Arcane Asylum 2/16
Aug. 9th, 2010 04:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
new_kateTitle: Arcane Asylum
Fandom: Merlin BBC
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin and a bunch of less true pairings mentioned in the flashbacks.
Rating: NC-17 (R for this part)
Warnings for this part: violence, deaths of minor characters.
Summary: Originally written for this prompt at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
kinkme_merlin Arthur/Merlin, modern prison AU. Uther is the notorious warden of a prison for magic users. When Nimeuh frames Arthur for a magical crime, he's sent down for it. Being pretty, blonde and the hated warden's son makes him a prime target and everyone wants to make him their prison bitch. Luckily he catches the eye of mysterious topdog!Merlin who takes him under his wing... Bonus points for everyone being terrified of Merlin and Arthur being all indignant about needing "protection".
Betaed by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
devikun
Word count: 4.6K for this part.
Part 1
Part 2: Changes
There was a time when Uther Pendragon barely knew anything about magic.
He knew his history, of course. He never liked history, and was quite crushed when he was told, at the age of eleven, that it was an essential discipline for anyone aiming to go into politics. But he was good with names, facts and numbers, as he had to be, if he wanted to get anywhere. And so he studied, passed tests, and wrote the kind of papers his teachers had expected to read. The papers that agreed that history was made by the slow, tidal changes in the society, brought on by combination of multiple factors – religion, technology, economy. That history wasn't made by people – that it didn’t take just one man's will and vision to turn the tide, if desired or necessary.
Thus, he knew about the early cults and their part in cultural and military developments, and about the unification of the Old Religion, and about the great post-Roman Purges, and the role of magic in the Saxon invasions. He remembered the names of the most prominent court sorcerers of the Middle Ages, even though he never put much effort into learning what each of them had become famous for. He studied the Forty-Years Arcane War and diligently attempted to understand its logic. Of course, like many others before and after him, he eventually gave up and memorised the timeline from his textbook, even though it made no sense whatsoever.
"We only have the outside account of it, of course," said his professor apologetically. "The magic community isn't exactly forthcoming. What we are looking at is, essentially, only the history of collateral damage we took. We can only guess at what really happened - the working theory is that certain parts of the war might have occurred backwards in time."
Somewhere around the Age of Discoveries the Old Religion quietly faded from the history books into complete oblivion. There were the druids, and their passionate on-again, off-again love-hate affair with the Green Party, which was endlessly entertaining and often politically useful. But nobody quite knew if the druids were still part of the Old Religion, or even if they ever truly were. When they weren't wringing their hands for the cameras, screaming about the Balance of Nature and crimes against the Earth, they weren't exactly forthcoming either.
The woman in the visitor's chair hadn't said a word after greeting him. She sat there, looking utterly comfortable in her stiff, frozen posture, and looked into his eyes. She was young, striking, extravagantly dressed. Not what he'd expected at all.
"So you're saying you represent the Old Religion," he said. He wasn't entirely sure what made him agree to see her. She didn't even give her last name - his aide had only shown him the letter as a joke, with no intention of actually making an appointment.
"I am the High Priestess," she said. He couldn't tell if that was yes or a no.
"Can you present any credentials?" he asked, and she smiled, slowly, widely, with genuine amusement. Her lips were very red. It must have been lipstick, of course; what else could it be.
"I could," she said. "Do I need to?"
The deep blue of her eyes seemed to be darkening, turning into inky, stormy purple. There was something in the room with them, singing in the still air of his office, some presence, leashed and restrained, just waiting to come forth. Uther felt sweat break out on his back, soaking his shirt.
"No," he said quickly. "But nobody has heard of the Old Religion in centuries. I had no reason to believe it even still existed."
"The Old Religion is the force that binds together the elements of this world," she said. Her voice bounced off the walls, as if the room was much bigger than in was. "It's very much alive. Magic is the spirit of the land, and it goes where it will, as it shall always. But I know what's troubling you. Yes - we've stayed away from the public eye for a very long time. It was decided to have been necessary."
"Why?"
She gave him a smile that could be considered patronising, if it wasn't so alluring.
"In a darker age, at the dawn of time, magic was one of the very few weapons we had against the hostile world. Back then the Old Religion nurtured the young race of men. We fought disease and pestilence, warded off natural disasters, culled the predators, nourished barren lands to fertility, gathered and passed on lore and knowledge."
He briefly imagined his visitor in a furry bikini, throwing fireballs at a mammoth. Thanks to years of practising his game face, he was certain his amusement didn't show.
"But as a child needs nurturing care of a parent, an adult needs to learn to stand and live on their own. We recognised that, and we stepped aside to let the people flourish to their full potential, instead of stifling them. We left the courts of kings, and closed off our places of power. We spent all that time in contemplation, honing our craft, no longer meddling in the affairs of the world."
"Well, the druids certainly remained politically active."
"The druids serve the balance. They do what must be done at any given time. Back in the day, when there was a sorcerer beside every throne, the druids were hermits, forest-bound. They had no dealings outside their circle. It was only a short time ago when they stirred from their slumber - a few decades at most, perhaps? If they are compelled to act in any way, the balance must require it."
"So they aren't a part of your denomination?"
She laughed.
"I suppose that's one way of putting it. They are my kin, but they don't answer to me, or anyone and anything apart from the balance. Nor are they free to exercise their powers outside of their purpose. They simply are, like the moon and the wind. We, me and you, are different. We have the will to use our power."
Now she was finally getting to the point. He leant forward in his chair, indicating avid interest. She inclined her head conspiratorially, letting thick locks of hair slide down her milky-white shoulders.
"Now, in this day and age, the humanity needs not rely on Magic for survival. Modern medicine, science and technology can fight off for most everyday perils, and the new religions provide solace and ritual for those in need. Now, finally, the Old Religion and the people of the land can reunite and stand together, not as a charge and a caretaker, but as equals. Now, then we have risen above the constant battle for survival, we can reach for higher goals."
"Such as?" he asked.
"I think my goals are the same as yours, Uther," she said, and he didn't have it in him to bristle at the familiarity. "We both want what's best for our people and our land. And we both want to spread our wings and do all the things we're capable of. And we're, each in our own way, very capable people."
She was good. Under different circumstances he might have considered hiring her.
"But let's not rush things," she said, smoothing her dress over her knees. "All I want for now is for us to become friends. If my people are to return to the world, we need to start forging connections. Just think of it as - lobby, is that right? You'll have our support, and we'll have your ear."
"Why me?" he asked. The talk inside the Party was that he was "a done deal", "in the bag", but the election was still very far away, and the odds seemed uncertain. She could have just easily gone to the opposition.
"Let's say, we read it in chicken entrails," she laughed heartily. "And now, having met you, I can see that the signs were true. Things are about to change, and you're in the centre of it all. You are marked for great things, Uther."
If he didn't know she was working him, he'd have thought he was being seduced. Then again, those weren't mutually exclusive.
"Perhaps, as a gesture of good will, I could grant you some small favour," she said. "I'd like to give you a little taste of what can be. What does your heart desire, Uther?"
For one moment he got carried away with his current train of thought. But temptation never lasted long. His heart was well and truly taken, and he submitted to the fact that he was, as his friends put it, completely pussy-whipped. The fact that all of him belonged to one woman forever didn't make him less of a man.
But as he thought of Igraine he thought of her tears this morning, when he found her in the bathroom, staring down at her bloodied nightshirt. The fertility treatments weren't working. Every month brought another lost hope, and they had too many years of those months already behind them.
"Perhaps," he said. "I might have something in mind."
For every life drawn by magic into being, there was a price to pay. Magic went where it wanted and took what it needed, whatever was nearby to take and ripe for the taking. A fertilised egg, just grappling for its place in the womb. A body ravaged by age, with life barely sparkling inside. A tortured soul on the edge of a precipice, one little push. Any of that would do, and the world would keep turning, no poorer for it. And most of the time, nobody would even notice. There was no need for Nimueh to tell the Pendragons about any of this.
Of course, what magic truly hungered for was a sacrifice. Magic would take what it needed, but it would never not take what it was freely offered.
"I want this child more than my life," Igraine said. Nimueh flinched and lifted her hand from the woman's belly.
"You don't mean that," she said. "Don't say things like that lightly."
But by then it was already too late.
"Well," said Gorlois. "Just in case you were wondering. We won the election."
He was probably in shock. They were both, most likely, in shock.
"It's a landslide," he continued, wandering around the room, poking at the bodies with his feet. "Nothing like the polls predicted. But the papers are out, so. Everybody knows about Igraine."
"They can shove their pity votes up their arses."
"You're stepping down, then?"
Uther started laughing, and recognised right away that it was a mistake. Now he couldn't stop, cringing at the sheer wrongness of it, rocking back and forth against the wall he sat at, and tears were streaming down his face and dripping on the bloodied floor.
"I think I might, old chap. I think that might be a good idea."
"Who are they, anyway?" Gorlois finally asked.
"Priests. Nimueh's entourage. I've seen them before. Except for that one. He's new."
There were three dead bodies in the room, and not even a drop of her blood. The bullets simply melted as they reached her. Maybe if he had something better than a handgun...
"So you burst in and shot them all," said Gorlois again.
"Yes."
"And then she left, unharmed."
"Yes."
"Well," said Gorlois, "Right. Well, you did the right thing to call me. We can take care of this."
"She killed her, Gorlois. She killed Igraine. Whatever she did to her - it killed my wife."
"Uther, Igraine died in childbirth," said Gorlois in that special voice reserved for talking to small children and psychopaths.
"I was there, I saw it. It was magic. As soon as they pulled the baby out, this - light, it rose up and it took her, before she could see her child, it took her..."
His gun was empty, and he didn't have any more ammunition, just that one clip he had hidden in his study. A highly illegal keepsake of his time in the army. If the gun wasn't empty - but no. He wouldn't give up so easily. He had a reason to live. He remembered.
Nimueh had been unharmed, and she had him pinned against the wall, and he was writhing there, helpless, howling in rage and despair. He was mad with it. His mind was a perfect blank, apart from one intent. He had to kill her. He had to make her suffer, and then he had to kill her.
She told him that it wasn't his destiny to die by her hand. He struggled, not understanding a word, putting all he had into trying to reach for her. He would tear her apart with his bare hands, rend her flesh with his fingers. He had to kill her.
"We'll make this all go away," said Gorlois, as always visibly pulling himself together as he started to work on a problem.
"It was murder," said Uther. "In fact, it was a political assassination. She killed my wife, and she has to pay."
They made the bodies disappear. There were no witnesses. Nimueh liked to stay outside the city when she came to see him, in old abandoned buildings. He suspected they might be the "places of power" she liked to talk about. Not that it did her priests any good.
The hospital staff gave their statements corroborating his, and Nimueh was wanted for murder. She'd gone to the ground, as he expected she would. Even if she would have accused him of the attack it would be a word of a wanted murderer against his, and no evidence to back her up. But he knew she was too proud to seek help in his world's laws. She would hide and wait for this storm to pass, and she could wait centuries. She'd done it before.
He had to take down her support system. The Old Religion was sheltering her. To get to her they had to go through her cult first. That was going to take years, but it could be done. He stepped down, as he planned, and let the Party pick the man for the job, citing bereavement. His old, less public position would give him more freedom to concentrate on his goals, and still more than enough power to achieve them.
"The hospital called again, sir," said his secretary.
"Some problem with the statements?"
"No, sir. They're asking when you'll be taking Arthur home."
It took him an effort to remember who Arthur was.
"Ah, yes. Make arrangements, please," he said. "No expenses spared. A wet nurse is required, I presume."
He had a great deal to learn about the enemy, and very little opportunity to do it. They were doing all they could, pushing new bills through relentlessly, working the public opinion, but the legal machine needed time to work. For now the sorcerers were hidden amongst his people, enjoying the same civil rights as them, protected and untouchable. Snatching away their children to brainwash them and train them in their ways. Laughing at him behind his back.
He knew this much by now: magic needed to be taught. He went to see some people who were touched by it, but didn't get pulled into the net of the Old Religion for whatever reason, and were never trained. They were drooling quietly on their straightjackets, when they weren't screaming their heads off. Make it stop, make the fire stop, make the dreams stop. They didn't know it yet, but they would be the lucky ones when he was through.
Magic needed to be taught. That meant every sorcerer had a teacher, and their teacher had been taught by someone before. They were all connected to each other, and if you could get a hook into one of them you could unravel the net, student from teacher, down to the very source.
But first he had to put them outside the protection of the law. He needed to expose them as the criminals they were, as a real and immediate threat. Then they could be apprehended and questioned. Some of them would turn back on their ways, repent, recant and escape justice, but that was fine. With every disciple abandoning their cause the Old Religion would get weaker.
Sometimes, in rare respite from work, Uther imagined himself an anti-sorcerer, conjuring up new laws like hungering spectral beasts. They would eventually grow into power and take on the life of their own, and set off on their hunt, relentless, unstoppable. But it was taking so much time, and he was growing restless.
"I'm going to re-enlist," he told Golrois. "A tour of duty would do me a world of good. Things here are set in motion, I'm not needed for now."
"What about Arthur?"
"Well, obviously he'll stay here, he's a baby. I suppose I need to make some sort of additional arrangements with the nurses."
"No, don't. We'll take him. Now that Morgana is toddling the old lady's getting broody again, she'd love that."
"That's great, that's very good of you both," he said. "I don't think I'm going with RAF. What I need is a land war."
It was exactly what he needed.
Back home, in safe and steady life, the sorcerers had every opportunity to stay hidden, wolves between the fat, sleepy sheep. Here they were no safer than anyone caught in the crossfire, and the war drew them out in the open with cruel efficiency.
He saw a woman run across the road, mindless of the bullets kicking up dust around her feet, to reach a small child trapped between lines of fire. She grabbed his hand and they both disappeared into thin air.
He saw a slight man raise a wall of sand with the wave of his hand. The sand rolled down the road, straight at them, roaring like a living thing, and swallowed two tanks whole. The warlock went down when shot, just like a normal person.
He saw a frail old crone, swathed in layers of cloth, trot across the minefield. They yelled and waved at her to turn back, but she kept going. They heard the mine go off, and threw themselves down to escape the blast wave, but there was nothing. They got up to see the old woman crouching over the mine, and a glowing ball at her feet. The explosion was trapped inside it, frozen, a sea of fire in a snow globe. The woman pushed the ball with her foot, and it sank into the ground, and she walked away while they stared.
He saw a girl sitting on the ground by a tent in the camp, surrounded by soldiers. The men sprang to attention as he walked closer.
"Sir no sir, no funny business," said the one he questioned. "Girl's hustling is all. Palm-reader. Reckon no harm in that, sir."
They did allow the locals into the camp, to trade and as a show of good will, to garner some support. He ordered the men at ease. The girl looked up at him, unafraid and smiling. She was holding the hand of one of the soldiers when he arrived, and now she took it again and muttered something under her breath.
"Your fate," she said. "A pretty woman, yes? Orange hair. Name Laura."
"Fuck me," said the soldier. "How can she know the name? Man, this is a trip! All right, so is she waiting for me or what?"
"Yes, yes," the girl said. "Your fate. Two girls, one boy. All orange hair."
The man laughed, looking equal parts stunned and delighted.
"Guess I better propose then," he said. "Three kids! Guess I better start saving up, too."
"Me, me," said another soldier, handing the girl some coins, and pushed his palm at her.
"Your fate," she said, tracing the lines with her fingertips. She looked like a seasoned entertainer, enjoying the attention and their excitement. "A book, yes? People read, you famous."
"I'm gonna get published!" yelled the man. "Take that, cuntfaces! I tried last year, but they turned me down."
"What's it about then, the war?" asked someone.
"Flowers," announced the girl. "How to grow."
"Shut up!" the man said, blushing as everyone laughed. "There's a lot of dough in popular horticulture, all right?"
"Me, do me," said another one. She took the money, touched his palm and winced.
"Your fate," she said with a wide fixed smile. "Big hero. Medal."
"Sweet, man! Anything else? Women, money?"
"Can't see," she said, hiding her eyes. "Just medal."
"Enough of that," Uther said. "Run along now, young lady."
He caught up with her far outside the camp, not too close to the village. She stopped when he called out and ran back to him.
"Say your fate, yes?" she said, eager to make more money. He tossed her whatever coins were rattling in his pocket, and let her take his hand.
At the first touch her smiling face turned sickly pale; she made to run, but he grabbed her wrist and she tumbled into the dust by his feet, too terrified to struggle.
"No, no, please," she stuttered, her face already wet with tears.
"Say it," he demanded.
"Your fate," she said, sobbing. "You kill me."
"Can fate be changed?"
She looked up at him, clinging to that shred of hope.
"Yes," she said with a wide, fake fixed smile. "Yes!"
"I think you're lying," he said. "But let's try. Tell me who taught you magic, and we'll see what happens to my fate."
Many days later, many faces later, he was on the edge of a cliff, at the end of his pursuit, and an old man with jet-black eyes was looking at him, muttering something under his breath.
"If I kill you now, many lives will be spared," he said.
"Do it then," said Uther, straining against the spell. "Kill me. Finish it."
"It's not my place to gift life and death," said the old man. "It's not your destiny to die by my hand."
He wasn't speaking English. His lips weren't even moving – his voice sounded inside Uther's head, invasive and expressionless.
"I could bind you here, forever. I could purge your mind and render your harmless. I could turn this around, here and now. But we both must serve our purpose, and it's not our place to presume otherwise."
"Changes are coming," he continued, and now he sounded like two voices twisting together in Uther's mind, talking over each other. "Magic is returning to the world."
"No. I will stop you. I will end you all."
"Nothing can stop it now. Not even you, dragon slayer. You will live through it all, and before the end you'll see your world in ruins. You will see everything you have taken from you."
"That is already done," he said. "I have nothing left."
The man closed his eyes for a moment.
"Then you are lucky. I wouldn't wish for a destiny like yours. But I thank you."
"For what?"
"The magic," said the man, in a croaking, heavily accented voice, his real voice. "It's coming."
He whipped his arms into the air and threw himself backwards off the edge of the cliff. As he fell, still looking up into Uther's eyes, his fingers grew longer, longer, till each was as long as his forearm, his face narrowed, his flat nose sharpening to a point, his clothes fell apart, into thousands of long shapes clinging to his skin. The change lasted only seconds, and then a black-eyed bird beat its wings and rose in the air, far overhead, not sparing him another glance.
He was freed of the spell. He had come as far as he could here, and he had learned a lot. There was work to be done back home.
"You look better," Gorlois said.
"Thank you. I feel better. You've done wonderfully, all of you. The ban on the Old Religion seems a done deal."
"Well, those freaks themselves really helped, when they blew up the inspectors we'd sent. Didn't at all like us heathens touching their magic stones."
"You warned me about them from the start, old friend," Uther said, stopping to squeeze Gorlois's shoulder. "I should have listened. They weren't to be trusted."
"She was useful, though," said Gorlois. "Back before... Wasn't anything she couldn't do, if we asked for it."
"They are powerful. That's what makes them so dangerous. They don't forget, either, and they don't forgive. We can't turn back now. It's war."
"Well, so far we're winning by a wide margin."
They walked to the gates side by side. There was a small dark-haired girl in the front garden, doing something to the rose bush with what looked like a pen knife.
"Daddy!" she yelled joyfully, waving, and hid the knife behind her back as an afterthought. Then she saw Uther and backed toward the house, suddenly shy, or scared.
"This is Arthur's father, Morgana," Gorlois said. "Go get him for us, will you, sweetheart?"
She nodded fast, too many times, and ran into the back garden, her skirts swinging above her skinned knees.
"She's so... big," said Uther, a little confused. Last time he saw Morgana she was swathed in pink and ivory lace, her tiny face barely peeking through the ruffles of her bonnet. Back then she looked like a collectible Victorian doll, or perhaps a walking over-frosted cake. She hadn't even been quite walking yet, just waddling unsteadily on her chubby legs.
"It's been a while, you know."
There was a loud crash that sounded like a bunch of flower pots sent flying, a rustle in the bushes, and a little boy tumbled out on the path, nearly crashing into Uther's knees.
Uther had seen him before, of course, the nurses were annoyingly persistent about it. He remembered his son as something oddly shaped, red and screaming, that one day was going to grow into a man.
The boy was standing there, round-eyed, staring at him intently. He didn't look like – Uther couldn't see any family resemblance to either of them yet. The boy's fair hair wasn't golden but ashen blond, nearly white, sure to change colour yet. His face was soft and round, nothing yet to hint at his father's sharp features or delicate fine-boned beauty of his mother. Only his eyes – deep blue, with the slight upwards tilt to their corners that made them exotic, catlike, but only if you really looked, – were her eyes.
Somehow until this moment he hadn't quite realised that it had happened, the miracle he and Igraine were hoping for. Here he was, this boy, with a scratch across his nose and fresh garden dirt all over his playsuit - this was Arthur Pendragon, his first-born, his heir. Their son.
"Hello, Arthur," he said, feeling incredibly awkward, conscious that he shouldn't reach out, or let his voice falter, or do anything that might confuse and distress the child. "It's me, your father."
The boy smiled uncertainly, stepped closer, as if considering a hug, and wavered there, lifting his little hands and dropping them again, staring up at him with the mixture of desperate longing and – almost fear. His eyes quickly welled with tears, and his lower lip began to tremble.
"Don't cry, Arthur," said Uther, fast, before it could become unbearable for them both, and schooled his own face into stillness. "You're a Pendragon. We don't cry."
Next part
Fandom: Merlin BBC
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin and a bunch of less true pairings mentioned in the flashbacks.
Rating: NC-17 (R for this part)
Warnings for this part: violence, deaths of minor characters.
Summary: Originally written for this prompt at
kinkme_merlin Arthur/Merlin, modern prison AU. Uther is the notorious warden of a prison for magic users. When Nimeuh frames Arthur for a magical crime, he's sent down for it. Being pretty, blonde and the hated warden's son makes him a prime target and everyone wants to make him their prison bitch. Luckily he catches the eye of mysterious topdog!Merlin who takes him under his wing... Bonus points for everyone being terrified of Merlin and Arthur being all indignant about needing "protection". Betaed by
devikunWord count: 4.6K for this part.
Part 1
Part 2: Changes
There was a time when Uther Pendragon barely knew anything about magic.
He knew his history, of course. He never liked history, and was quite crushed when he was told, at the age of eleven, that it was an essential discipline for anyone aiming to go into politics. But he was good with names, facts and numbers, as he had to be, if he wanted to get anywhere. And so he studied, passed tests, and wrote the kind of papers his teachers had expected to read. The papers that agreed that history was made by the slow, tidal changes in the society, brought on by combination of multiple factors – religion, technology, economy. That history wasn't made by people – that it didn’t take just one man's will and vision to turn the tide, if desired or necessary.
Thus, he knew about the early cults and their part in cultural and military developments, and about the unification of the Old Religion, and about the great post-Roman Purges, and the role of magic in the Saxon invasions. He remembered the names of the most prominent court sorcerers of the Middle Ages, even though he never put much effort into learning what each of them had become famous for. He studied the Forty-Years Arcane War and diligently attempted to understand its logic. Of course, like many others before and after him, he eventually gave up and memorised the timeline from his textbook, even though it made no sense whatsoever.
"We only have the outside account of it, of course," said his professor apologetically. "The magic community isn't exactly forthcoming. What we are looking at is, essentially, only the history of collateral damage we took. We can only guess at what really happened - the working theory is that certain parts of the war might have occurred backwards in time."
Somewhere around the Age of Discoveries the Old Religion quietly faded from the history books into complete oblivion. There were the druids, and their passionate on-again, off-again love-hate affair with the Green Party, which was endlessly entertaining and often politically useful. But nobody quite knew if the druids were still part of the Old Religion, or even if they ever truly were. When they weren't wringing their hands for the cameras, screaming about the Balance of Nature and crimes against the Earth, they weren't exactly forthcoming either.
The woman in the visitor's chair hadn't said a word after greeting him. She sat there, looking utterly comfortable in her stiff, frozen posture, and looked into his eyes. She was young, striking, extravagantly dressed. Not what he'd expected at all.
"So you're saying you represent the Old Religion," he said. He wasn't entirely sure what made him agree to see her. She didn't even give her last name - his aide had only shown him the letter as a joke, with no intention of actually making an appointment.
"I am the High Priestess," she said. He couldn't tell if that was yes or a no.
"Can you present any credentials?" he asked, and she smiled, slowly, widely, with genuine amusement. Her lips were very red. It must have been lipstick, of course; what else could it be.
"I could," she said. "Do I need to?"
The deep blue of her eyes seemed to be darkening, turning into inky, stormy purple. There was something in the room with them, singing in the still air of his office, some presence, leashed and restrained, just waiting to come forth. Uther felt sweat break out on his back, soaking his shirt.
"No," he said quickly. "But nobody has heard of the Old Religion in centuries. I had no reason to believe it even still existed."
"The Old Religion is the force that binds together the elements of this world," she said. Her voice bounced off the walls, as if the room was much bigger than in was. "It's very much alive. Magic is the spirit of the land, and it goes where it will, as it shall always. But I know what's troubling you. Yes - we've stayed away from the public eye for a very long time. It was decided to have been necessary."
"Why?"
She gave him a smile that could be considered patronising, if it wasn't so alluring.
"In a darker age, at the dawn of time, magic was one of the very few weapons we had against the hostile world. Back then the Old Religion nurtured the young race of men. We fought disease and pestilence, warded off natural disasters, culled the predators, nourished barren lands to fertility, gathered and passed on lore and knowledge."
He briefly imagined his visitor in a furry bikini, throwing fireballs at a mammoth. Thanks to years of practising his game face, he was certain his amusement didn't show.
"But as a child needs nurturing care of a parent, an adult needs to learn to stand and live on their own. We recognised that, and we stepped aside to let the people flourish to their full potential, instead of stifling them. We left the courts of kings, and closed off our places of power. We spent all that time in contemplation, honing our craft, no longer meddling in the affairs of the world."
"Well, the druids certainly remained politically active."
"The druids serve the balance. They do what must be done at any given time. Back in the day, when there was a sorcerer beside every throne, the druids were hermits, forest-bound. They had no dealings outside their circle. It was only a short time ago when they stirred from their slumber - a few decades at most, perhaps? If they are compelled to act in any way, the balance must require it."
"So they aren't a part of your denomination?"
She laughed.
"I suppose that's one way of putting it. They are my kin, but they don't answer to me, or anyone and anything apart from the balance. Nor are they free to exercise their powers outside of their purpose. They simply are, like the moon and the wind. We, me and you, are different. We have the will to use our power."
Now she was finally getting to the point. He leant forward in his chair, indicating avid interest. She inclined her head conspiratorially, letting thick locks of hair slide down her milky-white shoulders.
"Now, in this day and age, the humanity needs not rely on Magic for survival. Modern medicine, science and technology can fight off for most everyday perils, and the new religions provide solace and ritual for those in need. Now, finally, the Old Religion and the people of the land can reunite and stand together, not as a charge and a caretaker, but as equals. Now, then we have risen above the constant battle for survival, we can reach for higher goals."
"Such as?" he asked.
"I think my goals are the same as yours, Uther," she said, and he didn't have it in him to bristle at the familiarity. "We both want what's best for our people and our land. And we both want to spread our wings and do all the things we're capable of. And we're, each in our own way, very capable people."
She was good. Under different circumstances he might have considered hiring her.
"But let's not rush things," she said, smoothing her dress over her knees. "All I want for now is for us to become friends. If my people are to return to the world, we need to start forging connections. Just think of it as - lobby, is that right? You'll have our support, and we'll have your ear."
"Why me?" he asked. The talk inside the Party was that he was "a done deal", "in the bag", but the election was still very far away, and the odds seemed uncertain. She could have just easily gone to the opposition.
"Let's say, we read it in chicken entrails," she laughed heartily. "And now, having met you, I can see that the signs were true. Things are about to change, and you're in the centre of it all. You are marked for great things, Uther."
If he didn't know she was working him, he'd have thought he was being seduced. Then again, those weren't mutually exclusive.
"Perhaps, as a gesture of good will, I could grant you some small favour," she said. "I'd like to give you a little taste of what can be. What does your heart desire, Uther?"
For one moment he got carried away with his current train of thought. But temptation never lasted long. His heart was well and truly taken, and he submitted to the fact that he was, as his friends put it, completely pussy-whipped. The fact that all of him belonged to one woman forever didn't make him less of a man.
But as he thought of Igraine he thought of her tears this morning, when he found her in the bathroom, staring down at her bloodied nightshirt. The fertility treatments weren't working. Every month brought another lost hope, and they had too many years of those months already behind them.
"Perhaps," he said. "I might have something in mind."
For every life drawn by magic into being, there was a price to pay. Magic went where it wanted and took what it needed, whatever was nearby to take and ripe for the taking. A fertilised egg, just grappling for its place in the womb. A body ravaged by age, with life barely sparkling inside. A tortured soul on the edge of a precipice, one little push. Any of that would do, and the world would keep turning, no poorer for it. And most of the time, nobody would even notice. There was no need for Nimueh to tell the Pendragons about any of this.
Of course, what magic truly hungered for was a sacrifice. Magic would take what it needed, but it would never not take what it was freely offered.
"I want this child more than my life," Igraine said. Nimueh flinched and lifted her hand from the woman's belly.
"You don't mean that," she said. "Don't say things like that lightly."
But by then it was already too late.
"Well," said Gorlois. "Just in case you were wondering. We won the election."
He was probably in shock. They were both, most likely, in shock.
"It's a landslide," he continued, wandering around the room, poking at the bodies with his feet. "Nothing like the polls predicted. But the papers are out, so. Everybody knows about Igraine."
"They can shove their pity votes up their arses."
"You're stepping down, then?"
Uther started laughing, and recognised right away that it was a mistake. Now he couldn't stop, cringing at the sheer wrongness of it, rocking back and forth against the wall he sat at, and tears were streaming down his face and dripping on the bloodied floor.
"I think I might, old chap. I think that might be a good idea."
"Who are they, anyway?" Gorlois finally asked.
"Priests. Nimueh's entourage. I've seen them before. Except for that one. He's new."
There were three dead bodies in the room, and not even a drop of her blood. The bullets simply melted as they reached her. Maybe if he had something better than a handgun...
"So you burst in and shot them all," said Gorlois again.
"Yes."
"And then she left, unharmed."
"Yes."
"Well," said Gorlois, "Right. Well, you did the right thing to call me. We can take care of this."
"She killed her, Gorlois. She killed Igraine. Whatever she did to her - it killed my wife."
"Uther, Igraine died in childbirth," said Gorlois in that special voice reserved for talking to small children and psychopaths.
"I was there, I saw it. It was magic. As soon as they pulled the baby out, this - light, it rose up and it took her, before she could see her child, it took her..."
His gun was empty, and he didn't have any more ammunition, just that one clip he had hidden in his study. A highly illegal keepsake of his time in the army. If the gun wasn't empty - but no. He wouldn't give up so easily. He had a reason to live. He remembered.
Nimueh had been unharmed, and she had him pinned against the wall, and he was writhing there, helpless, howling in rage and despair. He was mad with it. His mind was a perfect blank, apart from one intent. He had to kill her. He had to make her suffer, and then he had to kill her.
She told him that it wasn't his destiny to die by her hand. He struggled, not understanding a word, putting all he had into trying to reach for her. He would tear her apart with his bare hands, rend her flesh with his fingers. He had to kill her.
"We'll make this all go away," said Gorlois, as always visibly pulling himself together as he started to work on a problem.
"It was murder," said Uther. "In fact, it was a political assassination. She killed my wife, and she has to pay."
They made the bodies disappear. There were no witnesses. Nimueh liked to stay outside the city when she came to see him, in old abandoned buildings. He suspected they might be the "places of power" she liked to talk about. Not that it did her priests any good.
The hospital staff gave their statements corroborating his, and Nimueh was wanted for murder. She'd gone to the ground, as he expected she would. Even if she would have accused him of the attack it would be a word of a wanted murderer against his, and no evidence to back her up. But he knew she was too proud to seek help in his world's laws. She would hide and wait for this storm to pass, and she could wait centuries. She'd done it before.
He had to take down her support system. The Old Religion was sheltering her. To get to her they had to go through her cult first. That was going to take years, but it could be done. He stepped down, as he planned, and let the Party pick the man for the job, citing bereavement. His old, less public position would give him more freedom to concentrate on his goals, and still more than enough power to achieve them.
"The hospital called again, sir," said his secretary.
"Some problem with the statements?"
"No, sir. They're asking when you'll be taking Arthur home."
It took him an effort to remember who Arthur was.
"Ah, yes. Make arrangements, please," he said. "No expenses spared. A wet nurse is required, I presume."
He had a great deal to learn about the enemy, and very little opportunity to do it. They were doing all they could, pushing new bills through relentlessly, working the public opinion, but the legal machine needed time to work. For now the sorcerers were hidden amongst his people, enjoying the same civil rights as them, protected and untouchable. Snatching away their children to brainwash them and train them in their ways. Laughing at him behind his back.
He knew this much by now: magic needed to be taught. He went to see some people who were touched by it, but didn't get pulled into the net of the Old Religion for whatever reason, and were never trained. They were drooling quietly on their straightjackets, when they weren't screaming their heads off. Make it stop, make the fire stop, make the dreams stop. They didn't know it yet, but they would be the lucky ones when he was through.
Magic needed to be taught. That meant every sorcerer had a teacher, and their teacher had been taught by someone before. They were all connected to each other, and if you could get a hook into one of them you could unravel the net, student from teacher, down to the very source.
But first he had to put them outside the protection of the law. He needed to expose them as the criminals they were, as a real and immediate threat. Then they could be apprehended and questioned. Some of them would turn back on their ways, repent, recant and escape justice, but that was fine. With every disciple abandoning their cause the Old Religion would get weaker.
Sometimes, in rare respite from work, Uther imagined himself an anti-sorcerer, conjuring up new laws like hungering spectral beasts. They would eventually grow into power and take on the life of their own, and set off on their hunt, relentless, unstoppable. But it was taking so much time, and he was growing restless.
"I'm going to re-enlist," he told Golrois. "A tour of duty would do me a world of good. Things here are set in motion, I'm not needed for now."
"What about Arthur?"
"Well, obviously he'll stay here, he's a baby. I suppose I need to make some sort of additional arrangements with the nurses."
"No, don't. We'll take him. Now that Morgana is toddling the old lady's getting broody again, she'd love that."
"That's great, that's very good of you both," he said. "I don't think I'm going with RAF. What I need is a land war."
It was exactly what he needed.
Back home, in safe and steady life, the sorcerers had every opportunity to stay hidden, wolves between the fat, sleepy sheep. Here they were no safer than anyone caught in the crossfire, and the war drew them out in the open with cruel efficiency.
He saw a woman run across the road, mindless of the bullets kicking up dust around her feet, to reach a small child trapped between lines of fire. She grabbed his hand and they both disappeared into thin air.
He saw a slight man raise a wall of sand with the wave of his hand. The sand rolled down the road, straight at them, roaring like a living thing, and swallowed two tanks whole. The warlock went down when shot, just like a normal person.
He saw a frail old crone, swathed in layers of cloth, trot across the minefield. They yelled and waved at her to turn back, but she kept going. They heard the mine go off, and threw themselves down to escape the blast wave, but there was nothing. They got up to see the old woman crouching over the mine, and a glowing ball at her feet. The explosion was trapped inside it, frozen, a sea of fire in a snow globe. The woman pushed the ball with her foot, and it sank into the ground, and she walked away while they stared.
He saw a girl sitting on the ground by a tent in the camp, surrounded by soldiers. The men sprang to attention as he walked closer.
"Sir no sir, no funny business," said the one he questioned. "Girl's hustling is all. Palm-reader. Reckon no harm in that, sir."
They did allow the locals into the camp, to trade and as a show of good will, to garner some support. He ordered the men at ease. The girl looked up at him, unafraid and smiling. She was holding the hand of one of the soldiers when he arrived, and now she took it again and muttered something under her breath.
"Your fate," she said. "A pretty woman, yes? Orange hair. Name Laura."
"Fuck me," said the soldier. "How can she know the name? Man, this is a trip! All right, so is she waiting for me or what?"
"Yes, yes," the girl said. "Your fate. Two girls, one boy. All orange hair."
The man laughed, looking equal parts stunned and delighted.
"Guess I better propose then," he said. "Three kids! Guess I better start saving up, too."
"Me, me," said another soldier, handing the girl some coins, and pushed his palm at her.
"Your fate," she said, tracing the lines with her fingertips. She looked like a seasoned entertainer, enjoying the attention and their excitement. "A book, yes? People read, you famous."
"I'm gonna get published!" yelled the man. "Take that, cuntfaces! I tried last year, but they turned me down."
"What's it about then, the war?" asked someone.
"Flowers," announced the girl. "How to grow."
"Shut up!" the man said, blushing as everyone laughed. "There's a lot of dough in popular horticulture, all right?"
"Me, do me," said another one. She took the money, touched his palm and winced.
"Your fate," she said with a wide fixed smile. "Big hero. Medal."
"Sweet, man! Anything else? Women, money?"
"Can't see," she said, hiding her eyes. "Just medal."
"Enough of that," Uther said. "Run along now, young lady."
He caught up with her far outside the camp, not too close to the village. She stopped when he called out and ran back to him.
"Say your fate, yes?" she said, eager to make more money. He tossed her whatever coins were rattling in his pocket, and let her take his hand.
At the first touch her smiling face turned sickly pale; she made to run, but he grabbed her wrist and she tumbled into the dust by his feet, too terrified to struggle.
"No, no, please," she stuttered, her face already wet with tears.
"Say it," he demanded.
"Your fate," she said, sobbing. "You kill me."
"Can fate be changed?"
She looked up at him, clinging to that shred of hope.
"Yes," she said with a wide, fake fixed smile. "Yes!"
"I think you're lying," he said. "But let's try. Tell me who taught you magic, and we'll see what happens to my fate."
Many days later, many faces later, he was on the edge of a cliff, at the end of his pursuit, and an old man with jet-black eyes was looking at him, muttering something under his breath.
"If I kill you now, many lives will be spared," he said.
"Do it then," said Uther, straining against the spell. "Kill me. Finish it."
"It's not my place to gift life and death," said the old man. "It's not your destiny to die by my hand."
He wasn't speaking English. His lips weren't even moving – his voice sounded inside Uther's head, invasive and expressionless.
"I could bind you here, forever. I could purge your mind and render your harmless. I could turn this around, here and now. But we both must serve our purpose, and it's not our place to presume otherwise."
"Changes are coming," he continued, and now he sounded like two voices twisting together in Uther's mind, talking over each other. "Magic is returning to the world."
"No. I will stop you. I will end you all."
"Nothing can stop it now. Not even you, dragon slayer. You will live through it all, and before the end you'll see your world in ruins. You will see everything you have taken from you."
"That is already done," he said. "I have nothing left."
The man closed his eyes for a moment.
"Then you are lucky. I wouldn't wish for a destiny like yours. But I thank you."
"For what?"
"The magic," said the man, in a croaking, heavily accented voice, his real voice. "It's coming."
He whipped his arms into the air and threw himself backwards off the edge of the cliff. As he fell, still looking up into Uther's eyes, his fingers grew longer, longer, till each was as long as his forearm, his face narrowed, his flat nose sharpening to a point, his clothes fell apart, into thousands of long shapes clinging to his skin. The change lasted only seconds, and then a black-eyed bird beat its wings and rose in the air, far overhead, not sparing him another glance.
He was freed of the spell. He had come as far as he could here, and he had learned a lot. There was work to be done back home.
"You look better," Gorlois said.
"Thank you. I feel better. You've done wonderfully, all of you. The ban on the Old Religion seems a done deal."
"Well, those freaks themselves really helped, when they blew up the inspectors we'd sent. Didn't at all like us heathens touching their magic stones."
"You warned me about them from the start, old friend," Uther said, stopping to squeeze Gorlois's shoulder. "I should have listened. They weren't to be trusted."
"She was useful, though," said Gorlois. "Back before... Wasn't anything she couldn't do, if we asked for it."
"They are powerful. That's what makes them so dangerous. They don't forget, either, and they don't forgive. We can't turn back now. It's war."
"Well, so far we're winning by a wide margin."
They walked to the gates side by side. There was a small dark-haired girl in the front garden, doing something to the rose bush with what looked like a pen knife.
"Daddy!" she yelled joyfully, waving, and hid the knife behind her back as an afterthought. Then she saw Uther and backed toward the house, suddenly shy, or scared.
"This is Arthur's father, Morgana," Gorlois said. "Go get him for us, will you, sweetheart?"
She nodded fast, too many times, and ran into the back garden, her skirts swinging above her skinned knees.
"She's so... big," said Uther, a little confused. Last time he saw Morgana she was swathed in pink and ivory lace, her tiny face barely peeking through the ruffles of her bonnet. Back then she looked like a collectible Victorian doll, or perhaps a walking over-frosted cake. She hadn't even been quite walking yet, just waddling unsteadily on her chubby legs.
"It's been a while, you know."
There was a loud crash that sounded like a bunch of flower pots sent flying, a rustle in the bushes, and a little boy tumbled out on the path, nearly crashing into Uther's knees.
Uther had seen him before, of course, the nurses were annoyingly persistent about it. He remembered his son as something oddly shaped, red and screaming, that one day was going to grow into a man.
The boy was standing there, round-eyed, staring at him intently. He didn't look like – Uther couldn't see any family resemblance to either of them yet. The boy's fair hair wasn't golden but ashen blond, nearly white, sure to change colour yet. His face was soft and round, nothing yet to hint at his father's sharp features or delicate fine-boned beauty of his mother. Only his eyes – deep blue, with the slight upwards tilt to their corners that made them exotic, catlike, but only if you really looked, – were her eyes.
Somehow until this moment he hadn't quite realised that it had happened, the miracle he and Igraine were hoping for. Here he was, this boy, with a scratch across his nose and fresh garden dirt all over his playsuit - this was Arthur Pendragon, his first-born, his heir. Their son.
"Hello, Arthur," he said, feeling incredibly awkward, conscious that he shouldn't reach out, or let his voice falter, or do anything that might confuse and distress the child. "It's me, your father."
The boy smiled uncertainly, stepped closer, as if considering a hug, and wavered there, lifting his little hands and dropping them again, staring up at him with the mixture of desperate longing and – almost fear. His eyes quickly welled with tears, and his lower lip began to tremble.
"Don't cry, Arthur," said Uther, fast, before it could become unbearable for them both, and schooled his own face into stillness. "You're a Pendragon. We don't cry."
Next part
