Arcane Asylum 10/16
Aug. 29th, 2010 09:58 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
Warnings for this part: violence, blood, references to past non-con, minor characters' deaths, defacing of historical monument D:
Summary: Modern AU. For the last twenty two years Uther Pendragon had been waging war on magic. When his son Arthur is framed for a magical crime he's sent to the prison for magic users. He's instantly targeted by the inmates, but mysterious top dog Merlin takes him under his wing. They form a bond, and adventure begins.
Originally written for this prompt at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
kinkme_merlin
Many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
devikun and ghost_guessed for betaing!
Word count: 7K for this part.
First part
Chapter index
Part 10: Blood
For a number of reasons, most having to do with the circumstances of his life and upbringing - or, as his left-leaning friends insisted on calling it, his gender-class privilege - Arthur Pendragon had never had that much exposure to housework.
He'd had chores, such as they were. For as long as he could remember, since before he started school, he had to keep his room tidy, make his bed after getting up and neaten up his clothes before turning in: hang up his blazer, put his shoes on the shoe rack, drop the rest in the laundry basket. Everything else was left to the help. There was no reason why the help couldn't take care of his bed and clothes, too – the chores were just Uther's way of imposing discipline and structure, and were mostly symbolic.
Sometime in his pre-teen years, possibly after being politically influenced by watching Cinderella, he'd felt vaguely guilty about lounging around with a book while an elderly woman scrubbed his floors, washed his dishes and ironed his clothes. It took him days to muster up the courage and conviction to talk to his father about it. It took Uther all of two minutes to explain how much more beneficial it was for society on the whole that they chose to provide work and livelihood to those less fortunate instead of wasting their own valuable time on menial tasks.
And there had been fierce competition every time they had a job opening. Father's aide would pre-select a short-list of CVs, with recommendations and certificates, for him to leaf through and choose half a dozen or so candidates to interview personally. For a maid he would only consider a married woman, preferably in her sixties. When Arthur asked him about that – he was fourteen at the time, still too naïve about too many things – Uther said "This is now for your benefit as much as mine", which creeped him out for a good few days.
But the point was, if frail old women could happily do this for a living, day in and day out, then he certainly wasn't going to back down because it seemed too hard.
Arthur gave a tile another angry swipe with a rag and stepped back to assess the results. The tiles were still covered in whitish streaks of the cleaning solution and the grout between them was spotted black where the fungus stains sank in deep. He was going to try bleaching that later. But on the whole the progress was satisfactory.
Of course, back in the Pendragon household the help was paid handsomely for their efforts, he thought sulkily as he chose the next cluster of tiles to scrub at. And they also received very nice Christmas presents.
Well, he'd assumed the presents were nice. It had been Morgana's job to prepare those. The boxes were always big and beautifully wrapped, in any case.
There had been no Christmas presents for the help last year. He and Uther both simply forgot. When they'd realised, Uther had hastily written out some cheques and they stuffed them into envelopes, and even mostly managed to remember all the names to write on those.
The staff – and he still remembered vividly how insulting it all had been – had the audacity to look disappointed. And he was pretty certain that the value of the presents had never been even close to the generous amounts on those cheques. But then, the whole staff had been quite impossible since February last year. The maid had quit in a huff, and Uther had fired the chauffeur for some imaginary wrongdoing, but the new ones too seemed to absorb the general air of loss and grief hanging about the house, and quickly became just as unhappy and brittle as everyone else. The last year and a half hadn't been easy for anyone, even though they never talked about it. Not once.
He threw the rag back into the bucket, and for one bright moment of gloriously unrestrained anger he wanted to pick the bucket up and smash it against the shower room wall, over and over, till he shattered all the tiles he'd just cleaned.
This wasn't helping. The work was supposed to keep him busy, keep him calm and sane. But instead it left his mind free to wander and go into odd places. He didn't feel any calmer. Now, on top of everything else, he was missing home with painful intensity, and he was almost sick with missing Morgana. She's been gone for so long, a year and a half, and he'd thought he was used to her absence by now. But it felt so raw, like poking at a fresh scrape, exactly like it felt when it had just happened and he had no idea how to handle a world without Morgana in it. This wasn't fair. He wasn't supposed to lose her. He wasn't supposed to end up in here. This wasn't the life he was meant for.
He had to stop this nonsense before he lost it completely. He had to go back to their cell, wake up Merlin if that slacker was still asleep, and demand to be entertained and distracted. Then he could bring Merlin down here and make him clean the showers with magic. He should have done that in the first place. But he was too proud, he wanted to look after himself and do his own thing instead of relying on Merlin for everything. He already relied on him far too much.
It was all pointless, vain and futile, and it would be best to give up and go with the flow. He could go back to the cell, get into bed with Merlin, spoon together, hug his long skinny body close and try to sleep. He could learn to sleep like Merlin: till midday, with an extra nap in the afternoon, oblivious to everything, letting time pass him by in a sweaty, lazy dream haze. They could hibernate through it all together, day after day, like bears in winter. He could let Merlin take care of everything. They could just wait it all out.
He let himself fantasise about it, the way he'd fantasise about dropping out of school and going backpacking around the world forever, or doing a runner just before a game started, so the team couldn't find him in time and would have to replace him. He used to be ashamed of these thoughts when he was a child, but now he was old enough to know it was perfectly normal. It was okay to be scared occasionally.
He bent down to pick up the rag again and halted when he sensed movement behind him.
The inmates who'd been trailing him as usual were leaving the shower room, quietly filing out of the door. Val stood in the doorway, nodding at them distractedly as they brushed past. His narrowed eyes were trained on Arthur, and dark with hatred that was almost like lust.
"Hello, princess," he said as the last of the inmates hurried out. "How's that tight little bumhole? Still sore?"
A few warlocks still loitered in the hallway just outside, probably keeping watch and hoping to get their turn. For all Arthur knew they have timed this to their advantage, they must have checked that Merlin was still asleep, or sent in someone to keep him distracted. This could potentially be very bad. They could very well kill him, right here, in this dirty shower room. But all he could feel right now was the clarity of adrenaline rush, and the relief at least the waiting part of this fight was finally over.
"Thing about Merlin," said Val. "He's just a bleeding heart. He spared your daddy, adopted that creepy little lad, took you under his wing. I bet he doesn't even fuck you. I bet he tells you every night: don't you fret, Arthur, I'm not gonna shove my cock up your bum like those big bad warlocks did. A blowjob would be just fine. Am I right?"
He slowly tilted his head to the side, smiling a cold, nasty smile. It would've looked pretty menacing, if it wasn't so obviously rehearsed in front of the mirror.
"He's got the power, that's true," he carried on. "But he doesn't have the bollocks to follow through. What's he actually going to do when he finds out somebody's been playing with his toy? Because if he doesn't do enough to scare grown men shitless, then, princess, next night you're anybody's."
"Is that a risk you're willing to take?" Arthur asked. He hadn't pegged Val for a risk-taker.
"Risk's much bigger for you, pretty thing. So here's your choices. We can pick up where we left off, and it will be messy and bloody and it'll hurt like a bitch. And it would be just the start of it for you. Everyone will want a go once they see the great and terrible Merlin doesn't have the stomach to put his power to proper use. Or you can do the smart thing, go down on your knees and open your mouth. If you do a good job nobody will get hurt, and we'll keep this our secret."
"I have a counteroffer for you," Arthur said, since there was nothing to lose by trying. He rinsed the suds from his hands under the nearest shower nozzle and stepped sideways to pick up his towel without turning his back on Val. "I seem to recall you saying you wanted a fight. Well, as it happens, I personally would love a good rumble right now. So let's do this. No Merlin, no magic, no flunkies, just you and me, one on one, hand to hand, no rules. If I win, you back off and I tell Merlin the whole thing's been settled, so he doesn't need to turn you into a frog. And we all live happily ever after."
"And if I win?"
"Then you'd have bested a Pendragon in a way that counts for something."
"What, that's it? Not much of an offer, is it? You still don't get it, do you, princess? I just need to cast one spell and I'll have you squirming on my dick. Again."
"Yeah, and what would that prove?" Arthur shrugged, staring straight into the warlock's grinning face. He felt his gut clench just from the body memory Val's words were conjuring, but it was nothing he couldn't keep under control. "So you can subdue me with you magic. Merlin can obliterate you with his magic. And my father took down both you and Merlin with soldiers, guns and tranqs. And then my father also got fucked over by someone, which is why I'm here in the first place."
That was clearly a bit too philosophical for this particular audience. Val was losing patience, breaking eye contact to check on his goons outside the door. Arthur finished towelling his hands dry and threw the sodden towel back on the bench.
"I'm not sure why you're hesitating, to be honest," he said. "You're a least two stones heavier than me. Maybe not all of that is fat. And I won't even notice if you cheat and use magic, as long as it's subtle. So why are you so scared to fight me?"
One of the warlocks stationed outside made a noise – not quite a giggle, but close enough to make Val turn red and grown deep in his throat.
"Cocky little bastard," he ripped his orange top off and threw it on the floor. "Guess it's going to be bloody and painful for you after all."
He wasn't wearing an undershirt, so he stood there topless, pointlessly flexing his abs and pecs and glaring with extra menace. He had tattoos, as Arthur half-expected, though he hadn't thought they'd be in such vibrant colours and so meticulously detailed. There were two huge, fat cartoonish snakes coiling down Val's arms and another one twisting up his chest. It was probably meant to symbolise something manly and phallic, or at least be yakuza-style badass, but somehow it made Val look like a cross between a man and an Ed Hardy t-shirt.
Merlin normally wore an undershirt, Arthur thought distractedly, rolling his shoulders to limber up. Merlin had really tender, sensitive skin; he needed something between it and the coarse cotton of the uniforms. Even though those prison issue grey vests were so thin and scratchy, they were better than nothing. If Arthur survived this, he was going to get Merlin lots and lots of D&G underwear for his next birthday. Well, after he found the way around the ban on care packages for the Facility inmates.
He needed a good image to centre himself, so he thought of Merlin: tall, skinny and slinky, a shock of dark hair against soft, glowing skin, sprawled teasingly on Arthur's favourite leather couch in his front room, wearing only a pair of tight designer briefs and a gorgeous dorky smile. He let that image fill his mind and chase away all doubt and anxiety, like his coach had taught him, and then he waited.
Val lunged at him without warning, surprisingly fast and light on his feet, and immediately went all out.
Arthur thought Val would be a cautious opponent at first, one of those who dance about forever, feinting and evading till they think they've mapped out all your weak spots. But the man rushed him like a maniac, his blows fast-paced and viciously aimed, each with the full weight of his big, solid body behind them, clearly attempting to channel early Tyson and end it in seconds.
With no referee watching over him going on defence wasn't a viable option, but Arthur managed to evade the initial assault easily enough. He was rusty; this close to graduation he only had time to seriously compete in one athletic field, so he'd dropped all the non-essential training to focus on football. It had been years since he'd fought, but his training was solid, and he had had some talent. In a one on one fight he wasn't going to be an easy opponent for anybody. He let Val carry on with the attack till his pace started to flag, and then sneaked in a left hook, just a glancing shot to the ribs, just enough to give Val something to think about and slow things down. Letting Val wind himself too quickly wasn't part of the plan.
The plan was simple and not overly ambitious, and it was to stall as long as possible. Eventually Val was going to tire out or get bored, and then he'd call on his magic or his buddies, and they would pin Arthur down and – he couldn't let them do it again, not again. He wasn't going to.
The inmates who'd cleared off when Val had arrived were smart enough to want to stay out of trouble. That gave Arthur hope that at least some of them would decide to earn points with Merlin and alert him to what was happening. Merlin was going to show up. Any moment now Merlin was going to show up and save him, and this time Arthur wasn't going to be an ungrateful prat about it. Hell, he was going to kiss that boy in front of the whole prison.
But if Merlin didn't make it here in time, he'd have to stop them himself. The best idea he had was to wait for an opening and land a precise, crippling blow that would cause enough damage to ruin Val's sexy mood. Permanently and for life, with any luck.
That was going to seriously piss off Val's friends. Arthur just had to hope that with their leader incapacitated they would be demoralised and confused. They wouldn't kill him right away, they just wouldn't dare without Val there to encourage them. And they wouldn't – nobody would be able to maintain an erection after having seen what he was planning to do to Val. He'd have to take the inevitable beating, they could do something magic and nasty to him. But eventually they'd turn their attention from him to see to Val's injuries, and then he'd make a break for it. He could make it to the storeroom, it was just down the corridor. He could barricade himself in there and wait for Merlin, and while away the time fashioning weapons out of brooms, aerosol cans and bleach bottles.
He moved with careful precision, saving his strength, letting Val stay on the offensive, meticulously evading, not taking too many chances. Val kept trying to force him closer, luring him in with obvious openings. He was pretty good, with longer reach, slower, but quite a bit heavier. One straight jab Arthur took on purpose, to encourage him, nearly made him lose his footing.
He dropped his guard a little, and Val immediately went for it, aiming to knock him out with a blow to the head. Predictably, he missed and overbalanced. Arthur lunged in, aiming for a kidney, and as he stepped closer the snake on Val's left shoulder raised its head and darted at his face.
He jumped back on pure instinct, before he realised what was happening. Val straightened up with a creepy laugh and spread his arms. All three snakes lifted off his skin, hissing and flashing their needle-thin fangs, rising up till they were level with Val's head. The snakes weren't coming from inside him – their bodies flattened and bled back into the ink lines of the tattoos where they met Val's skin.
"Right," Arthur said. "Remember I said I might not notice if you cheat? I noticed that."
The snakes twisted around and slithered down, pulling themselves out of the drawing to full life. They hit the floor softly and coiled around Val's feet like affectionate kittens. Scaly, poisonous kittens.
"Don't kill him yet," Val said to the snakes. "Just a tiny nibble so he's not as stroppy."
Three triangular heads turned on Arthur with eager obedience, and the snakes started moving, sliding over the dirty floor to circle him in. He staggered backwards, looking for some kind of weapon, anything. He grabbed for the towel and swung it at the nearest snake like a whip, and it dodged with eerie grace, barely shifting in its path.
Val's friends were now leaning into the doorway, laughing and cheering the snakes on. The snakes were herding him into a corner, dancing closer with their heads raised a foot off the floor, making quick lunges at him to force him to move back. While the two of them were hissing loudly and puffing their hoods to hold his attention, the third quietly slunk low and hooked out to a side, trying to flank him.
He could lure it closer and try to step on it and crush its head with his foot. He imagined doing it, the crunch of the thin bones under his shoe, blood mixing with venom and the brain goo and sticking to his sole. He leapt over the snake instead, landing clumsily on the slimy floor, and lunged for his bucket still full of dirty soapy water. The snakes were almost at his heels; he threw the water on them, hoping they could be in some magical way made out of tattoo ink and would melt away like a wicked witch.
They didn't; they didn't react at all. He upended the bucket and slammed it over the snake on the right to trap it under. The metal rim caught its body; there was a disgusting wet crunching sound, and the snake went limp.
The other two hissed furiously, too close now for him to reach the bucket again. He was still holding the towel, he'd just noticed that; he hurriedly swaddled it around his fist, and as one of the snakes darted at him, he thrust that hand toward it.
He didn't feel the sting; the snake's fangs were stuck in the towel and hadn't gone through. The snake's tail whipped around his arm, squeezing it in hard sinuous coils, and he wanted to shake it off, he needed it off him, but it was probably safest like this. The third snake pulled back a little, readying for the next attack.
Arthur stared at its swaying head, its forked tongue lashing out. He was boxed in now, too close to the wall, and the floor under his feet was slippery with spilt water sloshing over the grime. He wasn't going to dodge this, not for long. He was surprised Val and company had even let him flail about this far without hitting him with a magical attack.
The snake lunged at him and instantly disappeared.
The one hanging off his arm was gone as well, and the one he had trapped under the bucket. The shower room was full of people – he hadn't even noticed when they'd arrived. Val was awkwardly splayed against the wall like he'd been shoved there, and Merlin, wonderful, lovely Merlin, stood in front of him, holding up an open palm.
"You took your time," Arthur grumbled as he finally caught his breath.
"Are you hurt?" Merlin asked without glancing at him.
"I'm fine. It's okay, we were just horsing around."
More people kept arriving, crowding the room. They would run in at full tilt and then find a spot to stand by a wall and stay there quietly, watching.
Val's face was beaded with sweat; he wheezed laboured breaths through his teeth like a man with internal injuries. He couldn't move, stuck in an awkwardly tense pose. It looked like Merlin was holding him up against that wall with his magic.
"Merlin, that's enough," Arthur said, trying his best to sound deferential in front of the inmates. He was getting a bad feeling about this. "He's learned his lesson. You don't have to – just let him go."
"I'm not taking chances," Merlin said. His hand, out-thrust toward Val's face, was shaking – but that didn't necessarily mean Merlin was about to lose it, that could be just physical. An all-out run from the cells to the shower room would make Merlin's hands shake, he was such a lazy slob, completely unfit.
"Merlin, calm down," said Arthur softly. "Don't do anything you'll regret. He's not worth it."
"He won't do anything," croaked Val, forcing his face into a grin. "He doesn't have the bottle. As I said. He's all talk. Well, Merlin, you and your bitch better learn to sleep with one eye open, because..."
Merlin flexed his fingers slightly, and Val screamed.
Nobody moved. They all stood and watched as he writhed there in agony, veins standing out on his tense neck in thick ropes. It lasted only a second or two, and then Val tumbled down, released from his invisible bonds, gulping in air.
Muirden pushed through the crowd to get to the front, observing the scene in obvious delight. The druids were flocking together at the far corner: they were the only ones who dared to exchange worried whispers.
"Come on, Merlin, we all know you don't have it in you," Val said, getting up again, still defiant. "If you were going to kill me, you'd have done it already. What are you waiting for?"
"For more people to get here," Merlin said levelly. "I'm going to make an example. I'd rather not do this twice."
"Merlin," called Tauren from his spot by the wall. "Don't. You can't turn against your own people – not for this. Not over a Pendragon. It won't be forgiven."
"Ah, but Merlin isn't in the position to let anyone defy him and go unpunished," said Muirden gleefully. "There's only so long he can sleep with one eye open."
"I don't know if we're his people, actually," said someone at the door. Arthur thought it might be Aulfric, Sophia's father, but he couldn't see for certain. "I always thought Merlin was half sidhe. That would explain the extent of his power, and explain how Uther Pendragon made him into his lapdog. You can bind a sidhe if you promise them your first-born. That's how Uther bought his life, and now he’s delivered his son to his servant in payment - see, it all makes sense."
Somehow that nonsense really stirred the room. Just like Uther always said, the more preposterous the lie, the more fools are sure to believe it. The warlocks began to talk amongst themselves, agitated, inching towards Merlin. The room was so crowded by now – if someone were to attack Merlin, they wouldn't even be able to tell who it was.
"Emrys, please reconsider," said Aglain the druid. "It's a terrible line to cross. We won't stand with you on this."
"I don't care," Merlin hissed through clenched teeth. "He's innocent, and I'll protect him. I'll fight all of you if I have to."
He'd have to, Arthur thought. This was going to turn into a massacre. The warlocks now surrounded them in a tight circle, tense and just a push away from an angry mob. Val seemed to finally understand his situation and stared at Merlin silently, with glassy terrified eyes.
Merlin lifted his palm toward Val's face and began to speak, and at the first guttural word the crowd bristled and rippled like a lake under a sharp breeze, and Val started sobbing.
"No," he moaned. "Not like this. Please, no."
"For Bel's sake, just kill him, don't do this," muttered Aglain.
Arthur didn't know what ghastly thing was Merlin about to do, and he wasn't going to find out. He stepped forward, grabbed Val by the neck and smashed the back of his head into the dirty tiles.
Val slid down, leaving a wet red smear on the wall. His eyes were still open, and Arthur couldn't tell if he was alive, or if he was conscious. There was probably still – he could probably still stop, Val could still survive -
He reached out again. His own body felt odd, huge and slow, an alien thing. He couldn't hear anything, like his head was held under water. Like he was going to start suffocating any second now. He curled his fingers in Val's blood-sodden short hair, lifted his head up a little and slammed it down again, and this time he felt the crunch and the slight give, and he knew it was really final.
He knelt up near the corpse and tried to speak.
"I'm not innocent," he managed, and then he had to clamp a hand over his mouth to ride out the choking rush of nausea. He still couldn't hear them, but as the wave of dizziness passed he realised it was because they all were completely silent.
"Here, we can leave Merlin out of this now," he said when he could breathe again. "He's the best hope you have for the future. If you can't see it..."
He couldn't quite think straight, couldn't quite feel his lips, couldn't make out any faces in the crowd surrounding him. He didn't want to do this on his knees, so he scrambled up, grappling for the wall. There was still no sound, no movement from anyone but him in the room.
"It's me you want," he said. "Six people were killed so I'd end up here. This idiot – that makes seven. Now Merlin - how many lives is this worth to you? How many must die just so you can get to me? Just do it, finish it already. I'll be alone. Find me and take your revenge. If it satisfies you, if it stops the bloodshed, it's worth it."
He started walking straight into the wall of people, knowing that if they grabbed him now, he'd let them, he couldn't fight. They parted for him, still silent.
Merlin caught his hand as he stepped into the narrow corridor of bodies, and Arthur quickly wrenched it free.
"Leave me alone," he said. Merlin jerked backwards as if he’d punched him in the face. "I told you I don't need your protection. I'm not yours. I'm not a – a thing for you to protect. Let me fight my own battles."
Merlin, the ridiculous sop, looked almost on the verge of tears, and Arthur grasped his shoulder and shook him a little to bring him to his senses.
"Merlin, you can stop the war. This is what's important. If your people feel avenged, maybe it will tip the balance, maybe it will change things. You promised me: anything. This is what I want."
He didn't know what else he could say with all of them watching. He pulled Merlin closer and kissed him on the lips, licking quickly into his slack mouth, and then he walked out.
He wasn't followed, for a change. He headed down to the segregation, trying to think up a plan, but his brain was completely numb, and the full feeling wouldn't quite return to his limbs. He stumbled over nothing, and then couldn't get up. He curled up against the wall at the random stretch of a corridor and stayed there.
Time stopped, in a way. He didn't feel any discomfort from sitting on the cold bare concrete, wasn't thirsty or hungry, didn't want for anything. He couldn't think. His mind was a jumble of fleeting half-thoughts, as if he was on the verge of sleep, and he'd like to nap. But he couldn't keep his eyes closed for more than a few exhales before he saw that again: fat slick of blood on the wall, Val's skull warm and wet under his hand, Val's muscled body at his feet, still, awkwardly twisted, a pile of dead flesh.
When he opened his eyes again to chase the image away, there was Mordred. The boy was sitting cross-legged opposite him, staring at his face.
"Hey," Arthur said. "I don't think I can help you fix those swords after all. Sorry about that."
Mordred nodded solemnly.
"Did you really kill somebody?" Arthur asked.
Mordred nodded again, no more troubled by the question than he was by Arthur cancelling their planned activity.
"How..."
How do you live with it, Arthur wanted to ask him, how do you sleep without seeing it behind your eyelids - but he couldn't ask a child those questions. If Mordred could live with it, that was a good thing, and he didn't want to risk ruining his peace.
"How did it happen?" he asked instead.
Mordred scooted closer, reached out a hand and touched Arthur's forehead.
Arthur found himself abruptly surrounded by giants.
He stood in the middle of a flat field of grass, in a crowd of other people, all towering over him. One of them was holding Arthur's hand; he looked down with a reassuring smile, and Arthur recognised Aglain, the druid leader.
"Don't be afraid, Mordred," Aglain said, and finally Arthur caught on. He was in Mordred's memories, watching them through the boy's eyes. He was clinging to Aglain, looking around at the people next to them, other children clutching their guardian's hands, massive stone pillars rising to the sky all around them. Beyond the pillars, a fair distance away, there was an army.
It was, Arthur realised, the day of the Stonehenge riot, the last stand of the druids. He'd read the official press releases and saw one shaky confusing video on youtube before it was taken down, but he still didn't understand what really had happened there.
It was not long after the riot in the Cheshire Facility, just after the tougher measures there introduced: when to harbour a sorcerer was equated to a conspiracy to commit murder. The druids had made a public announcement then, over the internet and their media connections. They were going to leave their hiding places and gather at their holiest site, where they were to stage a peaceful protest. They would refuse to be removed or arrested, and would use magic to stop that from happening. They would have to be either left in peace and allowed to openly establish a settlement there, or subdued – only they said "slaughtered" - in front of the whole world, which, they said, would swing the pendulum of the public opinion and force the government to rethink their policy on magic.
But that wasn't how it went.
"They'll have to leave us be," Aglain said, softly squeezing Mordred's hand. "It'll be okay."
Mordred looked at the armed men, at the sunlight glinting on their guns and their shadowed eyes, and he knew, he just knew.
"They won't leave us be," he said. "They're going to kill us all."
"Don't be afraid," said Aglain again. "Our blood will serve the Balance. It will change everything. Our sacrifice will bring peace."
"I don't want to die," Mordred said.
Aglain stared across the field at the gunmen, and his face was serene and composed.
"Let's chant together," he said. "It will help you stay calm. It won't hurt as much if you're calm."
"I don't want to die," said Mordred and pulled his hand free. "I'm not going to die."
He stepped toward the gunmen and screamed.
Arthur wanted to pull out of the vision, but he didn't know how. He watched through Mordred's eyes as men fell in waves, as those who were still alive opened fire. The bullets were all around them, singing in the air, but Mordred kept channelling the spell, pushing out with his power, and the bullets couldn't reach him.
Some druids fell too, clipped by his spell. Some got shot; some were hastily raising shields and firing spells, most aiming at Mordred, trying to shut him down. He wasn't surprised at the betrayal. They did bring him here to be killed, after all.
He felt like he could do this for as long as it took, pouring out waves of death till he was the last one standing. He had so much power – he never knew, they never let him stretch himself like this, really go for it, and now he would, all the way. The ground was shaking under his feet, and the old stones were juddering against each other, where they'd lain for millennia undisturbed, and it was him doing it. A shadow fell over his face, and he thought it was his power: it was reaching the sky, eclipsing the sun.
When he saw the huge stone tilting toward him it was too late to dodge, and then the vision ended.
Arthur blinked up at Mordred through the mist in his eyes. The boy was looking at him intently, expectantly, and Arthur had no idea what he was supposed to say or do.
"Seriously?" he said in the end. "Stonehenge fell on you? You got smashed by Stonehenge?"
"Just one stone," Mordred said with a thin shadow of a smile. He pushed his hair up his forehead with one small hand, and now Arthur could see a jagged line of a scar running into his hairline.
"Ouch," Arthur said. "How did you even survive that?"
But he knew how. That spell, he felt it: it felt like nothing could go through and touch him till he was drained empty. Several tons of a holy magical rock could've been just enough to make a dent.
Mordred reached for him again, and Arthur tried to pull away, but he didn't have enough space or strength to do it.
This time it wasn't as jarring. He was wading through soft darkness, rising up toward the voices. The loudest, angriest voice was yet unfamiliar to Mordred, but Arthur knew it.
"Is this why you didn't let me join you?" Merlin was asking. "Were you planning this madness even back then?"
Mordred's eyes opened, and Arthur could see.
They were lying on the ground just inside the prison gates, slowly coming to as the drugs wore off. There were other druids here, not many, only those who survived and were taken alive.
"This wasn't what we were planning," said Aglain. His face was covered in bruises, robes bloody.
Merlin stood over him, furious. Arthur knew it was him, could see his face, could tell that this Merlin was a little younger than the Merlin he knew, and even thinner, like he was actually starving. Mordred only saw Emrys, and what he saw was overwhelming.
"You planned a mass suicide pact – how is that better than what happened? Did you throw me out of your forest so you could do this? Did your seers tell you I wouldn't let you?"
"It wasn't your fate to die there with us. You should be grateful," muttered Aglain.
"Was it everybody else's fate, to die like that? All of you, even children like him?"
Emrys pointed at Mordred, and Aglain shook his head.
"He's no longer one of us," he said, and ambled toward the cell block. The others followed him, pointedly not looking at Mordred.
Emrys heaved an exasperated sigh and crouched down next to him.
He was beautiful. He was Merlin, with his sweet mouth and warm eyes and silly ears, and he was Emrys, a pillar of golden light, endless and pure. Arthur could see green veins lacing through the gold that was Emrys's power, growing into him, new and crisp like spring leaves, and he knew they were feeding him with earth's blood, keeping him strong and alive. He could see that Merlin hadn't touched food in days, drunk on the earth's magic, and he worried, and he knew he could help, and he was going to.
He knew - Mordred knew this was only the second time he saw Emrys, and the first time ever this close, close enough to touch. At the same time Arthur remembered kissing these lips over and over, pushing his cock between these lips, and he lusted after him just like before, wanted to reach for him even like this, with Mordred's small hands. Part of him was terrified that his thoughts could be feeding back to Mordred. Part of him that was him and Mordred both was happy to simply stare and drink him in, everything that he was, Merlin and Emrys. He was both and more than that, more than they could ever know.
"You're hurt," Merlin said, looking at the crusted blood Mordred could feel all down the side of his face. "Let me see."
Mordred slapped a hand over the wound: he could feel it throbbing now. It was infected, left untreated by those who brought him here. He cleansed and closed it in one painful rush, not caring if it'd scar, and dropped his hand to let Emrys see that he was fine and he didn't need looking after. He wasn't a child, and he wasn't going to be a burden.
He opened up, fearlessly like never before, and touched his magic to the gold of Emrys's power: reverently, in supplication.
"Can I stay with you?" he asked, not with his voice but with his magic and with everything he was.
Emrys flinched and stared at him.
"Of course," he said after a while, when Mordred was about to start crying. "This is your home now. You can do what you like here."
His magic softly gave way and curled along Mordred's without either of them making an effort – Emrys might not even have noticed. Mordred sobbed in delight and hugged him, throwing both arms around Emrys's middle, falling into the glow of Emrys's magic and the warmth of his long narrow body. Arthur did his best not to enjoy it too much till it was finally over.
"This is my home," Mordred told him slowly, in his scratchy, gruff little voice. "Emrys is my home. If you ruin this I'll never forgive you."
"It's not my intention to hurt anyone," Arthur said, cringing at the sound of his own words. It was the truth; it just didn't sound like the truth when his hands still remembered how it felt to crush a life out of a body, how that crack of the bone had sounded.
"I know. For that I'm going to gift you a dreamless sleep, like Emrys did me."
He whispered a string of lilting sounds, and Arthur's head dropped forward, too heavy for his tired neck; he felt his nose bump smartly against his knee but was already too sleepy to complain.
Next Part
Fandom: Merlin BBC
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin and a bunch of less true pairings mentioned in the flashbacks.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings for this part: violence, blood, references to past non-con, minor characters' deaths, defacing of historical monument D:
Summary: Modern AU. For the last twenty two years Uther Pendragon had been waging war on magic. When his son Arthur is framed for a magical crime he's sent to the prison for magic users. He's instantly targeted by the inmates, but mysterious top dog Merlin takes him under his wing. They form a bond, and adventure begins.
Originally written for this prompt at
kinkme_merlinMany thanks to
devikun and ghost_guessed for betaing!Word count: 7K for this part.
First part
Chapter index
Part 10: Blood
For a number of reasons, most having to do with the circumstances of his life and upbringing - or, as his left-leaning friends insisted on calling it, his gender-class privilege - Arthur Pendragon had never had that much exposure to housework.
He'd had chores, such as they were. For as long as he could remember, since before he started school, he had to keep his room tidy, make his bed after getting up and neaten up his clothes before turning in: hang up his blazer, put his shoes on the shoe rack, drop the rest in the laundry basket. Everything else was left to the help. There was no reason why the help couldn't take care of his bed and clothes, too – the chores were just Uther's way of imposing discipline and structure, and were mostly symbolic.
Sometime in his pre-teen years, possibly after being politically influenced by watching Cinderella, he'd felt vaguely guilty about lounging around with a book while an elderly woman scrubbed his floors, washed his dishes and ironed his clothes. It took him days to muster up the courage and conviction to talk to his father about it. It took Uther all of two minutes to explain how much more beneficial it was for society on the whole that they chose to provide work and livelihood to those less fortunate instead of wasting their own valuable time on menial tasks.
And there had been fierce competition every time they had a job opening. Father's aide would pre-select a short-list of CVs, with recommendations and certificates, for him to leaf through and choose half a dozen or so candidates to interview personally. For a maid he would only consider a married woman, preferably in her sixties. When Arthur asked him about that – he was fourteen at the time, still too naïve about too many things – Uther said "This is now for your benefit as much as mine", which creeped him out for a good few days.
But the point was, if frail old women could happily do this for a living, day in and day out, then he certainly wasn't going to back down because it seemed too hard.
Arthur gave a tile another angry swipe with a rag and stepped back to assess the results. The tiles were still covered in whitish streaks of the cleaning solution and the grout between them was spotted black where the fungus stains sank in deep. He was going to try bleaching that later. But on the whole the progress was satisfactory.
Of course, back in the Pendragon household the help was paid handsomely for their efforts, he thought sulkily as he chose the next cluster of tiles to scrub at. And they also received very nice Christmas presents.
Well, he'd assumed the presents were nice. It had been Morgana's job to prepare those. The boxes were always big and beautifully wrapped, in any case.
There had been no Christmas presents for the help last year. He and Uther both simply forgot. When they'd realised, Uther had hastily written out some cheques and they stuffed them into envelopes, and even mostly managed to remember all the names to write on those.
The staff – and he still remembered vividly how insulting it all had been – had the audacity to look disappointed. And he was pretty certain that the value of the presents had never been even close to the generous amounts on those cheques. But then, the whole staff had been quite impossible since February last year. The maid had quit in a huff, and Uther had fired the chauffeur for some imaginary wrongdoing, but the new ones too seemed to absorb the general air of loss and grief hanging about the house, and quickly became just as unhappy and brittle as everyone else. The last year and a half hadn't been easy for anyone, even though they never talked about it. Not once.
He threw the rag back into the bucket, and for one bright moment of gloriously unrestrained anger he wanted to pick the bucket up and smash it against the shower room wall, over and over, till he shattered all the tiles he'd just cleaned.
This wasn't helping. The work was supposed to keep him busy, keep him calm and sane. But instead it left his mind free to wander and go into odd places. He didn't feel any calmer. Now, on top of everything else, he was missing home with painful intensity, and he was almost sick with missing Morgana. She's been gone for so long, a year and a half, and he'd thought he was used to her absence by now. But it felt so raw, like poking at a fresh scrape, exactly like it felt when it had just happened and he had no idea how to handle a world without Morgana in it. This wasn't fair. He wasn't supposed to lose her. He wasn't supposed to end up in here. This wasn't the life he was meant for.
He had to stop this nonsense before he lost it completely. He had to go back to their cell, wake up Merlin if that slacker was still asleep, and demand to be entertained and distracted. Then he could bring Merlin down here and make him clean the showers with magic. He should have done that in the first place. But he was too proud, he wanted to look after himself and do his own thing instead of relying on Merlin for everything. He already relied on him far too much.
It was all pointless, vain and futile, and it would be best to give up and go with the flow. He could go back to the cell, get into bed with Merlin, spoon together, hug his long skinny body close and try to sleep. He could learn to sleep like Merlin: till midday, with an extra nap in the afternoon, oblivious to everything, letting time pass him by in a sweaty, lazy dream haze. They could hibernate through it all together, day after day, like bears in winter. He could let Merlin take care of everything. They could just wait it all out.
He let himself fantasise about it, the way he'd fantasise about dropping out of school and going backpacking around the world forever, or doing a runner just before a game started, so the team couldn't find him in time and would have to replace him. He used to be ashamed of these thoughts when he was a child, but now he was old enough to know it was perfectly normal. It was okay to be scared occasionally.
He bent down to pick up the rag again and halted when he sensed movement behind him.
The inmates who'd been trailing him as usual were leaving the shower room, quietly filing out of the door. Val stood in the doorway, nodding at them distractedly as they brushed past. His narrowed eyes were trained on Arthur, and dark with hatred that was almost like lust.
"Hello, princess," he said as the last of the inmates hurried out. "How's that tight little bumhole? Still sore?"
A few warlocks still loitered in the hallway just outside, probably keeping watch and hoping to get their turn. For all Arthur knew they have timed this to their advantage, they must have checked that Merlin was still asleep, or sent in someone to keep him distracted. This could potentially be very bad. They could very well kill him, right here, in this dirty shower room. But all he could feel right now was the clarity of adrenaline rush, and the relief at least the waiting part of this fight was finally over.
"Thing about Merlin," said Val. "He's just a bleeding heart. He spared your daddy, adopted that creepy little lad, took you under his wing. I bet he doesn't even fuck you. I bet he tells you every night: don't you fret, Arthur, I'm not gonna shove my cock up your bum like those big bad warlocks did. A blowjob would be just fine. Am I right?"
He slowly tilted his head to the side, smiling a cold, nasty smile. It would've looked pretty menacing, if it wasn't so obviously rehearsed in front of the mirror.
"He's got the power, that's true," he carried on. "But he doesn't have the bollocks to follow through. What's he actually going to do when he finds out somebody's been playing with his toy? Because if he doesn't do enough to scare grown men shitless, then, princess, next night you're anybody's."
"Is that a risk you're willing to take?" Arthur asked. He hadn't pegged Val for a risk-taker.
"Risk's much bigger for you, pretty thing. So here's your choices. We can pick up where we left off, and it will be messy and bloody and it'll hurt like a bitch. And it would be just the start of it for you. Everyone will want a go once they see the great and terrible Merlin doesn't have the stomach to put his power to proper use. Or you can do the smart thing, go down on your knees and open your mouth. If you do a good job nobody will get hurt, and we'll keep this our secret."
"I have a counteroffer for you," Arthur said, since there was nothing to lose by trying. He rinsed the suds from his hands under the nearest shower nozzle and stepped sideways to pick up his towel without turning his back on Val. "I seem to recall you saying you wanted a fight. Well, as it happens, I personally would love a good rumble right now. So let's do this. No Merlin, no magic, no flunkies, just you and me, one on one, hand to hand, no rules. If I win, you back off and I tell Merlin the whole thing's been settled, so he doesn't need to turn you into a frog. And we all live happily ever after."
"And if I win?"
"Then you'd have bested a Pendragon in a way that counts for something."
"What, that's it? Not much of an offer, is it? You still don't get it, do you, princess? I just need to cast one spell and I'll have you squirming on my dick. Again."
"Yeah, and what would that prove?" Arthur shrugged, staring straight into the warlock's grinning face. He felt his gut clench just from the body memory Val's words were conjuring, but it was nothing he couldn't keep under control. "So you can subdue me with you magic. Merlin can obliterate you with his magic. And my father took down both you and Merlin with soldiers, guns and tranqs. And then my father also got fucked over by someone, which is why I'm here in the first place."
That was clearly a bit too philosophical for this particular audience. Val was losing patience, breaking eye contact to check on his goons outside the door. Arthur finished towelling his hands dry and threw the sodden towel back on the bench.
"I'm not sure why you're hesitating, to be honest," he said. "You're a least two stones heavier than me. Maybe not all of that is fat. And I won't even notice if you cheat and use magic, as long as it's subtle. So why are you so scared to fight me?"
One of the warlocks stationed outside made a noise – not quite a giggle, but close enough to make Val turn red and grown deep in his throat.
"Cocky little bastard," he ripped his orange top off and threw it on the floor. "Guess it's going to be bloody and painful for you after all."
He wasn't wearing an undershirt, so he stood there topless, pointlessly flexing his abs and pecs and glaring with extra menace. He had tattoos, as Arthur half-expected, though he hadn't thought they'd be in such vibrant colours and so meticulously detailed. There were two huge, fat cartoonish snakes coiling down Val's arms and another one twisting up his chest. It was probably meant to symbolise something manly and phallic, or at least be yakuza-style badass, but somehow it made Val look like a cross between a man and an Ed Hardy t-shirt.
Merlin normally wore an undershirt, Arthur thought distractedly, rolling his shoulders to limber up. Merlin had really tender, sensitive skin; he needed something between it and the coarse cotton of the uniforms. Even though those prison issue grey vests were so thin and scratchy, they were better than nothing. If Arthur survived this, he was going to get Merlin lots and lots of D&G underwear for his next birthday. Well, after he found the way around the ban on care packages for the Facility inmates.
He needed a good image to centre himself, so he thought of Merlin: tall, skinny and slinky, a shock of dark hair against soft, glowing skin, sprawled teasingly on Arthur's favourite leather couch in his front room, wearing only a pair of tight designer briefs and a gorgeous dorky smile. He let that image fill his mind and chase away all doubt and anxiety, like his coach had taught him, and then he waited.
Val lunged at him without warning, surprisingly fast and light on his feet, and immediately went all out.
Arthur thought Val would be a cautious opponent at first, one of those who dance about forever, feinting and evading till they think they've mapped out all your weak spots. But the man rushed him like a maniac, his blows fast-paced and viciously aimed, each with the full weight of his big, solid body behind them, clearly attempting to channel early Tyson and end it in seconds.
With no referee watching over him going on defence wasn't a viable option, but Arthur managed to evade the initial assault easily enough. He was rusty; this close to graduation he only had time to seriously compete in one athletic field, so he'd dropped all the non-essential training to focus on football. It had been years since he'd fought, but his training was solid, and he had had some talent. In a one on one fight he wasn't going to be an easy opponent for anybody. He let Val carry on with the attack till his pace started to flag, and then sneaked in a left hook, just a glancing shot to the ribs, just enough to give Val something to think about and slow things down. Letting Val wind himself too quickly wasn't part of the plan.
The plan was simple and not overly ambitious, and it was to stall as long as possible. Eventually Val was going to tire out or get bored, and then he'd call on his magic or his buddies, and they would pin Arthur down and – he couldn't let them do it again, not again. He wasn't going to.
The inmates who'd cleared off when Val had arrived were smart enough to want to stay out of trouble. That gave Arthur hope that at least some of them would decide to earn points with Merlin and alert him to what was happening. Merlin was going to show up. Any moment now Merlin was going to show up and save him, and this time Arthur wasn't going to be an ungrateful prat about it. Hell, he was going to kiss that boy in front of the whole prison.
But if Merlin didn't make it here in time, he'd have to stop them himself. The best idea he had was to wait for an opening and land a precise, crippling blow that would cause enough damage to ruin Val's sexy mood. Permanently and for life, with any luck.
That was going to seriously piss off Val's friends. Arthur just had to hope that with their leader incapacitated they would be demoralised and confused. They wouldn't kill him right away, they just wouldn't dare without Val there to encourage them. And they wouldn't – nobody would be able to maintain an erection after having seen what he was planning to do to Val. He'd have to take the inevitable beating, they could do something magic and nasty to him. But eventually they'd turn their attention from him to see to Val's injuries, and then he'd make a break for it. He could make it to the storeroom, it was just down the corridor. He could barricade himself in there and wait for Merlin, and while away the time fashioning weapons out of brooms, aerosol cans and bleach bottles.
He moved with careful precision, saving his strength, letting Val stay on the offensive, meticulously evading, not taking too many chances. Val kept trying to force him closer, luring him in with obvious openings. He was pretty good, with longer reach, slower, but quite a bit heavier. One straight jab Arthur took on purpose, to encourage him, nearly made him lose his footing.
He dropped his guard a little, and Val immediately went for it, aiming to knock him out with a blow to the head. Predictably, he missed and overbalanced. Arthur lunged in, aiming for a kidney, and as he stepped closer the snake on Val's left shoulder raised its head and darted at his face.
He jumped back on pure instinct, before he realised what was happening. Val straightened up with a creepy laugh and spread his arms. All three snakes lifted off his skin, hissing and flashing their needle-thin fangs, rising up till they were level with Val's head. The snakes weren't coming from inside him – their bodies flattened and bled back into the ink lines of the tattoos where they met Val's skin.
"Right," Arthur said. "Remember I said I might not notice if you cheat? I noticed that."
The snakes twisted around and slithered down, pulling themselves out of the drawing to full life. They hit the floor softly and coiled around Val's feet like affectionate kittens. Scaly, poisonous kittens.
"Don't kill him yet," Val said to the snakes. "Just a tiny nibble so he's not as stroppy."
Three triangular heads turned on Arthur with eager obedience, and the snakes started moving, sliding over the dirty floor to circle him in. He staggered backwards, looking for some kind of weapon, anything. He grabbed for the towel and swung it at the nearest snake like a whip, and it dodged with eerie grace, barely shifting in its path.
Val's friends were now leaning into the doorway, laughing and cheering the snakes on. The snakes were herding him into a corner, dancing closer with their heads raised a foot off the floor, making quick lunges at him to force him to move back. While the two of them were hissing loudly and puffing their hoods to hold his attention, the third quietly slunk low and hooked out to a side, trying to flank him.
He could lure it closer and try to step on it and crush its head with his foot. He imagined doing it, the crunch of the thin bones under his shoe, blood mixing with venom and the brain goo and sticking to his sole. He leapt over the snake instead, landing clumsily on the slimy floor, and lunged for his bucket still full of dirty soapy water. The snakes were almost at his heels; he threw the water on them, hoping they could be in some magical way made out of tattoo ink and would melt away like a wicked witch.
They didn't; they didn't react at all. He upended the bucket and slammed it over the snake on the right to trap it under. The metal rim caught its body; there was a disgusting wet crunching sound, and the snake went limp.
The other two hissed furiously, too close now for him to reach the bucket again. He was still holding the towel, he'd just noticed that; he hurriedly swaddled it around his fist, and as one of the snakes darted at him, he thrust that hand toward it.
He didn't feel the sting; the snake's fangs were stuck in the towel and hadn't gone through. The snake's tail whipped around his arm, squeezing it in hard sinuous coils, and he wanted to shake it off, he needed it off him, but it was probably safest like this. The third snake pulled back a little, readying for the next attack.
Arthur stared at its swaying head, its forked tongue lashing out. He was boxed in now, too close to the wall, and the floor under his feet was slippery with spilt water sloshing over the grime. He wasn't going to dodge this, not for long. He was surprised Val and company had even let him flail about this far without hitting him with a magical attack.
The snake lunged at him and instantly disappeared.
The one hanging off his arm was gone as well, and the one he had trapped under the bucket. The shower room was full of people – he hadn't even noticed when they'd arrived. Val was awkwardly splayed against the wall like he'd been shoved there, and Merlin, wonderful, lovely Merlin, stood in front of him, holding up an open palm.
"You took your time," Arthur grumbled as he finally caught his breath.
"Are you hurt?" Merlin asked without glancing at him.
"I'm fine. It's okay, we were just horsing around."
More people kept arriving, crowding the room. They would run in at full tilt and then find a spot to stand by a wall and stay there quietly, watching.
Val's face was beaded with sweat; he wheezed laboured breaths through his teeth like a man with internal injuries. He couldn't move, stuck in an awkwardly tense pose. It looked like Merlin was holding him up against that wall with his magic.
"Merlin, that's enough," Arthur said, trying his best to sound deferential in front of the inmates. He was getting a bad feeling about this. "He's learned his lesson. You don't have to – just let him go."
"I'm not taking chances," Merlin said. His hand, out-thrust toward Val's face, was shaking – but that didn't necessarily mean Merlin was about to lose it, that could be just physical. An all-out run from the cells to the shower room would make Merlin's hands shake, he was such a lazy slob, completely unfit.
"Merlin, calm down," said Arthur softly. "Don't do anything you'll regret. He's not worth it."
"He won't do anything," croaked Val, forcing his face into a grin. "He doesn't have the bottle. As I said. He's all talk. Well, Merlin, you and your bitch better learn to sleep with one eye open, because..."
Merlin flexed his fingers slightly, and Val screamed.
Nobody moved. They all stood and watched as he writhed there in agony, veins standing out on his tense neck in thick ropes. It lasted only a second or two, and then Val tumbled down, released from his invisible bonds, gulping in air.
Muirden pushed through the crowd to get to the front, observing the scene in obvious delight. The druids were flocking together at the far corner: they were the only ones who dared to exchange worried whispers.
"Come on, Merlin, we all know you don't have it in you," Val said, getting up again, still defiant. "If you were going to kill me, you'd have done it already. What are you waiting for?"
"For more people to get here," Merlin said levelly. "I'm going to make an example. I'd rather not do this twice."
"Merlin," called Tauren from his spot by the wall. "Don't. You can't turn against your own people – not for this. Not over a Pendragon. It won't be forgiven."
"Ah, but Merlin isn't in the position to let anyone defy him and go unpunished," said Muirden gleefully. "There's only so long he can sleep with one eye open."
"I don't know if we're his people, actually," said someone at the door. Arthur thought it might be Aulfric, Sophia's father, but he couldn't see for certain. "I always thought Merlin was half sidhe. That would explain the extent of his power, and explain how Uther Pendragon made him into his lapdog. You can bind a sidhe if you promise them your first-born. That's how Uther bought his life, and now he’s delivered his son to his servant in payment - see, it all makes sense."
Somehow that nonsense really stirred the room. Just like Uther always said, the more preposterous the lie, the more fools are sure to believe it. The warlocks began to talk amongst themselves, agitated, inching towards Merlin. The room was so crowded by now – if someone were to attack Merlin, they wouldn't even be able to tell who it was.
"Emrys, please reconsider," said Aglain the druid. "It's a terrible line to cross. We won't stand with you on this."
"I don't care," Merlin hissed through clenched teeth. "He's innocent, and I'll protect him. I'll fight all of you if I have to."
He'd have to, Arthur thought. This was going to turn into a massacre. The warlocks now surrounded them in a tight circle, tense and just a push away from an angry mob. Val seemed to finally understand his situation and stared at Merlin silently, with glassy terrified eyes.
Merlin lifted his palm toward Val's face and began to speak, and at the first guttural word the crowd bristled and rippled like a lake under a sharp breeze, and Val started sobbing.
"No," he moaned. "Not like this. Please, no."
"For Bel's sake, just kill him, don't do this," muttered Aglain.
Arthur didn't know what ghastly thing was Merlin about to do, and he wasn't going to find out. He stepped forward, grabbed Val by the neck and smashed the back of his head into the dirty tiles.
Val slid down, leaving a wet red smear on the wall. His eyes were still open, and Arthur couldn't tell if he was alive, or if he was conscious. There was probably still – he could probably still stop, Val could still survive -
He reached out again. His own body felt odd, huge and slow, an alien thing. He couldn't hear anything, like his head was held under water. Like he was going to start suffocating any second now. He curled his fingers in Val's blood-sodden short hair, lifted his head up a little and slammed it down again, and this time he felt the crunch and the slight give, and he knew it was really final.
He knelt up near the corpse and tried to speak.
"I'm not innocent," he managed, and then he had to clamp a hand over his mouth to ride out the choking rush of nausea. He still couldn't hear them, but as the wave of dizziness passed he realised it was because they all were completely silent.
"Here, we can leave Merlin out of this now," he said when he could breathe again. "He's the best hope you have for the future. If you can't see it..."
He couldn't quite think straight, couldn't quite feel his lips, couldn't make out any faces in the crowd surrounding him. He didn't want to do this on his knees, so he scrambled up, grappling for the wall. There was still no sound, no movement from anyone but him in the room.
"It's me you want," he said. "Six people were killed so I'd end up here. This idiot – that makes seven. Now Merlin - how many lives is this worth to you? How many must die just so you can get to me? Just do it, finish it already. I'll be alone. Find me and take your revenge. If it satisfies you, if it stops the bloodshed, it's worth it."
He started walking straight into the wall of people, knowing that if they grabbed him now, he'd let them, he couldn't fight. They parted for him, still silent.
Merlin caught his hand as he stepped into the narrow corridor of bodies, and Arthur quickly wrenched it free.
"Leave me alone," he said. Merlin jerked backwards as if he’d punched him in the face. "I told you I don't need your protection. I'm not yours. I'm not a – a thing for you to protect. Let me fight my own battles."
Merlin, the ridiculous sop, looked almost on the verge of tears, and Arthur grasped his shoulder and shook him a little to bring him to his senses.
"Merlin, you can stop the war. This is what's important. If your people feel avenged, maybe it will tip the balance, maybe it will change things. You promised me: anything. This is what I want."
He didn't know what else he could say with all of them watching. He pulled Merlin closer and kissed him on the lips, licking quickly into his slack mouth, and then he walked out.
He wasn't followed, for a change. He headed down to the segregation, trying to think up a plan, but his brain was completely numb, and the full feeling wouldn't quite return to his limbs. He stumbled over nothing, and then couldn't get up. He curled up against the wall at the random stretch of a corridor and stayed there.
Time stopped, in a way. He didn't feel any discomfort from sitting on the cold bare concrete, wasn't thirsty or hungry, didn't want for anything. He couldn't think. His mind was a jumble of fleeting half-thoughts, as if he was on the verge of sleep, and he'd like to nap. But he couldn't keep his eyes closed for more than a few exhales before he saw that again: fat slick of blood on the wall, Val's skull warm and wet under his hand, Val's muscled body at his feet, still, awkwardly twisted, a pile of dead flesh.
When he opened his eyes again to chase the image away, there was Mordred. The boy was sitting cross-legged opposite him, staring at his face.
"Hey," Arthur said. "I don't think I can help you fix those swords after all. Sorry about that."
Mordred nodded solemnly.
"Did you really kill somebody?" Arthur asked.
Mordred nodded again, no more troubled by the question than he was by Arthur cancelling their planned activity.
"How..."
How do you live with it, Arthur wanted to ask him, how do you sleep without seeing it behind your eyelids - but he couldn't ask a child those questions. If Mordred could live with it, that was a good thing, and he didn't want to risk ruining his peace.
"How did it happen?" he asked instead.
Mordred scooted closer, reached out a hand and touched Arthur's forehead.
Arthur found himself abruptly surrounded by giants.
He stood in the middle of a flat field of grass, in a crowd of other people, all towering over him. One of them was holding Arthur's hand; he looked down with a reassuring smile, and Arthur recognised Aglain, the druid leader.
"Don't be afraid, Mordred," Aglain said, and finally Arthur caught on. He was in Mordred's memories, watching them through the boy's eyes. He was clinging to Aglain, looking around at the people next to them, other children clutching their guardian's hands, massive stone pillars rising to the sky all around them. Beyond the pillars, a fair distance away, there was an army.
It was, Arthur realised, the day of the Stonehenge riot, the last stand of the druids. He'd read the official press releases and saw one shaky confusing video on youtube before it was taken down, but he still didn't understand what really had happened there.
It was not long after the riot in the Cheshire Facility, just after the tougher measures there introduced: when to harbour a sorcerer was equated to a conspiracy to commit murder. The druids had made a public announcement then, over the internet and their media connections. They were going to leave their hiding places and gather at their holiest site, where they were to stage a peaceful protest. They would refuse to be removed or arrested, and would use magic to stop that from happening. They would have to be either left in peace and allowed to openly establish a settlement there, or subdued – only they said "slaughtered" - in front of the whole world, which, they said, would swing the pendulum of the public opinion and force the government to rethink their policy on magic.
But that wasn't how it went.
"They'll have to leave us be," Aglain said, softly squeezing Mordred's hand. "It'll be okay."
Mordred looked at the armed men, at the sunlight glinting on their guns and their shadowed eyes, and he knew, he just knew.
"They won't leave us be," he said. "They're going to kill us all."
"Don't be afraid," said Aglain again. "Our blood will serve the Balance. It will change everything. Our sacrifice will bring peace."
"I don't want to die," Mordred said.
Aglain stared across the field at the gunmen, and his face was serene and composed.
"Let's chant together," he said. "It will help you stay calm. It won't hurt as much if you're calm."
"I don't want to die," said Mordred and pulled his hand free. "I'm not going to die."
He stepped toward the gunmen and screamed.
Arthur wanted to pull out of the vision, but he didn't know how. He watched through Mordred's eyes as men fell in waves, as those who were still alive opened fire. The bullets were all around them, singing in the air, but Mordred kept channelling the spell, pushing out with his power, and the bullets couldn't reach him.
Some druids fell too, clipped by his spell. Some got shot; some were hastily raising shields and firing spells, most aiming at Mordred, trying to shut him down. He wasn't surprised at the betrayal. They did bring him here to be killed, after all.
He felt like he could do this for as long as it took, pouring out waves of death till he was the last one standing. He had so much power – he never knew, they never let him stretch himself like this, really go for it, and now he would, all the way. The ground was shaking under his feet, and the old stones were juddering against each other, where they'd lain for millennia undisturbed, and it was him doing it. A shadow fell over his face, and he thought it was his power: it was reaching the sky, eclipsing the sun.
When he saw the huge stone tilting toward him it was too late to dodge, and then the vision ended.
Arthur blinked up at Mordred through the mist in his eyes. The boy was looking at him intently, expectantly, and Arthur had no idea what he was supposed to say or do.
"Seriously?" he said in the end. "Stonehenge fell on you? You got smashed by Stonehenge?"
"Just one stone," Mordred said with a thin shadow of a smile. He pushed his hair up his forehead with one small hand, and now Arthur could see a jagged line of a scar running into his hairline.
"Ouch," Arthur said. "How did you even survive that?"
But he knew how. That spell, he felt it: it felt like nothing could go through and touch him till he was drained empty. Several tons of a holy magical rock could've been just enough to make a dent.
Mordred reached for him again, and Arthur tried to pull away, but he didn't have enough space or strength to do it.
This time it wasn't as jarring. He was wading through soft darkness, rising up toward the voices. The loudest, angriest voice was yet unfamiliar to Mordred, but Arthur knew it.
"Is this why you didn't let me join you?" Merlin was asking. "Were you planning this madness even back then?"
Mordred's eyes opened, and Arthur could see.
They were lying on the ground just inside the prison gates, slowly coming to as the drugs wore off. There were other druids here, not many, only those who survived and were taken alive.
"This wasn't what we were planning," said Aglain. His face was covered in bruises, robes bloody.
Merlin stood over him, furious. Arthur knew it was him, could see his face, could tell that this Merlin was a little younger than the Merlin he knew, and even thinner, like he was actually starving. Mordred only saw Emrys, and what he saw was overwhelming.
"You planned a mass suicide pact – how is that better than what happened? Did you throw me out of your forest so you could do this? Did your seers tell you I wouldn't let you?"
"It wasn't your fate to die there with us. You should be grateful," muttered Aglain.
"Was it everybody else's fate, to die like that? All of you, even children like him?"
Emrys pointed at Mordred, and Aglain shook his head.
"He's no longer one of us," he said, and ambled toward the cell block. The others followed him, pointedly not looking at Mordred.
Emrys heaved an exasperated sigh and crouched down next to him.
He was beautiful. He was Merlin, with his sweet mouth and warm eyes and silly ears, and he was Emrys, a pillar of golden light, endless and pure. Arthur could see green veins lacing through the gold that was Emrys's power, growing into him, new and crisp like spring leaves, and he knew they were feeding him with earth's blood, keeping him strong and alive. He could see that Merlin hadn't touched food in days, drunk on the earth's magic, and he worried, and he knew he could help, and he was going to.
He knew - Mordred knew this was only the second time he saw Emrys, and the first time ever this close, close enough to touch. At the same time Arthur remembered kissing these lips over and over, pushing his cock between these lips, and he lusted after him just like before, wanted to reach for him even like this, with Mordred's small hands. Part of him was terrified that his thoughts could be feeding back to Mordred. Part of him that was him and Mordred both was happy to simply stare and drink him in, everything that he was, Merlin and Emrys. He was both and more than that, more than they could ever know.
"You're hurt," Merlin said, looking at the crusted blood Mordred could feel all down the side of his face. "Let me see."
Mordred slapped a hand over the wound: he could feel it throbbing now. It was infected, left untreated by those who brought him here. He cleansed and closed it in one painful rush, not caring if it'd scar, and dropped his hand to let Emrys see that he was fine and he didn't need looking after. He wasn't a child, and he wasn't going to be a burden.
He opened up, fearlessly like never before, and touched his magic to the gold of Emrys's power: reverently, in supplication.
"Can I stay with you?" he asked, not with his voice but with his magic and with everything he was.
Emrys flinched and stared at him.
"Of course," he said after a while, when Mordred was about to start crying. "This is your home now. You can do what you like here."
His magic softly gave way and curled along Mordred's without either of them making an effort – Emrys might not even have noticed. Mordred sobbed in delight and hugged him, throwing both arms around Emrys's middle, falling into the glow of Emrys's magic and the warmth of his long narrow body. Arthur did his best not to enjoy it too much till it was finally over.
"This is my home," Mordred told him slowly, in his scratchy, gruff little voice. "Emrys is my home. If you ruin this I'll never forgive you."
"It's not my intention to hurt anyone," Arthur said, cringing at the sound of his own words. It was the truth; it just didn't sound like the truth when his hands still remembered how it felt to crush a life out of a body, how that crack of the bone had sounded.
"I know. For that I'm going to gift you a dreamless sleep, like Emrys did me."
He whispered a string of lilting sounds, and Arthur's head dropped forward, too heavy for his tired neck; he felt his nose bump smartly against his knee but was already too sleepy to complain.
Next Part
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no subject
Date: 2010-08-29 10:38 pm (UTC)And we finally get Mordred's side of the story! Hurray! I LOVED that he was in total awe and admiration of Melrin from the moment he laid eyes on him.
This is SO wonderful. And I have another chapter to read so YAY!!! *hugs*
no subject
Date: 2010-08-30 12:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-30 12:42 am (UTC)Arthur wresting that murder out of Merlin's hands was brave and justified and brilliant. Arthur's not the hardened murderer he's accused of being, and the murder really was devastating. The pressure he was already under was nearly overwhelming, and now it's that much heavier.
Mordred's back story was also vividly drawn. The druids willingness to sacrifice themselves to bring their tragic story to the outside world was insane. The government would just spin the attack back on the murderous magicians. What a terrible waste of lives. This war is completely insane and there don't seem to be any commanders on the side of magic that know how to provide a united front. All this death and destruction is happening to no good purpose.
Mordred's hero worship of Merlin is showing a soft side I wasn't expecting. The purity of Merlin's Magic is quite beautiful and must be a restful thing for the druids to lean into. Mordred's lucky to be able to bask in it in this terrible place.
no subject
Date: 2010-08-30 12:54 pm (UTC)I'm still wondering if the lack of strong and sane leadership among the magicians in canon might be a mistake on the part of the show writers or an underlying theme. Still hard to imagine magic could have been purged en mass like that with medieval warfare, unless average warlocks in canon are supposed to be pretty weak. Seems like Season 3 is going to explore some larger themes with war and politics hot Cendred in leather trousers so I'm quite excited to see where they take it. (Also quite motivated to post this before new canon proves me wrong on everything! :P )
no subject
Date: 2010-08-30 03:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-30 12:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-08 07:13 pm (UTC)Peace,
Bubba