go your own way (2/4)

[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: ~11,040
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

Resting in a megalithic stone chair sat a giant. Not a man of giants’ blood, like Retho had been, but an actual giant. He was well over thirty feet tall, the ceiling of the hall within arms reach should he stretch them above his head. His face was large and craggy, like a rock face, and his hair was thick and dark and slightly green, as if moss had sprouted there. He leant forward, leaning on one massive forearm, and peered down at her. Morgana straightened her back and tilted her head up to meet his eyes. They were comparatively small in his head, and bright beetle-black. They watched her with intense curiosity, like a magpie or a crow might watch a woodlouse. Morgana bit down on her tongue to prevent herself from breaking down and fleeing. She was here for Gwen. And she was not leaving without her.

"Do you know who I am, girl?" he asked, voice pounding into her like a physical force. Morgana shook her head. "Garlon!" he boomed in the direction of the door, and Morgana heard the voice of the knight slide back to her.

"He is Tarquin, known also as Turkin, guarder of the realm of the Fey."

"Tarquin," Morgana whispered, looking up at the giant. She understood, now, why Garlon was here, and why they had seemed to travel so deep against all the laws of sense. She raised her voice, praying that it did not tremble. "I have come for Guinevere, who was stolen from me."

"Why do you think that she is hear?" asked Tarquin, voice rich with amusement.

"Firstly, because we have scried, and found her here. Secondly, because Garlon brought me here."

Tarquin smiled; his teeth were jagged and black. "Well reasoned, little witch. But look around," he swept his massive arms around the hall. "Can you see her anywhere?"

Morgana did not look, but continued stubbornly to watch Tarquin. "I know you have her," she replied. "Magic does not lie."

"No," said Tarquin, rubbing his chin with one giant hand, as if musing the point. "That it doesn’t. Very well, little child. I will tell you where your - Guinevere - is." Tarquin stood up, and Morgana stumbled back a few paces as he gripped the sides of his chair and dragged it along the wall. "There," he said, pointing at the infinitely smaller archway that was now revealed. "That is where your friend is."

"In there?" asked Morgana. She could sense the strange, alien magic that surrounded that doorway; it ached in her teeth. The inky blackness that waited just behind the arch oozed wrongness, and she took a further involuntary step backwards.

"Yes," said Tarquin. "In there. The realm of the Fey."

Nose twitching in vague annoyance, Merlin awoke, eyes slitted against the light above him.

He was lying, mostly submerged, in the bath; as his eyes adjusted slightly, he saw that Arthur was bending over the side, dangling his dripping fingers over Merlin’s face. It had been this inconsistent fall of water onto his face that had woken him. He noticed that Arthur must have turned the shower off at some point - probably to stop him drowning as the water level got too high. He got the impression that someone must have done this everyday since he got sick; he had developed a worrying habit of falling asleep in the tub, with the shower still on and the bath plugged.

Still, that did not qualify Arthur to wake him by dripping water on his face. Or to clambour in so that he was kneeling around him.

"Christ, Merlin! This water’s fucking freezing!" Merlin raised an eyebrow. The water warmed around them.

"Happy now?"

"No," said Arthur, petulantly, leaning down to kiss him. "You stole my thunder." Merlin laughed into the kiss, before opening their mouths and forcing his tongue past Arthur’s teeth. Well, maybe forced is not exactly the right word. Maybe: had to move as fast as possible to get his tongue into Arthur’s mouth before Arthur got into his, and win one of the tiny, stupid battles they had over nothing in particular. Arthur groaned into his mouth and sank down on top of him, so their bodies were flush against each other and hello! Underwater tongue action.

As they rose for air, Merlin gasped out, "You’re going to get your bandages wet."

"Too late," said Arthur, grinning with a worryingly predatory eye on Merlin’s neck.

"No-!" Merlin began, meaning to tell Arthur that he could not have hickeys, they were in the middle of a war for Chrissake’s, but then they were underwater again and Arthur’s teeth - Merlin swore that he had fangs - were latching onto his pulsepoint. Merlin’s head thunked against the bottom of the tub and then, suddenly…

"Uh," said Arthur, moving from Merlin’s neck to nibble the sensitive flesh behind his ear, "where’d all the water go?"

Steam filled the bathroom, and Merlin’s headache smashed into him with all the brutal force of a brick wall. Somehow, displaying a worrying possibility of the telepathy that Merlin was supposed to - but didn’t, for some reason - possess, Arthur reached up and pushed the shower on. The water that fell was freezing cold, and Arthur swore, eyes shut as water fell into them, groped blindly for the temperature dial. Soon, the water that hit them was almost scalding, but Merlin had difficulty noticing this as Arthur rolled his hips.

"Too many clothes," he all but snarled into Arthur’s mouth, rewarded with a muffled moan and Godyesfuck Arthur’s hand was in his trousers. Honestly, if this was what happened when he spent all day lying in the bath, then he was really going to have to do it whilst not fully dressed.

"You’re the one who wanted to be decent for the girls," Arthur said, resting his forehead against Merlin’s as he worked Merlin’s cock with one callused fist. Merlin mewled as he discovered that, at this angle, he could not kiss Arthur without moving, and then scowled - well, as much as he could scowl, given what Arthur was doing downstairs - as Arthur gave his one of his wild, reckless grin, all wet hair and teeth and too-blue eyes. Something in Merlin collasped and he grabbed Arthur’s face with both his hands and slammed their lips together, tasting blood in his mouth, on his tongue, and not caring whether it was his or Arthur’s.

"Fuck decent," he said, as soon as he could form vaguely coherent thought. "Morgana’s not here. Get out of your clothes."

Arthur grinned down at him, cocky as the first day Merlin saw him. "Make. Me."

Merlin’s face must have looked downright evil, because Arthur seemed to suddenly realise what he had said a moment before he felt his clothes start to tear. After that, he could not be too eager to take them off himself; apparently, he did not want to lose another set of expensive clothes.

"Better," said Merlin, as Arthur crashed back down onto him and they met halfway, skin on skin, and Arthur seemed surprised.

"Where’d your…" Merlin cut him off with a kiss, waving his hand to demonstrate - something, because he was not really sure exactly where his clothes had gone. It did not matter, however, because all that mattered was that this was him, and that was Arthur and Arthur was here and he was not going to leave anytime soon, if his frantic scrabbling for the Emergency Bathroom Lube was anything to go by.

"Morgana knows what that is, you know," he said, as Arthur sat back on his heels - well, one of his heels, the other leg having a bullet-hole in it - to squirt some of the lube onto his fingers.

"Whatever," Arthur ground out, eyes closed as he slicked himself up. "Morgana knows everything." He took a harsh breath through his nose as he accidentally put weight on his wound.

"Arthur," said Merlin, instantly worried. "You’re injured."

"And you’re sick," retored Arthur, one slick finger at his entrance. Merlin could not argue with that, but Arthur did not move. "You’re sick," he said, voice suddenly too soft, too quiet, and Merlin reached out to him.

"Arthur," he said, voice matter-of-fact, because, honestly, if they were going to have sex then they are going to fucking well have sex, "if you don’t fuck me right now I will make certain that you cannot fuck anything else ever again."

Arthur tilted his head slightly. "You can do that?"

"Uh, yeah," replied Merlin, rolling his eyes. "Remember the guy in Maine? ‘Pity, Beelzebub, about the erectile dys-fuck." Which seemed about adequate, really, as Arthur stretched him as fast as possible before thrusting, hard and deep. Merlin suddenly found himself incapable of coherent thought, blindly tangling his fingers in Arthur’s hair so he could pull him down for a kiss, lost in the sensation of Arthur rocking into him and the shower pounding his skin with scalding water and then Arthur’s mouth on his skin, small, slight moans reverberating against his stomach through the open-mouthed kisses he placed there. Arthur bent over him, arms holding him up either side of Merlin’s chest, and Merlin wrapped his legs around Arthur with barely a thought, arching his back to give him better access, to let them move together. Because the world might be going to fuck, their lives may well be heading on an express train to Hell in a handbasket, but this, this they could do. This they were good at.

And then Merlin could not hold on to Arthur anymore, had to brace his hands against the wall of the tub, underneath the taps, and thanked whoever might be listening that they had picked a bath that was wide enough for this, as Arthur pounded into him, threatening to slam him against the bath until he was bloody and damn, Arthur’s hand was on his cock. Merlin’s elbows buckled and he slid towards the wall before they caught him again, muscles straining against the ferocity if Arthur’s thrust, and if that was not his magic making those stars in front of his eyes then he should really let Arthur get shot more often, because being pissy and tetchy made for serious happy fun times.

When they woke up, cramped and sore from lying in the bath, squashed together in awkward positions that had them sharing the same breath, it took a moment’s wriggling and some harsh, panted swearing for them to get out, and at least another five minutes of towelling down and kissing before Merlin realised that he could stand without his head feeling like it was going to explode. Slightly perturbed by this sudden change in events, they padded into the bedroom for (dry, in Arthur’s case, and new, in Merlin’s) clothes.

Dressing hastily, they headed for the living room in order to see what had happened.

"What the… Gwen?" Arthur blinked at their friend, who was seated on the sofa as if nothing had happened, except for the odd, hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar expression that was hardly, if ever, seen on her kind, honest face. "Where - where’s Morgana?" Because he could not see her anywhere, and he was sure that she would not have missed the oppurtunity to walk in on him and Merlin, if purely for material.

Then Merlin was standing next to him, and things started to make sense.

"Lancelot?"

Arthur lay curled up in the cold, damp cell - God knows where Ector had put them; the Tower of London, if his contacts were anything that Arthur thought they were - and tried desperately to pretend that he had not just broken down. That his face was not soaked from the tears that caused the ugly puffiness and blood-shot quality to his eyes right now (and honestly, he was grateful for the darkness for that reason alone); that the reason he could not breathe, that every intake of breath was gasped and his chest was convulsing, was purely due to the air quality. But every time he did, it felt like his heart was going to explode, that his lungs were twisting and his stomach was insistently rebelling against his every attempt to master himself.

God, he hated Merlin sometimes. But even that thought betrayed him, and he found himself unable to swallow that harsh sob that broke free from his throat. Dragging his manacled hands up to cover his face, Arthur sobbed uncontrollably, breath ripping from his chest with savage force that left him feeling winded whilst his heart twisted until Arthur wished he could just die, just for it to be over, for it to stop hurting. Because it hurt so badly, and he could not make it stop. And Merlin was not even here to make it stop, nor Morgana - and it was all his fault.

The dry, broken sobs filled the dank prison, where there was no one to hear them except the ravens, who did not really mind. It was nothing they had not heard before.

People thought they knew Arthur Pendragon, because he was Uther’s son, because he looked like Igraine. They thought they knew him when he was the perfect son in everyone’s eyes except Uther’s, thought they knew him when he rebelled and took up with the assassin who had saved his life when he was meant to be ending it. They even thought they knew him after he killed Uther, after he started and ended many of the gang wars that broke out between the Pendragon favourites after Uther’s death.

But they were all wrong. No one knew Arthur, not really knew him, all his many faceted personalities, his moodswings and temper tantrums and strange demands. Not even Morgana, with whom he had spent most of his childhood. No one could read Arthur well enough to actually know him. At least, not before Merlin.

It had been Merlin who had first asked him the question, that night after the whole world went to hell and Arthur did not really care, because Merlin was here, in his bed, in his arms, and his chest and his brain was buzzing with all these strange emotions that he really did not want to examine right now, thank you very much, because they made him happier that he had ever been before and he was scared as to what that meant. For him, ice-cold golden-boy Arthur Pendragon who had just committed the unthinkable and had not thought twice.

"Why did you kill him, Arthur?"

Arthur merely tightened his arms around Merlin, his Merlin, and said the line that he had been practising to tell the police, those first two times that he had tried and had been expecting to be caught.

"Because he was evil. Because he had to die."

And if Merlin knew that that was not the real reason Arthur had committed patricide, he did not say anything. For which Arthur was eternally grateful.

The first time, Arthur did it for Morgana.

She had been living with them since her father, one of Uther’s closest and oldest friends, died in one of the many gang skirmishes over territory. She was almost four years older than Arthur, and so by the time he was fourteen and just beginning to consider the possibility that Uther was not right about everything, she was eighteen and well into the stage of sickened rebellion. She had been smoking for years, and Arthur thought that it was mostly to do with getting on Uther’s nerves; but when he sat down next to her on the stoop outside their house, he saw how her finger shook as she fumbled with the lighter, and how her eyes were red from crying and bruised from lack of sleep.

There were other bruises, he knew, because he had seen them, when Morgana had not been careful enough to hide them from him. Somewhere in his mind, he knew that Uther was behind them, with all his concentrated fury and narrowed perspective. He wondered if Uther hit her himself, or if he hid behind the nannies and the cooks the way he did with Arthur. Morgana was not the only one to carry bruises, but Arthur worried about Morgana’s more than he ever did his. She was just so slender, so delicate, so damn pale, that it seemed wrong for her to have a swollen, purple-black mark adorning her arm or her back.

"I hate him," she had said to him when she had finally got the cigarette lit. Her voice was low, for they both knew that it did not do to talk about Uther in any capacity, especially in his own house; the tremble that she barely held in check, that caused her voice to come out harsh and raw, was something new. "I hate him." And Arthur had just sat with her, watching her smoke out of the corner of his eye as they watched the sunset over the city. He wondered what Morgana saw when she looked at it. She would never tell him.

Uther had not let her go to Urien’s funeral - there had barely been one, and it had been carried out outside of Camelot and Uther’s influence. Arthur did not completely understand why Uther had felt the need to kill Morgana’s lover; he had liked Urien, had paired him and Morgana together. It was not as if either he or Morgana had pretensions of taking over ‘the business’. He got the impression that Urien had died for much the same reason that Uther had taken his childhood pet, Darfus, and shot him in the yard when Arthur refused to go to school.

Despite what people saw, Arthur did love Morgana. In later years, he would catch and skin a man who was tormenting her himself; however, he was barely a teenager, and such acts of intense violence were not yet within his moral grasp. Instead, he merely watched as the young, dark-haired woman laced Uther’s food with poison. She saw him in the corner of the kitchen, and he saw the fear in her gaze. He held it steadily, and stood back when she passed him. The look she gave him then was one of astonishment and pride and fierce joy, and he felt his heart warm even as his stomach clenched.

He did not go to that meal, shutting himself in his room until Morgana came in with the news that someone had tried to kill Uther. They sat together for a long time between the sink and the bath, her arms around him. Neither of them spoke; Morgana did not need to, her grip said everything she felt, and Arthur was not sure that his vocabulary contained words to describe the conflicting emotions that twisted in his stomach.

The young woman that carried Uther’s food disappeared, and whilst no one said anything Arthur was shipped out to boarding school the same week.

The second time, Arthur did it for Gwen.

There had been a skirmish in the city’s industrial quarter, two rival gangs beating the fuck out of each other over territory. Arthur and Morgana visited the next day, to help with the clear-up. Morgana had a friend in the area, Guinevere Leodegrance. Her father was a steelworker, one of the few lucky enough to keep their jobs; Arthur was sixteen now, and more confident in his ability to read the subtleties of court. He was fairly sure that one of the main reasons that Tom still held his job was because of Gwen’s relationship with Uther’s ward.

When they returned that evening, tired and soot-stained, Uther was seated at the head of the imperious oak dining table. The pallor of his skin and the set of his lips - tight and drawn in, so it looked like he only had a thin gash for a mouth - told them both immediately that he was furious with them, but it was only after he sent Morgana to her room that Arthur realised that Uther was mostly angry with him.

"What were you thinking?" he exploded, with the complete absense of the tightly reigned in emotion that typified him. "What on earth made you go down there?"

"They needed help," replied Arthur, back straight and eyes fixed on a point two inches over Uther’s left shoulder. "The gangs had gutted the area with fires that destroyed…"

"Shut up." Uther’s voice was cold and brutal; he had got out of his seat and was right up in Arthur’s personal space. "Do you believe all the lies she whispers in your ear?"

Arthur’s eyes snapped to Uther’s. "Morgana’s feelings have nothing to do with…"

"Her little friend - Gwynith - she lives in the industrial quarter, doesn’t she?"

"Guinevere," corrected Arthur, not liking where this was going. "With her father."

"Yes," said Uther, fingers tapping his thigh the way they did when he was formulating a plan of action. "Yes - well, I think an example will have to be made. To both you and Morgana."

Horrified realisation hit Arthur like a ton of bricks, leaving him feeling physically winded. "No!"

Uther turned, one eyebrow raised. "What did you say?" he said, voice soft and dangerous.

"You can’t kill Tom." Arthur was appalled that his father would even think of it. "Morgana’s too old for you to kill the things she loves to teach her a lesson." Uther’s mouth flicked upwards in a parody of a smirk, and he turned away. Arthur grabbed his arm. "You’re just pushing her away!"

Uther’s fist swung up to smack him in the jaw, sending him stumbling backwards. He steadied himself just as Uther hit him dead in the eye, sending him to the floor. Fighting back tears - more at the feeling of lost naiveté concerning that man his father was than the pain - Arthur watched him leave. That night, he disabled the security alarm and barricaded himself, Gwen and Morgana in Morgana’s suite.

In the morning, Arthur left Morgana with Gwen, both asleep on her bed. He went slowly down to breakfast, knowing that the assassination attempt had failed even as he closed the door quietly behind him. When he arrived in the dining room, he stopped short at the sight of the heads of a young, blonde woman and a man that was probably her father floating in individual jars of vinegar. His father looked over the top of his newspaper, and smiled at him. There was something sinister behind that smile, and Arthur did not speak for the duration of the meal.

When he returned to school, Morgana and Gwen went with him.

The third time, he did it for Merlin.

There are crimes committed by those most honourable that are ignored, are not condemned, because of the very fact that those who did them are considered heroes. The atrocities of war have been overlooked in Camelot for centuries, for the war that currently exists was not the doing of the Pendragons; it has been in progress for years untold, with those who have the aptitude for magic attempting to force the creatures born of it underground, so that they may rule without fear or prejudice. But one has been born out of union between human and creature, the child of an undine, as has been predicted by the remnants of the Druids since the last Reckoning.

It does not take Uther’s specialists as long as he thought to get information about this boy out of a captured undine, who begs for death from her position, nailed to the wall. Iron burns her to her very soul, and long spikes of it have been forced through her arms and stomach; but she is undine, and has no soul, and is as such immortal, except by removal of her head. Uther ignores her pleas, leaving her to hang for days before one of the guards puts her out of her misery. Uther has him shot.

But he cares not for the undine, not even the one that has gained a soul through procreation. He has instated himself in a position of power, and none of the magical beings left above ground are strong enough in this technological age to move against him. Not even the Druids will risk open warfare, not now that he has the name of their supposed saviour. It matters little to him that it is his son that is supposed to march with this warlock against him; Arthur poses no great threat to Uther. He smiles, and the servants that he passes shrink back before the expression, so rarely seen. He rolls the name around his mouth, as if it were a boiled sweet that he wants to get every flavour from.

Merlin.

Camelot was not known for its summer heat; if one wanted to get heat stroke and skin cancer then they were much better off flying south; but occasionally it was treated to a scorching wave of heat that rolled down the streets like the heraldic fire-water of the Apocalypse.

For himself, Arthur did not think much of it. He had spent much of the latter part of his childhood much farther north, where the summer sun did not have so strong a hold. He had returned to Camelot, the city of his birth, against the advice of Morgana and Gwen and without the company of Lancelot, even though he had offered. Nothing would have made him come back here except for something that had not even entered his waking thoughts before now: Merlin was missing. Morgana had scried for him, and after much labouring had determined his position. Through he had not heeded her when she begged him not to go, he did first pay a visit to Xanthe, a woman more than half possessed by faerie magic. She gave him the gift of Unseen, although she cautioned him against its prolonged use. The last Man she had given it to was Garlon, who had used it too frequently and for too long at a time, and had at last passed into invisibility all together. Arthur wore the small, unassuming crystal under his shirt, its weight a constant cooling presence against his chest, despite the summer heat.

It assaulted him like a physical force; the very air was tangible, thick and sticky, and if you had enough of a mind to, Arthur would bet that you could grip it and wrap it around you; a viscous blanket. He had seen Merlin do it with fog, and knew that others had done it with darkness, and with silence. He had no such skill; he was only able to see magic when it had a physical effect, either on an object or in the worker - as with Merlin’s eyes.

The sun bleached all the colours of the landscape, fading the grass and the sky so that Arthur was reminded of cheap motel rooms in Nebraska. The weather was like uncomfortable sex: too hot and clinging and sweaty in all the wrong places. Camelot’s underbelly was out in full force in the lower town, as if the sun had raised the whores and the beggars and the cutpurses from the sewers as well as the stench. The whores, bleach blonde with mouths a slash of red lipstick, called to him from the pavements as he passed. The fact that they gave him any attention at all comforted him, as when they had known who he was they would not have dared to approach him.

He supposed that he did not look at all like the Arthur Pendragon of old; certainly, over half a decade had passed since he had left Camelot, and puberty had done much to change his face, but not, he expected, enough that the keen eyes of the hookers would not recognise him. He suspected it was mostly to do with the way he carried himself, and the way he was dressed. Despite the heat, he was wearing jeans and a thin, faded hooded sweater, clothes chosen to conceal the various weapons he had about his person. Not that they would attract much attention here, but Arthur was headed uptown, to the house in which he was raised, where weapons of any sort would be noticed immediately.

On Lancelot’s suggestion, and the girls’ insistence, he had come armed with a .45 automatic that was tucked into the back of his jeans, and he had a long, wicked hunting-knife strapped to his calf. For easy access, he also had a knife in a sheath strapped to his forearm, which the hoodie by its very nature concealed enough for the thieves that hung around in the alleys where the whores frequented not to notice until Arthur had him against the wall with the cool blade to his throat. The kid, barely more than fifteen, stammered desperate apologies interspersed with hail Mary’s, disappearing into the shadows as soon as Arthur relaxed his grip.

He did not stay to watch him leave; he had bigger fish to fry before the night was done.

It took him the better part of the evening to reach to grand house on the outskirts of the suburbs, barely within the city at all; whilst clambouring through the tall, thick hedge, the land was wrapped in dusky twilight that had done little to counter the heat of the day.

The soles of his worn sneakers felt every crevice and foothold in the high, brick wall; every dip and curve of the paved area beyond; every rise and fall in the lawns leading up to the back of the house. But Arthur did not need to feel these: all the information was stored inside his memory, the smell of fresh-cut grass and weedkiller dragging memories unbidden from his mind. He pushed them aside, padding silently up to the shadows of the walls. He was not worried about the dogs that patrolled the gardens at night, when they were let loose - he had helped raise every single one since his father decided to breed his own personal guard dog. He did not doubt that Uther had attempted to train them to consider him a threat, but the animals did not love Uther, not as they had loved him. No; it was the guards themselves that Arthur was worried about. He was sure that Uther would have no qualms of his turning up dead at their hands.

How many times had he done this? Escaping from the house seemed to have taken up much of his young life, and he was only marginally surprised to find that the secret side-door (concealed by both ivy and cunning craftmanship) was still hidden and unguarded. It was also locked, but Arthur had taken the keys with him when he had left. He brought them out now, hoping that they would not jangle or catch a stray moonbeam to give him away. The lock was old and rusted and it took Arthur a good moment or two to force the key to turn; but then he was in, and the door slid silently shut behind him.

Now began the most dangerous part of his mission: he had no definite idea of where Merlin would be. Although he knew the house inside out, it was still dauntingly large and in the lower levels corridors wormed labyrinthine tunnels (he refused to think of them as dungeons) well out of the boundaries of the grounds. There were only a few benefits, from Arthur’s point of view, about the tunnels - one: there were plenty of dark corners for him to skulk in, unseen; two: many of the tunnels passed next to the sewer system. That was to be his way out. Instead of risking a breakout of the house with Merlin in tow, Morgana had come up with a more practical solution; they were to make it into the sewer system, where Arthur was to chalk a circle with some funny symbols in it (this was weakest point in the plan, as Arthur was not known for his artistic prowess). Morgana would have repeated it back in their flat, and the two would correspond as a ‘doorway’. Not as sophiscated or as suave as Merlin’s, maybe, but it was perfectly feasible and was the only plan they had.

He stepped back from himself, and tried to think like Uther. It was not as hard as it should have been.

If he was Uther, hiding someone as powerful as Merlin from his protegé, then where would he put him? Well, Arthur certainly would not leave him in the house, for one thing; but knowing that Uther had…

The tunnels under the house spread for miles, but this was mostly made up of the way they snaked around each other, like the grooves in a nautilus shell. It would take Arthur days to search the whole thing, so he was forced to make a decision. Merlin, obviously, was an exceptionally powerful sorcerer - more powerful than any Uther had ever hired and that Arthur had ever met; as such, it was reasonable to expect that he would be kept in the most protected and barricaded part of the labyrinthe. Which was the exact centre.

Naturally, this was hardest part to get to. Woo-fucking-hoo.

Getting through the entrance to the cellars was not as hard as it really should have been - but then Arthur had been sneaking down there since he was a small boy, and knew that the guards were little more than servants with guns. Easily distracted. Once further down into the passageways, Arthur began shrinking into the pathetic shadows, peering around every corner before passing. Twice he was almost caught by passing sorcerers, escaping only by backtracking swiftly and ducking into the nearest room. As he rounded yet another coil, trying hard to avoid the bright lights that shone glistening from every surface, he was almost certain that he saw one with an inverted pentangle branded on his brow.

"Necromancy," he breathed, and the necromancer had clearly heard him, because Arthur was forced to scramble backwards under a narrow overhang at the base of one of the walls. He shuffled further back still as the necromancer came further to investigate, one hand cupped in spell-casting position. As he cast a light under the overhang, Arthur slipped backwards down some sort of shaft, the light rebounding off the wall where his head had been only a moment ago. Then the light was lost as Arthur slid down, down, down…

When he came to, Arthur found himself in some unlit part of the tunnel system. The darkness was complete and overbearing, but Arthur ignored the fleeting sensation of claustrophobia (he was not Morgana, for fuck’s sake), cursing as he tried to find his torch. His knees, backside and hip were rather sore, presumably because he had landed on them, and his right ankle was stabbing him with pins and needles as he shifted his weight from it.

The torch clicked on, and Arthur looked around.

"Fuck," he whispered, gazing up at the cavernous, dripping walls that surrounded him. He had apparently found his way into an unexplored section of the tunnels, or at least one that Uther had not got around to renovating yet: the walls, ceiling and floor were a deep, glittering jet - maybe black granite, Arthur was not sure. The torchlight was caught in tiny sparkling diamonds set deep into the rock, the effect of fairie light only enhanced by the water that trickled down from the ceiling to twist and distort the light. It was, by far, the most wonderous sight Arthur had seen in Camelot. The diamonds explained the lights that covered the rest of the tunnels; clearly, Uther’s sorcerers had come up with some method of getting the diamonds to either glow or reflect a single light a hundred thousand times. He would have to ask Merlin; which reminded him. Merlin: the reason that he was here. Cursing the warlock under his breath, stubbornly ignoring the tiny voice inside him that was whispering that Merlin had done this a thousand time for him, Arthur took his best guess at up and began walking.

The route he had taken ended in hole in the wall, at about head height and approximately four feet in diameter. Gripping the torch between his teeth and praying he did not drop it, Arthur gripped the sides of the hole and heaved himself up into it. The torchlight showed that it did, indeed slope upwards, but more than that Arthur could not see. Sighing, he crawled forwards, his already bruised knees complaining at the torment he was putting them through.

Abruptly, the tunnel narrowed, so much so that Arthur was forced to lie flat on his stomach and army crawl (or ‘wriggle like a snake’, as Morgana liked to term it) along the passage. He hoped it did not get any narrower; for someone as thin as Merlin, it would not matter, but he was built quite a lot broader than Merlin was. And besides, Merlin could probably widen the tunnel, or turn himself into a rat or something. Bastard.

Light ahead; Arthur switched off the torch with some difficulty - the switch was a bit stiff for his tongue - and wriggled towards it, hoping that it would not be exactly where he was in the first place. He was in luck: the room was dimmer than the halls were, and there was the distinct whirr of computerised machinery. Beyond that, Arthur could see very little, but there was no sign of human life or any other form of movement, so he bit the bullet and yanked himself out of the tunnel.

His guess about the machinery was correct; the room was full of computers quietly going about their work. Arthur went over to one, and tried to make sense of the readouts. It was clearly measuring something - there was a line that looked suspiciously like a heart rate, but beyond that…

Brain finally clicking into gear, Arthur whirled around, and saw - something, long and pale and thin - pinned to the far wall. There were tubes connected to his arms, with blood running along them into a machine, which seemed to filter it, because what came out of the other end was pure, liquid gold. Like Merlin’s eyes, when he did magic.

Trembling, Arthur stepped closer. A single tear slipped out of his eye as he raised a shaking hand to touch Merlin’s face, noticing how he was too pale, too grey around the eyes and the mouth; the skin beneath his fingers was damn with sweat and burning with fever, and Merlin tried to twitch away. Arthur stepped closer still, and smoothed Merlin’s eyebrow with one thumb. One eye cracked open, bloodshot and unfocussed.

"Arthur?" Merlin’s voice was hoarse and dry, like he had not used it recently and had not drunk for longer still.

"Yeah," replied Arthur, his voice easily as hoarse, as he stroked Merlin’s face. "I’m here." Merlin tried to smile, but it looked as though his face had forgotten how to form the expression. Coming back to himself, Arthur dashed away the tears and savagely, gently, pulled the tubes from Merlin’s arms, letting them dangle on the floor by the filter machine. He carefully undid the straps that held Merlin to the wall, catching him as the warlock slumped against him, unable to support his own weight. His fingers caught loosely on the back of Arthur’s shirt, trying to hold him, and heard the soft, scratching voice whispering his name, over and over, like a mantra, like a prayer.

"Come on," he said, looping his arm around Merlin’s waist, taking almost all of his weight as Merlin clearly was not able to stand. He weighed so much less than Arthur remembered. "Let’s get out of here."

Clearly, no one expected anyone to have got so far into the labyrinthe as to wanting to escape out of it, because Arthur managed to carry Merlin all the way to the sewer outlet without meeting any resistance. He was forced to prop Merlin against the wall to open the hatch; and it was then that the alarm went off. Whether triggered by the hatch or by someone discovering that Merlin was missing, it would only be a few minutes before the entire system was crawling with Uther’s guards and sorcerers, and by that time they had to be gone.

Merlin had recovered a little, and was able to help Arthur manoeuvre him through the entrance and stagger along with Arthur’s support. They had to go a fair way into the sewers; they could not risk being too near the house when drawing the circle. As they ran, Arthur tried to remember the exact symbols he needed to sketch in the circle to make it work. If it did not match Morgana’s exactly, then there was no knowing where they would be swept off to.

By the sounds of it, echoing down the iron shafts, the guards had discovered the open hatch, and the clank of boots on metal was the first indication of pursuit. Suddenly, Merlin could go no further, so Arthur set him down and pulled out the chalk. The sounds of the guards were coming louder and faster, and Arthur could see the odd flash of blue light; they had sorcerers with them.

He grabbed Merlin around the waist and heaved him into the circle, bracing his legs against the expected whirling rush of the transport. He twisted as the first guards came around the corner, lead by the strange, young necromancer Arthur had seen before; they were flung into space, ripping across the country. Behind them, the chalk had smudged beyond recognition, and water was already trickling across the marks.

They landed with a thud, Arthur below, on laminate flooring, gasping for breath. Arthur grinned at the ceiling; they were in Morgana’s apartment in St Andrews. They had done it. Merlin whimpered a little, and Arthur loosened his embrace. Concerned, he levered Merlin onto the floor and bent over him.

Merlin eyes were half-closed, and the irises seemed unable to decide between blue and gold, settling for a disquieting mix of the two. Ignoring Merlin’s quiet protests, Arthur picked him up and carried him to the master bedroom. Laying him down, Arthur kissed the wounds caused by the restraints and the needles; kissed Merlin’s scabbed fingers; removed his shirt and kissed the bruises and cuts as he dressed them and then redressed Merlin in clean, loose clothes. He tried very hard not to cry on any of the wounds, knowing how salt water would make them sting, and he lay down next to Merlin; kissed his eyes and pressed his forehead to Merlin’s temple.

"Arthur," murmered Merlin, snuggling closer to him.

"Yeah," Arthur replied, pulling Merlin towards him. "I’m here."

They didn't stay long at the St Andrews apartment; despite the erasure of the chalk symbols that permitted the teleport, there was still the chance that one of Uther's necromancers could track them down. Arthur wasn't willing to take that chance. Not with Merlin as weak as he was.

They took the train; people kept giving them odd looks, especially when they were walking in. Merlin was battered and wan and thinner even that he usually was, and Arthur could sense the concern that these people felt towards him. He wasn't sure whether to appreciate it, or be pissed off about it. Merlin, with his usual irritating ability to read Arthur like an open book, rested his head on Arthur's shoulder on the train and told him to stop being such an arse. They still got odd looks, but it was mostly to do with the timid tenderness by which Arthur threaded their fingers.

Morgana snapped fiercely, if quietly, at Arthur when they arrived in London. She didn't seem to approve of his plan of hiding in the capitol; however, her expression twisted and softened into one of such evocative sympathy on the sight of Merlin's smile (still beaming bright despite the pallour of his skin) that all she did on the ride home was shoot her step-brother glares over the top of Merlin's head. Merlin smirked at Arthur from his position cradled against Morgana's chest, and Arthur rolled his eyes. If it weren't for the constant checkwatchgottomakesurewatchcheckspiesgottokeepMerlinsafe rolling around his head, it could almost have been normal.

"He needs a lot of rest," said Gaius, returning from the bedroom with his on-call bag under his arm. He may have retired as a practising physician some years ago, but some habits die hard. His eyes, beneath bushy eyebrows, were just as bright as ever, and Arthur felt their gaze as Gaius gave him a look which said, ‘I know exactly what you were planning to do as soon as I left, my lad, so don’t think you can hide it from me.’ Arthur tried very hard not to squirm, and/or look guilty. As far as he could gauge, he did it better than Merlin was ever able to. But then, Gaius indulged Merlin, and Merlin had this strange ability to look remarkably innocent when called for. Mainly by looking like a complete fool.

His gaze strayed to the bedroom door, pulled ajar; Gaius’ eyes twinkled as he smiled slightly. "Go on," he said, tilting his head towards the bedroom. "He was asking for you." He called after Arthur as he went in, "Don’t wear him out! He needs rest, Master Pendragon."

The room was dim, the curtains still drawn, but there was enough light for Arthur to see Merlin in the bed. To be fair, he got the distinct impression that Merlin was slightly luminous, but seeing as Gaius had not mentioned it he assumed this was either just him, or perfectly natural for a warlock of unregistered power. The armchair that Arthur had brought in earlier was still next to the bed, and as he sat down in it, Merlin’s eyes cracked open. The strange colour mix from yesterday was gone, thank God, with the irises having settled on blue, and Arthur was reasonably certain that his skin had a little more colour.

"Arthur?"

He smiled, and Merlin attempted one back. It was not the full wattage of Merlin’s usual smile (for which Arthur was somewhat grateful; he was not sure his eyes could take it), but it was a smile nonetheless, and warmed Arthur’s heart slightly to see it. "Yup. Can’t get rid of me, huh?"

There was something achingly fond in Merlin’s expression as he replied. "Who ever said that I wanted to be?"

"Uh," Arthur made a pretence of thinking. Merlin interrupted.

"Don’t strain yourself, Arthur. Everyone knows there’s not that much inside that pretty blond head of yours." Merlin’s grin lifted up a notch, and the fond look was replaced by one of easy amusement. Arthur scowled.

"As I was saying; I was certain that you were the one who was desperate to be rid of me."

"Yeah," replied Merlin, waving one limp hand airily, "but that was before I discovered how good you were in bed."

Arthur forced down a blush, but he could not stop the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Ducking his head (surrepticiously, of course), he noticed for the first time that he was tracing circles on Merlin’s wrist with his thumb. Meeting Merlin’s gaze again, he saw that the fond expression was back; something twisted in his chest, and he stood to leave.

"Go to sleep," he said, one hand heavy on Merlin’s chest, before closing the door quietly behind him.

Gaius was still there, having helped himself to tea from the cupboard. Arthur chose not to mention it.

"How long before he’s up and about?" He accepted the steaming mug from the physician and sat down opposite him.

"Hmm," said Gaius into his tea. "That’s hard to gauge. He’s healing far faster than any normal person would - because Merlin’s not normal, Arthur," he said as Arthur made to leap to Merlin’s defence, "he’s the single most powerful warlock the world’s seen for probably several millenia, and it’s his magic that’s healing him. From your description of the filtration machine, I would say that they were trying to separate his magic from his blood, which would account for Morgana’s inability to find him easily. For what, however, is anyone’s guess."

Arthur frowned into his mug, not seeing the swirling tea. Gaius, taking note of his expression, stood up to leave. Arthur glanced up at him as Gaius passed, pausing to rest a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

"I know - I know this is probably the worst thing he has ever done," Arthur did not have to ask who ‘he’ was, "but don’t do anything rash, my boy. Think of Morgana. And Gwen. Who would look out for them, if you were gone?"

"Morgana can look after herself," Arthur replied automatically. He did not look up to see Gaius’ expression. "Thank you," he added, sincerity loading every syllable, as Gaius reached the door. The physician glanced around. "For - for everthing. I know how hard it must be for you. Because of... Well. I appreciate it."

Gaius gave him one of his patented unfathomable looks. "Merlin is like a son to me, Arthur," he replied, quietly, and Arthur got the impression he was being tested. Or something. "I would gladly die for him."

Arthur didn't know quite how to respond to that. His mind supplied, me too, and he figured that it showed on his face, because Gaius gave him a half smile as he closed the door behind him.

"You can't seriously be thinking of doing this." Morgana stared at Arthur across the table, where the blond man was studying his hands, spread out over his knees. The pose worried Morgana more than anything else, because she knew Arthur only ever sat like that when he was trying to stop his hands shaking. Which meant that this was very important. And very serious.

"Why not?" Arthur replied, voice quiet and calm, which worried Morgana more than if he had shouted at her. "I don't remember you complaining when I refused to stop others."

Morgana let out a shaking breath, determined not to allow Arthur's brick-headedness to rile her. Her fingers itched - whether for a drink or to reach across the table to grasp one of Arthur's hands, she wasn't certain - and she found herself unconsciously mirroring Arthur's pose. "That was different," she said, voice soothing and desperate. "It wasn't you..."

Arthur's head snapped up, and his eyes were like chips of ice in his face. Morgana had never seen him like this. "This time is different," he hissed, glaring at her. "This time - " He broke off, focus shifting momentarily to something behind her. Morgana turned her head to see Merlin stepping warily out of the bedroom, eyes like deep, black bruises in his skeletal face, and hands nervous and clenching in the nightshirt.

"Merlin," she gasped, and stood to go over to him. Merlin flinched, and took half a step back, and Morgana halted, confused and hurt. She felt Arthur brush past her, saw him cross to Merlin and take his hands - long and thin and frail, like someone five times his age - and whisper something to the other man, who stared at Morgana over Arthur's shoulder with eyes wide and terrified. Morgana felt something twist in her stomach, and refused to cry.

Whatever Arthur said to Merlin, it seemed to have calmed him, for the dark man stepped around him and took two hesitant steps towards her. "Mor-gana," he said, falteringly, and Morgana beamed through unshed tears and closed the distance between them. She gently took one of his hands in hers, praying that she wouldn't scare him off - his mind, so obviously shattered by whatever Uther had been doing, clearly didn't recognise her, at least not as a friend - and hoping to give him some comfort.

So the shock, when it came, was completely unexpected. Morgana reeled as memories that did not belong to her, and yet were hers, slammed into her; she dropped Merlin's hand, and saw him slide his gaze from hers. Arthur, not looking at her either, lead Merlin back into the bedroom. Shaken, Morgana returned to her seat, absent-mindedly rubbing her hand where Merlin had touched it. It ached, like an old wound.

Arthur returned, and they sat in silence for a while, sipping at their tea. Finally, Arthur spoke.

"He - he wasn't like this. Not earlier. But Gaius - he thinks that whatever Uther was doing" Morgana noted that Arthur gave Uther his name, rather than his familial title, "may have - broken something." Arthur's forehead furrowed, and Morgana's heart clenched at the hopelessness in his voice. "I - I don't -" Morgana interrupted.

"What do you need me to do?"

And even though it felt like she was going to be sick, like her heart was blocking her throat at the thought of what they were about to do, the sight of Arthur's smile was enough to make it worth while.

Camelot was a large city, and the Pendragon household was, predictably, right in the centre. Arthur had never thought of it before, but after what he had witnessed in the bowels of the mansion, he wondered precisely what Uther's motives had been for building it just there. After all, the area around Camelot was not famed for its rich mineral deposits, but Arthur had seen the tunnels beneath the mansion. This knowledge, teamed with the sight of the veritable army of necromancers that Uther had employed, gave Arthur a sickening feeling in his stomach. For Uther always had reasons.

It had been suspiciously easy getting into the city. This worried Arthur; when he had come alone, it hadn't been so much of a deal that no one stopped him or even gave him a second glance; but he was now entering the city of his birth with Morgana and Lancelot, for fuck's sake. Surely, surely, someone would notice them?

But no. No cries, so stares, no double-takes. No one even bothered to look at them. So. Arthur was now officially worried. Not that it would do to tell Morgana that; she looked about ready to faint as it was, and he figured that it was only the presence of himself and Lancelot - as well as the look on Gwen's face when Merlin hadn't recognised her - that was keeping her from fleeing. And thank God for Lancelot. The man's steady, dependable bearing was something that Arthur could fall back on, was relying upon even now to hold his own nerve. Lancelot had met Uther only once, and from that small encounter had professed a wish never to have to repeat it. But Arthur had asked, and Lancelot was here. He was a fine man, and a damn good friend. Arthur hoped for the chance to tell him that, once this was all over.

They reached the boundaries of the Poor Quarter, after which they were bound to be noticed, if only for being out past the curfew. Arthur frowned at the lightening city, before assisting Morgana up the side of the building they were going to camp out on. Lancelot had already scaled the first two floors, and took over in aiding Morgana to the top (Morgana was a highly skilled rock climber, but climbing buildings was something that boys did in their free time. Morgana would go to the Peak District to hone her skills). Arthur swiftly followed, swinging himself over the lip of the roof and falling down behind the wall that ran around the edge just as the sunlight swept into the Poor Quarter. They waited, silently, trying to regulate their breathing and listen for any sounds of discovery, until the town below them hummed into life. Nothing. They had not been noticed. Arthur glanced over at Lancelot and Morgana, the latter of which was paler than usual, but gave him a smile. Just to show she was just as capable as him. He grinned back, grateful for the sibling rivalry that afforded Morgana a form of reckless bravery to match his.

Accepting an apple from Lancelot, Arthur settled back against the wall and watched the sun track its slow course across the sky.

Merlin had waited until he was sure they had gone. It hadn't been hard to put Gwen to sleep - she was exhausted anyway, from the worry over his health and the excitement at his return and the horror of his condition. Just a breath, a mere exhalation, and she had slumped in the armchair at the side of his bed, completely out for the count. He ignored the slight twinge of guilt in his gut, and slipped out of the house.

His hood fell far enough over his forehead to disguise his face, but he had forgotted to put on any shoes. The chill of the damp pavement seeped into his bones, and Merlin found himself forced to stop more than once to force the bloodflow to return to his feet. He was tired, so tired, but he had to go. For Arthur's sake. He remembered that much.

It took him longer than he remembered to get to the passage that would lead him down. He wasn't sure whether that was because he had remembered it wrong, or because his feet were numb and blue and bleeding, and he was limping. It didn't matter. He followed it down.

There were so many stairs. Merlin was grateful that he was going down them, rather than in the opposite direction, but he still had to pause at many intervals to lean against the wall and prevent himself from merely tumbling head over heels down them. He chose not to think how he was going to get back out.

Eventually, he reached the bottom. His mind shied from the comparisons between this place and that place; the track marks at his elbows throbbed at the memory, and he almost turned back, almost fled from that place, exhausted or not, but for the pressing urgency of something... He couldn't quite reach it; the thought skittered and danced around his mind like a damn moth; fluttering into view for a moment before disappearing again.

"Merlin."

The voice was deep, and ancient, and Merlin felt it more through the stone floor beneath his bare feet and vibrating in his bones than he did with his ears. He followed the voice - it seemed to know what it was talking about.

It was very dark this deep. Merlin considered striking a light, but something advised him against it. Besides, he could see a glimmer of warm, golden light just around the corner, in the same direction that the voice was leading him. Calmly, blindly, Merlin followed it.

"Merlin."

He stood in the well-lit, cavernous room, facing the solidly-built black man reclining before him. He didn't fail to notice the fetter locked to his right foot. Merlin smiled.

"Hello, Hen Ddyn."

The Dragon looked back at him, and the returning smile was all sharp, pointed teeth, and no affection or humour.

"What brings you back, Merlin? I thought you were 'through with me'."

Merlin swayed slightly on his feet, a rush of pleasant dizziness accompanying the wave of tiredness washing over him.

"It has been a long time, Hen Ddyn. We are allowed to change our minds."

"Indeed," mused the Dragon, regarding the young warlock through half-closed eyes. "And yet you do not come to me to make amends for your behaviour." Merlin returned the Dragon's gaze steadily and blithey, and he detected a flicker of amusement and anger in the other's eyes. "So. Why are you here, Merlin?"

"It's Arthur."

"Ah, yes. Of course." The Dragon stretched lazily, the fetter clacking. Merlin caught sight of scales on the skin bordering it. "The young princeling. What seems to be the problem this time?"

"He has gone to kill Uther, on my behalf. I did not wish him to go."

The Dragon clicked his tongue. "No, indeed. The death of the king was your task, Merlin."

"Yes." Merlin blinked and forced himself to focus. He would not sleep, not here. Here was a dangerous place to drop his guard. The Dragon was watching him with something akin to hunger, and it turned Merlin's stomach. "That is why I am here."

"You do not believe the boy up to the task."

"He will kill Uther." The absolution in Merlin's voice seemed to amuse the Dragon somewhat. "Of that there is no doubt. However, some may try to raise him."

The Dragon smiled nastily again, flashing his teeth. No matter how good the disguise was, he always ended up with pointed teeth. Merlin wondered whether that was a benevolence on the part of the Creator, or whether the Dragon was merely too vain or too weak to remove that essential part of his personality. "And where, little warlock, would they get that power? Uther's necromancers are not that powerful, even were they to work in tangent. Which they will not."

"No," agreed Merlin. "They will use me."

The Dragon looked very carefully at Merlin, before standing to move closer to the warlock, to breath foul-tasting magic in his face. "I am not going to kill you, little warlock. Not even the fate of your precious princeling can make me do that. However," he added, as Merlin dug deep to summon enough magic to enfuriate him, to make the Dragon kill him, "I will keep Uther's body. None shall raise him whilst it is under my charge."

Merlin studied the man in front of him, seeing the swirls of ancient magic that made up the conceit of his current form. "Deal," he said eventually, and turned to leave.

"Merlin," the Dragon called after him. "What guarantee do I have of your promise?"

Merlin turned his head, slightly, so that he could see the Dragon returned to his chair. He glanced down at the floor, where bloody footprints marked his presence. "You have my blood," he replied, smile tugging the corners of his mouth. Feeling better than he had on the way down, Merlin began the long climb back to the surface, the hissing laugh of the Dragon echoing in his head.

It was high noon. The perfect time to begin a murder.

Arthur hoisted himself upright and began the climb back down the shadowed side of the building, moving as soft and quiet as a cat. Morgana landed neatly beside him, and Lancelot a moment later. Together, they stalked through the streets of Camelot, heading towards the mansion at the centre.

Well. Maybe stalked was not the best way to put it. Due to the necessity of blending in, the threesome had changed on the roof into clothes more suited to the upper town of Camelot. Arthur pulled the sleeves of his shirt straight under his blazer as Lancelot shrugged into his overcoat. Morgana was in heels. Arthur had no clue how she was planning on running. Maybe she wasn't.

It wasn't difficult to recall the old air of superiority as they walked up the hill towards the city centre. The midday crowds parted unconsciously before them, Arthur in the lead, and the familiarity of it all was easy to slip back into. A small voice at the back of his head told him that it would probably be a good idea not to stand out so much, but that was quelled by the tenuous knowledge that he looked rather different now that he had when he was last seen walking these streets. No one was going to recognise him.

Unlike three days ago, the walls surrounding the mansion were heavily - if surrepticiously - guarded. Arthur and Morgana knew how it worked, and they both knew that getting in through the secret gate was not going to be feasible this time around. However, Morgana 'had it under control'. Whatever that meant.

"Here." She gripped Arthur's hand vice-like, and he winced at her. She merely smirked in return and took Lancelot’s hand in a similar fashion. Checking swiftly for guards, Morgana glanced up at the two men on either side of her. "Do you trust me?" Lancelot immediately confirmed this, as Arthur shrugged one shoulder with a non-committal, "well..." Morgana ignored him, and dragged them forward at a run. Arthur followed mainly because Morgana was fucking strong, despite his attempts not to hit the wall they were heading for. They collided with it, and Arthur twisted to the side to protect his head...

And then they were through. Somewhere. Arthur blinked and rubbed his hand absentmindedly when Morgana released him. They were, by some strange force of nature, inside the mansion. Morgana was breathing heavily, and pulling a smoking ring off her finger. Arthur hadn't even noticed she was wearing one.

"What?" she said, when she caught his look. "You're the only one who's allowed to have friends who can do magic?" Arthur rolled his eyes, touched Lancelot’s shoulder and they separated, the men going one way, Morgana the other. He wished her luck, silently, but didn't look back. If everything went to plan, their paths should not cross until after this was all over. If I get that far, murmured that small voice at the back of Arthur's mind. He pushed it down, and lead Lancelot on through the building that was once his home.

part three