Merlin - Where This Road May Go 1/9 (Arthur/Merlin, Gwen/Morgana - pg-13)
Title: Where This Road May Go 1/9
Author: batgurl88
Rating: pg-13
Pairing/Characters: Arthur/Merlin, Gwen/Morgana, Gaius, Uther, Nimueh
Wordcount: 5,592 (52,352 overall)
Summary: Arthur is a royal who can't remember his past. Merlin and Gaius are con-men, hoping to return Arthur to Uther for a hefty reward, but little do they know they have the real deal on their hands.
A/N: Idea comes from a plot bunny on this thread, proposed by derryere, necro_omen13, and lupine_pyra. Some lines and plot aspects respectfully borrowed from both Fox Animation’s Anastasia and BBC’s Merlin. Updates will be regular. Beta’d by the wonderful justicemischief.
Formerly titled "My Fair Arty" (finally got around to changing it).
WARNING: This is not historically accurate (though, I tried hard to make it so). I did a hell of a lot of research and did my best to incorporate aspects of actual history where I could, while adapting some of the film's (inaccurate) representation, but I did simplify and mess around with a lot of Russia's history (and buildings) in the end. As such, the revolution mentioned in this fic is not one of the real revolutions, and though I made a few nods to Grand Duchess Anastasia and her family, this fic does not tell their story. So, this may best be viewed as sort of an alternate universe Russia. Now that I’ve scared away the history majors, we may proceed ;)
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Where This Road May Go
Part One
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- Russia, 1917 -
The Nicholas Hall of the Winter Palace was filled to bursting with finely-dressed guests, everyone present indulging in dancing and fine wine to celebrate the tsar and his wife. Outside, snow fell softly on the carriages of those who had travelled great distances to attend the imperial ball.
Prince Uther Frederick Alexander Vilhelm of Denmark entered the Great Hall with a loud proclamation by the chief herald, dancers parting ways to make room for the aging aristocrat. Robed in red military dress with gold trimming, Uther was a magnificent sight as he made his way across the ballroom. He moved with all of the poise and dignity of royalty, walking to the throne on the lower dais that was reserved for his visits with his extended family.
Uther enjoyed these celebrations, even if he was technically a foreigner to Russia. He'd always been one for banquets and parties, appreciating the good food and good company that went with them. It was especially true in this case, as he paused to greet his much-beloved daughter, Igraine Feodorovna Petrovina, Tsaritsa and Empress consort of all Russia.
A vision in her blue velvet gown, complete with a tall kokoshnik, Igraine smiled warmly as if she had not seen Uther just yesterday.
“My dear, you look lovely,” he said, placing a kiss on her cheek.
The smile she gave in return seemed to light up the room.
“And you quite handsome,” she returned, clasping his hands in hers, her blue eyes twinkling. Her husband, Tsar Ector, appeared over her shoulder, and Uther nodded a polite acknowledgement.
The third son of the former King of Denmark, widower and heir to little else than his name, Prince Uther had been suspicious of the tsar when Igraine had first announced her intention to marry, though he and Ector had grown to understand one another with time. His early blessing on their union when Ector’s parents had fought the matching of their son with a foreigner tooth and nail had gone a long way in smoothing things over. Ector had made it clear that Uther was always welcome in their home, and the prince had taken full advantage of the invitation over the past fourteen years of their marriage, using every spare opportunity to visit with his only daughter and grandchildren.
“I hear you are to be leaving us,” Ector said by way of greeting, resting his hand on Igraine’s waist.
The prince nodded his regret. “I’m afraid business in France has escalated to a point where it can no longer be ignored,” he explained, inclining his head. He knew it would be bad-mannered of him to continue imposing on his son-in-law’s hospitality for such a long stay, though Igraine seemed to appreciate the company. With Tsarevitch Owain - the couple's eldest son and heir - as ill as he was, the family could use all the cheer they could get.
Igraine seemed to read his thoughts.
“Must you really leave us so soon?” she asked, disappointed. “The children always seem so much better for your visits.”
Uther’s expression softened at the tight lines around her eyes. Owain's illness had taken its toll on the family. The quiet and studious Grand Duchess Helen - their eldest child at thirteen years - worked tirelessly by her mother's side to keep Owain in good spirits during visits to his chambers. Owain himself had been steadfast throughout the past three years of his mysterious sickness, a child at heart but ever aware of his obligation to his family and country. Which just left Arthur - the youngest grand duke - who at the age of eight had little understanding of his older brother’s condition but could recognize the seriousness of his parents’ expressions easily enough.
“I’m sure they’ll get along without me for a little while,” the prince said. “This business in France is sure to be short, at any rate.”
“Our door will be open to you when you return,” Ector assured him, likely as much for Igraine’s benefit as for Uther’s.
He looked to his wife. “I’m sorry to tear you away, but I fear we may have neglected our other guests,” he said, gesturing around the packed ballroom.
Igraine smiled, her expression clearing. “Yes, of course. We’ll speak again later, I’m sure,” she said to Uther.
“I look forward to it,” the prince replied as Ector led her away.
Prince Uther smiled lightly as the musicians began a new piece, crossing to the lower dais to take his seat. He would miss this when he was gone. The parties in Russia were always something to behold. With any luck, his business in France would be swift, and he would be free to return to Russia, no doubt to be greeted by a long list of Arthur’s misdeeds while he was away.
The youngest grand duke had doubled his efforts in recent months at drawing his family’s attention from the unpleasant thoughts of Owain’s illness through his many indiscretions. They included more than a few pranks pulled on the household staff, which had earned him the appropriate nickname of "troublemaker." Though some of his behaviour could be construed as mean-spirited, Uther knew he had a good heart underneath, and his misdeeds never failed to make Owain laugh.
It was this grandchild who parted eagerly from the crowd to greet Uther, racing to the lower dais before briefly remembering himself long enough to bow politely. Uther hid a smile behind his hand, nodding a greeting in return. Although he loved all of his grandchildren equally, he could not deny the bit of himself he saw in Arthur, perhaps through the standing they shared as younger sons. The boy was the spitting image of his mother, her piercing blue eyes staring back up at him in the awe only an impressionable grandson could manage.
"Grandpapa, Helen says you're to be leaving," Arthur bit out impatiently in the tone of a boy used to getting what he wanted. His hands fidgeted behind his back in a habit his tutors had long-sought to rid him of.
Prince Uther nodded, beckoning the child forward. "I will be returning to Paris soon, Arthur. I can hardly stay in Russia forever."
Arthur frowned at this - Uther knew the child looked forward to his visits, and notoriously sulked for weeks once he’d gone. This time, he had prepared for such a possibility, reaching into the folds of his tunic.
"I have something for you."
He pulled out the small silver box he'd dug out of his possessions, holding it up for Arthur to inspect.
The young velikii kniaz's eyes widened as he accepted it cautiously, fingering the engravings.
"Dragons! Like the ones you read to me about," he exclaimed. Large dragon carvings decorated the box, their eyes bejewelled and wings stretched out as if in flight. They moulded themselves to the edges of the metal, bringing it to life.
"Open it," Uther instructed, a smile in his eyes. He'd waited for some time to pass this treasure on to his grandchild - something special between the two of them.
Eagerly, Arthur pushed the latch, only to frown a moment later.
"It's empty," he pouted, looking up in disappointment.
"Really?" the prince replied innocently, lifting a thin gold chain from around his neck. Hanging from the chain was a small key shaped like a broadsword. "Maybe you should try it with this," Uther suggested, sliding the sword-key into a concealed hole in the middle dragon's chest.
Turning the key slowly until it clicked, Arthur grinned as he opened the box again, finding a small portrait of the two of them.
"This box belonged to my father," Prince Uther explained, placing the chain around Arthur's neck. "He gave it to me when I was a small boy, and he'd always leave something new inside for me to find when he went away. Now it's yours. You can hide whatever you want inside of it, and no one but you or I will know how to get it out."
"Like a secret?" Arthur inquired eagerly, looking at the box with a newfound appreciation.
"Exactly," he nodded. He gestured to the key. "Read the inscription."
Arthur brought the small sword up in front of his face to marvel at the words etched on the side of the blade. His brow creased as he struggled to read the small lettering.
"'Together ... in Paris,'" Arthur pronounced slowly. His eyes lit up. "I can come and visit you?"
"Provided you keep up with your studies and mind your parents," the prince instructed sternly, remembering his grandson's penchant for causing trouble. Truthfully, some time away from his family would probably do them all a bit of good, stressed as Ector and Igraine were with Owain's condition. One less child to worry about would be a relief for both of his parents and Uther looked forward to showing Arthur around France.
"I will, I promise!" Arthur swore, sounding more serious than ever, even as a pleased smile broke out over his face. He marvelled at his new treasure, even as he regaled his grandpapa with all of the latest stories about his family he'd missed in the lead-up to tonight's ball.
* * *
Glancing over his shoulder, a short boy with a mop of dark hair made his way down the long tunnel of the servant's corridor, pressing his hand against the panel that lay at the end of the passageway. A slight boy of nearly eight, Merlin Emyrov gently pushed the panel open, enough to earn him a small sliver-sized glimpse of the Nicholas Hall and all its guests. Gazing out at the rich and powerful nobles from all over Russia, he scanned the crowd curiously, eyes settling on the back of Prince Uther's throne as the sounds of the party wafted into the corridor. Cracking the door just a bit further, his eyes softened as a young blond boy came into view.
On normal days, Merlin seldom managed more than quick glimpses of the blond-haired velikii kniaz as he turned a corner or disappeared into a room. Arthur - like his siblings - was usually busy with his lessons, or riding his horse, or practicing with his rifle, and Merlin was confined, as always, to the kitchens.
It was only on grand occasions such as this that he could chance sneaking away to catch a decent look at the Petrovins, and all of the wealth and splendour that seemed to travel with them. Tsaritsa Igraine was well-known for her parties, after all, even if recent sentiment amongst the people seemed to be that such extravagance for the pleasure of nobles was obscene.
"Here you are!"
Merlin jumped and whipped around, guilty that he'd been caught. His panic eased when he saw a familiar face in the passageway. The taller boy - William Kozlov - had his hands on his hips, a vaguely exasperated look on his face.
Will was a year older than him, and had lived with his father in the palace all his life, serving from a young age. He'd been a fast friend to Merlin, having, in his own words, "taken him under his wing." To Merlin, this seemed to require a lot of telling him what to do, but they’d gotten along well just the same.
"Are you throwing off your chores again, Merlin?" he demanded, crossing over to him. "Anton had you mopping the floors for two months the last time. He'll have your head if you're caught ditching. He already thinks you're the worst servant ever."
"I'll be there in a minute," Merlin said absently, turning his attention back to the ball and to Arthur.
Will followed his line of vision, his frown deepening. "The grand duke?" he scoffed, disappointed. "You're joking, Merlin. He doesn't even know you exist!"
He reddened, trying to sound casual, "I'm just looking at the party, Will."
"He's a bully," Will insisted, glaring out at the boy in question. "Just yesterday, Elena saw him trip Morris into the sop bucket for a laugh! These royals are all the same - we're nothing but entertainment to him. I'll be happy when they leave and it's back to just us servants living here.”
Merlin shrugged. “It’s only a short visit,” he reminded him, failing as ever to understand his friend’s dislike of the royals. The Petrovins only stayed at the Winter Palace for a few months out of the year, after all - preferring their permanent residence at Alexander Palace - which was hardly enough time to develop any sort of grudge. “I don’t mind them so much.”
Will sneered, nodding towards the party again. “I wonder why?” he replied sarcastically.
Shaking his head, he turned down the passageway, looking back impatiently. "Are you coming?"
"You go ahead," Merlin said, sparing him a quick glance. "I'll be right there."
Will rolled his eyes in disgust. "Suit yourself," he waved dismissively, heading toward the kitchens.
Turning his full attention to the party, Merlin frowned. He wasn't sure what it was about the youngest grand duke that drew his interest. As Will had said, Arthur didn't know he existed, and there was little chance of that ever changing. Servants were invisible to him outside of his practical jokes. He also had a nasty reputation among the help for being a bit of a jerk. Yet something about the boy and his family - who regularly up-heaved the lives of the palace servants in their visits - intrigued him.
Pushing the panel open a bit more to grant himself a better view, Merlin quirked his lips. Much as Will relished the months when they had the palace to themselves, Merlin found himself trapped by the predictability of it. He was bored of spending his days in the endless task of keeping the place in working order. Spying on these parties was probably the closest he'd ever get to seeing the world outside of his station.
He watched as the grand duke beamed over a small silver jewelled box with his grandfather, his eyes lighting up as he talked. Merlin squinted. From what he could see, it was a very nice treasure - expensive, surely - but certainly no nicer than any of the grand duke's other possessions. He wondered what it was about it that had made the other boy's smile reach his eyes for the first time that evening.
"Merlin!"
Anton Egorov, chief of the palace footmen, had unexpectedly materialised behind him, grabbing him around his midsection and pulling him back in the direction of the kitchens. "You know you're not supposed to be out here. Get back to work!"
Merlin struggled a bit against the tight grip, but it was really just for show - he knew he'd been caught. Sighing, he let the older man drag him back to the other servants, the panel sliding shut and the splendour of the imperial ball disappearing from sight.
* * *
A scuffle to Arthur’s right caught his eye. He frowned as he thought he saw a pair of dark blue eyes gawking at him from the direction of the servant's entrance, but they disappeared far too quickly for him to be sure. Shaking his head, he turned back to his grandpapa.
Arthur Ectorovich Petrovin hated parties. Especially ones filled to bursting with boring speeches and even more boring guests who insisted on talking to the Grand Duke of Russia, in spite of the fact that he was only eight years old and didn't give two hoots about their opinions on the recent rumours of an uprising in St. Petersburg.
Wishing he could still be abed like his older brother, Owain, and thus free from the torment that was royal responsibility, he'd shuffled about on the dance floor for the better part of two hours already. The uncomfortable white and gold tunic the palace tailors had modelled after his father's did nothing to aid his desperate attempt to look unavailable - or, better yet, invisible - to Count Tarasovich's incredibly annoying daughter, Sophia, who had already pestered three dances out of him that evening and had been looking eager for more.
The appearance of his grandpapa had been a godsend, and he'd latched onto the older man's presence, marvelling at his new gift and entertaining daydreams of shoving it under Owain’s nose later that night. Surely his brother - who was always receiving large gifts from strange dignitaries and visitors for being the heir - had never received such an important present from their grandpapa.
On the dance floor, his sister, Grand Duchess Helen, had been approached by no less than five partners, all of which she'd graciously accepted, though Arthur knew she hated to dance as much as he did. His mother had insisted they be extra polite to all of the guests but to refrain from answering any questions about Owain's health. Not that anyone had bothered asking him about it. Owain had been ill for so long that it was rather old news in the court.
Suddenly, the air in the Nicholas Hall grew unnaturally cold. Arthur shivered as wind picked up out of nowhere, cutting at the skirts of the dancers. The chandeliers began to flicker and dim as a hooded figure stepped forward, parting the crowd.
Prince Uther stood, beckoning Arthur closer. "Get behind me," he ordered quietly, his eyes glued to Arthur's mother and sister. Reluctantly, he obeyed, peering out around his grandpapa's side in interest.
The figure made her way silently to the centre of the hall, stopping just before Arthur’s parents. Pale hands surfaced from beneath the silvery cloak to pull back the hood, revealing a beautiful dark-haired woman.
"Nimueh," Tsar Ector growled, stepping in front of Igraine. A murmur of recognition spread through the crowd at the name of the disgraced healer and advisor most guests had probably only heard rumours about. She was no stranger to Arthur, though he'd never seen her quite like this. Her cold eyes had always been kind during her visits, but that had been before his parents had banished her from court. His mother had scolded him for asking what it was that made her so dangerous.
A pleased smile graced Nimueh's lips as she parted the rest of her cloak, revealing a shockingly red dress.
"Greetings, Your Highness," she called tauntingly, her voice echoing in the stillness of the hall. “I see I did not warrant an invitation to your party, but I’ll pay my respects all the same.”
"How dare you show your face here!"
Arthur's father was angrier than he'd ever seen him, the crowd holding its breath as one, not a guest daring to move.
Nimueh's features soured slightly. "Now, is that any way to greet an old friend, Your Highness?"
"You are no friend of ours," Igraine spoke up, taking a step toward her.
Arthur felt his grandpapa stiffen as his mother spoke, as if trying not to call out to her. He rather wished he would - perhaps the disruption would startle the fear from his parents' eyes.
The woman bristled at the accusation, clenching her fists menacingly. "I was once your most trusted advisor! Your confidant!"
Tsar Ector set his jaw in anger. "That was before you were found out for what you are! Sorcery is the work of the Old Ones, and those who practice its evil shall never be welcome in our home."
A harsh and cackling laugh rang loudly throughout the hall, sending chills down the spines of all who were present.
"You speak of what you do not know, Tsar Ector," Nimueh insisted, reaching into the folds of her dress. "Magic is neither good nor evil. I practiced sorcery for the good of your family, but you refused to see my intentions for what they were. Instead, you had me exiled, disgraced, and sent your citizens to hunt me like a common traitor. Now, you shall see the evils of the sorcery you fear so much."
Her words were spiteful, bitter. She lifted her hand, producing a red glass vial on a cord. Arthur eyed it warily, but the tsar refused to let the fear reach his eyes.
Nimueh smiled in vindication, the phial humming to life.
"I curse you, Ector! You and your entire family. The country which you so love will rise up and turn against you. I shall see your family burn, hated and disgraced. So is my promise - I will not rest until the royal line of Petrovin is brought to an end!"
The crowd gasped, drawing back, and Arthur gripped his grandpapa's arm in fear.
A red glow encased the hall, causing those present to shield their eyes. When it cleared, the witch was gone, the words of the curse ringing in their ears.
Igraine hid her head on Ector's shoulder, shaking with despair as he wrapped his arms around her, murmuring assurances. Helen was pale, standing off to the side of her parents. Arthur darted around his grandpapa's frozen form, running to join the rest of his family in the centre of the hall, cold dread settling in his chest.
* * *
It was an icy night several weeks after the ball then that saw Nimueh's curse come to pass.
The people of Russia had grown unhappy with the monarchy, and with Tsar Ector's leadership in particular. Only two days before, Arthur's father had promised to abdicate the throne in hopes of appeasing the revolutionaries, but some radicals claimed that there could be no peace for Russia as long as the tsar or any member of his family continued to live.
What had once been mere whispers and grumbles of malcontent from a few rebels were now loud shouts from the masses, strengthened, some said, by the curse Nimueh had laid upon their family. Rumours stirred throughout the city and palace that the witch had traded her soul for the power to destroy the tsar.
With all of the tension in the air, Arthur's grandpapa had delayed his trip to Paris again, too worried for the safety of his family to consider leaving.
It was Uther who woke Arthur that night, stealing into his chambers to rouse him. Outside, firelight flickered against Arthur's windowpanes, and the young grand duke frowned, confused.
"What's going on?" he wondered, pushing back his bedclothes. The prince was wearing his winter coat.
Uther beckoned him forward. "There's no time, Arthur. We must leave. Now!"
Alarmed by the worry in his normally stalwart grandpapa's face, Arthur did not question him further. He hopped from his bed, grabbing his coat and pulling it on as Uther guided him out of the bedroom.
The hallway was utter chaos, with servants and attendants rushing in every direction, the odd scream of panic sounding as loud shouts could be heard from outside the palace.
Uther led Arthur to the main hall where the rest of their family had gathered, dressed in their nightclothes, Helen in tears and clutching a favoured childhood doll and Owain struggling to stand, leaning heavily against his father. Igraine cried out in relief upon seeing them, hugging Arthur tightly.
"We need to leave," Ector said, ushering Helen in front of him. "Head to the North entrance. There's a carriage waiting."
Igraine and Ector led them across the hall at a brisk pace, the children following, doing their best to ignore the frightening scenes of panic that surrounded them. Arthur, confused and more scared than he wanted to admit, tugged at his mother's sleeve.
"Mother? What's happening?"
"It's the revolutionaries," Helen answered for her, her expression macabre. "They've come to kill us."
"Hush, Helen," Uther scolded, placing a guiding hand on his granddaughter’s back.
The sound of glass breaking startled screams from the hallway's inhabitants. Ector paled.
"Hurry, children! Hurry!" Arthur's father urged, pulling a terrified Helen along beside him. Shouts sounded from outside, causing Igraine to look back fearfully as she helped her ailing son along. Owain was white with the effort and strain of keeping up with his family.
"Quickly, my darlings!"
All around them, the household staff raced about in fright as the sounds of the attack grew louder. Arthur spotted two servants looting through his mother’s rooms, their arms full of precious jewels.
Shoved down the corridor along with his brother and sister, Arthur suddenly froze, his eyes widening. "My treasure box!" Ducking around Helen, he ran back toward his bedroom, pushing through the sea of frightened adults.
His grandpapa shouted after him, but he kept running. He couldn’t leave it behind.
* * *
Merlin hurried down the stairs from the servant's quarters in the attic, his hand on the sleeve of another servant. He'd lost track of Will in the panic, but everyone seemed to be heading for the rear exit. Following, he scanned the fearful faces of the people running with him, wondering how long they'd have until the rebels got inside the palace.
A flash of blond in the corner of his eye caught his attention and Merlin paused, his eyes tracking the grand duke. Elena, a scullery maid, grabbed his arm.
"Merlin, what are you doing?" she cried, trying to pull him with her along the corridor. "We have to leave!"
Dressed in only a nightshirt and breeches, Merlin watched as Arthur vanished around a corner.
"You go ahead," he told her, giving her a push. "Go! I'll meet up with you later."
The girl didn't need to be told twice, sparing him only a short glance of concern before running off to join the others.
Rounding the corner of the hallway, Prince Uther in fast pursuit, Merlin chased Arthur back to his quarters, watching as the grand duke scurried inside. He paused in the doorway, seeing Arthur scan the room before making a grab for the silver box on the nightstand.
"Your Highness," Merlin started, cringing as the noise of breaking glass sounded from inside the palace itself. They didn't have very long.
"Arthur! What are you doing?"
Uther burst into the room, barring the door behind him as sounds of the approaching mob grew louder. His eyes swept the chamber, glossing over Merlin's presence as he raced toward his grandson and pulled him close.
A loud bang startled the pair, the door to the room straining against the opposing forces outside.
"Open up!"
Turning his head, Prince Uther looked around for another escape. "We have to get out of here."
Thinking quickly, Merlin ran to the wall opposite Arthur's bed, running his fingers along it until he found the outlines of a panel, pulling it open.
"In here!" he urged, rushing to push the prince and his grandson toward the door in the wall. "The servant's entrance! Hurry!"
Uther and Arthur ran to the entrance, Uther ducking quickly inside. Jostled, the silver box dropped from Arthur's hands.
"Wait!" He turned back, trying to force his way past Merlin. "My treasure box!"
"There's no time," Merlin insisted, shoving the young velikii kniaz back inside the passageway. "Just go!"
He shut the panel, the edges disappearing into the wall just as the door burst open behind him. The servant turned to face it, surreptitiously guarding the royals' escape as three men with bayonets entered. He clenched his fists menacingly.
"Where are they, boy?" one of the men demanded, levelling his weapon at Merlin.
Merlin grabbed the object nearest to him - a priceless vase that he had once been scolded for standing too close to - and chucked it at the intruders. He barely had time to appreciate the satisfying impact it made against the shorter man's head before the butt of a gun sent him sprawling to the floor, the jewelled box forgotten by his side.
* * *
The tunnels in the servant's passageway were confusing to Arthur, but Prince Uther quickly led the way outside, a cold blast of air greeting the pair as they found themselves standing next to the frozen pond beside the palace. Racing across the snow-covered ice, the young grand duke struggled to keep his balance while keeping pace with his grandpapa.
They tripped and slid their way along the ice, Uther's hand a vice grip on Arthur's wrist as Nimueh appeared from a shadowed corner of the courtyard, cutting off their path, her eyes glowing with hate. Arthur froze.
"Arthur, run!" Uther shouted, ducking him around the sorceress.
"Don't think you'll escape me that easily, Grand Duke," she sneered. She raised her arm, the red vial she'd produced at the ball glowing to life again.
The world around them exploded, sending Uther and Arthur flying. The air was knocked from Arthur’s lungs, his chin smashing painfully against the ice as he fell. A few metres away, Uther landed heavily on the ground and did not move.
The sorceress slithered up behind Arthur, boasting.
"The Petrovin line will end today," she vowed, pulling him toward her, the red glass on her wrist thrumming with unnatural energy.
"Grandpapa!" Arthur cried, holding out his hands while desperately struggling against Nimueh's grabbing fingers, succeeding only in further angering her. He squirmed in her grasp as Uther finally struggled to his feet. In a moment he was running back toward them.
A well-placed kick knocked the phial from its cord around her wrist, sending it skating across the snow-dusted ice.
Nimueh's eyes widened, her grasp loosening as she followed its path toward a hole in the ice. "No!"
Taking his chance, Uther grabbed Arthur's arms and pulled him away, the pair of them slipping across the ice as they made their escape. Behind them, there came a loud crack as more of the frozen surface began to give way under Nimueh’s weight, her vial coming to a halt mere inches from the hole.
The red glass thrummed again, this time ominously, as Nimueh dropped to her belly to retrieve it. Stretching her arm out to where it rested beside the opening, she had just barely brushed her fingers against it when an even louder crack sounded from beneath her.
Arthur turned and watched, horror-struck, as she vanished, the vial following her plunge beneath the icy surface. He felt sick - he'd never seen a person die before, even a person as horrible as her.
A sharp tug from his grandpapa brought the grand duke back to himself.
"We have to hurry, Arthur," said Uther, pulling him along by the elbow.
"But-" Arthur's thoughts turned back to his family as he glanced back at the palace. "Mother! And- and Helen and Owain-"
"They'll be all right," the prince replied tightly, his voice strained and his eyes red-rimmed in the light of the fire. "We'll meet up with them later. Now, come along!"
The two of them ran until Arthur was sure his lungs would burst from the effort, the cruel winter air biting at his insides with every breath, numbing his face and hands. His nightclothes and slippers were a poor match for the weather, his breath misting before him with each gasp.
"We're almost there, Arthur," his grandpapa assured him, still glancing nervously back in the direction of the palace as they ran, lest they'd been followed. "Hurry."
The train station was crowded, but Uther led them through the crowd effortlessly, pushing and shoving the other patrons aside, dragging Arthur along behind him. On the platform, the train gave a sharp whistle, its wheels beginning to turn as the last of the passengers scurried aboard.
"Faster, Arthur!"
Uther raced along the platform, Arthur's hand slipping from his grip as he drew up alongside of the train. Panting, the aging royal leaped aboard the rear platform with a groan. Arthur let out a sigh of relief as the passengers at the rear of the train moved to help him, holding him in place when he would have stumbled back.
Uther turned quickly to hold his hand out for him.
“Hurry!”
Arthur ran, reaching his arm up as far as it would go, his fingers just out of reach as the train began to pick up speed.
"Come on, little one," another passenger urged, reaching out a hand to him as well.
"Almost there," strained Uther, leaning as far as the railing would allow him, the tips of their fingers brushing. Their hands locked together briefly.
"Don't let go," Arthur pleaded, his short legs struggling to keep up even as he felt his fingers slipping. He was running out of platform and the train continued to gain speed.
Uther winced with the effort as the smaller hand slowly slid from his grasp. In an instant, he'd lost his grip, Arthur giving a sharp cry as he fell back, his head smashing painfully against the platform and sending stars before his eyes.
"No! Arthur!" the prince yelled, making to jump after his falling grandson, only to be held back by the concerned passengers of the train.
"It's no use, friend," a burly man behind him insisted, pulling the Prince of Denmark's back inside the safety gate. "The train's going too fast now."
"He's right," urged a woman with greying hair, placing a consoling hand on his arm. "You’d never make it.”
Uther shook his head, ignoring their reasoning as the image of his grandson disappeared into the crowd of the train station, growing smaller with each second. "Arthur!"
On the station platform, a young boy that no one recognized had his last conscious glimpse of the departing train - the sounds of the crowd growing muffled around him - before giving in to the throbbing in his head, allowing darkness to claim him at last.
Part two
Rough Translations (for those that need them, and I’m hardly an expert):
Tsar - loosely translated to “Emperor.” Former title of the head monarch of Russia.
Tsarita - loosely translated to “Empress.” Wife of the tsar.
Tsarevitch - the heir apparent. Son of the tsar.
Velikii Kniaz - loosely translated to “Grand Duke.” Son of the tsar, but not the heir. Arthur’s title.
Kokoshnik - a diadem-shaped tiara that was part of the official court dress for royalty and ladies-in-waiting
Author: batgurl88
Rating: pg-13
Pairing/Characters: Arthur/Merlin, Gwen/Morgana, Gaius, Uther, Nimueh
Wordcount: 5,592 (52,352 overall)
Summary: Arthur is a royal who can't remember his past. Merlin and Gaius are con-men, hoping to return Arthur to Uther for a hefty reward, but little do they know they have the real deal on their hands.
A/N: Idea comes from a plot bunny on this thread, proposed by derryere, necro_omen13, and lupine_pyra. Some lines and plot aspects respectfully borrowed from both Fox Animation’s Anastasia and BBC’s Merlin. Updates will be regular. Beta’d by the wonderful justicemischief.
Formerly titled "My Fair Arty" (finally got around to changing it).
WARNING: This is not historically accurate (though, I tried hard to make it so). I did a hell of a lot of research and did my best to incorporate aspects of actual history where I could, while adapting some of the film's (inaccurate) representation, but I did simplify and mess around with a lot of Russia's history (and buildings) in the end. As such, the revolution mentioned in this fic is not one of the real revolutions, and though I made a few nods to Grand Duchess Anastasia and her family, this fic does not tell their story. So, this may best be viewed as sort of an alternate universe Russia. Now that I’ve scared away the history majors, we may proceed ;)
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Where This Road May Go
Part One
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- Russia, 1917 -
The Nicholas Hall of the Winter Palace was filled to bursting with finely-dressed guests, everyone present indulging in dancing and fine wine to celebrate the tsar and his wife. Outside, snow fell softly on the carriages of those who had travelled great distances to attend the imperial ball.
Prince Uther Frederick Alexander Vilhelm of Denmark entered the Great Hall with a loud proclamation by the chief herald, dancers parting ways to make room for the aging aristocrat. Robed in red military dress with gold trimming, Uther was a magnificent sight as he made his way across the ballroom. He moved with all of the poise and dignity of royalty, walking to the throne on the lower dais that was reserved for his visits with his extended family.
Uther enjoyed these celebrations, even if he was technically a foreigner to Russia. He'd always been one for banquets and parties, appreciating the good food and good company that went with them. It was especially true in this case, as he paused to greet his much-beloved daughter, Igraine Feodorovna Petrovina, Tsaritsa and Empress consort of all Russia.
A vision in her blue velvet gown, complete with a tall kokoshnik, Igraine smiled warmly as if she had not seen Uther just yesterday.
“My dear, you look lovely,” he said, placing a kiss on her cheek.
The smile she gave in return seemed to light up the room.
“And you quite handsome,” she returned, clasping his hands in hers, her blue eyes twinkling. Her husband, Tsar Ector, appeared over her shoulder, and Uther nodded a polite acknowledgement.
The third son of the former King of Denmark, widower and heir to little else than his name, Prince Uther had been suspicious of the tsar when Igraine had first announced her intention to marry, though he and Ector had grown to understand one another with time. His early blessing on their union when Ector’s parents had fought the matching of their son with a foreigner tooth and nail had gone a long way in smoothing things over. Ector had made it clear that Uther was always welcome in their home, and the prince had taken full advantage of the invitation over the past fourteen years of their marriage, using every spare opportunity to visit with his only daughter and grandchildren.
“I hear you are to be leaving us,” Ector said by way of greeting, resting his hand on Igraine’s waist.
The prince nodded his regret. “I’m afraid business in France has escalated to a point where it can no longer be ignored,” he explained, inclining his head. He knew it would be bad-mannered of him to continue imposing on his son-in-law’s hospitality for such a long stay, though Igraine seemed to appreciate the company. With Tsarevitch Owain - the couple's eldest son and heir - as ill as he was, the family could use all the cheer they could get.
Igraine seemed to read his thoughts.
“Must you really leave us so soon?” she asked, disappointed. “The children always seem so much better for your visits.”
Uther’s expression softened at the tight lines around her eyes. Owain's illness had taken its toll on the family. The quiet and studious Grand Duchess Helen - their eldest child at thirteen years - worked tirelessly by her mother's side to keep Owain in good spirits during visits to his chambers. Owain himself had been steadfast throughout the past three years of his mysterious sickness, a child at heart but ever aware of his obligation to his family and country. Which just left Arthur - the youngest grand duke - who at the age of eight had little understanding of his older brother’s condition but could recognize the seriousness of his parents’ expressions easily enough.
“I’m sure they’ll get along without me for a little while,” the prince said. “This business in France is sure to be short, at any rate.”
“Our door will be open to you when you return,” Ector assured him, likely as much for Igraine’s benefit as for Uther’s.
He looked to his wife. “I’m sorry to tear you away, but I fear we may have neglected our other guests,” he said, gesturing around the packed ballroom.
Igraine smiled, her expression clearing. “Yes, of course. We’ll speak again later, I’m sure,” she said to Uther.
“I look forward to it,” the prince replied as Ector led her away.
Prince Uther smiled lightly as the musicians began a new piece, crossing to the lower dais to take his seat. He would miss this when he was gone. The parties in Russia were always something to behold. With any luck, his business in France would be swift, and he would be free to return to Russia, no doubt to be greeted by a long list of Arthur’s misdeeds while he was away.
The youngest grand duke had doubled his efforts in recent months at drawing his family’s attention from the unpleasant thoughts of Owain’s illness through his many indiscretions. They included more than a few pranks pulled on the household staff, which had earned him the appropriate nickname of "troublemaker." Though some of his behaviour could be construed as mean-spirited, Uther knew he had a good heart underneath, and his misdeeds never failed to make Owain laugh.
It was this grandchild who parted eagerly from the crowd to greet Uther, racing to the lower dais before briefly remembering himself long enough to bow politely. Uther hid a smile behind his hand, nodding a greeting in return. Although he loved all of his grandchildren equally, he could not deny the bit of himself he saw in Arthur, perhaps through the standing they shared as younger sons. The boy was the spitting image of his mother, her piercing blue eyes staring back up at him in the awe only an impressionable grandson could manage.
"Grandpapa, Helen says you're to be leaving," Arthur bit out impatiently in the tone of a boy used to getting what he wanted. His hands fidgeted behind his back in a habit his tutors had long-sought to rid him of.
Prince Uther nodded, beckoning the child forward. "I will be returning to Paris soon, Arthur. I can hardly stay in Russia forever."
Arthur frowned at this - Uther knew the child looked forward to his visits, and notoriously sulked for weeks once he’d gone. This time, he had prepared for such a possibility, reaching into the folds of his tunic.
"I have something for you."
He pulled out the small silver box he'd dug out of his possessions, holding it up for Arthur to inspect.
The young velikii kniaz's eyes widened as he accepted it cautiously, fingering the engravings.
"Dragons! Like the ones you read to me about," he exclaimed. Large dragon carvings decorated the box, their eyes bejewelled and wings stretched out as if in flight. They moulded themselves to the edges of the metal, bringing it to life.
"Open it," Uther instructed, a smile in his eyes. He'd waited for some time to pass this treasure on to his grandchild - something special between the two of them.
Eagerly, Arthur pushed the latch, only to frown a moment later.
"It's empty," he pouted, looking up in disappointment.
"Really?" the prince replied innocently, lifting a thin gold chain from around his neck. Hanging from the chain was a small key shaped like a broadsword. "Maybe you should try it with this," Uther suggested, sliding the sword-key into a concealed hole in the middle dragon's chest.
Turning the key slowly until it clicked, Arthur grinned as he opened the box again, finding a small portrait of the two of them.
"This box belonged to my father," Prince Uther explained, placing the chain around Arthur's neck. "He gave it to me when I was a small boy, and he'd always leave something new inside for me to find when he went away. Now it's yours. You can hide whatever you want inside of it, and no one but you or I will know how to get it out."
"Like a secret?" Arthur inquired eagerly, looking at the box with a newfound appreciation.
"Exactly," he nodded. He gestured to the key. "Read the inscription."
Arthur brought the small sword up in front of his face to marvel at the words etched on the side of the blade. His brow creased as he struggled to read the small lettering.
"'Together ... in Paris,'" Arthur pronounced slowly. His eyes lit up. "I can come and visit you?"
"Provided you keep up with your studies and mind your parents," the prince instructed sternly, remembering his grandson's penchant for causing trouble. Truthfully, some time away from his family would probably do them all a bit of good, stressed as Ector and Igraine were with Owain's condition. One less child to worry about would be a relief for both of his parents and Uther looked forward to showing Arthur around France.
"I will, I promise!" Arthur swore, sounding more serious than ever, even as a pleased smile broke out over his face. He marvelled at his new treasure, even as he regaled his grandpapa with all of the latest stories about his family he'd missed in the lead-up to tonight's ball.
* * *
Glancing over his shoulder, a short boy with a mop of dark hair made his way down the long tunnel of the servant's corridor, pressing his hand against the panel that lay at the end of the passageway. A slight boy of nearly eight, Merlin Emyrov gently pushed the panel open, enough to earn him a small sliver-sized glimpse of the Nicholas Hall and all its guests. Gazing out at the rich and powerful nobles from all over Russia, he scanned the crowd curiously, eyes settling on the back of Prince Uther's throne as the sounds of the party wafted into the corridor. Cracking the door just a bit further, his eyes softened as a young blond boy came into view.
On normal days, Merlin seldom managed more than quick glimpses of the blond-haired velikii kniaz as he turned a corner or disappeared into a room. Arthur - like his siblings - was usually busy with his lessons, or riding his horse, or practicing with his rifle, and Merlin was confined, as always, to the kitchens.
It was only on grand occasions such as this that he could chance sneaking away to catch a decent look at the Petrovins, and all of the wealth and splendour that seemed to travel with them. Tsaritsa Igraine was well-known for her parties, after all, even if recent sentiment amongst the people seemed to be that such extravagance for the pleasure of nobles was obscene.
"Here you are!"
Merlin jumped and whipped around, guilty that he'd been caught. His panic eased when he saw a familiar face in the passageway. The taller boy - William Kozlov - had his hands on his hips, a vaguely exasperated look on his face.
Will was a year older than him, and had lived with his father in the palace all his life, serving from a young age. He'd been a fast friend to Merlin, having, in his own words, "taken him under his wing." To Merlin, this seemed to require a lot of telling him what to do, but they’d gotten along well just the same.
"Are you throwing off your chores again, Merlin?" he demanded, crossing over to him. "Anton had you mopping the floors for two months the last time. He'll have your head if you're caught ditching. He already thinks you're the worst servant ever."
"I'll be there in a minute," Merlin said absently, turning his attention back to the ball and to Arthur.
Will followed his line of vision, his frown deepening. "The grand duke?" he scoffed, disappointed. "You're joking, Merlin. He doesn't even know you exist!"
He reddened, trying to sound casual, "I'm just looking at the party, Will."
"He's a bully," Will insisted, glaring out at the boy in question. "Just yesterday, Elena saw him trip Morris into the sop bucket for a laugh! These royals are all the same - we're nothing but entertainment to him. I'll be happy when they leave and it's back to just us servants living here.”
Merlin shrugged. “It’s only a short visit,” he reminded him, failing as ever to understand his friend’s dislike of the royals. The Petrovins only stayed at the Winter Palace for a few months out of the year, after all - preferring their permanent residence at Alexander Palace - which was hardly enough time to develop any sort of grudge. “I don’t mind them so much.”
Will sneered, nodding towards the party again. “I wonder why?” he replied sarcastically.
Shaking his head, he turned down the passageway, looking back impatiently. "Are you coming?"
"You go ahead," Merlin said, sparing him a quick glance. "I'll be right there."
Will rolled his eyes in disgust. "Suit yourself," he waved dismissively, heading toward the kitchens.
Turning his full attention to the party, Merlin frowned. He wasn't sure what it was about the youngest grand duke that drew his interest. As Will had said, Arthur didn't know he existed, and there was little chance of that ever changing. Servants were invisible to him outside of his practical jokes. He also had a nasty reputation among the help for being a bit of a jerk. Yet something about the boy and his family - who regularly up-heaved the lives of the palace servants in their visits - intrigued him.
Pushing the panel open a bit more to grant himself a better view, Merlin quirked his lips. Much as Will relished the months when they had the palace to themselves, Merlin found himself trapped by the predictability of it. He was bored of spending his days in the endless task of keeping the place in working order. Spying on these parties was probably the closest he'd ever get to seeing the world outside of his station.
He watched as the grand duke beamed over a small silver jewelled box with his grandfather, his eyes lighting up as he talked. Merlin squinted. From what he could see, it was a very nice treasure - expensive, surely - but certainly no nicer than any of the grand duke's other possessions. He wondered what it was about it that had made the other boy's smile reach his eyes for the first time that evening.
"Merlin!"
Anton Egorov, chief of the palace footmen, had unexpectedly materialised behind him, grabbing him around his midsection and pulling him back in the direction of the kitchens. "You know you're not supposed to be out here. Get back to work!"
Merlin struggled a bit against the tight grip, but it was really just for show - he knew he'd been caught. Sighing, he let the older man drag him back to the other servants, the panel sliding shut and the splendour of the imperial ball disappearing from sight.
* * *
A scuffle to Arthur’s right caught his eye. He frowned as he thought he saw a pair of dark blue eyes gawking at him from the direction of the servant's entrance, but they disappeared far too quickly for him to be sure. Shaking his head, he turned back to his grandpapa.
Arthur Ectorovich Petrovin hated parties. Especially ones filled to bursting with boring speeches and even more boring guests who insisted on talking to the Grand Duke of Russia, in spite of the fact that he was only eight years old and didn't give two hoots about their opinions on the recent rumours of an uprising in St. Petersburg.
Wishing he could still be abed like his older brother, Owain, and thus free from the torment that was royal responsibility, he'd shuffled about on the dance floor for the better part of two hours already. The uncomfortable white and gold tunic the palace tailors had modelled after his father's did nothing to aid his desperate attempt to look unavailable - or, better yet, invisible - to Count Tarasovich's incredibly annoying daughter, Sophia, who had already pestered three dances out of him that evening and had been looking eager for more.
The appearance of his grandpapa had been a godsend, and he'd latched onto the older man's presence, marvelling at his new gift and entertaining daydreams of shoving it under Owain’s nose later that night. Surely his brother - who was always receiving large gifts from strange dignitaries and visitors for being the heir - had never received such an important present from their grandpapa.
On the dance floor, his sister, Grand Duchess Helen, had been approached by no less than five partners, all of which she'd graciously accepted, though Arthur knew she hated to dance as much as he did. His mother had insisted they be extra polite to all of the guests but to refrain from answering any questions about Owain's health. Not that anyone had bothered asking him about it. Owain had been ill for so long that it was rather old news in the court.
Suddenly, the air in the Nicholas Hall grew unnaturally cold. Arthur shivered as wind picked up out of nowhere, cutting at the skirts of the dancers. The chandeliers began to flicker and dim as a hooded figure stepped forward, parting the crowd.
Prince Uther stood, beckoning Arthur closer. "Get behind me," he ordered quietly, his eyes glued to Arthur's mother and sister. Reluctantly, he obeyed, peering out around his grandpapa's side in interest.
The figure made her way silently to the centre of the hall, stopping just before Arthur’s parents. Pale hands surfaced from beneath the silvery cloak to pull back the hood, revealing a beautiful dark-haired woman.
"Nimueh," Tsar Ector growled, stepping in front of Igraine. A murmur of recognition spread through the crowd at the name of the disgraced healer and advisor most guests had probably only heard rumours about. She was no stranger to Arthur, though he'd never seen her quite like this. Her cold eyes had always been kind during her visits, but that had been before his parents had banished her from court. His mother had scolded him for asking what it was that made her so dangerous.
A pleased smile graced Nimueh's lips as she parted the rest of her cloak, revealing a shockingly red dress.
"Greetings, Your Highness," she called tauntingly, her voice echoing in the stillness of the hall. “I see I did not warrant an invitation to your party, but I’ll pay my respects all the same.”
"How dare you show your face here!"
Arthur's father was angrier than he'd ever seen him, the crowd holding its breath as one, not a guest daring to move.
Nimueh's features soured slightly. "Now, is that any way to greet an old friend, Your Highness?"
"You are no friend of ours," Igraine spoke up, taking a step toward her.
Arthur felt his grandpapa stiffen as his mother spoke, as if trying not to call out to her. He rather wished he would - perhaps the disruption would startle the fear from his parents' eyes.
The woman bristled at the accusation, clenching her fists menacingly. "I was once your most trusted advisor! Your confidant!"
Tsar Ector set his jaw in anger. "That was before you were found out for what you are! Sorcery is the work of the Old Ones, and those who practice its evil shall never be welcome in our home."
A harsh and cackling laugh rang loudly throughout the hall, sending chills down the spines of all who were present.
"You speak of what you do not know, Tsar Ector," Nimueh insisted, reaching into the folds of her dress. "Magic is neither good nor evil. I practiced sorcery for the good of your family, but you refused to see my intentions for what they were. Instead, you had me exiled, disgraced, and sent your citizens to hunt me like a common traitor. Now, you shall see the evils of the sorcery you fear so much."
Her words were spiteful, bitter. She lifted her hand, producing a red glass vial on a cord. Arthur eyed it warily, but the tsar refused to let the fear reach his eyes.
Nimueh smiled in vindication, the phial humming to life.
"I curse you, Ector! You and your entire family. The country which you so love will rise up and turn against you. I shall see your family burn, hated and disgraced. So is my promise - I will not rest until the royal line of Petrovin is brought to an end!"
The crowd gasped, drawing back, and Arthur gripped his grandpapa's arm in fear.
A red glow encased the hall, causing those present to shield their eyes. When it cleared, the witch was gone, the words of the curse ringing in their ears.
Igraine hid her head on Ector's shoulder, shaking with despair as he wrapped his arms around her, murmuring assurances. Helen was pale, standing off to the side of her parents. Arthur darted around his grandpapa's frozen form, running to join the rest of his family in the centre of the hall, cold dread settling in his chest.
* * *
It was an icy night several weeks after the ball then that saw Nimueh's curse come to pass.
The people of Russia had grown unhappy with the monarchy, and with Tsar Ector's leadership in particular. Only two days before, Arthur's father had promised to abdicate the throne in hopes of appeasing the revolutionaries, but some radicals claimed that there could be no peace for Russia as long as the tsar or any member of his family continued to live.
What had once been mere whispers and grumbles of malcontent from a few rebels were now loud shouts from the masses, strengthened, some said, by the curse Nimueh had laid upon their family. Rumours stirred throughout the city and palace that the witch had traded her soul for the power to destroy the tsar.
With all of the tension in the air, Arthur's grandpapa had delayed his trip to Paris again, too worried for the safety of his family to consider leaving.
It was Uther who woke Arthur that night, stealing into his chambers to rouse him. Outside, firelight flickered against Arthur's windowpanes, and the young grand duke frowned, confused.
"What's going on?" he wondered, pushing back his bedclothes. The prince was wearing his winter coat.
Uther beckoned him forward. "There's no time, Arthur. We must leave. Now!"
Alarmed by the worry in his normally stalwart grandpapa's face, Arthur did not question him further. He hopped from his bed, grabbing his coat and pulling it on as Uther guided him out of the bedroom.
The hallway was utter chaos, with servants and attendants rushing in every direction, the odd scream of panic sounding as loud shouts could be heard from outside the palace.
Uther led Arthur to the main hall where the rest of their family had gathered, dressed in their nightclothes, Helen in tears and clutching a favoured childhood doll and Owain struggling to stand, leaning heavily against his father. Igraine cried out in relief upon seeing them, hugging Arthur tightly.
"We need to leave," Ector said, ushering Helen in front of him. "Head to the North entrance. There's a carriage waiting."
Igraine and Ector led them across the hall at a brisk pace, the children following, doing their best to ignore the frightening scenes of panic that surrounded them. Arthur, confused and more scared than he wanted to admit, tugged at his mother's sleeve.
"Mother? What's happening?"
"It's the revolutionaries," Helen answered for her, her expression macabre. "They've come to kill us."
"Hush, Helen," Uther scolded, placing a guiding hand on his granddaughter’s back.
The sound of glass breaking startled screams from the hallway's inhabitants. Ector paled.
"Hurry, children! Hurry!" Arthur's father urged, pulling a terrified Helen along beside him. Shouts sounded from outside, causing Igraine to look back fearfully as she helped her ailing son along. Owain was white with the effort and strain of keeping up with his family.
"Quickly, my darlings!"
All around them, the household staff raced about in fright as the sounds of the attack grew louder. Arthur spotted two servants looting through his mother’s rooms, their arms full of precious jewels.
Shoved down the corridor along with his brother and sister, Arthur suddenly froze, his eyes widening. "My treasure box!" Ducking around Helen, he ran back toward his bedroom, pushing through the sea of frightened adults.
His grandpapa shouted after him, but he kept running. He couldn’t leave it behind.
* * *
Merlin hurried down the stairs from the servant's quarters in the attic, his hand on the sleeve of another servant. He'd lost track of Will in the panic, but everyone seemed to be heading for the rear exit. Following, he scanned the fearful faces of the people running with him, wondering how long they'd have until the rebels got inside the palace.
A flash of blond in the corner of his eye caught his attention and Merlin paused, his eyes tracking the grand duke. Elena, a scullery maid, grabbed his arm.
"Merlin, what are you doing?" she cried, trying to pull him with her along the corridor. "We have to leave!"
Dressed in only a nightshirt and breeches, Merlin watched as Arthur vanished around a corner.
"You go ahead," he told her, giving her a push. "Go! I'll meet up with you later."
The girl didn't need to be told twice, sparing him only a short glance of concern before running off to join the others.
Rounding the corner of the hallway, Prince Uther in fast pursuit, Merlin chased Arthur back to his quarters, watching as the grand duke scurried inside. He paused in the doorway, seeing Arthur scan the room before making a grab for the silver box on the nightstand.
"Your Highness," Merlin started, cringing as the noise of breaking glass sounded from inside the palace itself. They didn't have very long.
"Arthur! What are you doing?"
Uther burst into the room, barring the door behind him as sounds of the approaching mob grew louder. His eyes swept the chamber, glossing over Merlin's presence as he raced toward his grandson and pulled him close.
A loud bang startled the pair, the door to the room straining against the opposing forces outside.
"Open up!"
Turning his head, Prince Uther looked around for another escape. "We have to get out of here."
Thinking quickly, Merlin ran to the wall opposite Arthur's bed, running his fingers along it until he found the outlines of a panel, pulling it open.
"In here!" he urged, rushing to push the prince and his grandson toward the door in the wall. "The servant's entrance! Hurry!"
Uther and Arthur ran to the entrance, Uther ducking quickly inside. Jostled, the silver box dropped from Arthur's hands.
"Wait!" He turned back, trying to force his way past Merlin. "My treasure box!"
"There's no time," Merlin insisted, shoving the young velikii kniaz back inside the passageway. "Just go!"
He shut the panel, the edges disappearing into the wall just as the door burst open behind him. The servant turned to face it, surreptitiously guarding the royals' escape as three men with bayonets entered. He clenched his fists menacingly.
"Where are they, boy?" one of the men demanded, levelling his weapon at Merlin.
Merlin grabbed the object nearest to him - a priceless vase that he had once been scolded for standing too close to - and chucked it at the intruders. He barely had time to appreciate the satisfying impact it made against the shorter man's head before the butt of a gun sent him sprawling to the floor, the jewelled box forgotten by his side.
* * *
The tunnels in the servant's passageway were confusing to Arthur, but Prince Uther quickly led the way outside, a cold blast of air greeting the pair as they found themselves standing next to the frozen pond beside the palace. Racing across the snow-covered ice, the young grand duke struggled to keep his balance while keeping pace with his grandpapa.
They tripped and slid their way along the ice, Uther's hand a vice grip on Arthur's wrist as Nimueh appeared from a shadowed corner of the courtyard, cutting off their path, her eyes glowing with hate. Arthur froze.
"Arthur, run!" Uther shouted, ducking him around the sorceress.
"Don't think you'll escape me that easily, Grand Duke," she sneered. She raised her arm, the red vial she'd produced at the ball glowing to life again.
The world around them exploded, sending Uther and Arthur flying. The air was knocked from Arthur’s lungs, his chin smashing painfully against the ice as he fell. A few metres away, Uther landed heavily on the ground and did not move.
The sorceress slithered up behind Arthur, boasting.
"The Petrovin line will end today," she vowed, pulling him toward her, the red glass on her wrist thrumming with unnatural energy.
"Grandpapa!" Arthur cried, holding out his hands while desperately struggling against Nimueh's grabbing fingers, succeeding only in further angering her. He squirmed in her grasp as Uther finally struggled to his feet. In a moment he was running back toward them.
A well-placed kick knocked the phial from its cord around her wrist, sending it skating across the snow-dusted ice.
Nimueh's eyes widened, her grasp loosening as she followed its path toward a hole in the ice. "No!"
Taking his chance, Uther grabbed Arthur's arms and pulled him away, the pair of them slipping across the ice as they made their escape. Behind them, there came a loud crack as more of the frozen surface began to give way under Nimueh’s weight, her vial coming to a halt mere inches from the hole.
The red glass thrummed again, this time ominously, as Nimueh dropped to her belly to retrieve it. Stretching her arm out to where it rested beside the opening, she had just barely brushed her fingers against it when an even louder crack sounded from beneath her.
Arthur turned and watched, horror-struck, as she vanished, the vial following her plunge beneath the icy surface. He felt sick - he'd never seen a person die before, even a person as horrible as her.
A sharp tug from his grandpapa brought the grand duke back to himself.
"We have to hurry, Arthur," said Uther, pulling him along by the elbow.
"But-" Arthur's thoughts turned back to his family as he glanced back at the palace. "Mother! And- and Helen and Owain-"
"They'll be all right," the prince replied tightly, his voice strained and his eyes red-rimmed in the light of the fire. "We'll meet up with them later. Now, come along!"
The two of them ran until Arthur was sure his lungs would burst from the effort, the cruel winter air biting at his insides with every breath, numbing his face and hands. His nightclothes and slippers were a poor match for the weather, his breath misting before him with each gasp.
"We're almost there, Arthur," his grandpapa assured him, still glancing nervously back in the direction of the palace as they ran, lest they'd been followed. "Hurry."
The train station was crowded, but Uther led them through the crowd effortlessly, pushing and shoving the other patrons aside, dragging Arthur along behind him. On the platform, the train gave a sharp whistle, its wheels beginning to turn as the last of the passengers scurried aboard.
"Faster, Arthur!"
Uther raced along the platform, Arthur's hand slipping from his grip as he drew up alongside of the train. Panting, the aging royal leaped aboard the rear platform with a groan. Arthur let out a sigh of relief as the passengers at the rear of the train moved to help him, holding him in place when he would have stumbled back.
Uther turned quickly to hold his hand out for him.
“Hurry!”
Arthur ran, reaching his arm up as far as it would go, his fingers just out of reach as the train began to pick up speed.
"Come on, little one," another passenger urged, reaching out a hand to him as well.
"Almost there," strained Uther, leaning as far as the railing would allow him, the tips of their fingers brushing. Their hands locked together briefly.
"Don't let go," Arthur pleaded, his short legs struggling to keep up even as he felt his fingers slipping. He was running out of platform and the train continued to gain speed.
Uther winced with the effort as the smaller hand slowly slid from his grasp. In an instant, he'd lost his grip, Arthur giving a sharp cry as he fell back, his head smashing painfully against the platform and sending stars before his eyes.
"No! Arthur!" the prince yelled, making to jump after his falling grandson, only to be held back by the concerned passengers of the train.
"It's no use, friend," a burly man behind him insisted, pulling the Prince of Denmark's back inside the safety gate. "The train's going too fast now."
"He's right," urged a woman with greying hair, placing a consoling hand on his arm. "You’d never make it.”
Uther shook his head, ignoring their reasoning as the image of his grandson disappeared into the crowd of the train station, growing smaller with each second. "Arthur!"
On the station platform, a young boy that no one recognized had his last conscious glimpse of the departing train - the sounds of the crowd growing muffled around him - before giving in to the throbbing in his head, allowing darkness to claim him at last.
Part two
Rough Translations (for those that need them, and I’m hardly an expert):
Tsar - loosely translated to “Emperor.” Former title of the head monarch of Russia.
Tsarita - loosely translated to “Empress.” Wife of the tsar.
Tsarevitch - the heir apparent. Son of the tsar.
Velikii Kniaz - loosely translated to “Grand Duke.” Son of the tsar, but not the heir. Arthur’s title.
Kokoshnik - a diadem-shaped tiara that was part of the official court dress for royalty and ladies-in-waiting