To Ring the Bell Backward (Part 5)
Title: To Ring the Bell Backward
Author: talesofyesac
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3,913
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 10th, 2013]
If there was every any hope of keeping his oath of loyalty to Arthur, that’s pretty well shattered. And that means the oath that mattered. The official one that he swore when he took his office of Court Sorcerer-it meant very little. Certainly it was binding, but when he’d knelt before Arthur, they’d both known it was show only. Oaths like the kind they had were deeper-the sort that had been proven in deed before the words had even been considered or asked for… and before the words in ceremony, there had been words in private, promises and assurances in the face of difficulty. A willingness to die for somebody is a pledge all its own.
No, it was long before any oath he took in front of the court that Merlin had given Arthur his pledge in every way that counted.
And that, Merlin thinks, digging his fingers in against his temples and trying to knead away the growing headache, is what he can’t stop from eating at his mind.
A formal oath is the letter of the law, and it can be manipulated. Who’s to say that oaths are valid after death and rebirth? What proves that they don’t have some kind of expiration date, same as the milk in the fridge? He can easily work his way out of what he said in the middle of the court.
But what he said to Arthur in private? What he promised as a friend and not as a subject? How can that be broken?
Looking at the ground under him, Merlin tries not to breathe-tries to keep the dust out of his lungs. Ironic, since this is just a small alleyway without enough foot traffic to stir up any. Better, though, to blame the elements than to think that maybe it’s just conscience squeezing his lungs.
You’re breaking your promise.
“Ready?” Morgana’s voice asks into his ear.
His fingers slide, just once, over the bud in his ear. “Yeah.”
No. He’s not ready. He’ll never be, because he can’t reconcile any of this: Arthur is no longer the man he followed in Camelot, but he’s not entirely someone different either. Memories, thoughts-it’s all there, and does Arthur in this world still own that promise Merlin made back in Camelot? Was it conditional? Dependent on Arthur’s good character?
Another deep breath. That was never part of the promise. But how can it not be?
“The second you walk into its line of vision, the camera will catch your face,” Morgana’s voice tells him. “Make sure you look full on.”
Make sure you look full on without making it obvious that you want to be caught. Make sure you’re convincing. That’s what she really wants, even if she doesn’t know it. She wouldn’t know how to begin knowing it. Arthur would, of course, know. If it’s too easy, it’s not that he won’t take advantage anyway, but he’ll certainly see it for what it is.
Merlin slides into the line of view, looks toward the camera, then quickly past it, never stopping on its actual location.
Hello, Arthur, and, no, I am bloody well not pleased with how things are going.
Pity he won’t get to say any of it. Maybe he won’t get to say anything if Arthur doesn’t show up soon.
Who’s the one who’s always late, Arthur?
Merlin scrapes his foot through the dirt again, listening-waiting for anything. Every muscle in his body is sensitized; he could swear he’s aware of them all. Any sign, any sound and he’s tensing, muscles twitching under the skin, held in check to abort actual substantial movement.
This is the part that’s hard to play. In theory it’s not so difficult-just let himself be seen and then wait. He’s just waiting for a drop from a member of another cell of the resistance. That’s it… if the story that was relayed to Arthur were true. Just waiting for a drop in an innocuous back ally, where the lack of traffic should mean there aren’t supposed to be any cameras. Logical… or it would be if Arthur hadn’t set up cameras here on the word of his informant, whoever it is that Morgana picked. He’s expecting something to happen-of course he’d be watching. If this wasn’t all a lie.
At least they’ve gotten to choose the turf this time.
They. Merlin’s gut spasms with guilt. They. Like he’s a member already. Fighting against Arthur. It’s an effort to swallow down the bitter laugh that tries to push itself up his throat. He’s one of them, against Arthur.
“We already know from Lance that the information got back to Arthur,” he’d told Morgana when she suggested this. “We don’t need to actually show up. We already know that we can successfully plant information in Arthur’s system.”
And she’d just smiled, going that step further, just like always. Call it whatever, but he’d label it tactical genius. She’s enough like Arthur in that. Not as good as her brother, but, then, back in Camelot maybe he’d always been a bit biased. He’d wanted Arthur to be better.
“If you don’t show up, he’ll either guess at what we did or, at the very least, begin to doubt the informant.”
Yeah, so instead he’s stuck here waiting in a back ally until the shooting starts. Trying not to fidget more than necessary, he glances toward the window across from him. It’s not all that large, and it’s got bars on it-big surprise there, given the state of the city-and when people actually do start firing, he’s going to be sincerely thankful that those bars aren’t bolted down. First sign of a problem, pull them out, break the window, and go. It’s a good plan-Morgana’s plan-and that window is big enough to get through. He checked. And he’s done worse before.
“Turn around and put your hands against the wall.”
Show time. Hell, though, his palms are sweating. This isn’t easy. So simple in theory, but now that there’s a man in the entrance to the alleyway, it gets real. And, yes, a quick look shows the other end is blocked too.
There’s no mistaking that they’re Arthur’s men. They’ve got the insignia on their chests-that red dragon, more stylized to modernity than it used to be-right under the pocket that for all Merlin knows could actually be used to hold pens. At this point, though, that’d be rather laughable, and the dragon certainly doesn’t indicate that these guys are paper pushers.
Neither do the guns.
“Now,” the man snaps at him, gun in hand.
Deep breath. Turn. One foot in front of the other, hands toward the wall. Slowly now, slowly…
Impressive how the men’s shoes manage to be so very loud-obnoxiously so-on the pavement as they close in. Did Arthur teach them that? Make an entrance when you can, but slip to invisible when the situation calls for it. He was always good at that.
A quick flick of his eyes toward the left and then back to the right tells him about all he wants to know. Leon. Owain. Well, hell. He’d been pretty sure it’d be someone he knows, but seeing Leon-it’s kind of like being kicked in the gut, and definitely with a steel-toed boot. He probably should have guessed, though-Leon was always a good man, but more than that, he was loyal to the crown. He did some things on Uther’s command-well, Merlin had never understood. And he’d never asked how Leon could follow orders like those and live with himself.
He certainly won’t ask now.
“Put them on the wall!” Leon yells at him, not all that unkindly, oddly enough. Just doing his job. Yeah, thanks Leon. If they’d been some kind of warning that this was how everything would turn out, Leon might have gotten charred rabbit more often on hunting trips, at least when Merlin was cooking.
“I’m going,” Merlin hears himself saying. The brick is rough under his hands. The window is less than a foot away. Slowly, slowly… “Just hold on, all right?”
They don’t, of course. Pity, that, because that means they’re getting closer, and that is just not helpful at all. If he’s going to do this, he’s got to-yeah, now.
Jerking violently to the side and yanking the bars away is simpler than he’d thought it would be. Shouldn’t it be harder than this? But, no, cold metal sinks a chill up into his fingers, and it stays there. Just a little push with magic has the bars flying toward Owain’s head. He ducks it-good, didn’t really want to hit him-but it sends him off balance, hitting his shoulder against the wall as he dodges.
No time to break the window with anything but his hand. He was supposed to-but not-that was stupid. The bars. He was supposed to have been done it with the bars. Not now, though. Better just to pull his jacket up over his hand, lean back, and-
Oh. Oh. That hurts.
Magic. He could have done it with magic if this were anyone else. If it weren’t so bloody dangerous to show Leon and Owain-they might not know, and it’ll be so much easier to fight them if they think he’s normal. So, clear the glass with his hand-blood, warm and thick-and then dive through the window before they can-
A hand scrapes at his jacket, jostling him into the side of the window. He can feel himself grimace at the jarring pain-that was glass he just hit, wasn’t it?-and this is wrong. There was supposed to be cover fire that would let him get away-keep Leon and Owain back. Where is it? Why didn’t it happen?
That’ll wait, though. It’ll have to, because the ground is coming up to meet him-that’ll leave a mark. Every swear word he ever learned is spilling out of his mouth-his mom wouldn’t approve-but his shoulder feels like it’s about three inches away from where it’s actually supposed to be-that is, in its socket-and so he’ll swear if he wants.
Keeping going. Up, up, up-no time. There are bars-yes, they’re still there, right where Morgana said. He just has to shove. There. He and Morgana went over this. There they go, snug in the window, welded shut with the kind of magic he learned to do without a spell, just as Leon pulls up short outside, cursing. His gun-any second now he’ll level that, but Merlin slams the window-just a broken frame now, but it’ll help hold the bars in place-down anyway, and somehow… somehow Leon never takes aim.
And then Merlin turns to run.
He never makes it more than a few steps.
“You’re bleeding.”
Right. They… certainly didn’t have a contingency plan for this.
Arthur looks good. Where there used to be chainmail and armor, there is now a Pendragon red button down shirt, tucked efficiently into a pair of black slacks. There’s still a belt, yes, but now it holds a gun in its holster-no sword in a sheath. He looks smart. Modern. He’s even got the sleeves of the shirt rolled up to his elbows, exposing a length of arm before it disappears off into the pockets where he’s casually stuffed his hands. No more boots, either-just well made black shoes that probably cost more than Merlin has ever seen in British pounds. All of it, though-it seems so ridiculous. This isn’t Arthur in battle. Arthur in battle was sweaty, sucking in breath like each inhale counted-and he certainly never looked like he’d just stepped out of a meeting. Has warfare really changed this much?
“You,” Merlin breaths out slowly, just knowing how stupid he sounds even as his mouth keeps right on going, “aren’t supposed to be here.”
Stupid or not, his comments earn him an amused smile. Even now, it lights Arthur’s face, lacing every line with what is undeniably affection. “Show of good faith,” he says, still smiling as he takes his hands out of his pockets. “I’ll tell you how I knew you’d be here. And you’re dripping on the floor.”
Right, blood. Yeah, there’s a bit trickling off his hand-okay, more than a bit-but the wound is superficial. He’ll live. And anyway, he’s more interested in whatever show of faith Arthur wants to make: offers like that are not to be turned down. Honestly, though-he doesn’t want to know. This isn’t Arthur. But it is. And either of those options is terrifying.
Arthur’s smile tightens a bit when Merlin shifts forward, scraping his feet along the floor. There’s no subtlety in how he’s eyeing the door, but it’s not like Arthur didn’t know he intended to make for it anyway.
Uh… or maybe he didn’t. At least, he might have hoped otherwise. Whatever he thought, his forehead wrinkles as his eyes track Merlin, and he ducks his head down, staring up at Merlin from under his bangs. Most importantly, his hand goes to his gun, fingers just barely skimming over it-and he watches, eyes almost daring Merlin to make another move.
It would be stupid to. The room isn’t all that big-not that much room to run. Why would there be? It’s just a sitting room, complete with modern furniture. It’s even clean. If anyone shoots, they’re going to stain the light gray rug. Funny, that, and yet Merlin realizes he isn’t laughing. His lungs are burning, though. Does that count?
When he doesn’t answer, Arthur just sighs, apparently truly disappointed if the way his shoulders slump the barest hint of an inch is anything to go by. The moment doesn’t last, though, and seconds later, he’s gesturing to something behind Merlin-oh.
Leon. Owain.
Pretty rotten self-preservation techniques. This whole time he’s had his back turned on two men with guns. Well done. Right. But, honestly, what and how-and-and no one can expect this from him. He’d never wanted to be a warrior. None of this-it’s not him.
Wrong, his mind screams. You fought in Camelot. You know better. And that-it’s true. But still, he only knows better out of necessity-not that acknowledging that helps, because, however he learned, he does still know to protect his back, and all that really leaves is one option for why he’d turn away. And that reason? It is, frankly, no better than just invoking sheer stupidity.
“You noticed it too, hmm?” Arthur asks.
Merlin jerks back to look at him, registering just before he does that Leon and Owain are moving away from the window. They’ll still be there in the alley, no doubt. So, no way out through the window. That leaves the door. The one behind Arthur.
“Noticed what?” he breathes. Should he try for the door?
The effort Arthur is making not to smile is truly admirable. “Why you left your back open to both of them.”
“A mistake.”
That gains him a nod of acknowledgement. “Yes. But you wouldn’t have made it if I were anyone else.”
Isn’t that just perfect. Even better that this is Arthur, who can so easily guess the alternative to stupidity. Opening his mouth to refute that would be good, but somehow, even once he does, pointless just seems ready to slip out and turn on him. It might just slap him in the face. At this point, he wouldn’t blame it-he might do it to himself, if it wouldn’t give Arthur satisfaction.
He closes his mouth again.
“Sloppy, Merlin,” Arthur begins again, finally letting his fingers slide off his gun. They still hover near it, but the threat is less imminent. “I’m flattered that you trusted I wouldn’t have them shoot you, but, really, I taught you better.”
Yes, and may Arthur rot in his self-satisfaction. Overconfident tosser… who just happens to be right.
“Arthur.” His mouth is so dry.
Arthur only nods. “So, show of good faith?”
“Fine. How’d you do it?”
“Bugged one of Morgana’s men.”
So, Morgana may have planted information, but Arthur knew the escape root because he had a bug. Is it someone on the team that was supposed to lay down cover fire? They knew about this. But… it’s hard to tell. Impossible, really.
Slowly, Merlin takes a step toward the door. Arthur’s fingers twitch toward his gun again. “Morgana sweeps for bugs.”
“You think you’re the only sorcerer in existence, Merlin?”
“I think you’d have a very difficult time getting one to work for you these days, Arthur.”
Apparently that’s amusing, though why is lost on everyone who’s not Arthur. At least Arthur finds it funny, though, throwing his head back and laughing like he’s really, genuinely entertained. “You think so? Some fear their own powers, Merlin. You ought to know this. And some are staunch supporters of having a check on what they can do.”
“They’re wrong to help you.”
A shrug. “By your standards. And your standards are wrong these days, I’m afraid.”
A deep breath, and somehow the air tastes sour. Though, maybe that’s just the taste in his mouth. “So, a magical trace?”
Arthur nods. “Yes.”
Right then. That’s about all he needs to know. It’s certainly not pleasant, but there’s nothing he can do now, and things are only going to get worse-for him-if he stays. “Get out of my way, Arthur.”
Again, Arthur’s fingers close firmly over the gun. It’s useless, though, and Arthur has to know that. Stupid of him to think it will work, and yet he’s drawing it, sliding it out of his holster… and tossing it down into a corner.
“I don’t need it,” he says with a shrug and a small smile. “I know what you can do.”
“I’m leaving.”
“You think so?”
Yes, he really does, and just to prove it, he stalks forward. Move. Just move. Not much of a surprise when Arthur doesn’t, and Merlin is left toe to toe with him, waiting. One good shove and Arthur will be out of the way, but it’s a matter of doing it. Because this is Arthur, and smug bastard that Arthur is, he knows what Merlin is thinking.
“Good to see you again, Merlin,” Arthur murmurs sincerely. “I’ve missed you.”
And Merlin can’t even say he feels differently. “I-“ What? There’s nothing for this situation. It’s too complicated in ways no one but the two of them understand, and there’s no mercy for that. Mercy would be a way to break this situation-this sudden, gut-wrenching eye contact. It’s been a long time since he’s been this close to Arthur.
Unfortunately, mercy comes in strange forms, and strangest of all is a lunge, an attack-Arthur trying to stab him with… something. No answer is required, sure, but this-it’s just as bad as having to answer Arthur. He’s twisting back out of reach, but it’s not enough, and a needle-it’s a needle-jabs into the flesh of his leg. Probably not quite where Arthur wants it, but, whatever is in it, some of it had to get in his skin.
Slamming back into a table, Merlin tips sideways and just starts rolling. The needle-it’s out of Arthur’s grip, sticking into Merlin instead. Some of the liquid is still there. Good, because if he can get out of here, they can analyze it, see what they’re dealing with. If he gets out of here, anyway, because the syringe is partially depressed, and damn it all, that means whatever it was, part of it is in his bloodstream.
It’s probably fast acting. God help him, hopefully it won’t be quite as good with only a partial dose.
There’s almost no time to think about what he’s doing. Honestly, it’s no more than pure instinct to bellow out the spell, send Arthur slamming back into the opposite wall. Arthur had his one chance, and he had to have known it. That was what the needle was: a gamble that he was quicker than Merlin, that he could drug him before Merlin started spell casting. He might have succeeded too, if he’d gotten the whole dose in. He probably would have, actually, because the room seems to be blurring, and just to see, Merlin tries to call his magic to his fingertips.
Briefly, there’s a spark of energy in his fingers-the kind he got once when he accidentally touched an electrical fence, just to find out what would happen, even though his mother told him not to. But the magic-it’s trapped, blocked somewhere up inside him. A little seems to be getting through, but if Arthur had gotten the whole dose in him, well, it doesn’t take much to guess what would have happened.
Arthur, who is currently lying against the opposite wall, unconscious.
Merlin is by no means foolish enough to wait for him to wake up.
There will be a car at the back entrance to the house. The house will be surrounded, but there will be no soldiers inside. Nowhere within earshot of this conversation. Arthur wouldn’t have wanted it, and as much as Arthur knowing him is a weakness, in this, Merlin does have an advantage: he knows Arthur just as well. And Arthur wouldn’t have wanted to be overheard, not when it would mean some very awkward questions about why they seem to have known each other centuries ago.
It’s not much, but at least he can call for help without tipping anyone off. “Morgana?” he says once he’s got his fingers in place, pushing at the ear bud, adjusting it like she taught him.
She answers almost immediately: “I see it.”
“Can you get me out?”
“Your magic?”
“I’m drugged.”
A pause and then, “All right. Obviously, we were compromised.” Yeah, no kidding. At least that explains why he never got any cover fire back in the alley. “I can get enough of an opening for you to run for a car, though. Go back out the way you came.”
Good enough. It’s tough getting the bars back off the window, but the trickle of magic he has left is enough-barely, but enough-and even though he grimaces, because he’s already bleeding from the first time, he chucks himself back out through the window and into the alley.
And then fire opens.
Not on him. On Leon and Owain. “Left,” Morgana shouts into his ear. Toward Owain. Good choice. He’d rather take on him than Leon.
Merlin runs. And Owain-he falls. It’s got to be pretty damn unpleasant to be destined to always die in the line of service for Arthur. And even now, Merlin feels an ache spread up inside him at the sight of Owain lying on the pavement. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want any of this.
The car is there. It looks innocuous, but it’s oddly parked, and Arthur’s men are distracted enough by the shots-apparently Morgana managed to send in back up after they were originally compromised-that they don’t take much note of it. Too bad for them.
The door opens for Merlin seconds before he reaches the vehicle.
Two steps more, and he’s inside. Safe. It should feel like a victory.
But with the image of Arthur hanging in his mind, it really feels too much like a defeat.
---------------------
[Camelot]
Morgana never spent much time in Arthur’s chambers and, yet, now that she’s gone, they feel vacant. It doesn’t make sense, and there’s really no reason that it should. It’s not that she should be here-just that she shouldn’t be gone entirely.
“She wanted to kill me, Merlin, when I would have died for her.”
The slick sounds of metal ceases behind him, followed by a muted thump: probably Merlin placing the sword down on the table.
“That says something about you, I think,” Merlin replies quietly after a few moments.
“Nothing good.” What kind of man wants to know that he’s blind? That’s he’s a fool? Or that he’s enough of a coward that he’d prefer to keep leaning here against the window, looking out over a courtyard rather than turning to face his servant and receive an answer.
Terrible servant that he is (though possibly a very good friend) Merlin doesn’t take the hint. Later Arthur might just thank him for it, but it’s not like he’s going to do it now. Right now it’s just easier to sigh at how Merlin’s footsteps give him away; if he were trying to sneak up on Arthur, he’d have failed almost before he even thought to try.
“Something very good, I think.” Stopping beside Arthur, he leans into the wall, probably waiting for eye contact. He’s not going to get it. He can stand there as long as he pleases.
“All it says is that I was blind.”
Merlin shrugs. “Maybe. But I know you, and you’re only blind if you have very good reason to be. Sometimes… sometimes I think you don’t notice things if it would mean harming someone you care for.”
“Oh, so now I’m willingly blind?” That’s unfair, of course. Merlin is only trying to help, and here he is snapping at him when he doesn’t even have the decency to actually meet Merlin’s eye while he’s doing it.
“No. But I think once your loyalty is gained, it’s kept. And you’ll think the best of those people who have your loyalty. That means you might not see things about them that maybe you should.”
Grimacing, he digs his fingers hard into the flesh of his palm, letting the pain wash over him, stinging and curling up into his arms. “Merlin-“
“And it is a good thing,” Merlin tells him, obviously hearing the beginning of a reprimand and cutting it off. “Yes, it will be a disadvantage at times. But it’s also why people follow you-why men are willing to die for you. You’re loyal to them. And they’ll give their lives for someone like that.”
Like you’re willing to do Arthur doesn’t say. And like Morgana wasn’t.
He can’t say it, but it’s true, and the knowledge is almost a tangible hand, tipping his head back, opening his lungs to air. Breathe in, breathe out: the relief is sweet, and, leaning into it, he lets his head fall to the side. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s meeting Merlin’s eyes. And Merlin is smiling. Typical. Foolishly enough, though, he’s smiling back, though it probably looks a little like a grimace. But it’s a start, right? And it seems to make Merlin happy. There’s life in those eyes, and caring to see that-it’s what having a friend is, isn’t it?
Not that he’ll ever tell Merlin that. God forbid.
“She’s my sister.” Merlin very wisely doesn’t comment on how his voice cracks over the last word.
“Maybe. But I don’t think she is in the ways that count. Blood will only take you so far.”
“And what about you, Merlin? What are you?”
Merlin lies and lies and lies-about where he’s going, where’s he’s been when he misses work-but whatever he’s about to say-it’ll be true. No good man can look someone so clearly in the eye and lie.
That Merlin is anything but a good man was never a consideration.
“I’m loyal to you, Arthur. And that won’t ever change. You have my word on that.”
Part 6
Author: talesofyesac
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3,913
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 10th, 2013]
If there was every any hope of keeping his oath of loyalty to Arthur, that’s pretty well shattered. And that means the oath that mattered. The official one that he swore when he took his office of Court Sorcerer-it meant very little. Certainly it was binding, but when he’d knelt before Arthur, they’d both known it was show only. Oaths like the kind they had were deeper-the sort that had been proven in deed before the words had even been considered or asked for… and before the words in ceremony, there had been words in private, promises and assurances in the face of difficulty. A willingness to die for somebody is a pledge all its own.
No, it was long before any oath he took in front of the court that Merlin had given Arthur his pledge in every way that counted.
And that, Merlin thinks, digging his fingers in against his temples and trying to knead away the growing headache, is what he can’t stop from eating at his mind.
A formal oath is the letter of the law, and it can be manipulated. Who’s to say that oaths are valid after death and rebirth? What proves that they don’t have some kind of expiration date, same as the milk in the fridge? He can easily work his way out of what he said in the middle of the court.
But what he said to Arthur in private? What he promised as a friend and not as a subject? How can that be broken?
Looking at the ground under him, Merlin tries not to breathe-tries to keep the dust out of his lungs. Ironic, since this is just a small alleyway without enough foot traffic to stir up any. Better, though, to blame the elements than to think that maybe it’s just conscience squeezing his lungs.
You’re breaking your promise.
“Ready?” Morgana’s voice asks into his ear.
His fingers slide, just once, over the bud in his ear. “Yeah.”
No. He’s not ready. He’ll never be, because he can’t reconcile any of this: Arthur is no longer the man he followed in Camelot, but he’s not entirely someone different either. Memories, thoughts-it’s all there, and does Arthur in this world still own that promise Merlin made back in Camelot? Was it conditional? Dependent on Arthur’s good character?
Another deep breath. That was never part of the promise. But how can it not be?
“The second you walk into its line of vision, the camera will catch your face,” Morgana’s voice tells him. “Make sure you look full on.”
Make sure you look full on without making it obvious that you want to be caught. Make sure you’re convincing. That’s what she really wants, even if she doesn’t know it. She wouldn’t know how to begin knowing it. Arthur would, of course, know. If it’s too easy, it’s not that he won’t take advantage anyway, but he’ll certainly see it for what it is.
Merlin slides into the line of view, looks toward the camera, then quickly past it, never stopping on its actual location.
Hello, Arthur, and, no, I am bloody well not pleased with how things are going.
Pity he won’t get to say any of it. Maybe he won’t get to say anything if Arthur doesn’t show up soon.
Who’s the one who’s always late, Arthur?
Merlin scrapes his foot through the dirt again, listening-waiting for anything. Every muscle in his body is sensitized; he could swear he’s aware of them all. Any sign, any sound and he’s tensing, muscles twitching under the skin, held in check to abort actual substantial movement.
This is the part that’s hard to play. In theory it’s not so difficult-just let himself be seen and then wait. He’s just waiting for a drop from a member of another cell of the resistance. That’s it… if the story that was relayed to Arthur were true. Just waiting for a drop in an innocuous back ally, where the lack of traffic should mean there aren’t supposed to be any cameras. Logical… or it would be if Arthur hadn’t set up cameras here on the word of his informant, whoever it is that Morgana picked. He’s expecting something to happen-of course he’d be watching. If this wasn’t all a lie.
At least they’ve gotten to choose the turf this time.
They. Merlin’s gut spasms with guilt. They. Like he’s a member already. Fighting against Arthur. It’s an effort to swallow down the bitter laugh that tries to push itself up his throat. He’s one of them, against Arthur.
“We already know from Lance that the information got back to Arthur,” he’d told Morgana when she suggested this. “We don’t need to actually show up. We already know that we can successfully plant information in Arthur’s system.”
And she’d just smiled, going that step further, just like always. Call it whatever, but he’d label it tactical genius. She’s enough like Arthur in that. Not as good as her brother, but, then, back in Camelot maybe he’d always been a bit biased. He’d wanted Arthur to be better.
“If you don’t show up, he’ll either guess at what we did or, at the very least, begin to doubt the informant.”
Yeah, so instead he’s stuck here waiting in a back ally until the shooting starts. Trying not to fidget more than necessary, he glances toward the window across from him. It’s not all that large, and it’s got bars on it-big surprise there, given the state of the city-and when people actually do start firing, he’s going to be sincerely thankful that those bars aren’t bolted down. First sign of a problem, pull them out, break the window, and go. It’s a good plan-Morgana’s plan-and that window is big enough to get through. He checked. And he’s done worse before.
“Turn around and put your hands against the wall.”
Show time. Hell, though, his palms are sweating. This isn’t easy. So simple in theory, but now that there’s a man in the entrance to the alleyway, it gets real. And, yes, a quick look shows the other end is blocked too.
There’s no mistaking that they’re Arthur’s men. They’ve got the insignia on their chests-that red dragon, more stylized to modernity than it used to be-right under the pocket that for all Merlin knows could actually be used to hold pens. At this point, though, that’d be rather laughable, and the dragon certainly doesn’t indicate that these guys are paper pushers.
Neither do the guns.
“Now,” the man snaps at him, gun in hand.
Deep breath. Turn. One foot in front of the other, hands toward the wall. Slowly now, slowly…
Impressive how the men’s shoes manage to be so very loud-obnoxiously so-on the pavement as they close in. Did Arthur teach them that? Make an entrance when you can, but slip to invisible when the situation calls for it. He was always good at that.
A quick flick of his eyes toward the left and then back to the right tells him about all he wants to know. Leon. Owain. Well, hell. He’d been pretty sure it’d be someone he knows, but seeing Leon-it’s kind of like being kicked in the gut, and definitely with a steel-toed boot. He probably should have guessed, though-Leon was always a good man, but more than that, he was loyal to the crown. He did some things on Uther’s command-well, Merlin had never understood. And he’d never asked how Leon could follow orders like those and live with himself.
He certainly won’t ask now.
“Put them on the wall!” Leon yells at him, not all that unkindly, oddly enough. Just doing his job. Yeah, thanks Leon. If they’d been some kind of warning that this was how everything would turn out, Leon might have gotten charred rabbit more often on hunting trips, at least when Merlin was cooking.
“I’m going,” Merlin hears himself saying. The brick is rough under his hands. The window is less than a foot away. Slowly, slowly… “Just hold on, all right?”
They don’t, of course. Pity, that, because that means they’re getting closer, and that is just not helpful at all. If he’s going to do this, he’s got to-yeah, now.
Jerking violently to the side and yanking the bars away is simpler than he’d thought it would be. Shouldn’t it be harder than this? But, no, cold metal sinks a chill up into his fingers, and it stays there. Just a little push with magic has the bars flying toward Owain’s head. He ducks it-good, didn’t really want to hit him-but it sends him off balance, hitting his shoulder against the wall as he dodges.
No time to break the window with anything but his hand. He was supposed to-but not-that was stupid. The bars. He was supposed to have been done it with the bars. Not now, though. Better just to pull his jacket up over his hand, lean back, and-
Oh. Oh. That hurts.
Magic. He could have done it with magic if this were anyone else. If it weren’t so bloody dangerous to show Leon and Owain-they might not know, and it’ll be so much easier to fight them if they think he’s normal. So, clear the glass with his hand-blood, warm and thick-and then dive through the window before they can-
A hand scrapes at his jacket, jostling him into the side of the window. He can feel himself grimace at the jarring pain-that was glass he just hit, wasn’t it?-and this is wrong. There was supposed to be cover fire that would let him get away-keep Leon and Owain back. Where is it? Why didn’t it happen?
That’ll wait, though. It’ll have to, because the ground is coming up to meet him-that’ll leave a mark. Every swear word he ever learned is spilling out of his mouth-his mom wouldn’t approve-but his shoulder feels like it’s about three inches away from where it’s actually supposed to be-that is, in its socket-and so he’ll swear if he wants.
Keeping going. Up, up, up-no time. There are bars-yes, they’re still there, right where Morgana said. He just has to shove. There. He and Morgana went over this. There they go, snug in the window, welded shut with the kind of magic he learned to do without a spell, just as Leon pulls up short outside, cursing. His gun-any second now he’ll level that, but Merlin slams the window-just a broken frame now, but it’ll help hold the bars in place-down anyway, and somehow… somehow Leon never takes aim.
And then Merlin turns to run.
He never makes it more than a few steps.
“You’re bleeding.”
Right. They… certainly didn’t have a contingency plan for this.
Arthur looks good. Where there used to be chainmail and armor, there is now a Pendragon red button down shirt, tucked efficiently into a pair of black slacks. There’s still a belt, yes, but now it holds a gun in its holster-no sword in a sheath. He looks smart. Modern. He’s even got the sleeves of the shirt rolled up to his elbows, exposing a length of arm before it disappears off into the pockets where he’s casually stuffed his hands. No more boots, either-just well made black shoes that probably cost more than Merlin has ever seen in British pounds. All of it, though-it seems so ridiculous. This isn’t Arthur in battle. Arthur in battle was sweaty, sucking in breath like each inhale counted-and he certainly never looked like he’d just stepped out of a meeting. Has warfare really changed this much?
“You,” Merlin breaths out slowly, just knowing how stupid he sounds even as his mouth keeps right on going, “aren’t supposed to be here.”
Stupid or not, his comments earn him an amused smile. Even now, it lights Arthur’s face, lacing every line with what is undeniably affection. “Show of good faith,” he says, still smiling as he takes his hands out of his pockets. “I’ll tell you how I knew you’d be here. And you’re dripping on the floor.”
Right, blood. Yeah, there’s a bit trickling off his hand-okay, more than a bit-but the wound is superficial. He’ll live. And anyway, he’s more interested in whatever show of faith Arthur wants to make: offers like that are not to be turned down. Honestly, though-he doesn’t want to know. This isn’t Arthur. But it is. And either of those options is terrifying.
Arthur’s smile tightens a bit when Merlin shifts forward, scraping his feet along the floor. There’s no subtlety in how he’s eyeing the door, but it’s not like Arthur didn’t know he intended to make for it anyway.
Uh… or maybe he didn’t. At least, he might have hoped otherwise. Whatever he thought, his forehead wrinkles as his eyes track Merlin, and he ducks his head down, staring up at Merlin from under his bangs. Most importantly, his hand goes to his gun, fingers just barely skimming over it-and he watches, eyes almost daring Merlin to make another move.
It would be stupid to. The room isn’t all that big-not that much room to run. Why would there be? It’s just a sitting room, complete with modern furniture. It’s even clean. If anyone shoots, they’re going to stain the light gray rug. Funny, that, and yet Merlin realizes he isn’t laughing. His lungs are burning, though. Does that count?
When he doesn’t answer, Arthur just sighs, apparently truly disappointed if the way his shoulders slump the barest hint of an inch is anything to go by. The moment doesn’t last, though, and seconds later, he’s gesturing to something behind Merlin-oh.
Leon. Owain.
Pretty rotten self-preservation techniques. This whole time he’s had his back turned on two men with guns. Well done. Right. But, honestly, what and how-and-and no one can expect this from him. He’d never wanted to be a warrior. None of this-it’s not him.
Wrong, his mind screams. You fought in Camelot. You know better. And that-it’s true. But still, he only knows better out of necessity-not that acknowledging that helps, because, however he learned, he does still know to protect his back, and all that really leaves is one option for why he’d turn away. And that reason? It is, frankly, no better than just invoking sheer stupidity.
“You noticed it too, hmm?” Arthur asks.
Merlin jerks back to look at him, registering just before he does that Leon and Owain are moving away from the window. They’ll still be there in the alley, no doubt. So, no way out through the window. That leaves the door. The one behind Arthur.
“Noticed what?” he breathes. Should he try for the door?
The effort Arthur is making not to smile is truly admirable. “Why you left your back open to both of them.”
“A mistake.”
That gains him a nod of acknowledgement. “Yes. But you wouldn’t have made it if I were anyone else.”
Isn’t that just perfect. Even better that this is Arthur, who can so easily guess the alternative to stupidity. Opening his mouth to refute that would be good, but somehow, even once he does, pointless just seems ready to slip out and turn on him. It might just slap him in the face. At this point, he wouldn’t blame it-he might do it to himself, if it wouldn’t give Arthur satisfaction.
He closes his mouth again.
“Sloppy, Merlin,” Arthur begins again, finally letting his fingers slide off his gun. They still hover near it, but the threat is less imminent. “I’m flattered that you trusted I wouldn’t have them shoot you, but, really, I taught you better.”
Yes, and may Arthur rot in his self-satisfaction. Overconfident tosser… who just happens to be right.
“Arthur.” His mouth is so dry.
Arthur only nods. “So, show of good faith?”
“Fine. How’d you do it?”
“Bugged one of Morgana’s men.”
So, Morgana may have planted information, but Arthur knew the escape root because he had a bug. Is it someone on the team that was supposed to lay down cover fire? They knew about this. But… it’s hard to tell. Impossible, really.
Slowly, Merlin takes a step toward the door. Arthur’s fingers twitch toward his gun again. “Morgana sweeps for bugs.”
“You think you’re the only sorcerer in existence, Merlin?”
“I think you’d have a very difficult time getting one to work for you these days, Arthur.”
Apparently that’s amusing, though why is lost on everyone who’s not Arthur. At least Arthur finds it funny, though, throwing his head back and laughing like he’s really, genuinely entertained. “You think so? Some fear their own powers, Merlin. You ought to know this. And some are staunch supporters of having a check on what they can do.”
“They’re wrong to help you.”
A shrug. “By your standards. And your standards are wrong these days, I’m afraid.”
A deep breath, and somehow the air tastes sour. Though, maybe that’s just the taste in his mouth. “So, a magical trace?”
Arthur nods. “Yes.”
Right then. That’s about all he needs to know. It’s certainly not pleasant, but there’s nothing he can do now, and things are only going to get worse-for him-if he stays. “Get out of my way, Arthur.”
Again, Arthur’s fingers close firmly over the gun. It’s useless, though, and Arthur has to know that. Stupid of him to think it will work, and yet he’s drawing it, sliding it out of his holster… and tossing it down into a corner.
“I don’t need it,” he says with a shrug and a small smile. “I know what you can do.”
“I’m leaving.”
“You think so?”
Yes, he really does, and just to prove it, he stalks forward. Move. Just move. Not much of a surprise when Arthur doesn’t, and Merlin is left toe to toe with him, waiting. One good shove and Arthur will be out of the way, but it’s a matter of doing it. Because this is Arthur, and smug bastard that Arthur is, he knows what Merlin is thinking.
“Good to see you again, Merlin,” Arthur murmurs sincerely. “I’ve missed you.”
And Merlin can’t even say he feels differently. “I-“ What? There’s nothing for this situation. It’s too complicated in ways no one but the two of them understand, and there’s no mercy for that. Mercy would be a way to break this situation-this sudden, gut-wrenching eye contact. It’s been a long time since he’s been this close to Arthur.
Unfortunately, mercy comes in strange forms, and strangest of all is a lunge, an attack-Arthur trying to stab him with… something. No answer is required, sure, but this-it’s just as bad as having to answer Arthur. He’s twisting back out of reach, but it’s not enough, and a needle-it’s a needle-jabs into the flesh of his leg. Probably not quite where Arthur wants it, but, whatever is in it, some of it had to get in his skin.
Slamming back into a table, Merlin tips sideways and just starts rolling. The needle-it’s out of Arthur’s grip, sticking into Merlin instead. Some of the liquid is still there. Good, because if he can get out of here, they can analyze it, see what they’re dealing with. If he gets out of here, anyway, because the syringe is partially depressed, and damn it all, that means whatever it was, part of it is in his bloodstream.
It’s probably fast acting. God help him, hopefully it won’t be quite as good with only a partial dose.
There’s almost no time to think about what he’s doing. Honestly, it’s no more than pure instinct to bellow out the spell, send Arthur slamming back into the opposite wall. Arthur had his one chance, and he had to have known it. That was what the needle was: a gamble that he was quicker than Merlin, that he could drug him before Merlin started spell casting. He might have succeeded too, if he’d gotten the whole dose in. He probably would have, actually, because the room seems to be blurring, and just to see, Merlin tries to call his magic to his fingertips.
Briefly, there’s a spark of energy in his fingers-the kind he got once when he accidentally touched an electrical fence, just to find out what would happen, even though his mother told him not to. But the magic-it’s trapped, blocked somewhere up inside him. A little seems to be getting through, but if Arthur had gotten the whole dose in him, well, it doesn’t take much to guess what would have happened.
Arthur, who is currently lying against the opposite wall, unconscious.
Merlin is by no means foolish enough to wait for him to wake up.
There will be a car at the back entrance to the house. The house will be surrounded, but there will be no soldiers inside. Nowhere within earshot of this conversation. Arthur wouldn’t have wanted it, and as much as Arthur knowing him is a weakness, in this, Merlin does have an advantage: he knows Arthur just as well. And Arthur wouldn’t have wanted to be overheard, not when it would mean some very awkward questions about why they seem to have known each other centuries ago.
It’s not much, but at least he can call for help without tipping anyone off. “Morgana?” he says once he’s got his fingers in place, pushing at the ear bud, adjusting it like she taught him.
She answers almost immediately: “I see it.”
“Can you get me out?”
“Your magic?”
“I’m drugged.”
A pause and then, “All right. Obviously, we were compromised.” Yeah, no kidding. At least that explains why he never got any cover fire back in the alley. “I can get enough of an opening for you to run for a car, though. Go back out the way you came.”
Good enough. It’s tough getting the bars back off the window, but the trickle of magic he has left is enough-barely, but enough-and even though he grimaces, because he’s already bleeding from the first time, he chucks himself back out through the window and into the alley.
And then fire opens.
Not on him. On Leon and Owain. “Left,” Morgana shouts into his ear. Toward Owain. Good choice. He’d rather take on him than Leon.
Merlin runs. And Owain-he falls. It’s got to be pretty damn unpleasant to be destined to always die in the line of service for Arthur. And even now, Merlin feels an ache spread up inside him at the sight of Owain lying on the pavement. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want any of this.
The car is there. It looks innocuous, but it’s oddly parked, and Arthur’s men are distracted enough by the shots-apparently Morgana managed to send in back up after they were originally compromised-that they don’t take much note of it. Too bad for them.
The door opens for Merlin seconds before he reaches the vehicle.
Two steps more, and he’s inside. Safe. It should feel like a victory.
But with the image of Arthur hanging in his mind, it really feels too much like a defeat.
---------------------
[Camelot]
Morgana never spent much time in Arthur’s chambers and, yet, now that she’s gone, they feel vacant. It doesn’t make sense, and there’s really no reason that it should. It’s not that she should be here-just that she shouldn’t be gone entirely.
“She wanted to kill me, Merlin, when I would have died for her.”
The slick sounds of metal ceases behind him, followed by a muted thump: probably Merlin placing the sword down on the table.
“That says something about you, I think,” Merlin replies quietly after a few moments.
“Nothing good.” What kind of man wants to know that he’s blind? That’s he’s a fool? Or that he’s enough of a coward that he’d prefer to keep leaning here against the window, looking out over a courtyard rather than turning to face his servant and receive an answer.
Terrible servant that he is (though possibly a very good friend) Merlin doesn’t take the hint. Later Arthur might just thank him for it, but it’s not like he’s going to do it now. Right now it’s just easier to sigh at how Merlin’s footsteps give him away; if he were trying to sneak up on Arthur, he’d have failed almost before he even thought to try.
“Something very good, I think.” Stopping beside Arthur, he leans into the wall, probably waiting for eye contact. He’s not going to get it. He can stand there as long as he pleases.
“All it says is that I was blind.”
Merlin shrugs. “Maybe. But I know you, and you’re only blind if you have very good reason to be. Sometimes… sometimes I think you don’t notice things if it would mean harming someone you care for.”
“Oh, so now I’m willingly blind?” That’s unfair, of course. Merlin is only trying to help, and here he is snapping at him when he doesn’t even have the decency to actually meet Merlin’s eye while he’s doing it.
“No. But I think once your loyalty is gained, it’s kept. And you’ll think the best of those people who have your loyalty. That means you might not see things about them that maybe you should.”
Grimacing, he digs his fingers hard into the flesh of his palm, letting the pain wash over him, stinging and curling up into his arms. “Merlin-“
“And it is a good thing,” Merlin tells him, obviously hearing the beginning of a reprimand and cutting it off. “Yes, it will be a disadvantage at times. But it’s also why people follow you-why men are willing to die for you. You’re loyal to them. And they’ll give their lives for someone like that.”
Like you’re willing to do Arthur doesn’t say. And like Morgana wasn’t.
He can’t say it, but it’s true, and the knowledge is almost a tangible hand, tipping his head back, opening his lungs to air. Breathe in, breathe out: the relief is sweet, and, leaning into it, he lets his head fall to the side. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s meeting Merlin’s eyes. And Merlin is smiling. Typical. Foolishly enough, though, he’s smiling back, though it probably looks a little like a grimace. But it’s a start, right? And it seems to make Merlin happy. There’s life in those eyes, and caring to see that-it’s what having a friend is, isn’t it?
Not that he’ll ever tell Merlin that. God forbid.
“She’s my sister.” Merlin very wisely doesn’t comment on how his voice cracks over the last word.
“Maybe. But I don’t think she is in the ways that count. Blood will only take you so far.”
“And what about you, Merlin? What are you?”
Merlin lies and lies and lies-about where he’s going, where’s he’s been when he misses work-but whatever he’s about to say-it’ll be true. No good man can look someone so clearly in the eye and lie.
That Merlin is anything but a good man was never a consideration.
“I’m loyal to you, Arthur. And that won’t ever change. You have my word on that.”
Part 6