Merlin - Where This Road May Go 2/9 (Arthur/Merlin, Gwen/Morgana - pg-13)
Title: Where This Road May Go 2/9
Author: batgurl88
Pairing/Characters: Arthur/Merlin, Gwen/Morgana, Gaius, Uther, Nimueh
Wordcount: 5,133 (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: Some lines and plot aspects respectfully borrowed from both Fox Animation’s Anastasia and BBC’s Merlin. Beta’d by the wonderful justicemischief.
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Where This Road May Go
Part Two
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- Russia, ten years later -
The city of St. Petersburg was alive like never before, its citizens trading whispered gossip with the morning bread. No one dared to speak the rumours any louder for fear of being overheard by the wrong people, but to a fellow worker one could hardly resist sharing the most delicious news to reach the city in months.
It had been ten long years since the palace had been invaded and the tsar and his family killed, but time had not halted the country's fascination with the events surrounding their death.
Rumours had circulated for ages that the emperor and his family had somehow managed to escape their untimely fate; that they had stolen away into hiding - perhaps in Denmark, or maybe France. Several people had even briefly claimed to be members of the royal family, forced into exile by the threat of the revolutionaries. It was a concept that sparked the imaginations of the citizens, for nothing was as interesting as a good scandal.
However, no tale regarding the former royal family had captured the minds of the people like the one currently buzzing in the marketplace. News of the aging Prince Uther had travelled from France, where the royal had been lying low this past decade since the revolution, deeply immersed in his grief.
"The prince believes his youngest grandson survived the attack," a middle-aged baker woman informed the bearded man at her stall, her expression gleaming with the light of someone who was in-the-know. "He wishes to be reunited with him again."
The man shook his head, enthralled. "But how? How could a child have escaped it?"
She shrugged.
"They say His Royal Highness is offering a reward of ten million rubles to whoever can produce his grandson," the woman further confided, a greedy glint in her eyes.
Her companion whistled, impressed. "Ten million rubles. Can you imagine?"
Unnoticed behind them, a skinny young man with a mop of dark brown hair listened intently - no great feat, given the size of his ears - a satisfied grin on his face. The rumours had been circulating for weeks. It would seem that Prince Uther, in his old age, yearned for his lost family, and no reward was too great if it meant some part of them could be found.
It was all the better for their plan, the man decided quietly to himself, taking his leave of the baker's stall to navigate his way down the bleak and snowy streets of St. Petersburg. With the rumours continuing to stir the interest of the public, Prince Uther would no doubt be more receptive to any potential grandsons that came knocking at his door.
Dressed in a worn brown coat with a faded red neckerchief in lieu of a scarf, Merlin Emyrov was as skinny as a stick, his blue eyes kind but intelligent. His grin continued to grow as he walked, ducking his head as he passed a pair of young women. Though he was something of a familiar face in this area, he did his best to keep a low profile, his business not always of a reputable nature. There was rarely a deal or con within the city limits that Merlin didn't have a hand in, often earning him a top spot on the roster of people the Russian police would love to apprehend. No longer a kitchen boy without prospects, he'd honed his skills over the years, perfecting the arts of misdirection and deception. Of course, having a partner who knew what they were doing didn't hurt, either.
Today, his anonymity was as important as ever. The streets grew more deserted as he neared a boarded-up old building that looked to have been abandoned for some time. A whispered password granted him entrance, the door to St. Petersburg's underbelly creaking open for him.
Here, there were no colourful shop stalls or wholesome bakeries. The carts and tables housed items of a more delicate variety, though they held little interest for Merlin on this particular morning. He scanned the crowd discreetly as he passed a cart of stolen jewellery, finally spotting a shock of white hair to his left.
A sharp whistle made Gaius spin around, startled. Searching out the source of the disturbance, the older man's eyes softened in recognition and relief.
"Merlin," he greeted, moving to meet his partner and friend.
"Who else would it be?" Merlin replied cheekily, giving him a clap on the back.
A sharp man for his age, Gaius Dracov was well-known for his work in these parts, though his name was withheld from all but the most loyal of customers. A forger with a keen eye for detail, he had once been a member of the Imperial Court, before its downfall had left him destitute and reliant on his more questionable skills for income and survival. Gone were the fine robes and military dress, replaced with a drab brown tunic that had seen happier times. These days, his place beside Merlin on the list of most-wanted criminals made it equally beneficial for him to blend into the crowd.
Gaius jerked his head toward a curtained section of the market, eager to get away from prying eyes. Merlin followed, grinning excitedly.
The pair hurried up a rickety set of stairs to one of their many hideaways - a modest attic room with two scant sets of bedding on the floor - Merlin hardly waiting for the door to close before he turned to Gaius eagerly.
"It's all set," he informed him, rustling under a loose floorboard for his suitcase and what few possessions he had. "I've spread the news about the auditions to all the right people. We'll meet the prospective actors at noon."
Gaius bustled around the room in a similar fashion, gathering the necessary items of his trade from their hidden compartments, a safeguard against raids by the police. "Good. I've booked us the theatre downtown. It should be discreet enough for our purposes." He pulled a dark blue set of robes from behind a heavy wooden dresser, tossing them to the younger man. "Here, I bought these from a vendor downstairs. He claims they're from the palace, for all that that's worth. They might come in useful when we find our grand duke."
Merlin caught them, flattening out the creases with approval.
"This is it, Gaius!" he crowed happily, inspecting the robes. "No more fake visas, no more stolen goods, or barely managing to scrape by! When we bring the prince his long-lost grandson, we'll be rolling in rubles."
"Well, there's no use counting the reward just yet," his friend cautioned, stuffing his latest forgeries into his bag. "We still haven't found the right man to play Arthur."
Merlin shrugged, too thrilled at the prospect of their imminent payday to worry. "He's out there somewhere, just waiting to be tutored by us. I have a good feeling about today's auditions."
Gaius gave a long-suffering sigh. "You always have a good feeling about the auditions. Yet, it would seem as though the role of the grand duke is a hard one to fill. And there is always the chance of somebody else beating us to the prize."
Packing his suitcase, Merlin hummed happily, hardly listening. The plan to deceive Prince Uther for the reward money may not have been an original one, but they had something that no other con artist had.
Fishing along the very bottom of the sub-floor, he carefully scooped up a bundle of soft fabric. Unwrapping it slowly, he smiled as the red jewels of the palm-sized silver box glittered up at him from the dragons' eyes. The intricate detail of the carvings had never ceased to amaze him.
This was his most treasured possession. The discarded box was the only item he'd swiped from the palace the morning after the siege. It was a very fine piece, worth more than its weight in rubles, having belonged to the ill-fated grand duke. But no matter how desperate he'd grown over the years, he'd never been able to part with it. And now, Merlin's foresight was about to pay off. Once Prince Uther caught a glimpse of the box, he'd believe whatever actor they threw at him.
Still, Merlin would be sad to see it go, even to such a worthy cause as ten million rubles. He'd spent many a cold night huddled in near-silence as Gaius' snores shook the foundation of whatever hovel they'd taken refuge in at the time, staring at the designs on the box and remembering the peculiar grand duke with the bright blue eyes. The box was empty but he’d never felt the desire to store things inside, feeling strangely like an intruder for even opening it - like he was trespassing on something he didn’t fully understand.
Upon waking alone in the deserted palace the day after the raid, Merlin had stumbled into town, hoping to hear word that the boy and his grandpa had made it safely into hiding. Instead, news came swiftly of the family's deaths at the hands of the revolutionaries, with only Prince Uther surviving to make his way to France. It was hard to describe how he'd felt after learning that his one foolish act of bravery had been in vain, and he'd resolved never to speak of that night again, though many curious citizens had tried to pry the story from him. The jewelled box remained his one and only confidante on the matter.
"Merlin?" Gaius called, raising a severe eyebrow at his daydreaming. "Hurry up. We'd best be going if we don't want to be late."
Shaking himself from his sentimental musings, Merlin carefully wrapped the box up again, stowing it in his suitcase with the rest of his belongings.
* * *
The People's Orphanage stood alone in the middle of a deserted, snow-covered plain, its wooden exterior faded and worn with neglect. The administrator, Lada Kuzmina Fedorova - a hard-nosed woman with stark cheekbones and more wrinkles than an elephant's knee - made her way down the path, wrapping her ragged shawl more tightly around her, grumbling mercilessly at the weather. Beside her, a handsome young man in a long, dark coat and frayed winter gloves rolled his eyes.
"I was afraid this day would never come," Lada Kuzmina groused. "You've been a thorn in my side since the moment you arrived."
"The feeling's mutual, I'm sure," the young man muttered, turning his eyes back to the cramped and dilapidated house that had been his home - however grudgingly - for the last ten years. It wasn't all that hard to say goodbye.
"Well, you're eighteen, now," she continued with a somewhat vicious smile, either having not heard his comment or simply choosing to ignore it. "That means you're somebody else's problem."
They'd reached the heavy iron gate, and Lada turned her disapproving face on him, her hands moving to her hips. "When you were brought here as a child, with no memory of your past, I took you in without question. I fed you, clothed you, kept a roof over that big head of yours. Now, it's time you got off your high horse and took your place where you belong, Arty," she advised with a scowl. "You prance around here like royalty, thinking yourself better than everyone else, when you have not even a clue who you are!"
"I do have a clue," Arty argued, his hand jumping automatically to the thin chain around his neck. He pulled on it, the small metal sword that hung from the gold links falling into the palm of his gloved hand.
"Yes, yes, 'Together in Paris'," the older woman spat, unimpressed. She pulled the latch on the wrought iron fence, the great thing creaking open. "I managed to get you a job at the factory in the next village. Just walk straight down that way until you hit the fork in the road. Turn right. And don't let me see you back here again."
The gate slammed shut with a loud clank, and Lada Kuzmina made her way back down the path, grumbling as she went.
"Hmmph," Arty huffed from the other side of the gate, crossing his arms against the cold. "Good riddance. Thought I'd never be free of this place," he added, just loudly enough for the older woman to hear, smirking as she grumbled all-the-more-fervently.
He started off down the path, shoving his hands in the worn pockets of his coat as he went. It had been ten long years since Arty had shown up on the doorstep of the orphanage, led by a local merchant who’d found him wandering around the city in his nightclothes by himself. His memories from before that time were fuzzy at best, more like whispers of sounds and sensations that meant little when matched up against each other.
The merchant had guessed him to be around seven or eight years old, but could tell him little else. The only hint to his identity had been the gold chain and sword with its rather genial inscription. It was meaningless to the adults who’d tried to suss out his identity, and who perhaps believed him to be lying about his memory loss, but for Arty, it meant only one thing: somebody, somewhere, had cared about him.
He'd latched onto the words in the inscription, learning all he could about Paris from the other orphans, and from the few books he'd managed to get his hands on. The fact that he could apparently read quite well had barely fazed him, focused as he was on his goal. The city began to captivate him, its very name igniting a sense of hope and adventure as he kept himself company with daydreams of his loving family in France. They hadn't wanted to leave him, of that he was sure, though his lack of visitors as the years went on did its best to convince him otherwise.
Arty spotted the fork in the road Lada Kuzmina had described, the signpost indicating that the village was to the right, as she'd said. He stopped and frowned, sighing. Down that road lay a lifetime spent much as he'd spent the last ten years - as an orphan with no past and no real future.
His eyes flickered to the other sign, ghosting over the faded lettering of 'St. Petersburg.' A thrill of excitement went through him at the thought of running off to the bigger city, boarding a train or a bus, and beginning the search for his family.
He took a step down the road and faltered, his frown deepening.
For ten years, he'd comforted himself with the promise of escaping the orphanage and running off to Paris on an adventure. Now that he was there, however, the adventure felt almost too big.
Undecided, he brushed the snow off a fallen log and sat, putting his head in his hands. Down one path lay a life that was predictable and safe, if not completely boring. Down the other lay uncertainty. The possibilities were endless, for good and for bad.
Sighing, he pulled the thin gold chain from around his neck, letting the sword rest in his palm once more. The words of the inscription glared up at him.
Whatever lies he'd fed himself, he couldn't deny the niggling doubts that had bothered him all these years. He had no idea why his family hadn't come for him, or if they were even still alive, and if he continued on to the factory, he'd never have to know. He could spend the rest of his life believing the daydreams he'd indulged in, never having to face the harsh truth of reality. Never knowing for certain...
Arty shook his head. That way would be easiest, but he’d hate himself for it.
He closed his fist around the sword, looking back at the signposts. Maybe they hadn't wanted him or maybe something had happened to keep them from coming back, but if there was even a possibility that his family was waiting for him in Paris, Arty owed it to himself to find out.
He took a deep breath and stood.
"Here goes nothing," he said quietly. Taking another deep breath for courage, he marched off down the road to St. Petersburg.
* * *
The Mussorgsky Theatre had long been in disrepair, its structure damaged heavily in the revolution many years ago; though no one had bothered to fix it or even tear it down. Today, it was home to a strange crew, indeed, its interior bursting with a long line of eager men, many of whom had liberal views on both personal appearance and hygiene.
One such man was currently holding centre stage, reciting a monologue with a prop horse that looked suspiciously like an upturned mop.
"I," the man declared dramatically, "am the spitting image of His Imperial Highness, the Grand Duke Arthur Ectorovich Petrovin! And, see, I am a magnificent rider, just like his majesty!"
The man then began to gallop about the stage in a rather embarrassing display, adding the appropriate whickers and clopping noises for his 'horse'.
Merlin had never seen anything so disturbing in his entire life.
"Okay, great, thanks," he called, stopping the actor mid-performance. "That's great. Next!"
The man sighed, trudging off the stage, his horse neighing its disappointment.
At a table across from the stage, the two con artists sat, disheartened.
"I'd say this lot is worse than the last," Gaius muttered, scratching another name off the list. They were already three quarters through the day, and had not found a single promising actor in the bunch. It seemed that their auditions - though widely attended - were proving rather fruitless.
"Maybe they just need a chance to warm up?" Merlin ventured doubtfully as the next potential took to the stage.
"Grandpapa, it is me, Arthur!" a skinny, curly-haired man squeaked, hoisting high a stick clearly meant to be a sword of some kind. Merlin buried his head in his hands.
"Yes, thank you," Gaius said diplomatically, standing to shoo the man off the stage. "We'll let you know."
"This is impossible," mumbled Merlin from behind his fingers.
"Where's that optimism you were so keen on this morning?" Gaius wondered idly, sifting through the pages of names before them.
"It's gone," he declared melodramatically. "I think the third one killed it. You know, the one that looked like a cross between a rottweiler and a mermaid? And I'm pretty sure the one before that was a girl!"
"He did seem rather well-endowed," Gaius agreed, pulling out the next set of names.
Merlin groaned, raising his head. It unnerved him to no end that his partner could remain calm in the face of so many catastrophes. Nothing seemed to shake the older man, and Merlin hated to be alone in his panicking.
"This is a disaster!" he said, determined to make Gaius as convinced of their inevitable failure as he was. "The greatest con in history, and we're going to blow it because no one around here even moderately resembles the grand duke."
Gaius shook his head.
"Honestly, Merlin," the older man sighed. "Will you never learn patience? Remember, there's no-"
"-'No such thing as an easy con,'" he recited with a roll of his eyes. "Yeah, I know."
Gaius pursed his lips. "So, you do listen to me on occasion," he said. "I was beginning to think those big ears of yours were just for show."
Merlin frowned at the insult, fingering his ears self-consciously. After a moment, he sighed. Gaius was right - there was no use giving up just yet. Steeling himself for the next contender, he straightened in his seat.
"All right. Let's get this over with."
* * *
A sense of purpose guided Arty all the way to the centre of St. Petersburg, the thrill of adventure running through him at the sight of the bustling city. He could be meeting his parents by the end of the week, or shaking hands with his brothers and sisters. He could even have nieces and nephews by now, and wouldn't they be excited to meet him! Everything was going to fall into place, he could tell.
It was with this thrum of destiny coursing through his veins that he strolled up to the ticket kiosk at the train station, greeting the agent with a determined smile.
"One ticket to Paris, please," he said, fishing around in his pockets for the kopecks that were his entire life's savings, carefully scrimped together after ten years of destitution.
The man behind the gate frowned. "Exit visa," he demanded, holding out his hand.
"Exit visa?" echoed Arty, confused. He had not a single paper to his name, not even a birth certificate, which was fitting, as he had no idea what his birth name was.
"No exit visa?" The man gave a disbelieving laugh as other people in line shook their head at Arty's stupidity. "Then, no ticket. Next!"
Arty found himself rudely shoved aside as the next patron hurriedly made their way forward. His shoulders slumped. So much for his brilliant plan.
He stood rather stunned for a moment, uncertain what to do next. This particular hiccup in his lifelong scheme hadn't really occurred to him. To be faced with rejection so early on left him rather taken aback.
Arty stumbled toward the curb outside the station, feeling lost. He had no papers to fall back on - none that he could obtain, anyway - and he hadn't thought about having to spend the kopecks he'd saved on renting a room or buying food. In fact, if he was being completely honest with himself, he hadn't really thought his plan through past buying a ticket. Arty groaned. Had he really thought it would all be that simple?
Sitting heavily on the curb, he rested his head on his hands again, disappointed. Of course he'd thought it would be that simple. Up until now, the plan to run off to Paris had been a daydream - a fantasy - and what earthly use did details like food and lodgings and travel papers have in fantasies?
Sighing, he closed his eyes, trying to think. Perhaps he could sneak out of the country on foot? Or stow away on the train somehow? He frowned - he knew very little about the security such transportation had, but surely the authorities would not take kindly to his attempts to steal his way onboard. He didn't relish the thought of landing in prison so very soon after escaping from his last jail, of sorts.
"Flower?"
Startled, Arty opened his eyes, finding himself staring up at a girl about his age. She had dark curly hair that fell in a slightly unruly mess about her cheeks, her smile kind and open. Her dress was worn, and smudged with dark stains across the apron, patched in the places where time and use had ripped it. A basket of flowers was hooked around her elbow.
Her smile widened as she held one of the flowers out to him - a pitiful, yellow thing that looked to have been crushed and stepped on at one point - an expectant look upon her face.
Arty cleared his throat, giving a small shake of his head. "No. Thank you."
"It's on me," she offered, her smile softening as she thrust the pathetic-looking plant toward him. "You looked like you could use some cheering up." Her eyes widened, "Not that I'm telling you how you should look, obviously- It's- You're perfectly free to look however you please, that is, I just thought you seemed a little sad. I'm not trying to be nosey or anything, I mean- Of course, you don't have to tell me-"
"No, it's- Thank you," he said, quickly accepting the flower out of pity, eager to stop her rambling. He tucked the droopy thing into the buttonhole of his coat, gesturing to the spot beside him. She sat.
"No one likes the yellow ones, anyways," she said, tucking her skirts around her. "I'm Gwen, by the way."
"Arty," he said, holding out his hand to her.
“Arty?” she repeated, her head tilting as her brow creased slightly.
“It’s short for Artem,” he said, frowning a bit. What was wrong with his name?
Gwen’s eyes widened again, realising she’d offended him.
"Oh, no- No, it's- It's a very lovely name," she assured him, flushing. "I wasn't trying to- It suits you."
Arty found himself smiling at her bumbling attempts to appease him. There was something infectious about her smile that made it impossible to be mad at her.
"It's fine," he said. He had bigger problems than someone thinking his name silly, after all. One of those problems chose that moment to name itself, his stomach giving a loud growl of protest at the lack of food he'd ingested recently.
"Oh!" Gwen gasped, concerned. "Have you not eaten? That is, I wondered if you- I mean, you look-" she gestured to his clothes as she fished about in her pockets. "I think I have some money-"
"I can't let you do that," he said, shaking his head with a frown. From the looks of things, she wasn't all that much better off than him.
"No, really," she said, searching the pockets of her apron. "I'm rather hungry myself, so we can both get something. I should have an extra kopeck or more somewhere - a lady this morning bought five flowers off of me." As she spoke, the contents of her surprisingly large pockets were emptied onto her lap, revealing a thick wad of drawing paper with a sketch of a train on the top sheet.
"Hang on, did you do these?" he asked, pulling the bundle of creased drawings toward himself.
"Oh, they're nothing, really," Gwen protested, moving to hide them again, but he pulled them out of her reach.
The papers themselves were mismatched and of various sizes, wrapped together with twine to keep them from separating. Flipping through the drawings, he saw smudged images of children playing, of a wrinkled old woman, of the buildings in the marketplace, and several of a man with kind eyes like Gwen’s.
"These are amazing," he said, looking at her again.
She blushed, looking down at the sketches. "I'm not all that good, actually. I've never really studied it or anything - it's mostly for my own enjoyment." She paused as he reached an outline of a pretty girl that looked to have been done on the corner of an old ratty newspaper. "Paper's dreadfully expensive," she offered, embarrassed. "I think I spend more money on it than on food most weeks."
Impressed, he handed the drawings back as his stomach gave another loud growl.
Smiling, Gwen held out a palm full of kopecks. "Come on. We can grab something and eat at my place." She stood, shaking out her skirts.
Arty shook his head, standing as well. "Why are you being so nice? You don't even know me."
"You looked like you could use a friend," she said. "I don't think a person can have enough of those."
* * *
"We're ruined."
"Don't be so dramatic, Merlin," Gaius scolded as they turned the corner of the street, making their way to the old palace.
"I'm serious. We are well and truly done for," Merlin groaned, kicking at the sidewalk as they walked. Forty-three actors and not a single one fit to play Arthur. Not a one. Weeks of planning and they were nowhere. All of their savings had been put into this - into renting the theatre, bribing the right people for anecdotes about the Petrovins, getting their hands on photographs and portraits and maps of the family's lineage - all for the education of their would-be Arthur. All for nothing.
"There's no use whining about it," said Gaius in a tone of voice that told Merlin he was inwardly rolling his eyes at him. Or, perhaps, not so inwardly.
He frowned, offended. "I'm not whining!"
The disbelieving eyebrow Merlin received in return spoke volumes. Sometimes he wondered if Gaius spent his spare time practicing those expressions in his mirror.
"This is a very delicate job. Finding the perfect body double for the grand duke could take months," Gaius said sensibly. "The best we can do is try again another day."
"Yeah, right. Try again," he mimicked darkly. "At this rate, the prince will be dead before we can collect the reward money!"
The look Gaius shot him was chastising.
"Sorry," he mumbled, knowing his friend to be quite close in age to Uther. It was hard to remember sometimes, sharp as Gaius was in his advanced years. He'd been the same way for as long as Merlin had known him.
Alone on the streets at the tender age of nine and desperate for cash, Merlin had foolishly tried his hand at pick pocketing, forgetting about his own natural clumsiness. The older man had made for his first and last target, catching his wrist before he could even wrap his hand around the coins in Gaius' pocket. He'd sternly admonished Merlin for resorting to the "basest form of thievery" before his expression had softened, lingering on bony wrists and sallow cheekbones. He'd given Merlin a crust of bread and offered him an opportunity to try his hand at a far more dignified means of money-making.
Gaius, it had turned out, had a knack for detail, and little to no scruples about putting it to good use. Merlin had learned all he could from him, from making phony passports to tricking a person into giving him what he wanted while making it sound like their idea. They'd run dozens of scams together over the years, and Gaius had looked after him as best he could, even occasionally going hungry to ensure that Merlin had a full stomach. He'd been the best teacher and friend Merlin could ask for, even if he didn't always acknowledge it.
Shaking his head as he spotted the Winter Palace, Merlin sighed heavily.
"Maybe we should branch out," he suggested. "Try other cities. There's no rule that says we have to find our Arthur in St. Petersburg."
"I think that's the first sensible thing you've said all day," said Gaius dryly, eyeing him shrewdly. "We might try Moscow next. They'll have some new actors for us to reject, at the very least."
Merlin nodded his agreement. There was no point in sticking around there any longer. They'd leave first thing in the morning.
Part Three
Translations (for anyone who needs them):
Rubles and kopecks - Russian currency; 1 ruble = 100 kopecks.
Author: batgurl88
Pairing/Characters: Arthur/Merlin, Gwen/Morgana, Gaius, Uther, Nimueh
Wordcount: 5,133 (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: Some lines and plot aspects respectfully borrowed from both Fox Animation’s Anastasia and BBC’s Merlin. Beta’d by the wonderful justicemischief.
| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 |
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Where This Road May Go
Part Two
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- Russia, ten years later -
The city of St. Petersburg was alive like never before, its citizens trading whispered gossip with the morning bread. No one dared to speak the rumours any louder for fear of being overheard by the wrong people, but to a fellow worker one could hardly resist sharing the most delicious news to reach the city in months.
It had been ten long years since the palace had been invaded and the tsar and his family killed, but time had not halted the country's fascination with the events surrounding their death.
Rumours had circulated for ages that the emperor and his family had somehow managed to escape their untimely fate; that they had stolen away into hiding - perhaps in Denmark, or maybe France. Several people had even briefly claimed to be members of the royal family, forced into exile by the threat of the revolutionaries. It was a concept that sparked the imaginations of the citizens, for nothing was as interesting as a good scandal.
However, no tale regarding the former royal family had captured the minds of the people like the one currently buzzing in the marketplace. News of the aging Prince Uther had travelled from France, where the royal had been lying low this past decade since the revolution, deeply immersed in his grief.
"The prince believes his youngest grandson survived the attack," a middle-aged baker woman informed the bearded man at her stall, her expression gleaming with the light of someone who was in-the-know. "He wishes to be reunited with him again."
The man shook his head, enthralled. "But how? How could a child have escaped it?"
She shrugged.
"They say His Royal Highness is offering a reward of ten million rubles to whoever can produce his grandson," the woman further confided, a greedy glint in her eyes.
Her companion whistled, impressed. "Ten million rubles. Can you imagine?"
Unnoticed behind them, a skinny young man with a mop of dark brown hair listened intently - no great feat, given the size of his ears - a satisfied grin on his face. The rumours had been circulating for weeks. It would seem that Prince Uther, in his old age, yearned for his lost family, and no reward was too great if it meant some part of them could be found.
It was all the better for their plan, the man decided quietly to himself, taking his leave of the baker's stall to navigate his way down the bleak and snowy streets of St. Petersburg. With the rumours continuing to stir the interest of the public, Prince Uther would no doubt be more receptive to any potential grandsons that came knocking at his door.
Dressed in a worn brown coat with a faded red neckerchief in lieu of a scarf, Merlin Emyrov was as skinny as a stick, his blue eyes kind but intelligent. His grin continued to grow as he walked, ducking his head as he passed a pair of young women. Though he was something of a familiar face in this area, he did his best to keep a low profile, his business not always of a reputable nature. There was rarely a deal or con within the city limits that Merlin didn't have a hand in, often earning him a top spot on the roster of people the Russian police would love to apprehend. No longer a kitchen boy without prospects, he'd honed his skills over the years, perfecting the arts of misdirection and deception. Of course, having a partner who knew what they were doing didn't hurt, either.
Today, his anonymity was as important as ever. The streets grew more deserted as he neared a boarded-up old building that looked to have been abandoned for some time. A whispered password granted him entrance, the door to St. Petersburg's underbelly creaking open for him.
Here, there were no colourful shop stalls or wholesome bakeries. The carts and tables housed items of a more delicate variety, though they held little interest for Merlin on this particular morning. He scanned the crowd discreetly as he passed a cart of stolen jewellery, finally spotting a shock of white hair to his left.
A sharp whistle made Gaius spin around, startled. Searching out the source of the disturbance, the older man's eyes softened in recognition and relief.
"Merlin," he greeted, moving to meet his partner and friend.
"Who else would it be?" Merlin replied cheekily, giving him a clap on the back.
A sharp man for his age, Gaius Dracov was well-known for his work in these parts, though his name was withheld from all but the most loyal of customers. A forger with a keen eye for detail, he had once been a member of the Imperial Court, before its downfall had left him destitute and reliant on his more questionable skills for income and survival. Gone were the fine robes and military dress, replaced with a drab brown tunic that had seen happier times. These days, his place beside Merlin on the list of most-wanted criminals made it equally beneficial for him to blend into the crowd.
Gaius jerked his head toward a curtained section of the market, eager to get away from prying eyes. Merlin followed, grinning excitedly.
The pair hurried up a rickety set of stairs to one of their many hideaways - a modest attic room with two scant sets of bedding on the floor - Merlin hardly waiting for the door to close before he turned to Gaius eagerly.
"It's all set," he informed him, rustling under a loose floorboard for his suitcase and what few possessions he had. "I've spread the news about the auditions to all the right people. We'll meet the prospective actors at noon."
Gaius bustled around the room in a similar fashion, gathering the necessary items of his trade from their hidden compartments, a safeguard against raids by the police. "Good. I've booked us the theatre downtown. It should be discreet enough for our purposes." He pulled a dark blue set of robes from behind a heavy wooden dresser, tossing them to the younger man. "Here, I bought these from a vendor downstairs. He claims they're from the palace, for all that that's worth. They might come in useful when we find our grand duke."
Merlin caught them, flattening out the creases with approval.
"This is it, Gaius!" he crowed happily, inspecting the robes. "No more fake visas, no more stolen goods, or barely managing to scrape by! When we bring the prince his long-lost grandson, we'll be rolling in rubles."
"Well, there's no use counting the reward just yet," his friend cautioned, stuffing his latest forgeries into his bag. "We still haven't found the right man to play Arthur."
Merlin shrugged, too thrilled at the prospect of their imminent payday to worry. "He's out there somewhere, just waiting to be tutored by us. I have a good feeling about today's auditions."
Gaius gave a long-suffering sigh. "You always have a good feeling about the auditions. Yet, it would seem as though the role of the grand duke is a hard one to fill. And there is always the chance of somebody else beating us to the prize."
Packing his suitcase, Merlin hummed happily, hardly listening. The plan to deceive Prince Uther for the reward money may not have been an original one, but they had something that no other con artist had.
Fishing along the very bottom of the sub-floor, he carefully scooped up a bundle of soft fabric. Unwrapping it slowly, he smiled as the red jewels of the palm-sized silver box glittered up at him from the dragons' eyes. The intricate detail of the carvings had never ceased to amaze him.
This was his most treasured possession. The discarded box was the only item he'd swiped from the palace the morning after the siege. It was a very fine piece, worth more than its weight in rubles, having belonged to the ill-fated grand duke. But no matter how desperate he'd grown over the years, he'd never been able to part with it. And now, Merlin's foresight was about to pay off. Once Prince Uther caught a glimpse of the box, he'd believe whatever actor they threw at him.
Still, Merlin would be sad to see it go, even to such a worthy cause as ten million rubles. He'd spent many a cold night huddled in near-silence as Gaius' snores shook the foundation of whatever hovel they'd taken refuge in at the time, staring at the designs on the box and remembering the peculiar grand duke with the bright blue eyes. The box was empty but he’d never felt the desire to store things inside, feeling strangely like an intruder for even opening it - like he was trespassing on something he didn’t fully understand.
Upon waking alone in the deserted palace the day after the raid, Merlin had stumbled into town, hoping to hear word that the boy and his grandpa had made it safely into hiding. Instead, news came swiftly of the family's deaths at the hands of the revolutionaries, with only Prince Uther surviving to make his way to France. It was hard to describe how he'd felt after learning that his one foolish act of bravery had been in vain, and he'd resolved never to speak of that night again, though many curious citizens had tried to pry the story from him. The jewelled box remained his one and only confidante on the matter.
"Merlin?" Gaius called, raising a severe eyebrow at his daydreaming. "Hurry up. We'd best be going if we don't want to be late."
Shaking himself from his sentimental musings, Merlin carefully wrapped the box up again, stowing it in his suitcase with the rest of his belongings.
* * *
The People's Orphanage stood alone in the middle of a deserted, snow-covered plain, its wooden exterior faded and worn with neglect. The administrator, Lada Kuzmina Fedorova - a hard-nosed woman with stark cheekbones and more wrinkles than an elephant's knee - made her way down the path, wrapping her ragged shawl more tightly around her, grumbling mercilessly at the weather. Beside her, a handsome young man in a long, dark coat and frayed winter gloves rolled his eyes.
"I was afraid this day would never come," Lada Kuzmina groused. "You've been a thorn in my side since the moment you arrived."
"The feeling's mutual, I'm sure," the young man muttered, turning his eyes back to the cramped and dilapidated house that had been his home - however grudgingly - for the last ten years. It wasn't all that hard to say goodbye.
"Well, you're eighteen, now," she continued with a somewhat vicious smile, either having not heard his comment or simply choosing to ignore it. "That means you're somebody else's problem."
They'd reached the heavy iron gate, and Lada turned her disapproving face on him, her hands moving to her hips. "When you were brought here as a child, with no memory of your past, I took you in without question. I fed you, clothed you, kept a roof over that big head of yours. Now, it's time you got off your high horse and took your place where you belong, Arty," she advised with a scowl. "You prance around here like royalty, thinking yourself better than everyone else, when you have not even a clue who you are!"
"I do have a clue," Arty argued, his hand jumping automatically to the thin chain around his neck. He pulled on it, the small metal sword that hung from the gold links falling into the palm of his gloved hand.
"Yes, yes, 'Together in Paris'," the older woman spat, unimpressed. She pulled the latch on the wrought iron fence, the great thing creaking open. "I managed to get you a job at the factory in the next village. Just walk straight down that way until you hit the fork in the road. Turn right. And don't let me see you back here again."
The gate slammed shut with a loud clank, and Lada Kuzmina made her way back down the path, grumbling as she went.
"Hmmph," Arty huffed from the other side of the gate, crossing his arms against the cold. "Good riddance. Thought I'd never be free of this place," he added, just loudly enough for the older woman to hear, smirking as she grumbled all-the-more-fervently.
He started off down the path, shoving his hands in the worn pockets of his coat as he went. It had been ten long years since Arty had shown up on the doorstep of the orphanage, led by a local merchant who’d found him wandering around the city in his nightclothes by himself. His memories from before that time were fuzzy at best, more like whispers of sounds and sensations that meant little when matched up against each other.
The merchant had guessed him to be around seven or eight years old, but could tell him little else. The only hint to his identity had been the gold chain and sword with its rather genial inscription. It was meaningless to the adults who’d tried to suss out his identity, and who perhaps believed him to be lying about his memory loss, but for Arty, it meant only one thing: somebody, somewhere, had cared about him.
He'd latched onto the words in the inscription, learning all he could about Paris from the other orphans, and from the few books he'd managed to get his hands on. The fact that he could apparently read quite well had barely fazed him, focused as he was on his goal. The city began to captivate him, its very name igniting a sense of hope and adventure as he kept himself company with daydreams of his loving family in France. They hadn't wanted to leave him, of that he was sure, though his lack of visitors as the years went on did its best to convince him otherwise.
Arty spotted the fork in the road Lada Kuzmina had described, the signpost indicating that the village was to the right, as she'd said. He stopped and frowned, sighing. Down that road lay a lifetime spent much as he'd spent the last ten years - as an orphan with no past and no real future.
His eyes flickered to the other sign, ghosting over the faded lettering of 'St. Petersburg.' A thrill of excitement went through him at the thought of running off to the bigger city, boarding a train or a bus, and beginning the search for his family.
He took a step down the road and faltered, his frown deepening.
For ten years, he'd comforted himself with the promise of escaping the orphanage and running off to Paris on an adventure. Now that he was there, however, the adventure felt almost too big.
Undecided, he brushed the snow off a fallen log and sat, putting his head in his hands. Down one path lay a life that was predictable and safe, if not completely boring. Down the other lay uncertainty. The possibilities were endless, for good and for bad.
Sighing, he pulled the thin gold chain from around his neck, letting the sword rest in his palm once more. The words of the inscription glared up at him.
Whatever lies he'd fed himself, he couldn't deny the niggling doubts that had bothered him all these years. He had no idea why his family hadn't come for him, or if they were even still alive, and if he continued on to the factory, he'd never have to know. He could spend the rest of his life believing the daydreams he'd indulged in, never having to face the harsh truth of reality. Never knowing for certain...
Arty shook his head. That way would be easiest, but he’d hate himself for it.
He closed his fist around the sword, looking back at the signposts. Maybe they hadn't wanted him or maybe something had happened to keep them from coming back, but if there was even a possibility that his family was waiting for him in Paris, Arty owed it to himself to find out.
He took a deep breath and stood.
"Here goes nothing," he said quietly. Taking another deep breath for courage, he marched off down the road to St. Petersburg.
* * *
The Mussorgsky Theatre had long been in disrepair, its structure damaged heavily in the revolution many years ago; though no one had bothered to fix it or even tear it down. Today, it was home to a strange crew, indeed, its interior bursting with a long line of eager men, many of whom had liberal views on both personal appearance and hygiene.
One such man was currently holding centre stage, reciting a monologue with a prop horse that looked suspiciously like an upturned mop.
"I," the man declared dramatically, "am the spitting image of His Imperial Highness, the Grand Duke Arthur Ectorovich Petrovin! And, see, I am a magnificent rider, just like his majesty!"
The man then began to gallop about the stage in a rather embarrassing display, adding the appropriate whickers and clopping noises for his 'horse'.
Merlin had never seen anything so disturbing in his entire life.
"Okay, great, thanks," he called, stopping the actor mid-performance. "That's great. Next!"
The man sighed, trudging off the stage, his horse neighing its disappointment.
At a table across from the stage, the two con artists sat, disheartened.
"I'd say this lot is worse than the last," Gaius muttered, scratching another name off the list. They were already three quarters through the day, and had not found a single promising actor in the bunch. It seemed that their auditions - though widely attended - were proving rather fruitless.
"Maybe they just need a chance to warm up?" Merlin ventured doubtfully as the next potential took to the stage.
"Grandpapa, it is me, Arthur!" a skinny, curly-haired man squeaked, hoisting high a stick clearly meant to be a sword of some kind. Merlin buried his head in his hands.
"Yes, thank you," Gaius said diplomatically, standing to shoo the man off the stage. "We'll let you know."
"This is impossible," mumbled Merlin from behind his fingers.
"Where's that optimism you were so keen on this morning?" Gaius wondered idly, sifting through the pages of names before them.
"It's gone," he declared melodramatically. "I think the third one killed it. You know, the one that looked like a cross between a rottweiler and a mermaid? And I'm pretty sure the one before that was a girl!"
"He did seem rather well-endowed," Gaius agreed, pulling out the next set of names.
Merlin groaned, raising his head. It unnerved him to no end that his partner could remain calm in the face of so many catastrophes. Nothing seemed to shake the older man, and Merlin hated to be alone in his panicking.
"This is a disaster!" he said, determined to make Gaius as convinced of their inevitable failure as he was. "The greatest con in history, and we're going to blow it because no one around here even moderately resembles the grand duke."
Gaius shook his head.
"Honestly, Merlin," the older man sighed. "Will you never learn patience? Remember, there's no-"
"-'No such thing as an easy con,'" he recited with a roll of his eyes. "Yeah, I know."
Gaius pursed his lips. "So, you do listen to me on occasion," he said. "I was beginning to think those big ears of yours were just for show."
Merlin frowned at the insult, fingering his ears self-consciously. After a moment, he sighed. Gaius was right - there was no use giving up just yet. Steeling himself for the next contender, he straightened in his seat.
"All right. Let's get this over with."
* * *
A sense of purpose guided Arty all the way to the centre of St. Petersburg, the thrill of adventure running through him at the sight of the bustling city. He could be meeting his parents by the end of the week, or shaking hands with his brothers and sisters. He could even have nieces and nephews by now, and wouldn't they be excited to meet him! Everything was going to fall into place, he could tell.
It was with this thrum of destiny coursing through his veins that he strolled up to the ticket kiosk at the train station, greeting the agent with a determined smile.
"One ticket to Paris, please," he said, fishing around in his pockets for the kopecks that were his entire life's savings, carefully scrimped together after ten years of destitution.
The man behind the gate frowned. "Exit visa," he demanded, holding out his hand.
"Exit visa?" echoed Arty, confused. He had not a single paper to his name, not even a birth certificate, which was fitting, as he had no idea what his birth name was.
"No exit visa?" The man gave a disbelieving laugh as other people in line shook their head at Arty's stupidity. "Then, no ticket. Next!"
Arty found himself rudely shoved aside as the next patron hurriedly made their way forward. His shoulders slumped. So much for his brilliant plan.
He stood rather stunned for a moment, uncertain what to do next. This particular hiccup in his lifelong scheme hadn't really occurred to him. To be faced with rejection so early on left him rather taken aback.
Arty stumbled toward the curb outside the station, feeling lost. He had no papers to fall back on - none that he could obtain, anyway - and he hadn't thought about having to spend the kopecks he'd saved on renting a room or buying food. In fact, if he was being completely honest with himself, he hadn't really thought his plan through past buying a ticket. Arty groaned. Had he really thought it would all be that simple?
Sitting heavily on the curb, he rested his head on his hands again, disappointed. Of course he'd thought it would be that simple. Up until now, the plan to run off to Paris had been a daydream - a fantasy - and what earthly use did details like food and lodgings and travel papers have in fantasies?
Sighing, he closed his eyes, trying to think. Perhaps he could sneak out of the country on foot? Or stow away on the train somehow? He frowned - he knew very little about the security such transportation had, but surely the authorities would not take kindly to his attempts to steal his way onboard. He didn't relish the thought of landing in prison so very soon after escaping from his last jail, of sorts.
"Flower?"
Startled, Arty opened his eyes, finding himself staring up at a girl about his age. She had dark curly hair that fell in a slightly unruly mess about her cheeks, her smile kind and open. Her dress was worn, and smudged with dark stains across the apron, patched in the places where time and use had ripped it. A basket of flowers was hooked around her elbow.
Her smile widened as she held one of the flowers out to him - a pitiful, yellow thing that looked to have been crushed and stepped on at one point - an expectant look upon her face.
Arty cleared his throat, giving a small shake of his head. "No. Thank you."
"It's on me," she offered, her smile softening as she thrust the pathetic-looking plant toward him. "You looked like you could use some cheering up." Her eyes widened, "Not that I'm telling you how you should look, obviously- It's- You're perfectly free to look however you please, that is, I just thought you seemed a little sad. I'm not trying to be nosey or anything, I mean- Of course, you don't have to tell me-"
"No, it's- Thank you," he said, quickly accepting the flower out of pity, eager to stop her rambling. He tucked the droopy thing into the buttonhole of his coat, gesturing to the spot beside him. She sat.
"No one likes the yellow ones, anyways," she said, tucking her skirts around her. "I'm Gwen, by the way."
"Arty," he said, holding out his hand to her.
“Arty?” she repeated, her head tilting as her brow creased slightly.
“It’s short for Artem,” he said, frowning a bit. What was wrong with his name?
Gwen’s eyes widened again, realising she’d offended him.
"Oh, no- No, it's- It's a very lovely name," she assured him, flushing. "I wasn't trying to- It suits you."
Arty found himself smiling at her bumbling attempts to appease him. There was something infectious about her smile that made it impossible to be mad at her.
"It's fine," he said. He had bigger problems than someone thinking his name silly, after all. One of those problems chose that moment to name itself, his stomach giving a loud growl of protest at the lack of food he'd ingested recently.
"Oh!" Gwen gasped, concerned. "Have you not eaten? That is, I wondered if you- I mean, you look-" she gestured to his clothes as she fished about in her pockets. "I think I have some money-"
"I can't let you do that," he said, shaking his head with a frown. From the looks of things, she wasn't all that much better off than him.
"No, really," she said, searching the pockets of her apron. "I'm rather hungry myself, so we can both get something. I should have an extra kopeck or more somewhere - a lady this morning bought five flowers off of me." As she spoke, the contents of her surprisingly large pockets were emptied onto her lap, revealing a thick wad of drawing paper with a sketch of a train on the top sheet.
"Hang on, did you do these?" he asked, pulling the bundle of creased drawings toward himself.
"Oh, they're nothing, really," Gwen protested, moving to hide them again, but he pulled them out of her reach.
The papers themselves were mismatched and of various sizes, wrapped together with twine to keep them from separating. Flipping through the drawings, he saw smudged images of children playing, of a wrinkled old woman, of the buildings in the marketplace, and several of a man with kind eyes like Gwen’s.
"These are amazing," he said, looking at her again.
She blushed, looking down at the sketches. "I'm not all that good, actually. I've never really studied it or anything - it's mostly for my own enjoyment." She paused as he reached an outline of a pretty girl that looked to have been done on the corner of an old ratty newspaper. "Paper's dreadfully expensive," she offered, embarrassed. "I think I spend more money on it than on food most weeks."
Impressed, he handed the drawings back as his stomach gave another loud growl.
Smiling, Gwen held out a palm full of kopecks. "Come on. We can grab something and eat at my place." She stood, shaking out her skirts.
Arty shook his head, standing as well. "Why are you being so nice? You don't even know me."
"You looked like you could use a friend," she said. "I don't think a person can have enough of those."
* * *
"We're ruined."
"Don't be so dramatic, Merlin," Gaius scolded as they turned the corner of the street, making their way to the old palace.
"I'm serious. We are well and truly done for," Merlin groaned, kicking at the sidewalk as they walked. Forty-three actors and not a single one fit to play Arthur. Not a one. Weeks of planning and they were nowhere. All of their savings had been put into this - into renting the theatre, bribing the right people for anecdotes about the Petrovins, getting their hands on photographs and portraits and maps of the family's lineage - all for the education of their would-be Arthur. All for nothing.
"There's no use whining about it," said Gaius in a tone of voice that told Merlin he was inwardly rolling his eyes at him. Or, perhaps, not so inwardly.
He frowned, offended. "I'm not whining!"
The disbelieving eyebrow Merlin received in return spoke volumes. Sometimes he wondered if Gaius spent his spare time practicing those expressions in his mirror.
"This is a very delicate job. Finding the perfect body double for the grand duke could take months," Gaius said sensibly. "The best we can do is try again another day."
"Yeah, right. Try again," he mimicked darkly. "At this rate, the prince will be dead before we can collect the reward money!"
The look Gaius shot him was chastising.
"Sorry," he mumbled, knowing his friend to be quite close in age to Uther. It was hard to remember sometimes, sharp as Gaius was in his advanced years. He'd been the same way for as long as Merlin had known him.
Alone on the streets at the tender age of nine and desperate for cash, Merlin had foolishly tried his hand at pick pocketing, forgetting about his own natural clumsiness. The older man had made for his first and last target, catching his wrist before he could even wrap his hand around the coins in Gaius' pocket. He'd sternly admonished Merlin for resorting to the "basest form of thievery" before his expression had softened, lingering on bony wrists and sallow cheekbones. He'd given Merlin a crust of bread and offered him an opportunity to try his hand at a far more dignified means of money-making.
Gaius, it had turned out, had a knack for detail, and little to no scruples about putting it to good use. Merlin had learned all he could from him, from making phony passports to tricking a person into giving him what he wanted while making it sound like their idea. They'd run dozens of scams together over the years, and Gaius had looked after him as best he could, even occasionally going hungry to ensure that Merlin had a full stomach. He'd been the best teacher and friend Merlin could ask for, even if he didn't always acknowledge it.
Shaking his head as he spotted the Winter Palace, Merlin sighed heavily.
"Maybe we should branch out," he suggested. "Try other cities. There's no rule that says we have to find our Arthur in St. Petersburg."
"I think that's the first sensible thing you've said all day," said Gaius dryly, eyeing him shrewdly. "We might try Moscow next. They'll have some new actors for us to reject, at the very least."
Merlin nodded his agreement. There was no point in sticking around there any longer. They'd leave first thing in the morning.
Part Three
Translations (for anyone who needs them):
Rubles and kopecks - Russian currency; 1 ruble = 100 kopecks.