go your own way (3/4)

[minarchy]

TITLE: go your own way
FANDOM: merlin
PAIRING: merlin/arthur; gwen/lancelot
RATING: nc-17
SPOILERS: season one
WARNINGS: au; graphic imagery (sexual; violent); language; character death(s)
WORD COUNT: ~11,262
DISCLAIMER: merlin belongs to the beeb and shine. anyone you don’t recognise is bastardised from legend or is mine. original concept from steam_pilot’s artwork
SUMMARY: arthur is the excommunicated son of uther pendragon, recently returned to camelot to reclaim what is rightfully his, with merlin as his bodyguard; morgana is his alcoholic sister, gwen the only sane one amongst them, and there are powers moving within camelot that do not welcome their return.
A/N: the characters and their characterisations are only canon-compliant up to season one, with the occasional addition of season two.

one two three four

Gaius was sitting at his desk, writing up his reports of the latest findings of the necromancers (he disapproved of what Uther was doing beneath the mansion, but it wasn't his place to question), when the knock came at his door. He permitted the entrance without really thinking about it, glancing up to see the guard standing there.

"Well?" he asked, slightly irritated when the guard did not explain himself. "What do you want? I haven't got all day, you know."

So he was quite surprised when the guard fell flat on his face, a silver hair ornament buried in the back of his neck.

Morgana stepped over the body, retrieving her hair clip and holding her other hand out to the physician. "Gaius," she said, and the old man just stared at her. "We need to leave."

"What - my child," he spluttered, staring from her to the dead guard. "What is happening here? What are you doing here? If Uther catches you..."

"We won't need to worry about Uther," replied Morgana, absently, and something clicked in Gaius' mind.

"What is Merlin doing, Morgana?" he asked, carefully. Morgana looked at him, very earnestly, as if she needed him to understand something she couldn't say.

"It's not Merlin, Gaius. We really need to leave." There was an edge to Morgana's voice, fear or apprehension, and Gaius wondered exactly how she'd bought the time to come get him.

"Yes," he said, turning back to his desk and gathering his papers. "Yes, of course. I just have to..."

"No." Morgana grabbed his arm as he made to fill his bag. "No, Gaius. We have to leave now."

He looked at the young woman in front of him, saw the tension around her eyes and mouth, saw the desperation and wondered when she became someone who would kill. And then there was no time for thinking as Morgana dragged him through corridors and out of the mansion by some secret way that he had never seen before. And then they were out. Confronted by an army of security.

He heard Morgana swear from beside him, and fumble for her gun and shoot the first man to approach clean through the forehead. Gaius got the vague impression of more gunshots and bodies falling, and then they were surrounded and he was being ripped from Morgana's side. She was screaming, anger and fear mingling, and he wondered absently how many bullets she had left. Not enough.

He found himself on the floor, his head kicked and something wet on his face. It was his blood. There was a high-pitched ringing sound in his ears, and his vision was blackening at the corners. Morgana was screaming his name, and then just screaming, and then there was pure, brilliant golden light filling his vision. Morgana had stopped screaming.

Arthur crept deeper into the mansion, taking the lesser used passages and grateful for the ever stable presence of Lancelot at his back. They had come across a few sentries, which had been dealt with swiftly and silently, but Arthur was still unnerved by the lack of patrols. There should have been more - were more when he was a boy here, and Merlin having been rescued only the other day… Something wasn't right.

What became evident when they passed a window down into the grounds at the back of the house. There was a vertiable army of guards swarming down there, and Arthur could hear Morgana screaming, wild and high. Shit. And then, an explosion of golden light and there was Merlin. His magic was a tangible physical force, swirling out from him and ripping through the guards like water through a crevice. They didn't stand a chance.

Of course, all the commotion was bound to attract attention from the rest of the house, so Arthur dragged himself away from the window and continued on his way.

It was still worrying how few patrols there were in the mansion, even with Merlin slaughtering the vast majority of the force outside. Arthur believed that they would most likely be surrounding Uther at this point; his father may be a complete bastard, but he was not stupid. Arthur had been trained by him, knew how he thought. Uther would know that something was coming. What Arthur was hoping was that Uther would think that it was Merlin. Then at least he would have some form of surprise over his father.

He did not tell Lancelot any of this; not because he didn't trust him, but because he knew that Lancelot would attempt to stop him going through with this, and he needed to do it. He just had to. And Lancelot was too good a friend to get embroiled in this mess any more than he had to.

They entered the inner hallway.

The room was massive, a giant statement to the Pendragons' wealth and prestige, with gilt door frames and bannisters, plush red carpet lining the marble floor and immense ornate wall hangings. The thick oak door frame next to Arthur's face exploded into a million shards as the first sniper's bullet smacked into it, barely an inch from its target. Arthur flinched back, swearing and blinking through the blood; there was no need for secrecy now. They had been spotted. Behind him, he heard the whistling crack of a rifle and a body fell from the upper balcony. Arthur glanced back over his shoulder briefly to see Lancelot steadying and reaiming the long barrel of the gun. They shared a look, a nod. Then Arthur leapt out from cover, the sawn-off blowing the man closest to him back a full foot as he sprinted around the lower balcony.

Arthur slid into place behind a large, oak chest and pulled out the automatic, grateful for the hours he spent playing war games in these very halls as a child. He never thought he would part of the real thing all these years later.

As he slammed the magazine into place and positioned himself, Lancelot sprung into action, leaping out of the doorway and knocking one man over the ballistrade with the butt of the rifle. Arthur took out his pistol and took down two that were coming at Lancelot from behind as the darker man swung himself up onto the upper balcony. Once he was up, Arthur leapt from cover onto the staircase, automatic sweeping a hail a bullets in front of him and cutting down three more men. But these were not the basically trained men that formed the majority of the house security. These were Uther's personal bodyguard, trained men from the darkest and most dangerous walks of life. These were the men who had trained Arthur in self-defence. And they were good. They were better than him, and faced with the (exquisitely choreographed, full of carefully positioned pieces of furniture and designed with defence in mind) room at the bottom of the stairs, behind which his father was no doubt waiting, Arthur knew that he was not going to make it.

That is, until the wall above him disintegrated and Merlin stepped through.

Arthur had no idea what the other man was running on; he was still as pale and frail as before, but his eyes and skin and breath was glowing gold and the necromancers, leaping out from hiding as soon as they realised who had joined the fray, did not stand a chance against his cold magic.

Lancelot was at his side again, and the two men left the magic to Merlin and the necromancers. They dealt out death in blood and bullets, the training of the bodyguards no match for the anger and desperate determination of their opponents. Those remaining fled down the passageways towards Uther's chambers, and Arthur turned towards Merlin.

Now that he had time to study the other man, he noticed that Merlin did not really seem to be present. He was glowing, completely gold, but his personage was slightly translucent. The avatar stepped forward and place one hand on Arthur's shoulder. He felt the pleasant buzz of magic in his muscles and teeth.

I am with you, Arthur, said Merlin's voice, bypassing his ears. I know, he replied, and the avatar smiled, before turning to Lancelot. He had taken a bullet to the chest, and whilst it was not very serious, the avatar and Arthur shared a glance, a thought, before the avatar touched Lancelot’s forehead with one glistening, golden finger and he was gone. The avatar turned to Arthur once more, and smiled, before disappearing himself.

And Arthur was alone in the ruined hallway, facing the open passageway to his father. He took one deep, fortifying breath, and stole into the darkness, like a thief in the night.

The paths to Uther's chambers would fill Arthur with dread when he trod them as a child, and something of the old terror seeped back with this new journey. Arthur crushed it down, scowled into the darkness and wished that he could see, instead of having to traverse the maze from memory.

As suddenly as the thought had bloomed in his mind, Arthur found himself looking at his surroundings as if through a yellow gel; he spun around, checked all the surrounding surfaces, looked for lighting that could have suddenly sprung on. Before a slow smile spread across his face, and he mouthed Merlin's name without really meaning to. Of course. Heartrate steadied at the knowledge - slightly peturbing though it might be - that Merlin was in his head, Arthur continued on his way.

It wasn't much further until he reached Uther's quarters. With Merlin's magic humming in his veins, the journey shortened considerably to what Arthur remembered, with a small logical voice telling him that he had grown considerably since that last visit. He met little resistance, which was unusual. Arthur disposed of the opposition with ease and efficiency (Uther would be proud), and left their wasted carcasses at the side of the corridor. He pushed open the doors.

Uther was sitting with his back to them, poring over something in his lap. The arrogance of the man threatened to disgust Arthur were it not for the sudden pound of his heart and the throb of becarefulbecareful against his thoughts.

"I wondered when you would come." Uther spoke without looking up, without turning around, and Arthur took several careful steps away from the open door. He had no wish to be ambushed from behind. "I did think you'd at least take a few days to recouperate, after our last session." Arthur's blood froze in his veins as he realised Uther was talking about Merlin. The Merlin in his head shied away from the thoughts ricocheting around Arthur's head concerning Uther's statement. "But clearly you just can't stay away. You really are pathetic, sorcerer. I thought you might have had a shred of loyalty to my son, but apparently -"

Arthur shot him, and Uther doubled up on the couch as blood sprayed from his shoulder. Then he turned around, and saw Arthur standing there, pale and livid and trembling slightly, gun aimed at his head. He saw Arthur's finger tighten, whiten, on the trigger, and he threw himself forward, the bullet missing his head by inches.

"I can't believe you'd choose a sorcerer over your own father, Arthur," he said, groping under the couch for the gun box he always kept hidden there.

"You are not my father," replied Arthur, cold and curt, and he took two steps forward and leapt over the couch. Uther was ready for him, knocked him sideways and into the solid oak coffee table. Arthur's head cracked into the corner, and sparks exploded in front of his eyes. He heard a gun cock, and his hand flew up before him, words spitting from his mouth foreign and aching against his jaw. The bullet clattered harmlessly next to him, and Arthur heaved himself upright, blinking away dizziness. Uther was staring at him, and there was hatred in his eyes. Arthur caught sight of himself in the mirror behind the older man, and saw that there was gold in his.

"So." Uther's voice was cold and flat, and Arthur felt a thrill of terror rip up his spine at the tone. "That is how it is."

"Yes," replied Arthur, gun loose by his side. "That is how it is."

Uther's nostrils flared, and he brought the gun up to Arthur's chest. Arthur shot him in the leg, through the artery (posterior tibial, his mind supplied absently) and caused a spurt of blood to slash across Arthur's shirt. Uther collapsed to the floor, and Arthur moved to stand over him. Uther tried to stab him in the leg, but Merlin's magic sang and the blade snapped off at the hilt. Arthur looked coldly down at the man he had once admired and imitated more than any other, and emptied the magazine into his chest, ignoring the blood that flecked his face and clothes.

He wasn't altogether sure how he made it back to the London apartment, but suddenly he was there and Merlin was standing before him, shaking.

"You - you are covered in blood," he said, fingers fumbling at the buttons of Arthur's shirt.

"It's not mine," Arthur said, numbly, and Merlin opened his mouth as if to speak, before merely nodding. Arthur put his hand to Merlin's face, thumb brushing the cheekbone. Merlin pushed his face into Arthur's hand, kissed the bullet-graze at the base of his palm, and Arthur felt something hot and wet roll between his fingers. Merlin stepped closer, trembling hands working at Arthur's shirt as his breath came quick and short. Arthur tried to speak, but Merlin kissed the bruises and grazes that emerged and he found himself quite unable to.

But then Merlin was on his knees and Arthur really did not want it to happen like this. Not tonight. He dropped to his knees so that he and Merlin were face to face, and he saw that Merlin's face was damp with tears and he was biting his lip to stop that trembling like his hands, like the rest of him. Arthur took his face in both hands and kissed him, chaste and gentle and desperate, before wrapping the slighter man in his arms and pulling him flush against his chest. "Merlin," he breathed, pressing his face into dark hair and feeling hot wetness slide down his own cheek. Merlin's breath hitched, and his long fingers reached around to tangle in Arthur's hair and drag his head back, giving Merlin room enough to lock their lips together and slip his tongue in alongside Arthur's. Arthur kissed him back, because how could he not? Especially when Merlin was making tiny little whimpers of need and desperation, which was the most erotic thing that Arthur had ever heard.

Arthur slid his fingers under Merlin's shirt, ghosting over the delicate flesh and feeling bones too close to the surface. Merlin shifted, and the shirt came off ridiculously fast and then Arthur was pushing Merlin backwards onto the carpet, all the time with gentlegentlegentle careful movements, teasing kisses that were really all open mouths and hot breaths than anything substantial. Until Merlin gave a high-pitched whine-growl and wriggled up against Arthur, forcing their mouths together with his hands on either side of Arthur's face, and it was all Arthur could do to not collapse bodily on top of the slighter man. Instead, he rested himself on his forearms on either side of Merlin's chest and made do with ravishing Merlin's mouth as thoroughly as possible; anything to make his make those needy noises again.

Merlin moaned into the kiss, all hot and wet and wanton, and Arthur felt the hairs on his arms stand upright as a thrill of magic ran through the room. He opened his eyes slightly and saw that all the furniture in the room was floating, that they were floating, and that everything had a strange golden tinge to it.

"Merlin," he said, voice as snarky and derogatory as he could manage when Merlin's fingers slipping inside his trousers. "You realise that we are floating."

"Mmhmm," said the other man, eyes half-open and blown wide but the gold of the irises still visible around the edges, fingers deftly undoing Arthur's belt and then his trousers were on the floor. And Merlin's clothes were Godknowswhere, and Arthur found himself quite unable to sound waspish when Merlin rolled his hips like that.

"Fu-uck," Arthur said, breath an exhalation between clenched teeth and eyes screwed shut when Merlin just went boneless against him and gasped, "yes, please," and honestly, that was it. He was so far gone it was ridiculous, but at this point he really didn't care and from the noises Merlin was making as he slid his fingers inside him Arthur was pretty sure Merlin was in no state to comment.

And then he was inside and it was desperate and forceful and tender and effortless and right and neither of them lasted long. And when they hit the floor with a thud and Arthur freaked momentarily about hurting Merlin before the other man merely shifted position against him, Arthur found himself kissing the bruises of the trackmarks that lined Merlin's arms and inhaling the scent of his skin. He swallowed hard against the swirling cacophony of emotions in his chest and wrapped his arms around Merlin, choosing not to question where the blanket had come from as he tucked it around the smaller man.

"Why did you do it, Arthur?" Merlin murmured into the skin of his neck. "Why did you kill him?"

Arthur closed his eyes and pressed his lips to Merlin's temple, listening to his mind screaming because he hurt you, because he took you away from me, because you're mine, and said the line that everyone expected him to say. But that was okay, because he figured that Merlin knew what he really wanted to say. He just wasn't ready to say it yet.

The world was soft and hazy and warm, sleep-filled delirium. Arthur smiled, slightly, just a curve in one corner of his mouth, just a sensation of happiness making its presence known. He did not open his eyes; not yet, not wanting to break the spell of dream-edged reality, not when he could lie here in this warmth that was not all from the bed sheet and be happy.

Merlin was pottering around in the kitchen, Arthur could hear him, could always hear him; Merlin had the effortless ability to be completely silent and make noise at the same time. The trails of Delibes' The Flower Duet floated into the room, and Arthur's smile broadened sleepily, slightly, until he felt air on his teeth. Merlin. Such a girl. Especially when he wandered around the kitchen, carefully, quietly clattering pots and pans and dishes and forgetting that the kettle whistles when its boiled, especially when he hummed along. Arthur knew all the words, could speak French fluently thanks to boarding school and his multitude of foreign nannies. He chose, as he always did, to ignore the way that his mind sings along in his head. A tinkle of breaking china, and Arthur's smile flickered to smug for one moment; if Merlin did not break something before he had opened his eyes, then his day was not complete.

His chest swelled and expanded with a silent, sleepy, contented sigh. He wondered when, exactly, he became so attached to routine.

He hears Merlin enter the room, and suppressed a stupidly fond grin at the sounds of Merlin attempting so very hard to be quiet. The scent of burning flesh met Arthur's nostrils, and his nose wrinkled involuntarily.

"Jesus, Merlin; did you kill the pig yourself, or did someone try to break in again?"

He was joking, of course. Merlin had probably just burnt it in a really strange way. He opened his eyes and looked sideways at his meal, and frowned. It was perfect. In fact, it was probably the best meal Merlin had ever cooked. So, what was that disgusting smell, and where was it coming from? Maybe someone had broken in, after all. There had been that incident last Easter, when a nut job had managed to gain access to the flat somehow, and Merlin had lost his temper. It was not even like the guy was all that much of a threat; but Arthur got the impression that Merlin was more upset with himself for allowing the guy to come so close to Arthur. So he fried him. Literally. The rest of the day he had spent throwing up. But Arthur had not heard any screams (and that sound was not one he was going to forget), and besides, it was more of a rotting smell than anything.

Merlin had his back to him, folding clothes and putting them away. Arthur pushed himself up into a sitting position, appetite lost to the churning in his gut.

"Merlin," he said, slowly, "what's that smell?"

"Smell, Arthur?" Merlin did not turn, continuing to neatly fold and pile Arthur's socks into the chest of drawers. "You mean the fantabulously amazing scent of the breakfast I prepared for you?"

Arthur snorted, his concern giving way to the compulsive need to mock. "Merlin," he says, quite pleased at how condescending he could sound whilst only half-awake, "have you managed break Morgana's china again?" Merlin laughed, and, even though he was facing the opposite wall, Arthur could see the goofy grin he did. The infectious one, that caused Arthur to berate and bark because it melted his soul a little, and Merlin knew it.

"Hey! I fixed it, okay? You'd never know it was broken."

A sudden suspicion bloomed in Arthur's mind, and he squinted at the plate holding his breakfast, trying to spot a hairline crack. Merlin cast an amused look over his shoulder at the blond man, skin almost translucent in the muted light coming through the drapes. The sight sent a stab of concern through Arthur's gut, although he should be used to Merlin's insanely pale skin by now; quickly followed by nausea as a rolling stench of rotting meat assaulted him once again. "Seriously, Merlin, did you leave out some meat, or something? Because that's really bad..."

Merlin turned, face a picture of concern at Arthur's behaviour. "Arthur, I really can't smell anything, at least nothing off - Arthur? Are you okay?"

Arthur was shrinking back against the far side of the headboard, horror reaching across all his features. He was having difficulty breathing, feeling like it was caught somewhere back in his throat, choking him as his head swam and his stomach twisted with nausea. Merlin stepped forward, hand reaching out towards his lover, but Arthur kicked the covers at him, feet scrabbling for purchase against the silk sheets.

"Arthur - Arthur, I don't understand..."

Dangerously close to falling off the bed, Arthur let out a noise akin to a sob, eyes wide and horrified as they stared back at the other man. Merlin's skin was pasty grey around his lips and eyes, translucent so he could see the empty tracery of capillaries beneath. His eyes were bloodshot and glazed; their normally violent shade of blue dulled. His lips were cracked, peeling and broken and blood-smeared; brown-red staining daubed down his chin. His breath stank of decay, and his tongue was black. His throat was cut. Black-brown-red blood was still oozing, purulence-esque, from the jugular, but the rest of the jagged wound, cut like a second mouth three inches below the original, was dry and blue-black, gaping and gasping for air with every word Merlin spoke. The rotting stench was coming from Merlin. Merlin was dead. Merlin was dead, and someone had brought him back.

The former sorcerer continued to advance on the blond man, concern about his odd behaviour caricatured on the corpse's face, and Arthur could not help but put his hand to his own throat. He was surprised - and little scared - to find how much he was shaking. Merlin was dead, and he did not know it. Merlin - what had been Merlin - mimicked Arthur's gesture, his fingers dipping into the wound. In past experience with reanimated corpses, Arthur hoped that this would be one that would die once realising that it should be dead. Merlin - Arthur choked at the thought of life without the gangly sorcerer - would not want to continue on in life as something less than human. But maybe he had not realised he was dead, and his magic was animating his body; but his magic stemmed from nature, and this concept was abhorrent to nature, so...

What used to be Merlin pulled its fingers out of the wound, and looked in vague astonishment at the black-brown blood, thick as caramel, covering them. Heart twisting and pounding (and oh God, how do I live without him?), Arthur watched as it examined them, and dared to hope. Until it laughed Merlin's light-hearted, carefree laugh - the one that sounded like the wind in the mountains on a clear spring morning, the one that caused the sun to shine a little brighter - and wiped its fingers on Merlin's trousers.

"I seem to have managed to cut myself, Arthur," it said with Merlin's voice, sounding innocent and amused and slightly embarrassed all at the same time. Arthur's heart stopped beating. It tilted Merlin's head in a way that would be inviting, and Merlin's half smile graced its lips. Arthur thought he was going to be sick. "Kiss it better?" it asked, stepping closer and climbing onto the bed. Arthur backed away, unable to think of what he should so, regretting his sensuous but defenceless habit of sleeping naked. He fell backwards off the bed; his head snapped back against the hard stone floor. Pain exploded through his skull, and he could not focus. Not that it mattered too much, because he could not see any light source and was in almost complete darkness. He tried to raise his hands to his aching head, to check if the wetness he felt there was blood or tears - he'd had worse knocks, far worse, but he need to regain some sense of normalcy, and the pressure of his hands on his skull would at least let him know he was real - but they would not come up farther than halfway. There was pressure on his wrists, and he could not feel the floor bite them when he let them fall. He was chained.

Hand and foot, leaving him very little room for manoeuvre. But he suspected that was intentional.

He could not think straight. He mind was throbbing and it felt like someone had thrown up in his mouth. As some of his senses began to return the first thing he realised was the cold. It was sheet, bitterly cold, despite his cell being shielded from the elements, or else it was an uncommonly clear and calm night. He could not feel his fingers or his nose, and he was pretty sure that he had frost bite in all exposed areas of his body. The pain that jolted through him when he tried to move his feet stabbed at his fogged mind, sharpened it; he was grateful only for a few moments, however, as his newly-awakened mind could finally register the smell of his cell.

It stank. He stank. Everywhere, the stench of filth pressed against him. He moved, rolled his face to one side in a vain, futile attempt to avoid the smell; even with the cold dampening it, it was still almost too much to bear. He moved, shackles clanking, and realised the cause of the smell. It was him. Arthur Pendragon was lying in a small, dark, dank cell, chained in his own filth and faeces. And no one was coming to rescue him.

The door, somewhere, creaked open, but Arthur could not see it. Either his sight was more badly affected than he had thought, or the room behind was dark as well. He heard footsteps, felt a presence in front of his face. A voice permeated his sluggish brain.

"Open your eyes, Pendragon." Open his eyes? Surely they were already open - that was obvious, as he had surveyed his surroundings. "Pendragon! Open your eyes!" The voice was female, smooth as silk but currently harsh-edged in anger and impatience. Arthur tried to place the voice, tried to speak, to tell her that his eyes were open, and maybe it there was more light in this damned place she'd be able to see that; but he found he could no more speak than he could see. His mouth felt as if his was chained closed; he struggled against the sensation, tried to force a sound from his throat, only to be forced to stop by the sudden thrust of water, colder than the air, over his face. He could feel it freezing on his skin, expanding the cracks in his lips, clotting his eyelashes like blood, settling in the nooks of his face and torso. It crackled when he breathed.

She did not touch him; this confused Arthur somewhat. Surely, if she wanted him to obey her so badly, then she would slap him, or kick him, or something. There was another person in the cell, now. Arthur could sense him, a bitter taste on the underside of his tongue. He feared him, instinctively.

"You're wasting your time." The boy's - teenager's - voice was light and sing-song and as liquid honey, rippling over Arthur's skin with a sensation of warm, soft hands, and despite the acerbic fear clenching his stomach and scalding his throat he felt drawn to that voice. There was something achingly familiar about it, and something deep and primal and unknown in him yearned for it. "He won't answer to you." The woman spat something at the boy that Arthur did not understand - Gaelic, perhaps - before he felt warm breath scald his cheek, melt the ice encrusted there. "It's time to open your eyes, Arthur," he murmured, his voice all sweet seduction and innocence combined, and Arthur responded instantly, Pavlovian. He opened his eyes, and blinked against the harsh whiteness of the sky above him.

He sat up, slowly, feeling the back of his head and grimacing at the flight of stairs he was lying at the bottom of. One hell of a fall, he thought, wincing as he tenderly felt the pre-swelling on his head where he had cracked it against the stone. Carefully, taking his time, well aware of the effects a nasty knock can have, he got to his feet and looked around him.

The sky was white with clouds, grey at the edges, and the wind was whipping up the waves as it streaked towards the island. Arthur drew his woollen coat closer around him, shoulders hunching forwards against the cold as it sought out his flesh through the fibres of his clothes, nipping tiny, ice teeth against his skin. His coat and trousers flapped out behind him as he watched the waves crash into the rocks in front and below him, hurling themselves into oblivion without a backwards glance. He could understand Gwen's love of the sea, with all its wild fury and gentle caresses. It chilled his fingers and flesh and bones, and brought a giddy buzz to his thoughts, thundered its beauty and ferity in his heartbeat.

Reluctantly, and not without difficulty, he dragged his gaze away from the grey, foam-topped giants and turned towards the staircase. He began to climb the rough-hewn, stone steps, keeping one eye on his footing; the sea spray washed these steps, making them slippery and treacherous to the unwary.

It was a long, twisting climb, and Arthur felt the cold as a cooling touch against the sweat on his back as he reached the summit; the stairs switch-backed up the rock face to its destination, some parts becoming completely exposed to the open sky. It was on one of these, Arthur supposed, that he had slipped and fallen; certainly the footing was bad enough. The steps, whilst clearly a work of great undertaking and craftsmanship, where not hewn level at many points, making the open points even more dangerous. It was clearly easy enough for even someone like Arthur to fall at one of these points; what confused him was a nagging sensation of something missing or forgotten, the fleeting idea forming that surely, someone should have leapt down the steps after him.

This teasing at the back of his mind caused his concentration to slip, momentarily, but he recovered himself with a sudden thumping of his heart, and continued still more carefully on his way up the rock face.

Reaching the peak, he stepped out onto a wide, flat surface, scarred and scored and cross-hatched to aid with grip; Arthur wondered why this surface was so affected, whilst the more dangerous stairs were left slip-smooth. He walked forward, squinting around him, and then back at the stairs behind him. There was nothing atop the rock; so why had anyone bothered to carve the steps out in order to reach it?

"Arthur," said a voice, startling him.

There was someone else up there with him; and small, slight, dark-skinned girl, her unruly hair coming free from its pinning as the wind ravaged it. He recognised her, clutched desperately at the name that fluttered free: "Gwen?"

"Arthur," she said, not stepping nearer to him, not stepping away from the edge of the flat space. "You -"

"Fell," he said, interrupting her, "yes; Gwen, what is the point of this place?"

"It is -" she paused, kept her gaze on Arthur; it was a look he recognised, a careful, worried look, like she was not certain whether he would pounce - "a place of refuge," she said, eventually.

"Refuge?" Arthur repeated, looking around at the barren sky above them and the tempestuous sea below. "From what? There's nothing here."

"Arthur," she said again, still not stepping away from the edge, still not taking her careful gaze from him, "you -"

"Fell, yes, Gwen, thank you for caring, but -"

"Look below," she said, interrupting him. He stared at her, uncomprehending. She gave no more explanation, and with an exasperated exhalation he swung around and marched back to the edge (although as he neared it his march became more of a careful picking of the safest path). He leaned over, praying the wind did not unbalance him; he would not survive a fall from this height.

"What, exactly, am I supposed to be -" he stopped. His heart stopped, his breath died in his throat. Below, on the distant floor of the island, was Morgana. Her body was broken, twisted by the fall; there was dark staining running through rivulets towards the sea, where the waves took it and cast it deep below the surface.

"You fell, Arthur," came Gwen's voice from behind him, and now she sounded desperate and not a little afraid. "You fell, like Morgana. You fell. You should not..."

"I -" Arthur forced down the vomit rising in his throat, the tears drying his eyes, "I guess the universe isn't done with me yet."

"No." Gwen's voice was wrecked, ripped from her like a sob, and he turned in astonishment to see her still standing on the edge. "It needs - Arthur, the refuge - sacrifice..."

His mind filled in the blanks in her broken sentences. He noticed again how close she was to the edge, and recalled his early fear. He would not survive a fall.

"Gwen," he said, worried and placating at the same time, "Gwen, come here." He was crossing towards her as he spoke, not moving too quickly but gliding across the surface as you would towards a frightened animal.

"Arthur," she said again, and darted towards him. Relief exploded in his chest, to be replaced by confusion and she kissed him, quickly and roughly. "Don't forget me," she whispered, breath warm against his face. She leant backwards, and Arthur reached out to grab her with a shout that the wind snatched and whirled away as Gwen fell, body slamming into the rocks and slipping into the sea. Arthur choked, breath stolen by the wind. He stared below, body swaying as the wind buffeted him, cuffed him and tried to make him go over.

"Arthur," said a voice from behind him. He turned, slowly, his boots slipping against the stone, despite the grip etched into it. Seeing who had spoken, he almost took a step back, a step off the edge.

Blood ran through the cross-hatching towards him, running in tiny streams across the stone. The trail began at the top of the steps, and undoubtedly ran all the way down it as well. Morgana lay there, head at an unnatural angle, too many joints in her arms, bleeding from her eyes and nose and mouth. Her lips parted, and his name fell from them again, voice as sweet and soft as it ever was and a complete paradox to come from such a broken face.

"Morgana," he replied, voice shattered and stuttering and broken. His foot twitched, trying to back away.

Morgana's broken, bloodied, snow-white arms reached forwards, fingertips finding grip on the stone and pulling her forward, towards Arthur. His mind screamed at him to run, run, get away - but he was frozen. He was terrified. His heart was aching.

"You forgot me, " she said, dragging her twisted, mangled body across the space. "Don't forget me."

"No," he gasped, and stepped backwards. The wind took him, whipping him out and down, smashing his body into the ice-cold of the sea below. Water closed over his head, the shock forcing his breath out of him. Automatically, his head jerked upwards, and he heard the clatter of his manacles as his muscles tensed with all-consuming shivers that racked through him.

"You will answer me." The woman's voice sifted through his frozen brain, and he realised she was standing next to him again. "I don't care what he says." This last said closer to his ear, vicious and hissed. "I'm not his lackey. I am -"

"Having fun?" Again, with the strange sensation of relief and exhaustion that accompanied hearing that voice, even now, spoken with danger lacing every syllable; he sank down, wrapped up in it, welcoming the oblivion that beckoned. Distantly, he heard the woman's voice, sharp and angry, and the boy's, smooth and dark as chocolate; they were arguing. This information did not please him as much as it should have done; his captors were falling out, which should make it easier for him to escape. But he could not summon the energy to care. He let himself slip further into the blackness.

He opened his eyes, and felt his lungs burning. He gasped out, watched his breath escape in a flurry of bubbles, and forced his eyes closed against the stinging sea water.

There was light in the room, now, bright and brilliant and shining and not a little terrifying. He heard the woman hiss and spit like a cat when caught and cornered and afraid; he heard the boy speak, and his ears craned to catch the words that fell like fresh-fallen dew.

"Hello, brother," he said, voice soft and sultry and full of something Arthur could not place.

The light grew, crackled, changed. "I am not your brother," it replied, and Arthur found himself torn between their voices. The boy's was so gentle and intoxicating, whilst the light's was fraught and angry and harsh; but the light's contained something that caused Arthur's spirit to lift, slightly. And there was something in both of them, something that trickled into his blood and warmed him against the all-encompassing darkness.

"But we are the same," replied the boy, voice coy now. "Come, Emrys, you cannot tell me you haven't felt it too."

"Leave," said the light, the air burning like ozone; Arthur felt his breath crackling in his throat. "Now."

He heard the woman leave, but the boy spoke again. His voice was liquid laughter. "You cannot beat me, Emrys. I am more powerful. I always have been."

"You don't want to try that theory, boy," the light spat, the ozone scent coming even more strongly now, derision laden onto the last word. Even though it was not directed at him, Arthur felt himself flinch away from it.

"No," said the boy, voice thoughtful rather than afraid. "Not yet." And then he was gone, and the light was wrapping itself around Arthur, lifting him up and up into the morning sky.

There was nothing more Merlin could do.

When he had made it back to Winchester with Arthur, limp and lifeless, in his arms, the first thing Lancelot had done was reach for the phone for Gaius. And then remembered that Gaius was dead. Gwen, noticing Lancelot's sudden lack of function as the knowledge that there was no one they could call to help Arthur sank in, stepped in quickly to help Merlin carry the blond man into the bedroom, where she wrapped him swiftly and securely in blankets and shooed Merlin out of her way as she made up every hot water bottle and substitute thereof she could find.

Merlin hovered helplessly as Gwen scurried back and forth from the bathroom and kitchen; she snapped Lancelot out of his frozen state and set him to work helping, but Merlin she had pushed gently out of her way.

"Merlin, please. Let us do this. Get some rest."

But he could not rest. He could do nothing but stand near the doorway into the room that he and Arthur shared as the girls bustled in and out, barely speaking; he was a bundle of nervous energy, panic lurking just on the edges of his consciousness and damn, he could not remember when he had last slept. Ever since he had discovered that Arthur was gone, that Arthur had not come home after they had that stupid fight (Arthur was everything, will always be everything, nothing he should say should affect that. Why could not Arthur see that? Why did he have to bring that up?), it was all Merlin could do to keep himself in a semblance of control. But then, in the beginning, he had had a clear goal, a clear set of priorities and something to do, Goddamnit. Towards the end of his search, of course, he had become angry and terrified and desperate because Arthur had just dropped off the edge of the Earth; but then he had found him, and everything was going to be okay.

"Everything is going to be okay, Merlin." It was Gwen. She was standing next to him, her hand on his arm, her eyes shining with tears mirroring his own. "He's going to be fine."

He stared at her, wild-eyed, before blinking and turning away slightly, just so her hand fell from his arm as he knocked the tears from his eyes and pinched his nose, running his hand down his face and giving her what he hoped was a convincing grin. "Yeah. Yeah, 'course he is."

"'Cause this is Arthur we're talking about, remember?" Gwen's lips twitched slightly in the corners; an almost smile. "The most stubborn man in the universe? And besides," she added, wrapping her arms around his neck and speaking soft and low into his ear, "I've never known him to walk away from someone he loves."

Merlin let her squeeze him, once, before backing away with a quiet, "thank you" that, if anything, broke Gwen's heart more than the hopelessness and anguish written across his face. She nodded, once, and turned back to the bedroom. Merlin, alone in the living room, gripped the wall with one hand and bent double as he tried to hold in the huge, throbbing, sobbing screams that were welling up in his chest; he could not go in to see Arthur. He left the house.

He knew what he must look like to passers-by: a tall, pale, thin man, with an angular face and too-big ears, he got strange looks sometimes anyway; but now he was drawn and shaking and his eyes were like bruises in his face. The sky above him boiled and rumbled with thunder and lightning exploded across the sky, before immediately twisting itself out and fading and then slamming together again with a sound like cannon fire. The wind whirled around him, ripping at his exposed hands and fingers and face, whistling through gaps in bricks and creating mini tornadoes in the gutter. Rain fell, blanketing everything and soaking to the bone at the first touch; great sheets of rain that fell like the ocean tumbling out of the sky. Where it touched Merlin it steamed, giving him a strange halo. People stepped around him like he was plague-ridden, and no one wanted to look at him.

"You could be a little more conspicuous, you know; but ten out of ten for effort."

He looked left, up. Sitting on a wall dividing a carpark from the street was a girl about his age - she was soaked through, and looked ridiculously happy at the fact, although her cigarette where it dangled from her fingers was bone dry. He stopped, frowned, and summoned up a name.

"Maeve."

"Xanthe," she replied, and he took a moment to realise that she was correcting him.

"Sorry," he said, numbly and monotone, more out of habit than anything. She shrugged.

"Yeah, well. We are twins." Xanthe swung herself forward and off the wall, landing neatly besides him. Fag between her lips, she looked up at the tumultuous sky as she took a drag, before looking sideways at Merlin with a slight grin. "So, all this isn't just to get my attention?" She waved a hand, indicating the wild storm that surrounded them. "Honestly, Merlin; I don't know whether to be offended or relieved."

"This?" Merlin looked around at the weather as if noticing it for the first time. "I'm - I'm not doing this."

Xanthe rolled her eyes. "Yes, you are. Because I'm not. And there's no one else anywhere near here with the juice to - and before you say anything, this storm is not natural. I've been around long enough, kid."

Merlin's forehead creased between his eyebrows as his brain processed the information. "Oh. Sorry. Um-" he looked upwards, and tried to stop the storm. Nothing happened.

"Merlin," said Xanthe, with such fond exasperation that reminded Merlin of Arthur and Morgana. His heart ached. "You're an elemental sorcerer. Your magic stems from nature. So, nature reacts to you. Which means that there's something really funky going on inside that head of yourn, else we wouldn't be having this weather." She cocked her head to one side, smoke falling from between her lips; curiosity. "Kid..."

"Arthur won't wake up." The words tumbled from him in a rush, as if the faster he said them the less they would hurt. "He won't wake up, and there's nothing I can do."

Xanthe's lips pursed, every-so-slightly. "I can't help," she said, sternly, firmly. "I'm neutral, remember? I don't interfere." Merlin looked at her, expression disbelieving and sardonic. She grinned. "Okay. So, there was that one time." Merlin's expression did not change, and Xanthe rolled her eyes. "Shut up. Okay, fine. I'll see what I can do."

"I didn't come here for that," he said, grateful nonetheless.

"I know." Xanthe shrugged, a loose rolling of the shoulders that he had never seen on anyone else. "But I figure I still owe you for that thing with the guy - so now we're even. 'Kay?"

He nodded, a single motion of the head. The wind had stopped. He had not noticed.

She hesitated, and then said, "Merlin. Ector - it wasn't him that took Arthur."

"I know," he said, looking at her. It seemed like she was fighting to get the words out; like some greater influence was holding her back. "He was there." Merlin did not say who "he" was. He did not need to.

"It's just -" she stopped, choked and glared at the sky. "Damnit - Kilgharrah - remember the first time you let him go."

"I remember," he replied, looking at her strangely. Xanthe was more than half-faerie; more a natural magical being than he was; what could bind her tongue so? "But he's bound anew - fuck, Xan, you've got me speaking like him, now." She grinned, though it was weak and loose, with only a spark of her usual mischief behind it. Something was worrying her, and she was trying not to show it. Which meant that it was bad. "Xan, I'm sorry about Maeve."

She shrugged again, lighting a new cigarette with a snap of her fingers (the tip glowed scarlet, casting her face into shadow and light against her hair, and Merlin thought he caught a glimpse of her true nature behind her eyes). "It was a long time ago. Immortality's like that." He nodded, face as closed as hers, and as he turned to go all he saw for a moment was a young woman, standing in the rain with a cigarette between her fingers, staring at the sky. She looked small, and scared, and cold. Then she caught his eye, and blew smoke at him. "Go home, little sorcerer! Your king awaits you."

"Where the fuck have you been?"

Merlin almost flinched - Gwen never swore - even though he knew she was only angry because she had been worried. Lancelot lurked in the entrance to the kitchen, glancing from Gwen to Merlin, a cup of tea in each hand.

Not looking at her, Merlin stepped into the living room, dripping, his clothes and hair and skin remembering that they were meant to be wet on the last five minutes before reaching the house. "I went to see Xanthe."

Gwen's eyebrow's shot up into her hair; Lancelot retreated further into the kitchen. "I've been worried sick, your - the man you love is lying in that room - and you've been off gallivanting with faerie queens? That is too rich, Merlin."

He met her gaze, now, exhausted and not wanting to fight. "She isn't a faerie queen, Gwen," he said, voice tired and monotone.

"That's not the point, Merlin..."

"Who's Xanthe?" asked Lancelot suddenly from the kitchen. Gwen half-turned, answering his question with a dismissive flick of her wrist.

"A friend of Morgana's."

Merlin twitched an eyebrow. "Morgana's?"

"Yeah," said Gwen, defensively. "What -"

"Nothing," he interrupted, quickly, and his gaze slid towards the bedroom door. "How - how is he?"

Gwen's anger melted. She could never be mad for long, anyway, and the fond expression she now held was one Merlin always saw whenever she thought he and Arthur were being sweet (something Arthur vehemently denied ever happening, but which Merlin found quite amusing). "He woke up just before you got here." She opened the door to the bedroom, saying before Merlin entered, "we haven't been in to see him yet. We thought you'd want to be the first one."

Merlin gave a fleeting, grateful smile before slipping into the darkened room. Arthur was lying in the bed against the far wall, swathed and swaddled in blankets. Merlin grinned, slightly, at the thought of Gwen wrapping him in every sheet they owned; looking down at Arthur (who, despite was Gwen had said, had his eyes closed; but he had no reason to believe that Xanthe would fail him), he noted the blue-greyness that surrounded his lips and eyes, but he did not have a temperature and his body was warming rapidly, but not uncontrollably. As far as he could tell, Arthur was going to be fine, and that melted the edges of the huge dark hole in his chest, just a little.

He was tempted to not wake Arthur up, but he resisted the impulse. "Arthur," he said, quietly, and watched with relief blooming in his stomach as the blond man's eyes flickered open and focussed on him. "Hey," he said, grinning uncontrollably and hoping desperately that he was not going to cry. "How are you feeling?"

"Cold," Arthur replied, watching Merlin with a slightly - confused? It must be the state of half-consciousness that Merlin had found him in - expression. "But, warmer. Warming up. Um -"

"Do you know who took you?" Merlin interrupted, checking Arthur's pulse and temperature despite himself. "What he wanted? How long you were there?"

"Uh - no. No, wait - Ector? Something about Ector..." Arthur frowned, staring at the ceiling, obviously trying to remember. "I dunno. What he wanted, or how long I was there - wherever. Look, are you the doctor? Sorry if you've been in before, but I was asleep for days, see, and -"

Merlin stared at him, uncomprehending, and at that moment Gwen bustled in with more tea. She clearly felt they had had long enough together to have done the 'whole macho-tears-thing'. "I thought you two might like some tea, especially as you'll probably be in here for some..."

"Gwen," interrupted Arthur, loudly. "Gwen, is this the doctor? He won't tell me who he is."

Gwen almost dropped the tray. "What? A-Arthur, this is Merlin. Merlin." Arthur raised his eyebrows and tilted his head slightly, clearly the name meant nothing to him. "You - you don't remember Merlin?"

"Come off it, Gwen. Seriously - it's bad enough that my name's Arthur, let alone that I'd have a - friend" (he glanced at Merlin, unsure, and Merlin felt his whole world fall away from beneath his feet) "- called Merlin. That is a bit rich, you've got to admit."

Merlin stared at him. Gwen looked from Arthur to Merlin, confused and afraid, and Merlin spun on his heel and slammed, fell, out of the room. Lancelot was on the other side, tried to ask what was wrong as Merlin gasped out, "Xan." And then roared at the ceiling, "Xan!" Lancelot grabbed hold of his upper arms, holding him back from smashing the house - not that a mere display of force could stop Merlin if he wanted to wreck everything.

"Merlin! What happened?"

Merlin sagged forward, the ache in his chest constricting his breathing. "He - he doesn't remember me. He doesn't remember."

"What?" Lancelot was confused, worried, and Gwen came out of the bedroom looking close to tears as Merlin grabbed Lancelot around the shoulders and yelled in his face, his heart breaking into a thousand tiny pieces, "he doesn't remember me! Why the fuck does he remember you" he glared at Gwen, who could not speak, her heart was in her mouth, "and not remember me?!"

"Don't you turn on Gwen -" Lancelot began, hotly, before the air changed.

"You cannot be blaming me for this!"

Gwen almost had a heart attack; Merlin thrust Lancelot away and wheeled to face Xanthe, who had appeared the in the middle of the living room, wet and white and angry and scared. "He doesn't remember me!"

"I got that the first time you screamed it at me, thanks," Xanthe yelled back, sarcastic anger loading every syllable (Gwen noticed her hands shaking, wondered who she was and why she seemed so close to tears). "But that's not my fault."

"How is it not your fault?!" Merlin roared. "Of course it's your fault. Who the fuck else could it be?"

"Did you maybe consider that he wasn't supposed to wake up?" Xanthe replied, lightning and solar flares dancing at her fingertips. "That maybe you were wrong? But of course not, you're Merlin-fucking-Emrys, the boy who lives forever, you can never be wrong."

"Don't take that tone with me!" Merlin's voice changed, got deeper, echoed in the sky and in the pit of Lancelot's stomach. "He's Arthur-fucking-Pendragon. He's supposed to wake up! You go on and on about the fucking balance, and he's the fucking scales, Goddamnit! Without Arthur, there is no balance!"

"You think I don't know that?" Xanthe's bodily was flickering around the edges, her shadow warping to become a million different things, most of which terrifying and unrecognisable. "I've seen things that could curl even your fucking hair, boy. Did you maybe think that Arthur was supposed to wake up on his own? But no, as soon as Merlin Emrys can't do something, it's got to be fucking awful, so he goes running for help, running to me, and as soon as something goes wrong then of course it's all my fault."

"If you're so fucking perfect, fucking powerful, then get in there and put it right. Make him fucking remember! You said yourself, something is coming, and -"

"I. Never. Said. That." Xanthe's voice was flat, but Gwen heard - so faint she could have imagined it - a tremor, a thrill, beneath the surface.

Merlin waved a hand, impatient, exasperated. "I heard you think it, whatever..."

"Stay out of my head, witch-boy." Xanthe's words rumbled around the room, and fire and light and pure, pitch darkness crackled from her lips.

"Make him remember." Merlin's voice was flat and angry and his eyes were like twin coals burning bright and furious in his face.

Xanthe stared at the sorcerer, and even Lancelot could see something break behind her eyes. "Some things I cannot fix," she said, and her voice was small and sad and lost and yearning and desperate and then she was gone, and Merlin was left standing in the middle of the room, shocking slamming into his eyes and making them water. All the mirrors in the house shattered.

"No," he said, disbelieving, defiant. "No! There's got to be something!" He stared around the living room, seeing nothing, chest heaving and cheeks wet, before charging out of the house like a man possessed.

When he was gone and the static had gone from the air, Lancelot looked at Gwen. "Morgana's?" he said.

Gwen stared back at him, and he registered everything he was feeling within them. "I didn't know," she whispered turning to look at the door which was bouncing off its hinges, buffeted by the wind that whipped up around the house. The storm was back. "I - I didn't know."

Merlin was drenched. His body seemed to remember, eventually, that rain was supposed to make one wet, and soon after that realisation he was as wet as the huddled figures that scurried past him to their various destinations. He did not know where they were going, even if he cared; it was a strange sensation, hearing Xanthe's thoughts as he had. He attributed it to them being so Goddamn loud.

He knew, now, that the weather was his fault. It was due to him that the cars that drove past him had their wipers on full and were plowing bow waves down the road, were dangerously close to hydroplaning. He could not bring himself to care. Could not bring himself to think of anything outside of this gaping hole in his chest that was swallowing everything around it, eating away at him, like a black hole.

There was something wrong with his heart; it was as if he had lost it, somewhere, and it was swirling in a drain cover, buffeted by the torrents falling from the sky. But he still ached, furiously and horrifically, in the space where his heart had been. He wondered if, maybe, he had actually removed it, in a vain attempt to quell the throbbing that was tearing at his soul, and found himself glancing down at his chest to see if there was a bloody wound seeping through his shirt.

There was not. He was not sure whether he was glad or sad.

Xanthe had been his last resort. That was her point, her purpose, in his life at least; he was not aware what the true reason for her existence was. She was as against the fabric of reality as he was, but both of them still walked the earth, whole and hearty, for the most part. It was not her oddity that singled her out as the final place he would go to, for that would be arrogant and hypocritical; rather the fact that she was not entirely to be trusted. Her magic, powerful though she may be, was not as constant and under control as his. Her magic was more her than she was, much of the time.

And, to be fully correct, Xanthe was not precisely the last place that he could find help; more, she was the last person that he was willing to go to. There were other places, other people, who could help him. Xanthe may be the single most powerful entity in the known world, but she obeyed the universal laws. There were others that did not.

It was to these that Merlin would go, now. The world go could hang, because he no longer wanted a part of it.

He found himself in Maeve’s prison without even realising it.

"Xan would not approve of you being here, Merlin," she said, remaining against the far wall, shrouded in darkness. She seemed to pull it around herself, as a barrier against - what? Merlin? The light? Then Merlin looked down, and saw that they were one and the same - and he could not see her face.

"I don’t care," he spat, not moving from his position. It would be all too easy to find himself bound down here with her, and he had too much to do. "She’s already failed me."

"You should listen to her, Merlin," she said. "She knows what she’s talking about."

"What, that Arthur shouldn’t have woken up? That I should have just left him sleeping? Until what - England needs him again? Fuck off."

"It wouldn’t be the first time."

"Are you going to help?" He was irritated now, using the anger to shore up against the exhaustion.

"You want me to help restore a mind?" There was an edge of humour to her voice now, and Merlin was struck at how much she sounded like Xanthe. Yes, they were twins, but still. It was uncanny. And unnerving. "How ironic. And foolish." The last word struck him like a whip. "And arrogant, little sorceror; I do not hold you in the same affection as my sister. She is young, and weak, and has a thing for the curiously designed."

"You’re twins," he pointed out, already with half of his mind slipping into his magic, ready to protect himself should Maeve become angry.

"She is the younger," Maeve said. "Can you not tell?"

"So you won’t help, then," he said, resigned.

"No." She did not sound sorry. It was a statement of fact. "The fabric of reality is mine to play with, Merlin, but this is something I shall not meddle with. Go find a greater fool to shatter the causality you have created."

Merlin found himself back on the street again, with no recollection of how he appeared there. He had the nagging feeling that Maeve had cast him from her prison; but if she could do that, then surely she would, herself, be able to leave. He considered the idea that Maeve had imposed imprisonment upon herself, as a protection for those around her. It would make more sense if it was protection for herself, but Merlin was reasonably sure that she did not understand the concept of ‘danger’ any more.

One down. He had others he could go to, each with greater reluctance than the last.

Gwen was lamenting that they were not in any position to seek out the origins of Arthur and Merlin’s relationship; the world was still surging around them, and they were held within the Winchester house. Still, she tried to find the epicentre of the wards that Merlin had placed into the house, as if exposing Arthur to the magic would jog his memory.

Arthur sat within the pantry, where the stones were kept warm with the supernatural resonance. He was concentrating, that much Gwen could tell; after all, it was clear that Merlin had been pretty much his entire life, and the lack of him within Arthur’s memory explained a lot of the fuzziness surrounding other important events in his life.

"Gwen?" he called, and she leant further through the doorway, looking down at him. "Who was that woman who was here earlier? I heard yelling."

"Uh -" Gwen glanced backwards, over her shoulder at Lancelot, who shrugged. "That was Xanthe. A friend of Morgana’s." She thought about this, about the encounter that had lead Merlin to slam out of the house and not return. "And Merlin’s, possibly. Although ‘friend’ might not be the best word."

Arthur nodded, frowned at the floor, and put his head in his hands. Gwen recognised the gesture, and padded over to sit next to him. "I can’t get anything," he growled. "If he was so important to me, why can’t I remember him? Not even a little? All this," he waved an arm, encompassing the walls that flickered and pulsed with magic, "it’s all alien to me."

She put an arm around his shoulder, firmly, knowing that in all likelihood he was shake her off in a decidedly machismo fashion; she felt him stiffen, but then he resigned himself to the futility of ignoring her attempts to care, and put his head on her shoulder. She blew sandy hair from her face. "I know," she said, gently. "But we’ll fix it. If you want." Because that was important, she was sure. Arthur had to want to remember Merlin, or else this entire exercise of futile. "Do - do you want? To remember him, that is?"

"I -" Gwen felt Arthur’s forehead wrinkle in a frown. "I guess. Yeah. But I don’t know what it is to remember him. But there’s lots of stuff that’s blurred - ‘cos he’s not in them, I guess. And I want that back."

Gwen leant her head against him. "You loved him, you know," she said. "Even if you never told him."