Merlin - Where This Road May Go 3/9 (Arthur/Merlin, Gwen/Morgana - pg13)
Title: Where This Road May Go 3/9
Author: batgurl88
Pairing/Characters: Arthur/Merlin, Gwen/Morgana, Gaius, Uther, Nimueh
Wordcount: 5,374 (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’s Anastasia and BBC’s Merlin. Beta’d by the amazing justicemischief.
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Where This Road May Go
Part Three
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"Wow," breathed Gwen, "So, you're going all the way to Paris to find them?"
Arty nodded. He'd followed her back to her small apartment to share a meal of stroganoff and had proceeded to tell her the tale of his life-long quest, from his arrival at the orphanage to his being denied a train ticket. He found it very easy to talk to Gwen, her smile encouraging and without judgement. She hadn't looked the least-bit cynical when he'd mentioned his memory loss, which was a refreshing change from the reaction he usually got. She had listened to his story with rapt attention, growing more and more interested with every word.
"To think," she said, getting up from the rickety table where they were seated to pace the one-room apartment in excitement. "You could be the long-lost son of a famous writer who ran off to seek their fortune in France. Or a baron and baroness who fled during the revolution!" She shook her head. "My parents were so boring compared to all of that."
"Were?" Arty echoed.
Gwen's eyes darkened a bit. "My mother died when I was just a baby. My da’ said that's where I got my skill for drawing from. For a while, it was just me and da’, but he died from the sickness a few years ago. He was a blacksmith."
"I'm sorry," he said, feeling bad for asking. To his surprise, her smile brightened.
"It's all right," she assured him. "I know they wouldn't want me to dwell on it."
She sat again, grabbing the small pot she'd boiled their water in.
"Still, it all sounds so exciting!" she gushed, refilling his cup. "It's very brave of you, running off on an adventure to find your family. I wish I had that kind of spirit. And to Paris! I've always wanted to go someplace lovely like that - they say it's more beautiful than you can imagine. It'd be a nice change from this place."
He puffed his chest slightly, emboldened by her assessment. He was being rather brave trying to look for them himself, wasn't he?
"I've learned all about Paris," he said knowledgeably, fuelling her interest. "About the sights and the buildings. I think my parents could have moved there to search for work."
"How were you planning on finding them?" she asked, entranced. "I mean, where did you think to start once you got to Paris?"
Arty faltered, his mind going blank. "Er..."
"Of course, it's a rather big city," she continued, oblivious to his hesitation. "And ten years have passed, so they might have moved on, or-"
She looked up, distressed. "Oh, I'm sorry- I didn't mean to imply- Here, you've spent your whole life getting ready for this, so of course you have a plan."
He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Right. Of course."
Actually, as he was rapidly discovering, he had no plan at all. But Arty wasn’t about to tell her that, not when she appeared so impressed by his tale. The seriousness of his situation was slowly beginning to hit him, and for whatever reason, he didn't want to lose his new friend's confidence in him.
"You should come with me," he blurted unexpectedly.
"What?" said Gwen, sounding just as surprised as he felt.
"You should come with me to Paris," Arty repeated, more resolute this time. The more he thought on it, the more he warmed to the idea. He enjoyed her company, and the thought of jetting off across the continent to a strange country all by himself was becoming increasingly foreboding. If anything, having a companion who was used to being on their own would aid him in his quest.
She shook her head, getting up from the table again. "I couldn't just leave like that," she said slowly, though her eyes betrayed that she was considering it.
"Why not?" he asked, standing as well. "You said yourself you're not all that attached to Russia. It would be an adventure. You could just take off and start over new."
She worried her lip, looking around her small apartment, to the drawings that papered the peeling walls in lieu of furniture. "Well ..."
"You don't have an adventure sitting around waiting, do you?" Arty reasoned sensibly, seeing her resolve slipping. "And Paris is full of artists. All the books talk about them. Think how much you could learn in a place like that!"
A slow smile blossomed on her face as he spoke, her eyes hopeful as they met his again.
"All right," she agreed, excitement seeping into her voice. "I'll do it."
Arty grinned. Already, things were looking up. With the two of them working together, he'd be sure to find his family in no time.
He deflated slightly, remembering himself. "Though, that still doesn't solve the problem of how we're going to get ourselves to Paris."
Gwen considered it for a moment.
"Well," she hesitated, furrowing her brow. "There may be one way...."
He looked up in interest. "Really?"
She nodded, leaning toward him with a quick glance over her shoulder.
"I've heard about a man," she confided quietly, as though afraid of being overheard, "named Merlin. Apparently, he can arrange travel visas under any name for a small price."
Arty blinked. It hardly sounded legal, but it didn’t seem like they had any other option. Hope bloomed inside him as he pulled his scarf around his neck again. "How can we find him?"
* * *
The Winter Palace was enormous, and appeared - for all intents and purposes - entirely abandoned. The entrances and windows had been shoddily boarded up, the courtyard deserted. Arty stared up at it hesitantly, feeling as if he were invading a crypt.
Beside him, Gwen shivered slightly, and he wondered if she was thinking the same thing.
Moving toward the nearest door, he peered between the slats of wood blocking their entrance, trying to see inside. It looked quite empty. With a sigh, he began tugging at the boards, slowly working them free from the doorframe.
"So, what does this Merlin look like?" he said between tugs, glancing back at Gwen. She bit her lip.
"I'm not sure, actually. I’ve never met anyone who’s actually seen him. But I've heard he stays here sometimes inside the old palace."
Arty frowned, pulling harder on the top board. Why would a person want to stay in such a lonely building? Even the opulence of living in a palace would be lost with the somewhat tragic history of the place, wouldn't it?
The nails pulled free of the frame at last, the boards coming loose in his hands. Tossing them onto the snow dusted stone, he looked at Gwen.
"Ready?"
She nodded, looking about as eager as he felt. Cautiously, he stepped inside.
The air inside was like a tomb, as still as the dead. They were in a large hall, its ceiling high and decorated with strips of ornate moulding, the blocked-out windows coated with a thick layer of dust and grime. The few pictures that adorned the walls had been ripped and torn, their frames chipped and scratched and hanging crookedly. Arty took a step and heard a crack beneath his foot, glancing down to see the shattered remains of a set of elegant plates, thrown haphazardly to the floor.
"The revolutionaries ransacked the place after the siege," Gwen told him quietly, huddling close. She looked uncomfortable, her gaze lingering on a fallen chandelier. The sooner they found this Merlin fellow, the better.
They wandered through the hallways, each room bringing with it new signs of devastation and neglect. Arty squinted at a cracked blue vase sitting on a table, something itching at the back of his brain.
"This place is enormous," he said, staring up at the ceiling as they walked. "How are we ever going to find anyone in here?"
"We could try calling his name," Gwen suggested half-heartedly. Unsurprisingly, neither of them did so. It seemed wrong to shout in such an oppressively quiet place.
"Oh," she said a moment later, aghast, looking through a doorway into what had probably been the library, judging from the mess of destroyed books carpeting the floor. She stepped inside, kneeling to pick up the tattered remains of a bound volume. "What a waste," she sighed to herself.
Arty looked over his shoulder, something at the end of the hallway catching his eye. Seeing that Gwen was otherwise preoccupied, he walked toward it, finding himself face-to-face with a rather large wooden door. He knew something important was on the other side, though why that was he couldn't say. Curious, he turned the golden handle and pushed, but it wouldn't budge.
This door always sticks, he thought exasperatedly, jiggling the handle before pausing with a puzzled frown. That was strange. He had no idea where the thought had come from.
Shrugging it off, he pushed his shoulder against the door until it opened, revealing a large, empty room with marble columns lining the sides. Dust-painted chandeliers hung high overhead, many of the crystals cobwebbed and broken. Several of the large windows had been smashed, glass coating the floor like sparkling diamonds.
Arty stared at it all in curiosity, feeling strangely captivated. He ran his hand along one of the columns, the marble cool under his palm. He walked a small circle around the floor, glass crunching beneath his feet as he stared up at the high ceiling. There was something about this place....
* * *
Merlin sighed heavily, falling into one of the armchairs they'd salvaged from an old study while Gaius stoked the fireplace of the Malachite Room. The Winter Palace lived up to its name, prone to being rather cold and drafty in some areas in its decade of disrepair. While they technically had free reign of the place, they tended to stick to one corner of the palace during their stays.
Stretching tiredly, he fished about in his bag for something to appease his growling stomach. Secretly, the palace was his favourite of all their hideouts, probably for its familiarity, though he hadn't set foot in the servants' quarters since the siege. It felt like bad luck, somehow.
An image of Will came unbidden to his mind, and he wondered briefly what had happened to his old friend. He hadn't seen him since that night. Merlin hoped the older boy had been one of the handful of servants who'd made it successfully across the border, but he'd probably never know for sure.
"If you're done lazing about, I could use some help with dinner," Gaius said dryly, glaring in his direction. Sheepishly, Merlin got to his feet.
He started slicing the bread, shivering a bit as he did and silently pledging to allot a portion of their reward money to getting a place with a decent wood stove. They hadn't really discussed their plans for after the con - Gaius insisted it was tempting fate to count a payoff you didn't have yet - but he knew his friend was looking to retire from the forgery business and get a head-start on leading a quiet, respectable life.
Merlin's plans were far less straightforward, but ten million rubles seemed like enough to grant him the freedom to do just about anything. He could travel, see what the rest of the world had to offer, or help Gaius get settled into his retirement. Maybe he'd even try his hand at respectable living....
"Really, Merlin, we're meant to eat the bread, not mop the floor with it," sighed Gaius from across the room.
Looking down, he blushed at the breadcrumbs he'd reduced their meal to with his daydreaming. "Sorry," he mumbled, sweeping the remains of the bread into a pile on the table.
"Sometimes, I wonder what's going on in that head of yours," his companion continued in his best hard done-by voice. "But then I realise that it's a question best left to science."
"Wait." Merlin interrupted what was sure to be a lengthy recitation of his faults, standing up straighter. "Do you hear something?"
"I'm really not in the mood for one of your-"
"I'm serious," he cut in, going to the door. "I think there's someone else in here."
* * *
Arty winced, nerves on edge from the loud clang of the candleholder he'd knocked over, the noise of it still echoing throughout the hall.
He jerked as the door on the far side of the hall swung open.
"Hey! What do you think you're doing?"
His first instinct was to run - who knew what other cutthroat types hung out here? - but he stood his ground, remembering that Gwen was somewhere in the palace unawares. He folded his arms, giving the intruder his most intimidating expression. It turned out to be completely uncalled for, as he was soon face-to-face with one of the skinniest, least-intimidating people he'd ever met.
The man was about his age, with messy dark hair and a pair of the most ridiculous ears Arty had ever seen outside of the Russian circus.
"How'd you get in he-?"
The words seemed to die on the other man's tongue, along with his livid expression, replaced with a mixture of slack-jawed awe and surprise. Behind him, a much older man with long white hair and sharp eyes puffed his way toward them, halting in similar shock at the sight of Arty.
Arty shifted, uncomfortable under the outright stares the two strangers were giving him. He turned to the white-haired man, figuring him to be in-charge. "Are you Merlin?"
The question seemed to shake the dark-haired one from his stupor, his eyes immediately guarded. "Who wants to know?"
Ignoring him, Arty uncrossed his arms. "I need travel papers to Paris," he continued, still addressing the older gentleman in his politest tone - it wouldn't hurt to butter him up a little, given that he was rather short on money. "I heard that you were the one to go to."
The younger man's eyes narrowed a bit, unimpressed with the brush-off. "I'm Merlin, and that's my partner," he said, stepping in front of the older man. "And you are?"
He paused, giving Merlin a once-over. He was hardly the sort of person you'd envision as a criminal mastermind, with his far-too-expressive eyes and rather unfortunate choice of wardrobe. Still, if he could help him get to Paris...
"Right. My name's Arty."
"Arty?" echoed Merlin doubtfully.
Why did everyone have a problem with his name?
"It's short for Artem," he retorted tightly, sensing the unspoken insult. He was rather proud of his name - he'd picked it out himself at the orphanage, under Lada Fedorova's disapproving glare. It meant 'strong and healthy,' and he’d thought it rather fitting. If Arty knew nothing else about himself or his past, he could at least see that he was both of these things. It wasn't a bad-sounding name, either - it had a nice sort of ring to it. Nicer than Merlin, at any rate.
"I see," Merlin replied, looking no more impressed. "And is there a last name to go with that, Arty?" he asked, somehow managing to make his name sound like the worst kind of insult.
Arty had always hated this part. Gwen had taken to his story well-enough, but he couldn't help but feel like an idiot whenever he explained his past to another person.
"I don't have one," he said matter-of-factly, forcing his expression to be neutral. "It sounds ridiculous, but I have no memory of who I was before I was eight."
It might have been his imagination, but he thought he saw both men's eyes light up a bit.
"I see," Merlin replied carefully, stepping forward. "No memory at all?"
"No." Arty set his jaw, daring either of them to laugh, but neither man did. Instead, he saw them exchange a meaningful glance.
The older man spoke up for the first time. "And what business do you have in Paris?"
"I'm going to find my family," he replied guardedly.
This time, he knew he wasn't imagining it - both men's eyes sparkled with interest as Merlin put on a friendly grin.
"You know, as it happens, we're going to Paris," he said, reaching into his pocket. "And we even have an extra ticket."
"Really?" Arty leaned forward eagerly. Maybe this would be easier than he’d thought.
"Yep," said Merlin, briefly flashing small pieces of paper before hiding them back inside his coat. "But, unfortunately, it's reserved. For him," he pointed behind Arty.
Turning, Arty frowned at a slashed portrait of the late Petrovin family. What was he playing at?
"You see, His Imperial Highness the Grand Duke Arthur Ectorovich Petrovin is alive somewhere, and we're going to find him and bring him back to his grandfather, Prince Uther," the older man explained. "In Paris."
Merlin nodded, walking a circle around Arty. "You know, it's strange, but you even sort of look like him. You've got Igraine's eyes-"
"And Ector's build-" interjected his partner.
"-And you're the right age, too," finished Merlin, regarding Arty with a sort of foreign curiosity.
Arty frowned. Were they saying what he thought they were saying? "What? You think I'm the grand duke?" he scoffed.
"It's a possibility," Merlin said with a carefree shrug of his shoulders. "Think about it - you have no memory of your old life-"
"-And no one has seen him since he was a child," completed the older man, stepping forward. "You want to find your family in Paris-"
"And his last remaining family is in Paris," Merlin smiled, guiding Arty toward the large portrait. "It seems like an awful lot of coincidence, don't you think?"
Arty stared up at the painting, most of the figures distorted and scratched, though the youngest grand duke remained largely intact in the bottom left corner of the frame. He shook his head - it was crazy.
Merlin clapped him on the back. "Well, we'd really like to help, but unfortunately, the ticket is for Arthur," he said regretfully, the two of them walking back to the far door they’d entered through.
Arty stared at the shredded remains of the portrait, tilting his head. There was a certain resemblance. In the eyes, and maybe the chin. If he squinted, he could almost pretend he was looking at a painting of his younger self. Almost...
He shook the thought away. He was no grand duke. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat, fingering the few kopeks¬ he had to his name as he thought longingly of the tickets he'd glimpsed, an idea formulating in his head.
Maybe he wasn't the grand duke, but there was no reason for those two to know it, not if it meant a free ticket to Paris. All he'd have to do was get there, really - once the prince saw him, he'd know they'd brought the wrong man, and it wasn't as if Arty was intentionally deceiving him or anything. After all, there were a lot of coincidences surrounding his life and the grand duke's....
He looked back up at the portrait, dull painted eyes mirroring his own.
* * *
Merlin smirked to himself as they walked, resisting the urge to hum in delight. They’d finally caught a break. He'd never imagined that the perfect double for Arthur would just stroll into their hideout. And the memory loss? A stroke of genius! He'd be better than any actor - a man they could actually convince that he was the grand duke. Uther would eat it up.
Beside him, Gaius' eyebrow arched questioningly. "Why didn't you tell him about the con?"
He shook his head, "The idiot just wants to go to Paris. Why split the money three ways when we can keep it to ourselves?"
It was all going to work out perfectly. Things couldn't have been better if Merlin had planned them himself.
His partner looked unconvinced. "Aren't you worried he might try to run out on us once we bring him to France?"
"Nah," he whispered back. "I know the type. Once he agrees to come, he'll be as good as his word."
Gaius glanced back to where they'd left Arty, still staring at the portrait. "We're walking away too soon," he cautioned.
"It's fine," Merlin assured him, though he slowed his pace a little. Just enough to give Arty the chance to-
"Hey!"
Merlin grinned. Right on time.
"Hmm?" he replied dumbly, turning back with an expression of mild interest. "Sorry, can I help you with something?"
Arty looked determined, his jaw set as he sprinted toward them. "Okay, well, let’s just say I went along with you to see the prince. If I got there and he said I wasn't the grand duke, then it'd just be an honest mistake, right?"
"Sure," he agreed, smiling inwardly.
"And I'm just trying to find my family like the prince is, so it's not as if he could be angry with me for being wrong," Arty continued with the air of someone trying to self-justify their actions.
"Of course not," Gaius assured him.
Arty nodded, resolve in his eyes. He was just about to respond when the side door to the ballroom creaked open. "Arty?"
The three of them turned, staring at a young woman with curly dark hair and rather ragged clothes.
"Gwen!" Arty grinned, gesturing her over. Timidly, she went, eyeing Gaius and Merlin with curiosity.
Merlin frowned, annoyed at the interruption when they'd been just about to close the deal. Another person in the room could throw a cog in the works.
"Girlfriend?" he inquired testily, folding his arms.
The girl in question blushed, but Arty shook his head.
"This is Gwen," he introduced, before turning his attention to her with a smile. "It's all set. We're going to Paris."
Her eyes lit up and Merlin frowned. Wait, what?
"She's not coming with us," he argued, feeling like he'd just been double-played.
Arty glared. "Yes, she is," he said in a tone that brooked no argument. "She wants to go to Paris and so do I. If I'm going, she's going."
“We’ve only got the one ticket,” Merlin lied. The tickets he’d flashed earlier were fakes, of course. Getting train passes was no problem for them, but there was no reason for Arty to know that.
“So? Get another if you need a grand duke so badly,” said Arty, crossing his arms stubbornly. Damn. There went that strategy.
Gwen’s eyes were pleadingly honest. "I promise I won't be any trouble.”
Merlin folded his arms, refusing to give away the upper hand. They couldn't afford to take on any extra baggage, and another body meant another person who could mess things up. He needed to show them who was in charge. "Absolutely not."
Arty narrowed his eyes, opening his mouth for what promised to be a tremendously loud and stubborn retort-
"Give us a moment," Gaius interrupted, steering Merlin away from the pair. Begrudgingly, Merlin went, glaring daggers back at the blond brat as he walked.
His partner ducked his head a bit, keeping his voice low.
"She only wants to go to France, and our Arthur seems rather set on her coming. What harm can it do to have her along?" Gaius reasoned quietly. "I doubt the girl will raise much fuss."
Merlin eyed his friend shrewdly, recognizing his logic for the altruism it really was. "Anyone ever tell you you're a sentimental old codger?" he whispered back.
The older man's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Yes, I really must stop taking pity on young vagrants - far more trouble than they're worth," he replied with a meaningful look.
Chastened, Merlin sighed. "Fine. She can come. But I'm not splitting my share of the reward with her."
"You're a saint, Merlin," Gaius retorted dryly. "It's a wonder they haven't erected statues in your honour."
Turning back to the waiting pair, Merlin forced a bright smile on his face.
"Okay, it's settled. She can come, but only if she doesn't get in the way."
Arty's smug grin was almost enough to make him change his mind again, but he stayed strong, remembering the reward money.
Beside him, Gaius nodded his approval. "We leave first thing in the morning."
* * *
On another plane of existence, Nimueh lazed against the stone wall of her prison, glaring at the small bubble of space that had been all she'd known for the last ten years since the revolution. After her fall through the ice, she'd expected to pass on to the next world, her soul given in payment for the power she'd used against the Petrovins. Instead, she'd found herself confined to this place - a dark cave that had no entrance or exit - alone with her thoughts and with no end to her imprisonment in sight.
Her interest perked as the scrying bowl in the middle of the cave glowed to life for the first time. She'd tried on hundreds of occasions over the years to get it to work, but even the power she'd bartered from the Old Religion would not force it to show her the world outside of her prison. Now, the water rippled of its own accord, the image of a young man coming into focus.
Eagerly, Nimueh darted forward, hungry for a glimpse of the world she'd been separated from. Her excitement turned to anger as she easily recognised the face staring back at her.
"The grand duke lives?" she spat, gripping the edges of her stone scrying bowl. The cocky young man grinned in the water's reflection, the same arrogant glint in his eyes as his father. There was no mistaking that face. The face of the boy who had escaped her grasp a decade ago.
She dashed her hand against the water, dispelling the image.
"So, that is why I remain in Limbo," she grimaced. All this time, she'd thought that her exile to this plane was a result of her dying before the Old Ones could collect on their bargain for her soul. Now, things were clearer. She'd died before the curse could be fully carried out - the last of the Petrovin line had not been defeated, and so she clung to existence, stuck between that world and the next until such time that her vengeance could be completed.
Anger burned within her at the knowledge that Velikii Kniaz Arthur had been alive all these years, living without care, while she'd fallen victim to her own curse, suffering the solitude of confinement and the bitter taste of revenge unfulfilled.
The red phial attached to her wrist hummed its agreement, feeding off her anger. She'd set things right. She'd finish what she'd started all those years ago.
After all this time, her hatred of the Petrovins still burned strongly within her, memories of the betrayal she'd suffered at their hands as fresh as if it were yesterday.
Nimueh had always had magic. From the time she'd been born, she'd been able to practice the arts that others learned only from years of study, the gift as natural to her as breathing. Her own mother had been disturbed by the ability, warning her not to reveal it for fear of retribution. She'd called it abnormal - perverse, even - but Nimueh had refused to believe that her magic was something to be feared. While others used their magic to harm, to amass power for themselves and to bring about destruction, she had sought to put her gifts to good use.
Travelling from town to town, she'd made her wages offering remedies to various sicknesses, helping those she could, though she done right by her mother in keeping the truth of her abilities a secret. Magic was still feared by many, and most would not take kindly to the presence of a sorceress.
Still, she could not help but feel that there was a greater purpose to her magic - something more than the life of wandering she'd found herself victim to. When news of Tsarevitch Owain's strange illness made its way to Moscow - an illness no doctor could seem to cure - she'd set out immediately, seeking an audience with the tsar.
They had been cautious, at first, when she insisted on visiting with Owain alone, the room free from all attendants and even the tsar and tsaritsa themselves, but Nimueh had informed them that the healings she’d brought for the ailing heir were far too delicate to be disturbed by the presence of others. Reluctantly, they had agreed to her conditions, and she'd set about working her healings on the young tsarevitch.
The effects of her work were quickly realised. Within a few short days, Owain's colour and strength had begun to return. His illness was a serious one, likely to plague him all his life, but her efforts helped him through the worst of it. Nimueh’d made herself available to the royal family whenever they had need of her. They set her up in a small house near the palace and bid her to travel with them, always on-hand to administer her healings to Owain.
It had been the best time of her life. Finally, she'd found a calling for her gifts. Feeling at home with the royals, she’d found herself confided in by both husband and wife, and treated with awe by the children. She had found a purpose - a family, even, though her status as a commoner was never completely forgotten - and nothing had delighted her more than seeing the pleasure in Igraine and Ector's eyes as they beheld the renewed ruddiness of Owain's cheeks.
She had soon learned how misplaced her trust was.
It had been an otherwise unremarkable visit to Tsarevitch Owain's chambers, the tsaritsa and all attendants once again ushered out of the room, when a wayward maidservant - ill-informed of the healer's request for privacy - had stumbled in through a servant's entrance to find the sorceress placing an enchanted poultice under Owain's pillow.
The cries of fear and suspicion had sounded throughout the palace as she hastened to explain her altruistic notions to a staff of frightened attendants. In her naiveté, she had trusted that the family would understand and excuse her good intentions, but she had been wrong. Tsaritsa Igraine, once her close friend, had rushed to shield young Owain from her, looking upon Nimueh with hatred and fear.
Accusations had swept across the country, as only scandals and witch hunts can. Some said that she had engineered Owain's mysterious sickness in order to indebt herself to the royal family; others insisted that she had bewitched the emperor, or that she sought to bring about the downfall of Imperial Russia from within the court itself.
In a fit of rage, Tsar Ector cast her out of Russia and swore punishment upon any person caught aiding her. Abandoned and exiled from all she knew, she'd wandered the continent, thoughts of revenge brewing deep within her, pain and torment guiding her steps.
Her hatred brought her to the darkest forms of magic, seeking out those she had previously reviled. With only the desire to see her betrayers suffer as she had at the hands of the magic they feared so much, she'd bargained her soul for the power to destroy them.
Now, bound to this half-life by no more than a simple red vial - the symbol of her bargain, and source of her increased power - she knew only that her curse had to be completed. For ten years, she'd been confined to this prison, alone with her thoughts, never knowing what it was that she was waiting for. At long last, she would see the Petrovin line brought to ruin.
With a whispered spell, she brought the image of the grown grand duke back to the surface of the bowl, hatred burning in her eyes.
Arthur Petrovin would die.
Part Four
Author: batgurl88
Pairing/Characters: Arthur/Merlin, Gwen/Morgana, Gaius, Uther, Nimueh
Wordcount: 5,374 (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’s Anastasia and BBC’s Merlin. Beta’d by the amazing justicemischief.
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Where This Road May Go
Part Three
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"Wow," breathed Gwen, "So, you're going all the way to Paris to find them?"
Arty nodded. He'd followed her back to her small apartment to share a meal of stroganoff and had proceeded to tell her the tale of his life-long quest, from his arrival at the orphanage to his being denied a train ticket. He found it very easy to talk to Gwen, her smile encouraging and without judgement. She hadn't looked the least-bit cynical when he'd mentioned his memory loss, which was a refreshing change from the reaction he usually got. She had listened to his story with rapt attention, growing more and more interested with every word.
"To think," she said, getting up from the rickety table where they were seated to pace the one-room apartment in excitement. "You could be the long-lost son of a famous writer who ran off to seek their fortune in France. Or a baron and baroness who fled during the revolution!" She shook her head. "My parents were so boring compared to all of that."
"Were?" Arty echoed.
Gwen's eyes darkened a bit. "My mother died when I was just a baby. My da’ said that's where I got my skill for drawing from. For a while, it was just me and da’, but he died from the sickness a few years ago. He was a blacksmith."
"I'm sorry," he said, feeling bad for asking. To his surprise, her smile brightened.
"It's all right," she assured him. "I know they wouldn't want me to dwell on it."
She sat again, grabbing the small pot she'd boiled their water in.
"Still, it all sounds so exciting!" she gushed, refilling his cup. "It's very brave of you, running off on an adventure to find your family. I wish I had that kind of spirit. And to Paris! I've always wanted to go someplace lovely like that - they say it's more beautiful than you can imagine. It'd be a nice change from this place."
He puffed his chest slightly, emboldened by her assessment. He was being rather brave trying to look for them himself, wasn't he?
"I've learned all about Paris," he said knowledgeably, fuelling her interest. "About the sights and the buildings. I think my parents could have moved there to search for work."
"How were you planning on finding them?" she asked, entranced. "I mean, where did you think to start once you got to Paris?"
Arty faltered, his mind going blank. "Er..."
"Of course, it's a rather big city," she continued, oblivious to his hesitation. "And ten years have passed, so they might have moved on, or-"
She looked up, distressed. "Oh, I'm sorry- I didn't mean to imply- Here, you've spent your whole life getting ready for this, so of course you have a plan."
He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Right. Of course."
Actually, as he was rapidly discovering, he had no plan at all. But Arty wasn’t about to tell her that, not when she appeared so impressed by his tale. The seriousness of his situation was slowly beginning to hit him, and for whatever reason, he didn't want to lose his new friend's confidence in him.
"You should come with me," he blurted unexpectedly.
"What?" said Gwen, sounding just as surprised as he felt.
"You should come with me to Paris," Arty repeated, more resolute this time. The more he thought on it, the more he warmed to the idea. He enjoyed her company, and the thought of jetting off across the continent to a strange country all by himself was becoming increasingly foreboding. If anything, having a companion who was used to being on their own would aid him in his quest.
She shook her head, getting up from the table again. "I couldn't just leave like that," she said slowly, though her eyes betrayed that she was considering it.
"Why not?" he asked, standing as well. "You said yourself you're not all that attached to Russia. It would be an adventure. You could just take off and start over new."
She worried her lip, looking around her small apartment, to the drawings that papered the peeling walls in lieu of furniture. "Well ..."
"You don't have an adventure sitting around waiting, do you?" Arty reasoned sensibly, seeing her resolve slipping. "And Paris is full of artists. All the books talk about them. Think how much you could learn in a place like that!"
A slow smile blossomed on her face as he spoke, her eyes hopeful as they met his again.
"All right," she agreed, excitement seeping into her voice. "I'll do it."
Arty grinned. Already, things were looking up. With the two of them working together, he'd be sure to find his family in no time.
He deflated slightly, remembering himself. "Though, that still doesn't solve the problem of how we're going to get ourselves to Paris."
Gwen considered it for a moment.
"Well," she hesitated, furrowing her brow. "There may be one way...."
He looked up in interest. "Really?"
She nodded, leaning toward him with a quick glance over her shoulder.
"I've heard about a man," she confided quietly, as though afraid of being overheard, "named Merlin. Apparently, he can arrange travel visas under any name for a small price."
Arty blinked. It hardly sounded legal, but it didn’t seem like they had any other option. Hope bloomed inside him as he pulled his scarf around his neck again. "How can we find him?"
* * *
The Winter Palace was enormous, and appeared - for all intents and purposes - entirely abandoned. The entrances and windows had been shoddily boarded up, the courtyard deserted. Arty stared up at it hesitantly, feeling as if he were invading a crypt.
Beside him, Gwen shivered slightly, and he wondered if she was thinking the same thing.
Moving toward the nearest door, he peered between the slats of wood blocking their entrance, trying to see inside. It looked quite empty. With a sigh, he began tugging at the boards, slowly working them free from the doorframe.
"So, what does this Merlin look like?" he said between tugs, glancing back at Gwen. She bit her lip.
"I'm not sure, actually. I’ve never met anyone who’s actually seen him. But I've heard he stays here sometimes inside the old palace."
Arty frowned, pulling harder on the top board. Why would a person want to stay in such a lonely building? Even the opulence of living in a palace would be lost with the somewhat tragic history of the place, wouldn't it?
The nails pulled free of the frame at last, the boards coming loose in his hands. Tossing them onto the snow dusted stone, he looked at Gwen.
"Ready?"
She nodded, looking about as eager as he felt. Cautiously, he stepped inside.
The air inside was like a tomb, as still as the dead. They were in a large hall, its ceiling high and decorated with strips of ornate moulding, the blocked-out windows coated with a thick layer of dust and grime. The few pictures that adorned the walls had been ripped and torn, their frames chipped and scratched and hanging crookedly. Arty took a step and heard a crack beneath his foot, glancing down to see the shattered remains of a set of elegant plates, thrown haphazardly to the floor.
"The revolutionaries ransacked the place after the siege," Gwen told him quietly, huddling close. She looked uncomfortable, her gaze lingering on a fallen chandelier. The sooner they found this Merlin fellow, the better.
They wandered through the hallways, each room bringing with it new signs of devastation and neglect. Arty squinted at a cracked blue vase sitting on a table, something itching at the back of his brain.
"This place is enormous," he said, staring up at the ceiling as they walked. "How are we ever going to find anyone in here?"
"We could try calling his name," Gwen suggested half-heartedly. Unsurprisingly, neither of them did so. It seemed wrong to shout in such an oppressively quiet place.
"Oh," she said a moment later, aghast, looking through a doorway into what had probably been the library, judging from the mess of destroyed books carpeting the floor. She stepped inside, kneeling to pick up the tattered remains of a bound volume. "What a waste," she sighed to herself.
Arty looked over his shoulder, something at the end of the hallway catching his eye. Seeing that Gwen was otherwise preoccupied, he walked toward it, finding himself face-to-face with a rather large wooden door. He knew something important was on the other side, though why that was he couldn't say. Curious, he turned the golden handle and pushed, but it wouldn't budge.
This door always sticks, he thought exasperatedly, jiggling the handle before pausing with a puzzled frown. That was strange. He had no idea where the thought had come from.
Shrugging it off, he pushed his shoulder against the door until it opened, revealing a large, empty room with marble columns lining the sides. Dust-painted chandeliers hung high overhead, many of the crystals cobwebbed and broken. Several of the large windows had been smashed, glass coating the floor like sparkling diamonds.
Arty stared at it all in curiosity, feeling strangely captivated. He ran his hand along one of the columns, the marble cool under his palm. He walked a small circle around the floor, glass crunching beneath his feet as he stared up at the high ceiling. There was something about this place....
* * *
Merlin sighed heavily, falling into one of the armchairs they'd salvaged from an old study while Gaius stoked the fireplace of the Malachite Room. The Winter Palace lived up to its name, prone to being rather cold and drafty in some areas in its decade of disrepair. While they technically had free reign of the place, they tended to stick to one corner of the palace during their stays.
Stretching tiredly, he fished about in his bag for something to appease his growling stomach. Secretly, the palace was his favourite of all their hideouts, probably for its familiarity, though he hadn't set foot in the servants' quarters since the siege. It felt like bad luck, somehow.
An image of Will came unbidden to his mind, and he wondered briefly what had happened to his old friend. He hadn't seen him since that night. Merlin hoped the older boy had been one of the handful of servants who'd made it successfully across the border, but he'd probably never know for sure.
"If you're done lazing about, I could use some help with dinner," Gaius said dryly, glaring in his direction. Sheepishly, Merlin got to his feet.
He started slicing the bread, shivering a bit as he did and silently pledging to allot a portion of their reward money to getting a place with a decent wood stove. They hadn't really discussed their plans for after the con - Gaius insisted it was tempting fate to count a payoff you didn't have yet - but he knew his friend was looking to retire from the forgery business and get a head-start on leading a quiet, respectable life.
Merlin's plans were far less straightforward, but ten million rubles seemed like enough to grant him the freedom to do just about anything. He could travel, see what the rest of the world had to offer, or help Gaius get settled into his retirement. Maybe he'd even try his hand at respectable living....
"Really, Merlin, we're meant to eat the bread, not mop the floor with it," sighed Gaius from across the room.
Looking down, he blushed at the breadcrumbs he'd reduced their meal to with his daydreaming. "Sorry," he mumbled, sweeping the remains of the bread into a pile on the table.
"Sometimes, I wonder what's going on in that head of yours," his companion continued in his best hard done-by voice. "But then I realise that it's a question best left to science."
"Wait." Merlin interrupted what was sure to be a lengthy recitation of his faults, standing up straighter. "Do you hear something?"
"I'm really not in the mood for one of your-"
"I'm serious," he cut in, going to the door. "I think there's someone else in here."
* * *
Arty winced, nerves on edge from the loud clang of the candleholder he'd knocked over, the noise of it still echoing throughout the hall.
He jerked as the door on the far side of the hall swung open.
"Hey! What do you think you're doing?"
His first instinct was to run - who knew what other cutthroat types hung out here? - but he stood his ground, remembering that Gwen was somewhere in the palace unawares. He folded his arms, giving the intruder his most intimidating expression. It turned out to be completely uncalled for, as he was soon face-to-face with one of the skinniest, least-intimidating people he'd ever met.
The man was about his age, with messy dark hair and a pair of the most ridiculous ears Arty had ever seen outside of the Russian circus.
"How'd you get in he-?"
The words seemed to die on the other man's tongue, along with his livid expression, replaced with a mixture of slack-jawed awe and surprise. Behind him, a much older man with long white hair and sharp eyes puffed his way toward them, halting in similar shock at the sight of Arty.
Arty shifted, uncomfortable under the outright stares the two strangers were giving him. He turned to the white-haired man, figuring him to be in-charge. "Are you Merlin?"
The question seemed to shake the dark-haired one from his stupor, his eyes immediately guarded. "Who wants to know?"
Ignoring him, Arty uncrossed his arms. "I need travel papers to Paris," he continued, still addressing the older gentleman in his politest tone - it wouldn't hurt to butter him up a little, given that he was rather short on money. "I heard that you were the one to go to."
The younger man's eyes narrowed a bit, unimpressed with the brush-off. "I'm Merlin, and that's my partner," he said, stepping in front of the older man. "And you are?"
He paused, giving Merlin a once-over. He was hardly the sort of person you'd envision as a criminal mastermind, with his far-too-expressive eyes and rather unfortunate choice of wardrobe. Still, if he could help him get to Paris...
"Right. My name's Arty."
"Arty?" echoed Merlin doubtfully.
Why did everyone have a problem with his name?
"It's short for Artem," he retorted tightly, sensing the unspoken insult. He was rather proud of his name - he'd picked it out himself at the orphanage, under Lada Fedorova's disapproving glare. It meant 'strong and healthy,' and he’d thought it rather fitting. If Arty knew nothing else about himself or his past, he could at least see that he was both of these things. It wasn't a bad-sounding name, either - it had a nice sort of ring to it. Nicer than Merlin, at any rate.
"I see," Merlin replied, looking no more impressed. "And is there a last name to go with that, Arty?" he asked, somehow managing to make his name sound like the worst kind of insult.
Arty had always hated this part. Gwen had taken to his story well-enough, but he couldn't help but feel like an idiot whenever he explained his past to another person.
"I don't have one," he said matter-of-factly, forcing his expression to be neutral. "It sounds ridiculous, but I have no memory of who I was before I was eight."
It might have been his imagination, but he thought he saw both men's eyes light up a bit.
"I see," Merlin replied carefully, stepping forward. "No memory at all?"
"No." Arty set his jaw, daring either of them to laugh, but neither man did. Instead, he saw them exchange a meaningful glance.
The older man spoke up for the first time. "And what business do you have in Paris?"
"I'm going to find my family," he replied guardedly.
This time, he knew he wasn't imagining it - both men's eyes sparkled with interest as Merlin put on a friendly grin.
"You know, as it happens, we're going to Paris," he said, reaching into his pocket. "And we even have an extra ticket."
"Really?" Arty leaned forward eagerly. Maybe this would be easier than he’d thought.
"Yep," said Merlin, briefly flashing small pieces of paper before hiding them back inside his coat. "But, unfortunately, it's reserved. For him," he pointed behind Arty.
Turning, Arty frowned at a slashed portrait of the late Petrovin family. What was he playing at?
"You see, His Imperial Highness the Grand Duke Arthur Ectorovich Petrovin is alive somewhere, and we're going to find him and bring him back to his grandfather, Prince Uther," the older man explained. "In Paris."
Merlin nodded, walking a circle around Arty. "You know, it's strange, but you even sort of look like him. You've got Igraine's eyes-"
"And Ector's build-" interjected his partner.
"-And you're the right age, too," finished Merlin, regarding Arty with a sort of foreign curiosity.
Arty frowned. Were they saying what he thought they were saying? "What? You think I'm the grand duke?" he scoffed.
"It's a possibility," Merlin said with a carefree shrug of his shoulders. "Think about it - you have no memory of your old life-"
"-And no one has seen him since he was a child," completed the older man, stepping forward. "You want to find your family in Paris-"
"And his last remaining family is in Paris," Merlin smiled, guiding Arty toward the large portrait. "It seems like an awful lot of coincidence, don't you think?"
Arty stared up at the painting, most of the figures distorted and scratched, though the youngest grand duke remained largely intact in the bottom left corner of the frame. He shook his head - it was crazy.
Merlin clapped him on the back. "Well, we'd really like to help, but unfortunately, the ticket is for Arthur," he said regretfully, the two of them walking back to the far door they’d entered through.
Arty stared at the shredded remains of the portrait, tilting his head. There was a certain resemblance. In the eyes, and maybe the chin. If he squinted, he could almost pretend he was looking at a painting of his younger self. Almost...
He shook the thought away. He was no grand duke. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat, fingering the few kopeks¬ he had to his name as he thought longingly of the tickets he'd glimpsed, an idea formulating in his head.
Maybe he wasn't the grand duke, but there was no reason for those two to know it, not if it meant a free ticket to Paris. All he'd have to do was get there, really - once the prince saw him, he'd know they'd brought the wrong man, and it wasn't as if Arty was intentionally deceiving him or anything. After all, there were a lot of coincidences surrounding his life and the grand duke's....
He looked back up at the portrait, dull painted eyes mirroring his own.
* * *
Merlin smirked to himself as they walked, resisting the urge to hum in delight. They’d finally caught a break. He'd never imagined that the perfect double for Arthur would just stroll into their hideout. And the memory loss? A stroke of genius! He'd be better than any actor - a man they could actually convince that he was the grand duke. Uther would eat it up.
Beside him, Gaius' eyebrow arched questioningly. "Why didn't you tell him about the con?"
He shook his head, "The idiot just wants to go to Paris. Why split the money three ways when we can keep it to ourselves?"
It was all going to work out perfectly. Things couldn't have been better if Merlin had planned them himself.
His partner looked unconvinced. "Aren't you worried he might try to run out on us once we bring him to France?"
"Nah," he whispered back. "I know the type. Once he agrees to come, he'll be as good as his word."
Gaius glanced back to where they'd left Arty, still staring at the portrait. "We're walking away too soon," he cautioned.
"It's fine," Merlin assured him, though he slowed his pace a little. Just enough to give Arty the chance to-
"Hey!"
Merlin grinned. Right on time.
"Hmm?" he replied dumbly, turning back with an expression of mild interest. "Sorry, can I help you with something?"
Arty looked determined, his jaw set as he sprinted toward them. "Okay, well, let’s just say I went along with you to see the prince. If I got there and he said I wasn't the grand duke, then it'd just be an honest mistake, right?"
"Sure," he agreed, smiling inwardly.
"And I'm just trying to find my family like the prince is, so it's not as if he could be angry with me for being wrong," Arty continued with the air of someone trying to self-justify their actions.
"Of course not," Gaius assured him.
Arty nodded, resolve in his eyes. He was just about to respond when the side door to the ballroom creaked open. "Arty?"
The three of them turned, staring at a young woman with curly dark hair and rather ragged clothes.
"Gwen!" Arty grinned, gesturing her over. Timidly, she went, eyeing Gaius and Merlin with curiosity.
Merlin frowned, annoyed at the interruption when they'd been just about to close the deal. Another person in the room could throw a cog in the works.
"Girlfriend?" he inquired testily, folding his arms.
The girl in question blushed, but Arty shook his head.
"This is Gwen," he introduced, before turning his attention to her with a smile. "It's all set. We're going to Paris."
Her eyes lit up and Merlin frowned. Wait, what?
"She's not coming with us," he argued, feeling like he'd just been double-played.
Arty glared. "Yes, she is," he said in a tone that brooked no argument. "She wants to go to Paris and so do I. If I'm going, she's going."
“We’ve only got the one ticket,” Merlin lied. The tickets he’d flashed earlier were fakes, of course. Getting train passes was no problem for them, but there was no reason for Arty to know that.
“So? Get another if you need a grand duke so badly,” said Arty, crossing his arms stubbornly. Damn. There went that strategy.
Gwen’s eyes were pleadingly honest. "I promise I won't be any trouble.”
Merlin folded his arms, refusing to give away the upper hand. They couldn't afford to take on any extra baggage, and another body meant another person who could mess things up. He needed to show them who was in charge. "Absolutely not."
Arty narrowed his eyes, opening his mouth for what promised to be a tremendously loud and stubborn retort-
"Give us a moment," Gaius interrupted, steering Merlin away from the pair. Begrudgingly, Merlin went, glaring daggers back at the blond brat as he walked.
His partner ducked his head a bit, keeping his voice low.
"She only wants to go to France, and our Arthur seems rather set on her coming. What harm can it do to have her along?" Gaius reasoned quietly. "I doubt the girl will raise much fuss."
Merlin eyed his friend shrewdly, recognizing his logic for the altruism it really was. "Anyone ever tell you you're a sentimental old codger?" he whispered back.
The older man's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Yes, I really must stop taking pity on young vagrants - far more trouble than they're worth," he replied with a meaningful look.
Chastened, Merlin sighed. "Fine. She can come. But I'm not splitting my share of the reward with her."
"You're a saint, Merlin," Gaius retorted dryly. "It's a wonder they haven't erected statues in your honour."
Turning back to the waiting pair, Merlin forced a bright smile on his face.
"Okay, it's settled. She can come, but only if she doesn't get in the way."
Arty's smug grin was almost enough to make him change his mind again, but he stayed strong, remembering the reward money.
Beside him, Gaius nodded his approval. "We leave first thing in the morning."
* * *
On another plane of existence, Nimueh lazed against the stone wall of her prison, glaring at the small bubble of space that had been all she'd known for the last ten years since the revolution. After her fall through the ice, she'd expected to pass on to the next world, her soul given in payment for the power she'd used against the Petrovins. Instead, she'd found herself confined to this place - a dark cave that had no entrance or exit - alone with her thoughts and with no end to her imprisonment in sight.
Her interest perked as the scrying bowl in the middle of the cave glowed to life for the first time. She'd tried on hundreds of occasions over the years to get it to work, but even the power she'd bartered from the Old Religion would not force it to show her the world outside of her prison. Now, the water rippled of its own accord, the image of a young man coming into focus.
Eagerly, Nimueh darted forward, hungry for a glimpse of the world she'd been separated from. Her excitement turned to anger as she easily recognised the face staring back at her.
"The grand duke lives?" she spat, gripping the edges of her stone scrying bowl. The cocky young man grinned in the water's reflection, the same arrogant glint in his eyes as his father. There was no mistaking that face. The face of the boy who had escaped her grasp a decade ago.
She dashed her hand against the water, dispelling the image.
"So, that is why I remain in Limbo," she grimaced. All this time, she'd thought that her exile to this plane was a result of her dying before the Old Ones could collect on their bargain for her soul. Now, things were clearer. She'd died before the curse could be fully carried out - the last of the Petrovin line had not been defeated, and so she clung to existence, stuck between that world and the next until such time that her vengeance could be completed.
Anger burned within her at the knowledge that Velikii Kniaz Arthur had been alive all these years, living without care, while she'd fallen victim to her own curse, suffering the solitude of confinement and the bitter taste of revenge unfulfilled.
The red phial attached to her wrist hummed its agreement, feeding off her anger. She'd set things right. She'd finish what she'd started all those years ago.
After all this time, her hatred of the Petrovins still burned strongly within her, memories of the betrayal she'd suffered at their hands as fresh as if it were yesterday.
Nimueh had always had magic. From the time she'd been born, she'd been able to practice the arts that others learned only from years of study, the gift as natural to her as breathing. Her own mother had been disturbed by the ability, warning her not to reveal it for fear of retribution. She'd called it abnormal - perverse, even - but Nimueh had refused to believe that her magic was something to be feared. While others used their magic to harm, to amass power for themselves and to bring about destruction, she had sought to put her gifts to good use.
Travelling from town to town, she'd made her wages offering remedies to various sicknesses, helping those she could, though she done right by her mother in keeping the truth of her abilities a secret. Magic was still feared by many, and most would not take kindly to the presence of a sorceress.
Still, she could not help but feel that there was a greater purpose to her magic - something more than the life of wandering she'd found herself victim to. When news of Tsarevitch Owain's strange illness made its way to Moscow - an illness no doctor could seem to cure - she'd set out immediately, seeking an audience with the tsar.
They had been cautious, at first, when she insisted on visiting with Owain alone, the room free from all attendants and even the tsar and tsaritsa themselves, but Nimueh had informed them that the healings she’d brought for the ailing heir were far too delicate to be disturbed by the presence of others. Reluctantly, they had agreed to her conditions, and she'd set about working her healings on the young tsarevitch.
The effects of her work were quickly realised. Within a few short days, Owain's colour and strength had begun to return. His illness was a serious one, likely to plague him all his life, but her efforts helped him through the worst of it. Nimueh’d made herself available to the royal family whenever they had need of her. They set her up in a small house near the palace and bid her to travel with them, always on-hand to administer her healings to Owain.
It had been the best time of her life. Finally, she'd found a calling for her gifts. Feeling at home with the royals, she’d found herself confided in by both husband and wife, and treated with awe by the children. She had found a purpose - a family, even, though her status as a commoner was never completely forgotten - and nothing had delighted her more than seeing the pleasure in Igraine and Ector's eyes as they beheld the renewed ruddiness of Owain's cheeks.
She had soon learned how misplaced her trust was.
It had been an otherwise unremarkable visit to Tsarevitch Owain's chambers, the tsaritsa and all attendants once again ushered out of the room, when a wayward maidservant - ill-informed of the healer's request for privacy - had stumbled in through a servant's entrance to find the sorceress placing an enchanted poultice under Owain's pillow.
The cries of fear and suspicion had sounded throughout the palace as she hastened to explain her altruistic notions to a staff of frightened attendants. In her naiveté, she had trusted that the family would understand and excuse her good intentions, but she had been wrong. Tsaritsa Igraine, once her close friend, had rushed to shield young Owain from her, looking upon Nimueh with hatred and fear.
Accusations had swept across the country, as only scandals and witch hunts can. Some said that she had engineered Owain's mysterious sickness in order to indebt herself to the royal family; others insisted that she had bewitched the emperor, or that she sought to bring about the downfall of Imperial Russia from within the court itself.
In a fit of rage, Tsar Ector cast her out of Russia and swore punishment upon any person caught aiding her. Abandoned and exiled from all she knew, she'd wandered the continent, thoughts of revenge brewing deep within her, pain and torment guiding her steps.
Her hatred brought her to the darkest forms of magic, seeking out those she had previously reviled. With only the desire to see her betrayers suffer as she had at the hands of the magic they feared so much, she'd bargained her soul for the power to destroy them.
Now, bound to this half-life by no more than a simple red vial - the symbol of her bargain, and source of her increased power - she knew only that her curse had to be completed. For ten years, she'd been confined to this prison, alone with her thoughts, never knowing what it was that she was waiting for. At long last, she would see the Petrovin line brought to ruin.
With a whispered spell, she brought the image of the grown grand duke back to the surface of the bowl, hatred burning in her eyes.
Arthur Petrovin would die.
Part Four