go your own way (1/4)

[minarchy]

TITLE: go your own way
FANDOM: merlin
PAIRING: merlin/arthur; gwen/lancelot
RATING: nc-17
SPOILERS: season one
WARNINGS: au; graphic imagery (sexual; violent); language; character death(s)
WORD COUNT: ~11,140
DISCLAIMER: merlin belongs to the beeb and shine. anyone you don’t recognise is bastardised from legend or is mine. original concept from steam_pilot’s artwork
SUMMARY: arthur is the excommunicated son of uther pendragon, recently returned to camelot to reclaim what is rightfully his, with merlin as his bodyguard; morgana is his alcoholic sister, gwen the only sane one amongst them, and there are powers moving within camelot that do not welcome their return.
A/N: the characters and their characterisations are only canon-compliant up to season one, with the occasional addition of season two.

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Arthur Pendragon was a dangerous prick.

He was, as far as the Albion underworld went, an unknown entity. His father, the late, great Uther Pendragon, had been far easier to define: twisted by hate and grief after his wife's death, he had ruthlessly built up a vast empire; even the Mercian Mayor was in his pocket. His son and only child, who looked so much like the lost beauty that was Igraine, had been kept separate from the Business, and sent away for his education. He distanced Arthur from him as much as possible; this may well have been his final, fatal mistake.

No one said it, but everyone was thinking it, and it was whispered between the walls: Arthur Pendragon had murdered his father. And he had not done it alone, for Uther was easily capable in defending himself, even against a renegade son. Arthur's shadow would mostly certainly have helped him. The father would never have associated with assassins; the fact that Arthur did was all the more worrying.

Edwin Muir knew all this as he walked through the cold, empty corridors of the warehouse in the dirtiest docks' district. But he also knew that Arthur had inherited none of Uther's empire upon his death; instead, it had been divided up amongst his closest colleagues. So, Edwin reasoned, Arthur needed him. Needed his expertise, need the enterprise if he was ever to gain the power that went hand-in-hand with his name. So he ignored the instincts that had served him so well throughout his life, quelled the prickle of fear that ran down his spine as he entered the large, dark room, and saw Pendragon seated at the head of the table.

"Edwin," said Arthur, relaxed and effortlessly poised, resplendent in his tailored Armani. Edwin took the seat opposite him, glancing up at the bodyguard that stood behind Pendragon's right shoulder.

Merlin Emrys was an oddity, even within the circles Edwin travelled. His last known employment had been with a cocky young entrepreneur, William Beck, which was terminated suddenly when Beck turned up dead at his apartment. His clean apartment, locked from the inside. Emrys had walked away Scot-free; no one dared ask too many questions. The boy, for he could not be older that his current master and most likely was a year or two younger, stood back straight and face impassive, but he gave off that empty, careless precision that put peoples' teeth on edge. With his pale skin and high cheekbones, he had an almost ethereal quality about him, and Edwin was sure that the hands that were clasped behind his back were slender and long-fingered.

"I have a business proposition for you, Pendragon." Giving him a prefix would have been too humbling, especially for a first encounter. If he had inherited Uther's empire… "As I understand, you need stock. Inventory. And I hear there's a shipment entering port soon."

Pendragon was watching him, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Edwin said nothing, waiting him out. He had played this game a long time; he knew the rules.

Eventually, Pendragon said, "And where would you have obtained this information?" His voice was light, but the threat that ran just below the surface was all too real. Despite himself, Edwin glanced at Emrys again. He had not moved a muscle.

"I have my sources."

"Ah, yes. Ears on the street, if you will." Pendragon seemed slightly amused by the whole situation; his expression was plucking straight at Edwin's temper, and he could feel himself becoming angry, forced himself to remain calm. "Then you know what it is that I want you to do." Not a question. Edwin got the impression that Pendragon was not one to ask questions.

"My nominal fee is five hundred. Per day. After that, then there will be a token fee for necessary out-of-pocket expenses, damage assessment…" He stopped. Pendragon was looking amused again.

"Perhaps you misunderstand me." Pendragon's voice was irritatingly calm, condescending. "You will do this for me as a favour, to show your - goodwill. After that, if I deem that you have fulfilled your contract to all satisfaction…"

Edwin found himself on his feet. He felt the shadows around him thicken; he still had his tricks, bodyguard be damned. No one spoke to Edwin Muir like he was some sort of lackey! He opened his mouth to spit words of pain, hatred, suffering, impotence…

Arthur looked sideways at Merlin as he straightened his shirt, ignoring the body that was slowly being surrounded in a pool of its own blood. The assassin was replacing the gun within his jacket, face expressionless. As he checked the exit for Arthur to leave, the blond man caught sight of Merlin's shadow against the wall, and suppressed a shiver. Sometimes, he thought he would never understand the young, pale man walking close beside him, hand on his back as he got into the car.

Sometimes, he wasn't sure he wanted to.

The gleaming silver Bentley pulled up outside the sandstone, seven-story hotel, and Arthur lead the way into the lobby, Merlin's constant presence calm and assuring at his back. A brief nod of acknowledgement to the desk clerk and they were in the lift, Merlin still and composed as Arthur pulled his shirt sleeves straight. Penthouse: thirteen quick steps to a door that shouldn't lead anywhere and then through, Merlin's left hand on the doorknob and right hand in the small of Arthur's back, pushing him forward.

The door shut behind them with a click, and Arthur noticed the steady fall of rain on this part of the country. Both men stepped into the apartment, loosening ties and undoing cufflinks.

"It was stupid idea." Merlin's voice was cold and pointed, his back rigid towards Arthur.

"It was necessary," he replied. "Edwin was in Callan's pay, and a powerful sorcerer. He had to be angry enough to drop his guard…"

Suddenly Merlin was there, too close, right up in his face. "You could have died," he hissed, bright blue eyes saying everything he could not. What if I wasn't fast enough? What if I couldn't save you? Arthur's face settled almost automatically into a lazy, cocksure grin.

"Don't be ridiculous, Merlin," he said, hand touching the join between neck and jaw. He leant forwards, breath ghosting against his ear. "No one's faster than you." He took the lobe between his teeth, and felt Merlin collapse against him, hands going straight for his belt.

This always happened. Despite his power, Merlin was constantly afraid of messing up; Arthur did not know what future he saw in his dreams, but some nights he would wake up gasping and sweating and Arthur did not know how to comfort him. So he did this instead, and it seemed to be enough. He understood that Merlin needed to touch him, needed to reassure himself that Arthur was okay, Arthur was alive, Arthur was still here and Merlin had not failed. When they had first done it, Arthur had agreed for the release it gave him, seemed to give them both. He had not meant for it to turn into anything else.

But now he was arching up into Merlin's hand as he palmed him through his boxers, one hand sliding under Merlin's shirt, the other tangled in his hair, dragging his face down to lock their lips together. He knew when things had changed: when Merlin was stripping him of his bloodstained shirt with shaking fingers, breath coming quick and short, lips touching every scrape and bruise as they revealed themselves to him. And Arthur had reached out and pulled him closer, kissed him as he came apart under him.

"Bed," he gasped, desperate to make it to the mattress before he lost all coherent thought. Last time that had happened, they had rucked on the floor, leaving bruises and carpet burn. Arthur had very little desire to repeat the experience, if he could avoid it. He felt Merlin grin and moan against his neck at the same time, and then the disconcerting sense of teleporting. He staggered, dizzy from the transport, and fell backwards onto the bed, holding onto Merlin tight enough to pull him down as well.

The familiar smell of Merlin filled his nostrils as the other man leant down to kiss him, and Arthur bucked up against him, hands reaching down to grab hold of Merlin's hips. They rutted against each other, hands everywhere as their tongues tangled and fought, until Arthur could not take it any more. Separating their mouths, he attempted to speak when Merlin attacked his neck. Forcing himself to concentrate rather than just come in his pants, he pushed at Merlin's hips. "Off," he growled, unable to stop himself rubbing up against the other man.

Merlin made to get up, but Arthur rolled his eyes as best as he could and pulled him back down. "Not you, idiot," he said, lips against Merlin's ear. "Your clothes." He smirked as he heard Merlin whimper when his tongue flickered out to lick the delicate shell of his ear, and then swore softly as he felt the fabric of his shirt unravelling against his skin. "That was Armani," he said, between kisses. "Worth more -" kiss "than your -" kiss "entire -" his head thunked back against the pillows as Merlin's tongue decided to do something sinful to his nipple "paycheque."

"I know," said Merlin, grinning up at him before closing his teeth around the overstimulated skin. "But I figured you wouldn't want to wait."

Arthur could only watch and buck up against Merlin for a few moments as he watched the silk of the other man's shirt disintegrate across his back. Coming back to himself suddenly, he grabbed a fistful of Merlin's hair and yanked him back up so they were face-to-face, before swivelling his hips - and oh, delicious friction - putting him on top.

Merlin grinned up at him, the colour high on his cheeks, hair mussed and lips swollen, eyes slightly out of focus, and Arthur could have come just then, just looking at him. But he bit down on the impulse, stabbing it silent with his beaten-in self-control, and reached to the bedside cabinet for the lube. One finger, and Arthur could barely watch Merlin's expression change. Two, and he scissored to stretch him, fingers grazing that sweet spot that caused Merlin to buck up towards him and down onto his hand all at once, cock ramrod straight and weeping.

"ArthurpleaseArthurGodplease…"

Hands shaking (since when was he nervous? Oh God, and Merlin was looking at him like he was the world and all its glories wrapped up in silver ribbon…), Arthur slicked himself up, pressing down at the base to give him a bit more control, a bit more time. He paused at the entrance, head of his cock just nudging against the slick hole, and looked at Merlin. Always the same; I don't want to hurt you. And Merlin's constant reply, words unnecessary: You won't. And I trust you. And then he was in, had to bite down hard on his lip, taste blood on his tongue, to stop himself just slamming blind into the tight, wet heat.

Fingers barely touching his skin, forcing his head up; but Arthur did not want to look, because if he met Merlin's eyes then he would be lost to the sensations and he did not want that dammit. So he pulled out, and thrust back in, building up a rhythm, eyes screwed shut. He felt Merlin's fingers touch his lips, stroke down his chest.

"GodArthuryesArthuryes…"

Heels pressed into his back as Merlin wound his long legs around him, urging him on. And Arthur opened his eyes.

Merlin, stretched out below him, pale and glowing and oh so beautiful, blue eyes catching his as his teeth catch his lower lip, and then Arthur moved and his eyes rolled back.

"YesArthuryesArthurArthurArthur…"

He bent down over their bodies, kissed Merlin's nose and tried to breathe through his heart clenching at the sound of his name coming from his lips, like a litany, like a prayer. Then he was coming, and breathing seemed immaterial as lights danced in front of his eyes. He noticed, dimly, that Merlin must have come just before, without encouragement, because their chests when they meet were sticky and salt-slick. He pulled himself out, slowly, and lay down next to Merlin, tracing the edges of his sleep-slurred, effortless smile with one callused thumb as he reached around and pulled them flush against each other. A moment's wriggling on Merlin's part as he snuggled up to Arthur, then butterfly kisses along his collarbone as Arthur slipped into sleep.

Merlin needed this; Arthur wanted it. So they were as tangled as each other, and neither seemed to mind.

"I’m not letting this go."

They were standing in the kitchen, eating Merlin-warmed Chinese for breakfast, leftover from earlier in the week. There had not been much time for food shopping. Arthur sighed around his mouthful of chicken.

"I’m not going to explain myself to you, Merlin," he started, before realising just how much like Uther he sounded. "Look… you know that Edwin was a powerful sorcerer. God only knows what he was into. And we know that he was in Callan’s pay - my father’s best friend, or as close as he ever got to friends."

"No one’s going to raise your father, Arthur." Merlin’s voice a tinge of long-suffering about it, but they had had this discussion before.

"But how do you know…"

"Because the Dragon hates Uther as much as Uther hated me," replied Merlin sharply, fixing Arthur with such an intense look that Arthur quite forgot his argument. Stubbornly, however, Arthur argued anyway. It came naturally around Merlin.

"But…"

"No buts," said Merlin, voice firm. "You’ve got to let go, Arthur. Uther’s dead. Move on."

Arthur’s jaw went tight, and he scowled at the floor. He heard Merlin put down his carton and suppressed an irritated grin when he peered up at Arthur, bent over so he could be seen. Merlin nudged Arthur’s head upright with his own, and they stood like that, sharing the same breath. "No more nightmares."

Arthur huffed a laugh and kissed him. "Like you can talk," he said, gruffly. "And you taste of tofu."

Merlin grinned and picked up his carton to finish his breakfast; spearing a piece of tofu, he dangled it in front of Arthur, who wrinkled his nose. "What’s the matter, macho man? Too healthy for you?"

"Nah," replied Arthur, unable to repress his own grin. "I just enjoy slaughtering innocent animals to service my own cravings. You know me: sweet, soft-nosed cows who never hurt a fly equals blue steak and chips. Yum." Merlin scowled at him. "What’s the matter, veggie boy? Too manly for you?"

Merlin rolled his eyes, smirk lining his lips. "Your insults are so pathetic."

"Must be from spending too much time around you."

He only just dodged the chopstick aimed for his face.

"Get dressed, sorcerer. You’ve got shopping to do."

The car glided along Main Street, Merlin driving and Arthur pretending not to sulk in the back. He was glowering out of the tinted windows at the last of the big-time drinkers as they staggered home to bed and midday hangover cures; it took a moment for recognition to sink in before he said sharply, "Merlin! Stop the car!"

They had barely slid into a parking space before Arthur was out of the car and pulling a dark-haired woman away from a group of leering men.

"Hey! Man, hey! We was only havin’ some fun," said one.

"Yeah, back off," growled another, making at a grab at the woman. Arthur pushed her into the arms of her friend and wheeled to face the men.

"No," he said, voice low and dangerous, "you back off." The smell of lightning filled the air, and Arthur knew that Merlin was just behind him, quiet and menacing with his unassuming power.

The men, for a moment, looked like they were going to make a fight of it, but then one whispered, short and sharp, "Dude, dude, that’s Arthur fucking Pendragon," after which they’d slunk off. Having a preceeding reputation had its uses.

"Morgana," he said in exasperation, turning to watch her trying to disentangle herself from Gwen. "Isn't she supposed to be on a program?" He caught Merlin's smile as Gwen looked apologetic and helpless all at once.

"I don' need - don' need you t'tell me what to do, Artie Pendragon," slurred Morgana, wine bottle dangling precariously from her fingertips. "Jus' like Daddy, all bossy and bitchy..."

"Alright, Morgana. Time to go," intervened Merlin, stepping forward to take her arm, glancing at Arthur's expression - he could feel his temper rising, especially after the quip about Uther. But he could remember the last time that insult was used, when he had replied, "I’d be lucky to be half the man my father is!"

He watched the smile that Gwen and Merlin shared, and felt the first twinges of jealousy in his stomach. Turning sharply, he headed back to the car, getting in the passenger side and ignoring the sounds of Morgana being manhandled into the back seat.

Merlin slid in next to him, glancing at his face - Arthur could feel the tension in his jaw, and tried to relax it, knowing how well Merlin could read him; "Still shopping?"

It seemed Merlin trusted him more to stay at the apartment and not go off ‘vigilante-ing and/or getting yourself killed’ with Gwen and Morgana there. Well, probably Gwen more than Morgana, because the latter was currently having her hair held out of the way whilst she retched down the toilet.

Arthur sat in the living room, scowling at the door that Merlin had left through, knowing there was no way he could follow him that way. Gwen had perfected that ‘make you feel guilty’ look that Merlin had, which meant that he could leave without feeling like a Total Arse. Which Morgana thought he was anyway, and proceeded to tell him whenever she was not heaving.

Morgana stumbled into the room, partially supported by Gwen. He smiled sweetly up at her. "Feeling better?" She flipped him off, and he laughed.

"I don’t suppose you’ve got any food in this place?" she asked, having practically fallen into a chair, almost dragging Gwen with her.

Arthur raised an eyebrow at his step-sister. "Where do you think Merlin’s gone?"

Morgana waved a hand. "I don’t know. I assumed he just…"

He couldn’t restrain a grin. "What? Disappeared into thin air?"

Apparently, Morgana was in a better mood than earlier (Arthur would never understand her moodswings), because she surprised everyone by bursting out with laughter. She looked so ridiculous, lying draped across the armchair, long limbs - that would be ungraceful and ungainly on anyone else, say, Merlin - flung unceremoniously over the arm, that Arthur could not help but join in.

Gwen looked between them fondly, then removed herself with the excuse of making some tea. Morgana snorted. "If she can find it." She had let her head fall back so that her long hair pooled on the floor, eyes closed. Arthur was wondering if she’d fallen asleep like that when her hand groped blindly for her purse and she pulled out a cigarette. "S’okay if I smoke in here?" And, without waiting for a reply, "ta." She lit the cigarette with a snap of her fingers, and Arthur was once again unnerved by her small mastery of magic. She never showed it around Uther.

"Just - don’t smoke in the kitchen," he agreed. "Merlin’s very… precious."

"Despite the fact that he can’t cook," interjected Gwen, returning with three steaming mugs - one tea, for her, and two coffee.

"He can cook more than Arthur can," said Morgana, eyes still closed as she took a drag. Arthur had the good grace to look offended, but did not object. It was true, anyway.

"They haven’t killed each other, then." Merlin was back, closing the door behind him with his foot as he struggled with various carrier bags. Gwen got up to help him.

"Not as yet, no. But I think Morgana is too tired to bother trying, right now."

"Hey!" interrupted Morgana and Arthur at the same time, glaring at each other before Arthur spoke first.

"She so could not beat me, even if she was on top form!"

"Oh, please," replied Morgana, snarkishly. "‘Daddy, Daddy, Maggie’s hurting me! Make her stop!’"

"‘Uncle! Uuuuncle! Arthur’s being mean! Make him play with me!’" immitated Arthur in exactly the same tone of voice as Morgana. They both scowled at each other before Merlin and Gwen started to snigger.

"What?!" they said, in unison. They did not get a reply, just a series of vague hand gestures from Merlin as Gwen collapsed in fits of giggles and he held onto the back of the chair to keep himself upright.

"Merlin," said Arthur, glaring at his friend as he attempted to regain composure.

"It’s just… you too," Merlin said, shaking slightly. "You’re so similar."

"We are not!"

Merlin raised an eyebrow. "Shut up," said Arthur, scowling.

"You’re pouting," Merlin stage-whispered over the back of the chair, at which Morgana started to giggle.

"I am NOT!" replied, Arthur, furious; but he could not retain his straight face when Merlin, Morgana and Gwen broke into fresh fits of hysterics. He turned and marched into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

A minute later, he heard the door open quietly and the bed creak and Merlin sat down beside him. "Don’t sulk," he murmured in his ear. "It doesn’t become you." He ran a finger around Arthur’s mouth. "You’ll get frown lines."

"Shut up," Arthur growled, jerking his shoulder in an attempt to dislodge Merlin. It did not work; Merlin was irritatingly tenacious.

"Smile?" he said, hopefully. "Please?"

Arthur tried hard not to look at him, but he caught a glimpse of Merlin’s face out of the corner of his eye; he was pulling the most ridiculously pleading face, and Arthur chuckled before he could stop himself. Sensing victory, Merlin shuffled closer, pressed right up against his back and twisting his head around to kiss Arthur. For a moment, Arthur resisted all attempts by Merlin’s tongue to gain entrance to his mouth, trying hard not to smirk, but gave up embarrassingly quickly. Their tongues met, and Arthur turned so he was half-facing Merlin in order to deepen it further. Merlin was being deliberately elusive, and Arthur growled his dissatisfaction. Merlin grinned.

"Ahem." Morgana was standing in the doorway. Arthur held up a finger. He could hear her roll her eyes. "We’re going to order take-out. Anything you want?" She did not get a response, and turned to leave, saying as she did, "do you think they do Merlin toppings for pizza?" Arthur heard Gwen laugh, but he was too busy pushing Merlin into the mattress to care. They had not done this, like, all day.

Arthur woke the next morning to the sounds of Morgana blow-drying her hair in the living room. Merlin had decided that she and Gwen should stay with them in the apartment, considering the current climes. Arthur had frowned and almost sulked, and tried hard to come up with reasons why he should not be forced to suffer Morgana’s constant presence for the foreseeable future, but they had all been fielded expertly by Merlin, by now well-practised in dealing with his temper.

"Retho’s in town," she said as soon as he entered the room, robe thrown on over his pajama trousers, heading for the kitchen and whatever he could dig out of the fridge. Usually so determined to have breakfast, this news stopped him dead in his tracks. Merlin, apparently sensing something was wrong even though Arthur had left him still sleeping, appeared at the doorway to the bedroom.

"Retho?" he asked, frowning at his step-sister. "What would he come to Doncaster for?"

There was silence, and Arthur turned in time to catch the holster that Merlin threw at him. He caught the gun that followed one-handed, buckling them on without objection at the expression on Merlin’s face. It was the one that clearly said: He’s come for you, dipshit.

Gwen walked out of the spare bedroom with a washbag, wet hair pulled back in a French braid. She handed the bag to Morgana, who pulled out a crystal pendant - and Arthur finally realised what was happening. He ripped open the drawers of the dresser, trying to find a map, whilst watching Merlin check the wards that lay around the room physically and the warning spells around the building with his eyes half-closed and glowing gold.

"Gotcha." He slammed the map down triumphantly on the coffee table, and Morgana held the pendant above it, the silver chain twined around her fingers. Frowning in concentration, she began to spin the pendant around the map with smooth wrist movements, until the momentum was such that it span much of its own accord. But it did not fall, attracted to the position of the person Morgana was seeking, until Merlin stepped over and touched a strand of the chain around her hand. It dropped immediately, and Morgana looked a little disappointed.

"Don’t worry about it," said Merlin encouragingly. "You just need to practise on small things before trying to find things in a huge area. And Retho is really hard to Find; he has all these enchantments and things to prevent people from being able to do so."

Morgana still looked petulant (Gwen was writing down the address of where the crystal had landed), so Merlin grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil, squatting next to the table. "Look, why don’t you try and find me? Like - advanced hide-and-seek," he said, sketching a rough floorplan of the apartment. "It’ll help with your concentration, and improve your precision."

"You’re beginning to sound like Arthur at the firing range," she said, but seemed to agree to the exercise, lifting the pendant into the air above the drawing.

"Ready?" Morgana nodded, and Merlin vanished. Gwen blinked at the spot where he had been, but Morgana was biting her lip in concentration as she swung the crystal above the floorplan. It slammed down with aggressive finality - on the spot where Merlin had previously been standing. Morgana sighed in exasperation and was about to try again when Gwen screamed.

Merlin’s grin was hanging in mid-air. It was shortly followed by the rest of his body, the revisibility process become more rapid as it spread to the edges. Morgana stared; then, with a grin to match Merlin’s, she looked from the page and back to him. "I did it!"

"Told you you could," he said, smiling, and Arthur felt his heart buzz at the warmth in his voice.

Retho was one of Uther’s inheriterants, gaining originally only a small section of the empire. However, in the gang wars which followed the death of Uther and the division of the Pendragon dominion, he gained a great deal more business and wealth by destroying his competitors. A man rumoured to have giant blood, Retho stood nigh on seven feet tall, and was built like a brick wall. He had killed many, if not most, of his victims by challenging them to single, bare-knuckled combat. He had yet to lose a fight.

Uther had liked him for that reason: Retho was his prize fighter. It did not matter that Retho rarely played by the rules, because in the circles that he was fighting in the rules rarely had any place. He had most recently been living in Glasgow, where a few people dying from grevious bodily harm was not that unusual. It was said that he was the man who had defeated and killed Menw a’Teirgwaedd, a powerful magician in the service of Jean Malegant, a French gangster who had visited Uther in the hope of wooing Morgana. Either way, he was a very dangerous man to cross.

Morgana was still practicing with the pendant when Merlin’s eyes flashed gold and his head whipped round, his body following too slowly as he propelled himself towards the window. Scrambling upright on the chair that he had fallen over, he stared down at the street below.

"Merlin?" said Gwen, worried, peering around from behind the sofa where Arthur had shoved her. The warlock did not reply, but Arthur saw the crease in his forehead and the tilt of his mouth, and knew that something was wrong.

"Merlin," he said, slowly, fear rising like bile in his stomach. "Who would come here that could disturb your wards?"

As if in reply, the door shuddered as force was thrown against it; but it could not be natural, because the door lead to the fake apartment on the other side of the country, and no one could use it to reach this room unless they could use magic.

The door shook again, and Arthur could see cracks forming in the plaster around the door frame. "Merlin!" he said, realisation dawning. "They can’t get through your wards. They’re trying to remove the whole wall."

The look Merlin sent him clearly said everything Arthur was feeling. Oh shit. Then his eyes glowed gold again, and he pulled Morgana upright. "Hold on to me," he said, voice charged with the otherwordly power that turned the air to crystals and caused rainclouds to boil across the sky. He was starting to glow around the edges now, and Arthur suddenly knew what he was going to do even as he threw himself and Gwen across the room to grip Merlin’s shoulder.

They landed with a thud, Arthur - who was more used to Merlin’s individual style was emergency exit - merely staggering, Gwen and Morgana ending up on their backs. Merlin, however, was lying face down in the grass, panting heavily. Arthur ignored his own queasiness at having been teleported so far, and walked over to him. Well, he attempted to, but at some point found himself on his knees, forcing him to crawl. Gripping Merlin by both shoulders, he pulled him off the ground and held him there, arms wrapped around his torso.

"What the fuck… I thought you said he couldn’t do that!" Morgana was still breathing quickly, clearly trying not to be sick, but her surprise at the teleportation and the fear of whatever had come for them back at the apartment was causing her to be angry.

"No," replied Arthur, as calmly as he was able. "I merely asked if that’s what you thought he’d done."

"Implying…"

"Oh, will you two just shut up!?" All three heads jerked around in surprise to stare at Gwen. "Why do you always have to bicker about everything? We very nearly just died back there, and all you two can do is fight? Merlin looks almost comatose, for God’s sake!"

Arthur and Morgana glanced at each other, slightly guilty, but Merlin started to laugh. It was gasping, slightly hysterical laughter, probably brought on more by exhaustion that anything else, but before they knew it they were all laughing as well. Arthur did not notice that the air temperature around them had dropped significantly until Morgana threw a well-aimed snowball at the back of his neck. Letting Merlin go (after receiving the A OK pat on the knee), he grabbed a handful of the snow that was falling more thickly by the minute and lobbed it after her retreating back.

Quarter of an hour later, Arthur turned back to see Merlin still lying spreadeagle on the ground where he had left him. Going over quickly, he looked down at his friend. His skin was the same bleach-white as the snow that surrounded him and collected on his eyelashes, and Merlin smiled slightly up at him. He looked near dead from fatigue.

"He’ll have the Hounds on us by now," he said, voice barely audible over the sounds of the girls’ snow fight. Arthur stared for a moment, shocked into inaction, before bending swiftly and throwing one of Merlin’s arms around his shoulders, pulling him upright.

"Morgana! Gwen! We’re going! Now!" he shouted over to them; they must have heard the urgency in his tone, because Morgana did not even stop to argue.

"I’m sorry," Merlin said as they marched onwards through the snow.

"For what?" asked Arthur, repositioning Merlin against him as the other man slipped again in the snow.

"I can’t do much. The teleport… it took most of it out of me," he replied, voice to tired to display much emotion. "I can’t do anything to cover our trail except - " he waved his free arm, indicating the white-out that completely encompassed them. Arthur grunted as they mounted a steep hillock.

"Don’t fret yourself," he said, concentration on the ground in front of his feet. "You can’t do everything, all the time."

They slept that night in a small, thickly wooded copse, the trees knotting their branches over their heads to form an impentatrable barrier to the snow at a thought from Merlin. Arthur lowered him gently against a tree, and set out with Gwen to gather some firewood, which Morgana lit with the same ease that she had her cigarette earlier that day. Arthur hated to think that, only that same morning, everything had been as normal as things got in his life. Now he was on the run, again, and Merlin was not standing like a rock at his side. He was sleeping like the dead, head lolling to one side as exhaustion overtook him. Arthur moved over to him and pulled him closer to the fire, fearing the cold that he felt in Merlin’s skin. Wrapping himself around the thinner man, he held him as close to the heat as he could. He was thankful that Morgana chose not to comment.

Not eating was not helping Merlin’s condition.

The snowfall he had conjured had done a brilliant job at waylaying Morrigan’s Hounds (whose name they dared not speak aloud for fear of conjuring the war goddess herself), but it did very little for foraging. Hunting was not a problem as such, as Arthur was perfectly capable of setting snares for rabbits - or whatever else they caught; Merlin, however, refused to eat it.

"I’m a vegan, Arthur," he had snarled, the last time Arthur had tried to feed him some of the pigeon Morgana had brought down with a well-aimed (and probably magically-aided) stone.

"But there’s nothing else," Arthur had replied, stubbornness now bordering on desperation. But Merlin had been firm: he would not eat meat, no matter how dire the situation, or how quickly he was free-falling into full blown sickness.

Finally, after three days of walking, they came across a small wood that appeared to have once been an orchard, or something like one. There were apples, and a chestnut, and moss for bedding and tinder. Relief slamming into him like a brick wall, Arthur left the girls to the fire lighting (Morgana had got very good at making the fire last on very little wood, with very little smoke - sometimes none at all - but with a good amount of heat) and headed off to pick some.

The apples were small and hard, and very sharp to the taste, but they were something Merlin could and would eat, and Arthur all but ran back to the campsite to give them to him. Merlin’s health had deteriorated rapidly; he was always shivering, always tired, so pale he bordered on grey. Arthur dropped to his knees alongside his friend and gently shook him awake. Merlin opened his eyes, bright blue peeking through the long lashes - Arthur could see how much of a struggle it was for him. He restrained Merlin when he tried to sit up.

"Whassa matter?"

"Nothing," replied Arthur, voice soothing. "I’ve got you some food." He put one of the apples - the one he had tasted, in the hope that it would not be as hard for Merlin to eat with the flesh already broken - but Merlin turned his head away. "Please, Merlin," Arthur said, voice a desperate whisper as he offered the apple again. "It’s only an apple, I promise." Still, Merlin seemed wary. "Please, Merlin," Arthur said again, knowing and not caring that he was begging. "Please - you have to eat. Please." Finally, reluctantly, Merlin took a bite, then another, and another. Soon, the entire apple was gone, apart from the core, which Arthur threw far away from their campsite.

"I could roast some of these apples along with the chestnuts," said Gwen from somewhere behind them. "It might improve the flavour." Arthur agreed without really paying much attention, busying helping Merlin come to sit near the fire. Merlin rested there, head on Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur locked eyes with Morgana when she returned with her findings, daring her to comment. But Morgana looked more relieved at Merlin’s willingness to eat than anything, and she was probably remembering that time Arthur had got pneumonia and refused to go to the hospital. Merlin had gone out his mind trying to get him to eat, to drink, to take the medicine Gaius had prescribed; Uther had visited regularly, apparently, so Merlin was not able to use a spell to calm his temperature and ease his breathing. He knew Merlin still had nightmares about it - he would always be on the receiving end of too much TLC whenever there was the merest hint of a sniffle.

They remained around the fire for the rest of the evening, listening to the pop of the chestnuts roasting, and chatting and laughing like they were just on a camping trip, not desperately trying to make it to Winchester before they were caught by the Hounds. Merlin ate more than all of them, aided by Arthur, and even managed to create a small tableau out of the fire’s sparks. Arthur helped him drink the snow-melt, and was relieved far more than he was willing to admit that there was a touch of colour back in Merlin’s cheeks by the end of the evening.

They staggered into the Winchester hideout without further incident, although by mutual agreement the snow had stopped. It may have been winter, but even Hampshire could not cope with violently abnormal weather conditions for long.

Too tired for any formal introduction to the house, Arthur and Merlin left Gwen to attack the fridge and Morgana almost crying over the prospect of a hot shower. They helped each other out of their filthy, stinking clothes and fell into bed, asleep before their heads touched the pillows.

Three days later and no word or sign of Retho. Arthur was just beginning to relax, and joined Gwen in hiding all the alcohol in the house from Morgana. Merlin spent most of his time building and reinforcing the protective spells that coated the house - even Arthur, completely blind to magic most of the time, could see the faint glimmer of archaic words and strange, ancient symbols weaving their way through every surface. The magic had even seeped into the pipe system, giving the water an odd aftertaste that Arthur could not quite place. It was as if the memory was from a different time, a different life, and he was not able to reach it. Whenever Merlin drank the water, in whatever form, a distant, fond look came over his face, as if it took him back to somewhere he had been happiest. He would not tell Arthur what he was remembering.

After a week, Arthur told Merlin to stop placing wards. The shimmering, golden runes flowed against his skin, in his breath, swam in his blood. The sensation made him pleasantly light-headed and dizzy, but it was slightly wearing. Morgana seemed to be loving being surrounded in so much magic, and Gwen did not seem to be as badly affected as him. He got the impression from the evasive replies he got from Merlin that this was because most of the magic he had cast was about him. Arthur had been forced to physically restrain himself from fucking Merlin into the carpet on several occasions, and on others had been barely able to move, so soporific - post-coital - were the effects of the magic.

But for all Merlin’s careful planning - all the spells, all the precautions, he simply did not bank on the pure wiliness of their opponent.

The Hounds had surrounded the house. They were hard to miss, even in their human form - tall and lithe with yellow eyes and cruel mouths. The barriers that Merlin had put on the house kept them at bay, but unless one of them made a move at some point then it would not be long before they called upon a higher power to eradicate them. Merlin was powerful, but even he admitted that he did not know himself enough to combat Her.

Preparations were made. Documents were drawn up, and amulets of concealment and protection were conjured into being. Morgana had wanted to come with them, but Arthur forbade it; besides, what would happen to Gwen, left here alone with the Hounds and the fog outside?

The fog itself was barely natural - it appeared to be limited only to the immediate area around the house, and there was no marsh land or water source nearby for it to be generated from. It hugged the corners of garden to closely, creeping vertically up the invisible wards that Merlin placed to form a roof of grey above them.

Stepping out into this procured coolness only reminded Arthur of what they were facing. Conjuring a fog such as this was no mean feat, and for it to last as long as it had, defying the wind and the sun and the landscape - all of which were against it, one of the reasons this house had been chosen. The house and the garden itself were untouched by it, but beyond its boundaries the fog waited like a wall, a physical barrier against which they must throw themselves.

Merlin’s touch on his shoulder brought him back to himself; Arthur straightened his shirt sleeves and walked forward down the path, Merlin’s presence warm and constant at his back as they stepped into the cold, damp blanket of the fog. Beside and behind them, the figures of the Hounds loomed through the fog, forms human but shadows cast against the bleak background ugly and sinister in the small light that Merlin had created around them. Arthur did not look at them, walking straight ahead through the fog, subconscious mind trying to tell him that if he did not stop now he would be walking smack bang into the house across the street; but he did not, just kept on walking, and he slowly began to realise just how strongly magical this fog was - not only was it a barrier, but it was a path all of its own. And it was taking them directly to Retho, whether he liked it or not.

Retho himself seemed inordinately pleased to see them.

"Welcome! Welcome, little Pendragon," he said, with a smile that would have been warm and friendly had it not contained too many teeth. "And the young warlock too! How delightful."

Arthur held out a hand to Merlin, who called the documents to his with a flick of his wrist before handing them over. Retho laughed, clearly amused by the small uses of magic. "These documents must be signed before we have any sort of dealings, Retho," Arthur said, voice clear and crisp and calm as his slid the manila folder across the table to the giant. "They contain a written promise that, now that we have met with you, you will leave my sister Morgana and Guinevere Leodegrance alone. The Hounds that you have in your employ will be removed from their stations and you shall not bother them again."

Retho opened the documents carefully with his massive, callused fingers, and read through them slowly. Arthur waited patiently, for it was common knowledge that Retho was not well educated. The documents had been drawn up with that in mind, and so Morgana had used no ‘legalise’ to tighten any loopholes; instead, she had been forced to try to use simple English to the same effect. They all hoped that it worked.

"Pen," barked Retho, and a small snap-demon appeared with the trademark sound that gave them their name. Retho took the object carefully between two of his fingers and delicately signed the bottom of the papers with a large, crudely written ‘R’.

"And now," he said, clapping his huge hands together to create a sound wave that shook the room, "might I congratulate you on your defeat of Edwin - I’m sure that whimpering swine Callan is shitting himself as we speak."

"Thank you," said Arthur shortly, seating himself opposite the giant. "But is that the only reason you wished to see me? Because you could have just sent a note, and saved us both an awful lot of trouble."

"Of course not!" boomed Retho, enjoying himself far too much, in Arthur’s opinion. "I also wanted to congratulate you on your triumph over Pelause and Damed. That can’t have been easy - I was going to kill them myself, so I should know!"

Retho reminded Arthur of the Muppet Ghost of Christmas Present, only where he was fat and jolly, Retho was broad and muscular. His eyes, beetle-black, contained none of the warmth that the Ghost did. There was something sinister and definitely wrong about Retho, although he had no idea what it was. It was as if he was something that should not quite exist, and now that he did, Nature did not know what to make of him. He repressed the feeling of cold slime trickling down his spine.

"Thank you," he repeated. "But surely there is something more important than that? One doesn’t call upon the Hounds of the Phantom Queen merely in order to give me congratulations."

The look in Retho’s eyes was now distinctly predatory; Arthur could see the flickerings of shadows where shadows should not be out of the corner of his eye. Merlin did not move, but Arthur could still feel him there. It offered him some small comfort.

"Yes, indeed. You are very much like your father, boy," Retho said, the hint of a cruel smile tugging at the corner of his bloated, fish-like lips. "Neither of you were particularly patient when it came to business." Arthur refused to bite, carefully keeping his features neutral, if pleasantly interested, and waited for Retho to continue. "I wished to tell you that My Lady is beginning to find you two somewhat of a nuisance to her. It is difficult to encourage war if someone is killing off all the major parties."

"You have killed many of these ‘parties’, Retho," Arthur interjected, not at all liking where the conversation was going.

"Yes, yes," said Retho dismissively, waving a giant hand as if to bat away his objections. "But I was happy to do so for My Lady’s benefit - you are killing to avoid open warfare. I’ve also heard that you are killing everyone who got a piece of your father’s empire. Which would mean that you wish to kill me. And that, I’m afraid, is something I cannot allow." He made as if to stand up, but Arthur heard the sharp report of Merlin’s pistol and saw Retho’s head smack back. Relief swept through him, but was almost immediately replaced by a sense of horror as Retho sat back upright and plucked the bullet from his left eye. He flicked it across the table to him; Arthur saw that it was squashed flat, as if it had collided with something hard.

"Your little friend Gaius tried that one as well," Retho commented, wiping the gunpowder residue from his eye. Arthur felt Merlin tense behind him; Gaius had been missing since the first month after Uther’s death. "But he should have known better. ‘Not even your pretty little spelled bullets can hurt me, sorcerer,’ I told him. And then I killed him- oh so slowly! You would have loved to hear him scream, little warlock." Arthur stood up, knocking his chair over as he reached around to restrain Merlin. Retho laughed, but Merlin had not moved. Arthur caught sight of his shadow, unnaturally huge on the wall behind him. Merlin was flexing his fingers slightly - his shadow had grown long, vicious-looking claws in replacement of them. It was too broad at the shoulders and too thick at the neck to be Merlin, and Arthur thought, just for a moment, that he saw two eyes burning scarlet, like two coals in the middle of the Shadow Merlin’s head.

He stepped back. This was not his fight.

Merlin’s shadow slipped around the walls until it was near enough to Retho’s to strike; long claws lacerated Retho’s face whilst bright, white fire ripped through the air to surround him. Arthur turned away, wishing he could not hear the screams or smell the giant’s flesh burning. The Shadow Creatures gibbered and cackled in the corners, snap-demons materialising to try and get at Merlin, but Arthur calmly shot them as they materialised.

Eventually, the fire went out, and Merlin’s shadow was once more connected to his feet. Arthur turned around to catch Merlin as he bent over, shaking, and gripped the back of his blazer as Merlin fought tears. There would be a time to grieve; standing in a room full of shadows and one burnt-out giant was not it.

"Arthur," said Merlin, as soon as he could. "Retho will heal. You have to - " But Arthur knew. He pulled Retho’s sword out of the floor at the giant’s feet and, in one smooth motion, severed his head from his shoulders. Merlin gripped his shoulders, and they were back near Doncaster. Arthur left Merlin to recover, and walked the two miles to the river. Once there, he threw the head as far as he could out over the water, and watched as it landed. A head should not sink, but Arthur caught sight of - something - reach out a long-fingered hand to grasp in and pull it under.

He watched the sun reflect of the river for a while longer, enjoying the feeling of its warmth on his back. Then he turned, and made his way back to Merlin.

It had started off with just watching, the unsettling feeling of eyes on her back, the half-glimpse of fleeing shadows on street corners, in the park. Morgana had not minded that. Not so much. She had not minded enough to tell Uther, anyway, and that was the important thing. By the time she realised that she really did mind, thank you very much, it was far too late. He had already got too much of the wrong idea, his fantasies encouraged by lack of decisive action against him.

The escalation process itself was relatively simple. The watching progressed into letters on her doorstep, notes scrawled on her mail and in her papers, declarations of love and undying fidelity. She had ignored them; being a beautiful ward of powerful businessmen her whole life, Morgana had become used to infactuated stalkers. They were, generally, harmless.

But then the silent phone calls started. She would have just arrived home from work, or the shops, or seeing Gwen, when the phone would ring. Always two minutes exactly since her front door closed. Originally, when she had picked up the receiver and no one had answered, she thought it was a wrong number, or some sort of kids’ prank. But they happened every day, every time she arrived home. She could hear them breathing down the phone, could almost feel it, hot and damp, on the back of her neck. She began to get frightened.

She told Gwen, of course. She could not just abandon her friend like that, or else she would go out of her mind with worry. Morgana had stopped leaving the house, had become too paranoid to open her curtains. She lived a small, isolated life inside her flat; her only company was Gwen. Dear, sweet Gwen, who would come to see her at least once a day - more when the fear and the phone calls did not stop.

And then, one day, they did.

Morgana was not sure what was better: knowing that the phone would ring, or waiting in desperate, torn silence for it to do so.

Eventually, Gwen told Arthur. By which time, Morgana had taken to the liquor cabinet like she was a fish, drowning on dry land. He had been taping threatening messages to her door, shoving them through her letterbox; she had taped that up now, along with the windows and the vents. The letters themselves, remarked Arthur, when Gwen had brought him round to see just how serious things had got ("She’ll be fine," he had said when first Gwen had told him. "This is Morgana. She’s been stalked by loopy admirers since she was thirteen." But Gwen had turned desperate, pleading eyes on Merlin, and he had said a quiet word in Arthur’s ear), were not threatening in and off themselves. They were more indirectly so; the phrase "I watch you sleeping" was creepy, he supposed. But not harmful. Until he had been shown how Morgana had not opened her curtains for weeks. The lack of sunlight was turning her already pale skin a sickly grey. There were bruises under her eyes like Arthur had not seen since he had first met Merlin.

Also, the comment on how "I could not bear to part with you; something shall have to be done about Guinevere. Do you want to tell her, or do you want me to?" could quite easily have been an innocent remark about an awkward gooseberry situation. But Morgana did not know this man - the easy familiarity he used was sinister in and off itself. As Arthur said, there are two kinds of nutso stalkers. Those who loved you, and those who thought you loved them.

Face grim, Arthur had left the flat, promising Gwen in a low voice that he would fix it. She did not ask what he had meant. Behind her, Morgana downed another glass of whiskey.

There had been rumours of giant activity in Cumbria; it was not anything for them to be worried about, apparently. Morgana picked at her Caesar salad, twirling a piece of lettuce around her fork before bringing it slowly to her mouth. Arthur was leaning over the coffee table, squinting at a map - he was much too vain to admit that the writing was too small. Gwen was sipping her latest type of herbal tea, watching as Merlin created flickers of flame around his fingers as he drummed them against the arm of his chair. Since Retho’s death, they had been following the movements of the giants very closely; there was one in particular, Morholt, whom Merlin felt they should have some concern over. But so far, nothing of import had come up.

For herself, Morgana was glad. It was nice to not have to worry about what she should keep on her person at all times, in case they had to leave in a hurry. And she had finally been permitted to make use of the wardrobes in her room. Living out of a sports holdall had been very tiresome.

The letterbox sang out, and Morgana got up to collect what little mail they got. It was mostly junk, but there was the occasional useful piece of information that slipped through. Today, there was a letter addressed to her. She chucked the rest of the leaflets describing local pizzeria deals and Jehovah’s Witnesses pamphlets at Arthur’s head, earning her a scowl and a death glare, and flumped back into her seat. Slitting open the envelope with one long finger, she slid out the single sheet of paper and flicked it open.

Then dropped it, screaming.

"I thought you’d got rid of this guy," Gwen said slowly, a moment later, watching with worried eyes as Morgana huddled as far back into the chair as she could, whimpering slightly.

Merlin frowned at the single page held loosely between his fingers, mouth drawn in a tight, thin line. "We did."

"I killed him myself," growled Arthur, hands clenched in his lap as he glared through his hair at Morgana. She gave him a startled, but intensly grateful look, to which Arthur gave a small smile. It was not often that Arthur hunted down people; Merlin was the assassin, after all. "So this," he continued, plucking the paper out of Merlin’s hand, "is not the same guy."

"A copycat?" said Gwen, frown line appearing between her brows. She had taken up residence of the arm of Morgana’s chair, wraping her arms around the other woman. "But, why would anyone want to copy that?"

Arthur was looking carefully at the letter. "It seems… identical to the others."

"That’s because it is." Everyone turned to look at Merlin. "It’s a complete replica, style-wise. Except for the magical residue left within the ink."

"Magical… you think someone’s doing this to, like, get at us?" asked Gwen, staring at the paper. Morgana seemed to be settling slightly in her arms.

"If they are," replied Arthur, "then they’re only just starting."

Sometimes, Arthur hated being right. Just like before, notes were taped to the door, gifts forced through the letterbox. Between themselves, they decided that Morgana should not leave the house; not only would it allow whoever was doing this to think that they were succeeding, it would protect her in case they decided to go further than their predecessor.

What none of them had foreseen was that it would spread to the rest of them. When Gwen returned to the flat, she saw graffitti spray-painted across the walls; when Arthur and Merlin came out to look, Merlin became suddenly ill. The runes scrawled on the walls stopped Merlin from leaving the flat as well. Soon after that, Arthur was shot. It was a sniper shot, but poorly done, travelling clear through the muscle of Arthur’s left arm. But when he left the house after that, to try and spy where the sniper had been seated, he was treated to a burst of machine gun fire. So, now only Gwen could leave the house without anything happening to her.

Then she disappeared.

Merlin scried for her, and found that she was in a warehouse in the docks area. Somewhere underground, and shielded by a great deal of magic. But neither Arthur, who had been shot clean through the leg a few days ago, nor Merlin could go; someone had been sneaking the runes that caused his sickness into the food. For a whole day, Morgana paced the house, trying to convince herself that she had to go after Gwen. But there was another side of her brain that insisted that she could not, that someone - he - was waiting for her. Arthur and Merlin were of little help; Arthur was angry and bitter about having been shot - twice - and Merlin had been forced to sleep in the bathtub, shower on full blast. The water, he said, helped stave off the magic.

Morgana left that night.

The warehouse was not hard to find; she may not be a powerful warlock like Merlin, but she was something of a Seer, and she could see the magic wards around the building even if she had no hope of understanding the spells that made them up. The building seemed to be swamped in multi-coloured fireflies, swarming around the exterior surface like hordes of bees. None of the magic was physically in the briezeblocks and cement that made up the building, like with what Merlin had done to the Winchester hideout. That gave Morgana a small sliver of comfort; clearly, whoever had enchanted this building was not as powerful as Merlin. But then, the sadistic part of her mind reasoned, she had no idea of what Merlin was actually capable of.

She walked through the magical field, felt it buzz and hum against her skin but do nothing to actually harm her. She touched the amulet around her neck, remembering what Merlin had said when he had given it to her before she left.

"Just - think of it as a bullet-proof vest. And never take it off."

She let the silver necklace fall back beneath her velvet tunic, leaning heavily against the door with both hands to push it open. It creaked and squealed on its hinges in a way that made the hair on the nape of Morgana’s neck stand up. She shook off the intense feeling of foreboding at the sight of the vast, dark room that opened up before her, and stepped inside.

Immediately, the door slammed shut behind her. Morgana’s head whipped around, but she was now surrounded in complete darkness. She could feel it pressing against her, pushing at the back of her eyes… quickly, she flicked her hand and whispered an incantation; a small ball of light appeared in her hand, and she tossed it into the air. It hovered above her head, and cast the room in pale, bright light. Unfortunately, due to the pure white of the light, it washed all colour from whatever it touched, turning everything to disconcerting shades of black and grey.

Morgana started forward, steps firm and sure, belying the heavy knot of dread and hesitancy that was twisting in her gut. She travelled down, deep down, far further than she would ever have thought that the warehouse should go. Since when did they have cellars? But Gwen was here, lying hurt somewhere in these labyrinthine corridors. She had to find her.

A shiver passed over her spine, and she looked fearfully over her shoulder. She was not alone.

"Hello, Morgana."

The voice was soft, cold and mocking. It did not belong to a body that Morgana could see, although there was a taste of magic gone wrong on her tongue, bitter and metallic.

"Hello, Garlon," she replied to the air, careful to keep her tone calm and polite.

"Have you come to rescue the little girl?" he asked; Morgana could feel him moving around her. His breath was cold on her skin. "And," she felt him lean sideways to mockingly check behind her, "all alone? No sorcerer or knight-boy to accompany you?" He chuckled, but the humour in his voice sent chills across her skin. She supressed a shiver. "Come along then, little witch-child," Gorlan said, hands on her shoulders as he pushed her forward, steering her from behind. "Let’s go find your friend."

Further down still they went, Garlon steering Morgana down the correct corridors, his chill hands resting always on her shoulders. There was little conversation between them, for Morgana trusted the Invisible Knight as she would trust Galahaut - that is to say, not at all. She was glad, however, that his hands remained only on her shoulders; the last time they had met, it had been in daylight and she had been able to see him enough to fight him off, but the magicked light that surrounded them now rendered him truly invisible, and she doubted that she would be successful this time.

They passed a room with a huge open arch in place of a door, and Morgana was drawn to it from before they had turned the corner; a warm, rich red glow emitted from it that filled the entire corridor. Heat also, soaking into Morgana’s bones with such enthusiasm that she was tempted to lie down on the stone floor and bask in it. But Garlon’s hands held her upright, forced her forward, and when they passed the room Morgana looked inside.

A huge, golden-scaled dragon rested inside, his mighty chest rising and falling in what looked like sleep. But Morgana looked closer, and saw that one massive eyelid was open a slit, and the golden eye watched her as she passed. It was that eye which cast the glow that lit the corridor. She noticed also that the door was too narrow for the dragon to escape, and a sense of great hopelessness and desperate sadness swept through her. A single tear fell down her cheek, and she felt one cold finger wipe it away.

"Gargouille," Garlon murmered in her ear. "We took him from the river Seine at the request of the Pope; he does not sleep, although his breath entices others too. It is mostly his magic that hides this place from the mortal eye."

"Who’s ‘we’?" asked Morgana, voice equally soft, but Garlon merely said, "Come along, witch-child. A long way to go yet." Morgana only noticed that her small light had gone out when they had walked around three more corners, and the light from Gargouille’s eye had faded.

And so they travelled further down, until the corridor widened and straightened. Morgana saw a great, wide archway at the end, heralding the hall behind it. Garlon steered her through it, and she found that it was lit by warm, golden globes similar to her small light, only much larger and grander. The light was not bleaching, either; in fact, it had quite the opposite effect. All the colours were heightened, somehow, made richer by the light. Morgana suddenly felt very small.

Garlon’s hands left her shoulders, and his voice sounded from a long way behind her, back near the doorway. She turned to look at him, and saw a faint, Will o’ the Whisp outline marking him in the archway.

"One Miss Morgana, Lord. Come for the girl."

"Indeed?"

The voice boomed out across the hall, echoing and shaking Morgana from the depths of her soul. It was huge and round and not entirely friendly. She tried not to tremble as she followed where the voice had come from.

part two