Score / Merthur

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

Football. Or, as the Americans called it, soccer (and as the British called them in turn: wrong). It was a game of skill, hard work, and muddied boots. It was also a game of fame. Everyone wanted to be the next new talent — the next national sensation — with their name splashed across the covers of glossy magazines and their calendars booked out with talk show appearances and red carpet events. They wanted champagne and cars and mansions. They wanted a life of extravagance.

It was a world away from Tintagel.

In fact, Tintagel in itself was a world away from anything: a tiny English village on the North Cornish coast. The place was picturesque. Post-card perfect, with its stone cottages and secluded beach, its cute cafés whose chips were perceptually stolen by seagulls, and its cliffs that rose like battlements out of the sea, cradling the ruins of an ancient castle. The castle defined the place. Rumoured to have housed the legendary King Arthur, it was the only thing that kept the village on the map. Without it, the place would have been utterly unheard of.

The village had an obsession. Pubs were named in honour of the King. Shops, too. Car parks. Hotels. Cafés. Football teams.

People.

And so, as luck would have it, the lead striker and captain of the local football team — The Knights — was none other than Arthur Pendragon. It was like a cosmic joke. And it only got worse from there. The other strikers were Mordred and Morgana. The midfielders were Morgause (Morgana's twin), Elyan, and Gwaine. The defenders were Freya, Leon, Gwen — names which, in themselves, were passably normal — and Percival. The goalkeeper was Lancelot.

But the real icing on the cake was the team photographer: Merlin Emrys.

"Perhaps it's fate," Gwaine had mused, back when he'd handed Merlin the flyer for the photography position.  "Like there's some sort of rift in the heart of the village, and we're all lost souls from Camelot, re-awoken in the twenty-first century, destined to find each other again.  We just need you to complete the set."

Merlin had snorted.  "It's not destiny.  Our parents just had a horrible sense of irony."

"Destiny, irony — what's the difference?  The point is, we need you.  Those photography skills of yours could really help our team image.  Besides, we already have some sponsorship for next season, and all our accommodation for away games will be paid for, so not only do you get to hang out with us, but you get to do it for free."

"Gwaine?"

"Yeah?"

"We live together.  I hang out with you for free every day."

"Exactly — you have all the necessary experience.  There's no one better qualified for the job."

And so, despite being weighed down with university classes — and very much against his better judgement — Merlin had agreed to become the team photographer. Now, six months down the line, he was surprised to find himself genuinely enjoying it.

For starters, he got on well with the team.  All of them were in their early-twenties. Some of them had jobs or attended university or, in most cases, both. And so football was a hobby. A pass-time.  Inconsequential.  Yet they gave their hearts to it.  They practised rain or shine, came home late with the darkness or left with the first rays of dawn, and somehow still found time to sleep. 

Merlin admired their dedication.

Then there were the away games.  Gwaine had been right about those.  Every few weeks, Merlin was whisked away with the team, out of the village in which he'd spent most of his life, and in to some place new.  They went to Abergavenny first — a small Welsh town on the English border.  Then to Fairford in the Cotswolds, with its humble rivers and rolling hills.  Then to Malvern, which had captivated the great Tolkien.  And then the places they visited got bigger and further away.  Cardiff.  Bristol.  Birmingham.  Even Oxford, once.