To Ring the Bell Backward (Part 4)
Title: To Ring the Bell Backward
Author: talesofyesac
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,117
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 8th, 2013]
“I really don’t trust you, you know,” Morgana says.
Merlin looks up from where he’s tapping his fingers against the tabletop. “No, really?”
“And I want you to know that if you even think of selling us out, I’ll cut your lying tongue out and shove it down your throat.”
Charming as ever, Morgana is. “Sounds unpleasant,” he mutters a bit tonelessly, going back to his tapping.
“I’m not joking.”
“Didn’t think you were.” Tap, tap, tap.
Morgana’s scare tactics probably work on other people. Once, they worked on him. Of course, by this point in his life, he’s seen her raze whole towns out of malice, so the fact that this time she’s actually fighting for the same thing as he is leaves her lacking the amount of punch she did before. At least she’s not actively trying to kill him-she’s only threatening to try.
He’ll pay attention when she actually starts actively trying to murder him again.
When he finally does look up, it’s to find her scowling. She doesn’t look quite so pretty like that. Oh, breathtaking, certainly, but only the sort of man who fancies getting stabbed in his sleep would want her when she looks like that.
Apparently fed up with his half-attention, she throws something onto the table in front of him.
“What’s that?” Sitting here in a small room with no windows, poorly lit-he can’t believe it’s anything good. When she’d come back from checking on Percival, she’d pulled him right in here, and one look at the peeling brown wallpaper and dusty table and he’d doubted this meeting was going to be a good one. So far she’s proving him right.
“Show of good faith.”
Carefully, he reaches out and pulls the folder toward him. It’s not anything particularly special to look at: just a regular plastic binder, dark blue, unlabeled. The material feels a bit tacky under his touch, and it’s easy to pull it back with the pads of his fingers until the cover opens and flops away to reveal the first page.
Oh. Well.
As far as good faith goes, what he sees doesn’t give him a lot of faith in himself. That’s… him, right there, easily photographed. Arthur… he’s been extensive. And if he’s got this much, Merlin has to admit that he’s done a pretty lousy job covering his tracks.
“If I were a psychopath, I might be honored by the amount of time he’s spent on this,” Merlin admits, skimming his fingers over the sheets.
Morgana leans back and cracks her knuckles. “I think you still should.”
Every school picture. Notices of his marks in school. Pictures of the inside of his house where he grew up. Shots taken of him on the streets-and that really does explain all those times he felt a warning prickle deep in the core of his magic. If he hadn’t had that warning, whoever had the camera probably would have gotten more than a blurry photo of him walking in a crowd before he disappeared.
There are, of course, no doctor’s records-he never went to the doctor. Why would he? He’d had magic. His parents hadn’t wanted that discovered, obviously for good reason. Just about every other vital stat is there, though: height, age, approximate weight, known habits, bank account status-before he stopped using it-and list of places he’s been sighted. Even friends, people he associated with. Things about his parents. His genealogy this time around.
There’s no question that Arthur wants to find him very, very badly.
“How did you get a hold of this?” he asks as he flips the page and finds a map detailing all of his suspected locations. It’s scarily accurate, which is more than a little irritating-he thought he’d done better than this.
“Informant in his office.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. And he’s the reason you’re here. He vouched for you.”
Now that’s interesting: already he’s leaning forward, waiting… because she’ll come out with it soon. She always did like her suspense, but it’s the reveal she truly revels in.
Accordingly, she leans forward, placing her hands flat down on the table in front of her. “A Lance DuLac?”
Hot. Right up his skin, flushing all the way up his neck, and then it just drains away until he can’t feel anything at all. Morgana is looking at him strangely, so it probably shows, but he can’t be pressed to care much at the moment. Lancelot. He’d thought… well, when Lance had joined up with the government, wanting to do big things-to help-Merlin had been sure that this was just one more thing that was going to be different. Sure, Lance had still been earnest as ever, determined to do good, but he’d been trying to do it for the wrong side… a little like Arthur.
It hadn’t started out so bad, though-Arthur’s government, that is. At first, he’d just been cleaning up everyone else’s messes. And Lance had wanted to help.
“Apparently when he realized what was going on with magic, he defected. Arthur-I guess he didn’t suspect.”
Probably not. Any betrayal Arthur expected from Lance likely had to do with Gwen. Any suspicious behavior was probably just chalked up to Lancelot sleeping with Arthur’s wife. Probably this time Arthur even expected it.
God only knows why he married Gwen a second time.
“Where is Lance?” Pretty damn hard to talk when his mouth feels like cotton, but he manages it.
“At the moment? Still employed by Arthur.”
“And you’re letting him stay? You know it’s only a matter of time before Arthur realizes-“
“And what?” she snaps, bracing one foot on the table leg. “You think we don’t lose anyone in something like this? I’m not going to pull out one of the best resources we have just because this is dangerous. It’s all dangerous. Just living is dangerous now.”
Yeah, she would think that. Like lives don’t matter. “You shouldn’t take unnecessary risks!”
“I think it’s pretty well necessary, Merlin.”
Breathe in, breathe out. It’s just… this is not what he wanted. He did this. He could have stopped it, let Arthur die at Camlann.
Looking away, he swallows. Guilt-it never fails to taste bitter. “All right,” he says slowly, nodding and hating the way she hardly even blinks. “Arthur knows a lot about me. What’s that to you?”
She merely shrugs, tongue darting out to wet her lips. “He’ll risk a lot to get what he wants. And I think there’s something about you that’s got him wanting to find you badly enough to take those risks.”
That’s an understatement. “All right. Say that’s true. What does that mean for your plans?”
She doesn’t bother denying that she does have plans. He never expected her to, and so he just follows her hand with his eyes as she taps her fingers rapidly down in succession, beating out a noise on the tabletop like he was doing only moments before. “I want to use you to draw him out.”
Good God, it’s going to be like working with Arthur all over again. You be the bait, Merlin. Always. Bloody Pendragons. “And?”
“Get a little better idea of just what he knows. I’m sure he’s got some of our networks tapped-probably has some people right in our ranks.” Pausing, she clenches her hand up into a fist. “My brother is good-there’s no denying that. I want to slowly release your whereabouts to a few sources at a time. Flush out where he gets his information from.”
Pretty good logic, he has to admit. Arthur could have a spy, probably someone entirely obvious and yet so trustworthy that they won’t be considered. A good man, probably. Because good men? They follow Arthur. He draws people, and once that was a good thing. Now-now it is why good men like Lance were still convinced to follow him… at least for a while.
If Merlin had his way, he’d just put his head down right now and never raise it again. So many mistakes, and Arthur shouldn’t be like this. But he is. He is. And now that’s got to be stopped. No point in running now.
“Yeah,” he tells Morgana, and if he kneads at his forehead with his palm, what of it? Who wouldn’t have a headache at this point? “Yeah, I’ll do it.”
-------------------
[October 3rd, 2005]
When Arthur was young, he thought his father was larger than life. It’d still be easy to think that, actually, watching him give a speech in Parliament. There’s just something about Uther Pendragon that draws the eye: agree or disagree, every gaze in the House is on him, and he’s making his case like it’s not even a question at all.
“Power of this sort cannot go unchecked! Magic may not be inherently evil, but it is a weapon-currently one that we have no way of suppressing if the need arises. Statistics show that the rate of crimes involving magic has gone up in recent years.”
Yeah, like Arthur hasn’t heard that before. Every day at dinner… which is really about the only time he sees his father. A normal conversation for that short time? Heh, no. They can’t ever just talk about the potatoes-This is a wonderful meal, isn’t it?-or Arthur’s day at uni-And how were your classes?-because God forbid that they would go a day without having it reiterated just how dangerous magic is becoming
“Magic needs to be monitored! We need to possess a way of containing it and tracking it should it be used improperly.”
This’ll be a bill passed. Even sitting back and watching, Arthur can see that. Kings don’t address Parliament like this, Uther was told. The monarchy is a figurehead only. Yes, well, not when Uther Pendragon becomes king. If he wants, he’ll damn well give his speech to Parliament. It’s even backed by the Prime Minister-and it’s not like it’s a secret that Uther voted for the current Minister’s party. No one has come right out and said it, of course, but it’s not all that hard to tell. Kind of like it’s not all that hard to tell this bill will pass. Sure, there are minority parties in opposition, and this won’t be a landslide vote, but there’s not much doubt that this is going to end in Uther’s favor.
“I’m well-aware of the arguments,” Uther continues, plowing right on. “Implanting a chip with the capability to suppress magic is a violation of rights. It’s invasive. It’s discriminatory. And I would answer by saying it is only any of those things if the magic user proves to be incapable of using their talents properly. If they are responsible, law-abiding citizens, the chip need never be activated. It will in no way interfere with their lives.”
That’s enough for one day. Arthur could stay and listen to the rest of his father’s speech, but it’s a little like watching re-runs: he already knows the ending. Might as well go do something else. Maybe see if any of his buddies are up for a game of footie. Holidays are nice like that, and pretty soon he’ll be right back studying. As it is, he’s only here because this is supposedly monumental-an age-changing speech. Maybe it is. Really, though, doesn’t he hear his father talk enough as it is?
Shrugging off the offended looks of those he disturbs when he brushes past them toward the exit, Prince Arthur Pendragon makes his way out of the building.
-----------------
[December 12th, 2013]
Merlin comes back around slowly. There’s no difficulty in recognizing when it starts to happen, even if the process is slow-mere inches, really. He shifts more, eyes moving under his lids, violent enough that the motion seems to ripple down his eyelashes. Even his fingers twitch, just barely, but enough that it’s visible-hinting that he’s very physically trying to claw his way back into reality.
Finally, his eyes flicker open, and all Arthur can find it in himself to do is just sigh a little at the sight. This won’t be pretty. It has to happen, though. There’s no recourse for it.
“The doctor says you’re malnourished.”
Merlin takes one deep breath, his chest rising and falling in a heavy sigh. “That’s what happens when you live off canned vegetables-if you’re lucky to get even that-for a year.”
Arthur leans forward in his chair. “No one made you live on the streets, Merlin.”
“I’m rather certain you did, Arthur.”
More than likely he wants to say something more, but the urge falls to what is probably necessity: looking at his surroundings seems to take precedent. Whatever the reason, his lips thin, tightly closed, while his eyes open just a bit wider, tracking from side to side even as his head remains completely still on the pillow.
“Nice place,” is all he says.
Yes, it is. It’s not quite Buckingham Palace, but that didn’t exactly seem the appropriate venue for a meeting like this. His own private building, smack in the middle of London-it felt more suited to what he needs. Less like a matter of state; more personal.
“It’s a bit different from what I was always used to,” Arthur answers. The chair is just a little too soft, and so he shifts, grinning when Merlin finally turns his head toward him.
Some days he finds he misses the castle. The hard lines of modern architecture can be so abrupt, and occasionally he can’t suppress the longing for the stone, the rich tapestries where modern art now hangs, the roar of a fireplace that’s been sacrificed for a heating system-the light of candles that has been snuffed out in the face of electricity. This new lighting-no matter what, it seems harsh. Candlelight was so much softer.
Still, this is nice enough: rich crème walls, accented with blue, comfortable furniture, an expansive rug under the bed, leaving just enough room for the hardwood to make a striking appearance closer toward the wall where he won’t have to feel its cold on his feet in the morning. Glass has come a long away, too-he certainly won’t complain about the set of large windows looking out over the city. That, at least, gives him softer light, especially in the morning when it creeps into the room, slowly at first, like it’s not quite sure it’s welcome, and then surging forward once assured.
Maybe he’ll let Merlin have this room. The place has enough bedrooms, anyway. This is his favorite, yes-the most welcoming-but Merlin probably needs that right now more than he does.
“I don’t much fancy the IV.”
When had he turned away to look toward the window? Obviously, Merlin noticed, because when Arthur glances back, Merlin is staring at him through half-lidded eyes, waiting for… something. Whatever it is, he doesn’t seem to find it, and how annoying and just like Merlin it is to look away before Arthur can get a decent read on exactly what Merlin is searching for.
Fine then. Easier just to reach out and finger the tubing, ignoring the irritation directed at him. “You need it.”
“Why? Because I might die?”
All Arthur can manage to do is snort. “You that anxious to head back to Avalon?”
“Dunno. Don’t remember it. Suppose I won’t until I get back.”
“Mmm.” He drops the tubing of the IV, though he doesn’t lean back, instead preferring to prop his face in one hand and wait for Merlin to make the next move. Some people play chess; he and Merlin play Life… without the brightly colored cards declaring someone found the cure for the common cold. Though, who knows-maybe they’ll get to that eventually. It’s not like they don’t have the time.
“Where is it?”
No need to ask what he means. “As if I’d tell you. And don’t try to magically detect it. You do that, it’ll immediately shut your magic down until you stop trying.”
Scowling, Merlin flops his head back down hard into the pillow, despite the fact that he’d never really picked it up to begin with. “You put a magic suppressor in me, Arthur.”
No doubt those words are meant as an accusation. They do pretty well as one, too: that burning unease in his gut feels a lot like guilt. Really, though, Merlin has to know, has to understand why he did this. It’s not out of spite-not out of any desire to hurt Merlin, and doesn’t he know that?
ldquo;Yeah,” he murmurs, staring down at his hands. “I suppose I did. What do you want? An apology? I won’t give you one.”
A hint of breath slips past Merlin’s lips, more like a soft snort than anything, and then he just tips his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Surprise, surprise.”
Yeah? Maybe that isn’t a surprise to Merlin, but watching him suddenly roll over and drag himself out of bed isn’t exactly planned. That is a surprise. It’s a jumpstart to Arthur’s limbs, and before Merlin even makes it off the bed, Arthur has his hands on Merlin’s shoulders, trying to push him back down-and if he really tries, it’s not as though there’s any doubt he’ll succeed. Merlin just needs to sit back down. That’s all.
But no-it doesn’t happen. All he gets is a blank, hard stare. Merlin hardly even blinks, to the point where he seems unnatural, almost frozen in time. “I think you’re a little bit insane, Arthur,” he says finally.
And then he pulls back and throws a punch.
Damn it all to hell-that hurts. Element of surprise or some nonsense. Whatever. Something. Damn it all. Fractured pain explodes outward, straight up his eye and into the back of his skull. Achy sharp, stomach turning pain, and just twist, throw a punch back, only he never really does, just closes his hands around Merlin’s arm and, and-
Merlin looks pleased.
“Go on then,” he urges, snarling, or smiling or-or something…
No. Not-no. Pull back, don’t let go, but don’t leave bruises. Merlin just doesn’t understand, and even if he never does, he’s still Merlin, and that matters. “I did what I had to, Merlin. And now I need your help.” Breathe in, breathe out. And Merlin just keeps staring at him, their faces inches apart, so together. Two sides of a coin, only now the coin has melted until it’s hard to tell who is on what side.
“Well,” Merlin breathes out, nostrils flaring slightly, “then you can just go to Hell, because I won’t give it.”
One small shove has Merlin back down. Absently, Arthur notices that the IV has slipped out. Big surprise. More than likely that happened when Merlin hit him. “War hasn’t changed all that much, Merlin. The longer it drags on, the more people die. And don’t mistake me in this-I will create unity, with or without your help. But more people will die without your help. Do you want that?” Oh, no, Merlin is not going to look away, and, yes, it does mean reaching out and jerking his face back up with somewhat rough hands, but it’s worth it. This has to happen. “Do you?”
“I want you to stop.”
“Oh? So everything Nimueh has done? You wanted me to leave that mess for someone else to clean up?”
He’s going to look uncertain now? Excellent timing-just fabulous. Serve him right to have that paleness smacked off his face, right along with that trembling mouth. Merlin doesn’t get to be unsure now. “No? You didn’t? So it was all right when the government was in disarray? But not now? What’s your standard, Merlin?”
Merlin comes alive a little at that, regaining a bit of that righteous anger. It is, at least, something of a relief to see color heat the pale of his cheeks. “You’ve become a tyrant, Arthur. You took over. Why won’t you give back over power? And taking the magic-“
“Is necessary.”
“No-“
In a flurry of movement, Merlin makes to rise from the bed again, but Arthur has his hands out, catching him before he can. “Don’t be stupid, Merlin: lie back down. You need the rest. You’re not leaving, and we’ll talk later.”
A few quick steps have him across the room, and, ignoring Merlin’s gaping face and garbled protests, he quickly punches in the code to open the door and then slips through before Merlin can really make any motion to move out of the bed. Who knows, maybe after Arthur leaves, he might even sleep. If not, it’s not like the surveillance system Arthur has hooked up in the room won’t let him know, and drugging Merlin again isn’t entirely out of the question. He won’t make himself sick-won’t be allowed to, not here-not when it can be prevented.
“Arthur--!” he hears, just a word hanging in the wind from the door when he pushes it shut.
The lock clicks. Engaged. That’ll do for now.
------------------
[August 25th, 2007]
She’s drunk. She’s honest to God drunk, no denying it. She’s tried, but about the time-oh, there goes her shoe, off into the corner-she’d tripped over nothing… drunk. Yes.
“You’re-you’re-“ Arthur mumbles, getting all squinty-eyed and, uh, confused, and she’s giggling, laughing, letting him push her back onto a bed. Getting a closer look is all-still all squinty. Heh, a closer look. Yeah. That’s what he’s doing. “You’re…” He stops, and he looks funny with his mouth pouty like that. “Why haven’t we done this before?”
“Didn’t know each other,” she points out, clearly very helpfully, and why not help a little more and get that shirt off him?
“We should have,” he mutters. Why won’t he move? Let her get that shirt off-there he goes. Better. It’s… somewhere off. In the corner. Maybe. Or the bed. Or the… is it on the fan?
But, yeah-this. Earlier. They really should have. He’s a very, very good kisser.
And, no, why is he-what is he doing? “Morgana.” He stopped kissing her just to say her name? Well, all right, names are good, and hers is rather lovely, but honestly- “You just-you seem familiar.”
That’s nice. His skin is smooth, but there’s stubble there on his chin. Fingers feel odd on it. Sort of like if she ran them over sandpaper, maybe? She never has. Never… his hair is soft, though. Very soft. And he’s saying familiar over again, not now, though, because he’s kissing her again, and, yes, that’s very nice, yes…
Part 5
Author: talesofyesac
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,117
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 8th, 2013]
“I really don’t trust you, you know,” Morgana says.
Merlin looks up from where he’s tapping his fingers against the tabletop. “No, really?”
“And I want you to know that if you even think of selling us out, I’ll cut your lying tongue out and shove it down your throat.”
Charming as ever, Morgana is. “Sounds unpleasant,” he mutters a bit tonelessly, going back to his tapping.
“I’m not joking.”
“Didn’t think you were.” Tap, tap, tap.
Morgana’s scare tactics probably work on other people. Once, they worked on him. Of course, by this point in his life, he’s seen her raze whole towns out of malice, so the fact that this time she’s actually fighting for the same thing as he is leaves her lacking the amount of punch she did before. At least she’s not actively trying to kill him-she’s only threatening to try.
He’ll pay attention when she actually starts actively trying to murder him again.
When he finally does look up, it’s to find her scowling. She doesn’t look quite so pretty like that. Oh, breathtaking, certainly, but only the sort of man who fancies getting stabbed in his sleep would want her when she looks like that.
Apparently fed up with his half-attention, she throws something onto the table in front of him.
“What’s that?” Sitting here in a small room with no windows, poorly lit-he can’t believe it’s anything good. When she’d come back from checking on Percival, she’d pulled him right in here, and one look at the peeling brown wallpaper and dusty table and he’d doubted this meeting was going to be a good one. So far she’s proving him right.
“Show of good faith.”
Carefully, he reaches out and pulls the folder toward him. It’s not anything particularly special to look at: just a regular plastic binder, dark blue, unlabeled. The material feels a bit tacky under his touch, and it’s easy to pull it back with the pads of his fingers until the cover opens and flops away to reveal the first page.
Oh. Well.
As far as good faith goes, what he sees doesn’t give him a lot of faith in himself. That’s… him, right there, easily photographed. Arthur… he’s been extensive. And if he’s got this much, Merlin has to admit that he’s done a pretty lousy job covering his tracks.
“If I were a psychopath, I might be honored by the amount of time he’s spent on this,” Merlin admits, skimming his fingers over the sheets.
Morgana leans back and cracks her knuckles. “I think you still should.”
Every school picture. Notices of his marks in school. Pictures of the inside of his house where he grew up. Shots taken of him on the streets-and that really does explain all those times he felt a warning prickle deep in the core of his magic. If he hadn’t had that warning, whoever had the camera probably would have gotten more than a blurry photo of him walking in a crowd before he disappeared.
There are, of course, no doctor’s records-he never went to the doctor. Why would he? He’d had magic. His parents hadn’t wanted that discovered, obviously for good reason. Just about every other vital stat is there, though: height, age, approximate weight, known habits, bank account status-before he stopped using it-and list of places he’s been sighted. Even friends, people he associated with. Things about his parents. His genealogy this time around.
There’s no question that Arthur wants to find him very, very badly.
“How did you get a hold of this?” he asks as he flips the page and finds a map detailing all of his suspected locations. It’s scarily accurate, which is more than a little irritating-he thought he’d done better than this.
“Informant in his office.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. And he’s the reason you’re here. He vouched for you.”
Now that’s interesting: already he’s leaning forward, waiting… because she’ll come out with it soon. She always did like her suspense, but it’s the reveal she truly revels in.
Accordingly, she leans forward, placing her hands flat down on the table in front of her. “A Lance DuLac?”
Hot. Right up his skin, flushing all the way up his neck, and then it just drains away until he can’t feel anything at all. Morgana is looking at him strangely, so it probably shows, but he can’t be pressed to care much at the moment. Lancelot. He’d thought… well, when Lance had joined up with the government, wanting to do big things-to help-Merlin had been sure that this was just one more thing that was going to be different. Sure, Lance had still been earnest as ever, determined to do good, but he’d been trying to do it for the wrong side… a little like Arthur.
It hadn’t started out so bad, though-Arthur’s government, that is. At first, he’d just been cleaning up everyone else’s messes. And Lance had wanted to help.
“Apparently when he realized what was going on with magic, he defected. Arthur-I guess he didn’t suspect.”
Probably not. Any betrayal Arthur expected from Lance likely had to do with Gwen. Any suspicious behavior was probably just chalked up to Lancelot sleeping with Arthur’s wife. Probably this time Arthur even expected it.
God only knows why he married Gwen a second time.
“Where is Lance?” Pretty damn hard to talk when his mouth feels like cotton, but he manages it.
“At the moment? Still employed by Arthur.”
“And you’re letting him stay? You know it’s only a matter of time before Arthur realizes-“
“And what?” she snaps, bracing one foot on the table leg. “You think we don’t lose anyone in something like this? I’m not going to pull out one of the best resources we have just because this is dangerous. It’s all dangerous. Just living is dangerous now.”
Yeah, she would think that. Like lives don’t matter. “You shouldn’t take unnecessary risks!”
“I think it’s pretty well necessary, Merlin.”
Breathe in, breathe out. It’s just… this is not what he wanted. He did this. He could have stopped it, let Arthur die at Camlann.
Looking away, he swallows. Guilt-it never fails to taste bitter. “All right,” he says slowly, nodding and hating the way she hardly even blinks. “Arthur knows a lot about me. What’s that to you?”
She merely shrugs, tongue darting out to wet her lips. “He’ll risk a lot to get what he wants. And I think there’s something about you that’s got him wanting to find you badly enough to take those risks.”
That’s an understatement. “All right. Say that’s true. What does that mean for your plans?”
She doesn’t bother denying that she does have plans. He never expected her to, and so he just follows her hand with his eyes as she taps her fingers rapidly down in succession, beating out a noise on the tabletop like he was doing only moments before. “I want to use you to draw him out.”
Good God, it’s going to be like working with Arthur all over again. You be the bait, Merlin. Always. Bloody Pendragons. “And?”
“Get a little better idea of just what he knows. I’m sure he’s got some of our networks tapped-probably has some people right in our ranks.” Pausing, she clenches her hand up into a fist. “My brother is good-there’s no denying that. I want to slowly release your whereabouts to a few sources at a time. Flush out where he gets his information from.”
Pretty good logic, he has to admit. Arthur could have a spy, probably someone entirely obvious and yet so trustworthy that they won’t be considered. A good man, probably. Because good men? They follow Arthur. He draws people, and once that was a good thing. Now-now it is why good men like Lance were still convinced to follow him… at least for a while.
If Merlin had his way, he’d just put his head down right now and never raise it again. So many mistakes, and Arthur shouldn’t be like this. But he is. He is. And now that’s got to be stopped. No point in running now.
“Yeah,” he tells Morgana, and if he kneads at his forehead with his palm, what of it? Who wouldn’t have a headache at this point? “Yeah, I’ll do it.”
-------------------
[October 3rd, 2005]
When Arthur was young, he thought his father was larger than life. It’d still be easy to think that, actually, watching him give a speech in Parliament. There’s just something about Uther Pendragon that draws the eye: agree or disagree, every gaze in the House is on him, and he’s making his case like it’s not even a question at all.
“Power of this sort cannot go unchecked! Magic may not be inherently evil, but it is a weapon-currently one that we have no way of suppressing if the need arises. Statistics show that the rate of crimes involving magic has gone up in recent years.”
Yeah, like Arthur hasn’t heard that before. Every day at dinner… which is really about the only time he sees his father. A normal conversation for that short time? Heh, no. They can’t ever just talk about the potatoes-This is a wonderful meal, isn’t it?-or Arthur’s day at uni-And how were your classes?-because God forbid that they would go a day without having it reiterated just how dangerous magic is becoming
“Magic needs to be monitored! We need to possess a way of containing it and tracking it should it be used improperly.”
This’ll be a bill passed. Even sitting back and watching, Arthur can see that. Kings don’t address Parliament like this, Uther was told. The monarchy is a figurehead only. Yes, well, not when Uther Pendragon becomes king. If he wants, he’ll damn well give his speech to Parliament. It’s even backed by the Prime Minister-and it’s not like it’s a secret that Uther voted for the current Minister’s party. No one has come right out and said it, of course, but it’s not all that hard to tell. Kind of like it’s not all that hard to tell this bill will pass. Sure, there are minority parties in opposition, and this won’t be a landslide vote, but there’s not much doubt that this is going to end in Uther’s favor.
“I’m well-aware of the arguments,” Uther continues, plowing right on. “Implanting a chip with the capability to suppress magic is a violation of rights. It’s invasive. It’s discriminatory. And I would answer by saying it is only any of those things if the magic user proves to be incapable of using their talents properly. If they are responsible, law-abiding citizens, the chip need never be activated. It will in no way interfere with their lives.”
That’s enough for one day. Arthur could stay and listen to the rest of his father’s speech, but it’s a little like watching re-runs: he already knows the ending. Might as well go do something else. Maybe see if any of his buddies are up for a game of footie. Holidays are nice like that, and pretty soon he’ll be right back studying. As it is, he’s only here because this is supposedly monumental-an age-changing speech. Maybe it is. Really, though, doesn’t he hear his father talk enough as it is?
Shrugging off the offended looks of those he disturbs when he brushes past them toward the exit, Prince Arthur Pendragon makes his way out of the building.
-----------------
[December 12th, 2013]
Merlin comes back around slowly. There’s no difficulty in recognizing when it starts to happen, even if the process is slow-mere inches, really. He shifts more, eyes moving under his lids, violent enough that the motion seems to ripple down his eyelashes. Even his fingers twitch, just barely, but enough that it’s visible-hinting that he’s very physically trying to claw his way back into reality.
Finally, his eyes flicker open, and all Arthur can find it in himself to do is just sigh a little at the sight. This won’t be pretty. It has to happen, though. There’s no recourse for it.
“The doctor says you’re malnourished.”
Merlin takes one deep breath, his chest rising and falling in a heavy sigh. “That’s what happens when you live off canned vegetables-if you’re lucky to get even that-for a year.”
Arthur leans forward in his chair. “No one made you live on the streets, Merlin.”
“I’m rather certain you did, Arthur.”
More than likely he wants to say something more, but the urge falls to what is probably necessity: looking at his surroundings seems to take precedent. Whatever the reason, his lips thin, tightly closed, while his eyes open just a bit wider, tracking from side to side even as his head remains completely still on the pillow.
“Nice place,” is all he says.
Yes, it is. It’s not quite Buckingham Palace, but that didn’t exactly seem the appropriate venue for a meeting like this. His own private building, smack in the middle of London-it felt more suited to what he needs. Less like a matter of state; more personal.
“It’s a bit different from what I was always used to,” Arthur answers. The chair is just a little too soft, and so he shifts, grinning when Merlin finally turns his head toward him.
Some days he finds he misses the castle. The hard lines of modern architecture can be so abrupt, and occasionally he can’t suppress the longing for the stone, the rich tapestries where modern art now hangs, the roar of a fireplace that’s been sacrificed for a heating system-the light of candles that has been snuffed out in the face of electricity. This new lighting-no matter what, it seems harsh. Candlelight was so much softer.
Still, this is nice enough: rich crème walls, accented with blue, comfortable furniture, an expansive rug under the bed, leaving just enough room for the hardwood to make a striking appearance closer toward the wall where he won’t have to feel its cold on his feet in the morning. Glass has come a long away, too-he certainly won’t complain about the set of large windows looking out over the city. That, at least, gives him softer light, especially in the morning when it creeps into the room, slowly at first, like it’s not quite sure it’s welcome, and then surging forward once assured.
Maybe he’ll let Merlin have this room. The place has enough bedrooms, anyway. This is his favorite, yes-the most welcoming-but Merlin probably needs that right now more than he does.
“I don’t much fancy the IV.”
When had he turned away to look toward the window? Obviously, Merlin noticed, because when Arthur glances back, Merlin is staring at him through half-lidded eyes, waiting for… something. Whatever it is, he doesn’t seem to find it, and how annoying and just like Merlin it is to look away before Arthur can get a decent read on exactly what Merlin is searching for.
Fine then. Easier just to reach out and finger the tubing, ignoring the irritation directed at him. “You need it.”
“Why? Because I might die?”
All Arthur can manage to do is snort. “You that anxious to head back to Avalon?”
“Dunno. Don’t remember it. Suppose I won’t until I get back.”
“Mmm.” He drops the tubing of the IV, though he doesn’t lean back, instead preferring to prop his face in one hand and wait for Merlin to make the next move. Some people play chess; he and Merlin play Life… without the brightly colored cards declaring someone found the cure for the common cold. Though, who knows-maybe they’ll get to that eventually. It’s not like they don’t have the time.
“Where is it?”
No need to ask what he means. “As if I’d tell you. And don’t try to magically detect it. You do that, it’ll immediately shut your magic down until you stop trying.”
Scowling, Merlin flops his head back down hard into the pillow, despite the fact that he’d never really picked it up to begin with. “You put a magic suppressor in me, Arthur.”
No doubt those words are meant as an accusation. They do pretty well as one, too: that burning unease in his gut feels a lot like guilt. Really, though, Merlin has to know, has to understand why he did this. It’s not out of spite-not out of any desire to hurt Merlin, and doesn’t he know that?
ldquo;Yeah,” he murmurs, staring down at his hands. “I suppose I did. What do you want? An apology? I won’t give you one.”
A hint of breath slips past Merlin’s lips, more like a soft snort than anything, and then he just tips his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Surprise, surprise.”
Yeah? Maybe that isn’t a surprise to Merlin, but watching him suddenly roll over and drag himself out of bed isn’t exactly planned. That is a surprise. It’s a jumpstart to Arthur’s limbs, and before Merlin even makes it off the bed, Arthur has his hands on Merlin’s shoulders, trying to push him back down-and if he really tries, it’s not as though there’s any doubt he’ll succeed. Merlin just needs to sit back down. That’s all.
But no-it doesn’t happen. All he gets is a blank, hard stare. Merlin hardly even blinks, to the point where he seems unnatural, almost frozen in time. “I think you’re a little bit insane, Arthur,” he says finally.
And then he pulls back and throws a punch.
Damn it all to hell-that hurts. Element of surprise or some nonsense. Whatever. Something. Damn it all. Fractured pain explodes outward, straight up his eye and into the back of his skull. Achy sharp, stomach turning pain, and just twist, throw a punch back, only he never really does, just closes his hands around Merlin’s arm and, and-
Merlin looks pleased.
“Go on then,” he urges, snarling, or smiling or-or something…
No. Not-no. Pull back, don’t let go, but don’t leave bruises. Merlin just doesn’t understand, and even if he never does, he’s still Merlin, and that matters. “I did what I had to, Merlin. And now I need your help.” Breathe in, breathe out. And Merlin just keeps staring at him, their faces inches apart, so together. Two sides of a coin, only now the coin has melted until it’s hard to tell who is on what side.
“Well,” Merlin breathes out, nostrils flaring slightly, “then you can just go to Hell, because I won’t give it.”
One small shove has Merlin back down. Absently, Arthur notices that the IV has slipped out. Big surprise. More than likely that happened when Merlin hit him. “War hasn’t changed all that much, Merlin. The longer it drags on, the more people die. And don’t mistake me in this-I will create unity, with or without your help. But more people will die without your help. Do you want that?” Oh, no, Merlin is not going to look away, and, yes, it does mean reaching out and jerking his face back up with somewhat rough hands, but it’s worth it. This has to happen. “Do you?”
“I want you to stop.”
“Oh? So everything Nimueh has done? You wanted me to leave that mess for someone else to clean up?”
He’s going to look uncertain now? Excellent timing-just fabulous. Serve him right to have that paleness smacked off his face, right along with that trembling mouth. Merlin doesn’t get to be unsure now. “No? You didn’t? So it was all right when the government was in disarray? But not now? What’s your standard, Merlin?”
Merlin comes alive a little at that, regaining a bit of that righteous anger. It is, at least, something of a relief to see color heat the pale of his cheeks. “You’ve become a tyrant, Arthur. You took over. Why won’t you give back over power? And taking the magic-“
“Is necessary.”
“No-“
In a flurry of movement, Merlin makes to rise from the bed again, but Arthur has his hands out, catching him before he can. “Don’t be stupid, Merlin: lie back down. You need the rest. You’re not leaving, and we’ll talk later.”
A few quick steps have him across the room, and, ignoring Merlin’s gaping face and garbled protests, he quickly punches in the code to open the door and then slips through before Merlin can really make any motion to move out of the bed. Who knows, maybe after Arthur leaves, he might even sleep. If not, it’s not like the surveillance system Arthur has hooked up in the room won’t let him know, and drugging Merlin again isn’t entirely out of the question. He won’t make himself sick-won’t be allowed to, not here-not when it can be prevented.
“Arthur--!” he hears, just a word hanging in the wind from the door when he pushes it shut.
The lock clicks. Engaged. That’ll do for now.
------------------
[August 25th, 2007]
She’s drunk. She’s honest to God drunk, no denying it. She’s tried, but about the time-oh, there goes her shoe, off into the corner-she’d tripped over nothing… drunk. Yes.
“You’re-you’re-“ Arthur mumbles, getting all squinty-eyed and, uh, confused, and she’s giggling, laughing, letting him push her back onto a bed. Getting a closer look is all-still all squinty. Heh, a closer look. Yeah. That’s what he’s doing. “You’re…” He stops, and he looks funny with his mouth pouty like that. “Why haven’t we done this before?”
“Didn’t know each other,” she points out, clearly very helpfully, and why not help a little more and get that shirt off him?
“We should have,” he mutters. Why won’t he move? Let her get that shirt off-there he goes. Better. It’s… somewhere off. In the corner. Maybe. Or the bed. Or the… is it on the fan?
But, yeah-this. Earlier. They really should have. He’s a very, very good kisser.
And, no, why is he-what is he doing? “Morgana.” He stopped kissing her just to say her name? Well, all right, names are good, and hers is rather lovely, but honestly- “You just-you seem familiar.”
That’s nice. His skin is smooth, but there’s stubble there on his chin. Fingers feel odd on it. Sort of like if she ran them over sandpaper, maybe? She never has. Never… his hair is soft, though. Very soft. And he’s saying familiar over again, not now, though, because he’s kissing her again, and, yes, that’s very nice, yes…
Part 5