Title: The Man With The Dragon Tattoo – Chapter Twenty-Nine.

Author: Woodland Goddess.

Rated: M

Author's Note: Another chapter for you guys! This one was difficult to write in places; it contains feels.

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Remember When

They were finished in Foxley Wood sooner than Merlin thought they would be. Finding the source of the spirits' entrapment had been tricky at first, for he had to push aside the magic that drenched the woodland and threatened to overwhelm him with the sheer strength of it. The cause had been a silver rod at the heart of Foxley Wood, driven deep into the ground and adorned with sigils and wards of power. The rod had emitted a pulsing energy, almost invisible to the naked eye.

It was a powerful device, cleverly imagined, but it had been no match for the explosive force of Merlin's fury. He had blown it to pieces with great relish after instructing Arthur to duck behind a sturdy tree. A mere precaution; he had not wanted the man to come to harm while he dealt with the rod. Despite his instruction, however, Arthur had peaked around the edge at the last moment and witnessed the explosion. It was almost as though he could not quite stop himself from watching when magic was being displayed.

The effect of the rod's destruction was instantaneous. The spirits of the dead let him feel their joy and gratitude in an outpouring of such love that Merlin staggered under the sheer weight of it. Hurrying out from behind the tree, Arthur caught him before he could be toppled by the surge of their affections. For a brief moment Belinde's happy laughter could be heard as her unseen hands ruffled their hair and then she was gone, like the light of a candle quickly snuffed. Standing among foxgloves and lavender, cradled against his lover's strong torso, Merlin understood Arianrhod's message for the first time.

The spirits of countless practitioners of magic had been trapped here among the trees and wildflowers, denied the chance of rebirth, and with them the future of magic had begun to fade from the earth. How many more woods and forests would prove to be a prison for the dead? Trembling under the heavy realisation of what Uther Pendragon and Aredian Killer had done, he turned and flung his arms around his lover's shoulders. "Take me home," the sorcerer whispered in the man's ear. Large hand lost in raven hair, Arthur acquiesced quietly.

They trekked back to the car, their fingers entangled with each other for every step of the way. Merlin moved unhindered through Foxley Wood, the spirits having ascended to Caer Arianrhod. The atmosphere itself improved immensely since he had demolished the rod, the woodland's natural ambience taking over in the wake of the spirits' ascent. The journey back to London seemed to take far less time than the journey to Norfolk. When they reached the door to their living quarters it was to find a post-it note from Leon.

Arthur, it said in the Eternal Knight's careful script, I've taken Elena to a secure location. You can rest assured that she will be safe from harm; Morgana and I have taken several precautions to ensure her safety. At lunch time tomorrow I will escort her to HQ. See you, then. Arthur pulled the note from the door and crumpled it, slipping it into the pocket of his coat with a sideways glance at Merlin. A weary smile, bearing the weight of Destiny and the remembered burden of a Kingdom, graced his mouth.

Without uttering a word, the former King unlocked the door and ushered him inside, following after him and shutting the door. The locking mechanisms beeped. Just standing within Arthur's living quarters made him feel more secure, as though observant eyes had been prevented from spying upon him further. Shedding his scarf and coat – which had accumulated twigs and leaves during their trek through Foxley Wood – his lover asked if he was hungry as he made for the kitchen.

"I could eat a large cock." Arthur tripped over the door saddle at that cheerful announcement, barely catching himself on the back of a chair before toppling to the kitchen floor. "By which, I mean the bird." Face flushed in embarrassment and indignation, the man looked over his shoulder at him with such intensity that Merlin's cock stirred in interest. Swallowing thickly, his heart skipping a beat in his chest, he tentatively closed the distance between them. After everything that had been revealed, everything that had happened between them, he was uncertain where their boundaries lay. "You should be more careful, Arthur; we wouldn't want you to suffer any injuries."

Straightening to his full height, his stance threatening despite the fact that Merlin was taller than him, the former King backed him up against the doorframe. Regal eyes, heavy with desire, came uncomfortably close to his own. "I'm sure," Arthur murmured, faintly pink lips brushing tantalisingly against the sorcerer's, "you would be quick to remedy such a situation." The man's mouth lifted in an arrogant smirk when Merlin's hands almost automatically came to rest against his chest as his arms caged him in. "Nurse."

With powerful hips beginning to grind against him, Merlin found it difficult to summon an appropriately indignant response. Blood raced southward swiftly, leaving him marginally lightheaded as the back of his head thunked heavily against the doorframe. Pale fingers curled around the rich fabric of Arthur's turtleneck. A shaky breath escaped him as he clung to his lover, his cock rising eagerly in response to the man's attentions. A wicked gleam entered Arthur's eyes and the prat pulled away abruptly, leaving him hard and hungry for his touch. "Hey! Come back here!"

Arthur chuckled deep in his throat, the sound rich and masculine and doing funny things to Merlin's insides. "No, I don't think so. This is what you get when you make me embarrass myself."

"I don't make you embarrass yourself," the sorcerer retorted. "You do that all on your own!" Feeling too irritated to even spitefully masturbate where his lover could easily hear and see him doing so, Merlin stomped after him, though his gait was decidedly more awkward after having the man's groin grinding against his own in such a pleasing manner. The smirk tugging at the corner of Arthur's mouth as he rooted through the fridge was entirely too amused for his liking. Gold flooded his gaze as he reached outwards with his magic.

One of the drawers opened silently and a tea-towel floated into the air. Closing the drawer, Merlin directed the tea-towel to float over behind his lover. It twisted up and soundly whipped him on the arse with a sharp snap. A startled yelp bursting forth from his Kingly throat, Arthur jumped in surprise, almost dropping a packet of fresh beef steaks. Tossing the tea-towel to the side before Arthur could whirl around, the magic quickly faded from his eyes. An innocent smile blossomed on his face as wild eyes focused upon him.

Smile lifting in to a grin, Merlin settled himself at the kitchen table. Elbow resting atop the table, he placed his chin in his palm and twinkled at his lover. Blond eyebrows knitted together in a thoughtful frown as the former King turned away from him. It seemed no time at all had passed before Arthur had him fetching plates and cutlery for dinner. Though Merlin enjoyed his steak well-done, the other was a juicy medium that had Arthur eyeing it up rather lustfully. To accompany the steaks, Arthur prepared baked potatoes slathered in butter that melted deliciously in their heat, a handful of various vegetables for each of them, a healthy splattering of pepper sauce for himself, and gravy for Merlin.

It was absolutely delicious, but the sorcerer felt as heavy as a pregnant cow afterwards. Surprised that he was even able to move, Merlin carried himself in to the living room and curled up on the couch. When Arthur entered he surprised the sorcerer by proffering a thick photo album. "I thought you might want to look. There's a great deal of photographs of Belinde in there, and she was happy. With me. Just...just so you know." A faint flush staining his royal cheeks, the man pushed the album in to his hands and vacated the room on swift feet.

The silence in the living room was broken only by the blood pounding in his ears, by the heart thumping in his chest, by the slick snick of his throat as he swallowed. Gaze dropping to observe the simple yet pretty album, he was uncertain how to feel. Part of him wanted to follow Arthur and inform him that he did not need to look at photographs to know that Arthur would never have hurt her intentionally, that merely his love would have caused a sense of euphoria – if there was anything of him still left in her mentality, falling in love with the man would have been as simple as eating a bowl of cornflakes. Another part of him wanted to greedily gobble up every photograph of her that he could get his hands on.

Merlin spent several long and agonising minutes deliberating which action to take, the album resting in his lap heavily. Eventually he reached a decision, his pale fingers curling around the edge of the cover as he pulled it open. The very first picture was of Belinde, wearing one of Arthur's red jumpers, and making a face at whomever held the camera as the person – presumably Arthur – captured an image of her sitting upon a blanket on the beach, a copy of the Argonautica by Apollonius Rhodius propped upon her lap, raven hair tied back in a ponytail, a few loose tendrils snagged by the wind. Though the expression on her face was somewhat comical, the deep outpouring of affection in her eyes was unmistakable.

The muscles in his throat constricted painfully as he looked upon the reincarnated face of his daughter. Looking at her, he could hardly believe how truly beautiful she was. Though she had inherited his features, Belinde's beauty seemed more like an apple that had rolled down a hill, and far away from the tree that had born her. Tentative fingers touched the protected photograph, fingertips grazing his baby's hair. Just looking at her brought memories surging to the forefront of his mind.

Trembling fingers pinched the bridge of his nose as Merlin ducked his head, one elbow resting upon a large tome as it lay spread upon the table. His mouth was twisted in a pained grimace. An ache lived deep within the confines of his head, reminding him with every insistent pulse that his predicament was the result of his own actions. Stupid, he chided himself, the word a mental growl. If Arthur had been alive, the man might very well have thrown him off a cliff for his newfound levels of utter idiocy.

The sorcerer should have been wiser than to graciously accept that first chalice of Danish wine offered by Alona. No good came from being inebriated, and he learned that the hard way. Waking up with an eyeful of tangled blonde hair, perky breasts and skin as fair as freshly fallen snow had almost given him a heart attack, despite the agony pounding in his head. Worse still had been the moment when the King – while Merlin stood naked at one end of the guest chambers, staring at the disarrayed bedclothes, and the Princess he had drunkenly tumbled, in abject horror – had burst through the door unannounced, his eyes wild with panic as he claimed his daughter had vanished.

Panic had quickly morphed into fury and, before he knew what was happening, the sorcerer was being primped and polished and forced to marry a woman he viewed as no more than a friend. To spare her Royal Highness the indignity of bearing a bastard. The undeniable expression of joy that had burned in Alona's gaze as she was walked down the aisle towards him, clad in a scarlet gown for the first time since he had been acquainted with her, had left him feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

Shaking his head to dislodge the memory of that traumatic event, Merlin swallowed his moan of pain as the action aggravated the ache in his head. As if she could sense his distress, a tiny hand tugged at the fabric of his robes. Lowering his hand slowly, he looked down at the tiny girl gazing inquisitively up at him, blue eyes sparkling prettily. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Hello, beautiful," he greeted quietly. A beaming smile lit up his four-year-old daughter's face, crinkling her eyes and flushing her cheeks with vivid pink.

Tiny hands reached for him. The sorcerer did not even hesitate, scooping her up into his arms, cradling the soft warmth of her against his torso. The mere scent of her wavy raven hair seemed to ease the headache pressing on his brain as he buried his face against the silken locks. "Why are you sad, Papa?" Belinde queried, her hands tangling with the dark hair that had grown out to brush his shoulders lightly. "Do you miss Mama?" The girl's mother had decided to vacate the castle for a hunt, accompanied by Leon and a few other Knights, leaving the children entirely in their father's care.

"Yes, of course," Merlin answered warmly, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear, smiling when she leaned into his touch. "But I'm not sad, pet. My head is sore, and your siblings are very loud." As if to demonstrate his point, Vibeke – their current youngest at two years of age – screamed her outrage when her heavier brother knocked her over deliberately. The mischievous grin on the blond boy's face vanished when Vibeke kicked him in the shin, hard, earning a wail of pain. Quickly rising, setting his baby down upon the chair, the sorcerer strode across the room purposefully. "Hey!"

Both children looked up in surprise, their rivalry forgotten, and took off in a blur of skinny legs and swirly fabric. Not even bothering to give chase, Merlin summoned his dumplings directly in to his arms, one arm secured around each of them. Arthur, already robust for a five-year-old, hung limply in his clutches as he started crying miserably. His sister struggled valiantly, her face purpling with her endeavours as she roared indignantly. Another spell conjured a pair of chairs and he set them down upon them abruptly, his magic keeping the pair of them pinned.

"The pair of you will sit there for five minutes, and think about your actions." Vibeke's mouth opened to irritably protest his commands. "In silence!" A third spell popped his daughter's mouth closed as he folded his arms crossly. Stubbornly, she crossed her arms across her chest in absolute mimicry, a mulish expression on his face. The girl was an unbearably brash and loud child, but Merlin knew she would settle down as she aged. It was fortunate that her rebellious stage was happening now, rather than in the years to come, when she had some ability with a blade. "When you're finished you will apologise to each other."

Continuing to sob in silence, young Arthur hung his head and stared down at his small hands through his tears. The boy hated it when his father was irritated. Part of him wanted to pick his son right up and snuggle him close, apologising for being angry, but another larger part of him knew that he simply could not allow them to pummel each other into the stone floor. Roughhousing was not a terrible thing, but there had to be boundaries in place. There was playing, and there was being malicious; he would not abide the latter.

When the five minutes drew to a close Merlin released them. Vibeke offered a sullen apology, to which Arthur offered a choked response before reaching for his father with needy hands as his sister flounced away. The sorcerer dropped down on one knee and embraced him tightly, one hand lost in blond hair. The boy buried his face in Merlin's robes, clinging to him morosely. Drawing back after a moment, he planted a kiss upon the boy's brow. "Come on, now; there's no need to cry. Who's my brave little man?" he asked gently, peering at his son with great affection.

"Me." Arthur ran small his arm across his face, brushing away tears and snot alike.

"That's right," he encouraged, grinning adoringly at the boy. His son gave him a watery smile and Merlin drew him into his arms once more, the embrace rough and brief but no less heartfelt than the first. "Go on, then." Rising to his feet, he watched his little man tentatively approach Vibeke and ask her if she wished to play with him again. With less fighting. The girl mimicked the Knights and punched his arm boisterously before agreeing. Shaking his head in fond exasperation, Merlin looked towards his eldest children.

In one corner of his chambers, seated at their own tiny little desk, Hunith II was showing Ivar how to write his name upon the parchment spread out before them. Affection blossomed in his heart as he watched Ivar struggle to hold the quill steady, a frown of intense concentration upon his face. Turning away from them lest he wobble under the onslaught of how adorable his children were, Merlin returned to his chair, scooping Belinde back into his arms. Smiling down at her, he allowed her to play with the hair she so loved to fiddle with.

In moments another memory was upon him, leaving him a little disoriented.

The beast beneath him was a fine creature, strong like Hengroen – the battle charger that had sired her – though rather more powerful and temperamental than the horse that Arthur had entrusted to him once upon a time. Still, he had persevered until Llamrei had grown accustomed to his touch and his scent and his weight upon her back, had grown to like him in her own way. Now, they were close to inseparable; she grew terribly jealous when he dared to approach any other horse with his affections.

Pale hand petting her neck warmly, he smiled faintly as Llamrei snorted and shook her head. Oh, yes, she was his mount; she would never carry another. That was just the way they liked it. Glancing over his shoulder, assuring himself that his companions were still with him, the sorcerer shook the reins. Llamrei quickened her pace, her hooves thundering lightly against the earth. Behind him, the others did the same. When out on excursions he always chose to take point, particularly when Gwen was present; Leon and Percival took up the rear, gazes watchful.

Alona rode up alongside him, her blonde braid bouncing distractingly. There were dark circles beneath her eyes and heavy lines upon her brow. It always happened this time of year. He was certain his own face did not look much different in comparison. Much like himself and their children, Alona had been dressed in sombre clothing by her maidservant. They would never forget this day in their lives; it was as constant in their memories as the continuous and hollow ache in their souls, the ache only a parent could carry within their breast.

Exchanging a terse glance with his wife, Merlin focused his attention upon the path ahead of them. It was better to think of the trees, of the earth laid out before them, than to give in to the grief that threatened to rob him of his breath. It was harder to deal with this time of year, when the memory of his William seemed to gain strength, but somehow he managed. In time the forest came to an end and Llamrei carried him out into the open air by the banks of Lake Avalon. Pulling gently on the reins, he guided his steed to a stop as the others did the same.

The sorcerer dismounted with practiced ease, the tails of his dark coat billowing in the wind. As he always did when Alona was feeling poorly, he offered his assistance to his wife. She accepted gratefully, her arms slipping around his neck as he helped her down. Her weight was almost comforting as he held her close, their warmth briefly shared in the crisp morning air. Nearby, Leon offered the same assistance to Her Majesty, the Queen, who declined with a small shake of her head.

Merlin brushed a kiss against Alona's forehead, lips dry but warm. Her blue eyes fluttered closed as her fingers curled, gripping the fabric of his coat as if it might offer a last bit of comfort. Though he had not fallen in love with his wife, whose heart had belonged to him for these many years, he bore a great affection for the woman that had born his children, the woman that had provided much-needed and new friendship during some of his darkest days. Slipping a hand into her silken locks, Merlin held her as she trembled in her grief.

After a moment, they drew apart and were quickly distracted by their eleven-year-old daughter, Vibeke, who had attempted to dismount by herself and had fallen from her horse with a sharp cry of dismay. It was a surge of accidental magic that had protected her from harm, but the shock of falling from a horse was never to be scorned. Merlin was quick to help her to feet, his pale hands brushing leaves and dust from her clothes confidently as Alona rained nurturing kisses upon her brown hair. Vibeke suffered through it with a grimace, having lapsed into emotional distance in the wake of her rebellious childhood, but the shine in her eyes indicated she appreciated their concern nonetheless.

When the shock subsided Merlin tenderly caressed his daughter's cheek once and allowed her to pull away. The others had dismounted with greater ease than Vibeke had, but that was not a surprise; they were older and taller than her by at least a head. With nothing left to distract him, the sorcerer turned towards the lake. Two aches burned in his heart, in the very recesses of his soul, and he could hardly tell which pained him more as he gazed upon the waters that had carried away the lifeless bodies of his son and King.

His William had passed from this life during the final hours of Alona's pregnancy, and she had been forced to give birth to an infant that would never wail his pain, nor gurgle his happiness, nor wrap his tiny hands around his parents' fingers. Eyes burning as his vision blurred, Merlin stood by the lake as his shoulders quaked. Drawing in a choked breath, he recalled sinking to the floor with his lifeless babe cradled in his arms, his tears burning as they streamed down his face. His wife's broken screams still haunted him at night.

He was startled from his memories when a pair of arms slipped around his middle, warm and loving. Blinking rapidly, he looked down at Belinde. Thirteen years of age, and too lovely for words, she gazed up at him sombrely. The girl had been a year old when her brother was taken from them, and had no memories of him, but she had always been a rather empathetic individual. Merlin squeezed her closer. "I love you," he whispered down to her. "You know that, right?" In answer she buried her face in his torso, arms tightening around him.

Without prompting from their parents, Hunith II and Ivar worked together to conjure a small wooden boat to bear the few birthday gifts they had brought for William. Leon and Percival had pooled their funds together to get him an ornate horn, something that could have been used to sound his distress, if the boy had lived to the age of twelve like he should have. Alona had sent to her homeland for a book on Danish myths. Hunith II had purchased a dagger, practical in design and quite serviceable. Ivar had carefully whittled a short-bow.

Arthur was reluctantly parting with the small carved Dragon that Merlin gifted him for his twelfth birthday. Belinde and Vibeke had commissioned a shield each for him, one bearing the crest of Alona's Kingdom, the other bearing the Pendragon coat of arms. Gwen had surprised them all by taking time away from her royal duties to tailor a squire's surcoat. All of these gifts were laid reverently into the boat, morose expressions upon their faces. The sorcerer watched it all in silence, reluctant to add his own gift alongside them.

His wife turned sorrowful eyes upon him in expectance, but he shook his head minutely. Lips thinning, Alona turned away from him in mild disgust. Ivar and Arthur pushed the boat from the bank of Lake Avalon and the rippling water carried it slowly away, just as it had done when it had born King Arthur, and Merlin's son after him. Hunith II drew her mother in to a tight embrace, the pair of them clinging to each other as they watched the boat that carried William's birthday gifts away from them.

The boat had vanished from their sight when Merlin finally fetched the gift he had brought for his son from Llamrei's saddle: the boy's first steel sword. Smaller than any the sorcerer had carried in previous years, it sat virtually weightless in his hand, his pale fingers wrapped firmly around the hilt. For a long moment he merely stood beside the lake, staring out across the surface of the water, which danced and shimmered in the sunlight. Then, just as he had done so many years ago, Merlin flung the sword towards the heart of the lake with all his might.

Tip over pommel, it spun as it arced through the crisp morning air. Heart pounding furiously against his ribcage, he hoped and he prayed for one glimpse, just one, as the blade plummeted towards the water. When the surface of Lake Avalon broke, a small boyish hand rising to greet the hilt of his sword, Merlin let out a keening cry and sank to his knees as Alona's hands rose to cover her mouth in her disbelief. His William's hand fumbled to catch the hilt, and before Merlin's very eyes a second hand rose from the water, encircling that of his son, dwarfing it as their hands gripped the hilt with combined confidence. Hands entwined with each other, they sank beneath the surface, the sword descending slowly.

Pulling himself sharply away from his memories, Merlin blinked back the tears that had welled in his eyes during his recollection. For some time he sat on the couch, the photo album clutched tightly in his hands, trying to get himself under control. Relinquishing the grip of one hand, he hastily ran his arm across his face. When he felt he had his emotions more secure within him he turned the page and gazed upon the next photograph held within the former King's precious photo album.

This one was of the pair of them, the camera held in Arthur's outstretched hand, with Belinde situated within the comforting span of his muscular legs. His daughter looked both embarrassed and delighted, a flush staining her defined cheekbones as Arthur hugged her close with one large arm. The young man's face was half-turned towards the camera and half-buried in her dark hair, and a warm smile tugged at his mouth. Looking at them, seeing how deeply in love with each other they had been, was both unbearably painful and heart-warming simultaneously.

The next was of Belinde and Morgana, the younger girl hugging her tightly around the middle, while Belinde's arm was slung around her shoulders. The pair of them looked as thick as thieves, and yet there was something secretive buried in his daughter's eyes, a certain tenseness in her frame as she held the girl who gazed adoringly up at her. Had she known? Had she had any idea who she was, where she had come from? Merlin wished he knew, wished he could have spoken to her just once.

Before he even realised that he had used his magic, the sorcerer found his fingers curling around Arthur's phone. Pulling his own phone from his pocket, he searched for Morgana's number in the former King's contacts. Punching in her number on his own phone, Merlin pressed called and raised it to his ear. The harpy answered before the second ring had even finished sounding. "Hello?" The questioning tone was plain, as she had no idea who was calling.

"It was Belinde that taught you how to control your gift...wasn't it?"

The line was silent for so long he had to check that they were still connected. "Yes," Morgana admitted, finally breaking the silence between them, the word heavy with both meaning and emotion. "How do you know about her? Arthur can't have told you; he hasn't spoken of her in eight years. Not since the day she was dragged from the lecture hall by Killer's men." Face crumpling at that morbid announcement, Merlin squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose with a trembling hand in a manner reminiscent of his lover. "How did you know she had the gift of foresight?"

"She was my daughter," he confessed slowly, the words little more than a broken whisper as his hand curled into a fist before it fell to his lap, "when I lived in Camelot."

"I'm sorry," the woman muttered, heartfelt. She drew in a shaky breath, clearly as upset about all of this as he was. "I...all of this must be terrible for you to learn, with everything so fresh for you. Is there anything I can do; name it and it's done, I swear to you." For a long moment she said nothing before quietly adding, almost reluctantly, "Belinde was a very dear friend of mine."

Heart pounding in his chest, he realised he was unable to do this. He could not listen to her speak of his daughter with such easy familiarity. "I...uh...I should go," Merlin blurted suddenly, his hand beginning to shake.

"Wait, please," Morgana interjected hurriedly, her tone urgent and somewhat shrill in his ear. "There are things you need to know about that day. About the day she was taken." The sorceress released a ragged breath when Merlin remained silent, remained connected to her on the phone. "Belinde knew she would be; she knew weeks in advance of the arrest, but she continued going to her classes and lectures anyway." A choked sound echoed down the line and with a start Merlin realised the woman was crying as she clutched her phone to her ear. "She bound me to secrecy with her magic, and I wasn't strong enough to crack it without causing damage to either of us, not then, but I pleaded for her to tell Arthur, to flee with him while she had the chance. She wouldn't hear of it!"

Utterly appalled by what she was telling him, the sorcerer could voice only one heartbroken word. "Why?"

"Because of you, Merlin! When Killer's men took her that day, when Arthur failed to stop them – and he certainly tried his hardest, because they put him in the fucking hospital! – he swore he wound find her. He swore that he would overturn heaven and earth in his pursuit of her, and he did. For years, that vow was all that kept him going through his grief. It carried him through the Police Academy, through case after case of private investigations. All for Belinde, for your daughter. Even when he started to lose hope, Arthur never once stopped looking for her, never once stopped gathering information." Morgana drew in a tremulous breath. "The day she was taken by Killer's men put him on the path to you."

The phone slipped from his grasp as the entire length of his body turned first to ice, and then went numb.

To Be Continued.

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