Sorry this has taken so long to update but with Christmas, work and revision for January exams, I've been snowed under (pun intended!) This is another filler chapter, and slightly shorter than normal but it had to bridge the gap between the last update and the drama that is about to unfold, so it had to end on this cliff hanger – don't worry though! The next chapter is pretty much finished so that'll be up soon as well.
A Heart as Red as Hate…
The tavern stands in the shadow of what used to be the Fisher King's tower – a small, but bright and relatively clean shack like structure, filled to the brim with townsfolk in various states of drunkenness. Gwaine's excited laugh can be heard all the way back at the border.
"What'll it be?" Asks the man behind the counter; eyeing the four Knights with a cautious eye.
They'd removed their cloaks the moment it became clear that the Perilous Lands were not what any of them remembered; ensuring the Camelot insignia was not spotted by these people who technically reside much closer to Mercia. But still, the sight of four mail clad men was probably not something this tavern owner saw regularly.
"Mead," replies Gwaine, slumping happily onto a stool by the bar, "and lots of it!"
"Don't you worry that one day you'll fall over, too drunk to walk in a straight line, and land on your own sword?"
"At least I'd die happy," chuckles Gwaine, "I'm not a Knight because of my Nobility," he looks at Leon, "or through childhood fantasies," a pointed look at Lancelot. After the death of his father, the loss of his family's money and Nobel name, the idea of serving under a King was abhorrent, be it a monarch of Caerleon or any other.
"I just happened to be in the right place at the right time – helping out the one man I called a friend. I'm proud to serve Camelot, and if I leave this world by the end of a sword wielded by our enemy then I will consider myself lucky. But I am still that drunken vagabond at heart – and I've been so far in my cups that I'm seeing triple and still holding my sword for far longer than I've worn the red of Camelot." He salutes the Knights with his tankard, downing the drink in a few gulps.
Leon just rolls his eyes, sipping his own mead slowly.
Nobody notices the figure swathed in black peering through the window.
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The sun is gone, well and truly set, leaving the flood of candle light as the only source of visibility – and Arthur has never seen anything quite as beautiful as his Manservant bathed in the flicker of a flame. He hasn't moved for a few hours now; his back resting uncomfortably against the hard wooden headboard, Merlin's cheek laid trustingly in his lap, his nose pressed against his thigh, hand curled into the material bunched up around his hips. His cheeks are flushed; still slightly damp from the tears he'd fought against letting fall until Arthur had kissed him and felt the tension flood from his body.
From what Arthur can gather, the pain has eased – gone after the magical outburst for reasons that Arthur still doesn't understand, even after Merlin's mumbled half-explanation. They hadn't talked anymore; they'd just laid there, Arthur pulling the smaller body into his arms and holding him tightly until the trembling had finally stopped and his breathing had evened out, deepened in slumber. And he hasn't been able to move away since – transfixed by the man in his arms, mind frantically turning over the new information about the locket until sleep had been impossible for him anyway.
A quiet knock pulls him from his thoughts.
Untangling himself from Merlin, settling his head back down on one of the pillows and pulling the cover up and over his shoulders, he heads toward the door, tugging it open and cursing the squeak of the hinges.
"Just checking in, Sire," says Leon, "the Inn-Keeper spoke of a disturbance up here earlier. Is everything alright?"
"Perfectly fine," answers Arthur, shuffling the door closed slightly to hide the shards of glass still littering the floor and shimmering in the moonlight, "we're in unknown parts, Leon, so make sure to guard in pairs. Station one of you in the corridor and the other to scout the outside perimeter. Switch shifts every three hours."
"Certainly," nods Leon, moderating his voice to match the Prince but wincing at the loud crash from the room opposite. "It – er, it won't be Gwaine taking the first shift."
"You and Percival take first watch. Merlin and I will take the second. Hopefully Lancelot can sober Gwaine up enough to take the third."
"Yes, Sire." Agrees Leon, disappearing back into the other room.
"What did Leon want?" Croaks Merlin groggily; leaning up on his elbows to watch Arthur cross the room.
"We're stationing a guard in the corridor," answers Arthur, blowing out the candle by the window and yanking his shirt over his head. "I said we'll take the second shift, but I want you to stay in here – catch up on some rest."
"I can manage guard duty," replies Merlin with a roll of his eyes, "now hurry up and get back in here. It's cold."
"I give the orders," chuckles Arthur, slipping under the covers anyway.
"Nghh," mumbles Merlin noncommittally, flinging an arm over Arthur's waist and burying his face in the hollow of his throat.
"How're you feeling?" Inquires Arthur quietly, twining his fingers with Merlin's and holding them tightly against his chest.
"Better," yawns Merlin, brushing his lips against his Prince's neck, "thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," warns Arthur lightly, "you've got year's worth of questions to answer the moment you feel up to it." But he's talking to himself; Merlin's soft snore already stirring the ends of Arthur's hair, his breath warm against his skin. And when sleep claims the Prince only minutes later, it's with a contented smile on his lips that he sinks into the land of dreams.
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"I hate you," grumbles Lancelot, resisting the urge to smack a chortling Gwaine around the head with something heavy.
"Aw, Lance," snickers Gwaine, swinging a hand round to pat his friend on the cheek, missing by at least a foot and toppling dangerously on the edge of the bed, teetering precariously for a second before managing to claw his way back up to the pillows with a victorious cheer. "You love me really!"
"Mmhm," hums Lancelot with a sigh, yanking the leather of Gwaine's belt through the clasp and pulling the sword away from his body in one quick tug.
"Hey!"
"You need to sleep, and I'll be damned if I let you roll over a skewer yourself while I'm in the next bed."
"You're jus' trying to g't me naked," slurs Gwaine, pointing an accusing, swaying finger in Lancelot's direction.
"Must we go through this every time you're drunk?" Sighs Lancelot in exasperation, pushing against Gwaine's shoulders as he attempts to sit up again, pinning his upper body to the mattress. "Will you please. Just. Stay. There." He has to bite his lip against the reluctant chuckle wanting to be let free as Gwaine holds his hands up in surrender, an expression so wholly innocent that it's a wonder a fucking halo doesn't appear over his head, crosses his features.
"Drink," orders Lancelot, shoving a goblet in Gwaine's face.
"D'nt mind if I do."
"It's water."
The pout twisting the Knight's lips stays put until his body slumps against the pillows in a drunken sleep – his snores loud enough to rouse the dead.
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The corridor is dark; lit only by the minuscule flicker of the lone candle resting by Leon's boot and the muted moonlight weaving its way through the murky window set high up the wall at the end of the long room. Snores rumble through the Inn – winding their way under doors or through the wood itself in the case as Gwaine, twinning seamlessly with the hiss of the wind bustling its way through the open window. It's crossed Leon's mind more than a few times in the last hour to get up and close it, especially since the draught is so cold it's like having icicles repeatedly dragged down his spine, but then there's a chance that he wouldn't hear Percival's warning shout should something amiss happen outside, which is something that any conscientious guard knows is not a risk worth taking.
He tilts his head back to rest against the wall, sword propped up and easily accessible by his side, and crosses his arms over his chest to settle in for the next two hours.
X/X/X/X/X/X/X/X
Shivering so much that he swears he can hear his bones rattling away inside his body, Percival continues his most recent circle around the Inn, wrapping his cloak around himself tightly and gritting his teeth to stop their chattering. Trust him to draw the short straw – forced to patrol outside whilst Leon sits happily under a nice, strong roof, protected from the worst of the viciously blustering winds.
The snick of a twig snapping close by pulls him from his self-pitying thoughts.
"Who goes there?" Orders Percival as he draws his sword from its sheath as quietly as possible, plating his feet shoulder length apart and adopting a stance particularly favoured by his Prince – one that quite visibly states 'I'm perfectly capable of killing you'. His eyes dart around the street, quickly tracking the shadows climbing the walls of the surrounding buildings. Nothing human.
"Oh, Percival," sighs a voice from behind him, sultry and low, "it's such a shame to end one as beautiful as you. But those who swear fealty to my brother must be exterminated."
"Morgana," greets Percival gruffly, turning slowly, his blade still raised and pointed. It comes to rest against the pale column of the former Wards neck. Despite seemingly holding the upper hand, he knows the chances of his surviving this encounter are below none. "A pleasure, as always."
"Charm will not help you now, I'm afraid," chuckles Morgana, not so much as even batting an eyelid as the tip of the sword presses slightly closer.
Percival swings, the muscles in his arm rippling with tension, pushing all his strength into the curve and dip of the blade as it arches high through the night air, hurtling towards the unprotected flesh of Morgana's throat – and bouncing against an invisible barrier, sending a shock of pain up from the palm of his hand to sit like a ball of fire in the centre of his chest.
"Do it," growls Percival in a choked gasp, his sword clattering to the cobbled ground with a thunk, his knees buckling, dropping his body to the floor soon after.
"What room is my brother in?" She steps forward, clenches a hand around the Knight's chin and yanks his head up to meet her eyes. "It shan't save your life, but I might be merciful enough to end you quickly," croons Morgana.
"Do as you wish, Morgana," glares Percival, "I will never betray Arthur."
"Why must you all you Knights insist on this charade? We both know you'll tell me eventually, why prolong the inevitable?"
"If you knew anything of true loyalty, you wouldn't have to ask that question." Replies Percival, smirking in the face of Morgana's wrath. He draws a breath, his shout of, "LEON!" reverberating around the silent town as his world is consumed by flames.
"Don't think I don't understand loyalty just because I have nobody left to be loyal to*," spits Morgana into the resulting silence, stepping delicately over the prone form collapsed at her feet, Percival's sword held lightly in her hand.
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Merlin bolts awake – the hairs on his body standing to attention; his skin prickling with a sickening press of magic, waves of darkness roiling in the pit of his stomach, the searing aura of evil swarming and stinging like wasps against his palms. His senses heighten until he can feel the weakening pulse of Percival's heart, can hear it stutter and stop. Can smell the sizzle of burnt flesh as if stood next to a pyre. Can taste the determination for destruction in the air. Can practically see the way this is supposed to end – the hot splash of blood against wood as the sword plunges through his Prince's chest, the thunk of his body collapsing to the floor, the victorious laughter shrieking around the room, doubling and rising, until it's the only thing he can hear.
"Morgana," his voice comes out on a hiss, his hands clenching the bed covers into painfully tight fists; hatred spearing through his chest and capturing his heart where guilt and friendship used to reside, squashing them until nothing else remains but the white hot flare of loathing crashing through his blood, blinding him with its ferocity.
"Merlin?" Grunts Arthur, blinking one eye open a second before Leon's fists start pounding on the door – his frantic voice setting the Prince into action instantly.
Its automatic; the flick of his wrist, the angry curl of his fingers and flash of his palm, the burst of gold as the air around him freezes, wrapping Arthur into a blanket of time – the world paused, everything in it stuck in a horrific tableau, all bar Merlin himself.
"I'm sorry," whispers Merlin, brushing his lips softly against Arthur's forehead, trying not to look into the glassy eyes of the frozen Prince – not wanting the battle-ready, hardened soldier to be the image of his lover he takes with him to the grave, holding instead to the drowsy, sated memory from this morning. He has no delusions that he'll survive this fight, this final battle between himself and Morgana – not when he can feel her determination as sharply as his own.
He yanks the door open quickly, side-stepping a frozen Leon, his features twisted in panic, carved like a statue of marble. He passes the closed door of the room next to his and Arthurs, knows that inside are his friends – Lancelot; his hold on sanity when it felt like he'd never be able to reveal his magic. And Gwaine; his sense of humour when his destiny rested too heavily on his shoulders that laughter seemed impossible – both men as crucial to his survival as Arthur. All three; frozen and helpless.
Morgana has to die.
The thought pounds through his head in time with his footsteps as he walks down the stairs and out into the night to greet his death.
*Runs and hides behind the sofa* Eek, sorry any big Percival fans out there…
*This is a direct quote that Morgana says in Season 4, Episode 6 – 'A Servant of Two Masters'.
I know that in the Canon show, its Merlin that she says this to, but I really love this quote because it has so much pain in it and sums up Morgana as a person beautifully. I was determined to fit it in here somehow and I think it slots in quite well
Review?