Title: Set in Stone
Author: EachPeachPearPlum
Rating: Something minimal
Warnings: Mild manipulation? And probably some language, too.
Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own it. If I did, it wouldn't have ended as it did.
Notes: Sorry for the wait, and the absence of review replies. A week out of the country, followed immediately by a week of family time, both of which means not a whole lot of free time. Will try to do better, but I make no promises, mostly because I cannot keep them. Anyway, enjoy, and there should hopefully be an update soon. Until then, Peach.
Set in Stone
VIII
Merlin passes three days in which he sees almost nothing of Mordred: only glances in the halls and a little time when he tends to Arthur at training, nothing more. His dreams, what few he has (and it is only now that he can see there was something unusual about how often he dreamed these last few weeks), are entirely without Mordred and unutterably bizarre, which is to say, back to normal.
He's a little surprised that he misses it, and more than a little horrified.
Then, of course, he leaves Arthur and Gwen's chambers on the evening of the third day, turning the key in the lock and hiding it inside his shirt, walks the short distance to his makeshift bed, and finds Mordred sitting on it.
Suddenly, Merlin doesn't miss him at all.
"Emrys," he rasps; that is really only the accurate description of his voice and Merlin can see, now that he's close enough to look, the blue-green-purple ring around his neck.
"Shit," Merlin mutters, because one of the benefits of magic is that it isn't meant to leave a mark. "Shit, Mordred, I'm-" not sorry, or he didn't think so, at least, so why does he want to apologise? "I did that?"
Mordred smiles in a mildly patronising, 'well-duh' way, but then shrugs. "I understand why, Emrys," he answers, then pats Merlin's bedding next to him. Merlin sits, not entirely sure where this is going, but the bruises around Mordred's throat kind of prove that he can take him in a fight with very little in the way of effort. "If I was to ask you to switch to a less conventional means of communication, would you do so?"
Merlin doesn't particularly know how to answer that. He has no wish to let Mordred in his mind, but...well, wishing against it is hardly going to stop him, and it's not like Mordred is really asking as anything more than a courtesy. If he wants in, there's nothing stopping him, not really. "What if I say no?"
"It would be nothing I didn't expect," Mordred answers, though there is a hint of disappointment to the scratch of his voice. "Your reluctance is quite understandable."
Perhaps, Merlin thinks, but that hardly makes it right, and he wants to like Mordred, does like Mordred, in the deep and secret part of his mind he doesn't want to admit to having but isn't exactly in a position to continue denying the existence of. And he was in Mordred's mind, too, or was in his own when Mordred filled it with his thoughts; he knows the depth of feeling, the reverence that Mordred has for Emrys, this power he thinks Merlin is supposed to be. Yes, Arthur may be in grave danger from Mordred, the future Merlin saw may yet come to pass, but Merlin is almost completely sure, today, that he himself is not. He may think differently tomorrow, but today, he can let down his walls. He can let Mordred in, and maybe make amends for the fact that Mordred's throat is still damaged three days later.
"Oh," Mordred breathes, turning to stare at Merlin with deep awe. "You don't have to," he says, still aloud, still in that hideous, harsh voice.
I'm not letting you into my mind for shits and giggles, Mordred, Merlin thinks, hears Mordred snort at his crassness. Speak like this, it's easier for you. And, he adds as an afterthought, it's a little more private, is it not?
Right, Mordred answers, and Merlin feels Mordred's knee knock against his own, too quickly for him to be sure if it's intentional or an accident, and if it's intentional what Mordred intends to convey. He doesn't have long to think on it, though, before Mordred turns his severely intense gaze on him (just as creepy as when he was a child, if not more so).
I heard that, Emrys.
"You were meant to," Merlin says, but he softens it with a grin. "So, I take it you want to tell me something?"
Mordred takes a deep breath, the sort someone takes before saying something difficult, but which seems a bit odd when not followed by anything vocalised. A few weeks ago, I told you what I saw, the counterpoint to your own vision. I told you the truth.
And I told you I wouldn't, Merlin cuts in, abrupt and decisive. Even if I was that powerful, even if I could do it, it's just not something I would do.
"I'm not trying to start a fight," Mordred says, speaking over him, then returns to directing his thoughts when Merlin goes quiet. I wasn't then, and I'm not now. I just wanted you to see why killing him isn't high on my list of priorities. Even if I didn't mind dying, if I thought the merits of his death outweighed the detriments of mine, being responsible for all those other deaths? He laughs without amusement, tilting an eyebrow at Merlin. I may not be a saint, Emrys, but I am by no means a monster.
He falls silent, presumably to give Merlin time to mull this over, although Merlin has no idea how deeply in his mind Mordred is, or how much of what he is thinking the other man can hear, maybe even influence. The fact that Mordred doesn't speak up to deny this possibility, or proclaim his innocence, does rather imply that he can't hear, because Merlin thinks him slightly too hotheaded to stay silent when he could defend his honour, however intelligent Mordred may be. Still, Merlin would like slightly more privacy in which to think about it, even if distance makes little difference. "Was that everything?"
Mordred doesn't bite his lip, or lower his eyes, or make any other sign of hesitance, but he's hesitating anyway, holding Merlin's gaze in a slightly uncomfortable fashion for a few moments. No, he says, eventually, then reaches out and presses the first two fingers of his right hand to Merlin's left temple. It's...your walls, Emrys. They're wrong, to be honest. Damaging, to be even more honest. And, well, ineffective?
Merlin nods, processing these words at about the same speed with which Mordred said them (slowly). Yes, he knows the barriers in his mind aren't particularly effective, but... "Damaging?"
Yes, Mordred answers plainly. I can...if you wish, I could show you the proper way to construct a mental barricade.
Will it keep you out? Merlin asks, curious and doubting in equal measures, because as little as he knows Mordred, he doesn't think he's likely to surrender the only real power he has over Merlin.
Mordred laughs, soft and discomfortingly musical. If you want it to, yes. His eyes burn into Merlin's with a fierce intensity that has more in common with ice than fire. I don't want to be your enemy, Emrys. If I have to give you the opportunity of having nothing at all to do with me for that to happen, then I shall.
Merlin frowns, because it doesn't make sense, not to him, to leave someone alone if you want to be friends with them. If you want someone's friendship, you make overtures, offer assistance, stick around until you win them over, and okay, fine, maybe Mordred's offer to keep his distance is precisely that, an attempt to offer what Mordred thinks Merlin thinks he needs, perhaps without being anything other than empty words, but still. It isn't what he's used to. You'll show me a way to keep my mind my own, including against someone as powerful as you? Why does it feel like there are strings I can't see here?
I would not have you come to harm, Emrys, Mordred answers, covering Merlin's hand with his own. I would have shown you as a part of our earlier deal, had things not ended in a less than amicable fashion. If you are willing, I would do this properly.
"Thank you," Merlin says, not committing to anything more, not yet, but the offer itself probably merits gratitude. I'll let you know.
Mordred smiles, then stares a moment longer before leaning in close enough to fill Merlin's entire field of vision and pressing his mouth to Merlin's, too fleeting to really be called a kiss, too real to be described as anything else. Something else I would do properly, were you willing, he says, a breathy quality to his thought-voice that shouldn't be possible (breath is hardly necessary for this form of communication, as recent events have shown).
Merlin blinks, then blinks again, and by the time he opens his eyes from the third blink, Mordred is gone from his sight, although he can still hear his boots against the stone floor.
X
Mordred blames the dreams. There is no other explanation for his complete lack of thought.
A connection once forged remains, and whilst Mordred has broken the link he made with Emrys, the one Emrys created in return is still open. It isn't a simple piece of magic, and Emrys probably doesn't even know that he carries half the responsibility for the three nights in which they shared dreams, or that Mordred has continued to dream of him even while Emrys has stopped.
Or so Mordred assumes; if Emrys has continued to dream of him, Mordred has nothing to do with it.
But regardless, it is the dreams that are to blame. Without them, Mordred would have been happily oblivious to the fact that Emrys might have anything more than a passing interest in him. Without them, he wouldn't be pressing his own interest on Emrys, when Emrys could have so much more than him.
X
Merlin accepts, and if he finds it distinctly difficult to believe there was ever a chance of him not doing so, he keeps it to himself.
Noon, he tells Mordred four mornings later. I'll serve Arthur and Gwen, then bring us something.
There is a prickling in his skull that he figures is Mordred trying to reply, but since it wasn't a question he doesn't really want an answer. Still, he glances across the field at the other man in time to see Mordred give a stiff nod in response.
X
Mordred is sat cross-legged on a large cushion when Merlin enters his room, a second cushion clearly intended for Merlin waiting a few feet from him and a stack of children's wooden building blocks between them.
"Emrys," Mordred says, looking up with a smile and a block in each hand. His voice isn't as raspy as the last time they spoke, his bruises yellowed and old, almost gone, but Merlin still curses himself for the flash of guilt he feels. This would all be so much easier if he didn't care.
Mordred, he answers in his mind, sitting carefully in order not to tip the tray in his hands, soup and bread and watered wine for two. Are we eating first, or learning?
Eating, if you have no objections, Mordred says, his smile turning grateful as Merlin passes him a bowl, plate and cup.
X
They eat in silence, both literal and mental, because Mordred has known hunger often enough not to turn away hot food when it is placed before him. He finishes first, too, although he suspects Emrys has been hungry a time or two, growing up as he did in the Mercian version of nowhere under the rule of a king who cares not a whit for his subjects.
Emrys continues chewing at what seems to Mordred an unnecessarily slow pace, but then Mordred wasn't expecting him to be precisely on time, so perhaps the extra time is for his benefit. He watches Emrys for a moment or two, realises that watching someone eat is a little bit peculiar (and also that the last time he was this close to Emrys their lips had just been in contact, which is a fact neither of them is addressing, and something Mordred is Not Thinking About right now), then resumes his attempt to stack the ridiculous wooden blocks into the pattern he intends to use as a demonstration. It is a childish means of teaching correct mental shielding, certainly, but Mordred was only a child when he was taught this, and, knowing his predicted future, his people thought it best that he not be entrusted with the education of young minds. He has only his own experience to draw upon, and his own experience involves building blocks.
Emrys arches an eyebrow at him as he creates a circle of bricks, then stacks it higher without overlap; structurally unsound, as every child learns quickly, but then that is the point Mordred is trying to make.
What's this, then? Emrys asks, placing his crockery back on the tray then looking at Mordred and his blocks with equal parts curiosity and scepticism.
Your mind, Mordred answers, deliberately cryptic, glancing over Emrys' head to check the lock on the door before muttering the words under his breath in order to produce a light inside the circle of blocks. Or this is, at least, and the blocks the wall you've constructed.
Emrys looks confused, but seems willing to go along with it, at least for the moment. I take it this is wrong, then? he asks after a moment of Mordred's eyes on him. Why?
In response, Mordred merely stretches out an arm and flicks one of the towers of bricks inwards, using the tiniest wisp of magic to tip all the others at the same time. They fall to the ground with a soft clatter of wood on stone, and at the same time Mordred releases the light, not for it to fizzle into nothingness but to burst, exploding in a bright flash that leaves Mordred blinking to clear his vision in the comparative darkness that follows, even though he was expecting it and knew to close his eyes before the brightness hit.
"Ah," Emrys answers, a definite absence of colour to his face, teeth worrying at his bottom lip in a way that isn't exactly conducive to Mordred's rational thought processes, not when he spent much of the previous night thinking of the many things he could do with that mouth. "Yes, I see why that would be bad."
Mordred smiles, gives himself a moment to moderate the correct level of hoarseness to his voice before replying; certainly, his throat is still a little painful, but it doesn't hurt to allow Emrys to believe he has done slightly more damage than he actually has. "Quite," he says softly, just the right amount of catch to his voice, and Emrys' eyes flicker downwards, breaking contact for a matter of moments before returning. "This, on the other hand, is far better." He coughs briefly, entirely genuinely; the expression on Emrys' face is unmistakably one of remorse now, in a way that sends a happy thrill through Mordred, selfish, vicious joy at the thought that Emrys feels guilty for hurting him.
A (practised, very much so) wave of his hand has the blocks standing again, this time in a tighter circle, each layer rotated half a block from the one below in order to ensure precise overlap. Mordred brings the light back, effectively demonstrating how little of it leaks out, and Emrys leans forwards, examining it from close up. "This is what your wall is like, then?" he asks after a minute, prodding gently at the blocks.
"Yes," Mordred answers, "more or less. Most people find a single wall suffices, but my...mentor, I suppose-" Mordred could perhaps find more accurate words, but none he wishes to share "-advised multiple ones, given my tendency to talk with my mind. I would suggest you do-"
"Would you stop talking out loud!" Emrys interrupts. "It obviously hurts. You don't have to copy me, or wait for me to speak telepathically before you do."
Mordred does an excellent job of hiding his victorious smile, instead just nodding slightly. Thank you, he says, then continues as if Emrys hadn't just interrupted. As I was saying, I suggest you have multiple walls as well, given how important you are to this kingdom. If you wish, I can help you construct them.
Emrys' gaze on him is intense, fierce, and this is the real test of just how far Emrys is willing to trust him. Letting Mordred inside his mind to learn communication was one thing, but entrusting him with the defences necessary to keep his mind truly safe is, Mordred knows, possibly a step too far, a little too much to ask. But this, like everything else, he can wait for, as long as Emrys wants to make him wait.
Emrys sits a long time before he breaks eye contact, returning his gaze to the blocks before him and worrying his lips to redness again. "I don't know, Mordred," he says eventually, soft and almost apologetic. "I don't know that I trust you that much."
I understand, Mordred answers, nothing but the truth; he might not like it, but it is nothing less than he had expected, and he comprehends Emrys' reasons so thoroughly that they may as well be his own.
Emrys stands, still visibly uncertain in a way no one with his power ought to be, not when in the presence of someone like Mordred, insignificant but for the prophecies made about him. "If," he says, after hovering in place for a moment, "if, when the walls are in place, you could test them, though?"
Mordred nods, standing himself and beginning to clear away the cushions and blocks, assuming this is the end of the conversation. It isn't until he has packed the blocks nearly into the box in which he purchased them and placed them to one side to give to the son of the maid who cleans his room that he glances up and sees Emrys still hovering, watching him with what can only be confusion on his face.
Was there something else?
Emrys shakes his head, his hand on the door handle, says, "you stopped the dreams," then frowns as of he can't work out how the words are coming from his mouth.
You did ask me to, Mordred tells him, once again trying to hide his smile.
"Yes, but...you kissed me."
I did, and this is far too much fun.
Emrys stares like he's waiting for Mordred to continue, seeming to take a minute to work out that he doesn't plan to. "Why?"
I wanted to.
"That isn't an answer."
Emrys is still hovering, looking confused and mildly frustrated, his lower lip still reddened from all the time spent biting it, and really Mordred only has one option.
He steps forwards, then again, backing Emrys up against the door, and kisses him again.
