Rating: T, I think.
Warnings: language, as ever. Little else, I think.
Notes: Please forgive me my many sins, including but not limited to how very long this has taken to write, and how extraordinarily rubbish I am at showing how much I appreciate you all. As ever, I will try to do better. As ever, I will probably fail. Sorry? Peach.

Set in Stone

IX

Merlin has a long, long moment where the only thought that passes through his (usually perfectly competent, whatever Arthur might say) mind is what the fuck?, then it clicks, as Mordred starts to hesitate, to draw back, that responding might actually be a good idea.

Mordred has already stepped away by the time Merlin opens his mouth, their bodies distanced and their lips the only point of contact between them. It takes only a moment of Merlin tugging at his shoulders for Mordred to lunge forwards again, trapping Merlin between his body and the door, and this, Merlin could get used to.

Although, really, it's not exactly the situation he might have asked for, what with the door handle digging into his back and the knowledge that he will have to get back to work pretty damn soon pressing just as hard on his mind. Then again, the former is easily rectified by sidling just a little to the left, the latter by bringing Mordred with him, tangling the fingers of his right hand in Mordred's curls, and kissing him with as much intensity as he can manage.

It is a long way from being a good idea, Merlin knows, for all that he likes Mordred, for all that he wants this. In just the last fortnight, Mordred has altered Gwaine's memory, pushed his way into Merlin's dreams in order to sleep with him, and only came clean about the fact that his dreams were something more than that when he needed to distract Merlin from ripping him to pieces for what he did to Gwaine. God alone knows what he's done before then, and Merlin is terrified he knows what Mordred is going to do in the future, but even that isn't enough to stop him.

And anyway, what if trusting Mordred is the step Merlin needs to take in order to change the future? What if this is what makes the difference between Arthur living to a ripe old age and Arthur dying on a battlefield in the very near future? What if Merlin is fairly sure he can be circumspect about it, not let whatever feelings may arise interfere with his destiny?

What if he just really, really wants this, and to hell with overthinking the consequences of it?

Mordred groans then, as if on cue, and Merlin isn't entirely sure how he manages to press closer but he does. Bad idea, Merlin tells himself, pushing at Mordred's shoulders with the same fervour with which he pulled at them only minutes ago, bad idea, as he follows Mordred, bad idea, bad idea, bad idea, spinning them around and backing Mordred up again, and there is no possible twist of the imagination in which this isn't one of the stupidest things he's ever done.

The air huffs out of Mordred's lungs as his back hits the wall, but his arms close around Merlin's back without a word of protest. Or Merlin doesn't think so, at least; there is a strangled moan that Merlin thinks might be Emrys, but it's a little hard to tell what with the complete absence of space between them and the fact that Merlin's tongue is currently performing an intense investigation of Mordred's teeth.

Mordred's fingers scrabble at the bottom hem of Merlin's shirt, pushing it up until Merlin's belt gets in the way, and things are moving just a little too fast, even if they technically have already slept together. He should stop this now, if not because it's the least sensible thing he's ever done then because he has work to get back to, and because he and Mordred should have a proper conversation about this rather than just tumble into bed together.

Merlin slips Mordred's hands from under his shirt and draws back, resting his forehead against Mordred's, trying desperately to regain control of both the situation and his breathing. It isn't happening, though, not with the way Mordred wriggles against him, struggling to release his wrists from Merlin's grasp and damn near succeeding. "Emrys," he gasps, wriggling again. "Emrys, let me go." In a complete anathema to his words, Mordred presses forwards again, simultaneously trying to pull free and get closer, crashing their lips together again.

Merlin lets go of Mordred's wrists, swapping the grip of his hands for that of his magic and trying a second time to stop this, them, before it is too late and he forgets how to stop. He pulls back again, which is a mistake too, because he can see Mordred's face, in the shadows of his own, and Mordred's expression is one of wonder; this isn't just the first time Merlin has been able to freely use his magic a situation like this. It's the first time Mordred has, too.

"Stop," Merlin says, although he's not exactly doing a good job of it himself. "We should...stop, we should...I have to..." Arthur will be looking for me is supposed to be the next sentence from his mouth, but Mordred apparently picks that moment to bring his own gift into play; the feel of his magic against Merlin's skin is like nothing he's ever known, and the only thing that is coherent in Merlin's strangled groan is Arthur's name.

Which, you know, isn't quite the impression Merlin wants to give.

Mordred freezes, the touch of his magic turning cool, like slime rather than silk, and Merlin kind of thinks that he's blown it and that is that, the end, over and done with before he even has a chance to do anything he'll regret. But it isn't, not at all, because Mordred's stillness lasts no more than a few seconds before he grinds forwards, his wrists still pinned to the door even as the rest of his body pushes desperately into Merlin's.

"Please," he gasps, pressing his mouth against Merlin's jaw, his cheek, clumsy kisses to Merlin's less than responsive mouth, and Merlin doesn't understand why. Why would Mordred do this, keep pressing when Merlin is consistently less than kind to him, keep going when all the evidence suggests that Merlin doesn't want him?

Then, then, he remembers. I'll take what I can get, Mordred told him, more than once over those nights when Merlin didn't even know that Mordred was Mordred. I'll take what I can get, again and again, and Merlin is struck by how very sad it is, how much Mordred is willing to give him without any reason to believe Merlin is giving him anything in return.

X

"That wasn't what I meant," Emrys says, sounding more shocked than he has any reason to, shocked and saddened. "Mordred, I promise, I wasn't thinking of anyone other than you."

"I don't care," Mordred mumbles, still trying to free his hands, magic skittering across Emrys' skin, clinging and desperate. Don't care, he repeats in his mind, over and over, loud enough for Emrys to hear, don't care don't care don't care, and maybe if he thinks it enough it'll be completely true rather than just mostly.

"I do," Emrys answers, wrenching away, not just a few steps but clear across the room, and Mordred is still trapped against the fucking door, chanting in his head for Emrys to let him go. "Mordred, please."

"I believe that's my line, Emrys," Mordred drawls, as best he can, and he can do this. He can convince Emrys and himself that he can go this far and stop, and there will be more opportunities, he will make there be more opportunities, and this. Does. Not. Hurt.

The pressure holding Mordred in place vanishes so quickly that he stumbles forwards, righting himself before he can fall entirely, and when he looks up the expression on Emrys' face is something close to pity, which, yes, absolutely definitely stings a little. "Stop, Emrys. Just stop." He opens the door as he speaks, using the brief moment his back is turned to paste composure to his face and frame, then waves Emrys to the door. "Leave."

Emrys stares, long and hard, then makes his way towards Mordred and the door. "I'll go for now. As I said, or tried to, Arthur will be looking for me." He darts in, quicker than Mordred could have anticipated, and brushes his lips once, gently, over Mordred's cheek. "I'll be back later, though. We need to talk about this."

Emrys shuts the door behind him when he goes, leaving Mordred alone, brittle attempts at equanimity crumbling into less than dust.

X

"Merlin!" Arthur shouts, and it's only then that Merlin realises he's probably been doing so for some time.

"Sorry, what?" Merlin asks, lifting his head from his dusting and wrenching his mind from his thoughts, none of which are productive, all of which revolve around what he's going to say to Mordred later and whether it might just be better to say nothing at all. Whether it might be better to leave well alone, not go back to see Mordred, and just forget about how Merlin can't seem to shake the idea of being with him, can't seem to stop wanting to be with him.

Arthur's hand closes around his wrist, not squeezing hard enough to do damage but pressing in such a way that Merlin's fingers lose their grip on his dusting rag. "What was that for?" Merlin demands, yanking his arm back.

"Do you really think I can't tell when you're not listening, Merlin?" Arthur answers, shaking his head, equal parts exasperation and a fondness he tries to hide. "Never mind all the faces you're pulling, I don't think this shelf has ever been so clean in all the years you've worked for me."

"You're not funny."

"Quite the contrary, Merlin. I'm the king, I'm hilarious."

"To look at, maybe," Merlin mutters, quietly enough that he thinks Arthur probably won't bother to argue, particularly seeing as he seems to be getting at something.

Sure enough, Arthur grips his shoulder and steers him towards the table. "Sit," he says, pushing Merlin down into the chair that belongs to Gwen when they eat there. "Now, what are you thinking so hard about?"

"Whether or not I'm doing the right thing," Merlin answers, and for all he worries about over-thinking half of everything he does, he hasn't really thought before saying that at all. "Erm, I mean...it's not important." At the very least, it's not something he can explain easily, certainly not to Arthur.

"Clearly, it is," Arthur says gruffly. "Spill."

Right, Merlin thinks, because it's just that easy. Spill the beans, at least about what is immediately concerning Merlin, without mention of magic, prophecy, or Mordred's name. Simple.

Still, he's already started, and it's not like Merlin hasn't had plenty of experience of blending necessary truths with even more necessary lies. Besides, Arthur might actually be able to help; stranger things have happened, even if Merlin is having a hard time thinking of any right now.

"Suppose that...okay, there's this person that you're sort of...fond of, but you don't trust them. You can't, because they're going to do something bad, but..." Merlin pauses, shakes his head, cursing both his weakness - the reason that there is a 'but' to this sentence - and the fact that he's discussing this with Arthur, of all people. "But you can't stop them, either."

"Stop them?" Arthur repeats. Merlin shrugs, because Arthur knows as well as he does what 'stop' actually means. "Fine," Arthur says after a moment, "fine, I'll bite. How bad is bad?"

"Very. Just about the worst thing you can imagine, really." He pauses again, then sighs; he's started, so he might as well finish, and Arthur's hardly likely to work this out. "They...just, okay, this sounds weird, I know, but the whole reason you were born is to stop him, this person, from doing what it is you think they're going to do."

Arthur frowns, seeming to be giving this actual thought, which isn't exactly the response Merlin was expecting. "Right. And why do I think he - sorry, they - are going to do something that awful?"

Because I've Seen it, Merlin thinks, but it's not exactly something he can come out and say. "Someone else has warned you," he says instead, because a half truth is better than no truth at all.

"And I believe them?"

"It's not just once," Merlin says, then has to correct himself pretty sharpish. "I mean, more than one person has told you, and you have no reason not to believe them, not really, even if you don't want to believe it. And the person who's going to do the bad thing knows, too. They know, and they know that you have to hate them for it, but they want to be your friend anyway."

"Friend," Arthur scoffs quietly, disbelievingly, but then that's kind of the point of a scoff, really. "You don't half talk a load of bollocks, Merlin."

"I do no-"

"You do and you know it," Arthur cuts in, exasperation written all over him as he scrapes his chair back from the table and stands up. "You like this person, they like you back, so you can either worry endlessly and unhappily about some nasty thing you think they might do in the future or you can both be happy with what you have now. Where's the problem?"

"I don't just think it," Merlin snaps. "I know it, and I can't just forget about it. It's too big for that."

Arthur laughs at him; terse, irritated. Not cruel, Arthur rarely laughs at him in a way that is meant to hurt, but very definitely irked, and clearly tired of this conversation that he started. "Really, Merlin, I do wish you'd grow up. You can't condemn a man for a crime he hasn't committed, and there is no way you or anyone else can know for a fact that he's going to do whatever you think he's going to do. Stop worrying and live a little." He smiles a little more softly than he laughed, then walks around the table to shove gently at Merlin's shoulder. "When you've finished cleaning, at least."

Right, Merlin thinks. That's the end of this conversation, then.

X

By evening, Mordred has decisively concluded that Emrys is not actually going to come to him for the discussion he promised him. This conclusion perhaps explains why the knock at his door, coming a little more than an hour after darkness has fallen, comes as such a surprise.

Of course, his shock is not quite enough for him to believe it might be Emrys here to speak to him, so Mordred is not particularly surprised to open the door and see Sir Elyan standing there. Mordred bobs hid head, not quite a bow, respectful but not obsequious, and smiles. "Good evening, Sir Elyan."

"Evening, Mordred," Elyan answers, smiling back. "And you can drop the title, you know none of us insist on that."

"Of course," Mordred tells him, but he knows he won't. The earliest and clearest of the few memories he has of his mother is her sitting him in a corner for not saying please when he asked for something. Manners don't cost anything, Mordred, she'd said, and looked at him with such disappointment that Mordred doesn't think he's forgotten since. "May I help you with something?"

"You may," Elyan says, his smile wry, amused, probably at Mordred's expense. "The king wishes to dine with the court tonight. You're expected in the hall shortly."

X

Having been the last to arrive (he's still not quite competent at getting in and out of his armour, but is just a little too proud to ask for assistance when everyone else seems to manage just fine), Mordred finds himself wedged on the end of a bench next to Gwaine. It's usually the last seat to be filled, not only because it's such a small space but because Gwaine has occasionally been known to steal ('borrow', he claims) food and drink from those around him.

Mordred, however, finds it uncomfortable for reasons beyond the lack of space and the way he has to serve himself twice as much food as he actually plans to eat; Gwaine has recently taken to grinning smugly at Mordred each time he sees him, and now that they're sitting next to each other he seems to see it as an opportunity to elbow Mordred each time Emrys passes into his direct line of sight.

"Would you stop that?" Mordred mutters under his breath after the third time, when Emrys darts along behind those sitting at the long table opposite them on his way to offer Arthur and Guinevere more wine.

"Sorry," Gwaine answers, sounding about as insincere as it's possible to be, staring quite intently as Emrys leans into the gap between the king and queen, wearing the brightest grin known to man. Arthur says something, voice too quiet for anyone other than his sorcerer and his wife to hear, but Queen Guinevere laughs richly whilst Emrys wrinkles his nose in a displeased way that Mordred does not find at all endearing. "Looking at them," Gwaine murmurs, still not looking at Mordred but leaning into him to be sure his words won't travel too far, "anyone would think you had something to worry about."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Mordred answers, his voice just as low. He does, of course, because he enhanced the suggestion in Gwaine's mind, even if he didn't plant it there himself, but since there is not actually anything between he and Emrys, not truly, Mordred knows that he has nothing to be jealous of where his king is concerned.

Or he knows it objectively, at least, even if accepting it is a little harder.

"Sure you don't." Gwaine reaches for his own mug, finds it dry, and Mordred is only just quick enough to rescue his own before it meets a similar fate. Gwaine pouts as no grown man has any right to, then grins, reaching across a distracted Elyan at his right for his drink instead. "But still," he continues, "you don't. Have anything to worry about, I mean."

"Do stop talking, Sir Gwaine," Mordred snaps, then glares at the people who turn to look at them. Certainly, that was a little louder than may be wise, but it's quite clear that they aren't talking with the intention of anyone overhearing. Still, appearances matter, as Mordred well knows, so he forces a clearly fake smile onto his face. "My apologies."

"No need," Gwaine says, with a wave of his hand that would be gracious, were it not for the fact that he somehow ends up holding Mordred's chicken leg. "You're quite forgiven. Love makes the best of us defensive." He pauses, fixes Mordred with a disturbingly precise gaze, then laughs. "Well, not me, obviously, it's not at all worth the effort, but most people, and..."

Love? Mordred thinks, shutting Gwaine's voice out, a look of polite interest on his face. He never said anything about love, never even suggested it, and Gwaine has no right to comment upon it.

Mordred admires Emrys, certainly, both because of what he is, the legends he has grown up hearing of the greatest sorcerer to walk this earth, and because of who he is, unappreciated servant to a king he adores beyond measure. He likes him, too, as a man, and would be happy to be his friend. His wish to be Emrys' lover, even just once, is less than pure, certainly, initially born of a desire to ensnare someone so truly powerful and truly good, to have Emrys look upon him as someone of worth.

That, and he rather imagines the sex would be fantastic, with so much magic at Emrys' disposal.

Still, love is such a long way off, if it's even possible at all for someone like Mordred to love, that it hardly bears thinking of.

"Really, Mordred," Gwaine mutters, his elbow adding to the bruises on Mordred's ribs. "You can stop looking so worried. Merlin likes you."

The certainty in his voice is such that Mordred feels his eyes snap back to him and cannot really help but ask, "how? How are you so sure?"

"He denied it, didn't he?" Gwaine says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Denied it and denied it and denied it, but as soon as I suggested someone else got a look in, he jumped down my throat. As good as told me to back the fuck off, and you have to know as well as I do that possessiveness like that isn't in Merlin's nature."

"Hmph," Mordred mutters, because it's the only real response he can give. Whatever Emrys' reasons might have been, possessiveness surely couldn't have been part of them.

Still, it's certainly a pleasant thought, even if it's one that can't possibly lead to anything good. Best that he forget about it, ignore Gwaine as much as is humanly possible, and finish his dinner.

"Oi!" Mordred snaps, looking down at his plate to resume eating. "You could have left me something, you git."

On Gwaine's other side, Elyan laughs.

X

"I do believe your villain is escaping, Merlin," Arthur mutters as Merlin leans down to top up his wine yet again. He nods towards the door, and Merlin glances up in time to see Mordred slipping out, then hears the raucous laughter coming from the end of the table he's just left.

"His what?" Gwen asks, just as quietly; it feels a little bit like she's taking the words from Merlin's mouth. "I could have sworn you just said 'villain'."

"He did," Merlin answers, then lies blatantly, because he had left his conversation with Arthur under the (somewhat optimistic) impression that Arthur had no idea just who he was talking about and has no desire to be disillusioned. "Not that I know why."

Arthur doesn't laugh, but Merlin knows that he wants to. "You know exactly why, Merlin," he says, then leans in to Guinevere, and Merlin has absolutely no doubt that the next words from his mouth will mean nothing good. "Merlin has found someone," Arthur announces to Gwen, softly but with undeniable relish.

Gwen looks started for a second, then beams with visible and somewhat terrifying delight. "Oh, really? Merlin, that's wonderful."

"Um," Merlin manages. "Gwen, I-"

"Oh, if only it was," Arthur interrupts, making a farce of sounding tragic. "He's quite convinced his special someone is planning something terrible."

Gwen nods, her brow wrinkling into a frown, then turns in her seat to give Merlin her full attention. "Would you like me to pretend I haven't worked out who he's talking about, or can I be blunt, Merlin?"

"You might as well," Merlin tells her, although gods know he doesn't want to have this conversation or any like it. "And it's not like you need the permission, is it, my lady?"

Gwen's frown remains, but it lightens a little; she's far better at hiding her amusement at times when laughter might be seen as inappropriate than she was a few years ago, but Merlin knows. "In that case, Merlin, I have to ask why you're sleeping where you are instead of in Mordred's bed."

"Guinevere!" Arthur gasps, sounding almost as scandalised as Merlin would feel, had he not been expecting her to say just that.

Even so, Merlin has had quite enough of this for the night. "If you're being blunt, Gwen, then so shall I. It's none of your business, queen or not. Now, if that's all, you can fend for yourselves tonight, can't you?"

Merlin has somewhere else to be, after all, and he keeps his promises, regardless of whether or not he wants to.

And if he does want to, that's his concern and maybe Mordred's, depending on what he thinks of it all, but it certainly isn't anyone else's.

X

If his first visitor of the evening had been unexpected, Mordred is positively astonished by the second.

"Emrys," he murmurs, not entirely sure he wants to let him in. "I wasn't expecting you."

"I did say I'd be here," Emrys answers, then sort of smiles. "I suppose you can be forgiven for not believing me, though. Can I come in?"

Given that he's already pushing his way through the door, Mordred figures the question is probably meant to be rhetorical. "By all means," he mutters, shutting the door and pushing the bolt home, because, if the last few times he's had a conversation with Emrys in his bedroom set any sort of precedent, he doesn't want company; neither intimacy nor attempted murder by magic are particularly things he wants an audience for. Make yourself at home.

"I'm not staying long," Emrys says.

Aren't you? Mordred asks, trying not to sound in any way affected by this, even if the odds are tilting closer to his death than to anything remotely pleasant, and he certainly doesn't want to sound upset. He isn't, and it's not like he was expecting anything else, anyway, no matter what Gwaine said about how much Emrys likes him. Best get on with it, then. I'm tired.

Emrys looks down, not quite hurt but close to it, and Mordred possibly feels repentant for a moment, until he thinks of the bruises around his neck (he may have milked them for all he's worth, but it doesn't mean they didn't hurt, or that he didn't actually believe he was about to die at the time) and the distance Emrys keeps putting between them whenever they seem to be getting close, and it's only fair that he upset Emrys a little in return.

"Right," he says, meeting Mordred's eyes and producing a bag from somewhere. "I could tell you that it's common practice to bring food for whoever sits next to Gwaine," he continues, opening the bag and pulling out a veritable picnic, "but you'd know I was lying, so I don't really see the point. Apple?"

Mordred takes it wordlessly, not entirely sure where this is going, and not quite certain that it isn't going to be poisoned. So you aren't here just to bring me food, then?

Emrys takes a large, crunching bite from his own apple, then steps into what Mordred would usually consider to be his space. "Not just, no."

He stops there, though, as if that sentence was all he planned on saying, even though it cannot be; had it been, he would just have said he was and left, and Mordred doesn't really have the patience for this now. He's tired, hungry, and so bloody tired of Emrys treating him like this, like he's a game he can play until he gets bored then just put away in a box and forget about him. Right, he thinks at him, not bothering to hide his irritation. Well, if you aren't going to share, I'll say goodnight, then.

"I'm trying," Emrys answers, sounding no less irked than Mordred feels. "This isn't exactly normal for me, you know. I don't do this on a daily basis."

"Do what?! Stand and stare at people?" Mordred makes a physical effort to lower his voice for that second question, then gives up on actual speech yet again. I'd say you have plenty of experience at it, actually, given how often I've caught you staring at me.

"I'm trying to tell you that I like you!" Emrys snaps, and Mordred can feel the words as well as hear them. "I really don't know why," he continues with somewhat less volume, and Mordred attempts to make sense of what seems to be an awful lot like a confession. "It goes against everything I am and everything I stand for and I don't trust you, don't know that I'll ever really trust you, but...I don't know, I just do, and I thought..." Emrys swallows, then nods his head, most likely at himself, and takes Mordred's hand. "I thought we could try it. Not as Emrys and the person who should be his enemy but as us, Mordred and- and just Merlin."

He pauses a second time, and Mordred thinks that it's his turn to come up with some sort of response (and whilst an eager and enthusiastic 'yes' is on the tip of his tongue, he'd like to sound a little less young than that), but it isn't, apparently. Emrys is ploughing ahead, no signs of actually being done yet, despite the fact that Mordred has always thought it customary to allow the person you're propositioning (if that is indeed what this is) to answer at some point.

"And I don't want you to say yes because of who I am, Mordred," he garbles. "I saw what you think of Emrys, how much he means to you, and that isn't the sort of person you can just say no to, even if you want to. I don't know that I can be him at all, and half the time I think you've all got the wrong person, but I do know this. I can't be Emrys and be with you. If you're saying yes, it needs to be me you're saying yes to."

He stops again while Mordred is still attempting to make sense of this. It certainly seems to be a proposition, but he isn't entirely sure how it's supposed to work; Merlin is Emrys, and Emrys is Merlin, and Mordred has no idea how he's supposed to disentangle the two in his mind. He doesn't really see how it matters, anyway, because it's not like Emrys can really separate the two; however hard he tries to be 'just Merlin', his magic isn't going to go away. He will always be the most powerful man Mordred will ever meet, whatever name he chooses to go by, just as he will always use his magic to aid Arthur as much as he can.

"You aren't answering," Emrys says after a long silence, once again gnawing on his lip, and he looks so unutterably nervous, like he's forgotten the fact that he's the greatest sorcerer to ever live and Mordred has been the one instigating almost everything that has happened between them so far. Does he really think he's likely to say no?

I wasn't entirely sure you were finished, Mordred tells him, because he has just a little too much pride to actually say that.

"Yeah, well, I am, so...look, you don't have to answer yet, but..."

Really, Emrys, Mordred drawls as best he can. Are you ever going to shut up?

"Is that a no, then?" Emrys asks, effectively answering Mordred's question. "I understand," he continues, definitely looking hurt by it. "I do, I mean, I know Merlin isn't worth much, so it makes sense. Something of a long shot, anyway, wasn't it?" He laughs, clearly trying and failing to put a suggestion of amusement in it, then opens his mouth to carry on, retreating towards the door. "I'll see you around, Mordred. Enjoy your dinner."

It isn't a big piece of magic to stop him from unbolting the door, practically nothing when compared to everything Emrys can do, but Mordred still feels a sense of achievement when Emrys turns back to face him, still pulling at the bolt. "What now?"

Be quiet, Mordred reiterates, please. It's far easier for me to say yes when you aren't prattling on.

"Oh," Emrys murmurs, "oh. Well, I suppose I'll not be going, then."