Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to BBC.
Notes: New story. Distopia!AU. Gangster!Arthur Unbeta'd. This is just a prologue, it will probably be revised when I get the time. This will probably be dark. It will contain darker versions of the characters. It will involve drug usage and violence and probably character death.
So yeah, hope you enjoy, I will probably revise the last bit make it darker and more sinister, but I'm tired and just needed to get this idea down. Much love.
OOOOH, and the chapter titles are of Tarot cards. I use the meanings given to me by my teacher, and I will say some of the cards I use may have a different name (EG. The devil is called Temptation in my deck) I use the Tarot of the Witches, if anyone is interested
Enjoy.
Prologue: King of Swords
"A serious man who can be sarcastic and a bully."
The office is warm in the late afternoon. Through the gaps in the blinds streams of the setting sun illuminates the room in a soft orange. Dust particles dance in the still air, twisting like snowflakes in a storm. The man behind the desk pays them no mind. Overhead a fan slices through the air in a constant cycle, threatening any fly or bee stupid enough to knick into it an unpleasant end. It hums a constant rhythm to the steady, methodical working of the man behind the desk. Sweat beads on his forehead just a little bit, gathering at his hairline in the humidity that the fan struggles to combat.
The desk he works at is impeccable. A slim stylish computer screen flickers into darkness after too long a time inactive, the default screensaver moving smoothly across the blackness. Other than a sharp, brass lamp – currently switched off, not much else lingers on the smooth oak surface. The wireless keyboard has been pushed to meets its screen so that the man has space to look over the small stack of manila folders and fat contracts. A single man lies within reach of his hand as the man sits back in his high backed leather chair, legs across as his eyes skim the pages in front of him.
A shrill, short ring screams into the room but the man does not jump, simply shifts in his seat, placing the now closed folder back on the stack it had come from. He cuts off the shriek from the machinery with the push of a button.
"Yes?" His voice is a low authoritative baritone, one that begs you to submit, to bow low and gain this man's approval.
"Excuse me, Mister Pendragon but a Mister... Aredian is on line two." The man, now identified as the Pendragon patriarch, nods although his assistant cannot see him, and cuts off the communication. He takes the phone in hand, stabbing the correct number on the base.
"Aredian."
"Pendragon." This man needed no manners, not when he could get the Pendragon senior what he so desperately wants. Uther is a man that will allow manners and respect slide in the chase for what he truly desires – which in this case is the bittersweet taste of revenge.
"You have her." It is not a question. Aredian would not be foolish enough to disturb him had his assignment not been completed. Uther had specified.
"Yes. She is in the place you assigned."
A cruel smirk colours the face of Pendragon. "Good. The money shall be wired to you immediately." There is no more conversation. All necessary words have been spoken and Uther puts the phone down. He leans back into his chair, his legs stretched out and that cruel smirk of dark victory toying on his lips.
The manacles around her wrist and ankles bite into her flesh, staining the snow white skin a rose red. Must look quite poetic, she thinks absently. Her arms ache from struggling when she first awakened; her soul hurts from the black crackle of energy that ebbs from the metal clawing her skin and seeping into her blood. Magic against the magical.
For haters of magical being, they obviously do not mind applying magic for their own purposes. She wonders blindly who applied the magic, was the sorcerer a willing traitor or had they been coerced with lying promises of freedom? Her mind is dim, she knows but doesn't truly acknowledge. Work from the drug? Or the ache in her soul that squeezes her heart and makes her brain throb with the rhythm of her slowed heart beat.
How long has she been here? She can't even clearly remember the circumstances that lead her to be here. Blurred, hazy images ooze into her memory like venom, but nothing that makes sense. It annoys her, irritates her that she, she a faithful worshipper of the Old Religion, a High Priestess, was so easily overwhelmed.
Was it easily done? There is a low muscle memory of pain, fire thrumming through her veins like a birds' song but nothing in clarity. Like a child looking through a fogged window, she cannot grasp a distinct image of what had happened.
"Good evening Nimueh." Her name on those lips – she should've known. Her name is drawn out like a knife, sharp with a bitter hatred that has yet to be blunted by time.
"You were hard to find, but eventually I bested you."
Her laugh is a breathy cackle. "You bested no one, Uther Pendragon. Your lap dog caught me unawares. Hardly a glowing victory." She coughs a little. "You never have won a fair battle."
"You fight snakes with snakes, deceit with deceit."
"Magicked manacles," Nimueh licks her lips in a vain attempt to bring some relief to her throat. Her words are throaty, harsh. "Not so adverse to magic when it's used for your purposes, are you?"
There is no movement, and Nimueh finds it difficult to pinpoint the man's position in the room. It's dark, blindingly dark.
"I am simply using the nature of magic. I find it pleasant in that fact that you are undone by the evil you wield."
Nimueh chuckles a little, rattling her manacles as she shifts a little. "And I in the fact you have to use it to enact your revenge."
Her breath hitches unpleasantly when she hears the leather of the man's gloves slide onto the metal either side of her head. He must be leaning over her, although how he can see in this light, she doesn't know.
"Have you heard, Nimueh, of the new drug?" He whispers in her ear. His breath is warm on her neck, a parody of something romantic. She moves her head away as best she can, but his words resonate.
The new drug. It appeared five years ago, a thing named Purity. It is popular amongst the rich, models and politicians feast upon it, the newspapers reported orgies of sex and Purity – it shot up past cannabis and heroin and cocaine in popularity, addictiveness and the high.
More intense than an orgasm, she heard whispered on the streets, more of a thrill the kill. You become a god for the duration of its stay in your veins. You are invincible. You are ravenous.
You are magic.
"Pure magic," he continues, "pure magic concentrate." Nimueh closes her eyes, fearing his words. She knows what is coming, what he will tell her. She knows her fate and for the first time in the longest time, fear trills in her veins like a mermaid seducing her sailors.
"We drain you. We tear you open and we drain you." He moves, she hears. Steady footsteps, not a falter amongst them. "It is not a pleasant experience." She can almost feel the smirk that dances across his face. "For you at least. But, never fear Nimueh, I have more planned for you than the extraction. You are going to live to suffer, to repent and then you are going to die."
Swift movement and once again his mouth is by her ear. "You let my wife die. Her only mercy was that it was painless. You shall not be granted the same clemency."
The moon cowers behind the misted clouds as agonized screams electrify the air.
