Warnings: Character death and mild sexual situations, both of which are entirely italicised (ie not real). An excess of Gwaine (assuming such a thing is possible, which I doubt), and a disturbing level of tolerance for Guinevere. Also, oddness.
Notes: Credit here lies with Daroh, who is truly a genius (and hopefully won't mind the spin I put on her idea over the next few chapters). And with a playlist of what my sister refers to as Stalker Songs. Again, my love to everyone reading. You pretty much make my day. Peach.
Set in Stone
III
Emrys, Mordred calls in his mind, shortly after Merlin wakes up from his deeply disturbing dream. Emrys, will you speak to me, please?
No, Merlin answers, then puts up all the metaphorical barriers he can. If he can throw Mordred out of his head – if it took actual effort to let him stay in there long enough to learn the basics of how this works – then he can keep him out now, no matter how much it's going to exhaust him to do so. He is not going to trust Mordred, cannot let himself, which means he can't let Mordred into his mind again, even in a way as innocuous as mere communication.
X
"No!" Merlin shouts, over the caw of ravens and whimpers of dying men. "Arthur!"
He's too far away for Arthur to hear him, particularly seeing as his voice makes no sound, but he can't not try to warn him. He races towards Arthur, leaping rabbit holes and bodies, friends and enemies, and none of them mean anything to him because Arthur is going to die.
Merlin is not going to be there in time to stop it.
Mordred stares at the ground, at something Merlin can't actually make out, but he doesn't have to. He's Seen this, cannot stop seeing it, and still can't change it, no matter how many visions he has of the future.
"Please," he calls, and even in the absence of his voice it sounds weak. "Please don't, Mordred. Please."
Don't kill him, he begs silently, cursing that he can do so at all, the lessons he asked for, the moments that made him take his eyes off Mordred, trust him more than he should. I'll do anything, he promises. Anything, just don't ki- Mordred's eyes glow at him, and it's too late, too late. Arthur is already gone.
Mordred grips the hilt of his sword – the sword, Arthur's sword – in both hands and drives it down into Arthur's chest, Arthur's body, piercing through armour and flesh and the earth underneath like a knife in butter.
Excalibur stands straight and proud in front of Mordred, anchored as firmly as it once stood in the stone Merlin put it in, and Mordred bows, smug and sweeping, then meets Merlin's horror-struck gaze.
Your turn, Emrys.
The world crumbles before him, and Merlin is glad.
X
Arthur dying isn't the worst part of Merlin's dreams. It's not even his reaction that's worst, the sheer delight he takes in absolute distruction, imaginary retaliation, an idea planted in his brain by Mordred but one that has taken on a life of his own. It's not Arthur's death at Mordred's hands, a thing that Merlin will never allow to happen, that is hardest to have in his brain, nor is it the obliteration of everything at Merlin's hand, something he cannot and will not ever do.
Merlin is used to bad dreams, no one could see all that he has seen and not be. He doesn't like them, wakes up sweating and cold and wanting so desperately to walk the few paces down the hall to check that Arthur is still alive, but they aren't the worst of it.
But the fact that for each dream of Arthur's death there are at least two others where Arthur doesn't even cross his mind, that for each dream that has him waking up with a hand over his mouth to muffle his terror there are so many more where the only noise he makes is a groan of displeasure that he woke before the end? That's pretty much driving him mad.
X
He bumps into Gwaine in a hallway again one afternoon, fortunately a little less literally than the last time. "Where you rushing off to?" Gwaine asks. "Always in a hurry lately, aren't you, Merlin? No time for an old friend anymore." He pauses, because dramatic effect is what Gwaine does best. "Of course, that could just be because you're too busy making new friends."
"Mordred is not my friend," Merlin snaps, and, really, he should have known better than to think he could have avoided having this conversation with Gwaine, after he saw him leaving Mordred's bedroom. But he'd done so well, up until now.
"No? Seemed like you were getting pretty friendly with him that night." A wink and a leer accompany this, clear signs that Gwaine is joking, but it's possible that Merlin overlooks that evidence.
"Not even if we were the last two men on earth and I would die if I didn't," Merlin says. Lies, if he's being honest (he's not particularly suicidal, whatever Arthur might think, and given the choice between death and sleeping with Mordred, he'd be inclined to pick the far more sensible of the two, repugnant as he wishes he found the idea), but it's not like Gwaine knows that, and it's not like Merlin is going to act on any Mordred-centric impulses he might have.
Gwaine laughs, claps Merlin on the shoulder. "Sure thing, mate. Guessing you won't mind if I do, then."
No is what Merlin should say. No, I don't mind if you sleep with him. "Don't, Gwaine," he says instead, a little surprised by how much closer to jealous his voice sounds than it does to concerned (even with the dreams, it's not like he actually has anything close to actual feelings for Mordred). But he is concerned, and Gwaine needs to understand that, because Merlin doesn't have time to keep an eye on him and Arthur all the time and if he has to choose between his friend and his king Gwaine isn't going to come first. "Mordred is dangerous, Gwaine. You need to stay away from him."
"Dangerous? Come on, Merlin. He might be handy with a sword, but you're more dangerous than Mordred is."
"Not to you," and oh, god, can he not just shut up? Nothing Merlin is saying is making this better, is going to make this better. "Mordred is a danger to every single person in this city. Stay away from him."
Gwaine isn't going to listen, of course – never has, never will – but what exactly is Merlin supposed to do about it? Say 'well, I tried,' and leave Gwaine to whatever trouble he wants to get himself into, just so he can focus everything on keeping Arthur alive? "Okay," he says, because Gwaine is a good guy, too good for Merlin to let him get hurt, good enough that Merlin can get him to back off, even if he doesn't like his means of doing so. "Fine, you win. I am interested in him. I just...I don't want people to know."
"I knew it!" Gwaine crows, sounding so horribly pleased. Also, horribly loud; Merlin claps his hand over his mouth, hisses for him to be quiet and waits until Gwaine nods before letting him go again. "I knew it," Gwaine repeats with a little less volume. "He's all yours, mate. Good luck."
"Thanks," Merlin mutters, trying to sound grateful as opposed to grumpy. "I have to go, though, okay?"
He doesn't wait for a reply; he's got what he needs, Gwaine's promise that he won't go after Mordred (promised for the wrong reason, maybe, but at least he'll be safe, even if it does mean he'll forever believe that Merlin wants Mordred), and it's twenty minutes since he last saw Arthur.
X
The dreams – not the nightmares, but the other ones – begin innocuously, as most dreams do.
If only they stayed that way.
X
Some way into his second week of sleeping outside Arthur's rooms, Gwen finds him. "Merlin?" she asks, shaking his shoulder gently. "Merlin, love, what are you doing here? It's the middle of the night."
"I was sleeping," he tells her, because 'I've seen a vision of Sir Mordred killing your husband on a battlefield some unknown period into the future and when I told him about it he said that my response was to destroy the world' is not even close to being a wise idea. "Why aren't you?"
"I am queen, Merlin. If I wish to walk through my castle in the middle of the night, there is no reason I cannot do so." She looks down at him, expression so severe, then slumps to the floor, giggling, going from queen to the girl Merlin has known for years in less than a second. "Also, Arthur snores. It's like trying to sleep next to a bear."
"Make him roll over," Merlin says, largely without thinking. "He's not quite so bad if he's on his front."
Gwen purses her lips, because whilst she knows about them, and knows he and Arthur ended when Arthur realised how he felt about her, it's not exactly something they discuss, or even acknowledge. "I'll remember that," she says after a moment, resting her head on his shoulder. "Now, why are you here?"
"Um," Merlin answers. "There's...I have a bad feeling. I'm worried. About Arthur, and...someone close to him can't be trusted."
Gwen stares at him for a long moment, then nods slowly. "Who, Merlin?"
Merlin thinks about telling her the truth, but Gwen was there when Mordred was a boy, hiding terrified in Morgana's bedroom. She was there when Arthur rescued him, and knows of Mordred returning the favour more recently; she won't believe him. No one will. "I can't tell you. He saved Arthur's life, and I can't explain to you why he's a threat."
"Right," Gwen tells him. "Well, there are guards right outside the door, and I promise to scream very loudly if someone other than Arthur or I comes into the room. Now, I think you should try sleeping in your own room for a bit, okay?"
Merlin agrees, partially because she has to be pretty chilly sitting in the hallway in just her nightgown but also because her ability to nag is just as epic and endless as Gaius'. "Yeah, I will," he says, no intention of actually doing so; the castle guards are rubbish, and Merlin would much rather trust Arthur's safety to his own hands. "Goodnight, my lady."
"Goodnight, Merlin," Gwen murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek before rising. "I'll see you tomorrow."
X
Merlin is running through a dense wood, heart thudding, breath tearing in and out of his lungs, dizzy from lack of air and space and freedom. Trees surround him on all sides, branches stretching thickly above his head, no air no air no air, and he doesn't know what he's running from or what he's running to, only that he has to keep going, and he's running and running and running.
And then he isn't.
His back presses briefly against a tree, bark scratching roughly at his neck, then he blinks, and the soft green glow of sunlight through leaves becomes the silvery blue of moonlight through glass. The silvery blue of moonlight on pale skin, the black-blue of dark hair in a dark night, a voice calling him, husky with sleep: "come back to bed, Emrys."
X
Sometimes that's it, just the suggestion of intimacy and the knowledge that had he not woken when he did, things would definitely have happened.
Sometimes, it isn't.
X
Merlin doesn't stop sleeping outside Arthur's room. Judging by the blanket and pillow sitting in his alcove the following evening, Gwen wasn't expecting him to.
X
Arthur has given him a list of tasks – given him it on paper, not by speaking to him, just like in the first few awkward weeks after they stopped sleeping together – most of which are ridiculously tiring and unutterably pointless, and each time Merlin crosses off the thing at the top another appears at the bottom, each more preposterous than the last.
Needless to say, he is not particularly cheerful.
Also, his right ear itches, and his shadow seems to be standing uncomfortably close to him today.
He is in the stables when things get odd, having just finished teaching Arthur's finest stallion to sing soprano (yes, stallion. Yes, sing. Yes, soprano. He may or may not have used his magic to sort that one out, and even if he did it's Arthur's fault for asking him to do something so stupid). He glances down at the next item on the list – making cutlery dance, because what good is a singing horse if there's nothing to accompany it – and sighs, wondering when Arthur is going to tire of this idiocy.
"You look tired," his shadow says, except it isn't, is it? Shadows don't talk, do they, but bloody Mordred does, stepping out of a dark corner with a soft smile on his face. "Let me help you with that."
Merlin intends to object, to tell Mordred to clear the hell off, get out of his space and his city and leave him to his work, but before he can open his mouth, Mordred is standing behind him, plucking at the knot in Merlin's neckerchief. He undoes it with disconcerting ease, given how long it usually takes Merlin to get it off, then reaches around him - positions reversed but still so familiar - and tucks it into the pocket on Merlin's jacket. "What are you doing?" Merlin asks, although seeing as he knows the what of Mordred's actions a far better question would be why?
Mordred's left hand threads through his hair, whisper soft, while his right hand begins work on the buttons of Merlin's jacket, fingers lingering on Merlin's chest in a deeply improper way. "I'm helping," Mordred murmurs, far too close. "You clearly need a break." His teeth nip at Merlin's earlobe (yes, that close), then his tongue flicks out, soothing the damage he's just caused.
Merlin would tell him to stop – it's not exactly like they're friends, let alone the kind of friends that do this – but, to be honest, he's sort of considering the possibility that this isn't actually happening, given how frequently he's been having dreams like this of late. And if he's not awake, then there's nothing wrong with what he's doing; it's not like anyone is gagging to shag him in real life, and even if the best his own mind can do is his almost worst enemy...well, at this point, he'll take what he can get.
Mordred tugs at Merlin's jacket, slipping it from his shoulders and down his arms, then spins him around and pushes him gently against the stable wall (thankfully, not in a stall, because Merlin would prefer Arthur's favourite stallion not compose odes about this, dream or not). Merlin reaches out for him, figuring the act of undressing really ought to be mutual, but Mordred grasps his wrists in one hand, stopping him. No, Emrys, he says, and next thing Merlin knows he's kneeling before him, releasing Merlin's wrists in order to unfasten his trousers. Relax. Let me take care of you, he adds, and this is rapidly becoming another time where the ability to talk with one's mouth is really quite handy.
It really shouldn't be possible to do things like that with one's tongue, and there is definitely a reason speech is usually incompatible with the things Mordred is doing. But what really does Merlin in is the look on his face, innocent and young and entirely without guile. Not the bastard traitor Merlin knows he will be, but the man Merlin wishes he could be.
X
Maybe, maybe, if Merlin is being utterly honest, he's not doing so great lately. This thing with Mordred is getting to him, a near-constant and uncomfortably literal headache; keeping the other man out of his mind takes effort, far too much of it, and it's really quite unpleasant.
Although, as far as the one book Gaius has hidden away that refers to mental communication goes, he shouldn't even be able to do it; it's certainly possible in theory to keep out a weak telepath, a taught telepath, Gaius' book says, but a natural? Well, first the book says such things can't possibly exist, that no one born with innate telepathic abilities could possibly survive them long enough to reach adulthood, then follows up by saying that they couldn't possibly be sane, and finally concludes that any rational-minded true telepath couldn't be deterred from getting anything and everything they ever wanted. In amongst the mess of contradictions, the only thing Merlin knows for certain is that he should be pleased the worst thing he has to deal with is a blasting headache.
So, during the day, his head is a distinctly Mordred-free place, or there abouts. Mordred is in his thoughts, in as much as Merlin cannot stop thinking of him, but he isn't actually in them himself.
Of course, that would be considerably more cheering if his libido and subconscious hadn't gone so utterly mental of late.
