To Ring the Bell Backward (Part 3)
Title: To Ring the Bell Backward
Author: talesofyesac
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3,831
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur, Arthur/Gwen, Arthur/Morgana
Warnings/Spoilers: Character death, violence ; Series 4, though possibly some tiny references to S5.
Summary:
When he tied his life to Arthur's at Camlann in a desperate attempt to
ensure that Arthur would rise again, Merlin never considered that he was
making a mistake. He'd certainly never anticipated that, centuries
later, Arthur might become everything they'd both once stood against.
But as wrong as Arthur is--and he is wrong, isn't he?--fighting him was
never something Merlin wanted to do. Unfortunately, sometimes a choice
between principles and people is inevitable. Though, in Merlin's case,
destiny may never have intended it to be a choice at all.
---------------------
[November 20th, 2007]
Morgana was at least fifteen before she realized that not all people lived lives like hers. Oh, she’d known it in the abstract, in the kind of way that you look at a historical site and imagine people living there once upon a time, but she hadn’t really been able to connect with it. Dinner parties and perfect smiles, good manners and snooty politicians-those things had been her life. From the time she’d been ten years old, her father, Gorlois, was already bringing her to those things. And why not? Even that young, she’d known how to charm, and she hadn’t been above using it.
Then she’d met Gwen.
Gwen wasn’t anything spectacular in the ways that counted for someone of Morgana’s station. But that--that had been what had made her fascinating. Gwen was nice, and as far as Morgana had been able to see, she didn’t have a reason to be. The people she was used to-they were nice because it might get them something. But Gwen-that was just who she was.
“Morgana?”
Startled, Morgana turns away from the window. Immediately, she wishes she hadn’t: there’s something about seeing the room-her room-filled with boxes that ices something inside of her.
But it’s no worse than the thought of staying here.
Tiredly, she pushes a piece of hair out of her face, her fingers slipping on the silky strands. “Yes, Gwen?”
“The movers are here.”
Two days after her father’s funeral, and everything is packed, ready to go. She really should commend them for their efficiency, but somehow it just leaves her feeling as empty as the house. She’s lived in this place for years, and yet it can all be packed away and erased in mere days. Soon, someone else will live here, and it’ll be like she was never present at all-like her father was never here at all.
“All right. Tell them to come up.”
Gwen doesn’t move: she just stands in the doorway, her forehead creased with lines of worry and her hands twisting nervously in her skirt. “Morgana-“
“There’s nothing left for me here, Gwen,” she says, cutting her off with a wave of her hand. Even that feels heavy, the effort needed to move her limb almost not worth it. She’d like to sleep, she really would, but the nightmares…
A few seconds stretch by, and then Gwen looks away, her mouth smearing out of place with a pronounced frown. “Uther Pendragon is waiting downstairs as well.”
Another sigh. Of course he is. Of course he is. “Tell him I’ll be right down.”
------------------------
[November 7th, 2013]
“You’ll stay here.”
Nodding in Morgana’s general direction, Merlin allots himself a moment to scan the room. It’s not a bad place-a bit small, maybe, but that’s rather to be expected given the circumstances. It’s not like Morgana can rent out luxury flats when the entirety of Britain is looking for her. Honestly, it’s a wonder Morgana even managed this.
He should thank her. This will mean no more nights hiding, sometimes in motels, but more often on the streets. He’ll get decent meals here. He should thank her, and he’s about to-he really is-but the words never quite make it past the tips of his lips: instead, the door swings open, and, and-
Good God. He’d never thought. He probably should have. No one important seems to stay dead-they’re all connected-but there is just something so wrong about seeing the small figure standing in the doorway, dressed in a pair of flannel pajamas-spaceships, and how much more innocuous can you get?-with a hesitant smile hanging on his lips.
He’d known Morgana had a child… but she’d disappeared from the public eye soon after. All records of the child had been kept carefully out of the press. There was no way to know that this….
“What is it, Mordred?” Morgana asks, glancing over at the boy. There’s no frustration in her face at the interruption. If anything, she looks like this is commonplace, almost expected.
“Percival’s sick, Mum. He’s throwing up and everything.”
Morgana curses quietly under her breath. She probably doesn’t intend Mordred to hear, but it’s pretty clear from the amused twist of his lips that he does.
“We don’t have any-“ Gwen tries to say.
All that gets her is a sharp nod from Morgana. “I know.”
Whatever it is that they don’t have-probably medical supplies-Morgana regroups quickly. Seconds later she’s turning to Merlin, and, yes, that is a bit surprising. She doesn’t trust him. He knows that. He doesn’t really trust her. But this-it’s possible that this is the kind of thing that bridges that. You don’t always have to trust to rely: occasionally you just have to take what you can get.
“Percival is the only surviving member of his family,” Morgana tells him, quick and clipped as she tucks her hands behind her back and holds his gaze firmly. “No magic, but his family tried to aid in a militant effort. They were, of course, detained. They might still be alive. They might not. But the night they were taken, Percival was staying over at a friend’s house.”
It pretty well goes without saying that the family of said friend probably had rebel sympathies. These days, you just don’t associate with anyone who doesn’t think like you do, and you certainly don’t entrust your children to them if they don’t hold the same principles.
“And?” His eyes flicker toward Mordred, who is still standing in the doorway, arms crossed as he leans against the doorframe. He can’t be more than six, and the way he’s standing-goodness, he looks like Morgana in his mannerisms.
“And they knew people were going to come looking for Percival.”
Merlin nods, because, yes, he knows. Say what you like about Arthur, but if he can help it, he’s not going to leave a child abandoned. Of course, they’ll go into care, which might be worse than being left alone. Oh, they’ll be safe, well fed, and cared for, but they’ll be trained to view things the proper way. No chance to ever think for themselves-not really. And if they do have magic, well, that won’t remain unchecked for long.
“I’m guessing the people Percival was staying with knew someone you were working with?” he replies tonelessly.
“Yes. We took him in.”
“You personally?”
Morgana’s eyes narrow, seeming darker as her pupils expand at the lack of entering light and fill out the green. For a moment it doesn’t seem that she’ll answer; she chews the inside of her cheek, running her gaze up and down, assessing, taking all of him in.
Whatever she sees, it settles her: she relaxes, untucking her hands from behind her. Then, with a small nod, she turns her back on him and strides across the room, those heels he’d thought so impractical earlier clicking with every step as she approaches Mordred.
No sound of heels warns him of Gwen’s approach, but her presence never was all that startling. Finding her suddenly standing at his side is rather soothing, actually. “So, she’ll take me to her own personal home, but not the base?” he asks once Morgana has swept out through a door, Mordred on her heels.
Gwen gives him a small smile, though her eyes remain fixed on the door that Morgana disappeared through. “There’s no one base, Merlin. And you’re foolish if you think she’ll stay here long.”
Fair enough. “Mordred is hers then?”
“Yes.”
“And his father?”
He loves Gwen. He does. Truly, he does, but God help anyone who threatens something she loves. That loyalty-it’s the very thing he never understood about her. She can love so much, and yet she can betray. It never made sense. It still doesn’t, but that won’t ever mitigate the ferocity in her eyes that only dredges up when she’s moved to protect something.
It’s not as though she’s aware he knows her well enough to see it now. If she was aware, she’d probably guess that she’s made it all too clear that he’s hit on something important.
Who is Mordred’s father?
“Doesn’t matter,” Gwen replies a bit tersely, eyelashes fanning up and down as she blinks just a little too rapidly. “He’s not involved.”
The clench of her fists, the hard line of her jaw-she’s just daring him to push further, but, really, he just doesn’t want to. There are things he needs to know-this will be something he needs to know, no doubt-but does he need to know if from Gwen? The churning in the bottom of his gut seems to protest-you don’t want this answer from her-and it’s true. He doesn’t want to find out from Gwen.
Merlin looks away. “All right.”
It could be a foolish decision, or it could be the best thing he’s decided in months, because that sunny smile Gwen gives him, showing all her teeth, nestled behind generous lips-it’s so welcoming that he could just let it-the feeling of it-wash over him until he’s entirely warm with it. It’s been a very long time since anyone has cared like Gwen can.
“I’ll show you to where you’ll be sleeping,” she says, this time more open, matching that smile. Her shoulders have eased back, and it doesn’t take a genius to know that something-some sort of understanding-has been struck here. They were friends back in Camelot because of things like this, and is it too much to hope that this might be the same?
“I’d like that,” is all he says before he falls into step behind her.
---------------------
[December 12th, 2013]
“Sit down, Merlin.”
Really, he better, because the chances of him being able to stand on own two feet much longer are shrinking by the moment. The gray pallor he’s got to his face-it’s not encouraging.
Making things easy, though? It was never Merlin’s preferred method of living.
“Thanks,” Merlin mutters, jerking his head away and looking off at some spot on the far wall. There’s some modern painting hanging there that reminds Arthur strangely of a dishwasher in bright colors, but eye-catching or not, he can’t imagine that Merlin actually cares to look at that. “Thanks,” he says again, laughing until the noise cracks and ebbs away, “but you’re touched in the head if you think I will.”
How can he not laugh at that? Merlin, always with the mouthy replies. “You’ll fall. Remember, you haven’t got your magic here-“
“Thanks to you-“
“-and the way you’re looking right now, a strong wind-possibly even the air conditioning-could blow you over.”
“You’re coming to the game a bit late to be concerned about my health, Arthur.”
Now that’s just not fair. Frowning, he turns away from Merlin and moves to the side of the room-yes, it was a wise decision to choose a room not overly large, because he already feels like he and Merlin are drowning in this one-where there’s a small bar. Drinks. Yes. It’s not the wine Merlin used to serve him-they don’t make that anymore, at least not like they used to-but there’s still something comforting about the splash of liquid into a cup, even if that cup is now a glass. Just for old time’s sake, maybe he’ll get a goblet or a mug. Merlin, when he’s in a better mood, might find that amusing. It’s the sort of thing he’d like.
“I’d have been present sooner if you had let me find you,” he points out as he pours the wine.
Merlin’s gaze follows him, but he doesn’t step forward, and after a few moments Arthur, tired of waiting, picks the glass up in his hand and brings it to him. The hesitant jerkiness in Merlin’s fingers is a bit worrying-will he even take the glass?-but after a few seconds of just staring at the offering, he does close his hand around it. Thank God for small miracles.
“I’m sure you would have been,” he mutters, looking bitterly away.
Again at that wall. Really, one can only stare at that painting for so long-why did his designer even choose it? “Honestly, Merlin, I doubt you like modern art; stop studying the wall. You never used to be like this.”
He’s not quite ready for the way Merlin jumps back, wine sloshing over the edge of the cup. “Well, bloody hell, Arthur,” he says, and is he laughing at this? Yes, yes he is, and he looks hysterical, with that shine to his eyes, chest pumping up and down too fast to be normal.
“Merlin-” He’ll hyperventilate if he doesn’t stop-
But he doesn’t stop.
“Never used to be like this? Arthur, you think I am the one who’s changed?”
“Merlin, stop it, don’t-“ Merlin skitters away from his touch when he reaches out, but there is at least some silver lining in that: he takes one look at the glass in his hand, laughs a little more, sounding sicker by the moment, and then he tips the glass back and downs it all in one go. It wasn’t watered. That’s got to burn. “Merlin!”
Another step back, but at least this time he’s stopped laughing. Unfortunately, the way he’s raking his hand through his hair-it’s not much better. If that wine would just kick in…
It’s clear the second that Merlin realizes the wine is drugged. The way he stops, hands falling to his sides-how he turns slowly, so slowly, to look at Arthur, eyebrows pinching in and lips pursing. “That was so stupid of me,” is all he says, looking toward the glass in his hand.
And then he turns and hurls it at the wall.
There’s really no way to blame him for that, but still, Arthur carefully takes a step towards Merlin, who, apparently realizing just how useless it’ll be to try to slip away at this point, just lets him. There’s a sort of tired defeat in that, though, that can’t be anything but disturbing: Merlin’s eyes look more gray like this, like the life that’s there is starting to wither. “You’ll feel better when you wake up,” Arthur hears himself promise. Don’t look at the wine stain on the wall. Don’t see the shattered glass on the carpet. It doesn’t mean anything.
Merlin just gives him a caustic smile. “Oh? And how do you reckon?”
He settles his hands gently on Merlin’s elbows, bracing him. Already Merlin is starting to sway, his eyes going a little unfocused. It matters, though, the way Merlin leans into him, letting Arthur take his weight. Merlin will deny it-will deny any sort of remaining trust, but it is there. “You won’t have to be awake for any of it. And I’m not taking your magic away. It will still be there when you wake up.”
Merlin’s lips draw back in what is probably supposed to be a bitter smile but really looks more like a snarl. “Arthur-Arthur, how can you do this? I-I couldn’t do anything differently-how could you?” He shakes his head almost frantically, hair flopping down into his eyes as he shivers against Arthur’s fingers. “You’re different, and I’m-I’m not. Was supposed to kill you. And I can’t.”
Abruptly, he pitches forward and into Arthur’s chest. Catching him-it’s just like it was whenever he had to do it back in Camelot. That time with the poisoned chalice is particularly memorable. Moving Merlin back to his quarters then might have even been more difficult, actually-Merlin seems to have lost weight in the recent months. Yet another thing to berate Morgana for, but there will be time enough for that when he catches up with her too.
“Kill me, Merlin? After all the times you were willing to exchange your life for mine, I rather think it would be a bit like killing yourself.”
“Maybe.” He’s almost incoherent now, just a dead weight, clinging. His grip will probably leave bruises, what with the way he’s clutching Arthur’s upper arms like he’s afraid to let go. Even with his head falling forward down onto Arthur’s shoulder, he still doesn’t let go. That’s got to mean something, right? “Maybe. Might-I might-be… might be bad as you. Did I do this? Did I-did I?”
“No, Merlin.” A quick exhale then, because Merlin’s not heavy, but dead weight is never light. Just a few more seconds, then he can lower Merlin to the ground. Just a few more… “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, and I won’t let anything happen to you, but you didn’t do this.”
“Were…” Merlin stops, swallowing. “Were we… ever friends?”
That at least deserves some thought, though not for the reasons Merlin thinks. “Maybe not,” Arthur admits finally, just as Merlin’s eyes are slipping closed. “If there were a word for bound by destiny, that’s what we’d be. Friendship can’t describe something like that-being friends doesn’t matter enough to be what we are.”
Merlin sighs against him. He’s almost out of it. He’ll need help once he’s fully unconscious-a proper wash, maybe even an IV. Where the hell has he even been in the last year?
“Arthur…”
“Yes. I’m here, Merlin, you know that.”
A deep, even breath is his only answer. It could be a sigh. It could be the last of Merlin’s consciousness. Hard to tell.
Finally, though, Arthur just reaches down and scoops Merlin up. Too light-entirely too light. Merlin-he’ll need a lot of things. Food, a bath, proper care, and obviously some time. He’ll need to understand, and no one has helped him with that, has cared like Arthur cares to help him into that. Getting Merlin back-it’s a little like getting a part of himself back, actually. And nothing matters more than putting this all back together.
“It’s destiny for a reason, Merlin,” he murmurs. “And that’s not something you can change, whether or not you want to.”
------------------
[August 25th, 2007]
“So you’re Morgana.”
It wasn’t intended as a question, and she doesn’t mean to take it like one. Blonde, rude, and smirking doesn’t deserve the courtesy. “I’m not drunk enough for this,” she says irritably, signaling to the bartender for another drink.
“It’s not exactly a prime place to get drunk.”
“A social function? I rather think it is.” Does he really not think half these people are in their cups? Just because Mrs. So-and-so has a lovely dress and perfectly coiffed hair does not mean she’s beyond reproach. “I don’t know how you manage, but about the only time I can talk to half these people is when I’m drunk.”
That at least draws a smile-a real one; not the smarmy smirk he’s been displaying thus far-out of him, and uninvited, he leans over against the bar next to her. A few feet away some random associate of his father’s-because who isn’t an associate of Uther’s?-glances at them with interest, but he doesn’t say anything before he shifts away a few moments later, pretending he never looked at all. “I really wasn’t looking forward to meeting you, you know,” he says almost conversationally.
Does he really think that’s acceptable for a first conversation? Actually, it could be. Yes, it really could. Circumstances and all that. “Mutual,” she says, shrugging and accepting the drink from the bartender.
She gets flashed a smile for her trouble. “Yeah?” And how does anyone look so pleased at being told they’re not wanted? “C’mon, I don’t believe that.”
“Then you’re an idiot as well as a prat.”
“You don’t,” he says, raising his eyebrow with a bit of irritation now, “know me.”
“And, frankly, I’m satisfied with that.”
One blink, then another, before Arthur Pendragon looks away, signaling the bartender for a drink for himself as well. Just as well. If they’re going to have what’s looking to be an inevitable conversation, they’ll both need alcohol in their systems.
“Look,” she says, cutting him off with a flip of her hand before he gets around to opening that big mouth again, “your father hasn’t been welcome at my house in years, and God knows why he thinks he needs to help me now, but I can assure you, I don’t want his help. Or yours.”
“Strange.” He shrugs and takes a drink. “Because your mother seemed to think you needed it.”
Damn him to Hell. Both him and Uther. What right did Pendragon junior have to see that letter? None. None at all. “God knows why,” she all but snarls. “And just because my mother left your father some strange letter with a reason good enough to touch whatever heart your father has, it doesn’t mean I want your help.”
There is nothing attractive about the way his brows pinch together as he regards her. He shouldn’t be conscious of the fact that, sitting like this, her dress is just low enough for him to-oh, yes, and there he goes. “Eyes on my face,” she snaps.
He laughs. “Then don’t wear a dress like that.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t want people to look. I just don’t want you to.”
Another smile, this one wide enough to display teeth that are slightly crooked. Didn’t Uther Pendragon have the money to pay for braces? “I didn’t read the letter, you know,” he says finally, leaning back in his chair and taking another sip. “I don’t know what your mother said to my father.”
“But you know he said something.”
“At this point, most people do.”
Bother the fact that she’s at a political function: she flips him a rude gesture. If anything, though, he looks amused, almost entertained, and she really only succeeds in drawing the wide-eyed stares of a few society wives standing nearby. Well, good for them. It’s not like she cares for the opinion of someone who appears to have a bird nesting in her hair. Honestly, who told Mrs. What’s-Her-Name that her hair looks good like that? And the lady next to her-her husband is sleeping with her best friend, which everyone seems to know except for her. They can damn well concentrate on their own lives before they pick at hers.
“Come have a dance with me,” Arthur says abruptly, placing his glace down on the nearest surface.
When she was younger, her mother warned her that if she rolled her eyes too much they’d get stuck. But this boy? He makes the possibility worth it. “I’m afraid I’d have to be much more drunk before I’d consider that.”
Goodness, that wasn’t a challenge. Already, though, he’s flagging down the bartender. “She’ll have another one,” he says, crossing his arms and grinning. “Something strong.”
Part 4