Fic: First, the Heart (Prologue)
Title: First, the Heart
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Characters: Ensemble cast
Word count: 3267 so far
Warnings: Violence, drugging, restraints
Summary: Merlin has been pursued all his life by those who know about his powers. They want to use him, to kill him, to take his magic, anything, everything. When he falls onto the Pendragon hitlist he knows he probably has little time left. But Merlin won't stop fighting. And in time may discover there's more to life than what first meets the eye. Especially in the case of a certain Arthur Pendragon.
A/N: A small something that will in time become a larger something. Mainly to distract me from ACBB and get some ideas which have been plaguing me down on paper. Please excuse erratic updates, and I hope you enjoy this little concept which just wouldn't leave me alone!
Prologue .1
There was somebody in Merlin’s flat when he got home.
He hesitated outside in the corridor, holding his breath and silently cursing his luck.
They’d found him. Again.
Merlin was getting tired.
Casting his magic out, it snaked under the door, curled around the table and chairs in the living room, lingered over the still warm kettle in the kitchen, and at last came to rest on the person who was sitting in Merlin’s arm chair at the door to his bedroom, a steaming cup of tea set on the table beside them.
That was … different.
He bit his lip, caught in indecision as whether to go in and face the enemy, or just turn tail and run now before they had a chance to get their hands on him.
He hadn’t been quick enough last time. If it hadn’t been for Will-
Dammit, don’t think about Will.
He let out the breath he’d been holding and straightened his spine. Whoever it was, friend or foe, Merlin couldn’t run away again.
He braced himself and took hold of the door handle, turning it and pushing the door open without needing a key because a certain tea-drinker had already picked the lock.
No fingerprints, though. They must be wearing gloves. They were wary then, of Merlin’s powers.
Merlin knew the stories that were whispered about him. That he could take control of a man just by touch. That even the faintest trace of DNA would render his prey under his will.
It was a sad sort of laugh that welled in his chest. Whatever he’d planned to do with his life, it wasn’t this.
The door swung open to reveal his small, dark flat. The light was fading beyond the windows and the intruder hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights.
In the half-light, Merlin’s gaze came to rest on a man, relaxing in the armchair, one leg crossed carelessly across the other, blond hair like gold in the last rays of the sun. His face was in shadow.
“Most people knock,” Merlin said, shrugging lightly.
The man did not respond.
Merlin dumped his rucksack in the doorway to the kitchen, even turning his back on the man in a show of abject defiance.
“Were the shops out of tea?” he asked, still trying for light-hearted, even as in his peripheral vision he saw the man reach for something inside his jacket.
“I mean,” his voice trembled slightly - it was a gun, definitely a gun - why couldn’t they just leave him alone? “I wouldn’t make a habit of it, someone might get angry.”
He turned, throwing up a shield just in time to catch the bullet, inches from his face.
The resounding crack from the pistol faded into silence.
The bullet hovered in the space between them. The man lowered the gun.
“You really are as good as they say,” the man said.
Merlin reached up and picked the bullet out of the air. He spun it between his fingers, wondering if it would have been better to let it meet its mark.
“They say lots of things,” he responded calmly.
“Not all of them true,” the man said, tilting his head on one side.
“Most of them untrue.”
Merlin reached out and set the bullet on the table.
The man tucked the gun back away inside his jacket and then reached for his tea.
“Most people adopt a more forward approach,” Merlin said. He dragged a chair away from the table and dropped into it.
He felt agitated. Dancing between fight and flee and all the while his supposed attacker wasn’t doing anything. It set Merlin’s teeth on edge.
“I’m not most people,” came the enigmatic response.
“Neither am I,” Merlin responded bluntly.
He was tired. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to get away from the life that had been plaguing him for years simply because of who he was born to be.
“I’d noticed.” The man put his cup to one side. It was still steaming.
“How long have you been following me?” Merlin asked.
“A year,” the man replied. His fingers ran along the edge of something in his lap that Merlin couldn’t see.
“A year?” Merlin ran a hand through his hair. “Other people have tried bringing me in since then.”
There had been Dagr and Ebor. Myror. Cedric.
“I knew they’d fail.”
“And you think you’ll succeed?” Merlin ran a hand through his hair and tried not to scoff. “Let me tell you-,”
“I’ve already succeeded,” the man responded, a smile gracing his lips and his teeth showing white in the gloom.
“What?”
“I’ve already succeeded,” the man repeated. His smile was smug, goading.
Merlin blinked. “How?”
The man lifted a small bottle out of his lap.
“I believe you’re familiar with this little charmer here,” he said, raising an eyebrow in satisfaction when Merlin paled.
He knew what it was. He’d had it used on him more times than he’d like to admit.
“The Witch’s Aria,” the man continued, “as it’s commonly known.”
A powerful sedative, absorbed through the skin. Its potency more than tripled by the use of magic.
Merlin set his jaw. He wasn’t just tired. He was very tired.
His mind cycled through options with decreasing speed.
“The door handle,” he forced out, piecing together the man’s method.
More elusive was his motive, but Merlin didn’t really have time to figure everything out. His mind was still desperately searching for an escape even as his thoughts grew increasingly foggy.
“Yes, very good. But the bullet too, for assurance.”
Merlin didn’t know whether to laugh at his own incompetence or scowl at the man’s ingenuity.
As it was, he had a hard time keeping his eyes open.
“What I don’t understand though,” the man mused, rolling the bottle between hands. “Is why you didn’t just kill me in the first place? You had more than enough opportunity.”
“You’ve been following me for a year,” Merlin grunted, trying to push himself up in the chair even as his body gave way to fatigue and he slumped to the floor. “You’ve seen how I work. And it’s not like that.”
“You’re a bit of an enigma, aren’t you, Merlin?” the man got to his feet and for the first time, light fell across his face.
Merlin’s cheek was pressed into the carpet and he belatedly wondered how he’d got there. The man crossed the space and picked up the bullet in a gloved hand.
All it took was one tiny spell on Merlin’s part and the glove disintegrated.
The man swore loudly.
“And you’re a bit of an idiot, aren’t you, Arthur Pendragon?” Merlin said, putting as much cheek into his words as he could, the darkness almost claiming him.
Arthur had stumbled backwards, the sedative affecting him so much faster than Merlin whose magic had fought it off at least for a little while.
Even as Arthur collapsed to the floor against the armchair, the last of Merlin’s resolve gave up and his eyes fell shut.
* * *
There was a pounding in his head when he awoke.
Dawn was just beginning to show through the windows on the other side of the flat.
Arthur Pendragon was snoring softly.
It was kind of endearing.
Merlin forced himself to his feet, the world weaving before his eyes.
That had been close.
Stepping over Arthur’s sleeping form he gathered his stuff together in the bedroom, stuffing the essentials into his rucksack after a cursory check with his magic to make sure Arthur hadn’t drugged anything else.
Arthur Pendragon.
This was a whole lot more serious than his sluggish brain wanted to contemplate.
The Pendragons were after him.
He gulped and stepped over Arthur Pendragon once again.
There was a sweet openness in Arthur’s expression, and Merlin paused for a moment, his heart tugging painfully, needing something he didn’t quite understand.
Then, he straightened his spine and crushed the bottle of Witch’s Aria under his foot.
At the last minute, before he left, he grabbed a piece of paper and scrawled:
So you don’t have to break into someone else’s flat.
He left it on the table with the opened box of teabags next to it.
It seemed to take him an eternity to leave, and it was only because Arthur began to stir and he could hear his neighbours moving around that he finally came to the conclusion that he had to move.
As he left the flat, he spared one last glance backwards and then disappeared into the dawn.
.2
Two months later
Merlin glared across the room at a certain Morgana Pendragon who was looking distinctly smug, her eyes sparkling as she watched Merlin struggle.
“I was so very glad Arthur failed,” she said, her mouth curling in a smirk. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have had my turn.”
Merlin’s hands were caught up above his head, wrapped in thick cords.
Morgana’s spell had been accurate and powerful.
They faced each other down across the cardboard box Merlin had come to call home over the past two months. It was tiny, freezing as winter drew in, and damp.
He hadn’t been able to afford anything better. Lost in a city he didn’t know, running from danger on every corner and every side.
“And it was so much fun tracking you down,” Morgana continued, pacing closer.
“Yes, I’ve heard betraying one’s kind can be quite liberating,” Merlin replied.
Morgana stepped in front of him and snatched at his jaw, manicured nails digging into his skin.
“I wouldn’t expect you to know the things I’ve faced,” she hissed, not as composed as Arthur, more erratic. Unpredictable. “And my reasons are my own.”
“So it’s not that your father keeps your magic bound except to carry out his purposes?” Merlin asked, raising an eyebrow.
The rumours about the Pendragons were as far-fetched and ridiculous as the rumours Merlin had heard about himself. But this particular detail had rung true, and the way Morgana’s grip on his jaw tightened, seemed to prove it.
“You know nothing,” she spat.
Her nails left small crescent marks as she stepped away.
Merlin wondered when the best time to act would be. He assumed Morgana would be acting alone. Arthur had had no backup and Merlin hoped Morgana would be the same.
They weren’t the kind of people to rely on others. Preferred to put their trust solely in their own skill. Backup was a liability.
Morgana’s eyes glowed and the cords which bound Merlin’s hands - and magic - came away from the wall and she caught them in her hands.
“I don’t quite understand everyone’s interest in you, Emrys,” she said. “This wasn’t exactly difficult. And look at you… Hardly what the rumours led me to believe.”
“I don’t make the rumours,” Merlin replied, shrugging lightly, despite the fact he was smarting from Morgana’s insult. “Perhaps I’m just an ordinary guy.”
Morgana tilted her head on one side, her eyes narrowing. “Perhaps.”
Then she tugged on the cords, pulling Merlin towards the door.
Merlin acted as soon as she turned her back. He leapt forward, swinging his bound hands over her head and wrapping the cords round her throat.
Morgana let out the smallest cry of surprise before she composed herself.
As close as they were, Merlin felt the surge of her magic and couldn’t help but grin as the cords had the same effect on Morgana as they did on him. Her own magic blocking itself, no matter how much she fought to get away from Merlin’s grasp.
“You’re in no position to fight me, Emrys,” she growled.
“I don’t have to kill you with magic, Morgana,” Merlin replied, his voice a low threat in her ear. He tightened the cords around Morgana’s neck until she went still.
“Cut the cords,” he ordered.
“With what? My teeth?”
“There’s a knife,” Merlin said calmly, turning them both in the direction of his makeshift kitchen.
They slowly advanced, Merlin making sure he gave no slack in the bonds.
Morgana picked up the bread knife, still smeared with peanut butter from where Merlin had been cutting his sandwiches before he was so rudely interrupted.
“Careful now,” Merlin breathed. “Neither of us want to get hurt.”
A sardonic laugh escaped Morgana. “I’m the one with the knife, Emrys,” she muttered, but she raised the knife slowly, steadily raking it back and forth across the tough cord.
Merlin could tell they could both feel the magic in the bond weakening, so he took his chance right before Morgana cut through the last fibre and pulled hard.
The cord snapped. Morgana turned. Merlin didn’t quite raise his shield in time.
The knife caught his shoulder, and even though it was blunt, Morgana’s power drove it deep.
Merlin stumbled back, throwing his hand out and blasting Morgana backwards off her feet as the pain in his shoulder spiked.
Morgana hit the wall and slumped to the ground, unconscious.
Merlin grasped the handle of the knife, not able to quite remember whether you were meant to leave the knife in or take it out, but either way it hurt and he could hardly run with a bread knife stuck in his shoulder.
Blood soaked into his shirt. His thoughts blurred a little with pain.
Raising a hand, he whispered a spell, not enough to heal his wound - that had never been Merlin’s forte - but enough to numb the pain, at least for a little while.
He grabbed his rucksack, his coat, his sandwiches.
He didn’t look back as he fled.
.3
Three weeks later
Merlin really should have seen it coming.
First Arthur. Then Morgana. It wasn’t any stretch of the imagination to guess who would come after him next.
As it was, he was at Gwaine’s. It was his birthday. And he was drunk. Very drunk.
The fire was burning low in the grate and the curtains were drawn in the living room of the house. Gwaine wasn’t there, but Merlin didn’t think his friend would have a problem with Merlin sleeping there a night or two. Or a week. Maybe three.
It wasn’t like Gwaine ever even came here. He held no fondness for his childhood home which had been left to him in his father’s will. Gwaine’s feelings for the place were a mixture of anger, regret and sadness that Merlin had never been able to quite tease out of him.
His wound had healed after several attempts to heal it with magic, each with varying levels of success.
He started into the flames, wondering what was left. Wondering what he was meant to do with a life that everyone else seemed to want to claim.
What was he meant to do when on every side people were trying to kill him, torture him, take away his magic.
He sighed, curling up on the threadbare couch and pulling his blanket a little tighter around him.
His eyes drooped shut.
Then the whining began.
It was faint at first. Merlin put it down to tinnitus.
But then it grew louder. Too loud for him to ignore.
The sound sent shivers down his spine.
He pushed himself up from the seat, the blanket falling from his shoulders as he got to his feet.
The rest of the house was silent.
The whining in Merlin’s head only grew louder.
He winced, the sound seeming to claw at some highly sensitive part of his soul. Tugging and pulling and scratching, like it was trying to dig into his heart, right to his core.
His clapped his hands over his ears, his knees beginning to tremble and buckle as the whining increased in intensity.
He tried to call his magic up, to lash out and stop whatever it was, but his magic seemed to splinter and disintegrate at the noise, the high-pitched sound digging right down to his magic and tearing it apart.
He fell to his knees, bowing his head, desperate for it to stop.
He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.
A thin scream issued from his throat.
He was vaguely aware of people entering the room.
Someone grabbed his arms and pulled them behind his back. He fought, needing some resistance to the sound that grew louder and louder.
“No. Please.” The words were torn from him as someone cuffed his wrists.
“Please.”
“So it works then,” he heard a calm voice say, and looking up through his lashes he saw none other than Uther Pendragon, standing there with a small black box in his hands and an expression of disgust on his face.
“I’ve never seen it work this effectively before,” someone else said. “He must be strong.”
“According to legend he is the most powerful of them all.” Uther tilted his head on one side, sneering slightly. “And here he grovels at my feet.”
“Please,” Merlin begged, not caring anymore because it hurt. “Please make it stop. I’ll do anything. Please, please…”
Uther stepped closer and Merlin flinched away.
The nearer the man got, the louder and more intense the sound got and Merlin begged and begged, the words coming out of his mouth as a scream for the briefest, the smallest of respite.
“Get him in the van.”
Merlin was hauled to his feet and was dragged, because his body wouldn’t cooperate. He kept his eyes shut, trying to get away from the noise, to do anything to get it to stop.
They were halfway across the hallway to the door, when it suddenly did.
There was a crack of a gun being fired. Merlin barely heard it.
Then another shot, and another.
Merlin’s brain started to clear, the whining faded.
“Someone knock him out!” Someone yelled.
Merlin caught up with what was happening just in time to turn away from the blow aimed at his head. It caught his shoulder and the force was enough to knock him back into reality.
The knife wound burned dully.
His eyes flared gold.
His captors didn’t stand a chance. They were thrown away from him, the cuffs around his wrists snapping open and he threw out a hand to stop a bullet, at the same time weaving shields around those who had come to save him.
Eventually the firing stopped and Merlin looked up to find Gwaine coming towards him, his face pale and his knuckles white around his gun.
“Merlin…”
Gwaine pulled him into a hug and Merlin let himself buckle a little.
He saw Lancelot, Percival and Gwen standing in the hallway, looking a little aghast at the scene before them.
Merlin tried to ignore the bodies.
“Uther?” he asked.
Gwaine stepped back, a scowl crossing his face. “He got away.”
Merlin sniffed and held out a hand. “Give me your gun.”
Gwaine looked puzzled for a moment before handing it over.
Merlin crossed the hall to where the black box was lying shattered on the floor, evidently where Uther had dropped it. One bullet was already embedded in it.
Merlin fired another. And another.
Bits of black plastic casing and chips of metal flew up at the impact.
Another shot. And another.
“Merlin. Merlin!”
It was Gwaine again, his hand on Merlin’s arm, but Merlin didn’t stop firing until all the bullets were gone and the gun clicked dully in the silence.
“That’s mahogany,” Gwaine said, indicating the mess Merlin had made of the floor, like he actually knew what wood it was, or cared, and Merlin would have laughed, but darkness crept in at the edges of his vision and he collapsed backwards into Gwaine’s arms.
“Merlin? Merlin!”
Chapter One
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Characters: Ensemble cast
Word count: 3267 so far
Warnings: Violence, drugging, restraints
Summary: Merlin has been pursued all his life by those who know about his powers. They want to use him, to kill him, to take his magic, anything, everything. When he falls onto the Pendragon hitlist he knows he probably has little time left. But Merlin won't stop fighting. And in time may discover there's more to life than what first meets the eye. Especially in the case of a certain Arthur Pendragon.
A/N: A small something that will in time become a larger something. Mainly to distract me from ACBB and get some ideas which have been plaguing me down on paper. Please excuse erratic updates, and I hope you enjoy this little concept which just wouldn't leave me alone!
Prologue .1
There was somebody in Merlin’s flat when he got home.
He hesitated outside in the corridor, holding his breath and silently cursing his luck.
They’d found him. Again.
Merlin was getting tired.
Casting his magic out, it snaked under the door, curled around the table and chairs in the living room, lingered over the still warm kettle in the kitchen, and at last came to rest on the person who was sitting in Merlin’s arm chair at the door to his bedroom, a steaming cup of tea set on the table beside them.
That was … different.
He bit his lip, caught in indecision as whether to go in and face the enemy, or just turn tail and run now before they had a chance to get their hands on him.
He hadn’t been quick enough last time. If it hadn’t been for Will-
Dammit, don’t think about Will.
He let out the breath he’d been holding and straightened his spine. Whoever it was, friend or foe, Merlin couldn’t run away again.
He braced himself and took hold of the door handle, turning it and pushing the door open without needing a key because a certain tea-drinker had already picked the lock.
No fingerprints, though. They must be wearing gloves. They were wary then, of Merlin’s powers.
Merlin knew the stories that were whispered about him. That he could take control of a man just by touch. That even the faintest trace of DNA would render his prey under his will.
It was a sad sort of laugh that welled in his chest. Whatever he’d planned to do with his life, it wasn’t this.
The door swung open to reveal his small, dark flat. The light was fading beyond the windows and the intruder hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights.
In the half-light, Merlin’s gaze came to rest on a man, relaxing in the armchair, one leg crossed carelessly across the other, blond hair like gold in the last rays of the sun. His face was in shadow.
“Most people knock,” Merlin said, shrugging lightly.
The man did not respond.
Merlin dumped his rucksack in the doorway to the kitchen, even turning his back on the man in a show of abject defiance.
“Were the shops out of tea?” he asked, still trying for light-hearted, even as in his peripheral vision he saw the man reach for something inside his jacket.
“I mean,” his voice trembled slightly - it was a gun, definitely a gun - why couldn’t they just leave him alone? “I wouldn’t make a habit of it, someone might get angry.”
He turned, throwing up a shield just in time to catch the bullet, inches from his face.
The resounding crack from the pistol faded into silence.
The bullet hovered in the space between them. The man lowered the gun.
“You really are as good as they say,” the man said.
Merlin reached up and picked the bullet out of the air. He spun it between his fingers, wondering if it would have been better to let it meet its mark.
“They say lots of things,” he responded calmly.
“Not all of them true,” the man said, tilting his head on one side.
“Most of them untrue.”
Merlin reached out and set the bullet on the table.
The man tucked the gun back away inside his jacket and then reached for his tea.
“Most people adopt a more forward approach,” Merlin said. He dragged a chair away from the table and dropped into it.
He felt agitated. Dancing between fight and flee and all the while his supposed attacker wasn’t doing anything. It set Merlin’s teeth on edge.
“I’m not most people,” came the enigmatic response.
“Neither am I,” Merlin responded bluntly.
He was tired. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to get away from the life that had been plaguing him for years simply because of who he was born to be.
“I’d noticed.” The man put his cup to one side. It was still steaming.
“How long have you been following me?” Merlin asked.
“A year,” the man replied. His fingers ran along the edge of something in his lap that Merlin couldn’t see.
“A year?” Merlin ran a hand through his hair. “Other people have tried bringing me in since then.”
There had been Dagr and Ebor. Myror. Cedric.
“I knew they’d fail.”
“And you think you’ll succeed?” Merlin ran a hand through his hair and tried not to scoff. “Let me tell you-,”
“I’ve already succeeded,” the man responded, a smile gracing his lips and his teeth showing white in the gloom.
“What?”
“I’ve already succeeded,” the man repeated. His smile was smug, goading.
Merlin blinked. “How?”
The man lifted a small bottle out of his lap.
“I believe you’re familiar with this little charmer here,” he said, raising an eyebrow in satisfaction when Merlin paled.
He knew what it was. He’d had it used on him more times than he’d like to admit.
“The Witch’s Aria,” the man continued, “as it’s commonly known.”
A powerful sedative, absorbed through the skin. Its potency more than tripled by the use of magic.
Merlin set his jaw. He wasn’t just tired. He was very tired.
His mind cycled through options with decreasing speed.
“The door handle,” he forced out, piecing together the man’s method.
More elusive was his motive, but Merlin didn’t really have time to figure everything out. His mind was still desperately searching for an escape even as his thoughts grew increasingly foggy.
“Yes, very good. But the bullet too, for assurance.”
Merlin didn’t know whether to laugh at his own incompetence or scowl at the man’s ingenuity.
As it was, he had a hard time keeping his eyes open.
“What I don’t understand though,” the man mused, rolling the bottle between hands. “Is why you didn’t just kill me in the first place? You had more than enough opportunity.”
“You’ve been following me for a year,” Merlin grunted, trying to push himself up in the chair even as his body gave way to fatigue and he slumped to the floor. “You’ve seen how I work. And it’s not like that.”
“You’re a bit of an enigma, aren’t you, Merlin?” the man got to his feet and for the first time, light fell across his face.
Merlin’s cheek was pressed into the carpet and he belatedly wondered how he’d got there. The man crossed the space and picked up the bullet in a gloved hand.
All it took was one tiny spell on Merlin’s part and the glove disintegrated.
The man swore loudly.
“And you’re a bit of an idiot, aren’t you, Arthur Pendragon?” Merlin said, putting as much cheek into his words as he could, the darkness almost claiming him.
Arthur had stumbled backwards, the sedative affecting him so much faster than Merlin whose magic had fought it off at least for a little while.
Even as Arthur collapsed to the floor against the armchair, the last of Merlin’s resolve gave up and his eyes fell shut.
* * *
There was a pounding in his head when he awoke.
Dawn was just beginning to show through the windows on the other side of the flat.
Arthur Pendragon was snoring softly.
It was kind of endearing.
Merlin forced himself to his feet, the world weaving before his eyes.
That had been close.
Stepping over Arthur’s sleeping form he gathered his stuff together in the bedroom, stuffing the essentials into his rucksack after a cursory check with his magic to make sure Arthur hadn’t drugged anything else.
Arthur Pendragon.
This was a whole lot more serious than his sluggish brain wanted to contemplate.
The Pendragons were after him.
He gulped and stepped over Arthur Pendragon once again.
There was a sweet openness in Arthur’s expression, and Merlin paused for a moment, his heart tugging painfully, needing something he didn’t quite understand.
Then, he straightened his spine and crushed the bottle of Witch’s Aria under his foot.
At the last minute, before he left, he grabbed a piece of paper and scrawled:
So you don’t have to break into someone else’s flat.
He left it on the table with the opened box of teabags next to it.
It seemed to take him an eternity to leave, and it was only because Arthur began to stir and he could hear his neighbours moving around that he finally came to the conclusion that he had to move.
As he left the flat, he spared one last glance backwards and then disappeared into the dawn.
.2
Two months later
Merlin glared across the room at a certain Morgana Pendragon who was looking distinctly smug, her eyes sparkling as she watched Merlin struggle.
“I was so very glad Arthur failed,” she said, her mouth curling in a smirk. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have had my turn.”
Merlin’s hands were caught up above his head, wrapped in thick cords.
Morgana’s spell had been accurate and powerful.
They faced each other down across the cardboard box Merlin had come to call home over the past two months. It was tiny, freezing as winter drew in, and damp.
He hadn’t been able to afford anything better. Lost in a city he didn’t know, running from danger on every corner and every side.
“And it was so much fun tracking you down,” Morgana continued, pacing closer.
“Yes, I’ve heard betraying one’s kind can be quite liberating,” Merlin replied.
Morgana stepped in front of him and snatched at his jaw, manicured nails digging into his skin.
“I wouldn’t expect you to know the things I’ve faced,” she hissed, not as composed as Arthur, more erratic. Unpredictable. “And my reasons are my own.”
“So it’s not that your father keeps your magic bound except to carry out his purposes?” Merlin asked, raising an eyebrow.
The rumours about the Pendragons were as far-fetched and ridiculous as the rumours Merlin had heard about himself. But this particular detail had rung true, and the way Morgana’s grip on his jaw tightened, seemed to prove it.
“You know nothing,” she spat.
Her nails left small crescent marks as she stepped away.
Merlin wondered when the best time to act would be. He assumed Morgana would be acting alone. Arthur had had no backup and Merlin hoped Morgana would be the same.
They weren’t the kind of people to rely on others. Preferred to put their trust solely in their own skill. Backup was a liability.
Morgana’s eyes glowed and the cords which bound Merlin’s hands - and magic - came away from the wall and she caught them in her hands.
“I don’t quite understand everyone’s interest in you, Emrys,” she said. “This wasn’t exactly difficult. And look at you… Hardly what the rumours led me to believe.”
“I don’t make the rumours,” Merlin replied, shrugging lightly, despite the fact he was smarting from Morgana’s insult. “Perhaps I’m just an ordinary guy.”
Morgana tilted her head on one side, her eyes narrowing. “Perhaps.”
Then she tugged on the cords, pulling Merlin towards the door.
Merlin acted as soon as she turned her back. He leapt forward, swinging his bound hands over her head and wrapping the cords round her throat.
Morgana let out the smallest cry of surprise before she composed herself.
As close as they were, Merlin felt the surge of her magic and couldn’t help but grin as the cords had the same effect on Morgana as they did on him. Her own magic blocking itself, no matter how much she fought to get away from Merlin’s grasp.
“You’re in no position to fight me, Emrys,” she growled.
“I don’t have to kill you with magic, Morgana,” Merlin replied, his voice a low threat in her ear. He tightened the cords around Morgana’s neck until she went still.
“Cut the cords,” he ordered.
“With what? My teeth?”
“There’s a knife,” Merlin said calmly, turning them both in the direction of his makeshift kitchen.
They slowly advanced, Merlin making sure he gave no slack in the bonds.
Morgana picked up the bread knife, still smeared with peanut butter from where Merlin had been cutting his sandwiches before he was so rudely interrupted.
“Careful now,” Merlin breathed. “Neither of us want to get hurt.”
A sardonic laugh escaped Morgana. “I’m the one with the knife, Emrys,” she muttered, but she raised the knife slowly, steadily raking it back and forth across the tough cord.
Merlin could tell they could both feel the magic in the bond weakening, so he took his chance right before Morgana cut through the last fibre and pulled hard.
The cord snapped. Morgana turned. Merlin didn’t quite raise his shield in time.
The knife caught his shoulder, and even though it was blunt, Morgana’s power drove it deep.
Merlin stumbled back, throwing his hand out and blasting Morgana backwards off her feet as the pain in his shoulder spiked.
Morgana hit the wall and slumped to the ground, unconscious.
Merlin grasped the handle of the knife, not able to quite remember whether you were meant to leave the knife in or take it out, but either way it hurt and he could hardly run with a bread knife stuck in his shoulder.
Blood soaked into his shirt. His thoughts blurred a little with pain.
Raising a hand, he whispered a spell, not enough to heal his wound - that had never been Merlin’s forte - but enough to numb the pain, at least for a little while.
He grabbed his rucksack, his coat, his sandwiches.
He didn’t look back as he fled.
.3
Three weeks later
Merlin really should have seen it coming.
First Arthur. Then Morgana. It wasn’t any stretch of the imagination to guess who would come after him next.
As it was, he was at Gwaine’s. It was his birthday. And he was drunk. Very drunk.
The fire was burning low in the grate and the curtains were drawn in the living room of the house. Gwaine wasn’t there, but Merlin didn’t think his friend would have a problem with Merlin sleeping there a night or two. Or a week. Maybe three.
It wasn’t like Gwaine ever even came here. He held no fondness for his childhood home which had been left to him in his father’s will. Gwaine’s feelings for the place were a mixture of anger, regret and sadness that Merlin had never been able to quite tease out of him.
His wound had healed after several attempts to heal it with magic, each with varying levels of success.
He started into the flames, wondering what was left. Wondering what he was meant to do with a life that everyone else seemed to want to claim.
What was he meant to do when on every side people were trying to kill him, torture him, take away his magic.
He sighed, curling up on the threadbare couch and pulling his blanket a little tighter around him.
His eyes drooped shut.
Then the whining began.
It was faint at first. Merlin put it down to tinnitus.
But then it grew louder. Too loud for him to ignore.
The sound sent shivers down his spine.
He pushed himself up from the seat, the blanket falling from his shoulders as he got to his feet.
The rest of the house was silent.
The whining in Merlin’s head only grew louder.
He winced, the sound seeming to claw at some highly sensitive part of his soul. Tugging and pulling and scratching, like it was trying to dig into his heart, right to his core.
His clapped his hands over his ears, his knees beginning to tremble and buckle as the whining increased in intensity.
He tried to call his magic up, to lash out and stop whatever it was, but his magic seemed to splinter and disintegrate at the noise, the high-pitched sound digging right down to his magic and tearing it apart.
He fell to his knees, bowing his head, desperate for it to stop.
He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.
A thin scream issued from his throat.
He was vaguely aware of people entering the room.
Someone grabbed his arms and pulled them behind his back. He fought, needing some resistance to the sound that grew louder and louder.
“No. Please.” The words were torn from him as someone cuffed his wrists.
“Please.”
“So it works then,” he heard a calm voice say, and looking up through his lashes he saw none other than Uther Pendragon, standing there with a small black box in his hands and an expression of disgust on his face.
“I’ve never seen it work this effectively before,” someone else said. “He must be strong.”
“According to legend he is the most powerful of them all.” Uther tilted his head on one side, sneering slightly. “And here he grovels at my feet.”
“Please,” Merlin begged, not caring anymore because it hurt. “Please make it stop. I’ll do anything. Please, please…”
Uther stepped closer and Merlin flinched away.
The nearer the man got, the louder and more intense the sound got and Merlin begged and begged, the words coming out of his mouth as a scream for the briefest, the smallest of respite.
“Get him in the van.”
Merlin was hauled to his feet and was dragged, because his body wouldn’t cooperate. He kept his eyes shut, trying to get away from the noise, to do anything to get it to stop.
They were halfway across the hallway to the door, when it suddenly did.
There was a crack of a gun being fired. Merlin barely heard it.
Then another shot, and another.
Merlin’s brain started to clear, the whining faded.
“Someone knock him out!” Someone yelled.
Merlin caught up with what was happening just in time to turn away from the blow aimed at his head. It caught his shoulder and the force was enough to knock him back into reality.
The knife wound burned dully.
His eyes flared gold.
His captors didn’t stand a chance. They were thrown away from him, the cuffs around his wrists snapping open and he threw out a hand to stop a bullet, at the same time weaving shields around those who had come to save him.
Eventually the firing stopped and Merlin looked up to find Gwaine coming towards him, his face pale and his knuckles white around his gun.
“Merlin…”
Gwaine pulled him into a hug and Merlin let himself buckle a little.
He saw Lancelot, Percival and Gwen standing in the hallway, looking a little aghast at the scene before them.
Merlin tried to ignore the bodies.
“Uther?” he asked.
Gwaine stepped back, a scowl crossing his face. “He got away.”
Merlin sniffed and held out a hand. “Give me your gun.”
Gwaine looked puzzled for a moment before handing it over.
Merlin crossed the hall to where the black box was lying shattered on the floor, evidently where Uther had dropped it. One bullet was already embedded in it.
Merlin fired another. And another.
Bits of black plastic casing and chips of metal flew up at the impact.
Another shot. And another.
“Merlin. Merlin!”
It was Gwaine again, his hand on Merlin’s arm, but Merlin didn’t stop firing until all the bullets were gone and the gun clicked dully in the silence.
“That’s mahogany,” Gwaine said, indicating the mess Merlin had made of the floor, like he actually knew what wood it was, or cared, and Merlin would have laughed, but darkness crept in at the edges of his vision and he collapsed backwards into Gwaine’s arms.
“Merlin? Merlin!”
Chapter One