Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5097695.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Merlin_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Merlin/Arthur_Pendragon_(Merlin), Merlin/Arthur_Pendragon
  Character:
      Merlin_(Merlin), Arthur_Pendragon_(Merlin), Leon_(Merlin), Gwaine_
      (Merlin), Percival_(Merlin), Mordred_(Merlin), Kilgharrah_(Merlin), Freya
      (Merlin), Morgana_(Merlin), Morgause_(Merlin), Nimueh_(Merlin), Lancelot_
      (Merlin), Aredian_(Merlin)
  Additional Tags:
      Religious_Fanaticism, Religious_Imagery_&_Symbolism, Occult, Antichrist,
      Alternate_Universe_-_Magic, Dark_Magic, Angels, Fallen_Angels, Demons,
      Nephilim, Kidnapping, Torture, Violence, Murder, Rough_Sex, Ritual_Sex,
      Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Dubious_Morality
  Series:
      Part 1 of The_Wicked_Man
  Collections:
      Merlin_Horror--2015
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-10-31 Words: 66321
****** Following the Beast ******
by Footloose, mushroomtale
Summary
     Arthur grew up surrounded by emotionless attendants, was forced to
     suppress his true nature, and was regularly trotted out as a special-
     occasion showpiece for the entertainment of pedantic mortals. As he
     approaches adulthood, he decides that it's time for him to break free
     of the leash and to take his rightful place on the throne.
     There are agents of Heaven and Hell who would stop him. His own half-
     sister desires the power for herself. His human father refuses to
     allow Arthur out of his control. The Fallen sperm donor responsible
     for Arthur's existence wants to take his place.
     Arthur's young. His power has yet to mature. All the allies he has
     made and the loyal men who follow him won't be enough to protect him
     until he can build the Kingdom he has dreamed of since he was a
     child.
     He needs the help of the person who makes angels and demons quaver in
     fear at the mere mention of his name. Of the broken, down-trodden man
     who is now a pale shade of the terror he had been decades ago. He
     needs Merlin, and Arthur has every intention of making Merlin his.
Notes
     Following the Beast wouldn't exist if it hadn't first been inspired
     by Mushroomtale's beautiful artwork, In The Name of the Father. My
     thanks go to, first and foremost, Mushroomtale, who not only allowed
     me to use this artwork for inspiration, but who was a wonderful
     cheerleader and a sounding board for plot ideas. If that wasn't
     enough, she went above and beyond and added more artwork to go with
     this story.
     I'd like to thank Jsea for the beta and La_Temperenza and
     Val_Creative for running the Merlin Horror 2015 fest.
     Ebooks have been compiled for .mobi and .ePub and include all of the
                       artwork. The download links are:
                                        
                                 Kindle_(mobi)
                                        
                                 iBook_(ePub)
     =====================================================================
  This work was inspired by
      Fanart:_In_The_Name_of_The_Father by mushroomtale
 
 
 
 
                        [Following the Beast cover art]
 
 
 
 
                                        
 
 
Red skies in morning, sailor's warning --
Tentacles lashed out of the darkness and knocked Merlin off his feet. Another
appendage whipped out and wrapped around his throat before he could raise his
arms to defend himself, choking him as it squeezed tighter and tighter.
He managed enough air to curse, and the slick tree-trunk tentacle around his
neck slackened. Merlin dropped and rolled away, free.
The creature pulled itself out of the narrow hole in the ground, its body
expanding as it emerged.
Merlin reconsidered. He was free.
For now.
He ran at the witch. The witch didn't see him coming; the collision was enough
to disrupt the minor summoning. The creature managed one last whip's strike at
Merlin, and the slash across the back of his thighs was so blindingly painful
that Merlin let the witch go.
The witch scrambled away and resumed his incantations. Merlin struggled to his
feet, his hand hitting something hard.
The witch's athamé.
Merlin grabbed it. Corrupted magic seeped into his hand, through him --
And Merlin's own magic, buried deep down and locked in a spiritual cage, howled
in outrage at the intrusion.
His attention was torn between ensuring that his magic didn't break free from
the chains he himself had put on it and casting a hex to prevent the athamé
from tainting his aura and using him as part of the sacrifice. In the
distraction, he lost sight of the witch, but those low-toned and whispered
chants were coming from somewhere.
When Merlin had first heard the stirrings that someone of modest power intended
on raising a demon from the lowest spheres of Hell, he'd dismissed them as
nothing but unsubstantiated rumours. Accessing the lowest spheres required an
uncommon incantation, and most of the intricate spell work had been destroyed
at the turn of the century by the Cult of the Rising Dawn.
Despite how thorough the Rising Dawn had been in their cutthroat quest to
eliminate every avenue to Hell, they'd missed the Confractus Codex.
That same Codex was stolen from a private collector of Merlin's arcane
acquaintance two days and seven hours ago.
Merlin whirled around at a squelching sound. He saw the tentacle creature
emerging from the hole in the ground. The earth's crust and natural energies
was the only obstacle to free passage between the realms, but it had been split
open and the tear was widening.
He had an idle thought that the creature should bloat and collapse without the
deep sea pressures keeping it together.
Instead, the creature grew. The more it emerged, the larger it became. A hard
beak with sharp teeth, spiky tentacles, narrow-slit eyes.
Merlin exhaled and shook his head.
"Of course," he said.
It couldn't be easy. It was never fucking easy.
He was underprepared. The handful of paper wards -- drawn in Japanese kanji
using a mixture of indigo ink and ground tortoiseshell -- had missed their mark
and were lost in the wind. The counter-ritual he'd painted on his body hadn't
dried properly and was smeared uselessly. He hadn't even thought of bringing a
gun.
A gun was really fucking handy in a magic fight.
The creature emerged fully from the pit. Its mere presence was a drowning
pressure in Merlin's chest. The temptation to use the ceremonial knife he'd
taken out of the witch's hand was overwhelming, but he knew if he tainted the
blood already on the blade, he would never be able to stop the witch from
summoning the demon from the lower planes.
Merlin stumbled backward to relieve the pressure, tripping through the
shoddily-built pentacle and into blazing, sulfuric flames. The leg of Merlin's
trousers caught on fire, but he was distracted from the pain when the squid-
creature caught him by the throat again. He clawed the suckers from his throat
and scrambled free, shaking out his burning leg as he scrambled to get away.
Where the fuck was that witch?
Another tentacle struck and sent Merlin careening into the jagged edge of a
cheap bargain-store table that had been dragged into the city park for use as a
sacrificial altar. Merlin slipped across the blood-slick surface, nearly
dropping the knife.
Turning, Merlin raised his arm and shouted, "Hursha th'ku ewwei --"
An enchantment curled around his body, forming a tangle of invisible brambles
that spread out. Merlin gasped, shoving at the brambles with his free hand. He
choked as the lengths wrapped around his chest and struggled backward on weak
legs. He slipped on a pentacle stone and crumpled against the jagged edge of
the makeshift altar. The table bowed under his weight, creaking as if it would
break, but held him upright as the witch crushed Merlin as if he were an
aluminum soda can. The brambles cut through his clothes and skin as if he were
coiled in barbed wire.
Without the painted ritual on his body, Merlin was going to have to perform the
reversal the slow way. But he couldn't concentrate on the casting and save
himself at the same time, so he went for the only viable option.
He raised the bloodied blade of the athamé, his arm trembling to keep it
parallel with the horizon, and cast the rite.
Every syllable was rewarded by a vice-like squeeze that never lessened.
Sibilants were bare, breathy hisses, glottal clicks were gasps of pain,
gutturals were accompanied by the groaning cracks of ribs splintering,
breaking, shattering.
Red skies in morning, shepherd's warning --
The ground split open beneath Merlin's feet. The witch smirked and moved away.
The ritual didn't need more power to summon the creature, not at this stage,
and all the witch needed to do was to keep Merlin from shutting it down.
Merlin's vision blackened around the edges. He saw stars. His limbs trembled,
he was light-headed, and he was going to be the demon's first meal.
He managed the last few words, though the last syllable was a breathy whisper.
The ground shook as the demon fought to breach this plane before Merlin could
complete the banishing. Merlin only needed to do one more thing. Just one.
But he couldn't move.
He barely felt the ground crumbling at his feet, too startled by the witch's
appearance across the clearing. The lights were going out all around him and he
couldn't be sure if it was because of the dark magic in the air or because he
was losing consciousness -- probably the latter. He dug deep, deep down for the
last vestiges of his strength, pouring all of his focus and will into the
reversal.
His magic broke loose.
"No!"
Merlin dropped the ritual and reached out to contain his magic, but the
floodgates had opened and refused to close. His magic danced around him,
teasing, taunting, free. It evaded his grasp, refusing to be contained, wanting
to be used.
A monstrous, three-fingered hand reached through the fires contained by the
pentagram and slapped down onto the ground. The earth shook. A tree fell.
It was too late to try the ritual again. Merlin glanced at his hands. At the
blue-white lights that were as bright as galaxies in the night sky. At the fan
of flames licking up his arms, just as cutting and dangerous as he remembered.
More than fifteen years had passed since he'd shaped and forged his magic into
a weapon capable of merciless and absolute destruction. Ten years since lashing
out at his best friend and coming to the cold realization that his magic wasn't
a weapon -- that he had become the weapon. He hadn't used his magic since the
day he buried Will.
The ground shook as the demon continued to emerge.
Merlin didn't have anything left. No alternative magical option, no defense, no
recourse. Pride, more than anything else, kept him from running away from a
two-bit witch who had succeeded in summoned a demon powerful enough to cause
some serious damage. He wasn't afraid of dying, but it was fear that drove him
to stay alive, because his past transgressions had closed the doors of Heaven
and his soul had nowhere else to go but down, down, down.
Right where he'd banished countless other demons who were waiting for death to
deliver him to eternal damnation.
He was not going to be a demon's bitch.
"I'm sorry, Will," Merlin whispered.
He threw his magic at the Cthulhu knock-off creeping around the clearing in an
attempt to escape the rising demon. The blue-white light flared out in flames,
tumbling head over heel like a two-headed axe, thudding into the creature.
Tentacles lashed defensively before collapsing.
 
 
 
 
The witch gaped at Merlin.
The earth trembled as the demon reached for purchase and hauled itself out of
the pit.
Merlin corralled his magic and redirected it, battering at the witch's
enchantment. At any other time, the ritual would be shredded, the summoning
collapsing under the sheer might of Merlin's magic. But it had been too long
since he had used his magic like this, and a moment of uncertainty was all that
the demon needed to pull itself out of the pit --
Merlin turned without thinking.
He threw the athamé.
Blood for blood, sacrifice for sacrifice.
The magic hanging in the air shattered. Symbols drawn in the ether and visible
only to the Gifted disintegrated. Some collapsed; others unwrote themselves,
the lines and squiggles erasing in the same order they had been cast.
The demon roared. It clambered desperately, clawing for purchase, only to get
sucked down.
The ground burbled dirt and sand, spat out a turbulent and desperate splutter
of heat, crumbling silently until the uneven circle within the pentagram
stopped churning entirely.
It was over.
The demon was banished. The ritual interrupted. The witch dead -- Merlin didn't
need to check for a pulse for confirmation.
He leaned against the bloody table, gasping for air. He didn't want to move.
Everything hurt when he did.
He couldn't stay.
Someone would have heard the commotion. Someone would come by. They'd notice
the russet brown stains in the dawning light and follow the tracks to bodies.
Merlin's fingerprints were all over the place. On the table, on the rocks, on
the hilt of the athamé. Traces of his DNA -- blood and skin and hair -- were
everywhere. His magic, not seen for the better part of a decade, was still
easily recognizable by those who knew how to pick it apart and match the
signature to the wielder. He might as well have rubber-stamped his name on the
destruction and the dead body.
He staggered away, grunting in pain with every step. He leaned against a tree.
That someone would come sniffing around the ritual site to find out what
happened was inevitable. They might even track it back to him. Merlin could
deal with other magic users, but the last thing he needed was for the police to
find his prints, run them through the database, and come knocking on his door.
He was too beat up and too damn tired to deal with a long interrogation session
that would leave the police without answers and Merlin locked up on murder
charges.
And yet…
A long prison sentence in cramped quarters was more appealing than the prospect
of a future hunting down more power-tripping magic users. For all of his sins,
imprisonment was the least that Merlin deserved. But Merlin knew he couldn't
live with himself if he hid behind concrete walls for the next twenty to sixty
years while the world was nicely packed in a handcrafted basket and shipped off
to Hell by power-hungry sorcerers, vindictive Celestials, and bored demons.
With a reluctant sigh, Merlin used his magic to wipe out every indication that
he'd even been there, and tried not to think too much about how easy it was to
fall back into old habits.
Merlin located and retrieved the Codex. He limped away before someone saw him,
the book tucked under his trench coat. He raised the collar to block the wind,
and hoped that if he ran into someone, they wouldn't take a close look at the
stains.
He paused at the edge of the park. The cityscape was a broken line in the
distance, misty steam rising up toward the dark hills, dissipating into the
pink-yellow hue of a sky rapidly draining of red. He breathed in relief. The
clear skies were a good sign.
The kerb was a precipice that left him staggering as he crossed the road. He
crashed into a building and held on for dear life. He reached under his coat
only to draw away with a palm full of fresh blood from magical injuries that
should have healed by now.
"I just need some sleep," he told himself, and tried to remember where he left
his car. A block north? Two?
He crossed another street, missing a step when his legs buckled under him.
Tires screeched, horns honked, impatient drivers shouted for him to Get out of
the fucking way. He gestured weakly, tried to push himself to his feet, but he
didn't have the strength.
A car backed away from Merlin and rumbled past. Merlin rolled onto his side and
closed his eyes.
A ten-second nap. That was all he needed. Ten seconds.
Gentle hands stroked his face. Brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.
Patted his cheek multiple times.
"Wake up, darling."
Merlin groaned and pulled away. "Nine more seconds."
A heavy sigh. "Of course, you'd be difficult about this. Come on. At least
pretend to cooperate with me."
Merlin didn't know who rolled him onto his side. If he was the one who stood up
on his own or if those fleeting touches down his legs were real. His world went
off-kilter in a blur of jerky motions. The pavement. The traffic stripes. A
stop sign.
Blond hair. Blue eyes. An exasperated, fond smile.
Designer shoes, pressed trousers.
"Let's get you home."
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Arthur sighed.
A bottle of brown sauce. A six pack of beer. A carton of eggs with only two
eggs left. Three packets of soy sauce. A Styrofoam container of mouldy,
unidentifiable take-away.
Arthur had begun this little side endeavour with one goal and one only: to see
whether the old stories about Merlin were true. As pleased as he was that his
little ploy had worked in proving the naysayers wrong that Merlin's magic
hadn't been depleted, only suppressed, he couldn't help but to feel thoroughly
disillusioned by the contents of Merlin's refrigerator.

Clearly, given Merlin's show of near-complete lack of self-preservation that
morning, Arthur couldn't also expect him to be taking proper care of himself.
Arthur closed the refrigerator door and tried the icebox. He was pleased to
find a bag of peas, but that small victory turned sour when he noticed the
stains across the brand name and the field of green, forming a handprint that
ended with the fingertips pointing at the nutritional information.
Old blood.
The blood was a sign that Merlin's survival instinct had never properly
developed. Arthur would have to work on that.
Briefly, Arthur considered cutting his losses and moving on. His research had
turned up several other potential candidates, though none of them had been
anywhere as promising as Merlin. If even a tenth of the stories he'd heard
about Merlin were true, there were no sorcerers, alive or dead, who could
compare to him on any level.
It would be ridiculous for Arthur to settle for second best, given the
circumstances. He was running out of time. Merlin would have to do. A little
manipulation would be required to secure Merlin's unwavering loyalty, but it
was a small price to pay in exchange for freedom from Uther's band of Satanic
followers and an additional layer of safety against his half-sister's
machinations.
Growing up in a sheltered household and surrounded by stern tutors, solicitous
believers, and greedy stakeholders had been a necessity for both his education
and protection. Those interactions had been amusing and entertaining, at first,
but as Arthur grew older, he began to see them as tiresome annoyances.
Uther had somehow gotten it in his head that he had absolute control over
Arthur, that he would reap his advantages for decades to come. He hadn't
sacrificed his beloved wife for nothing. Uther Pendragon's vision of the future
was one where he was not only in power, but in command, with Arthur as his
pawn.
Arthur had had quite enough of being told what to do and how. It was time to
strike out on his own. Arthur was destined to rule a kingdom on earth, but
there wouldn't be a kingdom to rule if he didn't build it first. He'd already
begun, right under Uther's nose, usurping connections, associates, and even
loyal men and women who provided him with anything and everything he needed.
Uther would lock Arthur up in punishment if he knew that Arthur's well-
positioned "friends" weren't human at all, but a growing army of nephilim
flocking to his banner
There was one thing that Arthur needed before he could break away completely,
and that was to acquire a weapon capable of countering any agents that Heaven
or Hell would send to stop Arthur from succeeding. All the artefacts of old had
been destroyed or lost, but there was one person, just one, who could make
angels and demons alike quake merely by saying his name.
Emrys.
No, Arthur decided. He would see this through. The nephilim who counselled and
supported Arthur had expressed reservations about his choice, but after seeing
Merlin in action, Arthur knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Merlin was the
perfect candidate.
There was something about him. It felt right.
Arthur tilted his head and studied Merlin. Merlin was splayed out on the sofa,
lean and long-limbed, broad-shouldered and solid.
While Arthur's decision to convert Merlin to his cause came from coveting
Merlin's reputation and power, he wasn't blind. Merlin was attractive. Older,
just as Arthur liked them. Slim and muscular. Blue eyes like the darkest waters
and a pretty mouth.
The down-on-his-luck wardrobe, however, was off-putting. With a bit of spit and
polish, Merlin would be absolutely devastating. No one would question his right
to stand at Arthur's side as his Right Hand.
Perhaps also as his Consort.
Consort.
Arthur inclined his head. He could easily imagine Merlin beneath him, holding
his knees up and away while Arthur fucked him relentlessly. Or perhaps above
him, barely able to hold himself up while he fucked down on Arthur's cock.
He'd selected Merlin for his kingdom because he was intelligent. He was
educated. He was loyal, though those loyalties needed to be redirected to more
appropriate parties. He was also very powerful. He possessed all the traits
that Arthur admired.
He glanced to Merlin's crotch. His belt had several additional holes and those
trousers hung on too-thin hips, but the bulge was legitimate.
Merlin had quite a nice cock. The private investigator under Arthur's employ
had had no qualms about taking all sorts of photographs.
Yes. Arthur smiled to himself, pleased with his choice. His smile faded when he
took in just how badly injured Merlin was, and he tsked in patronizing
disapproval.
"I don't condone this reckless behaviour," Arthur said, walking over to the
corner of the debilitated apartment that passed as the living room. "You have
so much potential, and yet you squander it on people who will never know the
lengths you take to keep them safe. They'll never appreciate you the way you
deserve."
 
 
 
 
 
Arthur carefully put the frozen peas on the swelling on Merlin's cheek. Merlin
didn't so much as flinch in his sleep.
"Oh, darling," Arthur said with a sigh. He picked up Merlin's legs and slid
them sideways on the beat-up couch. The musty knit blanket thrown over the arm
didn't look to be long enough to properly drape over Merlin's body, but it did
a fine job of covered up a clawed gouge in the cheap fabric.
The flat was in shambles. Most of the light bulbs were burned out. The block
windows were smeared with dirt. The cement floor hadn't been swept in a dog's
age, it seemed, and the only surfaces not coated with a good finger of dust
hosted veritable miniature cities of empty bottles of cheap whiskey and
ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts.
This wouldn't do. Arthur reached in his pocket and palmed his mobile. He tapped
through his extensive contacts and rang it through.
"Yes, my liege?" The voice on the other line was sleepy, but alert. There was a
loud rustle of fabric, as if someone was scrambling out of bed as if preparing
to genuflect.
Arthur glanced heavenward, suppressing his annoyance. George had been among the
first to jump ships, quietly moving from Uther's employ to Arthur's. His
loyalty and service was without fault. The permanent simper in his voice,
however, grated on Arthur's nerves, and he felt his mouth curling into a snarl.
Arthur was distracted by the ward painted on the ceiling. He tilted his head in
interest and glanced down; a similar ward was on the floor, an almost mirror-
perfect replica. Faint magic linked the two marks, ready to feed off any
supernatural who trespassed.
Arthur smiled. He'd known his Merlin was clever. Any angel or demon breaking
into Merlin's domain would fall to his absolute mercy.
"My liege?" George asked, trepidation in his voice.
Arthur's pleasure in discovering that Merlin did, in fact, possess some self-
preservation instincts, faded at being prompted. Still, his voice was neutral
and flat when he spoke. "Good morning, George. Did I wake you?"
"No, my liege," George said. "I am yours, my liege. My life and my time are
yours."
"So they are," Arthur said. He hummed thoughtfully. "I will text you an address
shortly. You will wait outside until the occupant vacates the premises. When he
leaves, you will clean the flat and replenish the stores. You will ensure that
he does not see you and that you are not caught. Do you understand?"
"Yes, my liege," George said earnestly.
"You'll have time to do a quick shop before you come by. Assume that there are
no cleaning supplies. Pick up some groceries. The usual staples. Nothing
complicated." Arthur doubted that Merlin had ever made himself a decent meal in
his life, but, surely, he could manage a bowl of cereal or sandwiches. He
glanced around and made a face. The place was a pit. "Get a first aid kit, ice
packs, and…"
He checked the kitchen cupboard.
"Plates and glasses."
"Certainly, my Liege," George said.
Arthur hung up without another word. He went to the sofa and watched Merlin
sleep. He knocked the magazines and empty beer bottles from the coffee table -
- George would clean up -- and dragged it closer before sitting down.
Merlin had lost blood. He was bruised to the bone in several places. Possibly a
broken rib or two. If not for Merlin's magic, Arthur would have taken him to
the hospital. As it was, the magic was slowly healing Merlin's injuries, and it
would continue to do so as long as Merlin remained unconscious, unable to
suppress it.
"You're going to need to stop doing this," Arthur said with an irritated sigh.
His eyes trailed over the knobby bruise on Merlin's cheekbone, the scrape along
his jaw. "How am I supposed to show you off when you look like the poster child
for a shelter for battered spouses?"
Given an ounce of self-care, this would never have happened. Merlin wouldn't
have relied on two-bit sorcerer tricks and clumsy incantations to break up the
ritual. He could have simply torn it apart with sheer force of will and it
would have been over in seconds. From Arthur's observations, getting Merlin to
invest in his continued survival would be the greatest challenge.
Idly, he texted George to remember to take measurements of Merlin's clothes and
to bring them to Arthur's tailor.
"If you keep this up…" Arthur shook his head. "Oh, darling. What use are you to
me if you're dead?"
A normal person walked away from a riot. They turned on their heel and ignored
cries for help. When someone was being mugged or attacked, the average citizen
would stare resolutely ahead and make certain they couldn't identify the
perpetrators in a line-up.
Not Merlin. No. Never Merlin. Exorcisms of demons who had taken residence in
human bodies. Cleansing of tainted places. Bounties on the heads of Angels that
skirted the very fine line between God's grace and Lucifer's favour. Reining in
misguided witches with ancient tomes and destructive tendencies. Merlin would
step into the shite at his own life's peril without the least amount of
hesitation.
Guilt was an emotion that Arthur was familiar with. Easily recognizable in even
the most pure soul, Arthur could usually suss out the source after a short
conversation and use it to manipulate people to his own ends. Most of the time,
guilt was an annoyance that interfered with desired outcomes.
Such as with Merlin.
Arthur had yet to decide how he would approach Merlin. He suspected that
playing on Merlin's conscience was not the way to go. Merlin's morals were
dubious at best, he was a law unto himself, and yet…
He pushed himself beyond human endurance. Nearly everything he did was a form
of self-flagellation.
Arthur scowled. Until that morning, Merlin had avoided using his magic for a
decade, if not more. In Arthur's opinion, this denial was nothing more than
another way to punish himself.
He had yet to uncover the reason behind Merlin's guilt and fancied that if he
eliminated it, Merlin would be more amenable to his plans. Arthur would have to
approach Merlin, soon. He wished that he had more information and a better
plan, but if he waited any longer, he would lose Merlin -- either because
Merlin was being foolish again, or because one of Arthur's enemies got to
Merlin first.
Arthur's phone buzzed. He glanced at the incoming text message and frowned.
Morgana's been meeting with local sorcerers.
Arthur hit the call button and pressed the phone to his ear. The line rang
through and connected.
"Leon."
Arthur glanced at a still-unconscious Merlin and moved away to let him rest
undisturbed.
"Sire," Leon answered. From his tone, Arthur could easily picture Leon bowing
his head in greeting. Half-human like Arthur, the son of an angel who had
fallen with Lucifer, Leon had been Arthur's companion since they were children.
Lovingly solicitous to those close to him, coldly vindictive to those who would
harm them, Leon was amongst the most dangerous of Arthur's entourage.
Arthur almost trusted him. Almost.
"You cannot leave such a leading message and not provide me with additional
information," Arthur said.
He stood in front of the wall of windows and stared high along the horizon,
watching as the shadows shifted while the sun rose higher in the sky. Merlin's
flat wasn't positioned well enough to take full advantage of the bright of day,
and the view was restricted to industrial chic. It wasn't terrible. Arthur
liked it.
"That's all I have," Leon said, sounding as if he would rather chew glass than
admit falling short in his duty. "For now."
"I'll expect a full report by the end of the day," Arthur said.
Leon had clearly been expecting that, because he made a sound of
acknowledgement. "Even without knowing the outcome, surely, that they met at
all is telling."
Arthur hummed quietly to himself, unbothered. He'd expected Morgana would begin
to take measures to counter anything Arthur would do. He wondered how he'd
shown his hand. He was careful. Not even Uther knew what Arthur was doing.
Either Morgana had set her pet sorcerer to scry for Arthur's each and every
movement, or he had a spy among his ranks. "Yes."
"We should expand our security, add measures to protect you," Leon insisted.
"These excursions of yours can't continue. You should have an escort. One of us
should be with you at all times --"
Arthur's footsteps had been dogged by servants and bodyguards since he was
child. His every move at the Pendragon mansion was recorded. He couldn't bloody
well go to the loo without someone letting Uther know. Leon was indulgent of
Arthur's innate need to break the ever-tightening noose from around his neck,
but it didn't mean that it was safe for Arthur to do so.
Arthur sighed heavily.
Leon's jaw clicked shut as he picked up on Arthur's growing irritation. He let
the matter drop, though Arthur imagined the need to be careful and to have an
escort at all times would come up again.
"I admit, I didn't expect Morgana to engage so quickly." Arthur rubbed his
forehead with the back of a finger, more in resignation than any real
frustration. "Gather additional information. Prepare for any potential attacks.
Do what you must as long as your methods are not untoward or apparent. Any
aggressive defence would tip our hand and put our spies in danger."
"Arthur --"
"I want to draw her out so that I can put her down," Arthur said coldly. He
knew what people thought about him. He was Uther Pendragon's heir, but too
young to be taken seriously. Even among the cultists, he was nothing more than
a mascot, to sit on the sidelines while the adults took care of all the
decision-making. Morgana, his half-sister and a nephilim, saw him as nothing
more than a weak, useless human.
Soon, he would show them all how wrong they were.
"At least allow me to send someone to you for your personal protection, even if
only from afar," Leon tried.
"Leon," Arthur said, forcing an unconcerned smile in his voice. "I'm perfectly
safe."
In the background, Arthur could hear the sound of an automobile engine shutting
off, a car door opening and slamming shut. He heard Leon acknowledge someone
before hearing a long exhale. "You're following him again, aren't you?"
Arthur glanced over his shoulder. He could only make out the tuff of black hair
resting on the arm of the sofa, a blood-stained bag of frozen peas covering
half of his face. "Well. If it reassures you in any way or form, I won't be
following him any longer."
Leon grunted in approval. Arthur imagined that, later, Leon would be very angry
with himself for not asking, What are you going to be doing, instead?
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"You look like you took three rounds with a harpy and lost," Mordred said,
acrid smoke spilling out of his mouth. He stubbed out the nub of his joint on
the back of his hand and fell in step next to Merlin.
"Go away, Mordred," Merlin grunted. He shoved his hands deeper into his trench
coat pockets and raised his shoulders to brace against the wind. The weather
wasn't terrible, but he just didn't want to deal with Mordred.
"Of course, a harpy wouldn't be much of a challenge for someone like you,"
Mordred mused. "What was it, then? A possession? Those can be nasty, depending
on the demon. Oh, do tell me that it was a creature feature, I haven't heard
about one of those in a while."
Merlin twitched and glanced away. He contemplated crossing the street, but that
would only allow him a momentary respite. Mordred would catch up and harangue
him all the way to the Dragon's Den.
"If not a harpy, then perhaps a manticore? A three-headed dog from Styx? Was it
a bloodthirsty nymph?" Mordred asked.
"Greek mythology? Really?" Merlin asked, shooting him a sidelong look.
"I have a craving," Mordred said with a shrug.
They walked to the end of the block, neither one of them waiting for the
traffic lights to change. A car screeched to a stop, the fender brushing the
fabric of Merlin's trousers, but Merlin barely looked at it.
"You do realize that if only you'd use your bloody magic, you could heal all
that in no time," Mordred said, gesturing at Merlin's face. He must have seen
something in Merlin's expression, because his voice took on a sharper edge.
"Could have avoided it altogether, if you weren't such a fucking pillock."
Merlin's jaw clenched shut. "Don't," he hissed.
"Don't what?" Mordred asked. "Don't question your intelligence? Don't point out
how much of a target you are for those who think you'd be an easy kill? Don't
remark on how unhealthy it is to suppress yourself --"
Mordred avoided an oncoming pedestrian and crossed the invisible barrier of
Merlin's personal space with the tell-tale signs that he was about to share
what was on his mind. His expression changed, and he made a curious,
questioning noise. Merlin didn't get a chance to parse what Mordred was doing
until Mordred crowded into him and buried his nose in Merlin's neck.
"Oh, the delightful smell of God's might and the Devil's rage. How I've missed
it," Mordred said, leaning in and sniffing. "It's invigorating. Nothing gets me
harder than --"
Merlin shoved him away. Mordred caught himself before falling into oncoming
traffic, a delighted laugh on his lips.
"Your guilt, however, is absolutely distasteful," Mordred said, a derisive tone
in his voice. "Get over yourself. It's been ten years."
Only Mordred -- or rather, only creatures like Mordred, who were inherently
amoral and only pretended to understand human cultural norms -- would be so
crass as to dismiss someone's loss, and fail to understand the impact guilt
could have. Ten years might have passed since Will was used as a shield against
Merlin's magic, but Merlin would never get past knowing that his best friend
had died because of him. Merlin might not have been directly responsible -
- that honour went to a two-bit sorceress who had pulled Will into the line of
fire -- but he may as well have plunged the knife into Will's heart on purpose,
considering that Will had only been there because of him.
Mordred released a huff of breath, interpreting Merlin's stony silence
correctly, for a change, and didn't say another word. He pulled out his phone
and tapped his way into a game, looking up only to make certain he wouldn't
collide into anyone.
The air was heavy with automobile exhaust, decomposing rubbish, and sewage. A
couple stumbled out of a strip joint and belched alcohol to add to the sour-
sweetness of whatever drug Mordred was smoking these days. The girl stumbled
into Merlin's side, straightened herself with awkward grace, and tottered on
without so much as an apology. He supposed he should be grateful that she
didn't throw up all over his shoes.
She was, however, about to leave with his wallet. He grabbed her before she got
out of reach. "Wallet."
"Hey! Leave me alone!"
"Get your damn hands off my bird --"
Merlin glared. The big man twitched, his threat left unvoiced. Merlin didn't
know what the man saw in his expression and didn't care. "Wallet," he said
again.
The woman curled a lip in a silent snarl and eyed Merlin up and down as if
measuring how much of a challenge he would be. Merlin didn't look any better
than she did, though she was better dressed for a night of fun on the town than
he was, her mousy brown hair wrapped in fabrics and bead-braided, her makeup
smeared from a recent make-out, and her clothes mussed up. But he had at least
a good stone on her and was wearing sensible footwear to her ankle-breaking
elevator shoes, and there would be no getting away from him.
She slapped the wallet into his hand. He checked the contents -- a few pounds,
his identification, a bank card, and several folded pieces of fragile tissue
paper with painted sigils for instantaneous spell work, to be used sparingly -
- and shoved his wallet into a different pocket, waving her off.
"You're in a pleasant mood," Mordred said.
"If I wanted running commentary on my fucking life, I'd ask for it, so shut
your goddamn gob," Merlin snapped.
Mordred shrugged.
They walked through the maze of streets that was Camden's arse-end, entering an
area several square blocks wide that was a black hole of reckless disregard for
the law -- physical, natural, or criminal. Mordred hummed a distraction spell
to keep anyone from following them while simultaneously tapping at balloons on
his phone screen. Merlin closed his coat against the wind and hung his head,
staring at the cracks in the pavement, and did his resolute best not to think.
He just wanted a drink. The last twenty-four hours had been nothing more than a
fuck-up of epic proportions, starting from the minute he'd glanced at the soapy
dish water in the sink and caught a glimpse of the incoming demon and ending
the moment he'd woken up on his sofa, a thawed bag of peas on his face, with no
recollection of how he'd gotten there.
The lingering magic-hangover and physical soreness went far in granting him
respite from all the questions floating through his head. How had he gotten
home that morning? How had he managed to get his boots off? Why was his flat
suddenly pristine, as if he was getting ready to sell it in a real estate
showing?
Who the fuck had filled his refrigerator with ready meals?
Merlin spent hours cleansing himself in case something had piggybacked its way
into his home and through the wards. He'd fumigated the flat with sacred ashes
and bloodstone incense, but had found nothing out of the ordinary in the clean-
up. Someone or something had made it past his wards undetected, had performed
wanton acts of Good Samaritanism that left Merlin feeling dirty and
uncomfortable, and had left without any indication or trace. If not for the
knowledge that he had many enemies around the world, nerves wouldn't be so
rattled. He'd actually prefer if his flat had been haunted by a demon from one
of the lower planes.
He didn't like not knowing what was going on.
The bouncer at the door of Kilgharrah's bar was a good foot taller than Merlin,
easily twice as wide, and as unpleasant as they came. He made them wait a full
minute before pulling a card out of his pocket and making a show of glancing at
it.
"Bird shitting in a bed," Mordred said.
The bouncer flashed the card at Mordred, showing a crude drawing of a naked
woman fucking herself on a dildo before flicking it into a nearby rubbish bin.
He stepped aside to let Mordred through, pulled out a second card, and held it
up for Merlin.
"Your mother in that bed fucking the bird," Merlin said, not even bothering to
Look. The bouncer was new and must not have been warned about Merlin if Merlin
was being screened for magic before being allowed through. Merlin moved
forward, only to be stopped by a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Invitation only," the bouncer said, the standard explanation for the normal
people trying to get in.
"Since when?" Mordred asked, curious.
Merlin stared down at the hand for several long moments before following it
back to the bouncer's dead black eyes. His voice dropped in pitch. "Does your
bloody hand on fire qualify as an invitation?"
The bouncer's expression remained impassive. He flipped the card around.
In extravagant calligraphic script was a message. Go away, Merlin.
Merlin set the card on fire.
The bouncer dropped the card with a startled grunt, shaking out his burned
fingers. The fire spread to the other password cards in the rubbish bin,
filling the little alcove with blue-grey smoke. The bouncer turned away to grab
the fire extinguisher stashed just inside the doorway.
 
 
 
 
Merlin shouldered his way into the club, ignoring Mordred's admiring grin.
"I could be persuaded to overlook the undertones of guilt. Angry is such a sexy
look on you," Mordred said, smirking. Merlin glared. The music was too loud to
waste breath on a rejoinder, but Mordred apparently didn't think so. He leaned
in, nudging Merlin's ribs, and leered. "I'm up for a fuck in the back room if
you want to mellow out."
Merlin gave Mordred a bland glare.
Curly brown hair framing a cherubic face. Long eyelashes and eyes the colour of
Venus crystals. Pouty lips perpetually swollen, as if he had no other pastime
beyond sucking cock or licking cunt.
For Mordred, the pleasures of the flesh wasn't a hobby. It was a hunting tactic
to keep him fed. He wasn't Up for a fuck. He was Always up for a fuck.
Merlin might not have gotten laid in years, but he wasn't so far gone that he'd
sleep with an incubus, even one he considered an acquaintance, however
dubiously. Merlin had seen the aftermath of an incubus' feeding. The victims
were corpses afterward -- desiccated husks, sunken eyes, bones sticking out
through the skin. Survivors often never recovered, spending their lives
fighting, or giving in to some sort of sex addiction.
As a sorcerer, Merlin had natural immunity to the side effects of a sex demon's
power, but that didn't mean he wanted to stick his dick in Mordred's arse. What
he wanted -- what he craved -- involved a permanency, intimacy and stability
that he couldn't possibly have, not with the way he lived his life.
Mordred knew that, too. He licked the air as if savouring Merlin's low-grade
sexual frustration, his mouth stretching in a wide smirk. He tilted his head in
easy acquiescence and let himself be swallowed into the crowd in search for
willing prey.
Merlin went to the bar.
Freya slammed a long-neck of local microbrew in front of Merlin, clawed fingers
grabbing his wrist before he could reach for it. "Kilgharrah wants to talk to
you."
"Hello, kitten. Nice to see you too. It's been too long. How's your new
flatmate working out?" Merlin asked, taking the beer with his free hand. He
raised it in greeting, took a sip, and grimaced. The brew was on the bitter
side, too many hops overwhelming chocolate and cherry overtones, and the
aftertaste put Merlin in search for the nearest bowl of stale peanuts and
pretzels.
"If she doesn't stop washing her undies in the bloody kitchen sink, she won't
last the month," Freya said. Her hold on Merlin's arm tightened. "You shouldn't
be here. Go home."
Merlin gestured with the beer bottle toward the entrance of the bar and drank
it quickly, hoping to wash away the lingering slime on his tongue. "That was
your doing, then?"
"'Course it was. Nothing, absolutely nothing good comes when Kilgharrah wants
to talk to you. Not for you, anyway," Freya said, squeezing hard enough to
leave a bruise before letting him go. She picked up a stained towel and wiped
down the bar with more aggression than necessary. "Drink your beer and go the
fuck home."
"Nice to feel wanted," Merlin said, bowing his head over his beer. He rubbed
the back of his neck and didn't react when Freya scratched through his hair.
"You're not up for whatever Kilgharrah has in mind," Freya said.
Merlin snorted. That was the understatement of the year. He was never up for
whatever Kilgharrah had in mind, but at the same time, it bothered him that
Freya would doubt his ability to deal with it. "How would you know? I've
handled --"
"Because you look like a strong wind would flatten you," Freya growled, showing
teeth. "If you were at your peak, I'd let you deal with the old coot --"
"He signs your paychecks," Merlin said, amused.
"-- but you haven't been at your peak in a really fucking long time, and I'd
rather not lose any more friends. Go home," Freya said firmly. She took the
unfinished beer out of his hand. "Beer's on the house."
Merlin leaned back, scratching the side of his neck. He studied the crease in
Freya's brow, the tight set of her mouth, the flicker of green-and-yellow in
her eyes. The anxiety was easy enough to spot. He stood up, hating the relief
that crept into her expression, because he knew he was going to disappoint her
in a few minutes. "You don't have any friends."
"Fuck you," Freya said with a laugh. She tilted her head into his palm when he
touched her cheek in apology.
Merlin walked away from the bar and toward the rear. The door to Kilgharrah's
office opened for him -- a courtesy that the old Dragon had never offered him
before. Merlin hesitated, because the gesture could mean that Kilgharrah wanted
a favour from him, or because --
A short burst of energy, like a light switch flicking on and off, jerked him to
a stop. Jerked everyone to a stop. In mid-sip. Mid-walk. Mid-grope. Power, pure
and unadulterated, like magical manna dropping from Heaven flooded the club in
a tsunami wave. Merlin felt like he'd taken one hit too many of peyote while
inhaling distillate of hallucinogenic toads.
The ground shook. It jerked and jarred. The music turned to static. The flip-
hiccup of a record scratch, the crumble of tape tearing through the rollers.
The screech of an FM broadcast gone wrong.
Lights flickered. Bottles rattled. Several fragile glasses vibrated off the
edge of patron tables and crashed on the dance floors.
A tall brunette with ebony skin and green-in-black eyes released a high-pitched
siren's scream of terror. Freya's claws came out and she gouged the bar before
she lost balance and was thrown to the ground. Mordred remained on a scattered
dance floor, his eyes burning lavender as he expended power to keep himself
upright like the graceful bastard that he was.
The door to Kilgharrah's cavern drifted shut, but slowly, as if an invisible
hand pushed against a resisting force. The door clicked shut ominously --
And the world stopped shaking. The rush of power dissipated. The magically-
inclined patrons in the club sat down warily, straightening upturned bottles
and drinks, bowing their heads and avoiding eye contact.
Merlin turned on his heel, heading toward the exit. Whatever Kilgharrah wanted,
it could wait.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Arthur's vision pinked around the edges.
As a child, Arthur was doted upon by a steady stream of devout and devoted
nannies who never stayed long enough for an attachment to form. Sometimes,
those nannies left of their own accord, shaken to their core by Arthur's
blatant use of power whenever he didn't get his own way.
Uther hired tutors to teach Arthur control so that he wouldn't scare his
nannies anymore, but even those shied from him. But not Catriona. Catriona had
used psychological manipulation and hypnotism to control him, but when they
failed, she resorted to physical punishment . It was laughable that anyone
would believe petty human tricks sufficient to control someone with Arthur's
lineage, but it had worked for years until Arthur broke each and every chain
holding him back.
Starting with Catriona. No one could prove Arthur had forcibly drowned her.
He'd been quietly doing his homework in his room, and not watching her as she
flailed helplessly in the pool.
As far as Uther was aware, Arthur was still very much susceptible to suggestion
and would obey the keyword triggers exactly as he had been trained to do. As if
he were nothing but a dog bred for one and only one purpose -- to serve its
master.
In public, Arthur might play the role of an obedient puppy, but he had no
master. Catriona's mind-fuckery might have forced a too-young Arthur to impose
self-discipline and control above and beyond what any other child that age
would ever need, but it was Arthur alone who possessed control of himself.
Not some two-bit hack psychologist with a boorish manner and a gross, troll-
like personality. Not the nannies who showered him with mocking praise and
false affection in the hopes of creating an unbreakable connection with him for
the favour they would gain from him in the future. And certainly not Uther, who
had stared down the long dinner table and asked whether Arthur would be
"staying in that night."
"Of course, father. What else would I do?", Arthur had said, smiling over his
glass of wine.
"I thought you might have plans with your… friend. What was his name again?
Leo?"
"You've made it clear that you believe him to be a bad influence," Arthur had
said, not bothering to correct Uther. The disdain and disapproval Uther had
toward Leon was in large part because Leon's mother was an overworked waitress
at a run-down diner on the outskirts of town, knocked up at fifteen by a
drifter who'd been passing through. Leon had three strikes against him -- his
mother was uneducated, his mother was not a believer, and Leon was a no-good
punk with no ambitions and no prospects.
Arthur always wondered how furious Uther would be if he discovered that the no-
good punk was a nephilim helping Arthur undermine Uther's entire empire.
"He's holding you back. Cenred would be a much better friend for you."
"If you say so, father. He's certainly keen to suck my cock," Arthur had said.
He'd pushed away from the dinner table and stood up to take advantage of
Uther's splutter. "If that's all, I have homework to do."
Arthur's iron control was the only reason Uther wasn't a stain on a wall
somewhere. But it was that same unyielding discipline that made it very
difficult to enact the next step in Arthur's plans.
Arthur grimaced as he rose to his feet on shaky legs. He savoured the iron
taste of his own blood in his mouth. His hand was wet where it was pressed to
his side where he'd collided with the sharp edge of a rubbish bin, rust and
metal cutting through shirt and skin.
"Again," he said. The command came out in a reedy pitch.
Leon threw out a hand to stop Percival. "That's enough, Arthur."
Arthur's eyes narrowed at the defiance. A furrow of displeasure pinched his
brow. Leon paled and swallowed hard, and he hastily dropped his arm. He stepped
back and looked away.
So fixed was Arthur's attention on Leon that he wasn't prepared for Percival's
blow. He was knocked to the ground, blacking out.
 
 
 
 
It couldn't have been for more than a few seconds, but he could manage a great
deal of self-defensive destruction in a few seconds. His vision bled red when
he opened his eyes. The pavement cracked and split open as the earth shook.
Percival flew through the air as if struck, crashing into a large pile of
debris and refuse. Leon was driven to his knees, shuddering and quailing.
Now, it was enough. Merlin would have sensed the disruption. He wouldn't be
able to help himself. He would come to investigate.
The lure was set. All that was left to do was to wait.
Arthur reined in his power. Just enough that it didn't try to bring the
buildings down around them. Just enough that his men would be able to get up
and leave. They had their orders. People to find. False rumours to spread.
Evidence to plant.
Percival struggled to get out of the rubbish, a disgruntled frown on his brow
as he brushed a rotting banana peel from his shoulder and kicked an empty
coffee container out of his way. Leon approached Arthur, but he froze as if
slapped at Arthur's nearly soundless, "Go."
Leon hesitated before nodding jerkily. "Yes. Of course. Sire."
His bow of obeisance was curt and unsure. He gestured rudely at Percival to
follow. They spared a minute to ensure they didn't leave anything of themselves
behind, drawing their essence away. The traces that remained would be enough to
push Merlin in the right direction.
Arthur watched them go. He grunted as his body fought to heal him. He allowed
nothing, because his wounds needed to match the blood on his clothes. If they
didn't, Merlin would be suspicious, and Arthur would lose him before he had
him.
He waited, consciousness skirting in and out in a teasing dance. Random surges
of adrenaline kept him awake in exquisite awareness of the danger he was in
from his enemies and the vulnerability of his continued survival. Trust wasn't
an action or an emotion that he was capable of, and yet, here he was, trusting
that Merlin would come.
The instinctive, uncontrolled burst of power would be enough to attract Merlin
-- but it would also attract others. Arthur's enemies, curious looky-loos,
scavenging sorcerers, even the perfectly normal homeless person who only wanted
better shoes, warmer clothes, and a few pounds. Arthur might appear terribly
injured, but he could defend himself if someone who wasn't Merlin arrived.
He wasn't worried. If anything, his biggest concern was whether Merlin would
save him.
There was no guarantee that Merlin would actually help. He was known for being
a callous bastard and ignoring his friends in their times of need. There were
stories where Merlin had walked over the smoking corpse of his closest
colleague to pursue his enemy instead, leaving the body for the animals -
- though Arthur didn't believe them. At the moment, Arthur was nothing more
than a complete stranger to Merlin.
Merlin would have absolutely no motivation to do much more than to drop Arthur
off at the nearest hospital. Arthur's only hope was that Merlin was reeling
from how someone had saved him and that he would be motivated to pass it on.
Human compassion was a wonderful thing to manipulate.
Arthur closed his eyes. He listened to the sounds of rats foraging in the
nearby rubbish bin. The birds cawing and fluttering their wings up on the
rooftops. Cats meowing, hissing, snarling from somewhere deeper into the alley.
Further off, he heard diffuse chatter of pedestrians walking by, words drowned
out by the rumbling sound of car engines in need of a tune-up, tyres screeching
on the pavement.
And then: footsteps. They fell at the same steady beat of a racing heartbeat
and were chased by the flutter of fabric and the slap of leather against thigh.
Arthur allowed himself a small smile.
The footsteps skidded to a stop. Panting sounds were silenced as the arrival
held their breath and…
A low, guttural phrase that was more in keeping with a hobbyist witch than a
sorcerer of Merlin's sheer power jarred the alley with a thundersnap of energy
that couldn't originate from anyone but Merlin. Arthur held back a huff of
displeasure to learn that Merlin had resorted to suppressing his natural magic
and cracked his eyes open.
A blanket of magic saturated the alley with a vindictive violence that was
strangely soothing, even reassuring. The alley was bright with falling stars,
blue-white lines perpendicular to the architecture and doubled semi-circles
filled with cryptic symbols that weren't recognizable, not even upside down. As
Arthur watched, the magic attacked the remnants of the angelic essence left
behind by the nephilim.
Pale bright white blue turned bloody red, dark and dire, full of promise of
complete destruction.
The red spread, taking over the blue lines. The alley filled with a dark,
dreary glow, heavy and foreboding. The world stuttered, jerking into position
even as it was wrenched out of itself, righting the magic saturating the area.
Arthur was no magic user. He possessed working knowledge of basic rites and
rituals only as a preventive measure for his own continued survival. His power
was fed from a different source and followed an entirely different set of
esoteric rules. But he knew Merlin. It was easy enough to deduce what Merlin
was doing and what he was about to do.
Merlin was going to step over Arthur's fallen body and pursue his enemy with
the icy-cold single-mindedness that he was known for. Arthur could not,
absolutely could not allow Merlin to wildly run off as if he were an avenging
caped crusader.
He needed Merlin to focus his energies elsewhere.
On him.
Arthur groaned out loud, pretending to rouse himself to full consciousness.
Merlin's spell work twitched, distracted.
Arthur groaned again, more theatrical this time. Louder. He rolled onto his
side. The gasp of pain from the line of bruises on his ribs and the dull ache
in his kidneys was very, very real.
A shimmer in the air, a strangled huff of annoyance, and --
The red bled out of the air, fading into the darkness. Footsteps approached
with slow caution, and a presence crouched down next to Arthur.
Tentative hands touched Arthur's shoulder. Pulled him. Guided him onto his
back.
In the headlight flare of a passing car, Arthur saw Merlin's drawn face, pale
and bruised despite his magic having risen up to heal him that morning. His
hair was flat on one side, spiky-curly in the other in a modern fashion better
known as Didn't bother, and his brows were pinched in confusion.
He seemed to sink into himself, moving from going to a crouch to leaning on his
side. He brushed fingers across his forehead, fingertips trailing along a
lingering scrape along his jaw. Arthur followed the movement with thin-slit
eyes, and wondered what it would be like to feel Merlin's fingers on his skin.
With a heavy sigh, Merlin snapped to himself and ran his hands lightly over
Arthur's body, checking for injuries. The contact was fleeting, and Arthur
mourned that he wasn't in any condition to enjoy it.
Merlin patted Arthur's cheek. Arthur winced. That was the side Percival had
struck.
"Mate, you all right?"
Arthur barked a sharp laugh that pulled at the cut on his chest. "I've had
better days."
"How bad is it?"
Arthur didn't answer right away. He turned onto his good side, pushing himself
into a sitting position. Merlin helped him to his feet. "I'm fine," he said
roughly.
"You're bleeding," Merlin said, pulling his hands away to stare at them,
seemingly oddly fascinated by the smear of blood on his palms. Arthur wavered,
and was satisfied when Merlin wrapped an arm around his waist to support him.
"I'll call an ambulance."
"Do they even come to this part of town?" Arthur scoffed. City services
efficiency analysis reports claimed responder time as nearly twenty to thirty
minutes in the back roads of Camden. If Arthur hadn't been blessed with the
ability to control his body, to cure himself from the worst of the damage, he
would have lain in the alley and died before the ambulance came, if anyone
noticed him in the first place and cared enough to call for one.
Merlin swore. He pulled Arthur's arm over his shoulders and guided him to the
mouth of the alley. There weren't many pedestrians on the street at this time
of night, but those who passed by either ignored them or stared at Arthur with
predatory hunger. "I'll flag a cab. There'll be a few by the club."
Arthur didn't speak, too preoccupied with the pain shooting through his body at
every movement. If this was how the average human suffered on a daily basis, he
wanted none of it. The temptation to heal himself was more difficult to ignore
as Merlin dragged him across the street, but he reminded himself that he was
the son of the Morningstar. If anyone should be able to resist temptation, it
would be him.
He was barely aware of being manhandled into the back of a cab, but he snapped
to himself, preternaturally aware, when Merlin shut the passenger door and
walked to the front to talk to the driver. "Take him to the hospital."
"No," Arthur hissed. No, Merlin wasn't going to leave him. No, Merlin was not
going to chase down the planted trail until Arthur was ready to set the next
stage of his plans in motion. No, this wouldn't do. "No hospitals."
Merlin's heavy sigh preceded a tired rub of his face. He dropped his hand.
Arthur couldn't see clearly through the fingerprint-smeared Plexiglas
separator, but he thought Merlin was arguing with himself just under his
breath. "Look, mate, you've been done in. You need the experts to see you're
not hurt worse than you look."
"No hospitals," Arthur insisted. Merlin spread his hands in entreaty, but
Arthur shook his head, gritting his teeth when his head rang like hammers on a
bell. Arthur snapped, "Don't be an idiot. They'll find me there."
"They'll find you there," Merlin repeated, his tone flat. He glanced to the
open mouth of the alley before slowly turning to look at the other end, eyes
flinty cold as if he expected the enemy to attack. Tension filled the air, and
it took a moment for Arthur to realize that it came from Merlin.
He was primed to kill, a weapon locked and loaded.
Arthur would have laughed with glee to know that Merlin had a dark streak as
wide as his own, because whom else would take the opportunity to use a poor,
injured fellow as bait? That, however, wasn't the goal of this evening's show.
Arthur knocked the Plexiglas with a bloody finger and gave the address to one
of his more secure flats in the city. "Take me home."
"Are you going to die in my cab?" the driver asked, glancing over his shoulder
dubiously.
"Maybe," Arthur said. "Don't worry. The doorman will give you a tip."
"And a clean-up charge," the driver bargained.
"And a clean-up charge," Arthur agreed easily, rolling onto his back. It was
much easier to breathe that way. He wondered if Percival had broken a rib.
"Just drive, already. I'm done with tonight."
"You're the boss," the driver said, resetting the fare meter.
"Wait," Merlin said. The front passenger door cracked open and he slid in.
There was an exchange of glances with the driver, and Merlin said, "Didn't you
hear him? Drive."
A soft smile pulled at Arthur's mouth for the entire ride home.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Merlin didn't know what he was doing.
He shouldn't have gotten into the cab. He should have dropped Arthur bloody
Pendragon off with the doorman. There had been no need to carry Arthur through
the posh glass doors, into the elevator that rode directly to the top, and over
the threshold of a penthouse that likely cost more than Merlin's lifetime net
worth.
And yet, here he was, in the master en-suite bathroom, swatting the prat's
hands away before he mucked up the dressings that Merlin had already put on.
"Will you stop fidgeting?"
"Will you stop mothering?"
"I didn't have to come. I can walk out. I'm going to walk out," Merlin
threatened, getting up. He tossed the antiseptic and the gauze into the sink.
He wiped his hands on a towel, flung it in the sink, and started for the door.
Arthur's mouth clamped shut, his eyes downcast in a slump of apology, and the
change in attitude brought Merlin to a stop. The heir to the Pendragon fortune
didn't strike Merlin as the type to capitulate so easily.
With a sigh, Merlin reached for a new piece of gauze and surgical tape. He
knelt next to Arthur again. He placed the last piece with deliberate
detachment, not allowing either his touch or his eyes to wander.
It was too late for that, he knew. Mordred had put the idea in Merlin's head
earlier that evening. The blunt reminder that he hadn't had any kind of
companionship in some time was easier to ignore when there weren't any
prospective candidates on the horizon. His libido didn't seem to care that he
was single by choice and circumstance when he was this close to a handsome,
young, shirtless man. Arthur had a body that deserved more than a casual grope
and a lecherous once-over.
It was worth worshipping.
Merlin swallowed hard and pulled his hands away. Arthur was young. Merlin
didn't know how young Arthur was, but his best guess was somewhere in his mid-
to-late teens. Merlin stood up abruptly. "There. You're all right."
"If you say so," Arthur said, a curious, neutral tone to his voice. Merlin
glanced up, trying to read him, but Arthur shifted away. He thought about
glancing at Arthur's aura, but that was considered rude in magical circles, and
more so when the other person didn't know about magic. Merlin wasn't that much
of a pillock.
Still, as long as Arthur's back was turned, Merlin allowed himself to look. At
the broad shoulders, the tapered waist, the solid muscle under smooth skin.
Arthur's arse defied definition, though perfection was likely an acceptable
descriptive, and --
Arthur turned around. A smirk curled at the corner of his mouth when Merlin's
gaze snapped up. Merlin grunted and shoved the bandage debris from the sink and
into the bin. When he ran out of things to fuss over, he closed his eyes and
scratched the back of his head.
"I should --"
"Stay for coffee," Arthur said, brusque.
Arthur watched him out of the corner of his eye, blue bright against golden
lashes, hair in disarray. He shook out a jumper, but paused to put it on,
waiting for Merlin to answer.
"I should go," Merlin said, emphasizing the last word, using it as a compulsion
to force himself to turn around and leave. The little, self-satisfied smile,
the quick invitation, the flirtatious look. Merlin had a fairly good idea of
where this was going, and…
No. Just, no.
"I've gotten a fair hit to the head. I might have a concussion," Arthur said,
his tone light. Merlin thought he saw Arthur shrug a shoulder before gingerly
pulling the jumper over his head, but he wasn't sure, too distracted by the
glimpse of a muscular chest to think clearly. "Someone should keep an eye on
me. Isn't that what they say to do?"
"Don't you have family you can call?"
"I suppose I can call my father. What time is it in Australia?" Arthur asked.
He made a show of glancing at his wrist, the unexpectedly understated Tag Hauer
watch catching the overhead lights. Somehow, Merlin thought a Pendragon would
go for the ostentatious -- a flashy Rolex, maybe a bejewelled Cartier. Still,
the Tag Hauer watch was expensive enough that if the attack in the alley had
been a mere mugging, it would have been long gone. "He's likely in a
teleconference with one of his overseas managers. In any case, it doesn't
matter. He's never been the nurturing sort."
"Don't you have siblings?" Merlin asked.
Arthur raised his chin, pursing his lips in consideration. "A half-sister who
would sooner see me dead than lift a finger to help me."
Merlin couldn't decide if Arthur was joking or not. He didn't have any siblings
and his mother had passed a long time ago; there had never been any sign of his
father. Familial relationships were something alien to him, but he at least
knew that sometimes, relatives had difficult relationships. The topic of
Arthur's sister seemed to be a sensitive one, so he dropped it.
"What about friends?"
Arthur raised an eyebrow and snorted. "No."
"Bodyguards?"
"Gave them the night off," Arthur said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He
leaned over the bathroom sink, getting closer to the mirror to inspect the
bruise along his jaw. It was turning an interesting shade of purple. "Why else
would I have been in Camden by myself? They'd never let me get anywhere near
that area otherwise."
"You're a sorry sod, aren't you?" Merlin asked. "Call a nursing service. You've
got the money for it."
Arthur didn't move away from the mirror, glancing at Merlin in the reflection.
"Are you normally this thick?"
"What?" Merlin asked, frowning.
"Oh, just stay." Arthur huffed. He rolled his eyes. "Do I have to spell it out
for you? You saved my life. I'm trying to thank you."
"With coffee?"
"However I can," Arthur said. He gave Merlin a wry grin. His voice softened. "I
thought I'd start with coffee." When Merlin only stared at him, Arthur pressed,
"We can Netflix a movie. Order take away. Talk. Get to know each other."
Merlin hesitated. He should leave. He had already stayed too long. The more
time passed, the more the trace of angelic essence would fade from the alley,
making it too difficult to track down. There were supernatural creatures out
there preying on innocent humans, on a rich, entitled, stupid teenager who had
been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Merlin couldn't let them get
away with it. They might kill someone. They'd nearly killed Arthur.
There was an earnest, open look in Arthur's eyes. An invitation in the way he
leaned against the bathroom counter, hip canted, shoulders back.
He could only imagine why someone like Arthur needed to ditch the bodyguards to
come to Camden. Why a handsome boy would go to Camden at all. But then --
The white patches of gauze, the string of darkening bruises marring otherwise
golden skin.
For a moment, Merlin couldn't see the injuries. His eyes traced the solid curve
of muscle, the broad line of his shoulders, the tuff of light blond hair in a
soft line leading to the waistband of tailored trousers.
Merlin forced himself to look away. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"But --"
Merlin shook his head and walked out of the bathroom. He lingered in front of
the ceiling-to-floor window with the scintillating view of the Thames
reflecting the city lights at night. Imagination easily placed a naked Arthur
in the middle of the King-sized bed, the plush grey-blue comforter down around
his hips, pillows sprawled to one side or shoved to the floor.
Arthur followed him out of the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe. The
steady, measuring gaze chased Merlin out and down the stairs of the loft
penthouse. He snatched his coat from where he'd thrown it over the back of a
kitchen chair, and headed toward the door.
 
 
 
 
"It's me, isn't it?" Arthur asked.
Merlin spared him a quick glance. Arthur descended the staircase with the
unhurried glide of a predator fixed on his prey, all sign of amusement gone.
Merlin growled to himself -- Get your fucking priorities straight-- and reached
for the doorknob.
"Is it because of my father? Because I'm a Pendragon?" Arthur paused. His tone
took on a hard, annoyed edge. "Is it because you think I'm too young?"
Merlin clenched his jaw. It wasn't his job to hunt down rogue angels and punish
them for their transgressions, but no one else would do it. He had to go.
Lusting after someone who was easily ten years -- or more -- younger than he
was? He needed to focus, and his attention had to be somewhere other than in
his pants or in Arthur's.
He turned the doorknob and opened it wide. "Lock the door behind me. Set your
alarm. Call a nursing service."
"Will I see you again?"
Arthur's voice was suddenly very soft, vulnerable. When Merlin looked back,
Arthur was wavering, his legs unsteady, and he hung onto the decorative
bannister with a white-knuckled grip.
Instinct pushed Merlin to shut the door, to catch Arthur before he fell, to
make sure that he would be all right for the rest of the night, in case he had
a concussion or worse, and needed a hospital.
Instead, he stepped through the doorway and warned, "Forget you ever met me.
Don't go to Camden again."
He didn't look back. He didn't want to see the hurt flashing in Arthur's eyes.
 
===============================================================================
 
The man behind the security desk in the lobby of the apartment building gave
Merlin a flinty look as he walked off the elevator. Merlin didn't stay for
pleasantries, striding across the polished stone floor and through the glass
doors, confident that the small charm stitched into his coat would keep his
face from being recorded on video. Whatever suspicions were going through the
security guard's head, Merlin hoped that at least one of them would drive him
to call Arthur's security.
No cabs were in sight, and short of a playboy or cougar returning home in the
wee hours of the night, the odds were slim that Merlin would be able to flag
one down unless he made his way to the busier corners in the area. He fished a
cigarette from a crumpled pack in his pocket, lit it with a match that flared
bright blue when struck, and blew out a trail of smoke.
"Jesus," Merlin muttered, running a hand through his hair. A light drizzle
fell, flattening it down.
 
 
 
 
Arthur was…
Handsome, well-connected, rich. He was also more trouble than necessary and an
indulgence that Merlin couldn't afford.
Best to put all thoughts of Arthur out of his head. Merlin had other things to
focus on. The recent rise in supernatural activity. How he'd managed to drag
his corpse home that morning. The housekeeper he seemed to have acquired along
the way and who had best not ask for a salary, because Merlin could barely keep
himself fed some days. Whatever it was that Kilgharrah wanted to talk to Merlin
about. The bug that had crawled up Freya's arse. The angels who had attacked a
random, innocent Londoner for what amounted to nothing more than a roughing up.
Merlin slowed down and came to a stop at the intersection. There was no
traffic, but he stayed where he was, frozen with the realization that he'd
skipped over something important.
The pulse of power. He'd forgotten that. He wouldn't have known that a complete
stranger was being attacked by angels a block and a half over if he hadn't been
drawn there in the first place. Power had drawn him there. He'd never felt
anything like it before, but where had it come from?
Not the angels, that was for sure. Angels didn't have that kind of power. The
sheer abundance of it was so far above their pay grade that an angel would weep
to be in its presence. It wasn't natural magic, either; that had a different
taste altogether. And no sorcerers rated that much without burning themselves
out. Merlin had never met anyone who matched him in sheer strength. So --
So.
What did that mean?
Merlin's brow furrowed. He turned on his heel and looked back the way he came,
but again, he didn't move. There were more questions than answers. Who --
Arthur, obviously. Demons were more likely to attack the unsuspecting who took
shortcuts through a back alley to reach their destination. Angels were far too
high-brow to stoop to such low measures. Merlin knew with certainty that there
had been angels in the alley, but they wouldn't push up their sleeves and get
their hands dirty, not like this.
They'd attacked Arthur because of Arthur's power. Except…
Arthur was human.
Wasn't he?
And even then, someone with that much sheer strength wouldn't be easy for the
angels to subdue. Not unless they were ambushed, and even then, there would
have been more of a fight. Merlin wouldn't have found Arthur drifting in and
out of consciousness in between rubbish bins. The only plausible explanation
was that Arthur didn't know about his own power and that he'd never been
trained in its use.
A flicker of shadow distracted Merlin from his thoughts. The shadow was roughly
human-shaped and hiding at least half a block away, the darkness between two
streetlights providing additional cover. Merlin took a long pull of his
cigarette, flicked away the nub, and blew the smoke from his lungs in a long,
drawn-out exhalation.
He continued on his way, meandering along at the same speed. A flick of the
collar stopped the drizzling rain from dripping down the back of his neck. He
shoved his hands deep in his coat pockets helped retain what little body heat
the wet wind hadn't already dampened, and behind him, someone splashed in a
puddle, clearly intent on catching up.
A St. Andrew's cross. A sliver of gallows' wood. Preserved salamander skin that
was warm to the touch. The round medallion of St Joseph, patron saint of
travellers. A bent penny. The sharp edge of the Star of Bethlehem.
Merlin's pockets were always stuffed full of minor charms, enchanted objects,
and natural wards against evil. On earth, there were few objects capable of
smiting the hosts of Heaven and Hell, but Merlin had made it his business to
know everything that could bring those arrogant sons of bitches to their knees.
Once upon a time, he'd even been proficient at it.
The latest rumours surrounding Merlin might imply that he was burnt-out and
washed-up. That he didn't have any magic to speak of and wasn't a danger to
anyone anymore. The rumour was that any two-bit schmuck capable of igniting a
mage-light could sneak up on him and take him out.
At least three demons and one angel had discovered that the theory was easier
than the practice.
"You're not stupid," Merlin said in a conversational tone. The footsteps behind
him stuttered at having been caught out, but after a moment, continued to
approach. "You know who I am. You knew who I was as soon as I left the
building. Right now, you're doing the math. Calculating the odds. You're trying
to decide if the bounty on my head is worth it."
Merlin crossed another intersection. One more block past this one, a slow but
steady trickle of traffic streamed through. There were even a few cabs.
"Trust me. It's not worth it, not for you," Merlin said, slowing down. He
didn't want to bring any confrontation where innocents could get hurt, and he
didn't want to give his stalker any ammunition to use against him. "It's really
not. But if you want to try… Be my guest."
He came to a stop. He turned on his heel.
The nephilim was tall, slim, and fit, as were most of his kind. The half-angel
froze in mid-stride, his eyes wide and open, his shoulders down and stooped, as
if he were trying to make himself very, very small. He stood straighter under
Merlin's scrutiny, his human eyes bleeding into demonic black, and a shimmer of
insubstantial angel wings glittered in the night air.
"But before you do, I want to make something very, very clear," Merlin said,
his voice dropping an octave. "If anyone comes after Arthur Pendragon, I'm
going to kill them."
A broad smile that might as well have been full of sharp, thin needles huffed a
scornful laugh.
"Go on," Merlin said, making a shooing motion with his hand while he removed a
hard, pyramidal shape from his pocket. "I'll give you a few minutes to decide.
Call your friends. Tell them what I said. Make sure they understand. Oh -- and
while you're at it, let them know what you want on your tombstone."
The nasal laugh became a snarl. The nephilim lunged.
Merlin flung the Star of Bethlehem at the nephilim and threw up his arm to
protect his eyes.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Arthur checked his tie in the bathroom mirror. He leaned in and rubbed at the
flaking skin along his jaw where the scrape from Percival's punch had healed.
With one last tousle of his hair and another glance to make certain he was
presentable, Arthur went to the bedroom, pulling his suit coat from the hanger.
He spared a few seconds to appreciate the view. The penthouse loft overlooked
the Thames, but the river didn't hold his interest on this particular morning.
He scanned past the dark clouds and dour cityscape until he spotted what he was
looking for.
Scorch marks.
The suite was too high up and the angle was wrong, but there was no missing the
searing black ash from a white-hot light burned into the side of a tall brick
building. That same scorch had continued on into an arc that had melted the
mirrored glass of an art nouveau business complex next to it. It appeared that
the building management had found a crew willing and able to repair and replace
the panels on such short notice.
Arthur rather liked being able to see evidence of Merlin's declaration. It
would be such a shame when it was gone.
"I only caught the tail end of the fight. Ducked out of sight before anyone
caught me," Leon had said, laughing with a mixture of fearful disbelief and
righteous indignation. "But he told Morgana's flunky that if anyone hurts you,
they have to answer to him."
Arthur smiled.
All had been quiet on the enemy front since Merlin's threat. Whether Merlin had
meant to announce his alliance or not -- whether he was aware of having taken
sides -- no one could miss that Merlin's loyalties were with Arthur. Leon's
spies confirmed that Morgana was regrouping and reassessing. She must have
anticipated Arthur would recruit a sorcerer to his side, but she must not have
expected someone of Merlin's disreputable history. She must have laughed when
she heard, but Merlin's clear display of power meant that Morgana now knew how
badly she had misjudged Arthur.
The buzzer rang. Arthur headed to the main floor and picked up the hand piece.
"Your car is here, Mr Pendragon," Thompson, the day security guard, said.
"Thank you," Arthur said, hanging up without giving Thompson a chance to say
anything else. He turned off the telly, plucked his cell phone from the kitchen
charger, and inspected himself in the reflection on the kettle, counting down.
The buzzer rang again, and Arthur knew it was Thompson again, checking up on
him. He didn't bother answering.
When he emerged from the elevator, it was to hear Thompson announce, "Oh, never
mind, sir. Here he is now. Yes, sir. I'll pass on the message."
Arthur breezed past.
"Mr Pendragon, your father --"
Arthur nodded cordially to the doorman, who rushed past Arthur to open the rear
door of a black sedan. Arthur slipped him twenty pounds to distract Thompson.
Higgs was an unshakeably agnostic young man whose only goal in life was to
achieve glory in the mixed martial arts ring. It was a goal Arthur quietly
encouraged in exchange for assistance in situations such as these.
Thompson backed off immediately when Higgs blocked the way, giving Arthur a
chance to settle in the back seat.
Gwaine draped an arm along the open partition and pointed at Thompson. "I see
Uther's being overbearing again. Shall we see the sights?"
"Not today. Let's be on time for a change."
"Right-o," Gwaine said. He pulled into traffic without another word, leaving
the partition down. Uther would be scandalized to learn that Arthur fraternized
with an uneducated driver, but Arthur was certain his father would have a
coronary to realize just how many people around Arthur were not actually
working for Uther -- and that they weren't actually human.
Arthur sighed. Uther was, at present, an unfortunate necessity, but not one
that Arthur would have to bear for long. Arthur's original plans were to cut
the strings in a few years, when he was old enough to satisfy the members of
the board and Uther's congregation that he was more than qualified to run the
company and lead the ministry.
Plans changed, however. He'd learned that Uther was suspicious of Arthur's
latest behaviour and that he was moving to take precautions to prevent Arthur
from "Becoming too big for his britches", as one of Arthur's people had quoted
him saying.
Uther could do what he liked, but Arthur intended to have all of the company's
assets signed over to him, to arrange for his inheritance to be transferred to
his accounts, and to quite effectively castrate Uther very, very soon.
Arthur pulled out his phone. He ignored the voice message from his father and
read the emails updating him on the situation. Sophia had forwarded him the
agenda and the new files for board review, waiting, as always, for the last
minute with yet another one of her trite, My apologies, I forgot to include you
in the distribution list email.
It couldn't be more transparent that Uther had ordered her to keep Arthur as
much out of the loop as possible.
He'd already studied the materials Vivian had sent him the night before. The
members of the board treated him as if he were a blithering idiot of a
teenager, nothing more than a puppet for Uther's ten-year plan for complete
dominion of the world banks. Arthur looked forward to cutting them at the knees
in the very near future.
Still, he gave the files a second look, in case there had been any changes.
"We're here," Gwaine announced, pulling into the underground garage. "Do you
want me to wait?"
"No," Arthur said, sliding his phone in his suit pocket. He waited a moment for
his bodyguards, who had been sent ahead, to congregate around the sedan. As
long as he was still under Uther's so-called control, Arthur had an act to
maintain, and his bodyguards understood the roles they had to play.
"Want me to check on Merlin?" Gwaine asked, turning his head to flash a
lopsided grin.
"If you fancy becoming a smear on the wall," Arthur said with a shrug. Of all
of the men and women closest to Arthur, Gwaine was his least favourite. Deadly,
dangerous, and efficient, he was among the first people that Arthur would want
close by if it came down to a fight. On the other hand, he was tactless,
uncouth, and could be found drowning either in-between someone's legs or in the
cheapest bottle of whiskey he could afford.
Gwaine twitched. He chuckled humourlessly. "Right. Merlin must still be a
little touchy."
"Visit him and find out," Arthur said with a smirk. He reached for the door
handle.
"Oh, before I forget, Gaius figured out what he used," Gwaine said. "I told him
I'd pass it on."
Gaius had been Uther's right-hand man right up until Uther forbade him from
practicing his satanic rituals. On the surface, Gaius continued to play his
role the same way Arthur did, but Gaius was of much better use to everyone if
he was allowed to practice his beliefs.
"He didn't call," Arthur said, frowning at his mobile.
"Said he dropped his mobile in a vat of Eye of Newt or whatever it was," Gwaine
said. "Anyway, it's a Star of Bethlehem."
"I assume you don't mean the flower," Arthur said, smiling faintly. Stars were
objects of perpetual light, and even the most mundane person could make a Star
of Bethlehem brighten on contact. It was little more than a torch to see
clearly in a gloomy room or to guide someone along an unknown path. Though his
knowledge on the subject was admittedly small, Arthur wasn't aware that the
Star of Bethlehem had ever been used as a weapon.
"Only Merlin, huh?" Gwaine said, raising a brow. He turned to face forward, a
hand resting lazily on the steering wheel. "I guess his reputation is
warranted. Didn't kill Morgana's flunky, but got the message across."
"Indeed," Arthur said. He schooled his expression to teenage petulance and
stepped out of the car.
The bodyguards fell in place around him, expressionless and unfriendly at first
glance. No one would suspect that they had any kind of personal relationship
with their ward. Uther certainly didn't. Gareth's passion was his music, but as
long as his grandmother was in a care centre, he had to pay the bills -- the
side errands he did for Arthur let him save up so that he could quit his day
job. Lamorak had grown up in an orphanage with no idea of who his parents were,
though thanks to Arthur, he was aware that he was a nephilim and was getting
close to finding the sister he hadn't known he'd had. Theobald ("Just call me
Theo, I fucking hate my name") was an army vet currently embroiled in a messy
divorce, and the lawyer Arthur had secured for him would make certain that he
obtained custody of his two young daughters.
Arthur had learned at a very young age that Uther cared nothing for the
everyman or woman. Most of the people in Uther's little congregation were
pedantic upper class who cared nothing outside their sphere of existence and
influence. It was baffling to see so many self-proclaimed Satanists thumbing
their noses at the very tenets that most Satanists held dear, but they all came
to heel whenever Uther snapped his fingers.
Uther relied on everyone to do his dirty work for him. Mary at the reception
desk, whose son was in intensive care after being brutally attacked on the
streets. A grey-faced Monmouth in the libraries whose chemotherapy treatments
weren't doing much against his Stage IV lymphoma. Even Uther's own two-faced
secretary, Sophia, who in the hopes of marrying well one day, lifted up her
skirts whenever Uther wanted a quick fuck.
All of them, except for those in Uther's inner circle and, of course, Sophia,
would be Arthur's instrument in bringing his father to heel.
And Uther would never know until it was too late.
"Shall I come back in an hour, then?" Gwaine asked.
Arthur half turned, about to shake his head, I'll call on his lips. A
fluorescent light flickered, at the far end of the underground garage,
reflecting over the sea of expensive sedans in muted blacks, greys and blues
before burning out.
It happened again.
And again.
One light at a time.
Arthur rolled his eyes. He pinched his brow. Fucking theatrics.
"Park and get out," Arthur said, pointing to an empty spot. For once, Gwaine
didn't argue and did what he was told. "Gareth. Theo. Call the lift. No matter
what happens, go upstairs and wait for me."
"Yes, sir," Gareth said, subdued. He stared at the distant lights as they went
out, his movements jerky as he fumbled and depressed the Up button. Theo handed
his gun to Gwaine.
The lights continued to go black, one by one, flickering ominously before
darkness spread across a few more parking spots. At the midway point, the
lights sparked. Shadows stretched out into disembodied figures. Into jagged
limbs, broken wings, claws. Monstrous and foreboding, meant to threaten and
frighten.
Arthur checked his watch. He didn't have time for this.
The doors to the lift opened. Gareth went in with the sort of barely-restrained
haste of a man spooked but trying not to show it. Theo hesitated a moment, but
only to slap an extra gun cartridge in Gwaine's hand. Arthur waited until the
doors closed.
"Shoot him."
Lamorak fired.
The encroaching shadows jerked. Claws scratched on the cement. Wings drooped. A
flickering light stopped flickering and stayed on.
A low, surprised moan came from across the darkness. A heavy weight thumped, a
car's suspension system squeaked, and a car alarm blared. Yellow lights and
white lights flashed in petulant warning, and the reflected flash fell on the
physical shape of a stoop-shouldered, large-headed, figure bowed over itself.
Lamorak picked up the bullet casing with a cloth handkerchief, because his
bullets were qere-coated, as poisonous to him as they were to other nephilim.
He put it in his pocket.
Arthur glanced at his bodyguard and nodded in approval.
The creature lurched to its feet. A crooked wing lashed out, the spiked
fanfolds shattering windshield and piercing the soft metal hood. The force of
the blow blew out two tyres on the driver's side. The car bleated one last,
pathetic whine before the alarm stopped dead.
Arthur sighed quietly. He scratched the back of his head, flicked away a piece
of lint from his sleeve, straightened out his cuff.
"Want me to get him?" Gwaine asked.
"Hm." After a moment, Arthur said, "No." As much as he trusted Gwaine to handle
himself well during a battle, Arthur wasn't interested in seeing any of his men
hurt and injured over nothing. The nephilim proved it had sufficient strength
to destroy a car. Surely it had the strength to drag its arse closer, though
hopefully without all the useless dramatic effect.
A grunt, a scrape, a drag. The hulking nephilim moved through the darkness,
skirting the demarcation line before trespassing into the dim light.
Discounting the overly-large head and exaggerated chiropteran wings, the
nephilim was easily the shortest man Arthur had ever encountered. His fashion
sense was limited by the awkward shape of his body -- bowed legs, a barrel-
round chest with an emaciated waist, shoulders permanently curled inward, as if
the bone had been bowed by too-long, too-heavy wings.
"Ugly fellow," Lamorak commented.
The nephilim's chin was raised high to accommodate an elongated jaw and
pronounced overbite. Pug nose, narrow eyes, a skull that flared up and outward
like a rectangular designer vase, he had no hair to speak of, his skin was on
the middle range of the gray scale, and one ear appeared to have been freshly
lopped off.
"I don't know. I find him oddly appealing," Arthur mused. He raised his voice
to be heard over the distance. "From the old anu-na-ne-ke bloodlines, aren't
you? I didn't think there were many left. Where did my dear sister find you?"
The nephilim snuffled loudly. He scraped closer, the left wing drooping and
dragging on the pavement with every step. Dark blood stained the coarse fabric
of his coat under the collarbone but above where the heart would be in a human.
A wounding shot, but not a killing wound, enough to slow him down. The qere
poison would finish the job in time.
"No matter," Arthur said when the nephilim didn't answer. "I imagine she sent
you to voice her displeasure for… Well. For any number of things, I suppose --"
The nephilim opened its mouth and haw-ha-hawed through thin, needle-like teeth.
Arthur tilted his head, listening and watching. The nephilim extended one arm,
a clawed, clenched hand loosening its grasp, and a medallion fell from a golden
chain.
St Raphael.
Arthur's amusement slipped. There was only one person Morgana could have taken
this particular medallion from. Only one among all known nephilim who would
claim his father in such a way. Too good of a man to be anything else but
faithful to the cause even as he consorted with the enemy.
Rage boiled in Arthur's blood. His vision tinted red at the edges. Sharp spikes
prickled under his skin. Power ached to be released in vengeance, but it would
be wasted here.
"I see. A declaration of war," Arthur said, his voice cold. He nodded to
himself. Plans would need to be accelerated. People contacted. Loose ends tied
up. There was no more time for games. "War it is, then."
The nephilim lurched forward. The bullet wound wept. The low growl became a
wheeze.
"Kill him," Arthur said, turning for the lift.
A chorusing echo of a bullet barrage resounded in the garage. Morgana's
messenger fell to the ground with a squelching sound. Already weakened by qere
poisoning, the nephilim could do nothing as angel-killer taenitic bullets
damaged vital organs.
Arthur pushed the call button. The lift arrived well after the last muted echo
faded into the darkness. He stepped into the lift, moving aside as Lamorak
joined him, his weapon holstered. Lamorak's expression was empty of emotion, as
always, but Gwaine's deep frown spoke volumes.
"Get rid of the body. Clean the area," Arthur ordered. Gwaine bared teeth and
blackness bled into his eyes in a lapse of momentary control, but he nodded.
"Warn the others. Tell Leon that Lancelot is lost to us."
Gwaine gnashed his teeth, clearly not wanting to be the bearer of bad news.
"And Merlin?"
Find him was on Arthur's lips, but he was drawn short by a strange, rumbling
sensation. It pulled at him, deep down at his core, enchanting and warm and
wonderful. He could almost feel the cuneiform drawn on his skin, a teasing
touch that promised so much.
And with it --
Evisceration. An exquisite unmaking.
A smile pulled at Arthur's lips despite the lingering aggravation.
"Arthur?" Gwaine asked, concerned.
"Oh." Arthur frowned a little and shook his head. "Don't worry about Merlin.
He's fine."
Gwaine narrowed his eyes, but a moment later, bowed his head in obeisance.
The doors closed. Lamorak pushed the button for the floor to Uther's offices.
Arthur cracked his fingers one by one, but it did little to distract him from
his delight. How powerful Merlin was. How wonderful he felt to Arthur. How
beautiful he was in his mercilessness. Arthur fought to keep himself from being
a too-obvious teenager with a crush and forced himself to take on a stern tone.
"Lamorak. Call maintenance. Let them know the lights on the parking level are
burned out."
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
The demon was four feet tall, willowy-slim, with fingers that were half again
as long as its arms, edged with nails that started growing at the knuckles and
were as sharp as razors.
Merlin's fingers drew away from his cheek covered in blood.
The demon giggled.
It crouched, elbows on his knees, and tilted its head. Bulbous eyes as black as
smelter slag, a mouth that was a jagged line sawed into a coarse burlap bag,
the letters F L O U R upside down and inside out. The fingers of one hand tap-
tap-tapped the concrete floor of the warehouse, seven of them plus a thumb,
slim like a daddy longlegs spider's limbs.
The demon darted away soundlessly, blurring from one sliver of light to the
next, growing bigger and bigger as it departed.
"Fucking demons," Merlin muttered.
He wouldn't be here if his sources hadn't promised that Mary would have
information for him. Tracking down anyone who had known about the attack on
Merlin outside of Arthur Pendragon's building was difficult considering how
nephilim, angels, and Fallen avoided Merlin like the plague. Assurances that he
didn't mean them any harm were difficult to believe when he'd once spent a good
chunk of his life hunting them down for transgressions against mankind.
He had no choice but to rely on sources that were spotty, at best, and who
hated him just as much, but who weren't as prone to bloodlust and murder.
Mary, it seemed, was now in that category.
Merlin pushed himself from the ground with a muted groan. His ribs ached where
the demon had head-butted him, but it didn't feel as if anything was broken.
Merlin took slow stock of himself. The cut on his cheek didn't hurt, but it
poured blood, drenching his face in a waterfall and soiling his shirt. His
trench coat was ripped where the demon had grabbed him, his thighs ached from
phantom wounds where the demon had climbed him, and his neck was wrenched from
being thrown tits-over-heels by a monster that barely weighed a hundred pounds
soaking wet.
"Fucking demons," he said again, louder.
He brushed himself off. His trousers were torn at the knees where he'd slipped
and fallen, and Merlin hissed in frustration. Not counting the tailored clothes
that had mysteriously appeared in his closet over the last few days, the
trousers he was wearing were his last good pair.
"I came in peace, Mary," Merlin said, keeping his voice at a normal volume.
"Considering everything you've done, I didn't need to be nice. I didn't have to
knock."
Merlin found a crumpled paper napkin from the chippie stand in his coat pocket
and pressed it uselessly against his cheek. It stuck to the blood and scruff on
his face, but that wasn't the point. He mopped up as much blood as he could,
even opening the thin cut until the cheap paper was a dripping ball.
Blood magic was dangerous magic. An entire arcane school of thought had been
built around the use of bodily fluids, structuring what had once been sheer,
raw shamanistic power into production line magic for its mishandling by anyone
with a sharp enough knife and the gumption to use it. Incantations, runic
wards, hexes -- those were children's toys compared to what Merlin could do
with the power of his own blood.
He wiped his face with his sleeve and moved forward. The warehouse was full of
empty boxes positioned to create makeshift rooms, and each room was filled full
of cheap imported knickknacks still in their packaging, dried herbs
masquerading as exotic supplies, and forged books passed off as the genuine
article. Mary's storefront was a witch's shop that carried absolutely nothing
practical for witchcraft.
Necromancy and demonology, on the other hand --
"I warned you what would happen if you continued to practice, Mary. One chance.
That's all that I would ever give you, and your little pet is all the proof I
need that you broke our agreement."
Merlin picked up a bottle of mandrake root, the glass faceted to give the
carved ginger inside a similar appearance to the real thing. He shook the
little jar as he walked, murmuring an incantation under his breath to focus the
magic in the air, feeding it through the waxed seal and into the ginger.
"Go away, Emrys," Mary hissed. She sounded weak, injured. Merlin couldn't find
it in him to care. Mary was a duplicitous bitch who would do whatever she could
to overcome an opponent.
A shadow flit across the light at the far end of the warehouse where Mary made
her quarters. She lived in squalor -- running water from the tiny washroom in a
cramped office, a hanging bag shower in the corner running on rainwater
collected through the broken ceiling, a cobbled fire pit jackhammered in the
cement.
Merlin ducked under a low beam, avoiding the chicken legs nailed along the
side, and emerged into the light.
The necromantic seals dotting the floor and the makeshift doorframe had all
been scarred over in some way, breaking them. Whatever Mary had attempted to
summon had not been pleased to be brought into this world and had made its
distaste expressly known.
She hadn't even bothered with wards.
Merlin traced over one of the runes with a bloody finger and at once knew
Mary's intent. It came to him in flashes as he looked around the octagonal
room.
Books stacked neatly in haphazardly-stacked milk bins. Books upon books wildly
strewn about, pages torn in desperate search for rites of warding and
protection.
A nested pile of roughhewn blankets, flannels, and what looked to be
improperly-cured animal skins. Nightmares and cold sweat, jagged fingernails
digging into mottled flesh, rocking on a soaked mattress and shivering in the
cool air, muttering, "He comes. He comes. He comes."
"You knew I was coming, Mary," Merlin said, tilting his head. After a moment,
he frowned, trying to imagine how. It was possible that the creature who led
him here had called ahead to warn her, but she wasn't well-liked. It was
equally possible that she had had a vision, though, despite her own delusions
of grandeur, she had never been all that powerful.
Mary crawled away from him, dragging her legs across the floor. She was thinner
than he remembered, older. Stringy straw hair, sagging jowls, pale blue eyes
washed out by time and made narrow by heavy brows and deep crows' nests. Sigils
and circles hastily scrawled in chalk, smeared over again and again to cover
mistakes, the lines imperfect, frantic.
"It's not me you're afraid of," Merlin said, realization dawning. He looked at
the drying blood wadding up in his hand and had the feeling that he didn't have
any time. He crouched, watching Mary as she crawled into the middle of a
protective circle in old, chipped paint on the floor. "Who's after you?"
She didn't answer. Merlin scratched the drying blood along his jaw, flakes
sticking under his fingernails.
"Why are they after you?" Merlin pushed. "You're a two-bit back-alley witch
with a weird demon kink. No one hates you enough to kill you. What is this
about? Did you do something?"
Even if they could answer Merlin's questions, the after-images behind the
intent of the rite were fading, and there was nothing in what Merlin had seen
thus far to explain Mary's agitation. The warehouse reeked of acrid sulphur and
tainted ichor from Mary's magic. Merlin hadn't been able to tell if there was
any danger. It was how that little ankle-biting demon got the drop on him in
the first place.
Still, he glanced around, but the makeshift walls impeded any clear line of
sight. Beyond the opening behind him, there was nothing but darkness.
And that fucking little wicker demon.
"Does this have to do with the nephilim who tried to kill me?" Merlin studied
Mary carefully for any reaction, but she only huddled over herself, curling her
legs against her chest. "Is there a bounty on my head?"
There had been a bounty on Merlin's head for years. Every few months, someone
tried to cash it in. Mary had tried once, throwing a poisoned knife at him from
across a crowded room, but some poor innocent had gotten in the way.
"A new one?" Merlin tried.
The way Mary's head snapped up at him was telling. Her eyes were wide and
round, her upper lip pulled back, baring crooked teeth into a snarl.
"Is the bounty because of Arthur Pendragon?" Merlin asked.
"Go to Hell. Go to Hell!" Mary shouted, covering her head in her hand, throwing
an arm out behind her defensively.
Merlin stood up. Clearly, this was one of Mary's bad days, and he'd have better
luck getting blood out of a stone --
A high-pitched shriek cut through the darkness beyond the false safety offered
by Mary's homemade flat. Wet tearing, like a dishcloth snagging on a sharp
corner, echoing with a cloying drip. An object splattered. Another one bounced.
Merlin moved toward the open doorway, scanning the trinkets and doo-dads
crammed on every available surface for something that he could use. As soon as
he moved, a tumultuous crash collapsed a wall of milk cartons, storybooks, and
packets of hoarded tea. The debris fed the little fire pit, the flames growing
taller.
A dark figure rose from where it had landed, standing straight and proud, back
arched into a faint curve reminiscent of an exaggerated model pose. Shoulders
back, chest out, the figure held out a hand, spreading his fingers one by one.
It was a man -- or at least, some sort of human-like effigy of the male gender.
It was stout and solid, physically no different than the average, dressed in
plain trousers and shirt beneath a navy-blue pea coat that was buttoned up
nearly to the neck. Its head was covered in a sailor's wool cap, but as it
turned toward Merlin, its profile was set alight by the growing fire, and it
was broken, bent, and completely monstrous.
Sunken cheeks or exaggerated cheekbones -- it was difficult to tell which it
was. A crooked nose like a staircase, an elongated jaw that stuck out into a
pharaoh's beard, bone and flesh stretched long and jutting at the chin. The
forehead sloped back, hidden beneath the cap.
Merlin didn't need to look to see the nephilim's immature, malformed wings
half-hidden by the ether.
The nephilim turned to Merlin with glowing orange pinpoints for eyes, and a
wide mouth full of broad blunt teeth pulled into a smile that was more
bloodthirsty than amused.
"Hello," Merlin said, his fingers tightening around the glass jar, his
thumbnail digging into the wax seal.
This nephilim was anu-na-ne-ke, a descendent of an ancient Sumerian bloodline
and a relic of a time when angels were worshipped as Gods, leaving behind
privileged, deformed offspring to act as overseers of an imprisoned race, the
Heavenly-Host-made-flesh acting as deterrents against rebellion, freedom, and
free will.
Unlike with most other nephilim bloodlines, the angelic contribution to the
anu-na-ne-ke bred true, passing on from one generation to the next without
surcease in monstrous features. Society forgot the nature of the deformed
creatures and stoned them to death in a time when physical defects were
believed evil, locked them up when sanatoriums were all the rage, and were
regarded with morbid interest by the modern medical community.
This one, it seemed, was one of the lucky ones, because in the dim light of a
fire that was spreading slowly but surely across the fallen "wall" of Mary's
flat, the anu-na-ne-ke almost appeared normal.
The nephilim raised its chin, almost in a sneer, and raised the arm that Merlin
couldn't see until now. Merlin couldn't process what he saw until the steel
rebar was stabbed through Mary's chest. She opened her mouth to scream, but no
sound came out. The rebar bent and vibrated where it pinned her to the
concrete.
Merlin didn't look away from Mary's pale blue eyes until all the light went out
in them. Mary's body slumped over, as if in a penitent prayer, trapped in that
form --
The rebar was wrenched out of Mary's body. The corpse slid onto its side and
flopped down.
"You were warned," the anu-na-ne-ke said, tossing the rebar onto the pile of
debris. The flames sparked, driven alive once again, and licked the pages of an
open book before deciding, Yes, this will burn. "You did not listen. You were
seen. Asking questions. Meddling where you are unwanted. Do you see the
consequences of your actions?"
Merlin spread his hands, a bottle of ginger in one, a blood-soaked napkin in
the other. The nephilim tilted its head mechanically, sniffing the air with a
snub nose that didn't fit its face. "Didn't you see the consequence of yours?"
The nephilim's mouth spread wide, teeth long and wide, shaped like popsicle
sticks. "If anyone comes after Arthur Pendragon, I'm going to kill them," it
said, his voice a low-pitched mimicry that at once sounded like Merlin and
didn't quite match tenor and tone.
Merlin flinched. "Do I really sound like that? That's bloody awful."

The nephilim approached slowly, its steps artificial, creaking as if a
puppeteer had forgotten to grease the joints. "We kept our word. We did. We
did. Not a hair on the Heir's head. No, oh, no. Not until you broke faith
first. Agreed we did. Blood was spilled to seal the pact."
"What pact?" Merlin remembered a blood smear that burst to flames, scorching
the side of at least two buildings next to each other. He might have been
distracted with righteous fury, unexplainable protectiveness, and the hormones
of a man who couldn't believe he'd walked away from a gorgeous, willing kid,
but he definitely didn't remember having agreed to anything.
"You walk away, you walk away," the nephilim chanted. "And we leave the King-
to-be alone."
"Funny, your bloke didn't mention that," Merlin said, taking a step back. The
nephilim's breath was foul, like a maggot's feast of entrails rotting outside
an abattoir. Merlin's eyes watered.
The nephilim continued to advance, slow, as if having to define every movement
and sort out how to do it before imitating a human gait. "You broke the pact.
You asked questions. You meddled. It is ours to act, and we have."
It sounded awfully gleeful, and Merlin fought the sensation of growing dread.
"Fratricide is a private matter," the nephilim said, tilting his head the other
way in a slow, stuttering movement. It made Merlin feel as if he were under
intense scrutiny and was found wanting. "The Prince of Princes is dead or will
soon be. My duty is to ensure you do not interfere as we end the Wilful Child."
Merlin pushed down the growing fear for Arthur's safety, knowing that there
wasn't much that he could do about it at the moment. "And you're all that they
send? I'm…"
Merlin trailed off. He continued to retreat, drawing the nephilim after him and
into open space as he worked through what he'd been told. As far as Merlin had
been able to tell, officially, Arthur Pendragon was an only child. Though there
were rumours that Uther Pendragon had several illegitimate children gunning for
a chunk of his sizeable, successful empire, those rumours had either been
publicly denounced or quietly paid off.
He'd made mention of a half-sister, though, which didn't fit with what Merlin
had learned.
Maybe that sister was gunning for Arthur in the hopes of being named the heir
to the Pendragon fortune, but Merlin doubted any of them would make a habit of
hanging out with nephilim, never mind one of the anu-na-ne-ke.
King-to-be. Prince of Princes. The Wilful Child. Those were meaningless titles
that Merlin would have dismissed until he heard them spoken all at once by the
same creature. There was only one person who could be named the prince of
princes, and that was the antichrist.
The realization washed through Merlin with a cold spike through his soul.
Fuck. I'm thick. He should have guessed a long time ago. He was out of
practice. But there was no doubt. Arthur Pendragon was the antichrist.
All the questions, all the confusion. The angels who had attacked Arthur in the
alley. The nephilim stalking outside the apartment building. The terror in the
eyes of informants who wanted nothing to do with Arthur Pendragon while shakily
pointing a finger to another worthless trail for Merlin to follow.
Merlin understood. And yet -- the Arthur he knew, the boy he'd met, beautiful,
flirtatious and playful? Merlin couldn't see him as the monster all the sacred
texts had painted him to be. He just -- it didn't fit.
The nephilim had named him. King to be. Prince of Princes. The Wilful Child. He
wasn't yet the Violent Man, the Bladebearer of the Hellstone, nor the Wilful
King spoken of in scripture.
Prophesy was not destiny. Merlin was the proof of that. He was damned if he'd
let anyone kill someone who hadn't done anything to anyone.
"What?" the nephilim pressed. It laughed throatily and fluttered misshapen
fingers in the air. "What are you? Human? Weak? Beneath me?"
Annoyance jarred Merlin back into the moment. His thumb and forefinger twisted
around the wax seal, but he'd barely made a dent in it. He'd have to break the
glass. "I'm insulted, actually. I think I rate more than some schmuck of an
anu-na-ne-ke who wants to grow up to be a real boy."
The nephilim opened its mouth, revealing a second row of teeth. This set was
far sharper and pointed than the first.
"You're going to kill me?" Merlin asked. His magic pulsed down his hand easily,
drawn to the magic already captive within the glass jar and energized by the
ginger. The glass disintegrated from the inside and from the outside, the magic
eager to for a meeting in-between.
The jar crumpled in his hand. The waxed cork bounced on the concrete. Fibrous
ginger dusted to the ground, its power magnifying Merlin's magic. Merlin
wouldn't even need to strain himself.
"Did they even tell you who I am?"
The nephilim jerked its head in a twitching motion that could be interpreted as
confusion. On the anu-na-ne-ke, it was a gesture of confirmation.
"Did they tell you I'm burned up? Washed out? That I used to be something, back
in the day?"
Merlin spread his arms wide, ginger-fuelled magic dancing in a golden orb
around one hand, flashing and flaring like ball lightning, while a still-wet
take-away napkin stained the other with blood. What a fucking sight he must
make. Clothes in disarray. A slice across his cheek, blood clotted in his
beard, soaking down his trench coat and shirt.
He didn't care. Power flooded through him, tickling under the skin, drawing a
mad, drunk laugh from his lips. He hadn't felt this alive in a damn long time.
The nephilim approached, its arms up, claws curled to cut and kill.
Merlin clapped his hands together. A thunderous rumble shattered the sound
barrier with him in the epicentre. Boxes toppled over, debris rolled away like
tumbleweed, and the nephilim crouched hastily and clawed the ground to keep
from being blown away.
Golden magic mixed with blood and fed the seed of a spell Merlin had perfected
a long time ago. A familiar sigil formed in the air between Merlin and the
nephilim. Something settled inside of Merlin, like a key unlocking, chains
falling away.
A circle within a circle within a circle, a triangle containing the innermost
and woven through the middle. Futhark runes spelled destruction within the
outermost rim. Enochian in the spaces between the triangle and within the
central circle whispered oblivion.
"My name is Emrys," Merlin said, watching as Sumerian cuneiform writ the
nephilim's name in sweeping lines that formed within the middle circle of the
sigil. "I am the Executioner."
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"My bloody Da. Won't let Mum kick the bucket, not 'til he's bled her dry first
since the prenup and the will make sure he gets the lint in her pockets and
nothing more. Between the slags he's shagging and the medical bills, I'll be
bloody destitute by the time I get to uni."
"Destitute, huh? That's a big word for you," Arthur said distractedly, thumbing
through his mobile.
"My baby sister got me one of those Word of the Day flipbooks for my birthday.
The one you missed," Thomas Eliot Osmond of the Canterbury Osmonds and future
heir of the Dalhousie fortune said meaningfully, raising a brow when Arthur
glanced at him. "It was a good run, too. Loose birds from Exeter West, a kegger
or two. Even watched old Reggie here dive the headmaster's Jag into the pool."
"Didn't mean to. The gearshift was sticky. If it's anyone's fault, it's the
Head's for skipping out on regular maintenance," Reginald Worthington III said
with a nonchalant shrug.
Reggie's father had gotten him off the punishment list without receiving so
much as a slap on the wrist for the damage caused. Worthington Number Two, as
Reggie called him, was particularly affable about the whole matter after Reggie
reminded him of the photographs Arthur had secured a long time ago as leverage
for exactly this sort of situation. A man with Worthington Number Two's
political aspirations couldn't afford his proclivities for being tied up and
pegged by a leather-clad Domme coming to light.
"Do you ever take the blame for anything?" Ollie -- Olivander Laird, heir to
Jackson Laird's vast and profitable illegal weapons trade asked. His father was
much less easy to manipulate, and his short temper showed in the black-and-blue
half-moon around Ollie's left eye.
"No," Reggie said, grinning. He turned to Tommy and smacked his arm. "Oi. Why
don't you smother your Mum like you said you'd do? Pillow over her head, turn
off the oxygen? Save you a whole lot of trouble. It worked for Ollie's Dad when
he did Cheating Wife Number Two."
"That it did," Ollie said, bored, his eyes glazed. "Dumped her in the pool,
though, then paid off the medical examiner who spotted the lack of fluid in the
lungs. Got himself off a murder charge easy as he pleased, too."
Arthur looked up, then, exhaling in exasperation. "The future leaders of the
world, ladies and gentlemen. A bunch of bloody numpties who natter on about
murder and mayhem the way most moan about the weather. I worry for the state of
the world when they have a go at the helm."
"You're in a right strop, Pendragon," Tommy said. He broke school rules and
veered from the white gravel path and onto the manicured lawn, ducking behind
an old brick storage building while he lit up a cigarette. "What's with you?
For that matter, where were you Saturday last? A brunette with tits out to
here, Mithian, her name was, I think, she was asking after you. Didn't have the
heart to tell her that you're saving all your swimmers for some bloke's arse.
Don't worry, I sucked her clit until she was good and wet, then made her forget
all about you."
He grabbed his crotch and made a rude gesture.
"That's not to say how much you like getting on your knees to suck my dick,
huh, Tommy?" Arthur asked, getting right into Tommy's space. "Or how pretty you
are when you're holding yourself open so the whole block can have a go at your
slutty hole?"
Tommy was taller and weighed a good stone more, but every person Arthur had
ever met seemed to subconsciously recognize a dangerous predator. Tommy was no
different. He held up his hands, cigarette hanging from his bottom lip, and
mumbled an apology. The others were studying Arthur out of the corner of their
eyes, waiting for Arthur's temper to blow over before they said or did anything
that might attract his attention.
"And the rest of you lot, how many times have I told you, don't be bloody
incriminating. If you're going to kill someone, have the stones to bloody well
do it instead of jawing on like a bunch of spoilt housewives," Arthur snapped.
"I refuse to believe I've been wasting my time on you."
"Um," Reggie said, holding up his arm. "Future housewife here, thank you very
much."
Ollie snickered. Tommy smirked and took a long drag of his cigarette. Arthur
rolled his eyes. Uther Pendragon might have hand-picked these boys to be
Arthur's friends, shaping his future entourage, but Arthur liked them
regardless.
"My friends are philandering psychopaths," Arthur remarked.
"Tommy's right, though," Ollie said. "You're in a right strop. What happened,
did your bloke break with you? You've been checking your phone like you're
expecting bad news."
"He'd better have been a good shag if you missed out on my party," Tommy
pointed out.
"My bloke is none of your bloody business," Arthur said, glancing at the screen
of his mobile. A text from Leon came through, and he tapped the numeric pad to
get past the lock screen.
"You should forget about him," Tommy said. He blew out a haze of cigarette
smoke and picked at his bottom lip, flicking away the debris from his cheap
roll-ups. He could afford better, but he said the cheapies had better flavour.
"Fuck him out of your system with some nameless pervy blighter, like that one
over there."
He's here, Leon's text said.
Arthur followed Tommy's pointed finger toward the gates surrounding Sunminster
Heights. Lurking just beyond the wrought iron and watching them from the shadow
cast by the stone pillars was a dark-haired man in supple black leather trench
coat tailored for his frame. He wore dress trousers and a rich blue button-down
beneath, fashionable enough to be overlooked in this part of town.
Delight tugged at Arthur's lips to realize that Merlin was finally wearing some
of the clothes George had sneaked into Merlin's closet.
"That happens to be my pervy blighter, and watch what you say about him,"
Arthur said, typing a quick reply to Leon to stay away. Merlin had disappeared
off everyone's radar for several days since the incident with Morgana's
assassin, and if not for the constant, peripheral awareness of Merlin's
survival from the attempt on his life, Arthur would have fretted more. Leon
might spook Merlin, and Arthur didn't want to risk it.
Seeing him alive and well was a reassurance Arthur hadn't expected, and relief
flooded through him as he watched Merlin shift away from the shadows to stand
in the light, his hands stuffed in the pockets of the trench coat.
Arthur frowned, because Merlin didn't look happy.
"He's right fit. Older, too, innit. I bet he shags like a champion," Reggie
remarked. "If he wants to bend me over a table, he could. You're not the
sharing type, are you?"
Arthur shot Reggie a glare so sharp that he squeaked in fright, listing
sideways to hide behind Ollie. "Get to class," he told them. He pointed at
Tommy. "You, put that out. I don't want to hear you whinge when Prof Wetton
gives you detention because he caught you with that joint."
"What about you?" Reggie asked.
"What do you think?" Arthur asked, walking toward the gates. "I'm going to see
my bloke."
The bells rang the start of the next class session, and where most of the
students walked grumpily across the campus to their respective buildings,
Arthur sauntered across the manicured lawn toward the gates, taking his time.
Someone was bound to look out the window and see them, but a few demerits for
walking on the grass and a week in detention for speaking to someone who wasn't
on the approved list was nothing when Arthur could pay a fresher to do the time
for him.
Arthur took his time descending the gentle slope, using the opportunity to eye
Merlin freely. His trousers fit him better, though what possessed him to wear
those scuffed combat boots with that outfit, Arthur didn't know. Arthur wished
Merlin wasn't wearing the long coat, wanting to see how well the fitted shirt
hugged Merlin's broad shoulders. The leather trench coat suited Merlin much
better than the crumpled trench coat from the nineteen-seventies, giving him a
more dangerous air.
He needed a shave and a decent haircut, but Arthur thought that he'd be able to
take Merlin out in public fairly soon.
Merlin's expression didn't change as Arthur approached, and Arthur slowed down,
cautious. He offered Merlin a small smile. "Fancy seeing you --"
"You're the antichrist," Merlin said flatly.
Arthur stumbled to a startled halt.
He'd never been so bluntly called out, and never in that particular tone.
Uther's congregation either revered Arthur or treated him with the
condescension due a child. His enemies carefully couched disdain in the way
they said his name. Merlin… Merlin declared him exactly as he was without any
sort of reservation, twinning his words with a vague resignation that came with
an undertone of, I should have known.
Arthur closed the distance between them, mulling his options. He'd been
startled to silence for far too long; his hesitation couldn't be seen as
anything other than confirmation, and denial would get him nowhere. Merlin
wouldn't appreciate deflection or subterfuge, and when Arthur stopped on his
side of the fence, he asked, "Is that a deal-breaker?"
Merlin's mouth was in a thoughtful set, a faint pinch appeared on his brow, and
his eyes scanned Arthur with impersonal detachment that gave away nothing of
what he was thinking. "Depends. What's the deal?"
Arthur pretended to misunderstand and offered up an innocuous truth as
sacrifice. "Something more than a one-night stand. I'm very territorial, and I
don't share."
The pinch deepened into a frown and Merlin's lips pursed into a moue that
matched the faint huff. "Why did you come to Camden, Arthur?"
"We had this conversation," Arthur said.
"And you avoided answering. Congratulations. It's not often that I don't notice
when someone dodges a question."
Arthur allowed himself a small smile. He sidled closer to the wrought iron and
leaned his hip against it, offering up his best coy smile. "Do I distract you,
Merlin?"
Merlin closed his eyes. The air between them filled with an aura of annoyance.
He reached up and grabbed the fence's bars. If not for the physical barrier
between them, Arthur could easily imagine himself pressed against a wall,
Merlin caging him with his arms. While the thought appealed to him, he
preferred it if it was the other way around.
"You gave your bodyguards the night off. You didn't want the hospital because
you didn't want your father finding out that you've been where you shouldn't
be. What were you looking for in Camden?" Merlin asked.
Arthur frowned, pretending to be hurt. Merlin's refusal to play along didn't so
much sting as entice Arthur to keep trying, but he sensed that if he went down
that route, he would lose Merlin.
For once, complete honesty was the best policy. He tilted his head. Offered a
feeble shrug of his shoulders. "I was looking for you."
Merlin's fingers twitched on the bars. He rocked on his heels in an aborted
motion to walk away. His blank expression changed, intent and fierce. "What do
you want with me?"
A wry smile stretched across Arthur's mouth before he could stop it, and he
glanced down along Merlin's body. "Well --"
"Arthur," Merlin snapped.
Arthur looked away, though more to hide the mirth that no doubt shone in his
eyes than in contrition. If any of Arthur's men spoke to him in that tone, they
never would again. With Merlin, Arthur couldn't help but revel in the
challenge. The exchange felt more like a seduction than any attempt to force
genuine submission.
He scratched the back of his head and shrugged again like a lost little
teenager who didn't have anyone to trust or to confide in.
"Arthur," Merlin said, his tone softer, cajoling, gentle. Arthur could feel
Merlin's resolve crumbling and it was delicious. "Why were you looking for me?"
Arthur sniffed and pushed away from the bars. He turned to face the school and
contemplated walking away, if for no other reason than to dangle the lure in
front of Merlin's willing nose for a little longer. However, Arthur was acutely
aware that he was running out of time, and that he couldn't take his time with
Merlin like he wanted. He would so enjoy playing with Merlin, but that would
have to wait. He needed Merlin now. "Do you really have to ask me that
question?"
Merlin dropped his arms from the iron bars. He touched one eyebrow in a gesture
of frustration. "Explain it to me."
Arthur half-turned, giving Merlin his profile. "My father has me collared and
leashed as if I'm a disobedient pet, trotting me out only for special events so
that he can show off his prize-winning Best in Breed."
Merlin made a soft sound. Arthur faced him.
"He was wrong if he thought he could keep certain… organizations from noticing
me. He shields me as much as he can, but I'm not stupid. A small mountain of
death threats are delivered to the mansion from believers of every faith with
some version of the antichrist in their mythos. Rome sent a Hunting Party, and
they're still lurking around somewhere. One of them broke into my flat two
months ago, pretending to be a cleaner, but all he did was bless every room,
probably hoping it would kill me. And then, there's… all those others."
Arthur tilted his head as if to see if Merlin understood what he meant. Merlin
nodded, but his expression was guarded.
"My father doesn't understand what he's done. He doesn't see beyond his own
status, how much power he can gain, or how many pound notes you flash under his
nose. If I tell him that an angel or a demon tried to kill me, he'd blow it off
but give me a couple of extra bodyguards. Human bodyguards with no idea that
the supernatural is real or that their bullets won't do a damn thing."
Arthur trailed off, stopping himself. There were many things he wanted to say
about Uther Pendragon, but they wouldn't serve him now.
"Even my half-sister -- not Uther's, you understand, but Him, below…" Arthur
shook his head, leaving it there. That was enough; Merlin could make the
connections himself, and the conclusion in his mind, right or wrong, could only
be in Arthur's favour.
He took a step closer to the fence.
"I have to protect myself. I want to live. I don't want to be who they want me
to be. I have that right, don't I? Except I don't, not really. I never did. It
was an illusion." Arthur tried to catch Merlin's eye, but Merlin stared past
Arthur, his jaw clenched. "I asked around. I did my research. There's nobody
that they're more afraid of than you."
"Maybe once," Merlin said, his voice like ice. His eyes were just as cold, as
if he were haunted and trying to protect himself, and for Arthur, well, that
just wouldn't do. "I don't do that shite anymore."
Arthur fell quiet, weighing his options. Pointing out that Merlin already had
done that shite would be a mistake. Arthur could push and cajole, but Merlin's
history proved he didn't respond predictably to any kind of direct pressure.
Threatening a man who had nothing to gain and even less to lose would get him
nowhere. Begging or pleading, bribing or promising, appealing to logic or
pulling on heartstrings -- none of those tactics would work. Not on Merlin.
Merlin was a man who had gone to war and had done horrible acts. The legions of
Hell loathed him as much as they feared him, but they would wait in the
underworld for Merlin to die a mortal death. They would rip him apart as soon
as he crossed into Hell. There was no Heaven in his future, not after all his
sins, and any redemption would be foiled by angels seeking revenge.
There was one thing Arthur could offer Merlin. One thing that he might accept.
But Arthur needed Merlin to ask for it of his own free will, because there was
power in such things.
So Arthur stayed silent, at a loss for words, without knowing what to do or say
to fix a fraying thread before it snapped all the way. He did the only thing he
could.
He reached through the bars, hating how Merlin stared at him warily, like a
spooked kitten about to scratch and run. But Arthur only lightly touched
Merlin's cheek, smiling to himself at the softness of a scruffy beard, and
traced the thin cut all across his cheek.
"I'm sorry."
 
 
 
 
Merlin pulled away, broken filling the air between them. Arthur's fingers
twitched, wanting to fix it. He could fix it. But it had to come from Merlin.
Merlin shook his head vehemently, a denial to something unspoken, and walked
away.
He didn't look back.
The thread snapped. Arthur had lost Merlin.
"Damn it," Arthur swore. Logically, he knew he needed to cut his losses and
move forward. He still had options. Granted, they were unappealing options, but
if he was careful, everything would turn out. Phone calls, money transfers, a
little intimidation here, a whole lot more pressure elsewhere. The faster he
moved, the sooner he would have everything in place.
Instead of reaching for his phone, he rubbed his chest absentmindedly and
stayed where he was all through the next bell, hating how bloody maudlin he'd
become.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Merlin stormed down the steps. The bouncer raised his hand, a flashcard between
bandaged fingers. Merlin took note of the intact fingertips peeking through,
the ketchup and mustard stain on the palm. He recognized Merlin and flinched,
scrambling out of the way.
Merlin's stride didn't break as he walked past. He flicked his hand sharply and
the door to the club smacked wide open, tearing a hinge from the metal frame.
A small part of him felt he should be disturbed by how easily he reached his
magic these days. The rest of him was disappointed by the need for a gesture.
He had it in him to flatten entire buildings with a thought, but he had
deliberately lost the required discipline for that kind of precise magic a long
time ago.
He found himself regretting his lapse of practice for the first time in nearly
ten years. He told himself that this wasn't a slide into his old, depraved
habits. He was simply too angry to focus on intricate enchantments or remember
the words to a convoluted spell.
How fucking dare the dragon put a compulsion on him?
Merlin had it with being manipulated. He used to shrug it off as the price of
doing business, but his few interactions with Arthur Pendragon had been enough
to show him just how little control he had over his own life. How little
choice. He hadn't even realized how bad it was until he confronted Arthur and -
-
And nothing.
Arthur didn't try to play him. Didn't even call him back. Just let him go, as
if Merlin's choice was the most important thing in the world.
That freedom had left him lost. And now, it fuelled his rage, because
Kilgharrah's compulsion had stripped him of everything, and he felt like a
goddamned slave.
Merlin was pissed. He was so angry it radiated out of him in waves. How could
he not have known how much he'd given up, before?
The club was still when he walked under the archway and into the main room.
Patrons were crouched in an awkward state, unsure whether they should sit or if
they should flee. Some of them saw Merlin and sat down as if dismissing him as
a threat, but the others, the old school sorcerers and supernatural relics,
they downed the last of their drinks and headed for the nearest exit as Merlin
stalked across the club.
"Merlin!" Freya hissed. She hastily put down the bottle in her hand to wave him
down.
Merlin ignored her and headed straight for Kilgharrah's office. The door was
closed, as usual, but darkness suddenly fell across that wall, shrouding the
entrance with the strongest Stay Away magic that Freya could muster.
He wasn't angry with her, so he left her magic alone. Kilgharrah, on the other
hand --
This time, Merlin didn't need to gesture to open the door.
White hot rage cut through exotic wards and convoluted knotbolts, ancient oak
and cold steel barricades. The door blew open with such force that the illusion
of a simple bar owner's dank office shimmered and shattered, the false dull
overhead light giving way to a distant fiery glow from below.
The office narrowed into a stone corridor with wind-carved rock walls and a
downward slope that dipped another ten degrees every ten metres. The
temperature increased, too, but Merlin couldn't feel the heat. His magic
protected him in a swath of cool air by the time he squeezed through the claw-
shaped crack at the dead end of the tunnel where flames burned bright and high
beneath his feet.
 
 
 
 
Shadows flit across the cavern wall. Broken shapes became a tangible form as
Kilgharrah came closer, setting himself lightly upon the stone that was his
throne, the chain dangling from the shackle around his ankle clinking against
the pile of gold and bleached skulls. Sulphuric fire burning from any number of
makeshift fire-pits backlit the old dragon with an unholy, flickering aura, and
the scorch marks on the wall only accentuated the long scratches in the
granitic stone that had long been his prison.
Merlin breathed heavily. Kilgharrah tilted his head. Grey, scarred scales
fluttered along his sides; his great crest flared before flattening against his
neck. He lowered his head to Merlin's height, coming so close that Merlin could
count the white flecks in the iris of a large, reptilian eye. His gaze was
cold, measuring, critical.
The eye blinked in dismissal.
The dragon huffed a blazing breath that sparked against the cold air around
Merlin's body, dissipating the remnants of the summoning that he'd cast to drag
Merlin to him.
Merlin shuddered as the phantom claws dragged away from his body. He could feel
the points digging into his shoulders, his spine, his chest, and though they
faded, the sensation remained, as if reminding Merlin that he could be put
under the dragon's thrall at any time.
The compulsion hadn't been easy to break and the remnants of the shattered
spell had curled in on themselves like a triggered hunter's trap, spiking
through Merlin like the sharpened spikes of an Iron Maiden cage.
"What… Do… You… Want?" Merlin bit out. The fiery pinpoints of pain coursing
through his body slowly began to fade.
"The pleasure of your company," the dragon said. Kilgharrah reared back,
settling upon his throne, tail swishing, wings fluttering. He tilted his head,
mouth curling into a sly, smug smile. "Amongst other things."
Merlin brought both hands to his face. He knuckled his eyes until he saw white.
Merlin had pushed himself through London for the last few days and nights,
searching out every wanderlusting angel and wayward demon. He clipped the wings
of those who thought it amusing to experiment with humans, exorcized the demons
who possessed the innocent and not-so-innocent, and scattered a congregation of
arrogant nyam-an-mya'lak nephilim who, after a hundred years, still couldn't
implement their plans to storm the Heavens to take their rightful place among
the stars.
Distraction, pain, exhaustion -- those had been Merlin's goals. Anything to
keep him from obsessing over Arthur fucking Pendragon. Over a boy with too much
power and too much baggage. Spoilt rotten. Wilful. Self-entitled.
It was easy to see how he would grow up to become the monstrous leader who
would establish Hell on Earth. His future was being moulded by supporters and
believers who had been waiting their entire lives for his arrival. The only
roadblocks in his path were those put there by his enemies.
And yet --
Yet.
When Merlin allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, when he closed his
eyes and permitted his guard to drop, when he was alone with no one to watch
him, he couldn't help the small little whimper acknowledging how much he ached.
Arthur was a dangerous boy on the cusp of becoming a dangerous man, and if that
was all that it was, Merlin would have no qualms about walking away, leaving
Arthur to his fate, whatever it would be, at the hands of his enemies.
But there had been kindness in Arthur's eyes. Caring. Compassion. His touch
alone had warmed the cold core of Merlin's soul, gentle and soft with a fragile
heart, sincerely concerned that Merlin had come to harm in his name.
Merlin had been elbows-deep in the metaphysical body of a young girl, her skin
like stone, beautiful features twisted by the demon that possessed her when he
came to the realization that the man who would establish a Kingdom of
Armageddon and Oblivion on Earth had apologized.
The antichrist wasn't supposed to apologize.
"He is the Great Deceiver," the demon whispered, seeing the opportunity to
seduce Merlin and to gain a stronger vessel than the body of a despoiled young
girl. "The teller of lies. He is the Prince of Darkness, and one day he will
rule on a kingdom of bones --"
Merlin exhaled slowly.
He could still feel the demon's ephemeral taint on his hands. From the way
Kilgharrah's nostrils were flaring, he could smell it.
"We can do the tea and crumpets later. I'm not in the mood," Merlin snapped. He
turned for the thin crack in the rock face. "Next time, call."
"Arthur Pendragon," Kilgharrah said, his tone insufferable and all-knowing.
Merlin stopped cold. He turned slowly, keeping his expression blank. Of course,
Kilgharrah would have divined what had sparked Merlin's usually unenthusiastic
work ethic over the last few days. "What about him?"
"Step aside, young warlock," Kilgharrah said. "He is not your destiny. Allow
matters to unfold as they will. The future is not yours to shape, and neither
does it require your interference."
Merlin stared.
The dragon was self-serving on the best of days. A claw in every pot, a
mouthpiece in every city, a pre-prepared pawn ready to be moved in place to
alter events that would best benefit Kilgharrah's so-called neutrality.
Merlin had been that pawn one too many times, never realizing it until too
late. But he'd learned his lesson in the intervening years since. Whenever
Kilgharrah was involved, Merlin half-expected to be drawn into another plot
where he would risk his life for the immediate reward of saving the world,
while simultaneously and unknowingly contributing to Kilgharrah's long-term
scheming and manipulation.
This? This was at once a callous sign of Kilgharrah's alien nature and a blunt
reminder that the dragon worked for no one's goal but his own.
"What?" Merlin asked. He laughed. "Seriously? Is your crystal ball broken? Did
you miss the part where I took myself out of the equation?"
"I did not," Kilgharrah said.
"I'm doing exactly what you want me to do. I've stepped aside," Merlin said. He
narrowed his eyes. "Why are you driving the point home? What do you --"
"You are tormented by your choice," Kilgharrah said. "Your decision is not set.
The future is in flux. Arthur Pendragon bears the mantle of our destruction.
That is no mystery to you. And yet, you question yourself. I offer clarity
where yours is murked by your loins."
"Keep my loins out of this," Merlin snapped. He was well past the age when he
was prone to making ill-advised decisions based on his dick's input, and no
amount of fantasizing about Arthur would make him change his mind.
The real Arthur, on his knees with his mouth around Merlin's cock? Merlin
doubted he would make any sane decision in the aftermath. That was one reason
why he'd walked away. He didn't trust himself around the boy.
"You are a pivot point," Kilgharrah said. A puff of smoke escaped his mouth as
he spoke, barely a wisp, hardly visible. But Merlin had learned what the
dragon's poker tells were, and this was a sure sign that he didn't like the
cards he held in his grubby, neutral hands.
"You've called me that before," Merlin said. The memory was old and faded, but
stood in Merlin's memory, unable to be washed away by time because of how
inextricably it was linked with the direction Merlin had taken with his magic
when he was young.
He'd turned himself into a monster. A killer.
"That is what you have always been," Kilgharrah said, his voice dropping in
volume, as if imparting a great secret. "A game changer. In the war that's
coming, your presence will tilt the board. But when the board has too many
sides, it is best for even the pivot to withdraw from the field."
Merlin heard what Kilgharrah didn't say: There are too many sides and none of
them are good for me. What was good for the dragon, however, wasn't necessarily
healthy for the rest of the world. He was about to say as much when Kilgharrah
lowered his head, bringing it even with the ledge Merlin stood on.
"Allow the field to clash in a melee. Let the banners fall until it is time for
you to play your role. Your destiny will not be complete if you show your hand
too soon."
Merlin pressed his palms onto his closed eyes.
Push, push, push.
That was all that Kilgharrah ever did. Push and pull, tug and nudge. Vague
proclamations, hollow accusations, blatant manipulation.
Push, push, push.
Fucking dragons.

Merlin was falling down the rabbit hole, shoved through by an ever-present
force that neither cared about his choice nor expressed concern about his well-
being. The only thing that slowed his slow tumble into the fire-pit and into
Hell's mercies was the fleeting sensation of a warm hand against his cheek, a
gentle thumb over a scabbed cut, and the unexpected whisper of a sincere
apology.
Arthur's soft, I'm sorry, grew dimensions that Merlin hadn't fathomed at the
time. He'd taken it for regret and guilt at having dragged Merlin into the line
of fire, however inadvertently, and for getting him injured in the process.
But now, it resonated with the freedom of a choice -- the very same one that
Kilgharrah had subtly taken from Merlin for as long as they'd known each other.
Maybe even before they'd met.
Merlin dropped his arms.
"Your hand, you mean. Not mine," Merlin said, cold.
Kilgharrah drew back in confusion and tilted its head like a dog reacting to a
particular keyword.
"You don't want to show your hand too soon," Merlin said. He gestured toward
himself. "I've got nothing to do with this. I walked the fuck away. But you
summoned my arse and folded in a Devil's Trap for good measure to make sure I'd
come, and I can't help but wonder why. The only thing that comes to mind is
that you want to use me --"
"Young warlock," the dragon interrupted, acrid smoke emanating from his mouth
in earnest now, a slip of decorum that betrayed everything.
"It's my choice what I do. So take your so-called fucking clarity and choke on
it."
Merlin turned on his heel and stalked toward the crack in the stone wall. A
tremendous roar reverberated through the cavern, and everything shook with the
tremble of rage, stones and boulders falling and rolling, sheets of bedrock
collapsing. The ledge shifted, pulling Merlin away from the exit.
"You will not," Kilgharrah said. The rest of the threat was left unspoken,
hanging in the air -- leave, join the battle, fight against me. "You will
lose."
Merlin scoffed. "What a beacon of neutrality you are. So much for never taking
sides. But it was always about you, yeah? What you wanted, and fuck everybody
else."
"You are not ready," Kilgharrah warned. Smoke curled from its mouth, and
reptilian eyes glowed eerily through the haze.
"Ready for what?" Merlin asked.
Kilgharrah snorted, hot air blowing against Merlin's cold jacket. Magic
connected with magic, reacting with a vicious, steamy hiss. The dragon tilted
its head. He bared fangs, a body shudder running beneath the scales. His wings
made a clacking, clicking sound. "The fool who plays a fool is nothing but a
fool himself."
Merlin grabbed the edge of the exit.
"I warned against using your magic again," Kilgharrah said. "No good came of it
before. No good will come of it now."
Merlin crawled through a crack that was far smaller than it had been the first
time, gasping when he felt it close around him. He pulled himself out with a
pulse of magic and fell back against the cold, dank corridor, panting at the
tiny sliver in the rock face.
The great dragon roared, but it was from far away. The ceiling dusted down, but
the ground didn't shift. "You're not strong enough --"
He turned around long enough to offer the dragon a cutting glare.
"Fuck you," Merlin snarled. His magic rose up with the same frightening speed
as his anger, attacking the entranceway to Kilgharrah's cozy little cavern.
White light flashed against gold and a burning heat flared at the seam, welding
shut the metaphysical door into another dimensional realm.
Pivot point. Merlin would show him a goddamn pivot point. Not strong enough --
He clapped his hands together. The narrow corridor shuddered from the
thunderous rumble. He buried his fingers in the softened walls on either side
of the freshly-sealed claw wound in the stone and closed his eyes. His magic
crested and crashed down, wild and reckless without focus, snatching the
strongest intent in Merlin's mind.
Magic battered the stone from both sides. White lines curled in the middle only
to curl again to form eight spokes inside a circle to lock the metaphysical
door on one side. Fire and flame lashed at the stone from within the dragon's
prison, trying to saturate the stone before Merlin could complete the binding.
The heat burned through Merlin's shields, licking at his palms, sinking through
his bones, full of primal energy and unbound rage.
Merlin endured. Second by second. The heat turned the stone walls a bright,
burning red. His magic blinded with white where the spirals curled into
themselves and reached out to form a closed circle. He felt fire flaying his
skin, melting fat and broiling muscle, but he ignored the pain. Raw power
defied draconic magic that was older than time itself, and Kilgharrah's rage
had nothing against the abyss of Merlin's hate.
The circle completed with the whistling whine of a lightning flash. Merlin
stumbled backward, collapsing to the ground. The knotted wheel was a three-fold
binding three times over, glistening with a white shimmer as the stone cooled
down, and it was strong enough to barricade this door to the great dragon's
realm, if only until it was unwound.
A residue of Kilgharrah's magic remained, fading quickly; Merlin's hands were
fine, it had all been a very vivid illusion.
Merlin buried his face in trembling hands and wondered what he had just done.
He caught his breath after what felt to be an eternity and stood on uncertain
legs. The corridor was silent, dark, damp; all of Kilgharrah's sheer presence
faded from the walls, replaced by the unearthly glow of the Taranis nine-fold
knot.
A bad taste filled his mouth. The dragon would forgive him for this.
Eventually. Maybe in a few centuries, after Merlin's bones were rotten and
crushed to dust.
Merlin spat bile on the floor, because he didn't give a damn.
He turned and walked up the rise, heading toward the club, feeling as if a
great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He didn't know what he was
going to do next, and…
It felt wonderful. He felt free.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Hail Satan, bubbled up mockingly in Arthur's chest. He felt he should be
rewarded for remaining stoic despite the ridiculous spectacle in front of him.
Anyone would have difficulty keeping a straight face when a man in red face-
paint, plastic devil's horns, and exaggerated evil goatee tripped over the
tangle of a long forked tail stuffed in cotton, tangling his legs in his
shimmery red satin cloak on the way down. What nearly got Arthur was the way
the man abruptly jumped to his feet, looked around to see if anyone had
witnessed the debacle, and resumed his insouciant glide through the crowd.
Arthur covered his mouth with his fingers, biting down on his tongue, and tried
to think of something else. Unfortunately, his mind invariably settled on
Merlin, replaying once again how Merlin had simply…
Walked away.
Arthur shifted in his seat, all amusement gone.
 
 
 
 
A well-known and affluent stockbroker with one of the top London firms handled
a small percentage of the Pendragon fortune with a guaranteed annual return in
exchange for Arthur's occasional appearances at his invitation-only soirées.
Arthur had wasted countless hours of his life that he would never get back
sitting on an uncomfortable, exaggerated throne, usually presiding over rituals
involving naked people on an altar.
He hadn't understood until he was seven or eight years old that the so-called
celebrations thrown by Malcolm Worthington Tate were thinly veiled excuses for
wild, repercussion-free orgies half-heartedly disguised as sacred satanic
rituals. As a teenager long forbidden from participating, never mind tossing
one off at the free fuck shows, Arthur had become so blasé about the human body
and sex in its every incarnation that he amused himself by memorizing names,
faces, dates, and preferences.
Arthur possessed a great deal of blackmail material on every single
participant, and he couldn't use any of it.
Not yet.
All of his plans were stalled and he couldn't move forward until he re-
engineered the very foundations of his future. If he proceeded regardless, or
opted for less-suitable building materials, the kingdom he wanted to create
would crumble within a few years instead of standing resolute for millennia.
Arthur wanted to be angry, to lash out in frustration, but he could fault no
one but himself for this rather spectacular…
Failure.
Failure was too strong a word. Arthur wanted to say that it was an oversight,
that he had merely misjudged Merlin's nature. He told himself that, no matter
what, Merlin would always have refused Arthur. Arthur's only reassurance was
that he was equally likely to refuse Morgana, should Morgana ever look past her
own self-importance and realize how valuable it would be to have someone like
Merlin standing at her side.
No. Ultimately, failure was exactly what had happened, and Arthur had never
failed before. He was discombobulated, and he didn't know how to move past it.
Losing Merlin was far more crippling than anything Arthur's enemies could ever
do.
A young woman with long, blond hair tied up in coquettish pigtails approached
the raised dais and posed flirtatiously, pushing out pert breasts with pierced
nipples. The breasts were lovely, but Arthur had been unwillingly presiding
over these events since he was very young, and, honestly? He'd seen better.
He stared at her flatly, his expression never breaking. The woman, clearly new
to the parties or she would never have approached Arthur in the first place,
dropped her pose and moved away, discomfited.
Arthur exhaled in annoyance. He shifted in his seat, throwing a leg over the
arm of the throne, and pulled his mobile out of his pocket, thumbing through
the most recent slew of messages. One of them stood out. He called Leon.
Leon answered on the second ring. "How's the peep show?"
"No more disastrous than usual. One broken dick, second degree burns from
candle wax on a nice pair of tits, and someone's hair caught on fire. On the
bright side, the new Lord Minister has come out of the closet, and he seems to
enjoy his current role as someone's darling little puppy," Arthur said. His
tone dropped in volume, and he asked, "What was that text about?"
"Sorry, one second, I'll be right back," Leon said, clearly more for Arthur's
benefit than for the company he was keeping. A door opened and closed, the rush
of wind only momentarily drowning out the sounds of cars rushing past. "I don't
know how legitimate the information is. Morgana would notice if we slipped
someone new into her entourage, and we tried and failed to turn anyone who's
already there. But the long and short of it? She's taken a page out of your
playbook and has acquired herself a pet sorcerer."
Arthur's mouth thinned. "Who?"
"No confirmation on that yet, but Percival ran your database of names and
aliases through the system. Morgause Gorlois flagged on a passport scan from a
Paris flight. She's been here three days."
Although not in the top ten of sorcerers by any measure, Morgause nevertheless
had made Arthur's most-watched list. She wasn't particularly powerful, but she
was well-educated, extensively trained, and insanely resourceful. Strength
alone wouldn't save her in combat, but she wasn't above dirty tricks or taking
any advantage possible to gain the upper hand.
Arthur had never intended to recruit her. If anything, he would see her
assassinated, first. Morgause's ruthlessness as a mercenary was eclipsed only
by her bounty hunting kill ratio. She would have been more prone to trying to
take Arthur's kingdom for herself than to help Arthur build it. If she weren't
human, Arthur would have thought her to be one of the bloodthirsty berserking
soldiers among Lucifer's Fallen.
"Arthur?"
"I'm here," Arthur said, rubbing his eyes with forefinger and thumb. He exhaled
a weary sigh. "Find her. Track her. Be subtle about it -- if she notices
someone's following her, they won't live long. I won't accept any more losses."
"I know," Leon said softly, no doubt thinking about Lancelot. There was still
no word on what had happened to him, no trace of a body, no sense of his
essence, and the not-knowing had the rest of Arthur's people nervous and on
edge. "Shall I have her taken out as soon as she's found?"
"You won't be able to," Arthur said, because he'd studied Morgause's movements
and tactics. She was very conscious of her own security. Even a sniper would
have difficulty hitting her through all the wards and shields she wore. "Keep
an eye on her, and no more. If she makes contact with Morgana --"
"You'll know as soon as I do," Leon promised.
"Thank you," Arthur said, hanging up. He rubbed the side of his head, sighed,
and thumbed through his email. He answered a few messages, including a worrying
one from Reggie: How do you clean blood stains out of cement? Asking for a
friend.
Arthur replied with a web link to Google and a short note. Don't be a fucking
idiot.
He played a few rounds of a bubble-pop game before boredom sank in again. He
glanced over the crowd -- the tableau hadn't changed, though clearly partners
had. There was no sign of the man wearing the devil costume, the woman with the
tits was masturbating on someone's face, and the party host was across the
large room, smoking a cigar as he chatted with Uther.
Arthur shifted in his seat, feigning indifference. He'd trained himself in the
art of blanking out a long time ago -- it was a necessary self-preservation
tool in these kinds of situations -- and he adopted the air of it, staring at a
distant point on the wall.
Malcolm Worthington Tate was a fifty-something multimillionaire with gunmetal
grey hair, thick eyebrows, and a manicured goatee designed to do something
about his weak, underdeveloped chin. His chest was bare, his stomach stippled
from a recent liposuction procedure, and his doctor would have done well to pay
some attention to his sagging manboobs, too. The Roman-style kilt he wore was
no doubt selected for easy access to the family jewels, but did absolutely
nothing to flatter his pasty-white legs or his knobby knees.
The more Arthur studied him, the more he could read in the man's body language.
He stood with his feet apart, a hand on his hip, his shoulders back. Clearly,
it was meant to be intimidating, but the way he waved the hand holding the
cigar in the air, he was extremely agitated.
Arthur turned to watch his father.
The contrast between the two men was striking, and it wasn't only a matter of
numbers on their bank statements. Uther was easily the richest man in the world
and undoubtedly also the most powerful. It showed in the way he dwarfed Tate
not with physical height but demeanour, his personality filling the room.
Though Uther's eyes crinkled with amusement, the look in his eyes was wry and
shrewd, and his mouth was set in a firm line.
Uther had always treated these little soirées with the disdain they deserved.
He understood that they undermined everything that he tried to do, but the deal
he had made with Tate in the early years of their relationship, before Arthur
was even born, made it so that Uther couldn't cast Tate aside as he so dearly
wanted. Despite his personal opinion, Uther always tried to bring a little bit
of class to the parties, dressing up to the nines in a tailored suit that was
slowly dishevelled by questing hands and stained by body fluids as the night
wore on.
Arthur checked the time on his mobile. It was ten minutes to one o'clock.
Uther had a very strict regime when it came to personal pleasure and enjoyment,
even if they had to occur in a public place under scrutinizing eyes and while
having no choice but to take someone else's sloppy seconds. By eleven o'clock,
he would have had no fewer than three blowjobs from earnest young women who
were all under the age of twenty. By midnight, he would have fucked at least
one of the party regulars -- usually Mrs Patricia Wilson or Mrs Miriam Flynn -
- and would be in some degree of undress.
By now, his shirt should be open. His belt missing. There should be stains on
his trousers, since Uther rarely did anything more than to whip out his cock
and plunge it in without so much as a Hello.
Uther Pendragon was as far from rumpled as he could get. He might as well have
just stepped out of the car, instead of having had been here for hours.
Arthur tapped the edge of his mobile against the arm of his seat.
Something wasn't right.
The woman with the tits was watching Arthur with a wry smile as a man in a
zippered bondage mask thrust into her with mechanical precision. The devil
cosplayer made a reappearance, leaning against the side door of the large hall.
His red makeup was smeared, the horns crooked, and there was a leather-wrapped
whipping stick twirling in his hands.
Arthur raised an eyebrow.
"Hm."
He scanned the room slowly.
Women with cat-nails that glinted sharply in the dim light. Subtly-propped
paddlers shaped like Billy clubs or spiked maces. Floggers tipped with the
chrome of sharp edges, crops that were wider than normal, loop-handled knives
artistically framing the cheese platter at the food bar.
Tate's satanic orgies pushed the boundaries of what was nominally a swinger's
vanilla kink club, but that pile of restraints seemed to be larger than normal
and disproportionate to the numbers in attendance.
Arthur slid his thumb across the lock screen on his phone, tapped in his code,
and redialled the last number.
"Arthur?" Leon asked.
"You wouldn't have posted some men on me for the evening, would you?" Arthur
asked, scratching a fingernail on the arm of the chair. He plucked a loose
thread.
"Of course I have," Leon scoffed. He paused. "Why do you ask?"
"Send them in. Tell me when they're inside. I'll make my way to them," Arthur
said. He hung up.
He drummed his fingers on the arm rest. He sat up properly and crossed and
uncrossed his legs with the impatience of a teenager who didn't want to be
there. Affected an uncaring demeanour, stared blankly at the far wall, and,
every once in a while, watched one of the sex acts in action, all to continue
to appear as if nothing was wrong. But the more he watched, the more he
realized that the majority of the fucking was fake, there were more people
talking than fucking, and there was an extraordinary amount of attention being
cast his way.
Uther was nowhere to be seen. Tate had stubbed out his cigar and was observing
the room with an unhappy look on his face, and it seemed to Arthur that Tate
avoided looking in his direction.
As Arthur watched, a large, muscular man closed one of the doors to the room
and stayed there, crossing his arms over his chest.
Arthur's mobile buzzed. He glanced at the screen before answering. "Where are
they?"
"Get out," Leon barked. "Get out now. Our boys can't enter. The mansion is
warded. I repeat, the mansion is warded."
Arthur ignored the sinking feeling in his stomach and forced himself to act
natural. His heart pounded and his head buzzed, momentarily freezing him to the
spot. Rage that the man who had raised Arthur as a son and reaped the benefits
was now moving against him clashed with the fear-adrenaline that came with the
feeling of helplessness. Arthur had not anticipated that this would happen. His
spies among Uther's people had not informed him of anything out of the
ordinary.
He had no contingency plans for this.
"Arthur!" Leon hissed.
Arthur snapped out of the terror spiral, though not easily and not quickly, and
he cursed when he realized that the crowd in the room seemed to have moved
closer to him while Leon was trying to get him to leave.
"I'll make my way out. Have the men waiting," Arthur said, proud of himself for
sounding calm and in control.
"Stay on the line," Leon said.
"Of course," Arthur said, but he dropped his hand and slipped his mobile in his
trouser pocket. He forced himself to wait for a minute. Another.
And then, slowly, with a grimace, Arthur rose to his feet. He brushed a hand
over his button-down shirt to smooth out the wrinkles and walked at a leisurely
pace toward the side of the raised platform, descending the stairs.
It hadn't been his imagination. Everyone was watching him. Arthur raised an
imperious eyebrow at them, and those nearest, conditioned by years of proximity
and proper decorum, glanced away in an instinctive measure of respect. The rest
didn't so much as twitch -- it was as if they didn't care about Arthur's
status.
Or that they didn't know who he was.
Arthur huffed unhappily and continued to descend. He nearly dropped his mask of
indifference when he made eye contact with Uther.
Uther must have taken the time to get himself cleaned up. He'd put himself to
sorts once more and his suit coat was buttoned in preparation for a departure.
The expression he wore was kindly, paternal, even indulging, but the downward
turn of his mouth and the coldness of his eyes were jarring.
Uther glanced past Arthur and nodded sharply. Arthur turned around, ready to
defend himself. He caught a glimpse of the devil in smeared reds and crooked
horns, and --
Blackness.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Seven long-necks littered a creased coffee table. The eighth beer dangled from
Merlin's fingers, the bottom bumping against his knee.
The news was playing on the telly -- some slick-haired announcer reading
commentary -- but Merlin had no idea what he was talking about. He was too busy
trying to remember when he'd last gone out to buy himself a six-pack.
The refrigerator was full of ready-to-eat meals that were the homemade sort
rather than the cardboard boxes out of Tesco's freezers. A metal bowl Merlin
didn't remember owning was filled with Red Delicious apples. The bookshelves
had been dusted within an inch of their lives, the bedclothes were freshly
washed, and the threadbare towels were no longer threadbare, but brand new.
Merlin pressed the still-cool bottle of beer against a throbbing temple.
He thought…
Hell.
He didn't know what he thought.
He'd made the connection early on. The cleaned flat, the restocked
refrigerator, the tailored clothing in his closet. His sudden and unexpected
bonanza had begun at roughly the same time that Arthur Pendragon, the bloody
antichrist, walked into his life.
Maybe it was too much to hope for that Arthur would have accepted Merlin's No
gracefully. That he'd cut every ties and leave well enough alone. But it had
been more than a week since Merlin had walked away from Arthur, and the daily
visits of some unknown person continued.
While Merlin appreciated that they'd managed to scrub the dirty ring from the
tub, there was nothing more disturbing than to reach over into his bedside
drawer and discover that his personal supply of lube had been replenished.
He'd had enough. Enough of the constant break-ins, of having his privacy
invaded, of being manipulated.
Clearly, Arthur hadn't gotten the message to leave him alone.
The rising sun was high enough in the sky to shine over the tall buildings that
shadowed Merlin's flat, and the light cut through the tall windows --
Dear God, Merlin realized. Whoever had taken on the herculean task of keeping
Merlin's residence clean and tidy, they'd even climbed up to polish glass that
hadn't been washed since the building had been constructed in the nineteen
fifties.
He drank the last of the beer, clinked the bottle next to the rest, and rubbed
his head with the flat of his palms.
He pulled out three strands of hair, rubbing them together for a stout, coarse
string. A knot, a pulse of magic, a breath of air. He murmured a forbidden
name, added a pinch of intent, and released the thread.
It disintegrated in a swirl of glittering lights that moved away from him,
forming bone and flesh, gathering what little dust motes floated in the air to
form illusionary clothing.
 
 
 
 
Merlin's doppelganger walked out the door. The door swung shut with a click,
but it didn't lock. Merlin sensed the doppelganger's descent down the stairs
and heard the grunt of effort that it took to open the rear door. He could
almost feel the cold city wind on his skin, coughing in sympathy as the
doppelganger choked on automobile exhaust from a lorry idling nearby.
The doppelganger went further and further away. Merlin should feel exultation,
a cruel joy that he would capture Arthur's minion and terrorize them into never
returning, but he could only feel…
Loneliness.
With effort, he pushed himself to his feet, knocking the coffee table. Two of
the bottles fell, one going so far as to roll into the kitchen. He left them,
stumbling toward the bathroom, disoriented by the detached sensation of walking
down the pavement and into the busy city. He dodged a car coming at him, only
to crash into the wall as his reward.
He stumbled into the bathroom and clenched the edges of the sink with trembling
hands. The moment when the doppelganger finally disintegrated was one of
clarity -- jarring and hallucinogenic, reverse colours and stark brilliance,
shadows click-clicking into place.
He threw up, rank beer and sour bile splashing onto the porcelain and dribbling
down the drain. He wobbled, his legs weak, and stayed on his feet long enough
to rinse out his mouth. He staggered over to sit on the toilet seat, his head
between his knees.
Maybe a liquid lunch, followed by a liquid dinner, and finished off by a liquid
breakfast had been too much.
Merlin waited for his stomach to settle. For his reality to realign. For the
ache in his chest to fade.
The first two came in short order. The last would probably never go away.
He must have fallen to a doze, his face in his hands, because he stirred from
the sound of someone humming contentedly. He hadn't heard the door open or
shut, the wards didn't trigger, and --
Beer bottles clinked together and rattled around in a bucket. Paper crumpled
and was shoved into a crinkly plastic bag. The intruder clucked their tongue,
muttering under their breath in something that sounded like disapproval.
Merlin rose from the toilet seat, caught himself against the sink, and went to
lean against the doorframe. Magic tingled protectively under his skin, but
before he could focus on any kind of effect or bring voice to a spell, he was
struck dumb by the sight in the main room.
The man was in his mid-twenties, with short, strawberry-blond hair and a
freshly-shaven cheek. He wore pleated trousers, a white shirt rolled up to the
elbows, a fitted plaid vest, and a blue cravat at his throat. He seemed
incomplete, but Merlin spotted a jacket that had been neatly folded and draped
over an armchair.
Merlin didn't recognize him. By all rights, he was an enemy. But he'd made it
through the extra wards that Merlin had laid around the flat, which meant that
he meant Merlin no harm.
He coughed.
The man jumped and whirled around, eyes wide. His mouth opened and closed like
a fish gasping for air, only to clamp shut in the primmest gathering of decorum
that Merlin had ever seen.
"Hello," he said. "I thought you were out."
"Never left."
Merlin reached for the hand towel. He ignored how soft it was to the touch. He
wiped his face and tossed it in the sink to cover up the sick. When he looked
up again, he half-expected the housekeeper he never hired to have inched toward
the door, but instead, the man hadn't moved and was regarding Merlin curiously.
"You got a name?" Merlin asked.
"George. George Wagner." The tension in George's shoulders eased fractionally.
"I could go and come back when you're not in. Or I could keep going if you
don't mind me bustling about."
Merlin rubbed the side of his face. He gestured and half-shrugged. "Or you
could go and never come back."
"Sir?" George asked, looking confused. "Why would I do that?"
"Because," Merlin snapped. His head throbbed and he had a sudden craving for
the unhealthy hash fry-up at the diner down the street, but he didn't want to
leave as long as George was invading his apartment. He definitely didn't want
the man to come back after Merlin had left, either. In fact, he just wanted to
be left alone.
He must have spoken out loud, because some understanding coloured George's
features. "Oh, of course. I'll return tomorrow. There'll be more for me to
clean."
George was absurdly happy by that prospect, and Merlin stared at him. "No."
"Wednesday, perhaps?" George's distress manifested in a severe frown and the
ruddy colour flushing his cheeks. He fidgeted, looking around despairingly,
before blurting out, "But, your flat will be filthy by then!"
"Jesus fucking Christ on a flaming pogo stick," Merlin muttered. He pushed away
from the doorframe and headed to his kitchen. "Then it'll be filthy! I don't
give a fuck."
George paled. "Have I done something wrong? Misplaced one of your knickknacks?
I do apologize, I will pay better attention next time and do better --"
Merlin slammed a coffee cup on the counter, wincing when he felt it crack. The
sound effectively silenced George from his tirade. "I've changed the locks four
times. You keep breaking in."
George glanced at the door, a frown pinching his brow. "With all due respect,
that was quite unnecessary. I have a skeleton key. You see, my father was a
locksmith and quite a good one --"
"A skeleton key," Merlin grumbled. He reached for the coffee pot and dumped the
old filter in the rubbish bin. Clumps of old coffee tumbled onto the floor.
Merlin kicked them under the bench and ignored George's reedy whine of protest.
"Do you know how many wards I've had to take down and rebuild because you keep
wiping them off?"
George had at least the courtesy to look abashed. "The squiggles in the
corners? Well, of course I cleaned them. The walls are appalling, it's as if
you've never washed them. It would be best to give them a fresh coat of paint,
and I'd be happy to arrange it. I didn't know you doodled on the walls in
crayon, but, honestly, sir? I strongly recommend a sketchbook. I'll pick one up
for you the next time I do a shop. Also, could I ask you to stop with the chalk
marks on the brickwork? It took me forever to find the proper mixture of water
and vinegar to erase them without damaging the stone, and I might have the
ratio down, now, but it's a terrible job to undertake even at the best of
times. Also, I have some good news. I believe I've finally sourced the right
material to properly patch the gouges in the wood --"
"No!" Merlin spilled fresh coffee grounds all over the counter.
"Oh, dear," George said. He came toward the kitchen. "I can take care of that
for you --"
"Stop," Merlin said, pushing magic into his tone. The low reverberation was
usually enough to make a rampaging creature stumble in its tracks and had even
made Kilgharrah stutter to a stop, once, but George, implausibly, seemed
immune. He walked into the kitchen without hesitation, taking the brown paper
bag of coffee grounds from Merlin's hands, effectively elbowing Merlin out of
his way.
Merlin watched dumbly as George easily located the high-quality filters that
had suddenly found their way into Merlin's cupboard one day, added a precise
amount using measuring spoons that Merlin definitely didn't own, and added tap
water to the basin after first running it to a finger-tested temperature. The
coffee had barely begun to percolate when Merlin finally found his tongue, but
he waited until George had wiped down the mess on the counter to say, "You're
fired."
George froze. He turned around, wet rag still in his hand, shock slowly turning
into cautious amusement. He laughed a bit.
"I'm not -- I'm not joking, damn it," Merlin said. "Get out. Don't come back."
"You can't fire me," George said, speaking with far more self-assurance than he
really should have. "I don't work for you."
"This is my home. My name's on the bloody lease," Merlin said.
"I am… aware?" George said, ending the statement with a note of curiosity.
"I'll have you arrested you for trespassing," Merlin warned.
"Oh," George said, a flash of alarm fading far too quickly for Merlin's liking.
"My employer owns the building. I am simply acceding to his request to ensure
the tenants are well taken care of. Of course, you are currently the only
tenant, but that hardly matters. I take pride in my work."
"What?" Merlin snapped. The lights in the flat flickered, rising and ebbing
with the flare of anger that wasn't just increasing, but cresting, dragging his
magic along with it.
Merlin was furious. Arthur had manoeuvred himself into Merlin's life. He'd
invaded Merlin's space without even being there. He had taken it upon himself
to supervise Merlin's business. Worst of all was how he had tried to manipulate
Merlin into a situation where Merlin would find himself wanting to protect
Arthur from the dangers he faced.
And to discover that Arthur had invaded to this extent?
Merlin's temper reached its upper register, only to collapse uselessly, his
strength withering. He sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead in resignation.
He turned away. He spotted his mobile and picked it up. "What's Arthur's
number?"
"Why?" George asked, eyes narrow.
"Because I'm going to tell him to fire you," Merlin said.
George glanced down, chewing his bottom lip, and tilted his head jerkily as if
having an argument with himself. His fingers drummed the air as if he were
dialling the number himself, and whatever internal argument he was having came
to an abrupt end when Merlin rapped impatiently on the kitchen counter.
"His number," Merlin insisted.
"Very well," George said. He recited the number, repeating it a second time
when Merlin asked. Merlin thought it was cruel of him, but he made George look
at the number on his mobile to confirm it.
He rang it through. The number rang and rang.
"I'm not sure you'll get through," George said. He twitched, pulling at his
vest, and turned to fuss with the coffee maker when it beeped.
"It's Sunday, right?" Merlin asked. "He's not in school or anything like that?"
"Oh, no," George said. He stared at the far wall in consideration. "I'm not
privy to his schedule, of course, but he normally reserves his Sundays for
personal matters."
"Of course he does," Merlin said, pinching his brow. The phone continued to
ring. And ring and ring. "He's not answering."
George poured a cup in a mug that wasn't the one Merlin had broken, and asked,
a faint tremble in his voice, "Sugar and cream?"
Merlin hung up the phone and called again. It rang and rang. "Did you give me a
fake number?"
"I wouldn't do that, sir," George said. He caught himself with a horrified hand
on his chest. "I mean, I wouldn't give Mr. Pendragon's phone number to just
anyone willy-nilly, but you're a special case, I understand. Not that I would
know, not really. I haven't been instructed on what to do if I happened to
encounter you outside of the parameters of my duties, but I do like to imagine
that Mr. Pendragon would like me to carry on as normal. The way he speaks of
you, I know that Mr. Pendragon wouldn't mind it if I gave you his number. If it
were anyone else, I would simply bite my tongue and swallow it --"
"George," Merlin growled. He hung up the phone angrily. "Why isn't he
answering?"
George bit his lower lip. He cleared his throat noisily. "It could have
something to do with the kidnapping."
The world stuttered.
A persistent drop of percolated coffee splashed into the carafe. The sun rose
higher and split into a tangential glow where it struck the mirrored surface of
the building across the street and burned through cracked glass. A shadow
shifted, glinting with the menace of bared teeth, and faded as a car drove past
on the street below.
Merlin's world tilted. It shouldn't -- it shouldn't have. Arthur didn't have
that much of an impact on Merlin. Merlin told himself that he didn't give a
damn.
Except that he did.
"Kidnapping?" Merlin asked, his voice cold, emotionless, detached.
"Uh, yes. Yes, sir. I'm afraid that's correct. Just yesterday, I believe,"
George said. He broke eye contact and focused on the cup of coffee on the
counter, and asked again, "Coffee and cream?"
"Black," Merlin said, and something inside of him loosened, leaving him
unhinged. He could hear the cruelty in his own voice when he invited, "Pour
yourself a cup. I believe… you and I need to have a chat."
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"I know you're awake. You may as well open your eyes."
Arthur heaved a put-upon sigh. He straightened in his seat with great
difficulty given that his arms were wrenched behind the back and bound in some
way, and raised his head. He took a moment to wipe the drool that had dribbled
down his chin from the ball gag. He raised both brows and tilted his head,
impressing his annoyance in the only way he could.
The man sitting in a chair on the other side of the cell was dressed like a
wild game hunter and carried himself with the same arrogant air of someone who
regularly killed rare golden tigers from the safe roost of an elephant's back.
His blond hair, white at the temples, was slicked back with a thick pomade that
retained comb marks. A short, neatly-trimmed goatee gave him the appearance of
a circus ringmaster.
He even had a whip coiled at the hip.
"Do you know who I am?" the man asked, blowing blue-grey cigarette smoke out of
his nostrils. He waved a hand in the air dismissively. "I quite understand if
you don't. Teenagers these days rarely pay attention to anything beyond their
own self-serving interests. Music. Television shows. The latest gossip. Drugs.
Sex."
Arthur knew who the man was. He wasn't stupid. In his extensive cataloguing of
men and women of significant power, there was one person who consistently
interfered with their often ambitious plans for world domination. Much in the
same way that Merlin had once made it his business to hunt down angels and
demons in equal measure, removing them from this plane of existence should they
bring harm to mankind, the Witchfinder went out of his way to capture and
eliminate sorcerers.
If the urban legends were even remotely true, Aredian Marais hunted his prey
with the exactitude of a psychopath. Considering that the rumours insisted on
his propensity to collect trophies from the bodies of his victims, Arthur
wouldn't be surprised if Aredian was actually one of the world's most wanted
serial killers.
However, since Arthur wasn't in Aredian's preferred demographic, he had to
wonder why he'd been targeted. Similarly, he had to question how his father had
come to make his acquaintance, because the shadow lurking just outside the
corridor behind Aredian roughly approximated Uther's frame.
"I've come to understand that you've been quite the delinquent child," Aredian
said, taking another drag of his cigarette. "You don't pay attention to your
lessons. You engage in vile, perverted sexual acts and defile your person. You
defy the man who has been your guardian all these years and who has given you
everything that you could ever want."
Arthur tilted his head. If he were inclined and able to protest, it would be to
correct that he had, in fact, been paying attention to his lessons. Instead, he
remained motionless, favouring Aredian with a cold glare.
Aredian dropped the remnants of his cigarette. He shifted slightly and stubbed
it out with his foot. He uncrossed and crossed his legs.
"I don't usually engage in these sorts of activities, you understand. But
you've been a very naughty boy. Gathering blackmail material on important
government officials. Subsuming your guardian's very own company holdings and
transferring them to you. Neglecting your duties --"
Aredian waved a hand again and scoffed. He laughed a mockingly.
"It's all very technical and detailed. I don't particularly care for the
details. One might dismiss all your indiscretions as typical teenage rebellion,
even gumption. If you were my son, I would have had you whipped within an inch
of your life by now, and I would have repeated the lesson as often as required
to ensure that the lesson was learned.
"You are not my child, however, and as I understand it, the situation is
quite…" Aredian paused, raising his chin and glancing at the ceiling
thoughtfully. He pursed his lips several times, as if tasting a word or a
phrase on his tongue, and when he spoke again, it was with sharp eyes and a
cold tone. "Extraordinary."
Arthur couldn't stand the man. On paper, he was a cold-blooded killer.
Meticulously prepared, capable of elaborate schemes, somewhat artistically
inclined, if the displays using what remained of the body were anything to go
by. In person, he was so bloody full of himself that Arthur was mortally
offended just to be in his presence.
He wanted Aredian dead. Normally, when he wanted something to happen, it
happened. Why wasn't Aredian dead?
"Now, I am not one to counsel another in how they raise their child. If one
wants to spoil them or spank them, well, that's up to the parent, isn't it?
Having no child of my own precludes offering any useful advice and would be
quite hypocritical. However, I have been informed of some very delightful
news."
Aredian smiled. He pointed at Arthur.
"You are the antichrist."
Arthur rolled his eyes to cover up the sensation of dread sinking in his belly.
Somehow, Aredian's declaration was far more ominous than when Merlin had said
the same thing. Aredian's words were a revelation, an accusation, and a
sentence all in one breath, condemning Arthur as surely as all of Aredian's
other victims had been condemned.
"I have been tasked with the responsibility of bringing you to heel," Aredian
said.
The coldness in Aredian's eyes and the flat tone of his voice sent a chill down
Arthur's spine. He couldn't help but imagine what Aredian left unsaid -- that
Aredian would much rather do much, much more. Arthur swallowed hard.
"Re-education is a specialty of mine, though I don't get to implement it nearly
as much as I would like. I favour a long, laborious process, though I admit it
is not the best nor the most successful. But I have given my word that I would
do all that I can to break your will and remould it. Your guardian wishes for
you to be a puppet, my boy, and a puppet you will be."
Arthur managed a snort.
"You don't believe me?" Aredian said. His cocksure smile accompanied a quick
gesture pointing to the ground.
On the floor was a dizzying pattern of lines and circles that Arthur couldn't
identify from his vantage point. Within the weave was a circle in thick, bold
lines that was likewise criss-crossed with thinner lines linked to the pattern.
The chair he was sitting in was within the confines of the circle, bolted down
to the floor.
"Do you know what that is?" Aredian asked. His shoulders shrugged in something
like excitement, unable to contain himself. Since Arthur couldn't speak, he
went ahead and answered his own question. "It's Metatron's Cube."
Metatron was a familiar name, but beyond being an angel of Heaven lucky enough
to be within God's inner circle, Arthur had never heard the name associated
with a cube.
If Aredian expected Arthur to react at the revelation, Arthur was pleased to
disappoint. While he was annoyed that he couldn't identify the obvious ward on
the floor, he was at least rewarded by a deep frown on Aredian's face when
Arthur offered him an insouciant shrug.
Aredian turned his head to glance over his shoulder, his expression one of
disapproval. When he settled to face Arthur again, his eyes were half-closed
with irritation. He studied his fingernails before dropping his hands with a
long-suffering sigh.
"I don't know what I expected," Aredian said. "Not a doctorate in religious
studies. You're too young. And even then, whilst you might understand the
significance of Metatron's Cube, you wouldn't be able to appreciate its
intricacies. Clearly, what you lack in obedience, you make up for in
ignorance."
Arthur glanced down at the floor again. From his vantage point, the Cube looked
like a bunch of disorganized lines and random circles. As far as he could tell,
it wasn't remotely shaped in a square, even though it was enclosed within the
confines of a cubic cage.
"Suffice it to say that Metatron's Cube will keep you safely confined. And if
you try to use your powers to escape, well…" A shrewd glint sparkled in
Aredian's eyes. "Please do. The literature available on the prophesied
antichrist is so vague as to border on outrageous speculation. I am interested
in seeing what you can do."
Arthur raised a brow. Several choice words came to mind, but as long as he was
bound and gagged, he had no choice but to sit in the uncomfortable steel chair
and be treated as nothing more than a specimen for study.
He suppressed a growl.
Aredian was silent for a moment, meeting Arthur's eyes easily. He gestured over
his shoulders and behind Arthur toward the upper corners of the windowless
room. "Surveillance cameras. Someone will be watching you every minute of every
hour, day in and day out. We shan't miss a thing."
When Arthur didn't so much as blink, Aredian heaved a put-upon sigh. He
uncrossed his legs and stood up slowly, as if unfolding himself. He wasn't
particularly tall, nor did he have any kind of imposing presence, but an ice
cold chill ran down Arthur's spine as Aredian studied him with blank, empty
eyes.
"Submission is your only recourse. But please…" Aredian's smile was twisted and
gleeful. "Resist. I shall be extremely disappointed if you don't."
In absence of a rude rejoinder, Arthur raised his chin in defiance.
"Ah, yes, I thought so. Good." Aredian turned and walked toward the far door.
He didn't look back as he said, "I will give you a moment with your guardian
before we begin."
Arthur couldn't make out what was on the other side of the door. He could see
nothing more than a darkened corridor with dim lighting encroaching from both
ends. A shadow on the floor shifted anxiously, only to be dwarfed when Aredian
filled in the space of the door. A few words were quietly exchanged, and
Aredian turned left, striding purposefully away.
He heard a distant drip. The scuff of a shoe on the concrete floor. The shadow
congregated in front of the door.
Arthur noted dispassionately that Uther still wore the same suit that he had
the night of the orgy. He couldn't have been unconscious for that long, then.
Leon had been alerted and the men watching Arthur must have tracked them to
this place. Surely Arthur's escape was imminent.
"We killed your bodyguards," Uther said, as casually as if he were referring to
the weather. "They rushed Tate's house and sprung our traps. Two of your
abominations were captured and slaughtered. The remainder managed to avoid
triggering the confinement wards, but a blessed bullet to the head took them
down easily enough when they tried to follow. Were they human? A shame if they
were. Those bullets were blessed by the pope himself."
A low, angry growl escaped Arthur's chest even as what little hope he had for
his rescue was demolished.
Uther made a disapproving sound. "We talked about the growling, Arthur. It's
not polite. I had hoped that you would outgrow your animal tendencies."
Arthur stopped growling, but only because the gag was making him drool again.
He didn't give Uther the satisfaction of watching him wipe his chin.
"Look at you," Uther murmured. He walked into the room, taking his time. He
tilted his head to glance at the cameras, to study the dimension of the cage,
to note the markings on the floor. He stopped short of the chair and put his
hands in his pockets. "All that money spent on the best of tutors. All that
time wasted. I had such plans for you, Arthur, but you've delayed them at every
turn. For what purpose? To spite me? To sow chaos and destruction? I understand
that it's your nature to do so. But there is no benefit to you."
Arthur tilted his head. There was every benefit for Arthur. Undermining Uther.
Quietly shifting the Pendragon holdings to Arthur's name and control. Forging
and replacing Uther's Last Will and Testament with one of Arthur's doing,
subtly changing the leavings. A tremendous paper trail of legal magnitude, and
Uther had no idea, because he rarely accessed his safety deposit box at the
bank and didn't know that there were scattered large accounts in Arthur's name
in Geneva, in the Maldives, in the Bahamas -- all of which were slowly
absorbing Uther's fortune.
It was a shame that Uther was distracted by the more obvious theatrics that
Arthur had engineered. Sometimes, Arthur wondered if Uther truly understood
what was going on in the world.
Uther exhaled. His mouth formed words around clenched teeth. He was clearly
agitated and didn't know how to express his feelings, which came as no
surprise. Uther was the most emotionally constipated man that Arthur had ever
known.
"There can be only one world leader. One," Uther said. His body trembled, his
hands clenched, colour flushed his cheek. "It will not be you. You are a child.
A figurehead. Nothing more. I did not sacrifice your mother to the ritual for
nothing. You will follow my footsteps, or you will be damned for it."
Arthur closed his eyes.
His mother was a sacred memory that he didn't have, built on hoarded
photographs and paintings that had been torn from the walls and cast into the
fire. Faded pictures of a time gone by, before Arthur was even born. Before he
was even conceived. A young Ygraine smiling at the camera, her blond hair in
soft, sun-kissed waves. Her flower dress catching in the wind as she bounced
away from the photographer with a teasing grin. A flower crown of daffodils
across her brow as she blew a kiss to someone off the screen.
No one spoke of Ygraine Dubois-Pendragon. Her name wasn't so much as whispered
behind cupped hands. Nanny after nanny hushed a baby boy asking for his mother.
People looking away when he cried for her. The stout slap across his face when
he'd dared ask Uther if he could visit his mother's grave.
There were those who would claim that the antichrist couldn't understand human
emotion, that he couldn't express it. That was probably true. Growing up in
isolation with an absent father-guardian insisting on a strict, disciplinarian
upbringing had left Arthur detached, distant, and cold.
But he had grown up with the idea of love. Of loving a mother who would never
have treated him unkindly. Who would have held him to her breast and sheltered
him from harm. Who would have wiped all of his tears of suffering, even those
that Arthur never showed.
What he wouldn't have done -- what he wouldn't do! -- to have someone love him.
Not the idea of him. Not the power that Arthur's existence could bring.
Uther might not have spoken Ygraine's name, but he invoked the spirit of a
woman who had been Arthur's only refuge as a child, even if only in his mind.
And in raising her from buried memories that had grown from a handful of old
photographs hidden in a shoebox beneath Arthur's bed, Arthur found the strength
to cast all pretence aside.
When Arthur opened his eyes, it was to a red tint at the edge of his vision and
the calm stillness that came across the surface of a lake right before the
storm.
He smiled around the ball gag.
 
 
 
 
He held Uther's gaze. He watched as Uther grew more and more unsettled,
twitching and shifting where he stood. Uther started to say something else,
only to clamp his mouth shut and leave the room without another word.
Arthur stopped smiling. He let his hate fuel his strength and pulled his arms
apart. The handcuffs bit into his wrists, the edges pinching and cutting skin.
He strained, biting into the rubber ball. His hands grew damp with sweat,
sticky with blood dripping down from deepening cuts. His bones ached and the
pain numbed his rage, but he continued to pull.
A link, a single, weak titanium link, snapped open. Arthur wrenched his arms
and surged to his feet, intent on leaving. No one -- absolutely no one, not the
man who pretended to be his father, not the bloody Witchfinder -- kept him
prisoner.
He tore the ball gag's straps and threw it across the room. It bounced
harmlessly on the other side of the steel cage.
He crashed into the inner circle of Metatron's Cube. A flash of blue light and
silver thundered through him, shoving him back. He pounded uselessly against
the barrier, jolted and electrified each time.
He dropped bloody, bruised, burned hands to his sides. The pale glow flickering
in the corridor taunted him with a freedom he couldn't reach.
Arthur tossed his head back and roared.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Bad luck, mate."
Merlin groaned. The absolute last person Merlin wanted to see was Mordred, but
of course, here he was. The incubus might not be able to feed off of chaos,
strife, and pain, but he was drawn to it and used ragged emotions as an
aphrodisiac.
Merlin rolled over onto his side away from the demon, moving slowly and
deliberately. It didn't matter how he moved, because everything fucking hurt.
The scrape on his forehead dragged over fine gravel. His mouth swelled where
the thug's knuckle ring caught him on the lip. The footprint on his chest was
probably permanent, and the slight crackle in his lungs when he breathed was
problematic.
Merlin considered walking in to A&E. He changed his mind when he realized that
would require walking. He was fine where he was. He'd heal, if he didn't bleed
to death first.
Knee-high buckle boots appeared in the edge of his vision.
"Go away."
Mordred pinched his trousers and crouched down. "You bloody numpty. You
could've had them. They were human."
"Are… Are you sure about that?" Merlin coughed.
Mordred scratched the scruff on his jaw. He wore jeans torn at the knee, a
shirt that was at least two sizes too small, and a canvas jacket better suited
for a balmy spring in Spain than the dour, wet fall in London. His hair was a
tangle of curls, his eyeliner was a bit smeared, and the amused smirk on his
face did absolutely bollocks for Merlin's mood.
"The first two, definitely. Not so sure about the last. Large fellow, that one.
He might've been part troll," Mordred said. He wrinkled his nose. "Or he might
just need a wash. Hard to tell."
Merlin rolled the other way. The momentum put him on his hands and knees. He
wasn't sure how, but he managed to push himself to his feet, wrangling for
balance against the rough brick wall of a nearby building. He gave Mordred a
long look. "What do you want?"
Mordred stood up. He pushed the sleeves of his jacket to his elbows and
approached Merlin slowly, holding out his hands as if to show he meant no harm.
He pulled a handkerchief from an inner coat pocket, folded it up, spat in it,
and dabbed at the scrape on Merlin's head. Merlin shoved him away when all
Mordred did was grind the gravel deeper into the wound.
"The same as you, of course, though I have far less altruistic reasons,"
Mordred said. He looked at the blood on the handkerchief with a tiny,
considering frown before offering it to Merlin. Merlin took it warily and wiped
the blood and dirt from his face.
Merlin waited for an explanation.
"You're daft today," Mordred sighed. "I'll be plain, shall I? Here you are,
battering yourself in a quest to rescue the love of your life before it's too
late --"
"I don't --"
 
 
 
 
Mordred put a finger over Merlin's mouth, silencing him. "Love taints the meat.
I can't stand the stink of it even on a good day, and it absolutely reeks on
you. It's not too terrible yet, but it'll get worse, I can tell. It might not
kill me if I taste your essence now, but Arthur might."
"What," Merlin said around Mordred's finger, confused.
Mordred raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for Merlin to catch up. Incubi
didn't feed from people who were in love. The emotion was poison to them -- not
strong enough to kill, but enough to incapacitate for a few days. Merlin wasn't
--
He tilted his head, trying to decide if Mordred was fucking with him. Arthur
was, at best, a crush. At worse, an infatuation. Merlin didn't believe in that
whole love at first sight myth, and no one in history had ever come up with a
love potion that worked, so he was safe on those two fronts, at least.
Mordred didn't so much as flinch, and while the incubus could be a little
shite, holding back information and telling half-truths, he had never actually
lied to Merlin. If he wasn't lying, then…
Merlin felt dizzy. He shook his head to clear it. In no universe was Mordred
right about this. He couldn't possibly be in love with a teenager who was the
prophesized embodiment of all evil, destined to bring about the End of Times
and the apocalypse, and in the ruins, would raise a kingdom touted to be Hell
on Earth.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Merlin protested, because he couldn't
be. Wank fantasies did not equate love, no matter how convoluted and involved
they were.
Mordred slapped him in the head before he could finish, and the blow was hard
enough to make Merlin's head ring. "Don't. Accept the potential and move on.
He's good for you."
He grabbed Merlin's face, fingers digging painfully in the crook of his jaw.
Mordred's eyes were perpetually tinged with the lavender ring of low-grade
arousal, but as he took a deep breath, the colour faded to the dull brown of
distaste.
"Absolutely disgusting," Mordred sneered. He dropped his hand. Merlin sagged
against the wall. Mordred gestured at Merlin's person and said, "You were doing
so well, too. Nearly back to your old self. Then your boy goes missing, and
what do you do? This self-flagellation bollocks? Do you really think you can
save him like this?"
"I don't think I can save him at all," Merlin snapped, focusing on the only
thing that he could understand. He spat a glob of bloody saliva to the ground.
"The Witchfinder has him."
Mordred stilled.
His eyes flared purple, now, solid and terrible, though the glow had nothing to
do with arousal. Alarm had struck the incubus where he was, paralyzing him with
fear, but he shook himself out of it long enough to slowly turn toward the
mouth of the alley where Merlin's attackers had gone.
"And you know this, how?" Mordred asked, his voice flat. The note of seduction
that made a permanent residence in his tone was gone, now, and Mordred almost
seemed… human.
Merlin sagged against the wall. He sank down to the ground. His body throbbed
from the blows, his head pounded from Mordred's strike, and his magic scratched
under the surface of his skin. Of all those, there was only one thing that
Merlin could do, and that was to release the iron grip on his magic, allowing
it to heal him.
"A bird at the immigration office. Owes me a favour," Merlin said. He shrugged.
He'd exorcized a poltergeist from her flat she adamantly refused to give up,
despite the destruction of her personal property and escalating attacks. The
poltergeist hadn't gone easily, but the woman had been more than happy to put
flags on the names from Merlin's personal watch list as part of the payment.
"Aredian showed up in town a few days before Arthur went missing. Anyone who
might catch his eye in London is deep underground and they've all checked in."
Merlin rubbed the side of his head gingerly, picking some gravel out of the
scrape.
Checked in implied he was on speaking terms with the sorcerers of London, but
he'd wasted the better part of a day tracking some of his contacts to do the
footwork for him. Information had been slow to trickle in, but it had come in,
giving him something more than his fruitless magical attempts. The cat gut
auguries had been jumbled, the chicken bones silent, the crystal over the
seeking waters blank with fog. Aredian was holding Arthur someplace secure and
was hiding them all from questing eyes.
Without any other recourse, Merlin had been forced to take the traditional
route. Surveillance on the Pendragon property, stalking Arthur's school to
speak to his friends, pressuring his contacts to keep their eyes out. It had
taken too long to get any information whatsoever, and Merlin's half-arsed
confrontation with Aredian's thugs had been the only thing he could think of on
the fly.
It wasn't his fault. Arthur had been missing for nearly a week. Aredian could
do -- would do -- anything, and having seen the aftermath of more than one of
Aredian's successful hunts, Merlin couldn't bear thinking what might be
happening to Arthur. If Arthur was even alive.
Merlin was desperate, and he wasn't ashamed to admit it.
"If Aredian's in London, stands to reason, he's here for someone." Merlin
shrugged. "Could be anyone."
"Arthur," Mordred said. He sniffed the air, tilting his head with interest as
he eyed Merlin, and Merlin knew the moment Mordred sensed magic. Mordred
pointed toward the mouth of the alley but didn't look away from Merlin, a
hungry look filling his eyes. "And that delightful lot? The ones going around
randomly beating the shite out of people?"
"I might've insulted their mothers, knocked over their beers, and knifed the
tyres of their cars," Merlin said. He spread his hands in a half-hearted shrug.
"But why would you --" Mordred's eyes snapped to Merlin's face. Understanding
came to him quickly, and his expression brightened in a big smile. "You tagged
them. They're Aredian's men, aren't they?"
Merlin nodded tiredly, wincing when his magic snapped a broken rib back into
place. He sat up straight, stiffly, and blew out a slow breath, quickly
categorizing his injuries. The worst had been taken care of and all that was
left were the bruises and superficial cuts. He stood up, leaning against the
wall, and dismissed his magic from doing more. He had a feeling he would need
his strength.
He fished in his pockets for his keys, coming up with a few scratched coins and
the round peppermint candies from the pub down the road. He tossed one to
Mordred, who caught it and studied it with interest.
Electronic trackers were too easily detected, discarded and destroyed. Magical
tags had a tendency of being obvious since they needed to be applied directly,
and it was hard to do without that person noticing. But the coins and the
candies? Those were commonplace objects that Aredian's men could have picked up
anywhere, except for the U-turn arrow Merlin had carved on each of them.
Mordred's grin widened. Mischief and chaos were his stock and trade when he
wasn't fucking his way across London, and little tricks like these tended to
amuse him. "Ingenious. I do apologize. I didn't give you enough credit."
"Your turn," Merlin said, his voice dropping low and dangerous. "I never told
you Arthur's name. I never told you about him, full stop. Do you want to
explain why you care about some random kid?"
Mordred blinked slowly, recognizing that he was in a trap. He tilted his head,
acknowledging the warning in Merlin's voice, and said, "I could tell you that
Arthur is a fantastic shag, particularly talented at glory hole blowies, but
something tells me I wouldn't survive an encounter with the Executioner."
Merlin raised a brow, but the taunting tease and attempt to foster jealousy was
so typical of Mordred that Merlin couldn't put any stock in the declaration. He
crossed his arms over his chest, ignoring the twinge of a still-throbbing
muscle in his upper back, and waited.
"Suffice to say that he sought me out and pays me well," Mordred said. He
shoved his hands in his coat pockets. "I have a vested interest in his
survival. Something tells me that life would be a whole lot easier for me if he
continues the way he has."
There was much that Mordred left unsaid, disguising motives and agendas behind
cryptic words and vague admissions, and Merlin found that he didn't care.
Whatever Mordred wanted, Merlin had other, pressing business to get to. He
turned deeper into the alley.
"I'm not the only one who wants to rescue him," Mordred said, falling into step
besides Merlin. "We should band together. A frontal assault, perhaps. I haven't
had a good mauling in ages."
"We?" Merlin asked, shooting Mordred a sidelong glance as they emerged on the
other end of the alley.
"I think it's bollocks, you know. I don't think I can save him at all," Mordred
said, a perfect mimicry of Merlin's earlier words. "Is it any wonder that
Kilgharrah's so afraid of you, he's been trying to kill you since the first day
you met."
Merlin looked at him sharply.
"Oh, yes. Since the very beginning," Mordred said. "And when that failed, he
did the only thing he could. He manipulated you. He controlled you. You think
it's on you that Will died? It's the bloody lizard's fault, not yours. He set
you up."
Merlin blinked. He heard what Mordred said, but the words weren't sinking in.
The words weren't so much an accusation as a statement of fact, and that fact
collided with a guilty conscience so large, it easily overshadowed Kilgharrah's
culpability.
"Yeah?" Mordred raised his eyebrows. He leaned in. "Look at me. I've gotten one
over you a few times, I've kept my damn gob shut when I knew you wouldn't
listen, but never once have I ever lied to you. This? You're finally getting
your head out of your arse and it's time you knew what really happened back
then. Kilgharrah wants you dead. He underestimated you before, thinking you'd
be easy. As far as the bloody lizard was concerned, Will didn't even ping his
radar. He didn't even rate being called collateral damage."
Merlin opened his mouth. He closed it with a click when he didn't have any
words to say.
Mordred's hand came down hard on Merlin's shoulder. It twined around Merlin's
neck and squeezed comfortingly. "I know what you're feeling. Believe me, I do.
But you've got Kilgharrah under lock and key, and with that shackle on his
ankle, he's not going anywhere. So, take your time. Plan your revenge. Make it
painful and drawn-out and as merciless as I know you can."
Merlin tried to pull away from Mordred, but Mordred held him tightly. The
incubus didn't use his full strength often, but he used it now, getting so
close that Merlin could see the lavender in his eyes glowing bright.
"Right now, though? I'm pretty fucking sure you want to get your boy back. And
if the Executioner can't make short work of the Witchfinder, I'll swear off
feeding from the under-eighteens and take it easy on the old age home for a
month."
Mordred let Merlin go. Merlin rocked back on his heels, feeling breathless, as
if he'd just been fast-talked out of his free will by a charming snake-oil
salesman. Mordred could manipulate even the most hardened sceptic to eat out of
the palm of his hand, and Merlin couldn't help feeling that was exactly what
had happened here.
He wanted to be angry. To turn and walk away. To run away to a tropical island
where he could leave all this behind. No more of being tricked and used. No
more listening to lies and half-truths. Merlin had no idea if anything Mordred
was telling him was true, but with the perfection that was ten years' worth of
guilty hindsight, Merlin couldn't see the lies, either.
Mordred nodded knowingly and stood back with a smirk that faded as he glanced
past Merlin and waved a hand as if he were calling a cab.
"Don't make me lose my bet. I'm a hungry man. Starving, really. Just in case,
you should have backup."
A black sedan down the road flashed its headlights, pulled out of its parking
spot, and came to a rolling stop next to the kerb. The windows were tinted, and
the glare of a nearby streetlight made it hard to see who was inside.
But Merlin could sense them.
There was a special essence associated with angels and demons and everything
in-between. But for angels and their get, it was rich like honey-sweet manna
from Heaven, bitter and biting with the sulphur scorch of Hell. Attraction and
repulsion in a single, unmistakeable sensation, sliding along a gradient
between two opposites. The people in this car, they fit right in the middle of
the spectrum, and were pale shades compared to their full-blood sires.
Nephilim.
Merlin clenched his hands, magic burning around raw knuckles still sore from
the fight with Aredian's men, barely containing an instinct to tear the grace
they'd inherited from their bodies and to leave them to rot.
The window rolled down.
"That's Gwaine at the wheel. Percival in the back. And this serious mug is
Leon," Mordred said.
Gwaine nodded a greeting and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel with a
hint of nerves. Percival sat stock still, staring straight ahead. Leon's mouth
was in a tight line, and despite the intensity in his eyes, there was no small
measure of apprehension and fear.
"You boys going to play nice?" Mordred asked.
The staring match lasted several strained seconds more before Merlin found his
voice. "You work for Arthur?"
Gwaine half-shrugged. Percival didn't move from where he sat in the back seat.
Leon shook his head. "He's my friend."
The nephilim's tone was heartfelt and honest. It made something break inside of
Merlin, because if Arthur could have a friend, then, maybe, Merlin could have
something more.
Merlin grit his teeth and relaxed his hold on his magic, letting it settle
under his skin. He opened the rear passenger door and looked at Mordred.
"Are you coming?"
"What?" Mordred snorted. He gestured toward his face. "And mess up this
moneymaker?"
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"He's waking up. Hurry, get him positioned."
A high-pitched shriek dragged across the concrete floor. Arthur's body jerked
roughly, but he couldn't quite shake himself awake.
"Watch the markings, don't scratch them," someone said. The voice was muffled
and cottony, difficult to make out clearly. Arthur recognized Aredian not by
his accent or his tone of command, but by the absolute, imperious arrogance of
his words.
His body jerked involuntarily before banging back against a hard surface. For a
brief moment, he floated, as disoriented as he would be if he were swimming
underwater in the dark.
"Is this strictly necessary?"
Uther sounded… not worried, not exactly. Concerned? It was the same tone Arthur
had long associated with the low-grade alarm that infected the boardroom
members during a meeting at one of the Pendragon headquarters when they learned
that the company stock had dropped a few points.
"When you came to me with your… request, I made it very clear that there would
be no easy answers nor rapid results," Aredian said, his tone pinched. "My
techniques have been perfected on a broad range of supernatural creatures and
human sorcerers. I have had modest success with nephilim and lower-level
demons, but absolutely none when it comes to handling material as rare as
this."
"If you can't complete the task I hired you for, I'll --" Uther began.
"Yes?" Aredian asked, his voice sharp. "Yes, do go on, finish your sentence.
You'll what? You'll find someone else? You strike me as the sort of man who
engages in copious research before you act on a decision. How many people did
you find with my skill set? With my reputation?"
The answering silence was filled with the creak of wood, the snap of rope
pulled taut.
"No one, hm? I thought so," Aredian said, smug.
The thunder of departing footsteps was lost in a shuffling of noise and
background chatter. Another wood-on-concrete scratch shuddered through Arthur
with the grimace shriek of fingernails on chalkboard, and Arthur's body swung,
a dull, hot pain shooting down his legs. Arthur forced himself to open his
eyes, and he drowsily watched shapeless bodies drifting past, unable to focus
on them through the thick, drugged haze.
"Mr Pendragon, surely you understand that what I am doing is absolutely
necessary in order for me to know how to move forward. There is very little
documentation detailing the physiology that your charge clearly possesses, and
the majority of it comes from a very questionable source fraught with wild
speculation," Aredian said, his tone softer, patronizing. "I am forced to
examine what was done to the antichrist's closest historical counterpart and to
go from there."
Arthur snorted softly, but no one seemed to hear him.
Thus far, all of Aredian's traditional methods, including physical punishment
and judicious use of electrical power had been hampered by Uther's insistence
that Arthur not be irreparably harmed. Threats of rape had only gone so far,
because Arthur knew no one would get close enough to try. Psychological
attempts to reprogram Arthur by hypnotic behaviour re-shaping, subliminal
suggestions, and drugs were tabled for later, since those were long-term
techniques that required more time than Uther had allotted for Arthur's
"discipline".
That left the more creative approaches.
Aredian believed that God was merely a very powerful angel who had conceived a
human child through unnatural means. The assumption was that any child
conceived in a similar manner by Lucifer, who was also a powerful, Fallen
angel, would also be susceptible to the same brutal treatment that the son of
God had received a couple thousand years ago.
It was a fair assumption, though Arthur believed that his torture -- his
rehabilitation -- was a fallacy of Aredian's fancy and nothing more. Holy water
had been used to cleanse Jesus Christ, therefore it should burn Arthur. A
priest would bless the son of God, but those prayers would exorcise the evil
from Arthur's body. Candles dedicated to saints of any and every dominion would
soothe Jesus' spirit and agitate Arthur.
And so on.
Arthur could have done without being waterboarded with so-called holy water
that did little else but wash the dried blood from his skin and stained
clothes. A near-immolation by a too-enthusiastic exorcist who was definitely
not sanctioned by the Catholic Church had been averted only because of Uther's
edict against lasting or publicly-visible damage. The attempt with the candles
had released a noxious blend of hallucinogenic fumes into the air as they'd
burned down, and Arthur had had himself a nice, mellow, and harmless high until
they could clear out the room.
Arthur drifted. He was swinging. A long staff steadied him and pushed him
against the hard surface. Thick cord was wrapped around his chest as he was
tied fast.
"This is excessive," Uther said. He sounded ill. "It contravenes our
agreement."
"It's merely the next stage," Aredian said flippantly. His tone took on a more
serious note and he ordered, "Put the crown on."
"I said, no visible damage," Uther hissed.
"He'll heal," Aredian assured.
Something was twined around Arthur's head and twisted on tightly. Sharp
pinpricks squeezed into Arthur's head. Arthur shook himself, trying to get it
off, but it wouldn't budge. After a few minutes, the pain became a subtle
annoyance, and he was getting dizzy from being upside down. His chest was
heavy; it was difficult to breathe.
"The feet," Aredian ordered.
Arthur wanted to ask, What about my feet?, but he was too out of it to properly
form the words. He tried to lift his head to look down -- up -- but the ropes
held him firmly.
"Oh, for the love of --" Aredian growled in annoyance. "Give me that ladder."
"Aredian!" Uther sounded scandalized. "I told you --"
There was a faint pause. The clatter of something being deposited nearby. Very
sweetly, Aredian said, "You don't have to watch."
Arthur's vision was still hazy, but this close, it was easy to observe how
Aredian had carefully deposited the ladder within the central circle, making
certain not to break the lines in any way or form. The ladder was off to the
side, not quite fully within Arthur's line of sight, but he could see Aredian's
ascent, the careful movement of people passing him an object, and --
A clatter.
Arthur felt himself be moved. Something scraped along his bare left foot.
"Hold him," Aredian said. The ropes tightened around Arthur and his back was
fixed against what felt to be a solid, scratchy pillar, square edges digging
into the sides of his spine.
Metal struck metal in a resounding blow.
Arthur screamed.
Pain bloomed bright with blinding white, surging through his body. A hot stake
burned through his foot. He jerked, fighting to get away, but the ropes held
him taut. A second strike of the hammer drove the stake through Arthur's other
foot, pinning them together. Arthur tried to curl in on himself, but the ropes
held him down, and gravity had increased a hundredfold.
The pounding continued. Blunt blows hammered Arthur's toes, but he barely felt
it through the cascade of pain and the flush of adrenaline. He panted for
breath, for a moment, and when it came, he could feel nothing but a throbbing
heat dripping down his legs, soaking into the fabric of his dirty trousers.
"Will that hold his weight?" someone asked. Arthur was too disoriented to
pinpoint the speaker.
Aredian made a detached, clinical sound. "No. I believe his weight will
eventually tear the nail through his feet. We did promise his guardian to leave
him mostly intact, so, perhaps we should prevent that."
Someone vomited.
Arthur hoped it was Uther.
"Pass me the strap," Aredian said. A shadow shifted. "Lift him up. A few
inches, no more."
A solid band was wrapped around Arthur's waist, just beneath his thighs.
Aredian made a sound of approval, and Arthur heard the sounds of hammering
again. He tensed, but the blows vibrated through the pillar instead of through
his body.
Satisfied, Aredian said, "Drop him down. Let's see if it holds."
Arthur braced himself, and though his feet continued to throb painfully, didn't
fall. The leather band held his weight, but creaked threateningly.
"Good enough," Aredian said. "Spread his arms out. Position his hands."
Arthur's arms were pulled apart from where they dangled over his head and
positioned against a crosspiece that ran the length behind his shoulders.
Adrenaline and alarm offered Arthur a moment of clarity, and he suddenly
recognized what Aredian was doing. He was nailing Arthur to a cross the same
way that Jesus Christ had been, except he was upside down.
Arthur growled. It was a weak, ineffective growl, weakened by pain, softened by
the press of his own weight on his chest, of lungs compressed uncomfortably in
a narrowed ribcage. Aredian seemed untroubled, because he came down from the
ladder, walked to Arthur's right arm, and pressed the sharp point of another
stake into the soft of Arthur's palm.
His struggles were easily deflected. His arm didn't move.
"Any last words?" Aredian asked, unnaturally cheerful. "You do realize that
only you can stop this? Not your guardian, who left you in my care. Not your
friends, who abandoned you. I will continue until I have the result I require,
regardless of how it's obtained. It's your choice, Arthur. Your honest and
willing submission, or your complete deconstruction."
Arthur turned his head. He stared at the curls of what appeared to be a blue
plastic apron covering Aredian's front, protecting a fine silk shirt and
tailored trousers.
He had promised himself that no matter what Aredian did to him, he wouldn't
beg. He wouldn't give in. Arthur knew well who and what he was, and he would
never bow down to any mortal man.
Arthur forced himself to smile. To raise his head and look straight at the hazy
blob that was -- hopefully -- Aredian's face. And in one, steady breath, he
challenged, "Do your worst."
The snarl was Arthur's only warning. He clenched his teeth as the nail was
driven through his hand.
A paralyzing blaze roared up his arm. He forced himself to breathe through it
until it crested and ebbed. He welcomed the orgasmic spike and the residual
blood-iron taste in his mouth. He accepted the haterage that rose from the pits
of his dark heart to forcibly shrink and collapse a human weakness.
He inhaled the pain into his lungs. He used it to fuel his will.
Every day. Every night. Nine of them.
A cramped circle his only living space. A bucket to piss and to void his bowels
into. One cold, overcooked bowl of gruel each day to quell a hunger that had
gone silent long ago. All the holy water that he could inhale.
Billy clubs. Baseball bats. Brass knuckles.
Aredian's men. Aredian himself. None of them dared come close while Arthur was
awake. They pumped the room with a gas to displace oxygen and to knock Arthur
out through suffocation. Only then would they manhandle Arthur into position
for whatever torture technique was next on Aredian's structured checklist.
Submission? Aredian pretended he understood submission. Deconstruction? Aredian
considered himself a connoisseur, but he didn't know the first thing about the
art of unmaking a man.
The hammer drove a third stake through his other hand. Arthur felt it punch
through skin and muscle, cartilage and bone, but this time, there was no pain.
There was only anger. It burned deep and it burned bright, pulsing through him
with a freedom that he had never allowed before.
Arthur heard Aredian's voice through a great, vast void. His voice was awkward
and hollow, dripping with uncertainty beneath the bravado. "We'll give you some
time to get comfortable. After a few hours, we'll have us another little chat."
Arthur turned to look at Aredian again. The drugged haze had burned away, and
everything was in crisp focus. The wrinkles on his trousers. The curled tongue
of the cheap bonded leather belt. The creases in the plastic apron. Blood
splatter on Aredian's bare forearms, browning spots on the sleeve ruining the
nice silk shirt.
"Damn it, Aredian," Uther whispered, and, to his credit, he sounded appalled.
Arthur decided that he would allow his father a moment for one last prayer
before he died.
Footsteps filed out. The cell door clanged shut. Everyone retreated, hushed
whispers fading down the corridor.
Arthur exhaled. He took in a slow, struggling breath.
There was a time when crucifixion was the preferred punishment for any number
of grievous crimes. The practice allowed for many different degrees of pain and
could be constructed in such a way that it would correlate to the severity of
the crime.
Arthur could see the appeal.
He struggled to fill his lungs. He could barely hold his breath in long enough
to make good use of it. With every inhalation, Arthur could feel the strain. It
wasn't long before he felt something tear in his chest. A muscle along his rib.
Slowly, bit by bit, his organs crushed. Blood settled in his upper body,
raising his core temperature, his heart rate.
Shock. His body was in a state of shock.
His mind, however, remained clear.
Every ache. Every tear. Every drop of blood spilling to the floor. The pain was
excruciating. The pain fuelled his rage.
His vision was a vibrant red around the edges. The red was chased after by a
lusting black. Unconsciousness teased him with promises of relief, but Arthur
made himself stay awake.
He counted the seconds.
The supporting sash around his waist tore from one of the nails. Arthur's
weight sagged, pulling his feet from the nails. The movement broke through the
crust of clotted blood and re-opened the wounds.
Arthur continued to breathe. He cultivated his hate. He focused on nothing
else.
He wasn't sure how long it was before he heard arriving footsteps. Those
footfalls were familiar now; he had heard them often enough. Aredian in the
lead, trailed by a few lackeys. One of them was surely Uther.
Arthur watched them enter the room, fanning around the cell in a semicircle.
Uther broke forward only to be pulled back by the collar like a recalcitrant
child. Several henchmen exchanged uncertain glances. Aredian managed to
maintain an impassive expression, but Arthur could smell the fear blooming on
his skin.
"Let him down," Uther ordered.
Conflict weighed Aredian's gaze. Behind the judgemental assessment, Arthur
could see the questions Aredian was asking himself. Was Arthur weak enough to
dare approach? Or should they gas the room again and run the risk that Arthur
would suffocate past the point of recovery? Should he determine how long Arthur
could hang there, bleeding and slowly dying, to satisfy his own curiosity?
A distant clang prevented Arthur from divining Aredian's decision. Everyone in
the room turned toward the far door. Two over-large henchmen with tiny heads
and straining shirts ran toward the sound, guns drawn.
A grunt. A scuffle. A shout.
A shadow shifted. Darkness filled the doorway, and darkness walked through.
Aredian raised a gun. Uther stumbled against the far wall, away from the
newcomer and the line of fire. The remaining men in the room congregated,
blocking Arthur's view, but not before he saw the horror in Merlin's eyes grow
cold as ice.
The chill that flooded the room felt lovely against the burning rage under his
skin.
Arthur smiled.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
The scene that waited for him when he walked through the door punched Merlin in
the gut.
The cross was an inverted Tau, suspended at the top of the cell and locked in
place by rebar. The wood was cobbled together from repurposed railroad ties,
the surface blackened and coarse, covered with grease and tar. The stipes was
little more than a solid piece of newer wood, and the crossbar was a double-
thickness of store-brought two by fours.
Creativity, ingenuity, and innovation was clearly the stock and trade of
sadists and psychopaths, putting together something that was at once
aesthetically pleasing and emotionally jarring out of everyday rubbish. Merlin
had taken care of a number of monsters in a wide range of sizes and shapes
before, but this scene was a step above and beyond the greatest horror he had
ever known.
And yet, there was something inherently wrong with the picture. It wasn't that
Arthur was suspended upside down, bloody and battered. It was --
It was that this diorama wasn't worthy of him.
An artisan should have built the cross in the sacred ways of old, carving two
pieces of hand-cut wood from the same ebony tree with such precision that the
seams weren’t be visible to the naked eye. The footrest needed to be a stubbed
stipes polished to a gleaming surface, much like the stool before a kingly
throne, and the nails forged out of steel folded with a damask core instead of
the crude carbon cut of railroad spikes.
Merlin swallowed.
Carefully cultivated detachment wavered under the simmer of low-grade arousal.
Bare feet. Soiled clothes. Torn fabric. Bruises and cuts. Welts and burns.
Sweat and filth and blood.
A wash of want cowered under the frigid mantle of rage and possession.
Merlin started forward when he realized Arthur was looking at him, his
expression strained, his body trembling faintly, his eyes blank of any emotion
that wasn't concentration -- only to stop when the circle of Aredian's men
closed around him. Safeties clicked off. One man pumped a shotgun.
"Get out of my way."
"Or?" a short, stout man challenged.
Merlin scanned the group. Eleven men, all of varying sizes and shapes, not a
single one of them soft. They were made of flint-edges and fearless experience,
possessing any variety of skill that would make them useful to someone like
Aredian Marais. The Witchfinder rarely worked alone, but he also rarely worked
with the same group of people twice, and these men -- these mercenaries -
- stood just enough apart to hint that they'd never worked together before.
Merlin wasn't army trained. Gwaine had offered him a gun, but he'd refused. The
only thing he had in his favour was his magic, and Aredian had locked the
warehouse down tightly, warding it against the ethereal essence of angels and
demons and the comparatively crude weave of witchwork.
These men, even Aredian himself, looked at Merlin as if they expected him to be
easy. A harmless human thrall to a monstrous creature deserving to be put down.
Magic bristled under Merlin's skin, grievously offended by the insult.
"Or you'll wish I'd let the nephilim come through first," Merlin said.
He'd made short work of the wards to the warehouse, leaving Aredian's men to
bloodthirsty nephilim who preferred killing with their bare hands. Those who
weren't occupied with thugs followed Merlin through, but the passageway leading
down to this enclosed and barricaded area had been graffittied by an intricate
web of protection against Celestials that would have taken too long to undo.
Merlin had caught a glimpse of Leon's furious expression when he'd left the
rest of them behind to deal with Aredian's men, but he'd felt he couldn't wait.
That this was something he needed to do himself.
Someone snorted. A few mercenaries exchanged glances.
"Have you some kind of mental affliction?"
A tall man in a dark suit moved into Merlin's line of sight. His brown hair was
bookended with gunmetal grey stripes at the temples, his tie was askew, and his
colour was pale and tinged green. Uther Pendragon stood out against the cast of
players upon the stage, a frayed director whose play had gotten away from him.
He was out of his depth and refused to admit it. Merlin had no sympathy for
him.
"Probably," Merlin said.
He moved forward, eyes fixed on the slump of Arthur's legs. Aredian intercepted
him, pressing a gun muzzle to Merlin's chest. "Who are you?"
It took a moment for Merlin to focus on Aredian's watery gaze, to register the
question. "Emrys."
Aredian's head tilted, and his eyes gleamed with slow recognition. "Oh. Oh! The
Executioner." His voice was a breathy laugh of barely-suppressed amusement. He
glanced down Merlin's body and back up again. "The stories describe you as…
more."
If Aredian's men recognized the name, it was only in passing, couched in
appreciating smirks for the mockery. Merlin half-sighed, staring past Aredian
at the top of the cell, itching to get to Arthur. "I get that a lot."
"A pity you burned yourself out. You could have been worthy of my attention.
And now? You're barely a footnote in history. To go from being a name that
struck terror in the hearts of monsters to a life lesson for young sorcerers
who dabble in arts beyond their ken. I admired you, once. I'd planned your
capture, of course --"
The hasty, cheap construction betrayed itself and the stipe worked its way
loose from the railroad tie. Arthur's legs drooped, the leather belt holding
him steady against the wood creaked and tore, and --
Arthur didn't cry out, but the sharp exhalation might as well have been a
shout. The noise was enough to silence the room, and Merlin's magic spiked,
responding to his anxiety. He had to get to Arthur.
Aredian shifted, but he stopped himself from turning around. Merlin gave him a
meaningful look and made a sweeping motion with his hand. "Can you…? I don't
know. Get the fuck out of my way?"
"So pathetic! You're pitiful," Aredian sneered. He shook his head. "Of all the
people that young Mr Pendragon could have recruited to his cause, he settled on
you?"
"Scraping the bottom of the barrel, innit? Slime and shite," someone said with
a laugh.
Arthur growled. The sound was low, guttural, menacing, and shouldn't sound as
dangerous as it did considering his situation. The wood creaked, as if under
great strain, and Merlin could see the top of the cell rattling as the cross
shifted under Arthur's struggles.
The leather tore, slipping, slapping the ground. The crowd surrounding Merlin
parted, and he could see that Arthur was simultaneously straining to keep
himself from suffocating and preparing to tear himself off the cross.
Merlin couldn't tell if Arthur was merely done with the situation and the
torture, or if he was reacting this way because Merlin had been insulted.
Either way, a warm sensation wound its way through him, thawing the ice in his
blood.
Uther shrank back. Concern flit in Aredian's expression, but still, he didn't
turn around, proving he was more balls than brain.
"You made him mad," Merlin said softly. He didn't try to fight the smile
spreading across his face. He could only imagine how twisted the smile made him
appear when Aredian flinched and jerked away from him. Cool metal slipped away
from Merlin's brow, but Aredian kept the gun raised.
It trembled.
"I know what you're thinking," Merlin said. "You're wondering who you should be
afraid of. In this scenario, I promise you… There's no wrong answer."
This time, when he swept his hand in the air, magic fuelled the motion with the
power of a land-scouring tidal wave and washed the mercenaries out of his way.
He grabbed the barrel of the gun, his magic accelerating time. The metal aged
and rusted, crumbling to dust.
A mercenary fired at him. The bullet tore through the fabric of Merlin's trench
coat, flying through-and-through and leaving a flesh wound behind. Merlin's
magic was driven by painrage and accepted the blood offering trickling down his
cut shoulder and --
Merlin felt his magic pull back behind the taut coil of a bow, to disassemble
itself from a single strike. He could feel what it was doing. He knew what was
about to happen.
And he let it.
Like an archer releasing, his magic shot forward at velocity, forming thousands
of long, thin needles thatdispersed like scattershot and struck the mercenaries
in range. The needles threaded through them like hot steel through butter, and
--
Merlin redirected the needles the other way, catching the fleeing mercenaries,
and watched them drop one by one by one.
He felt nothing. Not a drop of guilt. Not a moment of regret. He would have,
once, but now, he didn't care.
Merlin met Aredian's trembling gaze and pushed him aside.
He reached out with both hands, pressing his palms together. He jerked them
open, and the cell walls of Arthur's cage exploded outward.
And yet -- magic kept the ceiling aloft, the cross suspended. Merlin focused,
guiding the wide grate down with a smooth gesture, easing the cross to the
ground, only to have it stop, hanging in mid-air.
That was when he noticed the markings on the cement floor. The thick inner
circle that prevented the cross -- that prevented Arthur -- from leaving a
space no wider than two metres wide.
Metatron's Cube.
The Cube was an artifice of perfect geometry. A devil's number of thirteen
circles, lines interconnecting them in squares, rectangles, triangles,
pentagrams, hexagrams, octagons and more, the Cube had been subsumed in ancient
times by practitioners of divine arts as a measure of protection against evil
and the containment of satanic powers.
It was used to ward against or imprison anything originating from the divine,
their nature and powers rendered weak and useless by the tangle of mathematical
synchronicity. The Cube could be drawn as large or as small as necessary, but
only a practiced hand could ensure its effectiveness. The slightest slip of a
ruler, an angle one degree off-centre, a wobbly circle -- all of these things
could affect the power of the Cube.
For most sorcerers, the Cube was too much work with little payoff. Even
demonologists, whose powers often relied on the overuse of symbols for
summoning spells, barely knew how to draw one, and most would be hard pressed
to identify the symbol in a line-up. Angelic beings, whether they were Fallen
or slumming on Earth from their Heavenly perches, had no doubt breathed a
collective sigh of relief to arrive in modern times, when rare was the person
who had the precise dedication to their art and the artistic skill to complete
the most dangerous ward against their kind.
Merlin was among those few. And what he could build, he could also destroy.
This Cube was painted on the floor. Aredian's men wouldn't have been able to
place Arthur in the chair if the Cube had already been painted, and that meant
it had been completed after he had been placed in position. Merlin knew Aredian
would never have a magic user in his employ to build the Cube, so that meant
that the design had either been drawn by a talented artist, or by someone who
had used laser-cut stencils to paint the pattern on the ground.
Merlin continued to hold the cross, reaching out to caress Arthur with his
magic, easing the strain on his wounds. Arthur's breathing became easier, quick
at first, then slower and deeper, his body relaxing despite the nails through
his hands and feet. As soon as he was satisfied that Arthur was stable and safe
for the moment, Merlin closed his eyes.
His magic dropped to the floor. It skittered along the lines of Metatron's
Cube, tracing it over and over, seeking the slightest imperfection.
There weren't any.
It didn't matter.
There were other imperfections. In the grain of the cement beneath the paint.
In the dust and dirt that hadn't been swept from the floor beforehand. In the
paint itself.
Merlin let his magic burn.
The lines caught fire as if ignited, bright and white like magnesium, scorching
the Cube, circles and lines, squares and rectangles, triangles and diamonds,
pentagrams and hexagons and octagons and all. The Cube was disassembled in a
matter of seconds, a hot haze drifting in the enclosed space. The invisible
resistance holding the cross up disappeared, and Merlin guided it gently to the
ground.
A sharp, jarring pain scraped at Merlin's temple. He opened his eyes to an
Aredian who was barely holding himself together, visibly discomfited by
Merlin's display of power. He'd found another gun.
"Stop what you're doing," Aredian said. To his credit, his voice didn't waver.
Merlin's magic found the nails holding Arthur to the cross. He pulled them out
quickly, all at once, and Arthur -- his Arthur -- exhaled harshly, as if biting
back a groan, but otherwise didn't make a sound.
"The spells around the building to hide Arthur from me. The wards around the
building. In the building. The meteoritic steel, the bars of the cell.
Metatron's Cube. You prepared for everything, but all you've got for me is… a
gun?"
Merlin scoffed. He stepped around Aredian.
"That's really fucking weak," he said. He walked over to where Arthur lay
prone, unmoving, his chest rising and falling.
"Don't you walk away from --"
Aredian's snarl died on his lips when he registered the nails floating in the
air. Merlin gestured sharply. The nails stabbed through Aredian's hands and
feet with near-simultaneous thunks that were drowned out by Aredian's screams.
Merlin barely gave him a glance as magic spread Aredian's arms wide, pinning
him on the concrete of the far wall as if he were an insect to be studied.
Merlin crouched down next to Arthur. He hesitated, not quite sure what to do.
Arthur's clothes were torn and filthy, barely covering some of his injuries.
His hands and feet continued to bleed, though sluggishly, now, as if some force
beyond Merlin's magic was healing him.
"Arthur?"
Merlin carefully pulled the barbed wire mockery that was the crown of thorns,
untangling it from Arthur's hair. He brushed the streaks of blood and the
sweat-slick hair from Arthur's forehead, trying to ease the pain. The faint
scowl of concentration eased from Arthur's brow, and Merlin placed his hand
against Arthur's cheek, marvelling at the warmth. Arthur should be cold, his
skin clammy, his pallor drawn. Merlin moved a hand to Arthur's chest and felt
his heartbeat, solid, steady and strong, his breathing slow and even, as if
resting.
Arthur's eyes slivered open. He turned his head toward Merlin. His lips parted
as if he were about to speak, but he only breathed a soft sigh. Merlin pulled
him from the cross as gently as he could, watching Arthur's expression for the
slightest sign of discomfort. He settled Arthur in his lap and held him,
ignoring the heavy weight of magical exhaustion settle in his limbs.
 
 
 
 
He hadn't used this much power in years. It was like riding a bike. And now
every muscle screamed at him, protesting the unexpected workout. He wanted to
rest, but he also needed to make certain that Arthur would be all right. He
should go and see how the others were doing. He should break the wards so that
they could come and get Arthur to safety and obtain medical help for him.
In a minute. Maybe two. No one needed to know he was weak with the staggering
relief that Arthur was alive.
"Merlin."
"Yeah," Merlin whispered. He traced his fingertips over Arthur's body, unable
to help himself.
"You're late."
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Arthur flexed his hand.
Rapidly-thinning scar tissue covered what had been a gaping crucifixion wound
in the middle of his palm. The stretch of skin as he uncurled numb and tingling
fingers was an uncomfortable reminder of the sharp pain that had come with the
first strike on the nail's head.
He could hear it in his mind. The sound haunted his sleep. His dream-self
crawled across the cleansing fires of Merlin's magic, unharmed by their
comforting touch. When he emerged from the field of flames, the room was empty,
and he was not victorious, but damned to look upon himself imprisoned within a
cell, inside the artifice of Metatron's Cube, hanging upside down from that
fucking cross.
Arthur dropped his hand and rubbed his face. The scratches where the barbed-
wire crown had dug into his skull were healed, but the phantom pain remained.
It had only been a few days since his rescue, and though his recovery was
slower than normal, he was nearly whole. The scars would fade, his strength
would return, and he would soon ensure that Uther was punished for his
transgression with a life of absolute servitude until he outlived his
usefulness, at which point he would meet an abrupt, dismissive end.
For now, Uther resumed his position at the head of the Pendragon fortune,
obediently turning over everything to Arthur as Vivian supervised. Leon was
quietly disassembling Uther's congregation while screening those who wanted to
move into Arthur's service. The others were dispersed throughout London,
hunting down the rest of Aredian's people.
Arthur's only regret was that he hadn't stayed to watch Aredian suffocate to
death where Merlin had nailed him to the wall. Aredian hadn't lasted very long
despite the traditional crucifixion pose -- barely two days before his body
gave out entirely.
Arthur had been disappointed at the news. A part of him had wanted to be there
the moment Aredian took his last, laboured breath, but Arthur was gratified by
the knowledge that Aredian's death had been at Merlin's hands. Merlin had come
for Arthur, had taken up the mantle of Executioner once again, and had doled
out a metered justice.
All for Arthur.
It was heady to know that despite his failed pursuit, Arthur had somehow earned
Merlin's protection. He wasn't too proud to accept it.
With a grunt, Arthur rolled out of bed. He tested his feet gingerly before
standing up. The bones had healed, the torn muscle had knit together, but
ligaments and cartilage weren't as organic, requiring complete dissolution and
reconstruction. It had been fascinating to watch.
He stripped his pajama bottoms and went into the attached bathroom, not even
waiting for the shower water to heat up before stepping inside. The water
sluiced over his head and down his body, and while the water was still cold,
Arthur imagined that it was Merlin's magic caressing him, cooling his temper
and grounding him. The water heated up too quickly, erasing the sensation and
the memory, and he stood, his eyes closed, under the steaming heat to savour a
different memory altogether.
The morning after his rescue, Arthur had found Merlin sprawled across the plush
sofa in the sitting room, one leg stretched across the length, the other on the
floor, one arm across his chest and the other over his head, covering his eyes.
Instinct had driven Arthur to make a space for himself between those open legs
even as Leon discreetly left the room, and Arthur had lain down on top of
Merlin, expecting nothing.
He'd found much, much more than that. A sense of safety, the warmth of comfort,
the gentlest of touches at his cheek.
Merlin had snuffled in his sleep and dropped his arm down to brush across
Arthur's shoulders, settling in the middle of his back. Arthur had found
himself listening to Merlin's heartbeat until it lulled him to sleep.
Merlin had felt solid beneath Arthur, enclosing but not restraining, protective
without being overwhelming. That close to him, Arthur had inhaled Merlin's
natural scent, sweat mixed with the faint remnants of aftershave, jasmine soap
entwined with the burning crackle of magic, the metallic tinge of Arthur's
blood in the creases of his skin.
It was enough to get Arthur hard. He stroked himself a few times to take the
edge off, but found no pleasure in it. Tossing one off wasn't enough. He wanted
to fuck. He wanted to claim. He wanted Merlin under him in absolute submission,
willingly giving what Arthur wanted to take and never return.
 
 
 
 
The cold wash of how he'd woken up to find Merlin gone without so much as a
good-bye, of how many phone calls went unanswered and visits to his flat were
met with an apologetic and embarrassed George -- the painful sensation of
complete abandonment was persistent enough to ease the dull ache of yearning.
Arthur finished washing up mechanically, brushing his teeth and dressing for
the day. He had school, a board meeting, an interview. He couldn't be pining
after someone who kept running away.
He glanced at himself in the mirror before leaving the bedroom, and pointedly
ignored the dark circles under his eyes that reminded him of how poorly he'd
slept since Merlin had left him.
Leon was in the main room, a laptop abandoned on the coffee table, a notebook
in his hand. His attention was split evenly between the mobile against his ear
and the newscast on the telly.
"… and the market was shocked today at the unexpected announcement that Uther
Pendragon, the owner and CEO of the very successful Pendragon conglomeration,
retired from his position effective immediately. No replacement has been named
but there is every indication that controllership will pass to his son, Arthur
Pendragon --"
That was apparently what Leon had been waiting for, because he said, "Thank
you," into his mobile and hung up. He glanced at Arthur, who nodded wordlessly,
and shut off the telly, leaving the remote perched on the arm of the chair.
"You'll have to make a statement, soon, before the stock drops too much," Leon
said unnecessarily. "Vivian will field phone calls in the meantime. You have a
few days, at the very least. Isolde is ready to act. She'll call when she feels
that it's time to buy."
The plan was for Arthur to recoup shares divided among the board members and
Arthur's congregation at the lowest prices possible before manoeuvring the
company into position. It would take time before the stocks recovered, but
Arthur was confident that they would exceed their former rating on the market.
"Good," Arthur said. He considered making a cup of tea, but his hands weren't
strong enough yet, and he wasn't keen on dropping a kettle full of boiling
water. "Aredian?"
"Disposed of. Percival got the last straggler this morning." Leon thumbed
through the messages on his phone, skimming information he probably already had
memorized. "No word on Morgana. I have a feeling she's going to act soon."
"She will," Arthur said. He was surprised that she hadn't moved against him
already. While Gwaine had ensured that word hadn't gotten out about Arthur's
capture by the Witchfinder, it was difficult to squash all the rumours. More
people had noticed that Merlin had associated himself, however tenuously, with
Arthur, and no one could have missed Merlin's subsequent hunt for anything
related to Aredian. Someone, somewhere, would make the connection soon, and
Arthur wanted to be prepared.
Arthur helped himself to the lukewarm coffee in the pot, having no stomach for
more. He added sugar until it was palatable, allowing himself a wistful moment
to regret sending George to watch over Merlin until he remembered how much
George annoyed him.
"Ready to go?" Leon asked, collecting his papers and equipment.
"Just about," Arthur said, closing his eyes as he quaffed the coffee in as few
gulps as possible. He put the mug in the sink, glanced around for his
schoolbag, and asked the question he'd promised he wouldn't ask. "Has there
been any word from Merlin?"
Leon froze in the act of checking his gun cartridge. He winced, glancing away
as he replaced the cartridge and holstered his gun. "Um."
Arthur exhaled heavily and touched his eyebrow. He nodded glumly and waved his
hand in the air in dismissal. He didn't care, he told himself. Clearly, Merlin
had helped Arthur's men save him out of the sheer goodness of his heart and had
had no ulterior motive, not even a tiny smidge of affection for Arthur. He
shouldered his schoolbag and met Leon's concerned gaze with a flat, detached
look of his own.
"Shall we?" he asked, heading for the door.
"Arthur --"
"He's made his choice," Arthur said, his voice hollow. "It seems we may be able
to call upon him for assistance, though we may have to be judicious --"
"Arthur!" Leon's shout was accompanied by a pained sigh. Arthur stopped in his
tracks and turned around slowly, feeling a murderous rise crawl up his gullet
at being spoken to in that tone. Leon raised a hand in the air and sternly
said, "I love you dearly, and if you consider me your friend at all, you'll let
me talk."
Arthur took in Leon's pleading stance and the care in his tone. It was rare for
Leon to ask anything of Arthur, and he wasn't asking for much.
"This once," Arthur said grudgingly.
"Thank you." Leon's shoulders dropped in what might be relief, but there was no
missing the way he took a short, sharp breath to steel himself. "You need to
get your head out of your arse where Merlin is concerned."
Arthur raised a brow. His voice dropped an octave. "Merlin is nothing to me."
"Just --" Leon stopped himself. He glanced away. When he turned to Arthur
again, it was with renewed determination. "In everything you've ever done,
you've always been right. I've never doubted you until this moment."
Arthur bristled, but Leon gave him a hard look and continued.
"Don't push Merlin aside."
Arthur barked a sharp laugh. "Me? He's the one who --"
"You don't know what he was like," Leon said quickly. Arthur's mouth snapped
shut. "When he was looking for you, I mean. It reminded me of all the stories
I'd heard about him from… from before. When he'd cut through whatever stood in
his way. And then --"
Leon stopped. He shook his head, incredulity seeping into his features.
"I sat in a car with the boogeyman of my childhood," Leon said. "I've never
been that close to my greatest fear before. I didn't see it until it was almost
too late, but the whole time he was with us and we were trying to find you, he
was dying."
Something stopped in Arthur's chest.
Leon scratched his jaw. He sighed softly. "We got you out of there, and it
seemed Merlin was all right for a while. I don't know. But it turned sour when
he woke up, and when he left --"
Arthur scowled. Leon trailed off and didn't look like he was going to continue.
Arthur needed to know, and his voice was nearly a growl when he asked, "When he
left? What?"
Leon didn't have to say it. Arthur could hear it. It was something that he had
never wanted to acknowledge. That Merlin was broken. If he could be fixed, it
would only be because he wanted to be fixed.
Someone who carried as much guilt as Merlin would never let himself heal.
"He is… devoted to you," Leon said quietly.
Arthur clenched his jaw. He didn't want the blind adoration that came from the
unwashed masses. He wanted Merlin, body and soul. Stiffly, he said, "Of course
he is."
"You're an idiot." Leon made a frustrated sound.
Arthur raised a brow.
"He sacrificed," Leon said quickly. The choice of words startled Arthur out of
contemplating Leon's punishment for his insult. "He sacrificed, and he didn't
ask for anything in return. He doesn't want anything in return. He's devoted to
you, and not like those people who worship what you are."
Arthur stared, at a loss for words. Leon stood up straighter, a determined
glint in his eyes.
"He sees you. And I think… I think he can love you the way no one else ever
could. The way you deserve. He could love you for you."
"Leon --"
"I don't know why he left, but… Don't give up on him, Arthur. You need him.
He's good for you. That's all I have to say." Leon nodded and bowed his head,
an apology and gratefulness in the same gesture. He turned away and pulled on
his jacket, the motion signaling the end of the conversation. "Gwaine's
downstairs. Shall we --?"
"Yes," Arthur snapped, and followed Leon as he went to clear the way.
Neither of them spoke during the ride down to the parking garage. Arthur wasn't
even sure he knew what to say. He was mulling over Leon's words when he slid in
the back seat of the sedan, Gwaine glancing over his shoulder for a cheeky
good-morning.
"To school, then?"
"Yeah," Leon said, slipping into the front passenger seat. His mobile rang and
he fished it out of his pocket. "Try to keep it under the speed limit this
time."
"Spoil my fun, won't you?" Gwaine muttered, crawling through the maze of parked
cars to get to the exit.
"It's Mordred," Leon said, glancing over his shoulder at Arthur. "He says he's
found Merlin."
"Oh, thank God," Arthur said, sinking back in his seat. When he realized why
Leon was giving him a strange look and Gwaine stopped the car to look over his
shoulder, Arthur scowled and said, "It's an expression, you bloody twats. How
is Merlin?"
"Huh," Gwaine said, continuing to drive.
Leon listened to his mobile before glancing over his shoulder. "He's completely
rat arsed, Mordred says. He's taking Merlin to his flat to get him cleaned up."
Arthur nodded stiffly. "Good."
Gwaine drove up the rise to exit the underground parking. The gate rose and
Gwaine inched forward, only to slam on the brakes. A hooded figure wearing a
woollen overcoat over a dirty jumper crashed against the side, nearly throwing
himself onto the hood of the car, grabbing hold of the windshield wipers.
Arthur startled. Leon drew his gun. Gwaine followed escape protocol and gunned
the engine to get away, and as the person slid off and bounced off the side of
the car, Arthur shouted, "Stop!"
Gwaine slammed on the brakes. Leon was out of the car in an instant, his gun
ready. Arthur climbed out, catching the man just as he fell to the ground.
"Stay in the car!" Leon shouted.
"It's Lancelot," Arthur snarled. He eased the nephilim to the ground.
"Lancelot? Lance!" Leon was around the car in an instant. He started to drop to
his knees, only to jump up again a moment later to take a long look around,
wary and protective.
"Shite!" Gwaine said, coming to his knees on Lancelot's other side. He looked
up at Arthur. "I thought you said he was dead!"
"No," Arthur said, shaking his head. He remembered his exact words. He'd said
that Lancelot had been lost to them. Lancelot had been compromised, and there
was no knowing what Morgana would do to a spy in her midst. Arthur suspected
that she would break Lancelot, even turn him to her side.
It's what he would do.
Lancelot had known that this would be a possibility if he was caught. That
there would be no rescue for him. Should Morgana have uncovered Lancelot's
personal agenda for having volunteered, Arthur knew that Lancelot would have
been lost in more ways than one.
"I'm ashamed," Lancelot admitted, kneeling at Arthur's feet. He covered his
face in his hands before looking up at Arthur in supplication. "I hope you know
I would do anything for you. That I am doing this to keep you safe. But
Morgana… Morgana has Gwen. I… I love her."

"I understand," Arthur said, even though he didn't. But if there was one thing
he knew, it was what to say to reassure Lancelot, even if it wasn't true. "I
trust you."

Arthur's thoughts went to Merlin. His heart stuttered, aching, incomplete.
Arthur thought that he understood, now.
Lancelot was filthy, but he looked to be healthy and whole. He was thinner than
Arthur remembered, his cheek in sore need of a shave, his hair long and greasy,
knotted and matted in places. But there was something wrong. There was
something missing.
"Arthur," Lancelot whispered. He flailed and caught Arthur's wrist. He blinked
several times, helpless, lost. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I failed you --"
"No," Arthur shushed. He cradled Lancelot's face gently. "No. You served me so
well. You did your best."
Lancelot shook his head. "No. No. I failed. She found me out. She used Gwen.
Gwen was hers all along. I was a fool."
"How did you escape?" Gwaine asked.
Lancelot closed his eyes. Pain filled his expression. When he looked at Arthur
again, Arthur saw it. What was missing. He knew what Morgana had done.
It wasn't a burning rage that filled him, not this time. Only the cold wash of
sorrow and grief.
"He didn't," Arthur said. He brushed Lancelot's hair from his forehead, trying
to comfort him. "He gave her what she craves."
"Oh, no," Leon said, his tone heartbroken with realization.
"She took his soul," Arthur said. His anger burned to know the cost that
Lancelot had willingly paid for his freedom. "But why? That's too much. Even
for me. I'm not worth --"
"You are. You are," Lancelot insisted. "For what you'll do. For what you'll
build. I needed to do it. I needed to warn you. Morgana -- Morgana is coming
after you."
"We know," Leon murmured, even though they really didn't. He crouched down next
to Lancelot and took his hand, twining their fingers together in the same way
Arthur wanted to do with Merlin. He stared at their clenched hands, wondering
if Lancelot would see, now, how much Leon loved him.
Lancelot shook his head. "No. She's coming to break you, Arthur."
Arthur felt himself go very, very still.
"She knows about Merlin."
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Alcohol lowered inhibitions. It offered the desperate a refuge from reality.
The power to sentence bad memories to a lifetime in the pit of oblivion was a
temptation few could resist.
Merlin had been on the cusp of drinking himself stupid when Mordred dragged him
away from the pub.
For all the benefits that alcohol offered to the tortured and miserable, there
was one downside.
Clarity.
Crystal-clear clarity.
There was no lying to himself. No hiding behind self-styled ignorance. No
denials.
Merlin pulled away from Mordred. Mordred, who was irritatingly sober and an
incubus stronger than a mortal man, guided Merlin from the kerb and onto the
weather-sheltered steps of the nearest building.
"I hate you," Merlin slurred. He held his spinning head in his hands.
"So you've said."
"I want to die," Merlin said. He curled onto his side, pulling his knees in.
"That's the drink talking, mate," Mordred said.
Merlin scratched behind his ears. He ran his hand behind his head. He noticed
that Mordred was barefoot. "Where are your shoes?"
"You vomited on them after I called Leon," Mordred said with a sigh.
"Completely ruined. They were nice shoes."
"Oh," Merlin said, remembering. His mind was a jumble of distorted images, but
there was no forgetting how he'd felt queasy with the realization that Arthur
would find out what a fuck-up he was. His revenge on Mordred had been to drop
to his knees and empty his stomach of the rotgut whiskey that hadn't yet been
absorbed into his blood. "You deserved that."
Mordred knelt beside Merlin and roughly manhandled him into a sitting position.
Merlin fought him on every adjusted millimetre, kicking and lashing out feebly.
He caught Mordred on the jaw and half-expected Mordred to suck what was left of
Merlin's life out of his body in retaliation. Instead, he was very firmly
restrained and given a rough shake.
"You're a fucking idiot," Mordred muttered. He rubbed his hand over his face,
and the disappointment in his eyes was so heavy that Merlin couldn't stand it.
He looked away.
After making sure that Merlin wouldn't slide off the low step, Mordred sat down
next to him. He didn't say anything for the longest time. Three lorries rumbled
past, a handful of cars with early-shift workers flashed their headlights at
them, but it wasn't much longer before the traffic picked up and the sun rose
higher in the sky.
The sky stayed a bleary, solid grey throughout. Streetlights blinked off one by
one down the street. Neon shop-signs flickered to life. Someone offered Mordred
a couple of crumpled quid and a motherly smile. "I hope things get better for
you two boys."
"We're not -- we don't need…" Mordred sighed. He looked down at his bare feet,
nodded resignedly, and said. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you."
Merlin held in his laughter as long as he could but it broke out of him in
harsh, broken gasps, becoming an awful sob. He leaned forward, head between his
knees, hands protecting his head, doing everything he could to hold back his
tears.
Fuck, but he felt alone. He was lonely. He'd broken his promises. He'd become a
monster again. All these years of repentance for Will's death washed away, and
--
For what?
His survival against demons raised in a park by a witch-initiate.
He could have walked away from the encounter without relying on his magic. He
could have saved the world. It had been fucking selfish, and using his magic
had left him feeling dirty and wrong.
But Arthur.
Arthur.
Merlin hadn't had any qualms in tearing those mercenaries apart. In punishing
Aredian for daring hurt a boy who had already suffered enough in his life. He'd
just wanted to protect him. To save him. To take care of him.
Merlin had wanted to stay that morning when he'd woken up to find Arthur
pressed up against him on the couch. He'd kept himself as immobile as possible,
stealing as much as he could of that moment for himself. The solidity of
Arthur's frame against his. The weight of his body making Merlin feel grounded.
The warmth of Arthur's breath against the side of his throat.
How soft and beautiful Arthur was when he slept.
Merlin could have stayed. He should have stayed. But it struck him in that
moment how perfect it felt to be where he was. How he didn't feel the least bit
of remorse for using magic to save Arthur.
And… he just couldn't. He'd slipped out from under Arthur, regretting every
step that took him further and further away, too overwhelmed by the sudden lack
of shame and guilt to do anything but leave. Every day had been a torture he
felt he deserved, separated by his own will from what made him feel whole.
He wiped his face with the back of a rough sleeve. The words were out of his
mouth before he realized the admission. "I shouldn't have left."
"No, you really fucking shouldn't have," Mordred said. Then, he had to go and
be a decent bloke, placing a comforting hand on Merlin's back.
Merlin closed his eyes. He sniffled. His head hurt, but the ache in his heart
hurt more. "My mouth tastes like arse."
"Good." Mordred stood up, offering his hand. "Come on. We're a street over from
yours. We'll get you sorted out, and then…"
A constipated look crossed his expression.
Merlin snorted. "You're really bad at this."
Mordred shrugged. "I fuck them and I leave them, you bladdered monkey. That's
what I do. I don't go about rescuing the emotionally-stunted from themselves
and I definitely don't tuck them in bed and promise that everything's going to
be all right."
Merlin fluttered his eyelashes. "Is everything going to be all right?"
Mordred hesitated. "That's between you and Arthur. Also, fuck you."
Merlin managed a small laugh. He took the offered hand and let Mordred pull him
to his feet.
"Friendships without benefit are bollocks. Complete waste of my time. This low-
grade buzz I'm getting? Completely fucking unsatisfying," Mordred groused,
adjusting his grasp on Merlin.
Merlin threw his arm across Mordred's shoulders and started in one direction,
only for Mordred to cluck at him and direct him in another. Merlin was so
turned around, trembling with light-headedness and throbbing from alcohol
withdrawal, that it took him a minute to recognize his surroundings and orient
himself properly.
When Mordred had him pointed in the right direction, tut-tutting about not
stepping on his foot, Merlin recognized the bakery down the street, the
consignment shop where he'd found a replacement trench coat for the one that
had gotten too blood-stained for saving, the office of the accountant who
despaired of handling Merlin's bills but somehow managing to keep him from
bankruptcy.
Nameless, but familiar faces walked past, minding their own business. The woman
who always wore her hair in a messy bun and wore stiletto heels that could
easily kill a man. The grizzled veteran with the ivory cane who could probably
afford to live in a better part of London but who resolutely stayed because
this was where he'd spent a lifetime with his wife. The father herding his
stubborn twin daughters toward their bus stop, even though they were late, as
usual.
Merlin's gaze flit across different faces, past the sea of movement and the
overlapping, always contrasting auras that clung to them. He stared straight
ahead, the tall building that shadowed his flat maybe another three hundred,
five-hundred metres away, and --
A brightdark aura flashed in the corner of his eye.
Lush and deep, as vibrant as a jungle teeming with life, the aura was heavily
tainted, shadowed by pitfalls. As the crowd walked past, their emotions
trailing behind them and fading slowly, this aura was immobile, broad and
overwhelming, licking the air like the tall flames of a raging bonfire, orange
and green and black.
He didn't need to see the person attached to that aura to know who it was. He
dropped his arm from Mordred's shoulders even as the crowds parted just enough
to catch a glimpse of Morgause.
"Mordred," Merlin said, brushing aside the incubus' attempt to grab him. "Run."
"Merlin, we're almost there. What are you --"
There was a loud crash on the street. A fender-bender, nothing more, but enough
to stop traffic. The cause was coming toward them.
Three -- no. Four. Four nephilim jaywalked through traffic to a herald of
warning beeps and shrieking klaxons. They staggered positions, blocking the
cars from passing, and… There were more nephilim on the other side of the
street, doing the same, and soon, the road was clear.
Angry commuters rolled down their windows and shouted expletives. A man got out
of the driver's side and advanced on one of the nephilim. Someone decided a bit
of maiming was worth being late, and lifted his foot from the brake, gunning at
the nephilim.
The nephilim held up a hand to use angelic power to stop the screeching car in
its tracks, and with the other, fired his gun at the driver.
The crowd broke.
People screamed. Panicked. Skittered and fled. Merlin and Mordred were jostled
several times until Mordred dragged Merlin against the closest building to
avoid the stampede. The pavement was clear nearly all at once, the crowd
vanishing, leaving them in the middle of a double-handful of nephilim, but they
stayed their ground. Merlin pushed Mordred hard. "Run."
"From them?" Mordred asked, incredulous. Incubus though he was, he was still a
full demon, with powers that eclipsed those of a mere nephilim. He must have
seen Morgause, because the cockiness faded from his expression. He staggered a
few feet away, as if trying to distance himself from Merlin, but stopped,
probably realizing it was too late for any real denial, anyway. "Shite."
Morgause sauntered a few steps from the pavement on the other side of the road,
golden curls bouncing with the movement, blue eyes sparkling. Her eyeliner was
too thick, her lipstick too pink, and her smile too bright for the situation.
She thrust out one hip, thumbs looping through the belt buckle loops, raising
her chin smugly.
"The famous Executioner," she said.
Merlin felt Mordred's eyes on him. "Please, don't," Mordred murmured. "You're
too pissed --"
"The famous…" Merlin ignored Mordred's groan and offered Morgause an apologetic
shrug, doing his best to appear contrite. "I'm sorry, who are you again?"
Morgause's smirk faded. Her mouth twisted into a nasty scowl. Her eyes narrowed
and darkened. A crackle of magic blazed through the air.
Morgause was the sort of piecemeal sorcerer that Merlin had fought against his
entire life. Talented but impatient, intelligent but easily bored. The
traditional route was too long and too boring for someone who wanted immediate
results, and lessons about maintaining balance and avoiding magic's use for
personal gain were overlooked in favour of ways to tilt the glory in her favour
and in reflecting the blowback onto someone else.
If that meant trading someone's karma or sucking their power to make herself
stronger, Morgause would do it. She was a one-trick pony with a spare trick up
her sleeve, and all sorts of underhanded, nasty charms in her pockets. Since
Merlin's karma wasn't going to win anyone a prize, there was only one thing
Morgause wanted with him.
Well. He did have a bad habit of poking the dragon.
"Fuck. Shite. Bollocks," Mordred hissed. He held up his hands and took a
deliberate step back. Louder, he announced, "I'm not with him."
A nearby nephilim turned her gun on Mordred and gestured for him to return.
Mordred dropped his arms, sneered, and said, "Really? Me…" He gestured toward
himself before waving a dismissive hand in the woman's direction. "Against you?
Do you even know who I am?"
"Let him go," Morgause said. She raised her arm, her hand in a fist, her
attention fixed on Merlin. Merlin reached for his magic, and it reached back,
only to slip through his grasp. Morgause spread her hand out, palm down. "He's
of no interest to me."
"That's right," Mordred said, walking away. His voice was empty of bravado when
he whispered, "Sorry, Merlin."
"Right," Merlin said.
He searched through his pockets. He hadn't had the time to restock supplies
since rescuing Arthur, but it wasn't like he expected a magical showdown,
either. His fingers brushed against a bent copper penny, a single set of finger
and claw that must have broken from the cursed chicken's leg, and a couple of
scraps of paper of the wrong texture to be anything but bits of rubbish and
shop receipts.
He shot Mordred a glance and forced a smile. "See you later."
"Good luck," Mordred said. He took a few more steps before running away.
Merlin shouldn't have taken his eyes away from Morgause. That moment of
distraction was the opening that Morgause needed. Merlin just barely caught a
tendril of the magic rustling under his skin to throw up a shield to deflect
Morgause's blow.
She wasn't particularly powerful, Merlin reminded himself. But when a fireball
crashed through his shield and caught him on the shoulder before he could dodge
away, how much power she had didn't matter when he could barely defend himself.
His head pounded. His stomach roiled. He hadn't eaten a solid meal in days. The
only fuel he had was the remnants of alcohol breaking down in his body, and his
vision was already blurred without Morgause helping him see double.
Merlin rolled onto his side. He struggled to his feet. Morgause began a
forbidden incantation that was far too familiar. She didn't care if he died,
but she would take his magic from him first.
He grasped at magic too keen to come to his call. It slid through his will like
water, crashing into him, through him, too quickly to catch, and what little he
was able to capture through the sieve of his mind sputtered in response to his
fuzzy attempts to do something.
"The old fashioned way, then," Merlin muttered.
His fingers twined around the chicken toe. He threw out his hand, struggling to
remember the words.
"Morrigu! Morrigu! Morrigu! I invoke thee! Bones of --"
One of the nephilim came at him. Merlin backed away, ducking when the nephilim
threw a punch. The man's fist connected with brick and he let out a pained cry.
"Bones of anger, bones to dust. I scatter this bone, this bone of rage --"
The nephilim's fist connected, this time, and Merlin went down with a grunt. He
spat out blood and focussed on it, dropping the chicken finger on top of the
splatter.
Morgause's incantation was getting louder and faster as she hurried to get to
the end. Merlin glared at her, only to be distracted when the nephilim came at
him again.
Merlin blocked the nephilim's punch and barely caught the knee to the gut in
time. But the elbow, he watched it come at him in slow motion, and when it
connected with his face, it sent him flying through the air.
He shook his head to clear it, struggling to his feet. He felt the bone crush
under his foot.
Blood magic. Bone magic.
"With these bones I crush, make my enemy turn to dust --"
The Goddess answered Merlin's prayer in a glowing flash of light that burned a
triskelion between Merlin and Morgause, the three arms forming raven's wings.
At the same time, Morgause completed her incantation, and a glowing ring of
sickly green magic formed around Merlin.
The Morrigan's curse fizzled. Merlin's magic, emboldened by the focus of the
hex, rose up to fuel the curse before it faded out completely. Morgause's ring
closed, and --
Merlin gasped, clutching his chest. His magic retreated at a rapid spiral,
thudding within Merlin with a staccato triple-punch. The hex faded.
The single circle doubled. It tripled. Large, cutting swaths of runes appeared
within each ring, dripping greenish magic as if it were blood. When the rings
were full, the runes glowed, bright and orange, and throbbed that ghastly,
awful green.
And Merlin screamed.
This spell, this forbidden magic, it was wrong. Wrong. It was meant to funnel
magic, to draw it away from the source, regardless of the source. The earth, an
object, a creature, a person. And magic it drew away, but somehow, somehow,
those claws digging through Merlin's body, searching for and scavenging every
bit it could find, it dug deeper and deeper, until it latched onto Merlin's
very soul.
It pulled with a suction that Merlin was powerless against. His magic tore out
of him with a torturous rip, single thread by thread, unfolding like a complex
knot, becoming ever larger and larger until --
The wrench was at his core, latching onto that connection between life and
death, and --
Merlin opened his eyes, blind of anything but the golden light of his magic, of
a redoubled image of himself being yanked out, and --
"Impossible," Morgause said, sounding afraid.
 
 
 
 
It hurt. It hurt. It tore and pulled and burned. It broke, it shattered, it --
It reformed with a wordless shout of denial, of a body washed clean of doubt,
intent on one thing and one thing only, and that was to live.
Lightning flashed. Power swelled. Merlin thundered.
Magic pulsed out like a tsunami wave, crashing down from where it was drawn out
and returning to its source, breaking through the sickly-green entrapment ring.
It lashed out wildly, unmaking nephilim, splicing them of their angelic essence
and human souls. Cars up-ended, windows shattered, buildings moved.
Merlin heard gunfire as he dropped to the ground, weak and disjointed, as if he
no longer fit in his own skin. He closed his eyes, too weak to fight anymore,
and the last thing he heard was someone shouting his name.
"Arthur", he whispered, and let himself fall to the void.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"We have got to stop meeting like this," Arthur murmured under his breath,
tapping Merlin's knee to make a space to sit on the couch. He nudged Merlin's
hip until Merlin grudgingly made room for him and accepted the ice pack -- a
proper one, this time -- from George.
Merlin side-eyed him and wrenched the frozen gel pack from Arthur's hands,
placing it gingerly against his jaw.
The physical injuries weren't terrible. A cut on his cheek, a bruise on his
face, the fading imprint of someone's ring on Merlin's temple. Merlin had
refused a more thorough examination, either because he was shy, of all things,
or he didn't want Arthur to know how badly he was hurt.
Arthur wasn't worried about Merlin's body. Broken bones would heal, torn skin
would scar. The pain Merlin was hiding reached deep into the soul, leaving
Merlin haunted and pale.
Arthur had arrived on the scene in the aftermath of magical blowback powerful
enough to make the universe shudder. Buildings near the epicentre had shifted
several centimetres, heavy automobiles were tilted on their sides or flipped
over entirely. Windows had shattered, glass particles shimmering toward the
ground like snowflakes. Arthur had never encountered anything like that before,
and he'd gleefully gotten to his feet, absolutely certain that he knew what had
caused it.
He'd been right.
When he'd arrived, Morgause scrambled to her feet in a frightened daze, only to
turn and run away. The nephilim who had survived were quickly eliminated by
Arthur's men.
And Merlin…
Merlin had curled in on himself, arms clinging to his own body as if he were
trying to keep himself together. He may very well have been trying to do just
that, because for several uncomfortable, absolutely terrifying moments, a
ghostly double had layered on top of the physical before finally settling into
Merlin's skin.
Merlin had fallen unconscious when Arthur had knelt down next to him.
He'd felt Merlin's power in the core of his bones, and he was certain that all
of the denizens of Heaven and Hell would come down to investigate soon.
Bringing Merlin to the safety of his flat was Arthur's only recourse.
And here they were: Merlin splayed out on the couch, Arthur hovering over him
like a mother hen. It was reminiscent of the time Arthur had engineered a
little test to draw Merlin's power to the fore, to encourage him to use the
magic he'd long since suppressed.
Looking at Merlin now, it seemed that he would never be able to deny himself
his magic again. From the sullen set of his mouth and the despair in his eyes,
Merlin knew it, too.
Arthur reached to brush a strand of hair from Merlin's forehead. He was slapped
for his trouble. He sighed heavily, struggling for patience to defend against
the sheer hatred in Merlin's eyes.
"Dinner is ready," George said, breaking the tense silence. "I've run a bath. I
would be pleased to start a load of laundry --"
"That'll be all, George. Thank you," Arthur said, his dismissal firm. As glad
as he was that George was willing to take care of Merlin, this was something
that Arthur wanted to do.
"Shall I make the rounds of your instructors to gather your school
assignments?" George asked.
Arthur watched a faint smirk appear on Merlin's lips at George's subtle
admonishment, only to disappear less than a second later at the reminder that
Arthur was so much younger than he was. That was exactly what Arthur had hoped
to avoid.
Arthur managed to temper his glare when he glanced at George and said, "Yes.
And do get started on it, if you please."
"Of course, Sire," George said. A faint click of his heels preceded a quick
shuffle across the flat before George left them with a subtle click of the door
locking behind him.
"You should go," Merlin said, closing his eyes. He shifted on the couch,
stretching long legs as much as he could, resting an arm across his chest as if
his only plans for the immediate future was to lie there.
Arthur shrugged out of his school jacket and flung it onto the armchair on the
other side of the coffee table. After a moment of consideration, Arthur
forcibly wedged himself onto the sofa, ignoring the startled protests as he
straddled Merlin's hips. He leaned over Merlin, hands on the sofa's arm-rest,
and smiled.
"You're attracted to me. I'm quite taken with you. However, your resistance is
infuriating, and I have no time nor inclination for games. Let's get this out
of the way. Is it my age?"
"Arthur --"
"Surely you're observant enough to notice that I'm past the age of consent,"
Arthur said, crushing whatever argument Merlin had been about to make. "So, if
it's not my age, what is it, then? Perhaps my name? I can't do anything about
that. The media quite enjoys plastering Pendragon across its society pages, and
I intend that they continue to do so for a very, very long time."
"I don't --"
"All that bollocks no doubt swirling through your head -- it amazes me, really.
I've provided you with a closet full of clothes that would suit you far better
than the rags you insist on wearing. A haircut, a shave --" Arthur tilted his
head, evaluating Merlin carefully. "It won't take much to clean you up, and
you'll be more than fit to stand by my side. I don't care what the pedants will
say about it, and neither should you."
An angry sound followed a sigh of frustration, but Arthur didn't give Merlin a
chance to speak.
"It must be the other thing," Arthur said softly, pretending to come to that
realization. He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "I don't understand. It
can't possibly bother you. You've come for me. You've fought for me. You get
completely absolutely bladdered and maudlin because of me. There are no tests
on this mortal plane that can measure the depths of my intelligence, and yet, I
fail to understand this puzzle. Explain it to me, Merlin. What's holding you
back?"
"Get off," Merlin snapped. He tossed the ice pack to the coffee table, where it
slipped and fell to the ground.
"That's what I'd like to do," Arthur said sincerely.
"You're such a spoilt prat," Merlin snapped. "Move. Let me up."
Merlin pushed himself into a sitting position. Arthur dropped his full weight
down to keep Merlin immobile. Merlin swung a fist. Arthur caught his wrist,
then the other when Merlin tried to hit him again. He pinned Merlin to the
sofa, holding him in place easily whenever Merlin struggled. In less time than
Arthur expected, Merlin quieted down, growing slack beneath him.
 
 
 
 
That probably had more to do with exhaustion than anything else, but Arthur
would take it.
"Is it Will, then?" Arthur asked, letting go of Merlin. He nuzzled Merlin's
brow and kissed his forehead. "I don't know what he was to you. A friend. A
lover. A brother in all but blood. But I am not Will."
Arthur's research had only taken him so far. There was little that he could do
when the information he had collected over the years amounted to rumours and
hearsay. Merlin had grown up with Will. By every account, they were close. Will
was something of a womanizer, but the women he slept with were always one-offs,
and he would always return to Merlin. Merlin, on the other hand, kept to
himself, and any actual relationships had been few and far between.
If there was anything that Arthur did know with absolute certainty, it was that
Will had been the catalyst to Merlin's downward spiral.
Arthur pressed a palm to Merlin's cheek. Merlin's mouth was set in a tight
line, his gaze averted, his nostrils flared. Arthur waited. He had time.
There was something else that Arthur knew, too. He understood it far better
than Merlin, who seemed to have no idea how strong he was. How important. How
powerful.
Where Arthur had been taught to thrive in how attractive he was to others and
how to manipulate those people for his own ends, Merlin had learned to fear
himself and what he could do, changing how he lived and the direction of his
career until it served a single purpose. And that purpose wasn't Merlin's own.
Arthur had never met the Great Dragon, but he would, one day. On that day,
Arthur would make him pay.
"May I show you something?" Arthur asked, keeping his voice soft and inviting.
"No," Merlin bit out.
"Very well," Arthur sighed. He sat back on his haunches and looked at Merlin
with disappointment. With a resigned nod, he climbed out of Merlin's lap and
from the sofa. He ran his hands through his hair and moved around the coffee
table to retrieve his jacket. A quick text to Gwaine confirmed that he was
still waiting outside, watchful for the enemy.
Arthur doubted that Morgana would try anything else so soon after Merlin had
overcome whatever Morgause had attempted, but Arthur wasn't interested in
taking any chances.
"You heard George," Arthur said, draping his jacket over his arm. He unbuttoned
the cuffs of his shirt sleeves and rolled them up to his elbows. "Dinner is
ready. Please, eat."
Merlin unfolded himself from the sofa, putting his feet on the floor. He stared
at Arthur dubiously, but didn't speak.
Arthur gestured toward the bathroom. "Also, he ran a bath. If I know George,
he's put salts in -- good for muscle soreness and other aches and pains, and
it'll draw off any residual negative energy that Morgause might have left
behind. It would be a pity to waste it. Have a soak before it gets cold."
A quick flick of his wrist and Arthur was reminded of the time. He didn't have
anywhere to be and had no intention of returning to school. The only place left
would be his loft, where…
Arthur huffed to himself and turned for the door.
He had battle plans to review, resources to contact, policemen to bribe. The
street CCTVs no doubt had captured some footage of Morgause's attack on Merlin,
and he intended on squashing it. Mordred had made himself scarce after calling
Leon to advise of the situation, and Arthur wanted to confirm that he hadn't
vanished completely.
He was returning to the relative quiet that was his penthouse flat to work. He
was not going to mope because Merlin had turned him down. Again.
Arthur's hand was on the doorknob when Merlin asked, "That's it?"
"Pardon?" Arthur asked, playing innocent. His hand slipped from the doorknob
and he turned around.
Merlin scratched his cheek with the flat of his hand. He grimaced and glanced
away, almost as if admonishing himself, and repeated, "That's it?"
"I don't follow," Arthur said, frowning at a piece of lint on his jacket. He
picked it off.
Merlin scoffed. "All this, and nothing? You want to show me something, I say
no, and you give up? I'm supposed to believe you'll let it go that easily?"
Arthur sighed heavily and stared heavenward, tracing the warding circle painted
on the ceiling. He debated on how best to answer and settled on, "In many ways,
I am my Father's son. Unlike God -- unlike Kilgharrah -- I value free will.
Really, Merlin. It's as if you don't understand me at all."
"I don't," Merlin snapped, standing up suddenly. He tottered on uncertain legs
and held himself very still, his hands trembling. He balled them up into fists.
"I don't. You make no sense. I don't know why you -- why you even…"
Merlin bit off his own words and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He
dropped his arm and stared beseechingly at Arthur.
"What do you want?"
A small smile curled at Arthur's lips. He lowered his head and watched Merlin
through hooded eyes. "How do you not know the answer to that question? How do
you not know that I want you?"
"To do your dirty work," Merlin said. He was sullen, angry, and vibrating with
unrestrained emotion.
"No," Arthur barked. His amusement was gone. He advanced on Merlin, dropping
his coat on a chair, and said, "No. Absolutely not. I am hardly a dragon
imprisoned in a cell of its own making, clawing at the firmament for a peek at
the world, reaching out with guileful words and broken promises in exchange for
tasks performed in this mundane plane. I am not a puppeteer."
Merlin held his ground, a veil covering his eyes, hiding his emotions. Arthur
took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. If anyone else had
challenged him, he wouldn't be so generous. But this was Merlin, and Arthur
found himself wanting to do well by him.
"I want you however I can have you, Merlin," Arthur said. "Coming to my rescue.
Watching me from afar. Working in the shadows to protect me. If that is all
that you're willing to give, then…"
Arthur spread his hands.
"That's all that I will take." Arthur tried to catch Merlin's gaze. "Of course,
that doesn't mean I won't always ask for more. Because I want more, Merlin. I
will keep asking until you tell me in no uncertain terms that you don't want
me, too."
Merlin's mouth quirked in a half-smile that he was clearly fighting. He turned
away, but not before Arthur saw the tips of his ears reddening.
Arthur followed after Merlin, resisting the urge to grab him. Arthur didn't
like how vulnerable he felt, how easily he felt prey to Merlin's whims. It was
desperation that drove him now, unwilling to let Merlin go when Merlin would be
his undoing. "Do you?"
"Do I what?" Merlin asked. He headed for the kitchen, fingers tapping on the
fixed plates that George had left out, the Tupperware with leftovers.
Arthur leaned against the counter. He crossed his arms. He watched Merlin until
Merlin turned around, clearly expecting an answer. Arthur elected to remain
silent, allowing Merlin to take the question however he would, but he didn't
expect the eyeroll he received in response, the annoyed shrug, the
capitulation.
"What did you want to show me?" Merlin asked.
A knot loosened in Arthur's chest. He blinked, not quite sure what to make of
the sensation, and found himself at a loss for all of a moment before he said,
"My Kingdom and your place in it. If you want it."
Merlin huffed a disbelieving laugh and shook his head.
Arthur held out his hand. "Can you trust me?"
"I don't know. Can I?" Merlin asked. Unexpectedly, he took Arthur's hand, and
Arthur ignored the flutter in his belly, studying instead the scrapes and cuts
on Merlin's fingers, old scars commemorating rough times, calluses speaking of
hard work.
Arthur guided Merlin to the bathroom. He felt Merlin hesitate, and his hand
nearly slipped out of Arthur's grasp. Arthur opened the door, releasing a heady
waft of steam, and revealed the candle-lit room, the line of salt around the
standalone tub, the bluish tinge of water deep enough to sit and settle and
soak.
"Arthur," Merlin said.
Arthur found he couldn't look at Merlin, not now. He let go of Merlin's hand.
"You know how this works. It's your choice. You can tell me to go, if that's
what you want."
Merlin didn't answer.
Arthur drummed his fingers on his thighs. He studied the bathroom, idly
redecorating it. Polished basalt slabs instead of cheap linoleum. The same
motif along one wall. Handmade cabinets to replace the cheap setup from the
hardware store. A motion sensor fountain faucet in a raised frosted glass bowl
rather than the cracked white porcelain that had probably been retrieved from a
gas station bathroom.
The window would go. A full length one to replace it, lightly frosted to match
the sink and to let in natural light. Arthur quite liked the tub, since it was
large and roomy, but it could use some updating, and a proper shower would go
in the corner.
He ignored the mirror. If he looked, he'd see Merlin's expression, and Arthur
didn't want to know what he was thinking. He didn't know what it was like to be
afraid of something, but he was certainly concerned that Merlin was taking so
long to answer.
Merlin's hand was a firm, grounding weight on his shoulder, settling Arthur's
nerves. He stopped fidgeting and waited for Merlin to tell him, Go away.
Except that didn't happen. Merlin gently pushed him aside. He kicked off his
boots. He pulled his button-down and undershirt over his head. He yanked his
socks off.
He stepped into the tub.
Merlin sank gingerly, adjusting for the temperature, and Arthur drank in every
inch of it, memorizing this tantalizing sight of a half-naked Merlin, skin wet,
lean muscle glistening as if rubbed by oil. He was too thin; his ribs showed
along his sides, in the hollow of a belly that hadn't eaten in too long, and
Arthur…
Arthur knelt next to the tub, wanting nothing more than to take care of Merlin.
"You don't have to do this."
"You gave me a choice," Merlin said, meeting Arthur's eyes. "I've decided."
"If you're sure," Arthur said.
Merlin barked a short laugh. "Are you trying to talk me out of this?"
Arthur smiled wanly. He ran his hand behind Merlin's head and pulled him close,
leaning in to press a light, chaste kiss on his lips.
"Why would I go and do something dumb like that?"
Arthur guided Merlin into the water. He held Merlin down until he drowned.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Blue.
Arthur's eyes were like the cloudless sky on a bright sunny day mirroring the
crisp, clear sea. The bathwater rippled, and Merlin could almost believe that
Arthur was crying for him.
The water settled. The surface was still.
All Merlin needed to do was breathe.
And drown.
A circular ripple disturbed the bathwater. Merlin frowned, watching as the
lines were adsorbed into the water. It took him a few uncomfortably long
seconds before he realized that the surface hadn't been marred by condensation
dripping down, or from a leak in the ceiling.
He met Arthur's eyes. Whether Arthur realized it or not, that had been a
teardrop. He squeezed Arthur's wrist, sliding his hand down, intending on
getting out of the water --
Arthur held him firm.
Blue eyes darkened. Blackened.
Merlin kicked out, struggling for leverage. His feet slipped against the
ceramic. He twisted his body only to slide right back to where he'd been,
helpless and without recourse. Magic tickled under his skin, ready to lash out,
but he held it back, just barely, because…
Because.
Arthur. He's chosen to trust Arthur. He didn't want to be wrong.
In the crash of splashing water, Merlin made out a blurry overlay on Arthur's
aura. He couldn't make out what it was. Dark, blurry, dripping with a miasma of
chaotic emotions, it seemed to take the shape of a great beast. Red eyes
gleamed and lips pulled back to reveal white fangs in a terrible maw. The
creature roared at a supernatural pitch that reverberated under water, igniting
Merlin's magic, ripping it from his control, and --
Stop
Water exploded from the tub and froze in motion. Ceramic cracked and split
apart like shattered glass, held together by the suspension of time. Gold-white
magic tangled with black-red power on an ethereal plane.
And Merlin?
Merlin fell.
He fell so far and so fast that the world was a cold rush of swirling masses.
Twisted faces and disembodied limbs snatched at his body and slowed his
descent, dragging him away. A warning growl, fearsome and formidable, scattered
the undesirables. Merlin was released, and with that freedom came a strange
sense of safety and reassurance.
Merlin blinked.
This was no earth that he had ever seen. No land that he had ever known. The
sky was painted in dull russet shades, a blood-red sun burning down through
swirling black smoke and lumbering grey clouds. The ground was scoured clean
until it was nothing more than rust-coloured dirt, cracked pieces of pavement,
and wisps of grass long since dried out and dead.
Brownstone-and-mortar walls stood fast against a blistering, burning wind.
Piles of broken brick were randomly scattered around square ruins bleached a
peach colour by the sun. Rotted signs wilted like dead flowers. Streetlights
toppled over and shattered into pieces. Tumbleweeds as sharp as barbed wire
rolled past.
Bleak and desolate, the landscape shimmered with an ethereal quality -
- existing both in time and outside of it. The frisson of stepping into another
dimension was lacking. The oppressive heat of Hell was missing. The
transparency of illusion was lacking.
This place, this time, it was real. Maybe not for him, because he wasn't really
here. This time, this place, it hadn't happened yet.
Merlin walked a few feet, emerging from around a brick wall. He stopped short.
In the distance, the remnants of Big Ben stretched out toward the Heavens,
deteriorating steel girders taking the role of fingers reaching for what it
would never grasp. The bridge was gone, but the supports remained, and as
Merlin watched, the winds jarred loose a chunk of metal that tumbled down to
drop into the sand.
"This isn't convincing me," Merlin muttered.
Let me show you, Arthur had said. My Kingdom and your place in it.
Whatever event had overcome London and left its bones decaying in the sand was
one that hadn't happened yet and one that might never come to pass. Arthur was
showing Merlin one of many possible futures, but if this one was what he chose
to convince Merlin, he had chosen poorly.
"Em-ryss."
Merlin turned around at the hiss. He wrenched back in revulsion at the demon
jerkily crawling around a pile of sandy bricks. Its appendages were thin and
had an extra joint; its fingers and toes were long and oblong. Bone wrapped its
torso from the outside-in, and its face was missing, replaced by a mouth full
of needle-sharp teeth.
It chittered. Tilted its head in increments. Gasped as if gagging, gulping in
the air.
"Em-ryss," it said again, almost pleading. It crawled forward, closing the
distance by half every time Merlin took a step back and moving faster with
every step. Merlin didn't know what it wanted, but it was a demon, and the
needs of a demon were simple.
Eat, fuck, kill.
Before Merlin could draw on magic to defend himself, a figure leaped over the
low brick wall and stabbed a sword through the demon's mouth.
Too distracted by the sight of an old-fashioned blade pinning the creature to
the ground, Merlin didn't notice who had come to his rescue until he spoke.
"Why are you standing around like a bloody numpty? Get to the fucking shelter,"
Mordred growled, drawing his sword back with an angry yank. Incubus didn't age,
but Mordred looked older, anyway, with grey in his hair and crow's feet
crinkling at the corners of his eyes. He was thinner, somehow, as if starved of
proper nutrition, his frame narrow and lean, his clothing loose where it hung
from his shoulders.
"Sorry?" Merlin offered.
Mordred wiped the ichor from his blade with a scrap of crusty clothing
saturated with demon blood. "I said --"
Mordred trailed off, his jaw dropping.
"Merlin?"
Merlin spread his hands questioningly, offering Mordred a raised brow. He was
about to ask, What's going on? When --
Merlin realized that he knew. It came to him in a flooding rush of fragmented
information washing through him and left him swaying on his feet. The images
were without context, presented as a montage in reverse chronology, running
time backward from the present moment to the distant past.
And now --
There was war. A war so old that no human could comprehend the breadth of it.
The earth became a new battleground marked with the graves of countless mortals
who had become cannon fodder, collateral damage, cattle.
No one was safe.
The angels had come, walking upon a ground long forbidden to them, though they
were hardly saviours, caring nothing for Man when there were demons for them to
kill.
Survivors banded together and tried to rebuild in a world that was a cruel
wasteland of poisoned water and scarce food. The earth stormed and scoured the
planet. Civilization crumbled.
Billions of people died.
A nuclear winter. Bombs launched from multiple countries, some simultaneously,
others one after the other. Civil wars, riots, looting. Corrupt politicians,
increasing violence, an amassment of troops and advanced weaponry adding to
underlying tensions. Ration lines, food shortages, rising employment rates,
recession. A healthy economy tumbling down at roller-coaster speeds, increasing
taxes punishing lower-income families.
And beneath it all lay nothing but hatred. Every act possessed an underlying
sensation of resentment and rage.
History tumbled into an era more familiar to Merlin, focusing every event and
timeline to one event and one event alone --
"I should have said yes a long time ago," Merlin murmured, staring dazedly at
the blood on his hand. He didn't feel any pain, but from the hollow in his
soul, he knew it was a grievous wound. "I always meant to. It… It was never the
right time."

His magic faltered, slipping away from him. Clinically, he realized that the
bullet must have been cursed in some way, perhaps warded or hexed against
magic. With the sniper still hidden somewhere, firing on the panicking crowd,
Merlin didn't dare dream of asking Arthur to try to save him when he was in
danger.

Merlin glanced at Leon, who loomed behind Arthur protectively, the ephemeral
weight of his angel wings giving a measure of protection. Leon seemed to
understand what Merlin couldn't say with words, because he nodded and put a
strong hand on Arthur's shoulder, ready to pull him away.

Merlin touched Arthur's cheek, staining it with blood. He drew clumsily with
his thumb, willing ablessingthat Arthur do whatever he could to raze his
enemies.

"Merlin," Arthur whispered, his eyes watery, his mouth parted in grief. He
glanced at the wound brokenly, and it took Merlin a moment to realize that
Arthur was trying to heal him. "Tell me what to do. Tell me how to save you."

Merlin shook his head. He offered Arthur a small smile. "You could doso much.
Don't let this change you."

Leon dragged a struggling Arthur away. Merlin watched him go through blurred
vision that greyed out more and more at the edges.

"I love you," he whispered.
Merlin felt a sharp stab of pain in his chest. His heart stuttered.
"You're dead," Mordred blurted out. "You died."
Merlin felt the snap as surely as if he himself had lost control. It was a taut
line, frayed and worn, finally breaking apart after too long under strain.
Incubuses were just as capable of emitting emotion as they were to absorb it,
and Mordred was full of grief, sadness, and anger.
Mordred's eyes flashed bright lavender. His skin roughened, cracking into snake
scales. Fangs dropped from his mouth --
Merlin stared, fascinated, because for as long as he'd known Mordred, he'd
never seen the incubus as he really was.
-- and Mordred lunged.
Instinct stirred Merlin's magic before he thought of a single defensive spell.
Power wrapped around Mordred easily, bright and golden, and Merlin stared,
because his magic -- his magic wasn't like this. He'd tainted it through misuse
and had locked it away lest it fester more. Even when he reached for it, his
magic was sluggish, a sometimes-painful tingle under his skin.
It was as if he'd been reborn, all his sins washed away, his magic cleansed and
pure again.
Merlin's surprise was reflected in Mordred's expression. He could tell when the
danger had passed, because Mordred's eyes cooled to a lighter colour, his skin
smoothed out, his fangs retracted. His magic reacted to that realization,
fading away without needing to be forced to obey.
"It's you," Mordred said, awed. He stepped forward and was about to say more,
only to suddenly snap to alertness, raising his sword.
Merlin turned on his heels, only to stumble at the sudden shock of pain through
his chest. He put a hand over his heart and --
Wet.
"Oi! Mordred! I know you haven't Fed in ages, but we've got to keep moving,"
Leon barked tiredly, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He dropped
his arm and glanced from Mordred to Merlin, stumbling to a clumsy stop as
recognition dawned in his eyes.
Merlin had only met Leon twice, but a part of him could sense that something
was wrong. Leon was worse for wear. Tangled hair tied back in a knotted bun.
Smears of dirt and dried blood on his face. A scar cutting diagonally from his
left eyebrow to his right cheek.
The sky darkened. Splotches of black filled the sky. The earth vibrated as if a
million ants twitched under the surface, and sunburnt shapes crawled out the
ground.
"They're coming," Leon said, snapping out of his surprise to watch the sky with
a grim expression. "We don't want to be here when they clash. You didn't find
anyone else?"
"No," Mordred said.
"All right," Leon said. He met Merlin's eyes and hesitated. "You should --"
He cut himself off at the sound of approaching footsteps and an oddly
comforting -- and threatening -- jingle of metal against metal. Several shadows
rippled over the ground, growing larger the nearer they came. Several men and
women rounded the corner from the crumbling brick wall.
Percival, large, tall, broad-shouldered, his chest and arms criss-crossed with
leather straps, a coarse cloth around his shoulders, a pair of clear goggles
hanging from his neck. Gwaine, long hair made wild by the wind, the short beard
on his cheek highlighting, rather than masking, the three jagged scars along
his jaw. Freya, a long leather overcoat slapping at her calves, the sleeves
rolled up to her elbows, black wrist-length gloves stark against pale skin.
There were more, but none that Merlin recognized, even if he was inclined to
look. His attention was drawn to the stark vibrancy and contrast of colour worn
by one person. Black trousers tucked in knee-high boots. Blood red overcoat
falling to mid-thigh, its hood covering the man's head.
Blond hair like spun gold. Blue eyes like the sky before the nuclear war had
burned that colour from creation. A scruff of a beard, high cheekbones over a
strong jaw.
Arthur.
He was older. Twenty years, maybe more. It was difficult to tell how much time
had actually passed since Merlin had supposedly… died, before he'd stepped into
the tub and allowed Arthur to hold him down so that he could glimpse into the
future. Arthur had grown. He was a little taller. Broader. Solid.
Strong.
Merlin winced. He hurt. It was a physical pain that stabbed through his chest,
manifesting an ache at knowing that he hadn't been able to watch Arthur come
into his own.
He wondered if that might have been a good thing. There was a hollow in
Arthur's eyes. Cold detachment, indifference, a barely-veiled capacity for
incredible cruelty and little room for mercy.
And then --
Then.
Arthur turned his gaze on Merlin. He continued to advance, and with each step,
the ice in his eyes melted away, revealing pure, undiluted hatred and rage.
Merlin took an involuntary step back at the force of the emotion, only to grasp
his chest at another sudden stab of pain.
This time, Merlin didn't feel wetness on his palm. He felt the sticky sluice of
blood.
He stumbled, suddenly weak. He swayed, the ground no longer steady under his
feet, and --
"No," Arthur growled. Strong arms caught Merlin before he collapsed, lowering
him gently. "No. Damn her! I've given her everything. I swore if -- she was
supposed to leave me alone. Why is she making me watch him die again? I'm not -
- I've…"
The sob that tore out of his chest was tempered by a snarl. Merlin could see
Arthur -- Arthur as he truly was, beneath the human façade, the Beast of Hell,
the Scourge of Heaven, the King of Kings on Earth. Arthur's aura snarled,
monstrous and terrifying, but muzzled, collared, and shackled behind a cage.
 
 
 
 
Clawed fingers curled around Merlin's throat and squeezed. "I'm going to kill
it. It's not real. It's not him."
"I should have said yes," Merlin blurted out. Only three people would have
known Merlin's last words. He stared at the blood in his hands, and fuck if it
didn't hurt as his death caught up with him. There hadn't been any pain in his
inherited memory.
Arthur's hand wrenched back as if burned. His mouth parted, and his eyes
clouded with confusion before giving way to recognition. Syllables formed on
his lips only to be left unvoiced. When Arthur finally spoke, it was with
strangled desperation. "Say yes now. Let me --"
Merlin reached to grab Arthur's jacket. He had so many things he wanted to say,
so many things he wanted to ask. But his hand fell uselessly to the coarse
ground, and he stared at a russet sky darkened by a multitude of angel wings.
His vision greyed at the edges, and he struggled to hang on for just one minute
more, to have the breath to make the choice Arthur refused to take away from
him.
The world went dark in a terrible, burning gasp as Merlin was pulled out of
Arthur's arms. He was left with an unearthly howl ringing in his soul, full of
rage and pain and grief.
Time and space snapped with an echoing click. Merlin was jarred by the
collision of two very different types of magic, two different universes, two
different Arthurs. Bathwater exploded, spraying everywhere. The tub continued
to shatter, scattering sharp pieces like shrapnel, catching Arthur on the brow.
The piping burst, and --
Merlin tumbled forward, following Arthur as Arthur was thrown back. Arthur
landed with a thump on the floor. Merlin landed on top of him, panting, gasping
for air..
Startled confusion filled Arthur's eyes as he glanced from the remnants of the
bathtub to Merlin. "It didn't work?"
It worked, Merlin wanted to say. It had worked too well. He'd seen more than he
should have of a future that was assured to happen if things continued along
the current path. The nuclear disaster, the damnation of Mankind, the war
between Heaven and Hell -- it would haunt him for eternity, reminding him that
this was the outcome of his own fear. That knowledge was tempered with the
realization that Arthur had given up everything, that he had capitulated and
given up his destined throne, all because of Merlin.
Merlin didn't know what would happen if Arthur's ascent to his power and
position was allowed to continue unhindered. He didn't know what would happen
if he stayed at Arthur's side. All he knew was that he would rather not damn
Arthur to a lifetime of grief and torment.
"Yes," Merlin said.
Arthur drew back, unsure. It took him only a moment to realize what Merlin
meant, and his mouth parted in surprise.
"Merlin?" Arthur asked. Confusion coloured his expression, and that emotion was
better that than the soul-deep grief of an Arthur who had watched Merlin die
before his eyes.
Twice.
Merlin touched Arthur's cheek. He offered up a weak, wry smile. He hoped Arthur
wouldn't ask why, because he didn't have the words beyond the knowledge that he
was tired of denying himself what he wanted.
"I'm saying yes."
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
The stone bowl clinked on the metal countertop, the noise barely audible in the
sombre disquiet that was Merlin's ritual room. The paintbrush rolled off the
edge and thudded faintly on the concrete floor. Merlin startled, and Arthur
thought Merlin would have had less of a reaction if he'd rung a Cathedral bell.
"Out with it, then," Arthur said, taking a step back and crossing his arms.
"What?" Merlin asked.
Arthur gestured over Merlin's body. Merlin sat on the worktable, his head down,
his hands firmly grasping the edges, knuckles white with suppressed fear. If
Merlin let go, he would most likely shake and shudder, just as he had for long
minutes after the bath. "Whatever has you wound up. Tell me. Does it have to do
with what you saw across the veil? Why won't you tell me what it was?"
Merlin rubbed his hand over his forehead, shielding his eyes from Arthur. His
shoulders slumped, but there was no defeat in them, only resignation. "What did
you mean for me to see?"
Arthur moved to stand between Merlin's legs and placed his hands on Merlin's
thighs. Merlin glanced down at the contact. Arthur bowed his head, nuzzling
Merlin's temple before pressing a kiss into that spot. He smiled at Merlin's
small hitch of breath, but the smile gave away to a frown of concern. "Clearly
not what you experienced."
Merlin didn't answer. He turned his head away. Arthur considered him for
several long moments before shrugging.
"Well. I'm not one to complain when I get my way," Arthur murmured, reaching up
to run his fingers through Merlin's damp hair. "I won't even ask if you're
certain. You might change your mind, and we can't have that, can we?"
Merlin scoffed. It might have been a laugh, but they were so close together
that it was hard to tell. Either way, this was more than Arthur had managed to
draw out of Merlin since his vision, and he considered it a win. "You're such a
prat."
"That I am," Arthur agreed. "Selfish. Spoilt. Entitled. I don't play well with
others, and I don't share my toys."
Merlin leaned back, pulling away from Arthur's touch, and looked up.
Indescribable emotion coloured his expression. "Is that what I am, then? A
toy?"
Arthur measured his answer. Florid words, soothing reassurances, calming tones.
He could play to the crowds, he could manipulate stubborn marks, and he would
get the end result that he wanted without revealing his agenda. None of that
would work on Merlin, so he did the inconceivable, because it seemed to work.
He tried the truth. "No."
Merlin swallowed. He chuckled deprecatingly and shook his head. "What am I,
then?"
"Mine," Arthur said without hesitation. He reached for the buttons on Merlin's
wet trousers. "Let's get these off."
Merlin caught Arthur's hands and held them firm. "Arthur."
Arthur pull away, but neither did he meet Merlin's gaze, knowing that he would
reveal far more of himself than he wanted. "Mine, Merlin, and no one else's. On
this, there is no compromise."
Merlin's eyes darted past Arthur, focused at something and nothing, and his
grasp loosened. Arthur didn't wonder what Merlin had seen with that magical
sight of his. He already knew, because he could feel his power scratching under
his skin.
Arthur took that as acceptance and undid Merlin's fly. He patted Merlin's hip
and roughly ordered, "Off."
He picked up the paintbrush. The body was made of rowanwood, the hairs were the
bristle-stiff of white horsetail. Arthur could only assume their origins, given
the specificity of sorcerous rites and rituals, but unlike most magic users,
Arthur didn't need anything ornate. Half of the ingredients in the ink had been
Merlin's suggestions, and Arthur had thrown them in because he couldn't see the
harm.
For all of Arthur's sparse education in the art, Arthur didn't use magic. His
power could only be classified as celestial, with the might of creation and
destruction behind it, bending to shape and reshape events and circumstances to
his whim. He didn't need to follow a proscribed ceremony to bind Merlin to him
or to be bound in turn, though everything he had done thus far smacked of
exactly that -- a ritual, and one that was driven by instinct and need. What he
was about to do would tie them both together, and it would do so using the
power of Merlin's free will and breath, blood, and flesh.
Those, and spit and semen, but their addition would come later.
"All of it," Arthur said, side-eyeing Merlin and noticing that he was still
wearing his pants.
"The table's cold," Merlin complained.
"I voiced my preference, but you didn't want any ink on your bed," Arthur said,
placing the bowl next to Merlin. He offered up a shameless smile. "Even though
we both know that's where we'll end up, anyway."
Merlin grunted. He squirmed out of his pants without leaving the table and
bunched up the material to cover his crotch. Arthur raised a brow.
"Modesty? Really? You're adorable," he said, pinching the underwear with his
fingers and flinging them over his shoulder. Merlin squawked in protest and
covered himself with his hands. Arthur couldn't help a smile. Merlin really was
adorable, to be a man his age and experience, and yet still shy with others. Or
perhaps just with Arthur. "Ready?"
Merlin frowned, his expression clouding, and Arthur interrupted him before he
could say a word. It wasn't because he thought Merlin would say he changed his
mind. It was that…
Arthur shook his head.
"What was I thinking. Forget I asked." Arthur swirled the paintbrush around the
bowl, watching as it absorbed the ink. "Why don't you tell me what I'm doing,
instead?"
"Don't you know?" Merlin retorted.
"Oh, I do know," Arthur said, glancing at him. "I want to make sure that you
do. You're well-learned in all things occult and arcane, but there are many
things of the divine and the damned that I look forward to teaching you."
Merlin inclined his head, curious. "Such as?"
"Lay down on the table," Arthur directed, picking up the bowl so that Merlin
had the room to move. "Haven't you wondered what it was that Morgause did to
you?"
Merlin shifted, though he laid down with a great deal of reluctance. He didn't
settle for some time, no doubt waiting for the metal to warm up. Arthur rolled
his eyes and pushed Merlin down flat, ignoring his yelp. "Her usual. Sucks the
magic out of some poor sod so that she can use it herself."
"Has it ever failed?" Arthur asked, pressing the wet paintbrush at the top of
Merlin's foot. Without lifting the brush, he wrote from right to left in
Aramaic.
"No," Merlin said, trying not to squirm.
Arthur didn't answer right away. He drew a half-circle around Merlin's knee
before continuing with the script, nudging Merlin's arm away from where he was
covering his crotch with his hands. He didn't raise the brush until he'd
dropped into Merlin's collarbone, and returned to Merlin's foot to start a
second line.
And there was war in heaven: Michael and his angels fought against the dragon;
and the dragon fought Michael and his angels, and prevailed not; neither was
their place found any more in heaven.
"She's known how to do it for some time, I imagine, but I have no doubt that
Morgana taught her how to improve above and beyond her usual crude ritual,"
Arthur said, letting the ink drip from his paintbrush before placing it on the
top of Merlin's foot for the second line.
And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil and
Satan, which deceiveth the whole world: he was cast out into the earth, and his
angels were cast out with him.
"It's Morgana's endowment from our Father, you see," Arthur continued, smiling
whenever he saw the tremors under Merlin's skin. Merlin was trying so very hard
to stay still and not mar the letters drawn, even though there was no need.
Arthur's power had imbued intention into the ink when he'd crushed the herbs
Merlin had suggested and mixed all the components together. He could pour the
bowl of ink over Merlin's head and the ink would form on his skin in exactly
the way they should.
There was no need for a paintbrush. For this elaborate charade. No need
whatsoever except to satisfy Merlin's innate need for a proper ritual, even
though there was no such thing for what they were about to do. If anything,
painting was more for Arthur's personal enjoyment and Merlin's pleasurable
torture.
"The Morningstar is very much like a dragon hoarding gold, though His
preference is in the collection of souls. His favourites are those He has won
through less than honest means, and a signature on a piece of paper is nothing
more than a physical representation of His prize."
Arthur started a third line, allowing the brush to dip below the curve of
Merlin's thighs. Merlin's breathing deepened, and the one hand covering his
cock was doing little to hide his growing erection.
"He doesn't need someone down on their luck to sign over their soul. He can rip
them out of their bodies whenever He likes. That's how it works, you see. But
He does like His games."
Arthur finished another line, and swatted Merlin's hand aside. A small sound -
- like a beached whale trying to wriggle its way into the water -- escaped
Merlin's lips, but he moved his hand aside. He was hard, now, his bollocks
drawn up, and it was with a gleeful but clinical hand that Arthur moved
Merlin's cock so that it angled up and remained out of the way while he added
the next two lines.
"I should've gotten you to shave," Arthur remarked, though more for personal
aesthetics than anything else. The ink clotted in Merlin's treasure trail for a
brief moment before sinking down to the skin to form the symbols that matched
Arthur's intention.
Without warning, he leaned down and blew at Merlin's groin, delighting in how
Merlin jerked upward, his cock thrusting into Arthur's hand. "Jesus, fuck,
goddamn it --"
"Stay still," Arthur admonished, and he didn't bother to hide his grin. He let
go of Merlin's cock, picked up the bowl, and moved awkwardly to the other side
of the table. The bulge in his trousers was uncomfortable, but at least Merlin
wouldn't be able to see it from where he was.
Arthur continued along the other leg in much the same manner as the first,
though he switched to a different passage from the book of Revelations.
After a few minutes of silence, Merlin gritted out, "Keep. Talking."
Arthur glanced up from his work, smirking when he saw Merlin's cock leaking. A
drop had fallen on his stomach, mixing with but not marring the ink, and the
marks shivered with power.
"Where was I?"
"Lucifer and his games," Merlin hissed.
Arthur stopped painting. The brush didn't leave Merlin's skin, the ink
diffusing across the surface to twine with other marks on his chest. It
wouldn't do to have anger mixing with the emotions already invested in the
ritual, so Arthur took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "We don't say His
name."
"Right. My mistake," Merlin said. His hands clenched on the edges of the table
when Arthur resumed his painting, the knuckles turning white.
Arthur didn't speak again until he finished Merlin's torso and was halfway down
his arm.
"I'm sure you're aware of His children," Arthur said, ignoring how his tone had
gone flat and emotionless. He wasn't jealous of his half-siblings, but he did
resent how their Father tended to favour them. "Abominations begotten upon
Human women, tainted by His Fall from grace, more demon than angel, but
nephilim all the same. Morgana is one of His spawn, and like our Father, she
possesses the ability to strip a being of their soul.
"It's not an easy skill, but it can be taught. Morgause is not a nephilim, and
souls are beyond her. But magic? Magic she can do.
"But not when magic and soul is one and the same, as it is with you."
"What do you mean?" Merlin turned his head and shifted as if he were about to
sit up. Arthur made a warning noise and glared until Merlin settled.
"He might not be my father, but He did donate my genes. Stealing someone else's
magic, stealing someone else's soul -- that is a skill I can teach you. I can
teach you many things." Arthur painted a flourish in the curve of Merlin's
elbow.
Arthur drew back to inspect his handiwork, watching as the ink formed and
reformed on Merlin's skin, twisting and curling until they curled into the
shapes of Arthur's intention. Sigils of protection, layered seven-fold. All of
Arthur's names across Merlin's chest, writ upon his heart. Bracers of warding
around Merlin's arms, each line guarding against every threat that Arthur knew
to name, and a hundred others that he hadn't yet encountered, but would, one
day.
A surge of possession overcame him. A feral urge to mark and claim. To taste
every millimetre of Merlin's flesh, to cement their bond with his come and
Merlin's blood.
But not yet. He wasn't finished.
He forced himself to take a deep breath. His exhalation was a tremulous,
yearning growl. The timbre of his voice had dropped, and there was a scratch in
it when he roughly ordered, "Stand up. Turn around. Put your hands on the table
and lean forward."
"Arthur," Merlin said, almost in protest, but he obeyed.
Arthur ran the paintbrush over Merlin's back until it wiped clean of ink. He
tipped the bowl across Merlin's shoulders and down his spine in a slow dribble,
making sure that the last of it went into the crack of Merlin's arse. The ink
settled onto Merlin's skin, arching outward to form crude letters of raw power
on his shoulders, to form a circle within a circle on Merlin's back, to drip
across his buttocks in thin lettering of possession, following the curve of his
arse over his taint and cock.
Not a single drop fell to the floor.
Arthur threw the stone bowl and paintbrush across the room.
"Hey, that was --"
Arthur tore his shirt off. The sound of ripping fabric stilled the rest of
Merlin's words. Merlin looked over his shoulder at Arthur, his eyes dark with
lust.
"Tell me you understand what we're doing," Arthur said, kicking off his shoes
and socks. "Tell me that you know what happens next."
Merlin was quiet for a moment. His eyes shut. The tension in his shoulders
eased as if he forced himself to, or as if he'd come to some sort of decision.
He swallowed hard. His legs spread to shoulder width, his hands and fingers
splayed on the table as if bracing himself. "I know. I understand."
"I'm not going to be gentle," Arthur said, whipping his belt out of the loops.
"Not this time. And not ever again. You're worth so much more. I will never let
a day pass without you knowing --"
Arthur trailed off.
-- how much I want you.
Merlin nodded faintly. Tension drained from his shoulders and he bowed his
head, almost in submission. "I understand," he repeated.
The words were so soft that Arthur almost believed that Merlin did know what
Arthur refused to say out loud, never mind to admit to himself.
Arthur kicked his trousers and boxer briefs away. He curled his fingers around
his cock and squeezed once before he took the edge off with a few strokes. He
crowded between Merlin's legs and spat in his hand, trailing down with his
fingers and settling at the rim. Minuscule twitches jerked through Merlin's
body, making him tremble.
Without warning, without apology, Arthur thrust a finger barely wetted by spit
and ink into Merlin's hole.
Merlin grunted, but said nothing. The marks rippled, turning an oily shade of
gold and black. Arthur moved his finger in and out several times, feeling the
tightness around it, regretting that the pain was necessary. He guided his cock
to press against the rim, holding himself back long enough to wind an arm
around Merlin's shoulder, to press the fleshy part between forefinger and thumb
into Merlin's mouth in offering.
"Bite if you need to," Arthur murmured. Then, as an afterthought, he added,
"Don't come until I allow it, darling."
Arthur didn't give Merlin any warning. He shoved his cock in with one hard
thrust.
Merlin bit down, muffling a shout. His fingers grasped at the surface of the
table before clenching into tight fists.
Arthur's hand throbbed where Merlin's teeth worried through his palm. He
ignored the ache and pulled his cock out just enough to dribble spit on it,
saliva mingling with the streaks of blood.
Breath, blood, spit and flesh.
A golden-black ripple of power flashed through all the marks on Merlin's skin.
Arthur kissed Merlin's shoulder, taking a moment -- giving Merlin a moment -
- before letting go of what precious little discipline he had left.
He thrust into Merlin. He fucked hard. He bit down where he kissed, lapping at
the wound, tasting Merlin's magic, his soul, his blood.
The table tilted, clanging against the bolts keeping it to the floor.
Merlin reached back. He grabbed Arthur's hip. His hand slipped away, but Arthur
didn't care if Merlin was trying to make him stop or to encourage him. He
pulled his hand from Merlin's mouth and shoved Merlin down, chest flat on the
table, and grabbed Merlin's hips to hold him steady, to protect him from the
table's edge.
He pounded into him with single-minded abandon. Merlin belonged to him. Merlin
was his.
Merlin gasped with every thrust. His fingers clawed the metal table. There was
a hitch to his breath, a shudder coursing down his body, tension in his muscles
that belied the promised surrender and threatened everything that Arthur
feared.
But when he snaked a hand around to encourage Merlin along, he found that
Merlin's cock hadn't flagged, that the pre-come had dripped down its length,
that --
Merlin moaned Arthur's name when Arthur stroked his length roughly.
"Come," Arthur whispered.
It took a few more strokes, but Merlin came. Arthur caught the spurts of come,
and when Merlin's cock stopped pulsing, Arthur ran his cupped hand over
Merlin's chest, rubbing into the patterns and symbols.
Gold-black
The shimmer in the marks was stronger, now, more permanent. Arthur grabbed
Merlin's shoulder and thrust harder, a part of him wanting the rough fucking to
last so much longer. His fingers dug into Merlin's skin only to relax when he
felt Merlin pushing back against him.
The change in motion pushed Arthur over the crest, and --
Black, red, gold
Something deep within Arthur roared, a claim of triumph and possession. Power
surged through him, between them, into Merlin. Time shifted, space froze, and
in that moment, everything was undone and remade.
A symbol formed within the circle on Merlin's back, appearing as all the other
marks faded away. The Leviathan cross shone bright with the pitch of Arthur's
power before it, too, was subsumed. Arthur closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the
strange sense of having been made whole.
Merlin pulled away and turned around in Arthur's arms.
Black ink faded from his eyes. The irises blazed red like blood. And for a
moment, a brief moment, they flashed gold.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"You look well-shagged," Mordred remarked. He pushed himself from his spot
against the pillar, looking like a fashion model about to claim the runway, and
met Merlin on the pavement.
Dark blue trousers, vest, and jacket brought out the lavender edge of his eyes,
while the pale flax shirt added another dimension of contrast with his skin. He
wasn't wearing a tie, the top buttons open, showing a flirtatious amount of
curly chest hair. Mordred leaned in and took a deep breath, drawing away with
closed eyes and a drunk little smile on his face.
"The taste of it," he moaned. "What I wouldn't give to be in the room when you
fuck. I wouldn't need to feed for a month. Tell me, who tops?"
Arthur, Merlin didn't say. Arthur topped, fucking like a goddamned thoroughbred
thundering around the racetrack or like a malevolent tantric master fully
intending to squeeze out as many orgasms from Merlin as he could before coming
himself. Sometimes, Merlin wondered if Arthur's life goals weren't so much
world domination, but making certain that Merlin wouldn't be able to walk for
days.
Merlin flicked his cigarette away and blew blue smoke into Mordred's face.
Mordred's nose wrinkled with distaste, and he recoiled, shaken out of his lust.
"That's a fucking filthy habit. Hasn't Arthur told you that?"
"He's mentioned it," Merlin said, unwilling to admit that he'd promised to quit
once he ran out of cigarette packs. He glanced over his shoulder, unable to
shake the bad feeling that had followed him since leaving Arthur's flat.
Merlin had woken up in a tangle of blankets and toa lingering kiss on his
forehead, murmuring a barely-lucid good-bye as Arthur pulled on his school
jacket and paused in the mirror to check his hair. For whatever reason, Arthur
made a point of giving Merlin his schedule. Any deviations, Arthur had said,
were not cause for concern, but the text Merlin had received less than an hour
prior redirecting Arthur to the Pendragon building had left a cold trickle
running down his spine.
Mordred's eyes narrowed. "Something wrong?"
Merlin ran his hand through his hair, still not used to the shorter style,
though he had grudgingly admitted that it suited him better, as did the clothes
that had replaced his old wardrobe. He dropped his hand and searched for Gwaine
or Perceval. One of the two usually drove Arthur, parking illegally on the
kerb, but the familiar car was nowhere in sight. "Where is he?"
"Inside," Mordred said. "Courtyard. Uther's delivering a speech. A press
release of some sort."
Merlin grabbed Mordred's arm and guided him toward the glass revolving doors.
"And he needs Arthur for that?"
"Common enough, these days. He's on his way out, Arthur's on his way in. I
don't know the details," Mordred said. He shrugged free of Merlin's grasp and
fished his mobile out of his pocket. "You think something's wrong?"
No, Merlin started to say. They crossed the threshold and stepped into the
lobby. Merlin felt --
Instinct lashed out to form a redirecting ward around him before he could
properly analyze the faint, subsuming trickle of magical current flooding the
area like a bad perfume. He saw the dazed look on the faces of the security
guards, watched as people milled about aimlessly, as if they'd forgotten where
they were going.
"Well, damn," Mordred said grimly. One couldn't charm a creature whose very
nature was to charm and seduce. The foreign magic sparked against his skin. He
stretched his arm out, more fascinated than alarmed by the effect.
Merlin shook him roughly. "Courtyard. Where is it?"
"You think I come here all the time? No… no clue," Mordred said, heading toward
the building directory, scanning the contents. His pace increased and Merlin
followed him past the elevators and through a series of corridors.
The further they went, the more Merlin felt resistance against his protection
wards. The sparks were brighter and more frequent, slowing them both down.
Merlin shot a glance over his shoulder at Mordred's hiss of pain as they
approached the courtyard. Merlin was able to deflect the magical resistance,
but Mordred was slowed to a crawl by the time they reached the top of an
archway.
He grunted and was driven to his knees.
Merlin hooked a hand under Mordred's arm to help him up. "Come on, move --"
"I can't!" Lavender filed Mordred's eyes and his fingers turned into claws
gouging the marble floor. His designer shoes slipped on the smooth surface as
he fought for purchase against the bright white sparks flashing in increasing
bursts against his skin.
Suddenly, he was torn from Merlin's grasp as if by a strong wind, crashing
against the far wall. He was pinned two feet from the ground, struggling to get
free, his head thrown back in a rictus of pain as the foreign magic pelted him
in a gruelling barrage.
Merlin didn't hesitate. He headed for the archway. Mordred was a big boy. He
was a demon. He could take a bit of pain.
The courtyard was an artificial garden in the centre of the Pendragon building,
illuminated by bulbs emitting natural light and surrounded by a woodsy façade.
The ground was the finest astroturf, a mechanical pond blurbed, and plastic
flowers bloomed eternal. The area was filled with people, most of whom wore
suits and ties, the remainder clearly members of the press.
Ever single living soul appeared to be in some sort of daze. They moved and
spoke like puppets following their masters' script. The reporter asking
questions with glazed eyes. A woman swaying on her feet, trying to find
purchase for her high heels in the decorative patch of moss near the fountain.
A few men checking their watches, sighing in boredom, muttering to themselves.
Uther Pendragon stood on the raised dais at the near end of the courtyard,
reading notes from light green index cards. His hair was slicked back, silver
wire-frame glasses perched on the tip of his nose, dark brown business suit
over a light blue shirt and gold-stripped navy tie.
He was sweating, his hands shaking, his mouth curling into a self-deprecating
smile when he stumbled over his words.
Arthur was close to the archway, his body in profile. He'd traded in his school
jacket for a deep burgundy suit jacket that complemented him well, but also
showed the stark tension between his shoulders. His expression was carefully
masked neutrality. As his gaze skated over the crowd, Merlin caught Arthur's
slight frown, narrowed eyes, and the tightness to the set of his mouth.
Merlin spotted Leon on the other side of the platform, trapped by businessmen
and hanger-ons, standing stiff and immobile, held in place by the red
fingernails of a buxom blonde next to him, her body angled in a shoddy attempt
to hide the gun she pressed into his ribs.
Merlin started forward. He stopped short. Morgause drifted through the crowd,
her chin down, her eyes wide, a sly smile pulling at her lips.
He reminded himself that he wasn't afraid of her. That whatever she had tried
to do to him was nothing compared to what he could do to her. That the pain
that had come with her attempt to tear his magic away was in the past and
nothing but a memory. Arthur had brought him to safety, had ensured that he was
rested and nursed back to health. He would fucking crush her.
She hadn't seen him yet, her attention evenly split between Arthur on the dais
and a pretty brunette with big blue eyes and bright ruby lips. Merlin didn't
recognize the other woman, but he could sense her magic, powerful and tainted.
When he looked, he saw Morgause's magic as a patchwork of stolen power, while
the other woman's magic licked at her shoulders with necromantic affectation -
- black as the pitch of universes colliding and birthing chaos in the process.
Merlin clicked his tongue in momentary hesitation before descending the stairs
to the courtyard. He had to get Arthur out of there.
Leon relaxed at Merlin's appearance, and, no longer paralyzed by the threats to
Arthur, turned his attention to the blonde next to him. Morgause's smug smile
faltered when she saw Merlin, and she hurried to get to the brunette, who
seemed too focused on Arthur.
The audience seemed unaware of Merlin's arrival. Uther stumbled over his
speech, Arthur turned around, following Uther's gaze. The blank look on his
face cracked, just for a moment, but pleasure was quickly replaced by a frown
of confusion. He opened his mouth to ask, only --
A glint of reflected light caught his eye. He glanced at the people lingered on
the observation bridge two stories above, peering down on the spectacle --
"Do it now. Do it now," Morgause shouted.
Merlin broke into a run. He climbed the steps three at a time, scanning the
crowd. He cast a quick protection ward on Arthur. He saw the gun --
The tiny flash of muzzle fire --
And time slowed. It stuttered.
A convergence point was inescapable. A place, a person, an artefact. Merlin had
seen all three, before. He could recognize this rare event on sight. Whatever
the situation, whatever had brought him there, there was no leaving it until
the Fates had their way, plucking at the strings of destiny.
This moment in time was meant to be. Whether Merlin had accepted Arthur's offer
or if it was denied, there was no decision that could be made, no action or
reaction that would change the path.
There was pain -- of course, there was. The sting of a needle through his
chest, piercing skin and muscle and bone. He felt the bullet enter his heart in
the silence between two beats. Blood drained out of him, robbing him of
strength.
He collapsed.
He landed hard on his knees. Rolled onto his side. Stared up at a ceiling
painted a solid cornflower blue, at the lights of a million artificial suns
burning his eyes.
When he blinked, time sped up, running too fast, making him miss the important
bits. The crowd had cleared. Uther cowered in the corner. The pretty blonde
with the gun was dead, her throat torn out. Leon ran toward him -- toward
Arthur, who was on the ground next to Merlin, shaking him.
"Merlin. Merlin!"
Arthur's eyes were wide with horror, his expression pale, his mouth open and
wordless. But the hound -- the beast Merlin always saw dogging Arthur's steps -
- its eyes blazed red with unbridled rage, spit and spittle slicking its fangs
as it threw its head back and howled.
It howled.
Merlin felt it deep within his soul. It reverberated with grief and sadness,
rumbling with the promise of a vengeance that would only be satisfied by a
world razed to the ground.
"It didn't work. It --" Arthur's breath hitched. His voice broke. "Merlin. I'll
get you to the hospital --"
"Go," Merlin gasped. Arthur held on to him like a drowning man clutching a
glass with only a few drops of water in it, dying of thirst while drowning at
the same time. Merlin looked past him at Leon, who met his eyes and nodded in
understanding.
Leon wrapped his arm around Arthur and dragged him away. Every metre gained in
their retreat to the side exit of the courtyard was hard-won, because Arthur
fought Leon at every step. Merlin watched until they were gone, his vision
blurred, but he was certain, without a single doubt, that those were tears in
Arthur's eyes.
A wave of serenity filled Merlin where there had been nothing but pain.
Shuffling sounds and movement around him forced him to focus on the pair of
high heels that walked into his line of sight, blocking his view of Arthur's
safe retreat.
"You did well, Nimueh. Go help Morgana," Morgause said. "I'll finish this one."
"Of course," the other woman said. She hadn't gone a few steps before Merlin
recognized the name. Rumoured to be the most powerful sorcerer to walk the
earth, Merlin had often been compared to Nimueh before he… before. They'd never
crossed paths, but Merlin had the sense that Nimueh's reputation wasn't
deserved. Demonic magic? The source of her magic originating in the realm of
the dead? No wonder the bullet had hurt so much, but it was a spell that he
could undo.
Instinct told him that Arthur's claim on him would do the rest.
Merlin laughed softly, coughing halfway through, ending on a wheeze.
"Why is he laughing?" Nimueh asked.
"He's not right in the head," Morgause snapped. "Don't loiter. Follow the plan.
You need to keep the nephilim distracted while Morgana deals with the boy."
Nimueh retreated, the click-click of her heels a death march across the stone.
Morgause kicked Merlin in the ribs. He grunted and looked up, the lights
casting a halo of malice around her wavy blonde hair, and he smirked at her as
he grasped for the threads of Nimueh's spell, bringing them together.
"Clever," Morgause said, kneeling next to Merlin. "Binding your magic to your
soul. Who taught you that trick? I'll kill them, make sure no one else learns
it. Their magic is mine. Mine, do you understand?"
Merlin untied a knot of black ichor where it was wound around his heart. He
reeled in the ribbons of mortis poison coursing through his veins. The curses
carved into the bullet's copperhead were smoothed down with little effort, the
metal wanting to return to its intact form.
"It doesn't matter. I know what to do to undo it," Morgause said, quickly
surrounding Merlin with a circle of salt. The circle was jerky and uneven, as
if done by a new initiate too excited to start their first ritual, but
perfection wasn't necessary as long as the circle closed and held. "You won't
stop me this time. I'll have your magic. All of it. It's mine."
"No," Merlin said weakly, distractedly, focused on two things and two things
alone -- breaking the spell and getting to Arthur as quickly as he could.
He pulled the last elements he needed together. Morgause chanted, the words
lost to the distant background as Merlin slammed all of his remaining strength
into breaking the spell.
For a moment, his heart stopped.
In the lull, the spell shattered like fine crystal under a sledgehammer blow,
fine dust and sharp shards flittering away. The necromantic magic evaporated as
if quenched by the heat of a thousand suns, and Merlin --
Merlin's body arched from the unexpected surge of power. An ethereal Leviathan
cross bled before crashing into him.
Through him.
  
 
 
 
Like a key fitting in the bolthole, moulding into the million pins of an
unfathomable tumbler, twisting to lock what could not be locked, and completing
a rite that had begun days ago. Merlin gasped, taking his first breath as if he
were reborn, and the first sound he made when he opened his eyes was a low
growl.
"Run," he warned. Morgause ignored him and continued to chant.
His magic swelled as if by the pull of a powerful tide, twining itself around
the cross and pulling it deeper still. His wounds healed in the reverse order
that they had been made. The bullet pushed out of his heart. His heart knit
together and the sluggish beat was restored by a tremendous pound. Shattered
bone reformed from scavenged bits and pieces. Torn muscle knit together and
broken skin healed over as if it had never been damaged.
Merlin groaned. He tried to move. The salt circle held him immobile. It was the
force of an errant thought to claim the power of the circle for himself, to
blow it away to encircle Morgause just as she completed the rite.
The circle turned the spell onto Morgause. She screamed as her magic was
scavenged and returned to her, only to be torn away again. It was a self-
sustaining loop filled with terror and pain that would continue until Morgause
passed out or died -- whichever came first.
Merlin didn't care.
He rolled onto his side. He laid on the stone floor of the raised dais with a
quiet sigh, resting for a few moments to recoup his strength.
Merlin closed his eyes, only to be left breathless by the sense of terrible
danger. He scrambled to his feet, tottered dangerously before he found his
balance, and ran toward the side exit.
"Help me!" Morgause shouted.
Merlin caught himself in the doorway. He watched the magic tear out of Morgause
in glittering streams and found himself at a complete loss for mercy.
He'd feared that Arthur would change him. That Arthur's nature would twist and
alter Merlin's core. In that moment, Merlin understood that Arthur had saved
him. That this cold hate had always belonged to him.
"Go to Hell," he said. He turned and followed the instinct that would lead him
to Arthur.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"I'm going to kill him," Arthur snarled. He grabbed the lapels of his suit
jacket and snapped them roughly, straightening it. "We're going to hunt Uther
down like the bloody weasel he is, and we'll string him up by his entrails --"
"Let's worry about that later, yeah?" Leon said, glancing over his shoulder.
Arthur noticed the gun in Leon's hands. It wasn't his usual -- a slim Taurus
.22 instead of the heavier black-plate Sig Sauer. He wondered where Leon had
gotten it from and asked, "Sophia?"
"Dead," Leon said. He guided Arthur down the corridor and into a different
hallway. "Keep your voice down. We don't know what else they've planned."
Arthur barely registered Leon's words of caution, but he fell silent anyway. It
was one thing for Arthur to usurp whatever control Uther Pendragon had had over
his business holdings and contacts. It was something else entirely for Uther
Pendragon to collude with Arthur's enemies in clear betrayal of his previous
loyalties, all in a feeble attempt to regain the upper hand.
He'd been played, and that knowledge didn't sit well with him. His informants
had either been in the dark as well, or they'd been in on it, too. Arthur was
going to have to tear down his network and rebuild, making certain that only
the trustworthy and dedicated were in charge.
What a fucking laugh the day had been. Pulling Arthur out of his classes for an
important press conference was nothing new. Any suspicion had been dampened by
the promise that Uther would make a public announcement of having signing the
company over to Arthur. Arthur had spent the car ride reviewing the speech he'd
written weeks prior to reassure the investors that there would be no change in
the members of the board until he himself was ready to take command.
He'd allowed Sophia to manhandle him into the spare dressing room, changed out
of his school uniform so that he wouldn't appear so young, and went to stand on
the platform near Uther, waiting patiently for the announcement and his cue.
Arthur clenched his jaw. He'd let his guard down. It wasn't until halfway
through Uther's increasingly fumbling speech that Arthur clued in that
something was wrong. Uther never needed index cards. The crowd gathered was
made up more of glazed-eyed Pendragon followers than actual media. The red
recording light on top of the video cameras never came on. Morgause must have
been wearing a powerful illusion, because Arthur hadn't noticed her until --
Gunshot
Leon fired the .22 behind them until he emptied the magazine, urging Arthur
along. Arthur didn't know what was after them, but the lifeless lump curled
around the distant corner was sign enough that something was.
Arthur allowed Leon to take him through corridors that he knew like the back of
his hand. He pushed away the memory of Merlin appearing in front of him, of
collapsing at the bullet that had been meant for Arthur. He had to keep going.
He hadn't fucked up the ritual. He was certain of it. Merlin was fine. He could
feel it in his bones. Grief was washed away by the rising rage that someone
would dare harm what was his.
Leon tossed the empty .22 and took his Sig Sauer out of the shoulder holster
beneath his jacket. He didn't fire, but he moved with more alertness. It wasn't
until Leon grabbed Arthur's arm to slow him down that Arthur noticed the change
in their surroundings.
The corridors led to the maintenance tunnels and to one of the multitude of
exit strategies that Leon had put together for exactly this kind of event. It
was an unfortunate design in that there were no additional doorways beyond the
reinforced fire door at the far end. The exit leading straight to the
maintenance area and additional exit venues was also out, because the area
seemed to be… occupied.
The walls creaked and cracked churlishly. Claws dragged across the wallpaper
from the inside out. Some sort of large outline pushed out from the
plasterboards, sprinkling white dust on stone tiles.
Fifteen metres to the maintenance exit. Nearly forty to the far end and to
leave the building. Far too many deepening shadows in an isolated area, the
overhead lights dimming and darkening with every passing moment.
The emergency exit melted. The metal frame sagged, the red lights dripped, the
handle fell free from one side, clanging against the frame. It landed on the
ground with a muted thump as the door slipped from its hinges, fluttering down
like the final curtain call on the stage.
The maintenance door pounded a few times from the inside, large spikes pushing
out at awkward angles with railroad spikes, nailing the door shut even as a
pentagram burned its way across the door, the points meeting at each spike.
"Theatrics," Arthur growled.
"Retreat," Leon said without hesitation, turning on his heel.
Arthur dragged him to a stop. The long corridor that had led them to this point
was lined with glass cabinets on one side, vaulted windows just out of reach
above them on the other.
Morgana, flanked by anu-na-ne-ke, mirrored him on the other end, blocking any
escape.
She raised her eyebrows in greeting. Her mouth pulled into a haughty smirk as
she raised her chin. "Hello, little brother."
Black trousers. White shirt. Long overcoat with murderous, purple tones. A rake
of gemstones set in silver around her throat, a touch of pastel colours on pale
skin.
And, behind her, the ghostly shade of moulting angel wings, spread wide and
menacing, casting gloom and doom over the anu-na-ne-ke, who had shed their
illusions and stood proud in their gruesome glory. A pyramid head without eyes.
The axe-head of a halberd embedded in the exposed bone-chest of another.
Patchwork skin like the scales of a crocodile, with a muzzle to match. A
hunchback that was all bones and clawed hands.
"Fancy meeting you here," Arthur said, taking a lazy step forward. He gestured.
"Is this supposed to be intimidating?"
The smug smirk stretched wider, but the amusement didn't rise to Morgana's
eyes. She gestured sharply. "Tend to your cousin, gentlemen. We gave our word
he wouldn't be harmed overmuch, so do take care."
The hunchback and the axe-head advanced. Jerky movements on one side were
offset by the smooth glide from the other anu-na-ne-ke. Sharp claws clacked
together like those of a crab, while the axe was wrenched out of the other
nephilim's chest with a squelshing sound. Blood dripped on the ground; bits of
bone clattered on the floor.
Leon stepped in front of Arthur, pushing him back. He fired his weapon and one
of the bullets struck the hunchback in the chest, though he continued his
approach unflinchingly. Leon stopped firing when the bullets ricocheted off a
translucent shield and traded his weapon for a knife with a taenitic blade. He
shifted his stance as if readying for combat.
The anu-na-ne-ke spread their advance, intending on flanking him. Arthur
clasped his hand in front of him, a mask of boredom filtering over unbridled
rage. He'd seen Leon in training. Leon had protected him against greater
threats than nephilim from old, defunct bloodlines. As entertaining as it would
be to watch one nephilim take care of a handful of rickety anu-na-ne-ke, Arthur
was more interested in getting on with the pressing business of returning to
the courtyard for Merlin.
Returning to the courtyard for Merlin.
An irritating click-click-clicking sound echoed in the corridor, growing louder
and louder as a shadow arrived from behind Morgana. A statuesque brunette in an
elegant business suit and too-red high heels stepped into the flickering light,
smiling sweetly at Arthur.
Nimueh, Arthur recognized. She had been on his list of sorcerers to approach as
allies, her name struck out when Arthur realized how megalomaniac she could be.
She wanted to be the Queen on the throne, the mistress of everything she saw,
and he wondered if Morgana knew that, if she knew how much of a challenge
Nimueh would be when Morgana attempted that same claim.
"There's only the one?" Nimueh asked, sounding disappointed.
"He's yours," Morgana said, never taking her eyes from Arthur.
"I suppose it'll have to do," Nimueh said. She raised her arm before Arthur
could react. A spiral circle washed through the air, extending into a three-
dimensional skeletal hand reaching through a cloud of squiggly necromantic
symbols, and --

"Leon," Arthur warned, but it came too late.
The transparent hand curled into a fist, bowing at an imaginary wrist, and
abruptly lashed out, striking through the anu-na-ne-ke to swat Leon against the
cabinets. Glass shattered, wood splintered, an assortment of awards and
photographs crashed to the ground.
The skeleton hand drew back, pulling Leon's angelic essence with it. Leon
gasped for air, dropping his knife after a few moments to yank at the collar of
his shirt. Arthur moved to help him, only to be chased off by the anu-na-ne-ke.
They collected Leon and dragged him away, past Morgana, and to Nimueh.
Arthur exhaled slowly through flared nostrils. His fists clenched, his knuckles
cracked.
Nimueh crouched down to inspect Leon, who struggled for breath. Even in the dim
light and at this distance, Arthur could tell that Leon was pale, weakened by
whatever Nimueh had done. She took out a small container where it was tucked
between her breasts, unscrewing it carefully. A tap of a finger, a drawn symbol
in ash on Leon's brow, and Leon gulped air, finally able to breathe again.
His colour was remained sickly, and despite the anu-na-ne-ke's loose grasp on
his arms, Leon seemed… paralyzed. Dazed.
Nimueh turned to Arthur, pursing pouty lips at him. "Do forgive me. You have an
eclectic collection that causes great envy. I've wanted one of my own for so
long."
Arthur tilted his head to the side, unimpressed, and asked, "Did you steal that
trick from the Executioner?"
Something nasty flickered in Nimueh's expression. The pretty face was an
illusion over a visage twisted by necromantic magic. Her eyes were hollow, her
cheeks sunken, skin stretched over a skull worked over multiple times by
trépanage, lips drawn back over too-long teeth blackened by decay. She was
vile.
Whatever retort Nimueh was about to make withered under Arthur's unwavering
gaze. She glanced uncertainly at Morgana, who gestured curtly. Without a word,
Nimueh turned on her heel and walked away, a sashay forced into her stride, as
if to prove that Arthur hadn't gotten under her skin.
The two anu-na-ne-ke followed her, dragging Leon behind them.
No sooner had they disappeared that two more appeared, a wave of grey smoke
rising around them as they stepped forward. One was cloaked, drawing its
skeletal hand away from the other anu-na-ne-ke, who was easily the size of a
brick house and looked like one, its face and body bulbous and stony, ground
down to a flat plane.
Their arrival was followed by a distant howl. A slow breeze picked up, pulling
at Arthur's clothes and hair, warm and sulphurous and promising Hell and
damnation. Morgana's long overcoat flapped around her heels, loose curls
flowing behind her as the wind picked up. Her smirk became a gleeful smile of
premature triumph, and her eyes began to glow.
Arthur's hackles raised. He snarled.
One by one, the remaining lights in the corridor burst. The bulbs popped,
fizzling and crackling, sputtering sparks before darkness replaced them. The
only light came from the arched windows, but even that dimmed as the sun was
swept behind dark clouds.
The walls creaked, pulsing with a monstrous heartbeat. Clawed hands pushed at
the plaster, manipulating them like plastic. A too-human face stretched in the
wall, eyes and mouth wide open. Hands and arms moulded within, straining
against the earthly confines.
Arthur could feel them. Roiling just beneath, in the other. A hair's breadth
away from breaching through the veil keeping them in their realm, away from a
world long forbidden to angels and demons. A writhing mass of soulless, ready
to break through and claim what could never be theirs.
Because it was his.
A growl rumbled in his chest.
"Do you like them?" Morgana taunted. "Father promised them to me. An army of my
own. And all I have to do is --"
"Kill me?" Arthur asked. An unnatural calm overcame him as he relaxed the bonds
he'd placed on himself. Power surged, rising like a fanned inferno, and the
flames danced in the edges of his vision, clouding his sight with a ghastly
shade of red.
Morgana's smile faltered, and it was a strange sight to behold. Proud Morgana,
bleeding at the edges with envy for a legacy that wasn't hers. She'd dogged
Arthur's heels for years, ever since discovering that he stood in her path for
dominion over the earth, always testing him, always pushing him, trying to find
weakness.
"And then what? You'll hold the door open for Him to come through? So that He
can take the throne you so dearly covet?"
Arthur took a slow step forward. The roar bubbled in his throat barely held
back.
"The throne that is mine?"
The anu-na-ne-ke cowered, skittering backward. Morgana jerked, but she held her
ground.
Arthur forced a reassuring smile on his lips. He cracked his neck, shrugging
off the prickliest edges of his anger, shrugging his shoulders.
"It's all right, Morgana," Arthur said, keeping his tone neutral. "I
understand. You've been alone all this time. An absent mother drugged to the
gills in an asylum because no one will believe that she shagged the devil. A
perverted stepfather who drowned his sorrows over his wife's absence and
distracted himself by burying his dick in your prepubescent cunt."
Morgana hissed.
"And that's not to mention the long shadow of a Father who couldn't give a fuck
about your existential crisis. He was too busy waging war against Heaven.
Turning mortals to His cause. Obsessing about me."
Arthur unbuttoned his jacket. He put his hands in his trouser pockets.
"It stuck in your craw, didn't it? How much favour He showed me, and I couldn't
have cared less? That I received all that you were denied, and turned Him
away?" Arthur asked, raising a brow.
"You --"
Arthur's snarl cut her off. "You. He's been showering you with praise, hasn't
He? He's been letting you lick His boots. But He's using you, did you know
that? All because He found a way to use me to tear a door into this plane so
that He can rule on earth. But the minute He steps through, you'll be sending
Him right back, won't you?"
A rumble of displeasure shook the ground. The walls rippled in a cacophony of
demonic protest. The remaining glass cabinets wavered, tottering dangerously
before three of them fell, one after the other.
Morgana's eyes were wide as she stared down and around her. The anu-na-ne-ke
scattered. The pyramid-headed nephilim stumbled and fell too close to the
walls, where he was grabbed by a demonic arm stretching through the plaster.
Claws cut through the anu-na-ne-ke's thick, roped neck.
The blood sacrifice caused the walls to crack. A single blood-stained scratch
spread like wildfire.
"You both crave the same thing, and somehow overlook one very important fact,"
Arthur said.
He took his hands out of his pockets, spreading his arms wide.
"I am the prophesied son of the Morningstar," Arthur said, his voice low and
seductive, as if imparting a great secret.
He approached Morgana with the low, lazy slide of a predator, full of feline
grace, his eyes half-hooded in thoughtful deliberation of how best to play with
its food.
"I am the Wicked Man," Arthur said, raising his chin and widening his eyes in a
hint of mockery at the title that he had been given in prophecy. His shoulders
squared. "I am the Profane. The Despoiler. The Destroyer."
Morgana backed away. Her shadow-wings fell, faltering, and dragged on the
floor.
"I am the King of Kings."
In the distance, several doors slammed shut with an otherworldly clang. Latches
turned, locks twisted, and barricades fell with resounding thuds.
The cracks in the wall shone with a bright, burning light. Echoing screeches of
pain and terror faded. The demons clawed desperately at walls that were no
longer yielding, and after a few heartbeats, the corridor was silent.
Morgana's mouth was open, her eyes wide. Slow realization crept onto her
features, and Arthur revelled in how badly she had misjudged him.
How little they'd thought of him.
It was their undoing. All of them. The Witchfinder. Uther Pendragon. Morgause
Gorlois. Nimueh. Morgana LeFay. Lucifer.
The light changed. The world changed. The sky darkened, swirling in angry
masses, taking on a reddish hue beneath the heavy, black clouds.
"I am the Alpha. I am the Omega. I am the beginning and the end."
Arthur took a slow breath. His power surged out of him like a beast pouncing on
his prey, and he roared, "You can't take what's mine."
The ground shook, surging upward, cracking the stone floor. The building
swayed, the tempered glass windows shattered, and a low, low boom of distant
thunder spoke of unbridled wrath.
Morgana ran.
Arthur followed her, his stride unhurried. He had the scent of her essence,
now. He would hunt her relentlessly, like a wolf after its next meal. He would
drive her to exhaustion and force her to show submission before he made her pay
for everything that she had done, that she had tried to do.
Morgana turned the far corner. Arthur lost sight of her, but it didn't matter.
He headed left, still on her trail, and --
A solid shape crashed into him.
Arthur caught it by reflex, his fingers curled into claws, ready to tear this
object apart for getting in his way. He bared his teeth, ready to bite and rend
--
"Arthur. Arthur! Thank fuck. You're all right --"
The messy snarl of tangled rage uncoiled, easing, lessening. Arthur's shoulders
relaxed, tension ebbing out of him as if someone were reeling it in, no longer
clouding his mind. Red bled out of his eyes; red bled out of the sky.
He looked into Merlin's concerned gaze, and forgot all about Morgana.
"You're alive. You're alive!"
Arthur threw his arms around Merlin, holding him tightly, his breath catching
in his chest. He closed his eyes, willing away the memory of Merlin falling to
the ground, his chest bleeding from a grievous wound.
"You're alive," he whispered. His cheeks were wet, and it took him a moment to
realize that he was crying.
"Yeah," Merlin said, his tone bemused, but Arthur didn't miss how Merlin held
him just as tightly. "Yeah, I am."
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
A torn plastic bag from the corner shop one block over blew across the damp
pavement, slinking and flitting like the bait on a fisherman's hook. The
nearly-translucent material caught and reflected the streetlight before darting
into the shadows.
The sky broke open, pouring pelting rain onto London, hammering the plastic bag
and everyone unlucky enough to be out and about on this sorry night. Merlin
raised the collar of his leather trench coat, hunching his shoulders, and took
a soggy drag of his cigarette. He flicked it away, holding his breath to savour
the last lungful of smoke as long as he could. It was his last one.
He exhaled, squinting to see through the steady rain, and considered turning
back. The loft was about thirty blocks in the other direction, but it was a
lovely night for a cab ride. The renovations were nearly done. Arthur would
move in, soon, though why he hadn't insisted on dragging Merlin to a posher
part of town, Merlin would never know. It might have something to do with the
decades of protection layering the loft and naturally spreading throughout the
building, giving Arthur the peace of mind he couldn't have outside those walls.
A car engine sputtered in the distance before catching. A few lorries rumbled
past and nearly showered Merlin with a wave of rainwater puddling at the grate.
He paused at the kerb, waiting for the light to change.
The footsteps behind him stopped when he did.
Merlin jaywalked, ignoring the honking horns of passing cars, and hurried to
the other side, slipping into an alleyway. He leaned against the wall, waiting
to see if someone would pass by, but when five minutes passed without so much
as a ping on his magical radar, Merlin emerged at the mouth, took a long look
around, and continued on.
His phone buzzed. He sheltered it from the rain to glance at the incoming text.
Have you seen Arthur?
Merlin released a breath of frustration. He pushed the Call button and brought
the mobile to his ear. "He's about my height, blond hair, blue eyes, really
fit."
"That's not what I meant, you useless pillock," Mordred said. "He's not at the
penthouse or at your flat, he's not answering his phone, and he's walked out of
a party with some very shaggable blokes that I'm really annoyed at having left
behind. Do you know how much sexual energy teenagers give off?"
"Yes," Merlin bit out. He imagined that Arthur would still fuck like a rock
star even if he weren't the antichrist and imbued with unimaginable stamina. If
not for his magic's propensity for healing him of every scrape and bruise,
Merlin wouldn't be walking right now. He'd be in bed, too exhausted to even beg
for mercy, deliriously waving a hand at Arthur as he left with Percival and
Mordred to go to his mate's house for some sort of birthday bash.
There was a long pause on the line before Mordred said, "You're not freaking
out."
"No," Merlin said, shaking his head. He wiped the rivulet of water dripping
down his brow. "I'm pretty sure I know where he is. Did you check with Percy?"
Merlin could almost hear Mordred roll his eyes. "'Course I did. He crashed the
party, terrorized the brats, stole their beer, and is currently fending off one
very horny boy who's trying to climb him like a tree. Lucky for them both,
Gwaine's out driving around, trying to find him."
"Hold on," Merlin said, coming to a stop in front of an understated red brick
building. The tiny front yard was framed in wrought iron wards cleverly
disguised as a fence, and the grass was dry, dead and brown despite the rain
and the lush lawn next door. A mail slot was positioned near the gate,
overstuffed with junk mail and flyers. The stone walk was lined in quartzite,
the cement step had been painted black, and the door was rowanwood in dark
stain.
He thumbed past the phone conversation on his mobile and sent a text. Are you
following me?
While Merlin waited for a response, he dug through his pockets. A bent tab from
a can of beer, a polished penny, a handful of mung beans soaked in water from a
peat bog containing the body of a recently-sacrificed, a receipt from Tesco's
for rubbing alcohol and liniment --
He came up for air with a crumpled napkin that had seen better days. He
protected it with his hand before the rain completely disintegrated it. The
scribble was barely legible, but the numbers were clear, and he was at the
right address.
His mobile buzzed with a text.
Damn it.
Merlin sighed softly. He texted, If you're going to be here, you may as well
come in with me.
Merlin didn't wait for a response. He thumbed past the messenging screen and
went back to his phone.
"He's fine," Merlin said, wishing he didn't sound as cross as he did. He
supposed it was his own fault for wanting to surprise Arthur with some good
news, for a change. Sex was an excellent distraction, most of the time, but
Arthur had been preoccupied with Leon's kidnapping ever since Morgana's
attempted coup. "I have him."
Mordred released a held breath. Relief turned into exasperation. "I fucking
hate this job." He hung up without another word.
Merlin pocketed his mobile and squinted up at the building. Scrying for Leon
had failed. His associates didn't have a whole lot of information. Gilli, a
psychic with a terrible temper and a hobby finding lost things, suggested he
stop looking for what was supposed to be there, and search for what but wasn't,
instead. That terrible advice wasted days of footwork, reaching out to old
contacts while making new ones, and ended with Freya, who had stumbled on
Nimueh's trail while visiting a mate who lived a few blocks north of Camden.
Somehow, Nimueh hadn't noticed the large cat leaping from rooftop to rooftop.
"How did I give myself away?" Arthur asked, stopping to stand next to Merlin,
their elbows brushing. He looked like a drowned rat with his hair plastered to
his skull and his wet clothes clinging to his body, but his eyes were bright
and there was a predatory quirk to his mouth. Clearly, he was eager to get his
hands dirty.
Merlin considered not telling Arthur. Arthur picked up things too quickly, and
there were times when Merlin needed any advantage that he could get. Keeping
Arthur safe from other people outweighed his own personal desires, and he
admitted, "You walk when I do. Stop when I do. After a while it's pretty
obvious. Also, your hair stands out. Wear a hat."
He ruffled Arthur's hair for emphasis. Arthur ducked his head away with a low
warning growl that was more directed at his own mistake than toward Merlin. He
gestured. "Why are we here?"
Merlin glanced up and down the street. He gave the building a more thorough
look, studying the magical energies tangled up in the construction. The wards
were poorly done, almost thrown up as an afterthought. Nimueh was relying on
the iron wards to keep her presence masked, taking advantage of the natural
properties of iron to dissipate necromantic magic from detection.
Neither the building nor the fencing could completely erase a nephilim's
celestial essence from a scrying bowl, but there were enough half-angels in the
city to make it difficult to pinpoint which of them belonged to Leon. Even with
Lancelot's helpful contribution of a dried glob of semen on Leon's shirt,
Leon's presence didn't so much as draw the crystal Merlin had hung over a map.
Usually, that meant someone was dead. Arthur was convinced Leon was alive.
"Why do you think?"
Arthur bared his teeth.
"If we're going to do this, you have to do whatever I say --" Merlin stopped
short when Arthur strode forward, pushing open the iron gate without so much as
a backward glance.
Merlin half-flinched in anticipation of triggered wards or some sort of
immediate retaliation. When none came, he spared a moment to pinch the bridge
of his nose to stave off an oncoming headache, and followed Arthur up the stone
walk to the house. He arrived in time to stop Arthur from reaching for the door
handle.
"Arthur. You have to be careful. Nimueh is --"
"Nimueh is an overconfident old witch with delusions of grandeur, an undeserved
reputation, and a penchant for copying other people's work and doing a shite
job of it," Arthur snapped. Merlin could see the hazy shape of a beast in
Arthur's aura. It reminded him of a big dog lumbering to its feet, shaking its
fur before lazily lumbering forward, chomping its maw as if it were
anticipating its next meal.
Merlin's jaw snapped. He sighed. "Well. Yes. You're not wrong. But she's also a
powerful sorcerer who can whip out a mortis curse without thinking about it. In
case you've forgotten, they're a little unpleasant. We want to avoid them."
"Merlin," Arthur said, impatient. "That woman has Leon. My best friend. Do you
really think I'm concerned about a bloody curse?"

He tilted his head significantly at the door.
Merlin stared heavenward. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he forced the
rowanwood door open.
A barricade splintered. Deadbolts tore out of the frame. Wards woven within the
door and doorway were torn out, and, triggered by the motion, erupted in a
deadly blaze of white-blue electrical flares. Merlin stared at the light show
until it died down, and said, "I'm going in first."
"If you must," Arthur conceded, his tone betraying a small measure of concern,
no doubt wondering what would have happened if he'd touched the doorknob.
The house was immaculate -- and empty. A long cable-knot runner stretched the
length of the hallway from the broken door to the end of the house. A quaint
living room, complete with crocheted doilies on the furniture, was on one side.
A bathroom that hadn't been updated since the 1950s crowded another room that
wasn't any larger than Merlin's herb larder at the flat. The dining room was
ostentatious, filled with an oversized cabinet and a table that must have been
constructed within the large space. The kitchen was narrow and cramped, with a
single plate in the drip-tray, an upturned mug with spilled tea on the counter,
and a still-steaming kettle on the stove.
Merlin studied the stairs leading both up to the second floor and down to the
subbasement level. Fresh magical energies led down, and a quick, fleeting pulse
to search out any other sign of life confirmed that there was no one above
them.
"Downstairs it is," Arthur said, shoving past Merlin impatiently, descending
two steps at a time, making enough noise to drown out a stampeding herd of
elephants.
Merlin hurried after him. "You could at least try to be quiet. Now she knows
we're coming."
Arthur paused halfway down and shot an unimpressed look over his shoulder. "I'm
fairly certain the element of surprise was removed when you blew the front door
down."
"Erm," Merlin said. He nodded grudgingly. "Fair point. Also, you're
frustrating. Let me go first. This is what I do for a living --"
"No," Arthur said, his tone dipping into the dangerous rumble that brokered no
argument. "She already had a chance at you once. There won't be a second time."
"But --"
Arthur's eyes were dark when he turned to face Merlin. His aura was black,
pulsing with a crimson undertone, and the ghostly beast that dogged Arthur's
every step bowed its head, its ears flat on its skull, fangs bared in a low,
menacing snarl.
Merlin held his hands up. Arthur's rage wasn't directed at him, and Merlin
hoped it never would be. Merlin suspected it was in his best interest never to
stand in Arthur's way. "Okay."
Arthur's mouth quirked in a slight, pleased smile, and Merlin swore he heard a
happy purr. But Arthur had turned again and was continuing on his way, storming
down the few remaining steps.
Another door blocked their way. Like the front door, it was made out of
rowanwood, but unlike it, the door hadn't been treated. The wood was raw,
carved out of three separate pieces and bound together, each slice of the tree
trunk gouged with the stain of wards burned into its flesh like brands. Merlin
could sense the cloying power of rotting flesh and damp earth in the barbed
wire pounded around the edges.
"It's a necromancer's tomb," Merlin said. "Probably hers. It's meant to siphon
whatever she can. Magic. Life."
Arthur tilted his head to the side, indicating that he had heard, but otherwise
didn't acknowledge what Merlin said. He placed flat palms on the door and
leaned forward; a ripple of colour, red and wet, flared through the sigils
burned into the wood.
A wave of heat washed through Merlin, leaving him with an echoing sense of
Arthur's power. Flames burst out of nothingness, scorching, scalding, marring
the wards on the door, and Arthur shoved it open as if there had been no
resistance at all.
A high-pitched, demonic shriek accompanied a flare of magic. Arthur batted the
air as if shooing away a pesky fly, and the curse shattered. Arthur ran his
hand through his hair, making himself presentable, and walked in.
Merlin shivered unconsciously, well and fully aware that Arthur's power was
alien to his own, and that the question of whether he could successfully defend
himself against Arthur was one he was not particularly inclined to find out.
He followed Arthur through the haze curtaining the entrance.
Leon hung from chains on the far wall, his arms stretched out, his body slumped
away from the wall. The ephemeral essence of nephilim wings was nailed to the
wall by silvery stakes, his bare chest was covered in claw marks that were
anywhere from days to hours old, and his head had been shorn, letters of
binding scarring the flesh of his skull.
Nimueh stood next to the barely-conscious nephilim, a battered grimoire
clutched to her chest, a rusty knife clutched by white-knuckled fingers at
Leon's throat. Terror shone in her wide eyes. Her body trembled, her brow
furrowed, her mouth parted as if attempting a spell, but unable to give voice
to her words.
"That's not the welcome I was expecting, but it'll do," Arthur sniffed.
Leon's eyes blinked slowly, then more rapidly, as if he were coming to himself
again. He pulled away from Nimueh, only to receive a shallow cut across his
throat for his trouble.
Arthur's eyes narrowed.
Self-preservation stopped Merlin from taking a step away. The only reason he
stayed behind Arthur at his right hand was the warning trickle fluttering over
his skin and the way his magic churned in response. He didn't want Arthur's
attention right now.
"Oh, no. Nimueh. No."
The grating, paternal disapproval in Arthur's words became velvety seduction
that sent a shiver of familiarity down Merlin's spine. He bowed his head even
though what he really wanted to do was to kneel before Arthur. The low grade
arousal settling in his groin was only further evidence of how far he'd fallen
since succumbing to -- accepting -- Arthur.
"Put the knife down, Nimueh." Arthur took a slow step forward. "Move away from
Leon."
Nimueh cowered, refusing to meet Arthur's gaze. Her hand trembled, but she
obeyed, stretching out her arm, unwinding her fingers from around the homemade
hilt and dropping the knife to the ground.
It clattered on cold cement dusty with chalk lines and stained with old blood.
Arthur raised his hand and gestured over his shoulder with two fingers.
"Merlin. Take Leon upstairs. Call Gwaine."
Merlin hesitated. The sliver of Arthur's side-eye had him hastily crossing the
basement. Nimueh skittered away as he approached, though her attention remained
fixed firmly on Arthur. Merlin didn't trust her and didn't turn his back on
her. He helped Leon to his feet, taking most of his weight, and cracked the
iron shackles with his magic, cleaving the bindings that Nimueh had scratched
on the surface.
The necromancer's tomb was as quiet as a regulation mausoleum as he shifted
Leon in his arm and guided him away. Merlin paused before walking past Leon,
but Leon pressed forward, dragging Merlin along. Merlin stopped again at the
entranceway, reluctant to leave Arthur alone with Nimueh. He started to turn
around when he felt Leon's fingers digging into his shoulder, squeezing with
supernatural strength.
"Go," Leon urged weakly.
Merlin reluctantly crossed the threshold of the necromancer's tomb and grunted
as he helped Leon up the steps.
The heavy rowanwood door slammed shut behind them.
Merlin startled, staring behind him in a mixture of two conflicting desires -
- to drop Leon and to go to Arthur, or to quail at the surge of power his own
magic was desperate to twine around and to run.
"You don't want to see what he does," Leon whispered. He reached for the
handrail and pulled himself -- and Merlin -- up a step.
They were nearly up the stairs when the world shifted. The power that came with
it was so great that Merlin stumbled drunkenly from the rush of power, and --
"I don't think it would matter if I did," Merlin admitted, breathing heavily.
He ignored Leon's amused snort.
Merlin fished his mobile out of his pocket as soon as they hit the landing,
punching Gwaine's number. Gwaine answered on the first ring, his voice muffled
by distance and the rumbling of tyres on pavement.
"You're calling for pick-up, aren't you?" Gwaine asked.
"Yeah," Merlin said. "I've got Leon. He's in a state."
"I'm fine," Leon grunted, moving away from Merlin to lean against a table in
the hallway. "Give me a few days."
"I'm nearly there. Pulled your phone's GPS as soon as Mordred gave me Arthur's
whereabouts," Gwaine said.
Merlin flinched. Instinct told him to crush his phone under his foot. He wasn't
accustomed to being on good terms with nephilim. "There used to be a time when
I hunted your kind."
"The good old days," Gwaine said mockingly. "And then you went and shagged our
little Prince."
Gwaine hung up before Merlin could answer. Leon, who didn't hear Gwaine's
commentary, said, "And now you hunt his enemies. There's not much of a
difference."
Merlin stared at Leon. He didn't want to think about a past that had hunted him
for a decade. Of all those he had loved and lost and had never had at all. Of
losing himself to grief and to a dragon's schemes. Somewhere within himself he
found his honour again, and right or wrong… He'd been given a choice.
"There was no point in it before. Senseless murder. I was a pawn."
"And now?"
A black sedan pulled up with a wet screech, parking at the kerb in front of the
house. Merlin watched Gwaine rush out of the car, and crash through the open
iron gate in his hurry to get to the house. He shook the water from his hair
and hurriedly shrugged out of his jacket to give to Leon. "You all right,
mate?"
"Yeah," Leon said, but he didn't stop staring expectantly at Merlin.
Merlin nodded. The words felt right even before he said them. "Now I have a
reason."
Leon's small smile at Merlin's answer faded as his gaze focused elsewhere.
Merlin turned.
Arthur stood at the top of the stairs, his head tilted, his eyes soft. His
attention was fixed on Merlin, as if he'd heard what Merlin had said.
Merlin barely noticed.
Arthur's coat was splattered in blood. His hands dripped puddles to the floor.
Splatters stained his forehead and hair. His mouth was smeared with it. He was
calm, nearly serene, all traces of his rage gone, his beast sated.
For now.
"Come on. Let's get you to the car," Gwaine said, sounding satisfied. Merlin
wasn't sure why. There was a shuffling sound behind him, but he could only
focus on…
On how beautiful Arthur was like this. Wild and untamed, unrestrained, without
guise or guile.
Merlin swallowed. How fucking far had he fallen if this turned him on? Or was
it just Arthur in general?
Arthur raised a knowing brow. He reached into his trouser pocket and flicked
out a handkerchief as he approached Merlin. He wiped the corner of his mouth,
and paused at a tiny little whimper that came out of nowhere.
It took Merlin a moment to realize the whimper had come from him.
Arthur crowded into Merlin's space. A smug little smirk tugged at his lips. He
touched Merlin's cheek, smearing blood along his jaw. Nimueh's blood had enough
magic in it to jolt Merlin out of his daze.
"Uh," Merlin said. "Um. What do you want me to do with the body?"
Arthur kissed him.
Iron and death. The shiver of the forbidden, a promise of the future.
Merlin tasted blood in Arthur's mouth. He found he didn't care. He chased after
the taste even after Arthur pulled away.
"Burn it."
"And then?" Merlin asked.
Arthur raised a brow. He smiled.
"Follow me and find out." 
 
 
 
 
 
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!