Title: The Man With The Dragon Tattoo – Chapter One.

Author: Woodland Goddess.

Rated: M

Main Pairing: Merthur (obviously)

Side Pairings: Gwencelot, Greya (Gwaine/Freya), Mara (briefly).

Warnings (Possible): Contains Feels, Vulgar Language, Depictions of Violence, Nude Scenes and Character Death (Your heart just stopped, didn't it? I know mine did.)

Author's Note: Hello, peoples! How are you all? As you can tell, this is a new fic. You'll notice that it isn't for the HP Fandom; instead it's for BBC's Merlin (which I also fangirl over like crazy.) It's my first fic for this fandom, so if things aren't quite right, that's why; sometimes it takes me awhile to acclimatize. Feel free to let me know what you think, yeah? But you know...in a nice way, 'cause being mean isn't very nice (although I suppose that's rather the point, lol.) ^_^ This fic is set in a Contemporary Slightly Alternate Universe.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Merlin characters – if I did, the show would have ended very differently. I also don't own anything to do with the fandoms that may or may not be referenced throughout the story, because Merlin's a big nerd like me...

Chapter One: Without a Trace

Merlin sighed as he surveyed his reflection in the mirror, full-length, in his room, which was so messy his father was often surprised he could navigate his way through it without falling over. He could not help but think he looked atrocious. Admittedly, half of that was, more than likely, because he had always been ridiculously and overly self-conscious. The black jeans he wore were bought new today, purchased especially for his night out with his friends, but they were tight and uncomfortable and made him feel as though he were back in Secondary School, trying to fit in with the popular crowd. Perish the thought.

On his torso he wore a blue shirt, a black form-fitting waistcoat and a dark silver scarf. Nibbling his bottom lip, he narrowed his eyes at his reflection. He thought he looked like a rigid waiter who had been bullied into more casual wear. He was on the verge of tearing it all off, to try again, when his contemplations were interrupted by a sharp knock on the front door. Guess there's nothing for it, he thought darkly, hurrying out of his room to get the door. Yanking it open, it was to find himself almost knocked over by the force of an enthusiastic hug.

"Ouch," he complained, giving the girl a shove that was only half-serious. She had winded him, but it was not so bad. He remembered the first hug the girl had ever given him; that had been bad, almost crushing in its intensity, but she had meant well and that was all that mattered, really. Merlin pulled back as soon as Freya Lake gave him the chance, taking in the sight of her. She was clad in blue jeans, a black silk top with elbow-length sleeves that draped over her pale arms and gold heels. At her throat was a golden chain with a sword pendant and from her ears dangled golden hoop earrings. A handbag hung from her delicate shoulder. He could not squash the bubble of laughter that burst out of him when he noticed something shimmering at the outer corner of each dark eye. "Glitter, Freya, really?"

"Like you look any better, Dragan," said William Prince, clad in a pair of dark trousers, a white shirt and a leather jacket, as he barrelled in through the open door, pushing past his friends who still loitered in the doorway. The young man's tone was dripping with sarcasm, as usual. "You couldn't look more gay with that fucking scarf!" If that comment had been made by anyone else, he would never have made it passed the door. Will never used sexual orientation as an insult when it came to Merlin, not deliberately, because that would make him a hypocrite. The man was just a vulgar twat at times.

Merlin touched the scarf lightly with his fingers. "I actually really like this scarf; maybe that's why," he joked. The fact of Merlin's orientation had been known for some time. It had been Will, in fact, that had been subject to Merlin's first awkward fumbling attentions when they were fifteen. Neither of them were ashamed of the incident, but they knew it had, more than likely, been a result of such a close friendship, loneliness and teenage hormones. That was always a dangerous combination.

Freya had only pushed her way into their friendship three years ago, but from the moment she had arrived into their lives they had been inseparable. Merlin had met her online, quite by accident, through Harry Potter fan fiction and after a few months of private messages, it had progressed to sending friend requests on Facebook. When Merlin had learned she, too, lived in London they arranged to meet and Will had tagged along as back-up – just in case Freya turned out to be a mass-murdering, thirty year old man or something.

Many coffees, herbal teas, biscuits and nerdgasms later and here they were, ready to head out on the town together. Just the thought of it brought a grin to his face. "Figures," replied Will, eyeing the scarf like it might bite him, his earring glinting in the light. "All set?" He asked that question every time they were heading out; Merlin had a head like a sieve sometimes – he remembered the large and extremely important things, but had a tendency to forget things like his wallet or his phone. Sometimes, he thought he might lose his head if it had not been attached to the rest of him.

Merlin left a note for his father, Balinor, who lay curled up on the couch in the living room, face half-buried in the soft cushions as he snored lightly. It had been a long day at the workshop; he deserved the rest. Turning his back on the house, Merlin followed his friends out onto the street. The three of them piled into Freya's 2008 Ford Fiesta, which was black in colour. Freya was, much to her perpetual consternation, always their designated driver; they had little choice – Merlin, while he could drive he did not have a licence, and Will was allergic to the responsibility involved.

They argued the fact, again, while she drove them out of Hammersmith and over to Southwark. The argument was half-arsed and filled with jokes, as usual. Parking a small distance away, Merlin and company hurried down the street towards The Isle, one of the most popular clubs in London. In all honesty, Merlin would rather have gone to the cinema, but Will had bullied him into agreeing. That was usually how it happened; Will would dig and dig and dig and finally Merlin would cave, throwing up his arms exasperatedly.

The Isle was massive and quite clearly expensively furnished, but the neon glow from several surfaces irritated Merlin's eyes. He was glad, however, that he did not inherit Primary Generalized Epilepsy from his late mother's side of the family; it would have made it impossible to withstand the presence of strobe lights, which flashed frequently through the club's atmospherically gloomy interior. When he had first been dragged to the club, he had hated it, his hackles rising for no apparent reason. His magic had swirled beneath his skin agitatedly.

There was something off about it, like the faint trace of a vaguely remembered dream about a nightmare. But he had pushed those feelings aside, forced himself to relax for the sake of his friends and now, though his magic still swirled angrily, Merlin was relatively comfortable at the club. Once the three of them had found a table, somewhere off to the left of the bar, Merlin offered to buy the first round; a double shot of whiskey for Will, a shot of Captain Morgan with fizzy orange for himself – "Seriously, could you be any more girly?" Will always offered as a complaint – and a coke for Freya, who glared at him while he grinned cheekily at her in return.

Merlin meandered his way through the crowd on the dance floor, getting closer and closer to the bar with every step he took, though it took some time. While he wanted to reach the bar as quickly as possible, he was not one for shoving people out of his way; mostly because in some instances it would result in a punch to the face. And he rather liked his face the way it was, though he was often told – by Freya – that his cheekbones looked as though they could cut through diamond. He was unsure whether that was a compliment or an insult.

Once he managed to reach the bar it was relatively smooth sailing from there. By relatively, he meant not at all. It took more than ten minutes to get the attention of the barman, who had been too busy leaning against the counter, chatting to a stunning woman whose raven hair was gathered in a stylishly untidy bun, a few dark locks spilling down to tickle her strong jaw. As if she had felt him glaring at her, she turned her face towards Merlin and smirked in a manner that seemed amused and condescending all at once.

Her faintly green eyes burned with something akin to thinly veiled recognition, but Merlin was fairly certain he had never seen her before. He would remember knowing someone pretty, but a face like hers would be imprinted on any man's brain for the rest of his life. In response to her condescension, he dipped his head in a sarcastic parody of a bow. That seemed to bring a real smile to her face and she said a few words to the barman, who was in Merlin's face a moment later, politely asking what he wanted.

Merlin rattled off the list of drinks and waited, fingers tapping a random rhythm against the bar. When they arrived, he paid for them and turned to extend his thanks to the dark-haired lady for sending the barman his way, but she had vanished. Frowning and just managing to not drop the drinks as he virtually waltzed his way through the dancing crowd, determined not to bump into anyone, he made his way back towards the table. He was almost there when he tripped over his own feet, stumbling forward and knocking into the broad expanse of a man's chest.

His magic flared instantly and time came to a stop, leaving his hands tingling warmly.

Shite, he thought, the tone somewhere between dismay and outright panic. Shite, shite, shite, shite, shite! He glanced around quickly, before looking at the man about to be soaked by the beverages splashing up out of their vessels, frozen mid-arc. He made a snap decision to salvage the situation as much as he possible could; a muttered spell had the glasses back in his hand and the drinks settling back down into their vessels as if he had never tripped in the first place. His eyes flashed with golden fire and suddenly time was moving again.

Merlin looked up from the drinks, wide-eyed, at the man before him. He was tall, though marginally shorter than Merlin himself, and his shoulders sloped with a masculine grace that any man would kill for. The blood red shirt, upper buttons undone, highlighted the torso of the man, who was built like a wardrobe, though not in a grotesque manner. A gold watch, which looked as though it would take an arm and a leg to purchase, gleamed on his sturdy wrist. His lower half was encased in well-fitted black trousers, showcasing finely-developed thighs.

Complete with a chiselled jaw, haughty nose, blond hair and eyes, blue as the sky on a fine day, he was far more attractive than a man had any right to be. It was too bad the visual was completely destroyed the moment he opened his mouth. "Watch where you're going; this shirt probably costs more than your entire wardrobe."

"Look, mate; I don't know what kind of charm school you went to, but when someone trips you're supposed to say 'are you okay? Yeah? Good, take care.'" Merlin's temper began rising as Prince Prat had the audacity to look at him like he was hardly worth a glass of water, let alone his time. Maybe he was not as pampered and rich as this man so clearly was, but that did not mean he was worth less than anyone else.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" the blond drawled, blue eyes narrowing in response to Merlin's tone.

"I'm Merlin," replied the irate sorcerer with as much dignity as possible, though for some unfathomable reason he was overcome by the sense of déjà vu.

"So I don't know you."

"No."

"And yet you called me 'mate.'" The man spoke as though he thought Merlin was extremely stupid.

"That was my mistake; I'd never be mates with such an arse." Huffing indignantly, Merlin shouldered his way past Prince Prat, ignoring his shocked sputtering, and continued on his way to the table, where Will was watching, looking torn between amusement and wanting to punch the guy in the face. Freya just looked anxious, as if she expected Prince Prat to follow after him and knock him into the table. "Honestly; society these days has absolutely no understanding of kindness," Merlin complained, laying the drinks out on the table before settling himself down comfortably on the leather seat flush against the wall.

"I know what you mean," said Will, eyes still tracking Prince Prat, who was now ploughing his way through the crowd on his way to the bar. "I got up off my seat on the bus, the other day, for a pregnant lady and she didn't even say thank you; the nerve of her. The world is going to the dogs!" The drawling tone easily put the others in mind of Draco Malfoy – Will's favourite Harry Potter character. Normally, the man hated such bullying, arrogant toe-rags and he had hated Draco the first time he read the series, but as he reread the books, again and again, he noticed different things about Draco and it resulted in a passionate love and appreciation for the complexities of the pale-haired Slytherin.

Merlin frowned down at his Captain Morgan-flavoured orange and spent a few moments wondering why his magic had reacted so suddenly. His father's friend, Doctor Gaius Oldman, had spent years training him to keep his magic under control, to use it only when absolutely necessary and to use it wisely. That, back there, had not been necessary, merely handy. There was just something about Prince Prat...about this place...that made his magic want to leap out of his skin at the slightest hint of trouble, minor or major.

Pushing his worries to the back of his mind, Merlin took a swig of his drink, appreciating the sharp heat of the spiced rum and the zest of the fizzy orange. He did not care, at all, that Will thought it was a girl's drink; it tasted delicious. That was not to say he never drank Captain Morgan straight, but he had to admit he preferred mixing it with carbonated minerals that sang to his sweet tooth. The three of them fell into an easy discussion, topics ranging from Harry Potter to the rise in physical beauty correlating with the decline of manners and everything in between.

After the third round of drinks – courtesy of Will – Merlin was merry enough to allow Freya to drag him out on the dance floor. He had to admit the club played some good music; there was none of that modern dance crap, but the classics blasted out of the speakers, filling the place with a wonderful energy, along with a few contemporary rock songs that fit in well with the others. They lost themselves in the gyrating, grinding crowd as Carry on My Wayward Son by Kansas vibrated through their flesh and bones.

Until he had met Freya, Merlin had never been the dancing type. He had been too gangly and awkward and out of place as a teenager; he was still gangly now, but he had grown much more comfortable in his skin since then. Freya had been one of the biggest reasons for that, always cajoling him into being more outgoing. Sometimes he wondered why she had gone to such efforts, but he knew it was mainly because she thought everyone should be proud of whom they were, no matter their size, their tastes or their backgrounds.

They danced through several songs, before Merlin finally caved, the muscles in his arms and legs burning, and returned to their table, Freya following along behind him with a silly grin on her face. One would think Christmas had come early, judging by her expression. He gave her a playful shove when she joked about him stepping on her feet. She shoved him right back, though it seemed she hardly knew her own strength; the blow sent him sprawling across Will, who had been in the middle of downing his latest double of whiskey.

Will's eyes widened almost to the point of being comical, his face reddening as he started coughing. Merlin apologised as he relocated himself, laughing even as he slapped Will's back helpfully. "Fuck off," the man groused between coughs, batting Merlin's hand away, earning another laugh.

"Ungrateful swine."

Will glared at him through slightly watery eyes once the coughing had passed, but the expression did not last long and the three of them broke down into a fit of giggles that seemed to last for an eternity. "You two are just hopeless," Freya said, resting her forehead against her glass of coke to cool down, appreciating the cool beads of condensation that drenched the glass.

"Hey, now; don't forget you're part of this hopeless group, too." Merlin stuck his tongue out at her and almost bit it when Freya kicked him under the table, hard, earning a pained yelp. "Ouch!"

"Oh, don't be a baby."

"Baby, am I? Was I the one who cried when Sirius Black fell through the veil?" Merlin asked, only half-joking as he turned to Will.

"Nah, mate," he answered, eyes sparking with amusement as the girl turned sulky, "that was all her."

"Shut up; Sirius' death was traumatizing. I'm just glad we didn't get a description of Remus' death. It would have absolutely killed me. Oh, my poor babies." The sad part was that she was actually getting upset over it. Merlin reached out and patted her hand sympathetically. Freya had been a passionate Wolfstar shipper ever since she had been old enough to ship. When questioned about it, she had always been very vague, but Merlin had managed to gather that it had something to do with Remus being unable to control the beast within and Sirius being one of the few who accepted him when there were no urge-quelling potions available. Apparently, it was a magical combination.

Catching Will's eye while Freya moped, they shared a grin and began consoling her, coaxing her back to her usual level of happiness. It took some time, but they managed. Merlin sipped his drink, heat suffusing his cheeks. The phone in his back pocket vibrated sharply against his rump and Merlin reached for it. He frowned, troubled, as he opened a text from his father, which read: Stay with friends tonight. He had never seen four words that unnerved him so much before in his life. "Hey, what's the matter?"

Merlin glanced up at Freya, who gazed across at him in concern. Mouth contorting into an approximation of his usual cheery grin, he replied, "nothing." His friends exchanged a worried glance, but he waved their concerns away; his father more than likely just wanted a quiet night without being disturbed by a drunken lad on his way to bed. He supposed he could appreciate that. Deciding he would not let it bother him, Merlin slipped his phone back into his pocket and ignored its presence for the rest of the night.

Will and Merlin got decidedly more sloshed as the night progressed, but the sorcerer did stop before he reached his limit. Will did no such thing, continuing until he could barely stand for all of his giggles and problems with his equilibrium. It was three in the morning by the time they left, Merlin and Will half-carrying each other and half-falling as they made their way out of the club, Freya moving along behind them, hands shoving at the air behind them as if she were shepherding sheep.

They piled into Freya's car, the two men in the backseat, and in no time at all they were pulling in by the curb outside a block of flats on Cromwell Road in South Kensington. Freya ushered them up several flights of stairs and bundled them into her flat. Will and Merlin stumbled through the door, the weight of the former almost sending the latter to the floor. "You heavy oaf," Merlin joked, laughing as he shoved Will onto the couch.

"Shut up, you love me," said Will, though it took a moment for Merlin to discern his meaning through the slur of his words. He rolled his eyes, but could not stop the laugh that burst out of him when Will yanked his ankle out from under him with his foot. Merlin, all clumsy legs and arms, landed on him hard, but Will did not seem to mind this time. Freya, high on sugar, climbed atop them with a grin, proclaiming that she was queen of the rock. The two men groaned with discomfort, pushing and shoving each other in an attempt to get her off. It failed spectacularly, so Will wormed his arm around Merlin and pinched Freya's arse, sending her into the air with a flail and a squeak. "Some queen of the rock."

Laughing, Merlin pushed himself away from Will, stumbling into the second bedroom while Freya fetched a pillow and blanket for the oaf currently occupying her couch. He pulled off his clothes and climbed into the bed, snuggling down under the blankets. His body and mind, still filled with the heat and a buzz from the mix of sugar and alcohol, took awhile to calm down to a level where he could fall asleep.

A man with blond hair stood before him, surrounded by peers as haughty as himself. It was Prince Prat – Merlin knew it, remembered the contours of his face – but he was young; too young to be the same man and yet he had to be. Merlin would never forget a face. The man was clad in a red tunic; a plate of armour rested upon his collarbone. Upon his right shoulder and both wrists were more pieces of armour. The epaulière and vambrace, respectively, Merlin knew, though how he knew that he could not fathom at the moment. The words had come unbidden to his mind, as if he had known them all along, but had forgotten for reasons unknown.

Slung from a belt at his waist were two sheathed swords, brushing against the brown fabric of his breeches. Large hands were hidden beneath dark leather gloves. He was arrogant, cruel, mocking to the young man before him, deigning to carry the target. It seemed, from out of nowhere, came a third man, dressed in dark breeches, blue tunic, red neckerchief and a brown coat. Merlin staggered backwards in shock, a cry wrenched from his lips; he was looking at the image of himself, though dressed in clothes from ages past. And God, there he was interceding.

The exchange of dialogue between Prince Prat and dream-Merlin was not dissimilar from their altercation in the club, though it went further. He watched the blond wrenching dream-Merlin's arm behind his back when the latter had bravely thrown a punch. "I'll have to throw you in jail for that." It was almost an amused purr, just loud enough for the gathered crowd to hear, loud enough to humiliate and infuriate the young man grasped in his strong hands.

"Who do you think you are? The King?" The scoff in dream-Merlin's tone was plainly heard by the crowd, earning jeers and hisses and laughs.

"No; I'm his son: Arthur." And real-Merlin knew his dream self was in deep...deep trouble.

Scenes whooshed past, some longer than others, and clearly disjointed. Merlin watched himself stop time and wrench Arthur from the path of a flying dagger, saw himself drink poison to protect the Prince, witnessed the coming of Lancelot, saw and felt his fingers brushing against Arthur's skin as he helped him dress and undress in the morning and evening, respectively, and so much in between. The images pressed heavily upon him, though they flew past, awakening thoughts...feelings that Merlin never knew he had. He wanted to reach out to the blond Prat, uncertain whether to embrace him or punch him in the face. He could not take it; his mind would implode if the force did not soon let up.

A voice broke through the imagery, deep and ancient and so painfully familiar that Merlin wanted to weep in relief and dread and fear all at once. "Merlin..." said the voice, rumbling through Merlin's head, sounding tired, as if it had just woken from a slumber that had lasted a thousand ages. Merlin made to call out, to answer and...

He woke suddenly; sucking in air like a starving man fell upon food, he found himself with his face half-buried into his pillows, his gangly body spread across the whole bed, tangled in the blankets. Sweat poured down his face from the intensity of his dreams – if that, indeed, was what they were. He told himself there were no tears hidden amongst the sweat clinging to his skin. He sat up, running a shaking hand down his face, through his sweat-soaked, tangled hair. He could not shake the images from his dream; they were there, in his mind, as strong as any of his memories – as if he had lived them before and had taken a dive into a pensieve to relive them.

But that was just ridiculous.

"You must have drunk too much last night, after all," he murmured to himself, voice unbearably loud even to his own ears. His mouth was as dry as sandpaper and he had a pulsating headache; he could hardly imagine how much more intensely Will had be suffering on the couch. He groaned and struggled to get himself out of bed and into his clothes, before trudging out of the room in search of Freya's bathroom. After relieving himself and spending a few minutes peering blearily at his reflection in the mirror above the sink, Merlin escaped to the kitchen.

A plate of greasy food was waiting for him, guarded by Freya, who did not look at all threatening while armed with a grease-smeared spatula. It seemed Will had woken before he did, for he was sitting at one side of the table, alternating between eating a sandwich, filled with fried rashers, sausages and other greasy things, and inhaling his large mug of steaming coffee – black, with two sugars. Merlin's stomach churned at the sight of his plate, the feeling made worse when Will grinned at him mid-chew, bits of food sticking out through his teeth.

Grimacing, Merlin sat down opposite his friend of many years and stared at him for a long moment. If Will was unnerved by this behaviour he made no comment about it, choosing instead to continue munching on his sandwich, which was so big Merlin was surprised it could even fit in his mouth. In the background, Freya pottered around as she fetched her own food – lunch for her, it would seem. He looked over at her scrambled egg and baked beans and licked his lips. "Back off," she said, seating herself at the table, pointing the spatula at him menacingly. "Eat your grease; it'll do you good."

"You are such a buzz-kill."

"You love it; I know." Freya smiled at him, then, though for some reason there seemed to be an edge of sadness to it. Merlin could not fathom why, but knew that if she wished to talk about anything, she would do so. She always did; Freya trusted Merlin in ways that she trusted no one else – not even Will. In an attempt to make her feel better, Merlin began eating his greasy food, smiling appreciatively when a can of coke was laid down in front of him. The meal continued without much incident and Merlin felt much better for imbibing his breakfast and coke, followed by half a jug of chilled tap water, the other half of which was taken by Will.

They stayed at Freya's for the rest of the day, helping her cook dinner when the time came, before they relocated to the couch. Together, they watched several episodes of Doctor Who on DVD; there was nothing quite like a mad man with a big blue box. The show was confusing and hilarious and suspenseful. The kid with the gas mask freaked Merlin out the most, though he would never admit it aloud. When he finally made his way home – via the bus – it was with a happy heart; the dreams from earlier that day had been almost completely forgotten.

The house, when he arrived, was quiet and dark. His brow creasing in worry, Merlin approached the front door cautiously, calling his magic forward so that it was just beneath the surface of his fingertips, ready to be used in either defence or offence. When he pushed on the front door it was to find it unlocked, swinging forward on silent hinges. "Dad," he called out, stepping inside, his fingers tingling with magic waiting to be used. There came no answer, but there could be a multitude of reasons for that.

His father could simply have forgotten to lock the door on his way to the workshop. There could have been a break-in while his father was at work with the other carpenters. Really, it could be anything; Merlin did not have to jump to the most terrible scenarios. He called out again, a whispered spell causing the lights to switch on without his touch. The living room and kitchen were tidy, but obviously lived in. Merlin continued through the house, searching every room but coming up empty.

His father's bedroom looked as though it had never been slept in. Pulling his phone from his pocket, Merlin first called the workshop and then his father's mobile phone, neither of which were answered, and then punched in the number for Gaius' mobile phone, who mercifully had the day off. It took a moment but the old physician eventually answered. "What?"

Merlin grinned in amusement, despite the situation; the good Doctor had never been one for phone pleasantries. "Gaius," Merlin replied in greeting, getting immediately to the matter at hand, though he could not help but think about those dream-memories as he did so. Gaius had been in them, too; the very same and yet completely different at the same time. "I think we have a problem; Dad's not here , he's not answering his mobile and no one's picking up at the workshop. Dad's the only one who has a key, so if he's not there no one else can get in."

Silence fell between them, thick with meaning. "That's not like him," said Gaius at last.

"No," Merlin agreed. "I'm worried, Gaius; last night he sent me a text telling me to stay with friends for the night. That's not like him either."

"Alright, I'm on my way out of the house. I'll stop by your Dad's haunts, just to be sure and if I haven't found him by the time I arrive at yours, call the police and file a missing person's report." Gaius hung up without another word, leaving Merlin feeling indescribably bereft. There was nothing left for him to do, but sit in the kitchen and wait as patiently as he could. His phone lay on the table in front of him and he watched it intently, willing it to ring with news that Gaius had found his father.

But he had no such luck. An hour and a half after their phone call had come to an end, Gaius barrelled in through the front door without even knocking. Merlin looked up, an irrational hope looming, as the kitchen door opened. But the physician was alone, his shoulders hunched with defeat. The hope that bloomed in Merlin's chest sputtered to a painful death at the sight. He reached for his phone as Gaius began pottering around the kitchen, filling the electric kettle with water from the tap and gathering the necessary accoutrements for making tea.

The young sorcerer hesitated, watching Gaius for a long moment. He differed from the dream-version of himself in several ways; his hair was cut short, quite close to his head; glasses with rectangular lenses rested upon his shrewd nose; he had far less wrinkles, for he was younger and seemed to carry less weight upon his ageing shoulders. A wedding ring glinted in the artificial light with his every movement. He had married a woman named Alice in his youth. Sometimes, they would look at him and share an indecipherable glance between them; it always made him feel as though they knew something important about him that he did not.

"That call's not going to make itself, my boy," said Gaius, gently, as the kettle came to the boil, the power clicking off. Merlin startled and had the grace to look sheepish. "Merlin, is there something troubling you – other than the obvious, of course?"

"Just some weird dreams; nothing important. We can talk about them later." The reply was quiet, almost too quiet, but it made Gaius look up at him so suddenly it was as if Merlin had said he wanted to dress in drag and do the hula on Christmas morning. The physician's blue eyes virtually sparkled behind their lenses. He looked as though he were struggling not to grin like an idiot and Merlin just stared at him, unable to fathom why. They were not exactly in the most humorous situation.

Shaking his head, Merlin left him alone to whatever thought had him in such a good mood and phoned the police station. The man he spoke with, Detective Inspector Lott, sounded familiar, yet for the life of him he could not place the voice. It was rather like the sensation he felt when at The Isle, but much more pleasant – and not just because he had a voice viable for phone sex. When the officer asked for his name, the man almost choked on the coffee he must have been drinking during the call. "What?" he asked after a moment, a tone of disbelief ringing plainly through his Irish lilt.

Merlin closed his eyes in frustration. This always happened. "I said my name is Merlin Dragan. D-R-A-G-A-N."

"Yeah, yeah; I got that bit. Seriously...your name is Merlin...? Like the wizard?"

Good God, kill me now, he thought. Sighing as his patience dwindled the longer he was on the phone, Merlin replied, "yeah... I don't see why it's so unbelievable. There's a subset of falcon called Merlin; it's a good name to have. Falcons are cool. Bird of prey, my friend, bird of prey." Merlin's tone was crisp at this point.

"I know that." Merlin could hear the man's smirk all the way through the phone. "You know, I knew a man named Merlin once – quite a long time ago – and he was very brave and not nearly as much of an incompetent idiot as he led my friends and I to believe." Silence fell for a moment and Merlin could almost hear the cogs whirring around the man's brain. "But moving swiftly on; my partner and I will be there directly, since we're nearing the end of our shift and will be leaving anyway. Cheerio!"

The officer hung up and Merlin lowered his phone, staring at it as if it were about to jump up and bite him. Detective Inspector Lott not only sounded familiar, but had spouted two of the numerous insults Prince Prat – Arthur, his brain murmured traitorously – had used in his dreams. This could hardly be a coincidence. "Merlin...it's not a snake; it's not going to jump up and bite you when you least expect it. I don't think you need to burn holes in that poor phone with your eyes." Slowly, Merlin raised his head and treated Gaius to the same stare as the physician settled a cup of tea down in front of him. "Now...tell me more about these dreams."

So Merlin did.

To Be Continued

Wow...longer than my usual chapters are. I am pleased.

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