Chapter Three
In Which the Storm Approaches
Hiran is aware of someone far too close to him even before he wakes up completely. His sleep-addled mind immediately goes back to Annwn and Arawn's disciples, fear rising in him like bile in his throat. A hand closes on his shoulder, too gentle to be any of Arawn's men, but his mind's already in overdrive. He pulls the dagger he keeps under his pillow and uses his weight to push over the person touching him, pressing the blade to their throat.
Warm grey eyes go wide beneath him as his human façade drops entirely. It takes him a second to recognize the young man beneath him, a second in which he thanked the Triple Goddess for his hesitation. He was certain he looked a far sight from reassuring. His skin, while still dark, has taken on a sheen like burnished copper and he can feel his teeth sharp against his tongue.
"Ewan?" Hiran whispers. "What in the name of the Goddess are you doing?"
Ewan, who has been in the palace since he was a boy, seems to give the best approximation of a sheepish smile as he can, given the circumstances.
"Sorry, sorry," Ewan mutters, stumbling over the words. "I was – a sound – man – Ashima's room...I thought you should know."
Hiran pulls off the boy, dropping the dagger on the mattress before pushing his hair back from his face with a deep breath. A few more long breaths and he's awake enough to pull the human façade back into place. Ewan slowly gets to his knees, apparently put at ease by the act, and watches Hiran carefully before he speaks again.
"I came in to wake you, as you weren't down with the other Guard, and I heard a noise coming from Ashima's bedroom. And I know how you never go in there, so I thought I'd find out what it is," Ewan whispers, looking as though he's committed a crime simply by glancing in Ashima's room. "There's a man sleeping in her bed!"
Hiran nearly snorts at the scandalized tone in the boy's voice, "Of course there is. I told him he could stay."
Ewan's eyes widen, "You made him sleep in the other room? Isn't that a bit...wouldn't it have been kinder to ask him to leave altogether?"
"What?" Hiran asks, trying to piece together what the boy means until he sees the blush on his cheeks. "I didn't sleep with him!"
Ewan merely shrugs, raising his hands in defeat, "To each their own."
Hiran doesn't bother to dignify that with an answer, instead choosing to fall back on his mattress and press the heels of his hands into his eyes with a groan. It's only when he drops his hands, looking at his room upside down, that he notices the clock and what time it is. He's late to breakfast.
"Fuck!"
He launches himself off the bed, throwing the doors to his closet open and tugging out a random shirt and pair of jeans. Apparently spurred on by the sudden burst of action, Ewan grabs the boots beside the doorway, holding them out for Hiran the second he stops hopping around trying to pull on his jeans.
"So who is he?" Ewan asks. "The man in Ashima's room."
Hiran doesn't bother to sit down as he pulls his boots on and, as his grounded foot hits something hard on the floor, he trips backwards. He doesn't get up from his position on the mattress as he finishes pulling up his boots. If gravity and his messy room are determined to make him sit down, he's not going to get up again. Makes it easier to put on his boots, anyway.
"He's uh...well, he's er," Hiran pauses just long enough to carefully look over Ewan. "You can't tell this to anyone else, do you understand?"
Ewan nods fervently, holding open the door as Hiran approaches.
"He's the Once and Future King."
"What?" the boy all but yells. "Arthur Pendragon – the king of Camelot – is in that bedroom?"
"Yes, now stop shouting."
"But – but, how?"
Hiran pushes the doors to the suite open, letting Ewan through before digging in his pocket for the key. He curses under his breath as he realizes it's not there. He could run back in and grab it, but that would take even more time and he's already late, so he splayes his fingers against the door handle. The lock to clicks shut at the motion.
"I'll tell you later," Hiran promises. "I've got to bring up breakfast for Pendragon, and we both know what happens if you're late to meals. Besides, I believe you have chores to get to."
Ewan scowls as he walks in the opposite direction, turning just long enough to point his finger at Hiran and declare, "Fine. But I will be coming back for the whole story. And, if you don't tell me everything, there will be serious consequences."
Hiran resists the urge to roll his eyes as he rushes down the hall. He's known Ewan since he was brought to the palace, and knows very well that the only thing the boy can do with a knife is cut vegetables. He often tries to put on a brave face, often leaving Hiran and his fellow servants to pull him out of trouble, but the boy couldn't pick up a broadsword. Serious consequences usually means three uninterrupted hours of chatter and nagging for answers. Hiran's not sure whether or not that's actually less dire than a sword.
Weaving his way around the servants getting to their early morning errands, he rushes towards the dining hall. It's a large room, perhaps similar in size to the ballroom they'd converted into a training room, and is decorated only with table and chairs. The tables on the left half of the hall are covered in plates and saucers of eggs, sausages, bacon, potatoes, toast, mushrooms, and countless mugs for tea or coffee. However, as he's late by an hour, most of the plates have been picked clean by the numerous Guard members seated at the tables on the right.
He strides over to the tables of food, another string of curses falling from his tongue as he wonders how he's supposed to feed two people with the scraps and crumbs left on the silver serving dishes. Pulling two plates out of the dwindling pile, he picks through what's left in attempt to find something vaguely presentable for a king. He pauses halfway through spooning a few mushrooms onto the plates. What even constitutes as an acceptable breakfast for a king?
A hand suddenly reaches over and plucks a mushroom of the spoon in his hand and Hiran looks up just in time to see Jem pop it into his mouth.
"Slept in, Suresh?" he says with a grin, the gesture all teeth and no humor. "We noticed you hadn't come in yet, thought you might be eating breakfast elsewhere, so we didn't think to save you any. Hope you don't mind."
Hiran smiles back, but says nothing in response. There's no sincerity in Jem's voice and, from the spiteful glint in his eyes, he knows the ginger's just trying to get a rise out of him. Better to just ignore him than start a fight and get into trouble.
"What was it that kept you up? Not bringing any late night guests in, I would hope."
Gritting his teeth, he moves over to the other plates and focuses on minute details to keep from getting angry. He wonders how a king would like his eggs. Did they scramble eggs in Camelot?
"No need to be ashamed," Jem says, leaning against the table in an almost lazy manner. "We all know how cambion are. It's in your nature to be easy."
The serving spoon in Hiran's hand makes an odd groaning sound as it bends in his grip. He opens his mouth, about to say something, when someone barrels into Jem hard enough to knock him off the table. Halima, her long curls pulled up in a tight bun and two plates in her hands, turns around to look down at where Jem had fallen. A shocked expression crosses her face and she puts the plates down where she can on the table to help him up.
"Jem, I didn't see you there," she tells him. "Are you alright?"
There's no apology in her words, much to Hiran's satisfaction, and he's known her long enough to recognize the dismissal in her tone. Jem apparently does, as well.
"Fine," he snaps, standing up without her help and stalking off towards the tables.
Hiran watches him go before turning to Halima, "You didn't have to do that, you know."
"Thought I might or you would've put that spoon somewhere unpleasant," she says with a shrug, picking the plates back up. "Santiago and I saved these for you."
He looks from his mostly empty plates to the full ones in her hands. She has a little bit of everything on them, piled high and yet still not enough to touch the edge. His mouth opens and shuts as he puts his plates down, trying and failing to think of any words that fully explain how grateful he is. In the end, he settles on a grin.
"Halima, you're an angel."
"What? Because of these?" she asks, a teasing edge to her voice. "You're easily pleased. Besides, I wouldn't have known you needed two if Santiago hadn't told me what happened last night. He's the one who you should thank."
Hiran takes the plates, his grin growing larger, "Well, then. I'll have to do that." – he leans forward and quickly presses a kiss against her cheek – "Give that to him for me, will you?"
She blushes at his words, whispering in response, "You could get us into trouble."
"Nonsense," he tells her. "I'm not a Guard, remember? If anyone gives you trouble, just tell them that you were relaying my message. And, if you don't get caught with Santiago, it's not as though you can get in trouble for kissing me. Although, Santiago might give me an earful."
"Go," she laughs, shooing him away with a hand.
"As you wish, milady," he announces, giving the most dramatic bow he can manage.
Though Halima turns away, he can hear her laughter and can't help but smile in return. He doesn't run into any trouble as he leaves the dining hall. Then again, Halima has a bit of a reputation and most know not to interfere once she has said something on the matter. He can still feel eyes on him, no doubt the other Guards are wondering not only why he's leaving the hall, but why he's leaving with two plates instead of one.
It takes a bit more maneuvering to weave through the servants and not drop anything now that he's carrying two plates filled to the brims with food. But he manages, even nodding in greeting to the few that he knows by name. He could use magic to take himself back up to Ashima's rooms, which would make it easier to hold on to everything and not crash into someone, but it would also take more energy than he has at the moment. And using magic for transportation when he's not quite strong enough tends to land him in awkward places. He had learned that the hard way, particularly when he landed in a stall in the women's toilets.
Unlocking and opening the door with magic, however, takes very little effort. He kicks it shut behind him and makes his way across the sitting room. If Arthur is up, he hasn't left the bedroom. Nothing is out of place. Just in case, Hiran knocks on the door as best he can with his foot.
"Your majesty?" he calls, still uncertain if that title is proper enough for a king brought back from the dead. "May I come in?"
Arthur opens the door in seconds, wearing nothing except the pants of the pajamas Hiran had given him in the early hours of the morning. For a second Hiran's focus is on why the king hadn't worn the whole set, although he's not fool enough to pass up a chance to subtly admire the view, until he notices something and frowns. There's a long, ugly scar resting just beneath Arthur's ribcage on his left side. From the way that it's healed, which doesn't make any sense as to why the scar would look decades old given that Arthur looks to be only twenty-some odd years, it looks as though the blade would have grazed a few ribs on the way up.
Wonder where that came from, he thinks to himself.
Remembering his manners, he meets Arthur's eyes, "Good morning! I brought breakfast. Want to come join me on the couch?"
Arthur gives him something that looks like a smile trying to be a frown, "You have no idea how to address royalty, do you?"
Hiran fights his own smile, admiring the irony that the world has allowed him in this very moment, "I'm afraid not. We don't see a lot of royalty around here."
He moves to the side to let Arthur walk around him, watching as the king looks around the room. Hiran had gotten the feeling that he had taken a glance when he had been dragged in that morning but, as both had been pretty tired, he guessed it hadn't been a thorough examination of the room.
"No table?"
Hiran shrugs as he sets the plates down on the coffee table and sits down on the leftmost side of the couch, "We're supposed to eat down in the dining hall, but I'm pretty sure Lieutenant Michelson wouldn't appreciate the outburst I would cause if I brought the Once and Future King down to breakfast."
"Why do you all keep calling me that?"
"It's one of your titles," Hiran says, trying to recall what little he can from his history lessons. "The Great Dragon called you by that name when he shared the prophecy with Emry- with Merlin."
Apparently deciding he doesn't want to eat breakfast standing up, Arthur sits down on the far side of the couch, but he doesn't stop looking at Hiran as he says, "That's the second time you've called Merlin by a different name."
"How do you not know this?" Hiran asks, putting his fork down. "You lived the stories we've been told of as children. How do you not know Emrys is Merlin's true name?"
"I only learned of Merlin's magic in my last days," Arthur says quietly, his eyes unfocused as he pushes a mushroom around with his fork. "And those...those I can't remember all that well."
Hiran goes quiet as he watches the blonde. He can't begin to imagine what Arthur is going through, not only dying once, but being brought back in a time so different from his own without any form of warning.
"May I ask you a question?"
Arthur seems to start at Hiran's words, as though he had forgotten where he was. But he nods the second he's processed the question.
"Do you remember anything about Avalon?"
His answer is quick, no trace of uncertainty in his expression, "No."
Hiran nods, understanding that Arthur likely doesn't want to talk about his death. Not that he can find it in himself to blame Arthur, especially as, if he were in the king's shoes, he wouldn't want to linger over his death either. So he puts down his fork and takes a deep breath as he decides to do something potentially compromising for him.
"You know what?" he says quickly, not allowing himself a minute to think over the possible repercussions. "Over the next few days, if not weeks, you and your past are going to be verbally picked apart. Since there's nothing I can do to stop that, why don't I even the playing field? Ask me anything - personal or not - and I'll answer as truthfully as I can."
Arthur looks up sharply, his blue-grey eyes wide. Horan just gives a nonchalant shrug at the scrutiny in his gaze.
"You're not human, are you?"
Hiran deflates the second Arthur says it. He had expected many questions, but he hadn't expected that specific one so quickly. But, he supposes, it is one of the easier ones to answer.
"I am, I'm just not entirely human," he explains. "My father was an incubus - a type of Faerie gifted in magic regarding love and attraction - but my mother was human."
"I've heard stories of the incubi," Arthur says slowly, his eyes cast downward as if he pities Hiran. "Your mother told you of her assault?"
Hiran wrinkles his nose in disgust, an irritated growl escaping his throat before he can stop it, and the change visibly rattles Arthur. It's not as though he's not used to the prejudice seen towards his people. On the contrary, he has learned to bite his tongue when it is displayed. He does, however, take great offense to the idea that his kind rape those who catch their fancy.
"My father never laid a hand against my mother that wasn't wanted," Hiran snaps. "As if we would even need to stoop to such levels for something so trivial as a quick shag."
Arthur flinches, but doesn't move. Instead, he actually looks ashamed, and his next words do calm Hiran to some extent.
"I'm sorry. Those were the tales told of your people in my days. I take it your mother lived with your father?"
Hiran sits back, thinking over his memories of his childhood as he calms down. It isn't often that he thinks of the days when his parents had been alive. The memories are often too much, too painful in their beauty, for him to stomach. But he allows himself to slip into them just enough to remember them with clarity.
"She did," he admits, giving a soft laugh. "It's customary in my culture to take more than one romantic partner, but my father was an eccentric. He only ever was with my mother. So many of his friends asked why he would do so, why not choose another partner, or at least have a single partner among the Fair Folk. After all, we tend to be much more beautiful than humans. He never answered them. But he told me that he thought she was very beautiful, not in the way that Faeries are, but in a simple sort of beauty. Like the light of a star."
Even after so many years, Hiran can still see his parents as clear as he would were they still alive. His mother with her jet black hair pulled into intricate braids, her sharp brown eyes sparkling with amusement, and the delicate cupid's bow of her lips pulling into a smile. And then there was his father, his posture regal and proud, his hair threaded with gold beads and dark emeralds, the strong set of his jaw and stern expression belying his mischievous streak.
"Sounds as though they were nice," Arthur says wistfully. "As though you had a good life."
"It was once."
The words come out sharper than he had intended, sounding as bitter as they taste on his tongue, and he can't find it in himself to look up. Before Arthur can respond to that, a knock at the door makes both jump. Hiran gets up, pushing his plate further in on the table, and walks towards the door. Ewan is on the other side. The servant boy looks frazzled, even more so when he looks at the dark edge in Hiran's eyes. But Hiran takes a minute to calm down before he speaks.
"Done already?" he asks, forcing a smile he's long since learned to perfect. "That was quick."
"Actually, I was sent up here," Ewan says, shifting his weight back and forth. "The Enclave are waiting for you. The Captain sent me up here to get you."
Hiran drops his smile, "Fuck. When did they get here?"
"Last night, from what I've heard," Ewan replies with a shrug.
Hiran rushes back into the room, practically pulling the plate from Arthur's hands. He stacks his on top of it and hands them off to Ewan.
"Hey!" Arthur snaps, looking affronted, but not bothering to do anything in response, as Hiran hurriedly pulls him out the room.
"Hey nothing," Hiran retorts. "The Enclave is downstairs and we do not want to keep them waiting."
"The Enclave?"
"The captains of the Royal Guard from every chapter around the world," Hiran explains. "They only convene for something very important or very disastrous. I'm not sure yet which one they might see you as."
"Around the world?" Arthur asks, not bothering to resist when Hiran instinctively grabs his hand and half drags him down the hall faster.
Hiran laughs and, this time, it sounds genuinely amused, "Emrys has been looking for you for thousands of years. Do you really believe he would only set up the Guard in one country? He didn't want to leave anything to chance, especially something which was so important to him."
Arthur doesn't seem to have anything to say in regards to that, so Hiran focuses more on trying to find the most roundabout, ridiculously obscure path down to the Round Hall. He thinks that perhaps he should have gotten Arthur a disguise of some sort. A hat and sunglasses - that's how it's always done in the movies, and it always seems to work. But he had been in too much of a rush to get to the Enclave. He had heard enough about them from Merlin to know that they were not to be kept waiting, and so hadn't given much more thought to the matter than just getting to the hall. After all, the last thing he needs is to give the Enclave the sense that he was incompetent, as much of the Guard in London is already looking to get him kicked out.
As they turn one of the last corners, Hiran nearly barrels into someone else in the otherwise empty corridor. He digs the heels of his boots into the stone floors to keep from falling on top of the person, thanking the goddess for his strength, when he nearly loses his balance as Arthur slams into his back. Hiran takes a second to keep his balance before he looks down at the person he nearly trampled.
Alsoomse, another servant among the palace, meets his eyes the second he looks at her. Most others in the castle won't look her in the eye, too ashamed for staring at the burn scar that spans across the left side of her face. It's something that Hiran can almost identify with. Although not a particularly talkative person, Allie was another who had been kind to him regardless of his past.
"Sorry," he says quickly, pulling her up with one hand as he steps in front of Arthur.
"Racing off without looking where you're going is nothing new to you," she replies, her eyes glancing over his shoulder. "A little late to be sneaking your boyfriend out, isn't it?"
"Boyfriend?"
"You know me," Hiran practically shouts, desperately hoping his voice has covered Arthur's confused exclamation. "What's life without a little risk?"
She narrows her eyes at him, far too perceptive for her own good, but doesn't say anything for a second. Not wanting to push his luck, Hiran gives a shrug.
"Well, I'd best be going. Wouldn't want to get caught this far in the game. Sorry again, Allie!"
hhhHe doesn't give her a minute to reply as he drags Arthur after him once more. If he feels her gaze burning into the back of his head, he doesn't acknowledge it. He has more important things to worry about, specifically not getting metaphorically killed by the Enclave, than whether or not she worked out the truth. He can always get Ewan to persuade her to keep silent later, anyway.
Merlin doesn't open his eyes when he comes to. A couple thousand years of experience has taught him to get even the faintest sense of his surroundings, just in case there is someone waiting for him to wake up. The air doesn't carry the same scent of salt and sand as it did before, the atmosphere drier than it had been on docks, and he can feel smooth stones beneath his fingertips. Where is he? Sometime while he was out, Rhiannon must have moved him.
The second he thinks of the name, he can feel the sparks of Old Magic running through his skin, setting his nerves alight. It's the same feeling he experiences when someone uses his true name, the name the world knows him by now. But true names are not given out lightly. They hold so much power, allowing the Fair Folk to see into the very soul of a person. So why would she give hers to him? The answer only takes him a second to realize. She doesn't want to hide from him.
His eyes snap open with that conclusion, realizing exactly who it is he had seen. Goddess above, why hadn't he recognized her eyes? Over a thousand years had passed, blinks of an eyes to him now, but how could he have looked into those cold eyes and not recognized one of his greatest mistakes? Morgana was back. Reincarnated or risen by spell, it didn't matter. The real question is who else back if she is.
The first thing he notices upon opening his eyes is that there is a bare ceiling high above him. He sits up, his eyes glancing quickly over everything around him, and he is astounded by what he sees. The room around him is large, empty of everything that could possibly be put into any kind of room. It's entirely comprised of white stone blocks.
He gets up slowly, hoping that maybe it's just an illusion that will fade, as he can feel the strong hum of magic throughout the entire place. It doesn't. He turns in place, glancing at the unadorned walls in search of a door or window. There are none.
"How did we get in?" he mumbles under his breath.
"Never thought I'd see the day when I grew so old, I began to talk to myself."
Merlin spins around, eyes desperately seeking the sound of his own voice. Standing across from where he had been looking, leaning against the wall in a blue tunic and red scarf, is himself. The doppelgänger watches him impassively, not bothering to move from where he leans against the wall. It takes all of Merlin's composer not to gape at him.
There's not a flaw in his recreation, no visible difference in his hair, clothing, or physical appearance. It's quite the feat of magic. If he were anywhere else, Merlin might take a few moments to admire the look-alike. But he's more concerned in getting out.
"How did we get here?"
The double shakes his head with a scoff, "You know the answer to that."
"Yes, I know Morgana put us here," Merlin snaps. "What I want to know is how."
The doppelgänger doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to. He crosses his arms, angling his face and raising his eyebrows, and Merlin realizes just how condescending that expression looks on his face. How many times had he given Arthur that look?
"No wonder Arthur hated it," he says at the same time his counterpart says, "No wonder Arthur called me a clot-pole."
The silence that falls between them could practically be cut with a knife. The other him sighs, pushing off the wall and walking forward, only stopping when he stands before Merlin.
"Isn't it obvious?" the doppelgänger asks. "I thought it was bad enough when she trapped me in my own head, but know she's trapped me in my head with myself. She's knows me better than I thought."
"I don't see how this is so terrible," Merlin says. "Surely, if you are made like me, we can figure a way out of here."
"Goddess above! She locked me in my own head with my younger self," the double exclaims.
Merlin narrows his eyes, "Younger self?"
He nods, "So naively optimistic. It's painful to watch."
"You're the one wearing my old clothes."
"As are you," the double says, a bitter smile on his lips.
Merlin looks down to find that the his copy is right. He is somehow dressed in the same blue tunic, brown trousers, and red scarf as the version of himself not two feet away. But it must be just a trick. It has to be another of Morgana's mind games for him.
"I'm the real one here," he snaps. "You're just a copy, made to taunt me with my own bitterness."
The doppelgänger almost looks sad - no, not sad, he looks as though he pities Merlin, as he asks, "What makes you so certain that it's not the other way around?"
Merlin's jaw snaps shut at that, uncertainty creeping into his mind. He doesn't want to think of that, though, he wants to think of how to get out of this stone prison. The fact that Morgana went through the effort of tracking him and imprisoning him is enough to prove that she has foreseen Arthur's return. And Merlin has waited too long to let Arthur slip away now.
"Believe what you want," he says sharply, turning away from the double. "I'm going to get out of here."
He walks across the room to the wall, placing a hand against the stones. They're ice cold to the touch, and smoother than he's ever felt, but it feels as solid as a real wall. He pushes against it, but it stays exactly where it is. Long shot, anyway, he thinks as he takes a step back.
"What are you doing?" the other him asks.
Merlin extends his hand, allowing the static energy of magic to course through him. As he focuses on what he wants, he twists his wrist slowly, drawing his fingers into a fist. He splays his fingers suddenly with a shout.
"Ástríce!"
Chunks of rock go flying everywhere and Merlin raises his arms to shield his face from the pieces. There is a hole in the wall the size of a car now, much to his satisfaction, and he can see the stars in the night sky outside. He tentatively walks closer, glancing over the edge of the broken wall. The ground is too far to see. Deciding his magic will keep him from dying, he steps onto the ledge.
"It's not going to work," the doppelgänger calls from behind him.
Of course his double would say that. After all, Morgana would want him to give up hope. He looks over his shoulder at the false version of him, grinning as though to say 'watch me make it work', and he pushes himself off the ledge.
The air outside is colder than the stone was, and it nearly rips the breath from his lungs as he falls. He feels like laughing, even as the wind seems to want to tear him apart. The ground still isn't in view and he is surrounded by stars.
But...that's not right. How long has he been falling for? Merlin can't seem to tell, and he can no longer tell where the stone prison had been. He's no longer falling peacefully, the fear that he has made a terrible mistake setting in, and he begins to tumble through the emptiness. White mixes in with the dark navy and he collides with something hard.
Merlin gasps as his impact with the ground stuns him. It takes a minute to open his eyes, but he is greeted by the sight of the double looking down at him. Beyond his own messy black curls, causing a wave of disbelief to pass through him, is a ceiling of white stone.
"I told you it wouldn't work," the other him says, straightening up. "I tried that before you arrived."
Merlin follows the double's line of sight, his eyes meeting a solid wall where the hole had been. He practically feels himself deflate at the sight of it. But it's also then, when his mind is clearing, that the double's words truly sink in.
"Before?"
The other him nods and walks back towards the wall, "I tried to tell you that you're the figment of Morgana's imagination. There's no way out of here."
Merlin sits up, watching the other him - the real one? - as he leans against the wall again, "But Arthur-"
"We'll have to rely on the Guard to protect him," the other him says. "That is what they were formed for."
That catches Merlin's attention, "Do you think they'll take him to London?"
It's as though he's slapped his other self, the expression on the double's face shocked at his words.
"Hiran..."
"There is a chance," Merlin points out, "that he may turn out differently this time. We were kinder to him."
The double shakes his head, "The incubus said that he would fall into the same path as before, regardless of how we treated him."
Merlin feels his heart sink at that, but he still shakes his head, "I have faith in him. We must have had faith in him, or else we wouldn't have taken him in."
The doppelgänger looks away, the slump in his shoulders betraying the regret he's trying to hide.
"Right?" Merlin presses, hoping that he's jumping to conclusion. "Why else would we take him home?"
"You know what they say: keep your friends close..." the double says miserably.
Merlin gapes at the double, shocked that he would become so hopeless.
"When did we become so cold?" he asks quietly.
That's when the double meets his gaze, a hard edge in his hazel eyes, "When we came back from Arthur's funeral to find Gwaine's needed to be arranged. And then when Gaius died in his sleep that winter. And again when Gwen died two years after. When Leon fell in the battle to protect the last of Camelot's legacy, and a final time when Percival was taken by plague."
There's something so harsh in his words, so bitter with the world, as though he's come to hate the fate that was dealt to him. But there's also grief and loneliness and guilt. As though the other him blames himself for being unable to help them, for being forced to live on as they died.
"I have faith that Hiran will make the right decision," Merlin says, his tone almost defiant.
The double shakes his head, "He'll make the right choices at first. He'll trust Arthur and I, and even win over Arthur's trust, but it won't last. Arthur will hurt someone he loves, and Hiran will want revenge. Morgana will use that to her advantage and time will repeat itself."
"I don't believe you."
"It doesn't matter whether or not you believe me," he says. "Deep down, he will always be Mordred. No amount of faith will change that."
Evelyn pulls her the hood of her coat further down over her head, not wanting anyone to recognize her, as she ducks through the doorway of The Hanging Tree. With the peace accords closing in, there have been more Guards wandering around the streets. And the last thing she needs is to be caught now. She rubs absentmindedly at the bracelet wrapped snugly around her right wrist, brushing across the rough surface of the amulet embedded into the silver. It's meant to give off a pulse of energy whenever she passes a Guard, alerting them of who she is and what she's done, and she doesn't need them following her.
The bracelet was locked onto her wrist when she was released from prison. Apparently, aiding and abetting those who stand up for the non-magical - Coms, or common people, as many of the magical peoples call them - is considered a crime. How was she to know that John would use her intel to bomb a sorcerer's school? But neither the police nor the Royal Guard had bothered to believe her, too hung up the fact that she was his fiancee. So now she was a marked terrorist, unable to go much of anywhere without someone recognizing her.
She hated it. Hated that they wouldn't listen to her, that they wouldn't forgive a mistake, that they would condemn her to the wrath of those around her who had experienced the backlash of her fiancé's actions. Maybe that was why she was so quick to turn to him. The Judge.
According to anyone of authority, he didn't exist. Just a scary story told to naughty and rambunctious children in order to get them to behave properly. But Evelyn has met him. She knows how real he is and just what that means for the people of London.
He had come to her the night she had come home from prison, waiting in her living room as though he could pass through the walls. There was no pressure put on her to join his ranks, which was a surprise given how skeptical she was, but she had given in within a week. Her first meeting with his men was a shock. There were so many who had suffered, who had lost a friend or a family member, because of the tyranny of a government which would only protect one group of its people.
It hadn't taken long for her to rise among the ranks. Her skill set was greatly needed, or so he had told her, and she had proven herself to be useful. Though it was never explicitly spoken of, she knows the others see her as his second in command. She is the one he goes to when he needs someone to hack into anything important or when he needs inside information.
And now she has something that will alter all of the plans they have made so meticulously.
The inside of The Hanging Tree is sparsely lit, the few faint bulbs casting the little hole in the wall of a restaurant like a chiaroscuro painting. The rustic tables are mostly empty at this hour. But it's neither the food nor the company she's come for. She walks past the few people seated at the tables, barely sparing them a glance, before stopping at the bar. A tall man with long dark hair pulled back stands behind the bar, turning around to face her the second he catches sight of her.
"Hall," Luke greets, his voice low and impassive. "What can I get you?"
"Something strong," she says, brushing back her long hair with a hand.
The gesture is a simple one, something that most would overlook without a second thought, but it means so much more to them. From where he stands, he can just make out the tattoo hidden beneath her hair. It's innocuous enough. It's of a glittering copper dragon, a sword protruding from its chest as it falls from mid-flight. A common enough tattoo, often used as an homage to the death of the Great Dragon, the sword meant to symbolize fate. Most do not react when they see it.
But to those who have pledged themselves to the Judge's cause know better. On just anyone, it could mean nothing. Inked onto the base of someone's neck, that means something different, something particular only to the Judge and his followers. Luke gives a nod and digs a key out of his pockets, dropping a single generic key into the palm of her hand.
She wraps her fingers around it, relishing the cold of the metal against her skin, "Thank you."
He gives only a nod in reply, going back to whatever he had been doing before, as she walks off down on of the back halls. Before the doors to the toilets, there's a door which is always locked. It's much the same color as the wood paneling on the walls, not even a frame to differentiate the two, and most simple walk by it without paying it much mind. But Evelyn unlocks it quickly with Luke's key and slips inside quietly.
The inside walls are made of rough bricks, some of them painted in a vain attempt to make them a little less of an eyesore, and she feels each one as she fumbles for the light switch. The lights flicker on with the slightest buzzing noise and Evelyn makes her way down the metal spiral staircase. The atmosphere gets warmer the further down she goes, heated by a couple units and the several dozen people who are within the underground bunker.
The stairs end at a long catwalk suspended above the main room of the place. Far below her feet, she can see handfuls of people crowding around tables of papers, laptops, and weaponry. All of them are too consumed in their work to notice as she makes her way across the walk. There is another staircase at the other end, leading down to the floor below, but Evelyn chooses to knock on the door before her instead.
It only takes a minute for the door to swing inward, the young man's face half-obscured in shadow from the hood of his coat. But Evelyn can tell who it is just from the way his lips tug into a smile at the sight of her.
"Good evening, Evelyn," he says, his voice just as smooth as it had been so many years ago. "Come in."
He slides easily to the side, allowing her to step into the room, and the door clicks shut behind them. Evelyn wastes no time in taking the empty seat before his desk, her fingertips clacking against the wooden arm as she waits for him to sit.
"I assume there's something I can do for you," he says slowly, sinking into the chair across from hers.
He pushes the hood away from his face, revealing world-weary eyes the color of green glass. Evelyn bites her lip, glancing down at the desk, but gives a sigh just to play it off as though her hesitation is just the news she has arrived with.
"I have word from our informants in the palace," she tells him, finally looking up to meet his gaze.
"Oh?"
"The Royal Guard have convened earlier than expected."
His eyes snap into focus at that, "Was the Summit date moved?"
She shakes her head, "From what I understand, sir, it hasn't been changed. But something more pressing has come up."
"More pressing," he echoes, his eyebrows rising in a silent question.
She goes silent, trying to gauge his mood in order to tell how he might react to the news. But, as always, his expression is impassive. It's almost impossible for her to ever guess at what is going on in his head. Even when he is angry, there is no betrayal of it in his eyes.
He reaches over suddenly, stilling her fingers with a hand placed lightly over hers. The touch startles her, and it takes all of her composure not to jump at the contact, even more so when he begins to trace small circles across her skin with his thumb.
"Evelyn, have I ever reacted negatively to anything you have had to tell me?"
She hesitates, uncertain as to where he is going with this, before she answers, "No, sir."
"Have I ever shown you anything but kindness since the moment I met you?"
"No, sir," she says again, her voice more adamant this time.
"Then should you have reason to doubt me?"
She gives a small smile, almost embarrassed by what he has pointed out, "No, sir."
He nods, pulling his hand back, "Good. So what is it that troubles you?"
"My informant claims that she saw Arthur Pendragon within the castle walls."
The man's whole body goes rigid, the cool, collected air about him dissipating within seconds. He leans forward ever so slightly, his cool eyes fixed on hers as though trying to read her, and Evelyn tries not to shift in her seat under the scrutiny.
"Is your informant certain?"
The words are ambivalent and careful, but she knows there's an unspoken threat in them. If it turns out that the Once and Future King has not actually returned, Evelyn will not see the repercussions of such a mistake, but her informant certainly will.
"Yes, sir," she says without hesitation. "I have faith in my informants. We believe that's why the Guard have convened earlier than expected. With Emrys away, they must decide what they are to do about the situation."
"We'll need to change our plans in accordance with this new development," he says, standing up and pulling the hood back over his face.
She doesn't watch as he walks around her and towards the door, understanding that they're camaraderie is temporarily gone. But then there is a hand on her shoulder and she turns in shock to see the Judge looking down at her with a small smile. He gives her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
"You did well, Evelyn," he tells her. "Rest easy in the fact that you have aided us once again."
He pulls his hand back without waiting for her reply, leaving her to stare after him in shock, and leaves the room without another word. Evelyn sits there for a few seconds, dumbfounded by the gesture he just displayed. It is not the kindness he showed her that has her at a loss for words. He has been nothing but kind with her since the day they met, but this was different. She just can't seem to explain how.
When she walks out of the room, after a few minutes of thought, she catches the Judge halfway through his address to the people below. He is descending down the stairs, and Evelyn leans against the railing to watch.
"-in our battle against the tyranny of a prejudiced governing body," he announces, his voice carrying across the room even though he isn't speaking all that loud. "And so I ask that those new to our ranks, those who have not yet earned the right to bear our mark, step forward."
Older followers clear out of the way as a handful of new recruits step towards the edge of the large square tile in the center of the floor. They hold themselves stock still and square-shouldered, like soldiers at attention, and the Judge approaches them silently. He motions towards the square tile, a signal for Seth to open the vault.
A second later, the nearly invisible line in the tile splits as the vault opens up. An iron cage, twelve by twelve feet in size and perhaps nine feet in height, is slowly raised. There's a single figure in the very center. He's huddled in on himself, as far from the cold iron sides as he can get. What may have once been shimmering, insect-like wings protrude from his back, shredded and broken. He looks up and around the room with a youthful face. But Evelyn knows he could be thousands of years old, despite how he looks as though he's just become an adult.
"Sir?" one of the recruits says as the Judge approaches the cage.
He nods for the recruit to speak.
"What if it kills us?"
The Judge pauses in that, a show he has put on since he first began, before saying firmly, "If you cannot hold your own against a crippled Faerie, you most certainly will not be able to hold your own against a trained Guard."
He holds the door open, just enough for them to slip into the cage, and gestures for them to enter. Despite the obvious frailty of the Faerie within, he still has the strength to stand as the five recruits walk in, every part of him seeming to bristle like the fur on a startled cat. The clang of the cage shutting echoes through room. As if automatic, the people down in the room begin to tap their feet in a rhythm much like a heartbeat. Evelyn turns away as the first recruit attacks the Faerie. She's seen this too many times for it to hold her interest anymore.
The sound of metal on flesh and razor-like wings crashes against her ears as she walks away, the hum of faint magic setting her one edge. As she reaches the door at the end of the walk, she hears the sound of skin breaking and a very human scream, followed by the Judge raising his voice over the din.
"When one falls, we keep going," he announces, the rest of his followers joining in when he continues with one final sentence.
"Only the strong can prevail."