Chapter Text
As far as Arthur is concerned, it started like this: Morgana leaning on the polished counter of the bar with both hands on it, fingers spread out in ownership as she puts her weight on it to press in on Arthur’s space. He merely looked at her, not stepping back, because he did own the space, after all. And in any case, there was the counter between them.
“Arthur, I’ve made a few changes on the performers’ schedule next week,” she said, raising her chin, daring him to question her actions, “I found quite the talent on the street, and I rather thought that providing a stage would be better than just handing some loose change.”
“The difference being that I’m the one paying this talent now,” Arthur replied, pulling out a glass for himself. He’s not much of a bartender, but even he knows how to open a bottle and pour the contents on a glass, and lately he’s been seeing videos on Youtube on how to mix drinks. He likes to know how every part of his business works, and he doubts it’s the kind of skill he’ll regret learning.
“My thoughts exactly,” his sister said, grabbing his glass and pulling it out of his reach, taking a sip. “I’ll email you the new schedule as soon as I have it all figured out.”
Arthur glared at the drink in her hand, before taking out another glass for himself. “Are they good?”
“Like nothing you’ve ever seen.”
Arthur doubted that, but he trusts Morgana’s eye for talent, so he didn’t think to question her further. He didn’t even check the changes she made, not apart from glancing at the names, and as all she did was move a few shows to fit some band on the stage, he wasn’t very concerned. He did hire her for a reason.
A week later, Arthur wishes he had paid more attention to the issue at hand, because the old man coming up on stage doesn’t quite look what he was expecting. Arthur’s sitting on the far back of the bar, and the light of his tablet is set on low to not disturb the clients close by as he opens the email with the new schedule, scrolling down the list to today’s date.
Thursday, 10 pm – Dragoon
Arthur frowns, he had assumed Morgana had made a typo, and hired some sort of band or act named Dragon, but glancing up for a moment as the old man, with long white beard and hair, and a surprisingly clear voice that announces himself as Dragoon the Great, before stepping away from the microphone, Arthur’s proven wrong. Closing his tablet, he keeps his attention on stage, his frown growing as he notices the old man’s sharp suit, and the tall top hat on his head. What kind of nonsense did Morgana bring into his club?
And to his horror, the man pulls out the hat from his head, twirling it in his hands with a quick movement, and then showing the audience its inside. He holds it by the brim with one hand, the other spread above, fingers flexing and opening quickly. He stills for a moment, to wink at the audience, and then closes his eyes, his hand going inside the hat, and then he pulls out a white rabbit from it, by the skin behind its neck, and the fluffy thing looks calmly at the audience, ears twitching up. The hat goes back to Dragoon’s head, and he holds the rabbit in his arms, petting its head.
Arthur stands up quickly, the noise his chair makes as it is forced back barely noticeable among the applause around him, and he doesn’t look to see Dragoon bowing as Arthur scans the perimeter, looking for his sister. She’s closer to the stage, by the counter of the bar again, a glass of wine in her hand and a very smug look on her face. Arthur hates it instantly.
“Morgana,” he hisses her name slowly once he reaches her, “what is this?”
“This is the talent I’ve found on the streets, brother dearest,” Morgana barely affords him a glance, “I told you all about him a while ago didn’t I?”
The audience gasps as Dragoon seemingly pulls a cane from out of nowhere, and Arthur grits his teeth.
“You told me you found a talent, not an old man with cheap tricks!” he forces his voice to stay low, but his disgust is still there.
“An old man with cheap tricks?” she leans away, eyebrows high as she tilts her head to look down on him, as if she actually could do such a thing, she’s hardly tall enough. “Arthur, he’s nothing of the sort. In any case, everyone loves him.”
And as if just to prove her point, the audience claps enthusiastically as Dragoon hovers on the stage. Arthur hates how real it looks, he hates the way they’re all being fooled, and he particularly hates Morgana, but that part is never new.
“He’s doing magic tricks,” Arthur turned away from the stage, standing in front of her, “he pulled a rabbit out of a hat, for God’s sake!”
“It’s a show like any other—“
“This is my establishment, Morgana, you know how I feel about—“
“I know what Uther feels on the issue,” Morgana replies quickly, stepping closer, their tones still low enough not to disturb the people around them, only just barely, “but as you said, Excalibur is your club, not his.”
And Arthur truly, truly hates her. Excalibur had been his own project from the very beginning, and Arthur had poured his very soul into it even when he had been working at his father’s theatre, Camelot, making the money he needed to get started on his own. Excalibur club was his work, and now it had a magician on its stage, when an actual performance should be enjoyed.
“I’m not paying him,” Arthur says, “this comes out of your salary.”
“Arthur—“
“You know how I feel on this issue, Morgana. You’re lucky I’m not dragging him out of the stage right now.”
“Why would you? Your clients are loving him.” Morgana puts a hand on his arm, “His show lasts half an hour, and you have never seen a magic show, have you? Sit around and enjoy while it lasts, will you?”
He steps out of her reach, “I’m keeping an eye on this so I can intervene at the slightest complaint.”
“Whatever you tell yourself, brother,” Morgana takes another sip, looking smug once more, and Arthur has very little patience for it, so he moves down the counter, to be further away from her, and orders a drink from Elyan.
He watches his friend prepare the drink, the fluid movements of his hands, trying to keep it in memory to try it on his own later on, and against his will, his eyes are instead dragged towards the stage, widening as Dragoon makes the light from the candles on the client’s tables rise from it and float around the stage. The flames shifts as they travel, smoke rising above them, and Arthur hates that Morgana is right – he never quite saw anything like it.
He should fire her.
Instead he drinks in silence, glaring at the glass as Elyan applauds along with the clients at the next trick Dragoon makes, and Arthur does his best not to feel betrayed. The old man isn’t flashy in his performance, as Arthur always expected magicians to be, never uttering a word, and closing his eyes every time he does a trick.
Soon enough the show ends, with Dragoon coming to the microphone once more and thanking everyone for their time. He bows awkwardly to the applause, and there’s something off about him, the way he moves, as if Dragoon is younger than he appears. Arthur takes his eyes away from him, presuming it’s just another trick Dragoon brings to the table, and his attention goes back to the glass on the counter once the magician left the stage.
He swirls the drink for a moment, watching the ice cubes move against the glass, and then downs the whole thing at once. He’s asking Elyan for another drink, something lighter, because it doesn’t do to drink too much at work, when someone sits down on the bench next to his.
“Same for me, please.”
Arthur turns to look at the man sitting next to him, and lets his eyes roam for a moment. Long and thin, lanky, really, pale skin and with a mop of dark hair, ridiculous ears barely covered by it, and Arthur is just about to dismiss him when the man turns his head to look back at him, with striking blue eyes, and cheekbones, and full lips stretch into a smile. He’s not handsome, especially by conventional means, but there’s something about him that Arthur can’t quite put his finger on.
“Did you enjoy the show?” he asks, looking quite pleased about it himself, glancing down a moment to fix his white shirt, before his attentive look returns to Arthur.
“Not at all,” Arthur replies at once, and ignoring the way Elyan shakes his head at him, as he’s handed his drink. He’s not going to lie to please a stranger, and it’s certainly not his fault the other asked.
The man frowns a bit, his smile fading. “Why not?”
“Magic tricks are ridiculous,” Arthur says, looking at him, waving a hand in the air in dismissal, “I have nothing personal against the… performer, but I’d rather have seen some real art on the stage.”
He raises his eyebrows as the man’s cheeks colour rather rosy, the man looking far more offended than he should be by the comment. “Real art?”
“Tonight we were supposed to enjoy a jazz band performing live. Instead… “
“Nobody seemed to be put out,” the man replies sharply, glaring at him. “Everyone else seemed to enjoy the show.”
“I wouldn’t call it a show,” Arthur says.
“And I wouldn’t call you bright,” the man replies, an elbow on the counter as he leans in, his tone a bit lower, but still as sharp.
Arthur lets out a laugh, affronted. “Then I’d call you tasteless, for enjoying that kind of nonsense. He won’t perform here again, if I have any say.”
“And who do you think you are? The art police?”
“No, I’m the club owner, Arthur Pendragon.”
He takes a sip of his drink, rather pleased with the dumb look on the man’s face, who leans back, hand moving on the counter to grab his own drink. Arthur doesn’t understand why this man takes so personally Arthur’s disdain for Dragoon and his performance, and he might be oddly attractive, but Arthur doesn’t back down. He’s strangely eager when the man opens his mouth to finally reply to that, when they’re interrupted.
“Arthur! And Merlin,” Morgana reaches them, standing so she’s right next to them both, one hand on Arthur’s back, the other on the man’s—Merlin’s shoulder. “You two have met, what a pity. I was looking forward to introducing you two.”
Merlin gets up, and holds a smile for her, like the kind Arthur got only when he first saw him. “Thanks for inviting me here, Morgana.”
“Nonsense,” she says, moving to rest her hand on his arm, “I’m very glad I did, it was a pleasure.”
Arthur sighs, very uninterested in the conversation now, not really keen on watching his sister flirt. “You invited him?”
“Of course I did, Arthur, I told you so.” She turns to Merlin before Arthur can deny that, smiling back at him. “I hope my brother here wasn’t terribly rude to you, he can be quite something.”
“He’s a prat.” Merlin says, not even sparing him a glance.
Morgana laughs, delighted, and starts taking him away. “It doesn’t take long to see that, does it?”
Arthur firmly ignores them as they leave, turning to his drink again, and wishing he wasn’t so damn responsible so he could just order something strong. He tries to distract himself, looking at the stage where a band is setting their things up, and suddenly he feels pressure on the back of his neck, and turns to see Morgana looking at him, from the table she’s sitting in with Merlin, a glint in her eyes that has Arthur hoping that whatever she’s plotting this time won’t bother him too much.
His eyes land on Merlin for a moment, who looks annoyed and confused. It’s not an odd reaction when in Morgana’s presence, and Arthur pulls away from the sight, turning to Elyan again. He doesn’t see Merlin again that night and he notices that more than he probably should.
Everything that happens in his life after that night, is a clear consequence of Morgana’s actions.
The problem with Dragoon is far from over. Several clients ask the staff, and Arthur himself when the magician will return, disappointed that his name isn’t listed on next week’s performers. Arthur ignores when it’s his sister that brings that information, but George always relates the questions people ask as he serves them, and Elyan comments about the show almost a week later, and Percival says people look at the schedule by the door and then ask him if Dragoon will return, and Leon, Leon who should be the most loyal of them all, Leon suggests bringing him back.
And Arthur feels betrayed by them all enough, blames his sister for everything, but the worst part is when Mr. Kilgharrah one evening calls Arthur to his table, and asks him if he got a contract with the magician while he could.
“The warlock should be working here, young Pendragon,” the elder man says, grabbing his coffee cup, ignoring the smoke rising from it and drinking it all down at once. Arthur doesn’t wince because he’s used to seeing Mr. Kilgharrah swallowing down things that should burn down the throat as if he was drinking a cool beer in the heat of the summer. “There’s something special about him, and you would do well to bring it to Excalibur.”
And Arthur doesn’t hate Kilgharrah because he has a soft spot for the old man who, after retiring from Camelot Theatre, became the first investor and client of Excalibur, providing Arthur with everything he learnt in the long years he worked for his father. He has the habit to be too vague for Arthur’s taste, and the smell of cigars clings to him at all times, but he has a keen eye for talent, and Arthur has learnt that it’s something to not be ignored.
“You could be entering a golden age, bringing prosper to the business,” he continues, giving Arthur a pointed look, “must you live in your father’s shadow still?”
Arthur looks away. Excalibur might be the fruit of his labour, and he might have done it all on his own, but his last name still carries a weight that he can’t shake off. He knows that there are booking he manages because the artists hope for a chance to catch his father’s eye instead, and many of the contacts he has came from his father.
And yet, Excalibur is nothing like Camelot. His father has taught Arthur a lot, and he takes pride in him, but Arthur knows he’s not the same man as him. Uther would never open his stage for bands or acts that have no name yet, and it’s rare that he strays from the classics, both in music and theatre, rarely tolerating jazz, much less any other kind of performance. Camelot is set within white, prestige walls and velvet chairs, and Excalibur, at least to Arthur, is a warmer place to be, with wooden floorings, the red walls, a sleek silver colour on the counter of the bar, the round tables spread across the room, ending a few meters before the stage, so there’s a space to dance if the performance allows it. But his father’s lessons stick with him, and although Arthur knows things don’t have to be classical to be good, it doesn’t mean magic tricks fit into it.
The stage is made for the performing arts, and magicians are no artists.
Mr. Kilgharrah flickers a finger over the flame of the candle set on his table, and Arthur doesn’t get how he can have his finger so close to the fire without burning. His own fingers curl into his palms just by watching him, and then he relaxes his hands, limp by his sides, once Mr. Kilgharrah looks at him knowingly.
“.. I’ll think about it,” Arthur concedes at last.
It takes two more days for him to call Morgana, in the afternoon, so he doesn’t have to see her smug look when he finally relents. “You can bring him back,” he says as soon as she picks up.
“Bring who?” she asks, her voice dripping with fake innocence, “and hello to you too, brother, how are you doing?”
“You know who.”
“The Globins? I thought you said the band wanted too much for their performance.”
“They did and I don’t want them either way,” Arthur rubs a hand over his forehead, “I’m still certain it was them who clogged the toilets.”
“And ruined the walls of the dressing room, I’m sure,” she agreed. “Then who is it?”
“…The magician,” Arthur looks firmly at the wall of his office as he speaks, doing his best not to imagine his sister’s smirk.
“Really now? Arthur, had a change of heart?”
“Monday night, half an hour, and he can’t repeat tricks. Once he’s out of tricks, he’s out of a job,” Arthur says, ignoring her reply, “those are my conditions.”
“I’ll talk with him and let you know what we can get,” she says, sounding far too pleased for Arthur’s taste.
“And not a word to father,” Arthur says firmly, actually pointing a finger forward, and stopping once he realizes it.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Morgana replies, humming. “I’ll call you back, Arthur.”
He grunts as a reply and hangs up, dropping the phone on his desk, hoping he has made the right decision.