To Ring the Bell Backward (Part 9)
Title: To Ring the Bell Backward
Author: talesofyesac
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3,194
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.
[September 2nd 2007]
Even in this lifetime, Gwen still starts out as Morgana’s maid. Or… something. Frankly, Arthur isn’t quite sure what she is. She gets paid to clean, he’s fairly certain-at least, that’s what the payroll says-but from what he can tell, she’s more of a personal assistant than she is any sort of maid. And that… really doesn’t make sense, because it’s not like Morgana has much of a job. What could she possibly need an assistant for?
Apparently, personal assistant also qualifies as “bouncer”. Although, Gwen as a bouncer? It’s a bit hilarious. Sadly, not so hilarious that she fails to be intimidating. He could take her down with hardly any thought, but right now he could swear he’s the one who’s about to get his ass handed to him: she’s standing here, arms crossed as she regards him speculatively, like she’s trying to decide whether to call security or not.
Bloody fantastic. And why did he think he could handle this? That being face to face with Gwen would be all right? Didn’t think that out very well, did he? This is-he ought to just kick himself right now, save Gwen the trouble, since those shoes she’s wearing look like they’re probably pretty expensive, and God forbid they get scuffed for something as menial as assault.
Yes… he really can’t handle this.
Because Gwen-she looks beautiful and kind and intelligent and everything he ever loved about her. She looks like her. It’s a bit different seeing her in jeans and a blouse, but her face is the same, though this time with a shade of make-up. She hadn’t worn that much, even as queen. She hadn’t really needed to, just like she hadn’t ever needed the same elaborate hair arrangements that Morgana had always wanted. None of that had ever made Gwen happy. Her hair, though-he’d always loved her hair, especially when it was long. The weight of it had felt perfect in his hands, curling around his fingers when he sank them into it, the tendrils snaking around his knuckles and nails like they were holding on.
She’d cut her hair the night she left him. It was probably easier to travel that way. He’ll never know for sure-he never got to ask.
And, yet, here he is, poised to do everything all over again.
Because he is about to do that. He can feel it. He can feel her. Some things just don’t die, even if he knows it’ll kill him.
“You can’t kick me out,” he says as evenly as he can manage, given everything. It’s Gwen, and he’s talking to her like he doesn’t know her, and she’ll betray him if he lets her, but it. Is. Gwen. And that means everything to him. “My father owns this building.”
Gwen’s nose wrinkles. All right, that might have been the wrong thing to say. Even he’ll admit that he might have sounded a shade entitled. “It’s still polite to call ahead.” Which, in that tone of voice, sounds a little like, You remind me of something I found on the bottom of my shoe yesterday.
Back to the stupid shoes again.
“Look, I know, I’m sorry… Gwen, isn’t it?” In the last few days, since he’s remembered, he’s found that people he knew before don’t simply accept that he knows a creepy amount about them, and he really doesn’t fancy being arrested or possibly committed for what probably look like stalkerish tendencies.
There’s a pause, but Gwen does finally nod, her hand creeping up a bit higher on the doorframe as she leans into it, still watching him as though she can’t quite decide what mental affliction he has, if he even does have one, or if he’s just a prat.
Merlin would, of course, say prat.
“Are you here to talk to Morgana?”
“Yeah. I, uh, think I owe her an apology for running out on her the other morning….” Actually, he really owes her more of an apology for sleeping with her in the first place, but he can’t very well tell Gwen that, and, anyway, he needs to tell Morgana why first. Or, rather, he needs to show Morgana the note her mother wrote to Uther-the one Arthur has just recently filched from his father’s office. And, yeah, it’s probably a bit cowardly that he resorted to that rather than just asking his father about his relation to Morgana, but… it’s been a long few days. There are worse things in the world than a tactical bit of avoidance.
“I’m, uh, not sure she’ll actually want to see you.”
Yes, because he really fancies seeing her. Just can’t wait to walk in, maybe have some tea, and, oh, yes, Hello, Sister, sorry we slept together. “I’m not looking for a repeat, I can assure you,” he blurts out before he thinks better of it.
He’d be the first to admit that Gwen is entirely entitled to look like her brows are trying to crawl up into her hairline.
“I-look-“ Frustration mounting, he grinds his palm into his forehead, trying his best to stave off the headache that he can feel beginning behind his right eye. “That-I-that came out wrong-“
Gwen thins her lips and nods curtly. “You think?”
“I just-I want to apologize, and-“ Swallowing down whatever he was going to say-he doesn’t actually know what he was going to say, come to think of it-he forcibly pulls back in his thoughts. Regrouping, if you will. Sometimes that’s just necessary. “Look,” he tells Gwen as evenly as he can manage, “I have a very good reason for why we shouldn’t have done what we did. And I… need to tell her what that is.”
Gwen still doesn’t look convinced. “I’m fairly certain she’s got enough reasons all on her own without you giving her more.”
He always did love that Gwen was so stalwart. In this case, though, it may not be the best thing. Morgana was so stupid to throw this kind of devotion away the first time around. “She’ll want to know this one, I’m sure.”
It might be something on his face that does it. He can’t feel anything out of place, but he can’t imagine he doesn’t at least look a little (a lot) desperate, and maybe that’s what moves her. Whatever it is, Gwen finally sighs, dipping her head and casting her gaze off over his shoulder for a few moments before she relents. “All right. I’ll call her down.”
---------------------
[August 6, 2012]
The last time he was in a hospital like this, he actually never was. In a hospital, that is. He should have been, though. Some nights Merlin wakes from dreams so vivid that he’d almost be willing to swear that it did happen. Surely he couldn’t be imagining the horrid sterility and the claustrophobic sense of institution? It’s only when the walls start closing in that he remembers it isn’t real.
Walls don’t swallow people up. Not physically, anyway.
If he had been here before, though, this is how it would have gone: just like he is today, he’d have been sitting in an uncomfortable chair upholstered with some dully colored substance that is really more plastic than fabric. He’d have been tracing the line where the rug of the waiting area meets title, his eyes constantly flickering down the seam, looking for any sign of a tear or of shoddy workmanship. He’d have been listening for the click of heals and grinding his teeth in frustration when a nurse walked by in flats. The lack of noise those flats made would have been-just like it is now-an unacceptable deviation from whatever game he’s playing with himself.
As if he needed more proof that not all games are fun.
Really, the only difference he can find between the almost past and the present is which parent he’s waiting for: the first time this happened, it should have been for his father. It was for his father.
But not today.
We’re going to need you to come in. She’s listed in critical condition… operate immediately… next of kin….
Only kin.
He’d given them her name. Hunith Emrys. All common sense screamed not to-don’t throw away years of hiding for this-but if she does die, he can’t see her buried under a false name. Not a name that never meant anything at all. She’s his mother, and she’d want to rest next to his father. How can he possibly deny her that?
How, indeed? The question is unsettling, and he fidgets nervously.
The coffee in his hand has long since gone lukewarm. The blasted stuff doesn’t even have the courtesy to go all the way cold. He ought to just throw it out, but picking at the Styrofoam cup gives him something to do with his hands, and it’s far better than sitting still.
Feels like he’s been moving for an age. Sitting still might not even be possible anymore.
Of course, impossibility is a rather common theme these days. Can’t use his real name. Can’t stay in one place too long. Will never see his father again, and will never know precisely who killed him (not Arthur, please not Arthur).
At least his mother never had to see anyone’s face. How had it looked for his father, in those last few moments when that squad of men had been baring down on him? It certainly wouldn’t have made for a very good film scene-the middle of Tesco’s in mid-day is no dark ally. By all accounts, there was nothing particularly spectacular about it. His father had been drunk, and he hadn’t noticed as the store slowly cleared out, the other shoppers being herded to safety. Perhaps he hadn’t even noticed the five men approaching him. No one Merlin’s talked to can ever decide whether they were wearing military dress or not-though, even if they weren’t, they were certainly wearing something close enough to insure they were outfitted for their roles.
His mother, thank God, will never have to encounter someone reaching for her while she’s caught in a drunken haze. She’ll never grab the knife hidden in her jacket, not thinking-not even considering-that there might be other options. That is, better options for someone too drunk to handle a weapon, someone who raises the knife back and tries to stab, only to have his wrist misdirected, and, in a drunken fumble, stumble, lurching forward into his attacker and driving the knife into his own gut.
Or so all accounts go.
It’s plausible. How dearly he’d like to believe that Arthur only gave orders to contain rather than kill. Only… Arthur had seen the kind of parent Merlin’s father was. He probably has files on it. Might even have video footage, probably of Balinor stumbling home drunk, or maybe of Merlin waiting after school for a father who never arrived to pick him up.
Scuffing his toe against the carpet, Merlin picks another bit of Styrofoam off the cup and flicks it to the floor. He could have done that at home when he was growing up. His father either wouldn’t have been there or would have been too drunk to notice. And Arthur-he knows that now. Knows that Merlin had that kind of upbringing.
Once upon a time, Arthur would have understood-would have realized that Balinor was too tormented by his own demons to even conceive of properly caring for anyone else. He may not have liked Balinor’s actions, but he would have seen the cause and had mercy. But the Arthur of today? It’s impossible to say.
Not Merlin’s mother, though. Arthur would never hurt Hunith.
Right?
Finally, Merlin pushes himself to his feet and drags his limbs over to the nearest bin, tossing the cup-still half full-into it and wincing as the liquid spills. The person who has to empty that certainly won’t thank him. It’s inconsiderate of him, but, really, he just hadn’t thought about it. Seems to be a talent of his. Easier not to think-to not consider how his mother has been his lifeline, the one bright spot in his world growing up. How she worked to take care of him.
And how a head-on collision on the M25 was her reward.
Now, she can’t even get nurses who are willing to come tell her son whether she’s still breathing. He’s been waiting hours, and it’s possible that no news is good news… but the achy feeling in the depths of his stomach says otherwise. If he spends much more time standing here over the bin, he’ll likely even get to see those depths up close and personal.
Wiping his arm across his mouth, Merlin spits into the bin and turns away. He could go back to the waiting area. Sit down again, flip through another dog-eared magazine without seeing any of it. Listen to the people around him talking with their loved ones while waiting for news. Some of them are as frantic as he is.
Going back is out of the question.
He can’t do it. Only three steps out of the waiting area, and he can’t make himself go back. Pitiful-he laughs shakily, swallowing down the feeling of nausea.
“Hunith Emrys.”
Shock makes him fast: he’s turning on his heal, back to the bin in half a second. A moment more, and he’s shrinking away, fading into the waiting area to which, just a minute ago, he hadn’t felt he could return. He doesn’t have much choice now, though, does he?
That voice-it’s not the voice of a nurse. He can’t ever get that bloody lucky. No. Never. He’d love to hit something right about now, tear it down and just watch it buckle. Anything. His own life would be good for starters. Blasted thing would come back though, again and again and again and-
He bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood.
Arthur. Arthur is here, in the hospital. Yes, sure, Merlin had given his mother’s real name, but how can Arthur possibly be this quick? Of course Arthur has been actively searching-there was never any doubt about that-but for someone to find Merlin only hours after he gives his mother’s name-not even his own name-is practically unthinkable.
Pity fate has never regarded logical or thinkable as terms that are applicable to Merlin.
Thinking in general even seems a bit beyond him at the moment. It shouldn’t be, but the sound of Arthur’s voice-it does things to him. Things like making him just crazy enough to want to step forward out of the cover of the waiting area-let himself be found. Arthur wouldn’t hurt him. This isn’t about self-preservation. Sure, the world might go to hell, but at least he’d be back with Arthur.
At this point, there’s no reason to even bother denying that, in running from Arthur, he’s all but running away from part of himself.
“I need to know her condition.”
Taking a deep breath, Merlin forces himself to turn and stroll casually back across the waiting area. No one is watching him-they’re all too wrapped up in their own grief and worry to spare a glance for a stranger. This place would be a criminal’s dream: no one’s watching.
There’s little doubt that he could walk out unnoticed. Arthur probably isn’t expecting him to be sitting out in the open-and, in retrospect that is a foolish decision. If he just kept walking, counting his steps by every painful jar of the unforgiving concrete under his feet, he could slip away unnoticed.
He manages it to some degree. Arthur is too busy interrogating the nurse, and many people have dark hair and slim builds. And destiny-it’s not always out to tear Merlin down: it doesn’t seem to be sending Arthur any sort of mental message that screams look.
At least, it holds off on that until Merlin reaches the end of the hall and-stupid, stupid decision-turns around. Never look back-what story doesn’t say to avoid that should the opportunity arise?
It’s a terribly stupid decision. Really unbelievably bad.
In all likelihood, he is probably the one who sends Arthur some sort of mental poke. After all, he’s just about dying to give in and give up. Wave the white flag. Whatever. In a case like this, his subconscious isn’t all that hard to figure out.
But wanting Arthur to catch him and actually letting him are two very different things.
Thank God.
As he turns, he reaches out, hand coming to rest on the door handle. The metal is cool and smooth, and it’s frighteningly easy to imagine that he could just pull down on that handle and walk out with no consequence. What a lovely world that would be: the kind where he could keep his hand there even as he watches Arthur’s gaze slip past the nurse, flinging itself down the hall as if drawn by some sort of irresistible magnetic pull.
They lock eyes. And no one says a word.
Arthur. God help him-Arthur. Merlin hasn’t seen him properly since-since… Camlann. Since he, no, not-not-since he lived. Always lived, yes. But this is the first time seeing him when he has all his memories. What good is it to meet Arthur in a park when he had no concept of who he was meeting? That hadn’t mattered. But this does. It matters so much. Too much.
Run.
Every corner of his mind screams for him to do flee. It’s taking over his brain, jolting down his limbs with shakes and jerks until he can’t quite hold his hands still. Arthur’s doing little better: there’s a madness to his eyes-a frightening glaze. A desperation. The blue is swallowed up by the black, and it’s not difficult to tell that Arthur’s mind is screaming something else entirely.
Everything shatters hard (and still not hard enough).
If Merlin could understand how the air is suddenly tangible with the broken bits of thoughts and memories, there’s the possibly that he could stop it. He can’t, though-never could. Shards of memory slam into the walls and floor. He can’t stop it, and even if the hospital walls were caving down around him, who’s to say that he’d even want to put an end to it? But, for now, nothing is physical, though the air is so thick with it all that it might as well be. It’s impaling him. Everything is, all at once, but it is, at least, as good as a physical push.
Graceful he certainly is not. His exit is anything but. In actuality, he falls through the door, Arthur’s voice-“Merlin!”-ringing in his ears.
The sound of footfalls on concrete.
His own harsh breath.
He shoves a gurney in front of the door and runs, ignoring the scream of metal as it hits the wall. This time, he doesn’t look back.
Part 10
Author: talesofyesac
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3,194
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.
[September 2nd 2007]
Even in this lifetime, Gwen still starts out as Morgana’s maid. Or… something. Frankly, Arthur isn’t quite sure what she is. She gets paid to clean, he’s fairly certain-at least, that’s what the payroll says-but from what he can tell, she’s more of a personal assistant than she is any sort of maid. And that… really doesn’t make sense, because it’s not like Morgana has much of a job. What could she possibly need an assistant for?
Apparently, personal assistant also qualifies as “bouncer”. Although, Gwen as a bouncer? It’s a bit hilarious. Sadly, not so hilarious that she fails to be intimidating. He could take her down with hardly any thought, but right now he could swear he’s the one who’s about to get his ass handed to him: she’s standing here, arms crossed as she regards him speculatively, like she’s trying to decide whether to call security or not.
Bloody fantastic. And why did he think he could handle this? That being face to face with Gwen would be all right? Didn’t think that out very well, did he? This is-he ought to just kick himself right now, save Gwen the trouble, since those shoes she’s wearing look like they’re probably pretty expensive, and God forbid they get scuffed for something as menial as assault.
Yes… he really can’t handle this.
Because Gwen-she looks beautiful and kind and intelligent and everything he ever loved about her. She looks like her. It’s a bit different seeing her in jeans and a blouse, but her face is the same, though this time with a shade of make-up. She hadn’t worn that much, even as queen. She hadn’t really needed to, just like she hadn’t ever needed the same elaborate hair arrangements that Morgana had always wanted. None of that had ever made Gwen happy. Her hair, though-he’d always loved her hair, especially when it was long. The weight of it had felt perfect in his hands, curling around his fingers when he sank them into it, the tendrils snaking around his knuckles and nails like they were holding on.
She’d cut her hair the night she left him. It was probably easier to travel that way. He’ll never know for sure-he never got to ask.
And, yet, here he is, poised to do everything all over again.
Because he is about to do that. He can feel it. He can feel her. Some things just don’t die, even if he knows it’ll kill him.
“You can’t kick me out,” he says as evenly as he can manage, given everything. It’s Gwen, and he’s talking to her like he doesn’t know her, and she’ll betray him if he lets her, but it. Is. Gwen. And that means everything to him. “My father owns this building.”
Gwen’s nose wrinkles. All right, that might have been the wrong thing to say. Even he’ll admit that he might have sounded a shade entitled. “It’s still polite to call ahead.” Which, in that tone of voice, sounds a little like, You remind me of something I found on the bottom of my shoe yesterday.
Back to the stupid shoes again.
“Look, I know, I’m sorry… Gwen, isn’t it?” In the last few days, since he’s remembered, he’s found that people he knew before don’t simply accept that he knows a creepy amount about them, and he really doesn’t fancy being arrested or possibly committed for what probably look like stalkerish tendencies.
There’s a pause, but Gwen does finally nod, her hand creeping up a bit higher on the doorframe as she leans into it, still watching him as though she can’t quite decide what mental affliction he has, if he even does have one, or if he’s just a prat.
Merlin would, of course, say prat.
“Are you here to talk to Morgana?”
“Yeah. I, uh, think I owe her an apology for running out on her the other morning….” Actually, he really owes her more of an apology for sleeping with her in the first place, but he can’t very well tell Gwen that, and, anyway, he needs to tell Morgana why first. Or, rather, he needs to show Morgana the note her mother wrote to Uther-the one Arthur has just recently filched from his father’s office. And, yeah, it’s probably a bit cowardly that he resorted to that rather than just asking his father about his relation to Morgana, but… it’s been a long few days. There are worse things in the world than a tactical bit of avoidance.
“I’m, uh, not sure she’ll actually want to see you.”
Yes, because he really fancies seeing her. Just can’t wait to walk in, maybe have some tea, and, oh, yes, Hello, Sister, sorry we slept together. “I’m not looking for a repeat, I can assure you,” he blurts out before he thinks better of it.
He’d be the first to admit that Gwen is entirely entitled to look like her brows are trying to crawl up into her hairline.
“I-look-“ Frustration mounting, he grinds his palm into his forehead, trying his best to stave off the headache that he can feel beginning behind his right eye. “That-I-that came out wrong-“
Gwen thins her lips and nods curtly. “You think?”
“I just-I want to apologize, and-“ Swallowing down whatever he was going to say-he doesn’t actually know what he was going to say, come to think of it-he forcibly pulls back in his thoughts. Regrouping, if you will. Sometimes that’s just necessary. “Look,” he tells Gwen as evenly as he can manage, “I have a very good reason for why we shouldn’t have done what we did. And I… need to tell her what that is.”
Gwen still doesn’t look convinced. “I’m fairly certain she’s got enough reasons all on her own without you giving her more.”
He always did love that Gwen was so stalwart. In this case, though, it may not be the best thing. Morgana was so stupid to throw this kind of devotion away the first time around. “She’ll want to know this one, I’m sure.”
It might be something on his face that does it. He can’t feel anything out of place, but he can’t imagine he doesn’t at least look a little (a lot) desperate, and maybe that’s what moves her. Whatever it is, Gwen finally sighs, dipping her head and casting her gaze off over his shoulder for a few moments before she relents. “All right. I’ll call her down.”
---------------------
[August 6, 2012]
The last time he was in a hospital like this, he actually never was. In a hospital, that is. He should have been, though. Some nights Merlin wakes from dreams so vivid that he’d almost be willing to swear that it did happen. Surely he couldn’t be imagining the horrid sterility and the claustrophobic sense of institution? It’s only when the walls start closing in that he remembers it isn’t real.
Walls don’t swallow people up. Not physically, anyway.
If he had been here before, though, this is how it would have gone: just like he is today, he’d have been sitting in an uncomfortable chair upholstered with some dully colored substance that is really more plastic than fabric. He’d have been tracing the line where the rug of the waiting area meets title, his eyes constantly flickering down the seam, looking for any sign of a tear or of shoddy workmanship. He’d have been listening for the click of heals and grinding his teeth in frustration when a nurse walked by in flats. The lack of noise those flats made would have been-just like it is now-an unacceptable deviation from whatever game he’s playing with himself.
As if he needed more proof that not all games are fun.
Really, the only difference he can find between the almost past and the present is which parent he’s waiting for: the first time this happened, it should have been for his father. It was for his father.
But not today.
We’re going to need you to come in. She’s listed in critical condition… operate immediately… next of kin….
Only kin.
He’d given them her name. Hunith Emrys. All common sense screamed not to-don’t throw away years of hiding for this-but if she does die, he can’t see her buried under a false name. Not a name that never meant anything at all. She’s his mother, and she’d want to rest next to his father. How can he possibly deny her that?
How, indeed? The question is unsettling, and he fidgets nervously.
The coffee in his hand has long since gone lukewarm. The blasted stuff doesn’t even have the courtesy to go all the way cold. He ought to just throw it out, but picking at the Styrofoam cup gives him something to do with his hands, and it’s far better than sitting still.
Feels like he’s been moving for an age. Sitting still might not even be possible anymore.
Of course, impossibility is a rather common theme these days. Can’t use his real name. Can’t stay in one place too long. Will never see his father again, and will never know precisely who killed him (not Arthur, please not Arthur).
At least his mother never had to see anyone’s face. How had it looked for his father, in those last few moments when that squad of men had been baring down on him? It certainly wouldn’t have made for a very good film scene-the middle of Tesco’s in mid-day is no dark ally. By all accounts, there was nothing particularly spectacular about it. His father had been drunk, and he hadn’t noticed as the store slowly cleared out, the other shoppers being herded to safety. Perhaps he hadn’t even noticed the five men approaching him. No one Merlin’s talked to can ever decide whether they were wearing military dress or not-though, even if they weren’t, they were certainly wearing something close enough to insure they were outfitted for their roles.
His mother, thank God, will never have to encounter someone reaching for her while she’s caught in a drunken haze. She’ll never grab the knife hidden in her jacket, not thinking-not even considering-that there might be other options. That is, better options for someone too drunk to handle a weapon, someone who raises the knife back and tries to stab, only to have his wrist misdirected, and, in a drunken fumble, stumble, lurching forward into his attacker and driving the knife into his own gut.
Or so all accounts go.
It’s plausible. How dearly he’d like to believe that Arthur only gave orders to contain rather than kill. Only… Arthur had seen the kind of parent Merlin’s father was. He probably has files on it. Might even have video footage, probably of Balinor stumbling home drunk, or maybe of Merlin waiting after school for a father who never arrived to pick him up.
Scuffing his toe against the carpet, Merlin picks another bit of Styrofoam off the cup and flicks it to the floor. He could have done that at home when he was growing up. His father either wouldn’t have been there or would have been too drunk to notice. And Arthur-he knows that now. Knows that Merlin had that kind of upbringing.
Once upon a time, Arthur would have understood-would have realized that Balinor was too tormented by his own demons to even conceive of properly caring for anyone else. He may not have liked Balinor’s actions, but he would have seen the cause and had mercy. But the Arthur of today? It’s impossible to say.
Not Merlin’s mother, though. Arthur would never hurt Hunith.
Right?
Finally, Merlin pushes himself to his feet and drags his limbs over to the nearest bin, tossing the cup-still half full-into it and wincing as the liquid spills. The person who has to empty that certainly won’t thank him. It’s inconsiderate of him, but, really, he just hadn’t thought about it. Seems to be a talent of his. Easier not to think-to not consider how his mother has been his lifeline, the one bright spot in his world growing up. How she worked to take care of him.
And how a head-on collision on the M25 was her reward.
Now, she can’t even get nurses who are willing to come tell her son whether she’s still breathing. He’s been waiting hours, and it’s possible that no news is good news… but the achy feeling in the depths of his stomach says otherwise. If he spends much more time standing here over the bin, he’ll likely even get to see those depths up close and personal.
Wiping his arm across his mouth, Merlin spits into the bin and turns away. He could go back to the waiting area. Sit down again, flip through another dog-eared magazine without seeing any of it. Listen to the people around him talking with their loved ones while waiting for news. Some of them are as frantic as he is.
Going back is out of the question.
He can’t do it. Only three steps out of the waiting area, and he can’t make himself go back. Pitiful-he laughs shakily, swallowing down the feeling of nausea.
“Hunith Emrys.”
Shock makes him fast: he’s turning on his heal, back to the bin in half a second. A moment more, and he’s shrinking away, fading into the waiting area to which, just a minute ago, he hadn’t felt he could return. He doesn’t have much choice now, though, does he?
That voice-it’s not the voice of a nurse. He can’t ever get that bloody lucky. No. Never. He’d love to hit something right about now, tear it down and just watch it buckle. Anything. His own life would be good for starters. Blasted thing would come back though, again and again and again and-
He bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood.
Arthur. Arthur is here, in the hospital. Yes, sure, Merlin had given his mother’s real name, but how can Arthur possibly be this quick? Of course Arthur has been actively searching-there was never any doubt about that-but for someone to find Merlin only hours after he gives his mother’s name-not even his own name-is practically unthinkable.
Pity fate has never regarded logical or thinkable as terms that are applicable to Merlin.
Thinking in general even seems a bit beyond him at the moment. It shouldn’t be, but the sound of Arthur’s voice-it does things to him. Things like making him just crazy enough to want to step forward out of the cover of the waiting area-let himself be found. Arthur wouldn’t hurt him. This isn’t about self-preservation. Sure, the world might go to hell, but at least he’d be back with Arthur.
At this point, there’s no reason to even bother denying that, in running from Arthur, he’s all but running away from part of himself.
“I need to know her condition.”
Taking a deep breath, Merlin forces himself to turn and stroll casually back across the waiting area. No one is watching him-they’re all too wrapped up in their own grief and worry to spare a glance for a stranger. This place would be a criminal’s dream: no one’s watching.
There’s little doubt that he could walk out unnoticed. Arthur probably isn’t expecting him to be sitting out in the open-and, in retrospect that is a foolish decision. If he just kept walking, counting his steps by every painful jar of the unforgiving concrete under his feet, he could slip away unnoticed.
He manages it to some degree. Arthur is too busy interrogating the nurse, and many people have dark hair and slim builds. And destiny-it’s not always out to tear Merlin down: it doesn’t seem to be sending Arthur any sort of mental message that screams look.
At least, it holds off on that until Merlin reaches the end of the hall and-stupid, stupid decision-turns around. Never look back-what story doesn’t say to avoid that should the opportunity arise?
It’s a terribly stupid decision. Really unbelievably bad.
In all likelihood, he is probably the one who sends Arthur some sort of mental poke. After all, he’s just about dying to give in and give up. Wave the white flag. Whatever. In a case like this, his subconscious isn’t all that hard to figure out.
But wanting Arthur to catch him and actually letting him are two very different things.
Thank God.
As he turns, he reaches out, hand coming to rest on the door handle. The metal is cool and smooth, and it’s frighteningly easy to imagine that he could just pull down on that handle and walk out with no consequence. What a lovely world that would be: the kind where he could keep his hand there even as he watches Arthur’s gaze slip past the nurse, flinging itself down the hall as if drawn by some sort of irresistible magnetic pull.
They lock eyes. And no one says a word.
Arthur. God help him-Arthur. Merlin hasn’t seen him properly since-since… Camlann. Since he, no, not-not-since he lived. Always lived, yes. But this is the first time seeing him when he has all his memories. What good is it to meet Arthur in a park when he had no concept of who he was meeting? That hadn’t mattered. But this does. It matters so much. Too much.
Run.
Every corner of his mind screams for him to do flee. It’s taking over his brain, jolting down his limbs with shakes and jerks until he can’t quite hold his hands still. Arthur’s doing little better: there’s a madness to his eyes-a frightening glaze. A desperation. The blue is swallowed up by the black, and it’s not difficult to tell that Arthur’s mind is screaming something else entirely.
Everything shatters hard (and still not hard enough).
If Merlin could understand how the air is suddenly tangible with the broken bits of thoughts and memories, there’s the possibly that he could stop it. He can’t, though-never could. Shards of memory slam into the walls and floor. He can’t stop it, and even if the hospital walls were caving down around him, who’s to say that he’d even want to put an end to it? But, for now, nothing is physical, though the air is so thick with it all that it might as well be. It’s impaling him. Everything is, all at once, but it is, at least, as good as a physical push.
Graceful he certainly is not. His exit is anything but. In actuality, he falls through the door, Arthur’s voice-“Merlin!”-ringing in his ears.
The sound of footfalls on concrete.
His own harsh breath.
He shoves a gurney in front of the door and runs, ignoring the scream of metal as it hits the wall. This time, he doesn’t look back.
Part 10