Chapter Eleven.

The sitting room of Morgana's flat was covered in plastic sheets, the walls and lamps and furniture draped. On the closest wall, pictures of her most recent victims hung in a straight line. Merlin's picture was there, too, merely to taunt her. Knives were laid out on top of the hutch, close by the table that had been dragged in from kitchen, where Morgana's unconscious form was now restrained against more plastic and duct tape.

Arthur heard her groan awake from his place near the sofa, and he turned around in time to watch her eyes flicker open. He stepped into the light, standing above her so she could see him, his olive green long-sleeve shirt covered by a vinyl smock and long, heavy-duty gloves of the same material. He tried to keep his eyes dull, his expression indifferent. He had to see her as just another kill, not as his sister—not as the woman he would have absconded with to start anew just days before.

However, she was making it very hard to do that.

"Hello, dear brother," she greeted with a smile, like they were at a coffee shop and she wasn't trapped to his table, about to take part in a ritualistic murder. She stayed cool, but he couldn't be sure if the emotion was faked or she really thought he had no intention of going through with this. She was just that good, and Arthur felt a pang in his chest, a lingering doubt that told him to free her because she could still teach him so much.

"Morgana," he said instead, keeping his tone even.

"So, you've come to kill me?" she laughed, a smirk playing on her thin lips. "You knew I'd go back for Merlin."

"I hoped you wouldn't," he told her honestly.

"But you knew." She sounded impressed. "You waited for me to come, while I was sure you'd left the building. You tricked me, little brother. Bravo."

He responded by stepping away from the table and collecting his scalpel. This part was always so simple, the easy part. It had become muscle memory: slice the cheek, take a drop of the fresh blood running down the skin, dab it into the slide and put it to the side, where it would wait to find its new home in his safe. However, this time he focused on his actions, making them carefully and deliberately as to not miss anything.

Morgana was just another kill. Morgana would hiss as he cut her skin. Morgana would bleed red. Morgana would be placed in a box with the others while the rest of her was wrapped up and tossed into the Thames.

But most of his playmates looked on in horror as he collected their blood. Their laughs did not echo throughout the darkness, drowning out the clinking of the glass sample slide. They did not have pride in their eyes.

"And now what?" Morgana asked lightly. "Am I to become just another one of your trophies?"

The words rang through Arthur's ears, and at once he realized he could not fool himself. Morgana wasn't just another kill. Morgana was a wasted life—his life, the life he could have had and could still have. For the first time, he would give anything to not have to do this.

"No," he whispered. "Not you. You're not a prize."

He took the slide between his hands and snapped it in two.

Merlin blinked at the clock. He managed to get a little over and hour and a half of shuteye and, for the first time in days, it had been a fairly peaceful sleep. No images of plastic wrap, sharp knives, or Morgana's catlike smirk invaded his dreams. It wasn't much sleep, but he felt more rested than he had in what felt like a lifetime.

He was certain he'd feel more refreshed if only he could get back to sleep, but his mind was too wired. The pillow where Arthur's head rested hours ago was still indented, the sheets still warm, and Merlin would catch a whiff of Arthur's scent on his skin each time he rolled over.

He brought his eyes back to the clock. Only one minute had passed in what should have been hours. He could not take it anymore.

Somewhere inside of him, he'd convinced himself that the secret he'd harbored his whole life was suddenly toxic. He had to rid himself of it—tonight. Recent experience taught him he might never have a second chance, and an even more recent experience made him hope that maybe—just maybe—Arthur felt the same way . . .

His mind was made up. He kicked the blankets off of him and redressed, hating the fact that he'd have to step foot in le Fay's flat, but knowing this couldn't wait another moment. His stomach lurched and fluttered, and he rushed out the door before allowing himself time to reconsider or lose his nerve.

The discarded blood slide, now on the hutch, must have resolved Morgana's expectations. She looked smug, satisfied, like she knew Arthur wouldn't take her life if only she said the right words at the right time.

"You're not really going to kill me, Arthur," she told him matter-of-factly. "You don't want to."

"No, I don't," he agreed.

"We're family," she said, her voice coaxing. "We need each other. I'm all you've got."

He looked at the photographs lining the wall, at the very last picture of the victim that might have been.

"Not all I've got," he told her.

She snorted. "Oh, Arthur, please. Are you really that horny?"

He rounded on her again.

"He doesn't know you, brother," she said with conviction. "Not like I do. He never will. Your whole life with him has been a lie—a cover, like Uther taught you. You've deluded yourself. What you feel isn't caring; you're not capable of that."

Arthur didn't want to believe that was true anymore.

"Maybe I am," he said, placing a palm on either side of her head and looking down, through her, in thought. "Maybe the mask is slipping . . ."

"And becoming real?"

She chuckled again, like the notion was preposterous. Inside of him, the dragon laughed, too, letting him know that he would never be anything but a monster in the dark.

"One day, it could be," he said, trying to convince himself of it. He walked away from her and picked up the handle of a clean, silver knife. "One day I could be . . . human."

He found himself smiling softly at the thought.

"But not if you take that away from me," he said, the darkness ebbing back into his voice. He spun around on the spot and pointed the tip of the blade at her like an accusing finger. "You can't be allowed to go on, Morgana. I have to put you down."

He was standing over her now, lifting the knife.

"I understand," she said, quite unexpectedly, forestalling him. "There's no room for people like us in humanity, brother. We don't belong in the world." Her cold eyes flashed upward, meeting his. "You'll see that soon enough."

A muscle in his jaw twitched as he tightened it in anger. He was sick of people telling what he could and could not be. In that moment, Morgana might as well have been Uther. Leaning in close enough to see himself reflected in the darks of her eyes, he sneered slowly through his bared teeth, "I am right where I belong."

He shot up straight, and she steeled herself in the moment before he plunged the knife swiftly. The creature inside him beat its wings, and the relief he felt was like a physical weight had lifted in that movement . . .

And there was a gasp. It was loud, sharp, and shocked—maybe even terrified. But it hadn't escaped Morgana's lips. She had already gone blank. It had come from the front of the room.

His fingers still wrapped around the handle of the knife, he looked up quickly towards the door, where Merlin stood, pale-faced and gaping. His eyes were bulging as he stumbled backwards a few steps, like the knife had pierced his heart instead of Morgana's. Arthur couldn't be sure in the distance, but Merlin appeared to be trembling.

Their eyes never left each other, and Arthur felt his chest constricting and throat closing. He couldn't breathe; he couldn't move, not even to detach his grip from the knife.

"No," he heard himself mutter, sotto voce.

Merlin seemed to finally comprehend the scene in front of him and, before Arthur could register the movement, Merlin had reached to his side and took out his gun. It was now being pointed directly at Arthur between two unsteady hands.

"What the fuck are you doing!" Merlin yelled, panic and tears in his voice.

Arthur had to think fast. He had to put on an act. Slowly, he looked down at Morgana's body, at the knife in his hand, like he was seeing them for the first time. He looked down in horror, releasing the blade that stayed upright in Morgana's chest and staggering away from the table. His back knocked into the hutch, causing the rest of his supplies and various other items on its surface to topple over or fall to the floor.

"Oh, shit," he hissed, just loud enough for Merlin to hear it. He brought his gloved palms up to his temples, grabbing at his hair and looking like he was about to be sick. "Oh my god, what have I done?"

"A—Arthur?" Merlin called, trying to keep his voice strong and demanding, but it was shaking.

Arthur looked up at him like he just remembered Merlin's presence.

"Merlin . . ."

He paced around the table, taking a few steps closer to Merlin, and the tip of the gun followed him. It made Arthur halt, and he raised his palms disarmingly.

"Arthur, what the fuck are you doing?" Merlin asked again.

"I—I don't know," Arthur said convincingly. He cast a look over his shoulder at the body. "I was here—doing my final sweep, and—and she came in. She . . ."

Merlin licked his lip, looking distraught. Arthur mimicked the expression.

"Why the fuck would she come back?" Merlin questioned.

It occurred to Arthur that he didn't have to know the answer to that; in fact, it would be better if he didn't.

"I don't know," he said again. "But she didn't look like she was expecting me to be here. She came at me and I—I knocked her out."

Merlin swallowed hard, his eyes darting back and forth around the room and his grip tightening on the weapon. Clearly, he didn't know what to think.

"And—and you killed her?"

"Merlin—"

Arthur chanced a few steps closer, and Merlin straightened his arms out further, warning Arthur not to move.

"I just," Arthur explained, making his voice quiver. "She was unconscious. She . . . I was going to call dispatch, but I was just so—After what she did to you, Merlin . . . I lost it."

He gave Merlin his biggest, saddest eyes, which seemed to calm him infinitesimally.

"You killed her for me?" Merlin's eyes were bloodshot now, and his voice was thick. Slowly, he lowered the gun. Arthur let out a heavy, relieved sigh.

In that time, Merlin's eyes searched the room again. "The plastic," he said, somewhat cautiously. "You didn't plan this ahead of time?"

"No, I—" He remembered that Morgana had made a room similar to this when she took Merlin. "I found it here," Arthur fabricated coolly. "And the knives."

"I thought that was all bagged up for evidence," Merlin said, shaking his head. Arthur saw his hand tighten around the gun again.

"Not all of it," Arthur hastened to say. "I was to do the rest tonight. It's part of why Lance thought this was so urgent."

"And the clothes?" Merlin said, eyeing Arthur's attire warily. "That's not—you weren't wearing that when you left."

Arthur looked down at himself—at the boots, the gloves, the apron. "They were in my car," he said. "In my kit. I keep them handy for crime scenes."

This seemed to relax Merlin, but his eyes were wandering again, memories filling them. "How—how did you know how to do all this, Arthur?"

"I know how it looks," Arthur told him softly. "But I'm a forensic officer, Merlin. I work crime scenes every day. I know what not to do. My training, it just—it kicked in."

"I thought you said you didn't plan this?"

"I didn't!"

Arthur gave another frantic look, and Merlin holstered his gun. Arthur allowed himself a private moment of relief until he noticed Merlin going for his pocket and producing his mobile.

"What are you doing?" Arthur asked, truly panicked now. He dared another step forward, and Merlin shot daggers at him. It may have not been a gun, but the stare was just as lethal and it stopped Arthur in his tracks.

"I have to call this in, Arthur," he said, sounding apologetic.

"Call it—?" Arthur choked. "No, Merlin! You—Can't you see how bad this looks!"

Merlin looked like he was in pain, and Arthur thought maybe he was getting through to him.

"I know it does," he agreed. "But we'll just explain to Gwen what happened. Tensions are high right now; she'll—she'll understand." Neither of them believed that.

"She'll lock me away, Merlin, and you and I, we'll never be able to . . ." Arthur trailed away softly, and he saw Merlin take in a rattling breath at the unspoken words. "Please, put the phone down," he begged and, gesturing wildly behind him at Morgana's body, continued, "She almost ruined our lives once, Merlin. Don't let her win this time . . . She's gone. Don't give her what she wants. Please."

Arthur could practically see Merlin's internal struggle, but apparently he decided in Arthur's favor, because he pocketed the mobile and buried his face in his palms.

"Jesus," he cried, doubling over, but he recomposed himself soon enough. "What—What the fuck do we do? How do we get rid of . . . her." He gestured vaguely towards the corpse, not daring to look at it.

"You do nothing," Arthur told him, figuring it was safe to walk to Merlin's side and place a palm on his shoulder. "You don't have to be a part of this anymore. I'll get rid of it alone."

"The fuck you will!" Merlin snapped, pushing Arthur's hand away. "I'm in this whether I like it or not!"

Arthur swore internally. It would be easy to bag the body and throw it downriver, but he had to appear like he didn't know what he was doing. Still, if he couldn't get rid of the body, there were ways to get rid of evidence.

"Okay," Arthur said, rushing back towards the table. He took another knife and began cutting the restraints away from the body. "Start taking the plastic down," he called to Merlin over his shoulder. "Then start looking for matches."

They stood across the street from the building, watching the anxious crowd that had congregated in the car park, illuminated by the orange glow from above. It filled the shadows and black sky and reflected fiery hot in Merlin's glossy eyes. The air smelled of thick smoke and sirens could be heard in the distance, making their way ever closer, and Arthur knew they had little time left to stay there. Still, he allowed Merlin a few more minutes to come to terms with what they had done.

Arthur had staged the body just right, positioning the arms so it seemed like Morgana plunged the knife into her own chest after she lit the room ablaze. It had been easy to start the fire. There were enough flammable liquids in flat to kindle it—acetone nail polish remover, cooking oil, cleaning and beauty products, rubbing alcohol, and the like. Merlin was adamant about keeping the flames as contained as possible, that way they wouldn't spread too far or cause too much damage to the neighboring flats.

The sirens were becoming louder by the second, and Arthur knew they couldn't linger. He gave Merlin a soft nudge, bringing him back down to Earth, and nodded in the direction of their cars. With one last look at the blazing upper corner of the building across the way, Merlin slipped his palm into Arthur's and allowed himself to be led away.