the most powerful train ever invented. From his perspective, she would have been home with him and his magic-free son if she hadn't had magic... if she hadn't been called. But she was called or rather, the light inside of her was called and she obeyed it, as she had dreamed that Arthur too would be called North.
Arthur stared at his hands, the shimmering gold of his fingers kept catching on his thumb ring. His heart thudded in his chest, as if it was trying to break free, his breath came in short, staccato beats that swelled in his ears until that was all he could hear. He vaguely thought he should get changed, maybe into something he hadn't worn all day, but he couldn't move. He seemed paralysed with the overwhelming thought that this might be it. This might be the moment that everyone talks about, when the light inside wakes up and demands to be taken.
He tried to calm his breathing, however he only seemed successful at gripping the arm of his sofa until his knuckles turned white.
That's when he heard very disturbing sounds coming from his faux fireplace.
When Arthur had let the apartment, his realtor had boasted about how the developer had kept the original chimney from the old building but that they had blocked it off so that it wouldn't leak heat. Apparently it was terribly trendy to have such a fireplace.
Right now? It was ruining Arthur's life.
He heard the muted struggle of someone who sounded like they were trying to squeeze into jeans two sizes too small. Not that Arthur could really hear more than the occasional curse and the way the wall seemed to bulge with his struggle.
"Um, hello?"
There was another muted curse and what sounded like a swift kick. The plaster of Arthur's wall trembled.
"I," Arthur started before he got up and forced himself to walk on coltish legs toward the fireplace. "I have a sky-light in the toilet."
There was a shout and then nothing.
Arthur jogged to the bathroom, tripping over his feet on the way there and barely managing to keep himself upright with the doorjamb.
When he arrived, his normally spacious toilet was dwarfed by a man so massive that he looked like Godzilla getting ready to crush the world beneath him.
"Who are you?" Because Arthur was now doubting his decision not to call the police. The man was colossal.
"Oh! Sorry, mate," said the behemoth of a man, who was definitely English, although from a place riddled with Council flats and cans of Strongbow. "Those dodgy chimneys are a real 'mare. Gwaine was supposed to make a scout of it and all but he's not done celebrating—been into the mead all week long. Fond of Thanksgivin' isn't he?"
"What?"
Arthur was a little distracted by the sheer girth of the man's arms or the particular roundness of his head. He looked like a Greek god, all tanned and rippling muscles, and there was something particularly unsettling about the breadth of his shoulders (not to mention Arthur's fleeting but clearly inappropriate thoughts about resting his thighs there) but the man wasn't dressed in any traditional dress that Arthur recognised. This man didn't look like an elf. He looked like an attractive troll. He was dressed in a dark grey t-shirt and dirty jeans. Although, the filthy jeans might have been the fault of the chimney.
"Sorry," the man said, grinning a little sheepishly and extending his hand toward Arthur. "Me name's Percy, innit?"
Arthur took his hand gingerly, but Percy just shook it hard and fast, practically pumping it up and down so swiftly that Arthur could already feel the soreness in his shoulder.
"Arthur Pendragon," Arthur replied in turn after Percy had let go of his hand.
"I would sure hope so! If not, I'd doing a regular ol' B&E and I can't imagine Merlin would be a big fan of that, not after last time."
Arthur felt his head spin. "Last time?"
"Never mind that," Percy said with a wink. "I've got a letter to be deliverin' to ya and then I best be on my way."
Arthur blinked and felt something inside him twist. "You could have just dropped it into the letter box."
"Not this, mate. Sensitive, innit?"
Then he stuck his gargantuan hand into his pocket and retrieved an implausibly pristine letter, holding it out to Arthur and wiggling his eyebrows. Distantly, Arthur thought that this man, no matter how attractive he was, resembled an overeager puppy.
"It should give you most of the details, but one of us will be there to collect you lot at the station and get you through the turnstile."
Arthur fingered the sharp but undeniably delicate edges of the letter.
"Turnstile?" he asked but his mind was elsewhere.
"Yeah, it's a tricky bit, innit? Always get lost on my way out of London and I grew up there," Percy said with a huge grin and a shrug.
"I'm sorry," Arthur replied, voice caught in his throat. "Am I to be going somewhere?"
This time, Percy stepped forward and leaned down until he was more or less level with Arthur. "Mate, you're going North! I reckon that's quite a surprise with you being non-magical and all but I hears you're a special elf, ain't ya," he said with a feverish excitement that pierced the fog of Arthur's mind. "Sorry, but I've got five other stops. Cheers."
With that, he jumped up and wiggled himself through and out the skylight. Arthur didn't even have time to ogle the sliver of skin exposed between his shirt and his jeans. Mostly, this was because he was having his own slight mental breakdown.
When he got the presence of mind to move, he carefully unsealed the letter in his hand.
Father Christmas to report to
Victoria Coach Station, toilets between platform 15 and 16 at 0900 on December 1st
to board the Polar Express calling at The North Pole.
Please bring this invitation, as it will be the entry ticket required.
If you have any questions, please refer to Elf Gwendolyn Smith, who is handling all secretarial duties of Father Christmas henceforth.
If you have any special arrangements that need to be made, please inform us before the 30th of November
Yours Faithfully,
Elfin Council of the Poles
Happiness seemed like such a small word to describe what Arthur felt, fingers tracing over the gold lettering. This was everything he ever wanted, to work there—to be summoned as one of the best elves in the entire world. And yet, holding the letter in his hand was so surreal and although, yes, he did feel elated, there was something else. A lingering sadness seemed to swell, taking over the joy for being chosen; the glee at being able to rub this in Morgana's face when she realised that he'd been chosen as the first non-magical elf to work for Father Christmas; the relief of leaving his father's aspirations behind; the anxiety of what he was going to pack, of what this meant for his life, for his factories, for Leon—all of that faded into a dull, grainy focus.
In fact, all Arthur could truly feel was regret that his mother wasn't there to see him now.
The joy of being asked to join Father Christmas didn't leave, but it certainly faded to a dull roar in the back of his head when he realised what preparing for a permanent move was going to be like in two days.
The call to Leon hadn't gone well.
("You don't have magic, you asshole. You are supposed to be boring and stable and loaded, but not getting summons to the North Pole two days before the biggest—"
"I'm trying not to be offended."
"—you are such a bitch, Pendragon. And you're going to be a nightmare to move. I imagine you fold your socks and oh no, if this is going to be anything like that trip to Iceland, you can just deal with it on your own."
"I am sorry to bother—"
"I'll be over in twenty and you better have some damn good wine, sir.")
But as it was, Arthur was staring at his packed up flat and wishing Leon had given him the tranquillizer that he was threatening earlier. (Why Leon kept so many aspects of his previous life as a handy way to threaten pain was a question that scared Arthur.)
Tomorrow, he was moving to the North Pole.
He was going to ride the Polar Express, see the exact place where his mother died and then he was going to go be the best elf in the entire world to prove to his father that this was his destiny and for his mother—well, she'd be so happy if she was here. If she was able to see him right now, with his boxed up flat and his suitcases and wow.
He was going North.
Also, his mobile was ringing.
"Hello, Morgana."
"You know, I'm surprised you're even answering your phone."
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Because?"
"I thought you'd be jerking off to your invitation or having an asthma attack, like the first time you sat on Santa's lap and got an erection," she said, casual as ever and just as scathing as usual.
She swore she'd never bring that up again. Horrid woman.
"You're charming."
"You're a tool," she said brightly. "Are you excited?"
"To leave a company and a home that I quite liked to Lance, who admittedly is good at his job but not anywhere near ready to take on such an immense task of running the American factories? Or am I supposed to be excited about Leon screaming at me for clothing and throwing day planners at my head, whilst simultaneously threatening to pulverize me into reindeer feed? Or maybe..."
"So father called?"
Arthur sighed. "Worse. He sent Geoffrey."
"That fucking cunt."
"Morgana, I don't really want to speak about it."
"Arthur! What the hell are you talking about? Our father sent his personal assistant, who happens to be the most unpleasant man in the whole universe, to tell you what, that he was disappointed? That he hoped you fell into a snow drift and froze to death?"
The sad thing was, she wasn't far from the truth.
"He couldn't retract the trust fund or change any of our shared accounts but I am no longer the heir of Pendragon Corporation," Arthur said as smoothly as he could. He wasn't bitter. It wasn't like he needed the job anymore, being summoned was a full-time and life long position, but still. It stung having it ripped from him with so little as a 'congratulations on meeting your ultimate life goal, only son'. Retrospectively, Arthur knew that 'I'm happy if you're happy' was never going to be a phrase employed by his father, but still—Geoffrey?
"Oh, Arthur."
He shook his head. The heavy dose of pity in her voice wasn't something he wanted.
"It's nothing. You should have seen the look on Leon's face," Arthur said, moving on. "He was murderous."
"Arthur—"
"And if it wasn't for Geoffrey being a slippery bastard, I'm fairly sure Leon would have knifed him with that horrible hunting thing he keeps sheathed on his ankle. I think I should—"
"Arthur—"
"No," he said, clipped and just this side of desperate. "I won't let this ruin my life, Morgana. He's our father but the North Pole is my destiny. I was made for this and I won't have his prejudices against magic and—"
"It's all right. I understand, Arthur."
Arthur wiped his face. He hadn't even realised he was crying.
"Yes, well," he said awkwardly, trying to calm his trembling chest. "Anyway, I leave tomorrow."
"Indeed you do."
She didn't sound nearly as cold as suspected. Arthur felt his own paranoia rise. "Did you get an invitation?"
"No, Arthur. I won't be ruining your big day."
"Why don't you sound more upset?"
He swore he heard a small laugh over the phone.
"Morgause thinks that Father Christmas is trying to move away from tradition by following the more fantastical whimsy of the Christmas Spirit."
Arthur didn't like the sound of that. There were traditions in place that were there for a reason. They weren't just flights of fancy by the Elfin Council, they were part of their heritage.
"I'm not sure I approve of that or even know what that means."
"You're such a fucking bore, Arthur. And a bit ungrateful, if it wasn't for Father Christmas' following of the Light, you wouldn't have been called in the first place," she said, this time her tone was just as scathing as expected. "What he's doing for you and for the rest of the world is beautiful. I've seen it."
He didn't even try to contain his sharp gasp.
"You had a vision?"
The last time she had a vision, his mother died.
"Yes but I'm not supposed to talk too much about it, especially to you. My only advice is to try not to be an enormous dick to everyone and remember, he chose you and he's got more Light in his pinky finger than you have in your entire body."
"Morgana, I can't believe you'd presume I would be—"
"Just, leave your fantasies at the door, Arthur. This is real and you can't control everything in your pathetic little life," she said softly, without heat. It almost sounded like advice instead of an insult. "Get some sleep."
"Yeah, I just... yeah. Thanks."
"Whatever."
It was a long time before he was able to fall asleep that night.
It was rare that Arthur travelled by Elfin magic. Mostly, it was because Elfin magic left strong traces and that would mean Arthur would glow, an act he liked to think was private, and that it was recorded. Lord Pendragon would have had a fit if he found Arthur's name on the registry before now. But since his relationship with his father was in a shambles and he was undoubtedly going to be glowing as soon as he got near the Polar Express, it seemed better than suffering through a plane ride.
Not to mention he was short on time.
Port-Tunnels worked rather a lot like the Tube. There were set stations all over the world and after purchasing and registering, you would walk to the station, find your platform and at the exact moment on your ticket, you'd start walking. A five minute walk would have you on the other side of the world and safely at your destination.
"This is madness."
Arthur fiddled with his suitcase and ignored Leon's bitching.
"Stop ignoring me or I'll hit you with my clipboard," Leon said, sounding bored as ever but the redness in his cheeks gave him away.
"Leon, are you nervous?"
The look on Leon's face was as if he'd sucked on a particularly sour lemon. "Behave, Mr. Pendragon, before I reroute the shipment that has the rest of your things to the South Pole."
"Hurry along, then," Arthur said, picking up his pace and rounding the corner to the station. 5am in New York was a busy time.
"I'm just trying to understand why we're up at five in the fucking morning, when we're travelling by magic, or really why I'm here at all, since I'm not the lunatic that was called to the North Pole."
Arthur smirked. "Are you honestly trying to tell me that you don't want to go?"
"If I see a polar bear, I'm telling them you taste a lot better than you look."
Twenty minutes later, they were walking through Victoria Station and Arthur was resisting the urge to plaster himself to the dirty floor of the station and kiss it. He was never more grateful to see so many bloody pigeons indoors in his entire life.
"I need coffee," Leon said, appearing next to him as he stared at the vast expanse of the station. "And we'll go through some points."
Arthur could only nod.
Nestled in a corner with some truly heaven-sent M&S coffee, Leon started waving his clipboard around again. Arthur vaguely wondered what they looked like to the rest of the world: Arthur in his three piece suit in muted colours except for his blood-red tie, black luggage rolling behind him with the air of business making sure to blend him into the rest of the London travellers; Leon in atrociously bright yellow, green and pink plaid shirt, rugged jeans, and a rucksack so beaten and frayed that Arthur was fairly certain he could see teeth marks from where reindeer had actually gnawed on the edges.
They were quite the pair.
"We'll arrive at approximately eleven tonight, if there aren't any delays, although I've heard a lot of rumours that there will be some famous passengers on this ride, so who knows," Leon said, rolling his eyes. "Your massive amounts of shit will have already arrived and I've hired some people to unpack for you. Your lodging isn't going to be exactly to your liking, sir, but seeing as how there are five hundred other elves living in the North Pole, you'll just have to make do. When we get there, I'll pick up keys and go register your snowmobile—"
With that, Leon made a pissy face.
"What is wrong with—"
"It's a noisy pollutant that scares the animals, disrupts nature and smells awful. I hate them. I hate you and you should be very grateful they let me have a part-time gig at the reindeer stables because I don't think I could handle you full-time in the North Pole, sir. I'm not joking about the polar bears," he growled out and made a very aggressive mark on his clipboard.
"Right. Would you rather I ski to get around? Maybe you think I would look particularly attractive with snowshoes?"
Leon stared at him blankly before moving on as if Arthur hadn't even spoken.
"There is a welcome breakfast the following morning and then a meeting with Father Christmas at 10:45, which I hope doesn't conflict with this breakfast thing," Leon said with a frown. "You elfin bunch tend to loiter at breakfast."
Arthur shook his head. "Wait, I'm meeting with Father Christmas tomorrow?"
"Sir, I know this may come as a shock to you, but you're an elf and you are going to work in the North Pole. It's been your lifetime goal, you're obnoxious about it and you want to give me a raise," Leon deadpanned.
"It's just the first I've heard of it," Arthur replied. And it was. God, meeting Father Christmas so soon? What could that mean? Was he getting his invitation retracted? Fuck, what was he going to wear?
And how embarrassing was it going to be if he glowed through the entire meeting?
"I got the email this morning, so don't yell at me. Now, after that I've got just as many meetings as you. I'll be giving you twice a day updates to your Blackberry and we'll have weekly meetings to go over your schedule, but for the most part, you'll be meeting with Gwendolyn Smith as your primary contact and general manager."
"Isn't she Father Christmas' secretary?"
"She's one of ten, sir. Don't get smart with me, alright?" Leon brandished his pen at Arthur. "She'll give you all the information you need to know about your assignments in the Pole. You'll be meeting with her just after your meeting with Father Christmas."
"Fine. What about Lance?"
Leon rolled his eyes and Arthur reached into his bag to grab some pain killers.
It was going to be a long morning.
Part 2
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Date: 2012-01-16 05:40 pm (UTC)OMG is Merlin SANTA!!!!?!?!?!
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