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Chapter Nine
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There's a Post-It stuck to the headboard when he wakes up:
Were you ever going to tell me?
Merlin is abruptly awake and feels like he's swallowed a bucket of ice water.
He flops back down to the pillow and closes his eyes against the burning; he doesn't think he actually managed to get any sleep. All he'd done was wander the city, aimless, thinking in circles and dreaming in more circles.
And now there's this.
Betrayal tastes bitter on the back of his tongue, and anger is easier than shame.
This is what you get for forgetting, even for a second. This is what you get for thinking things will change.
Merlin vaults off the bed, gets dressed and takes the stairs two at a time; Arthur is gone who-knows-where, so there's no one to force him to stop and think.
His hands are shaking so badly it takes him three tries to fit the key in the lock of the downstairs door.
When he finally fumbles the door open Mordred is standing there already, as if summoned by the pure force of Merlin's anger, hand upraised like he'd been about to knock, standing straight and meeting Merlin's eyes like he's got nothing to be ashamed of.
Merlin thinks he actually sees red.
He doesn't bother with magic; instead he grabs Mordred's collar and shoves him bodily up against the opposite wall.
"I was just coming up to see you," Mordred says, infuriatingly calm.
"What the hell have you been telling him?" Merlin demands. "Let's set aside for the moment the fact that the Sidhe can't be talked around by a child—"
"At least I'm trying!" Mordred snaps. "If you would just trust me—"
The words are out of his mouth before he thinks about them. "Trust you? I've only ever made that mistake once."
Blue eyes widen. And then Mordred's face morphs into a scowl of pure fury.
"Then why did you let me stay here? Why did you teach me to control my magic? Why do any of it if you were just going to keep me at arm's length anyway? What was the bloody point?"
"The point was to keep you close—"
"Like you do with your enemies, right." A bitter laugh. "Are you serious right now? I've done nothing to you! You think I don't know what you see when you look at me?"
Merlin freezes. Mordred is still glaring defiantly at him, but there's a flicker of nervousness in his eyes, like he hadn't meant to give that last bit away.
"What are you talking about?"
Mordred cringes but he doesn't back down. "I know about the other Mordred. I've known for ages. What, did you think you were being subtle or something?"
Somewhere underneath the shock, Merlin is starting to realize that he's an idiot. The dreamscape, his argument with Arthur, and Mordred listening in on the whole thing; of course he would put two and two together. This could not possibly be going any worse.
"Then you should understand," he says tightly. "You should know why I can't take that chance."
Mordred snaps.
"I'm not him!" It's almost a scream. "I know who you think I am, but I've never been that person! He's dead, Merlin. He's been dead for way longer than I've been alive, and I am not him."
There are tears in his eyes, and Merlin feels a stab of guilt. He forces himself to remember why he's doing this in the first place.
"I can't lose him again, Mordred."
"So what, you'll let him waste half his life being a bird? Face it, you fucked up—" Merlin flinches "—and maybe the other Mordred fucked up too, maybe all of you did, but we can fix this, don't you get that? We can do something about it! I can do something about it, if you'll just get past this stupid hangup of yours for five fucking seconds and listen to me!"
"Is that what this is about? We're all supposed to redeem ourselves somehow with this plan of yours?"
"I told you," Mordred bites out. "I'm not him. I never have been. This isn't an atonement thing, and to be honest? I've stopped giving a shit whether you think I ought to feel guilty or not."
Merlin feels like he lost control of the conversation somewhere. "Then why are you doing this?"
Mordred swallows hard. "Because Arthur seems like a good person. He doesn't deserve this. And you—well, I'll be honest, you're kind of an arse, but I don't think you deserve it either. It seems like…I don't know. I guess it just seems like you've both been through enough. And I want to help, if I can."
Déjà vu hits again. Desperate blue eyes, a voice in his head pleading for Merlin's help. And then that same voice swearing never to forgive, never to forget.
Merlin hasn't forgotten either. It's like Mordred said—he's already fucked up once. He can't afford to make the same mistake twice.
He lets Mordred go.
"You need to leave," he says.
Mordred stumbles back against the wall, confusion on his face. "What?"
"You need to leave," Merlin repeats. "Get your things and go home, Mordred. Your family's got to be worried sick over you."
He isn't sure what reaction he's expecting—more screaming, perhaps a nice dramatic fireball—but it isn't what he gets. Mordred sets his jaw.
"My mum is the only family I've got," he says. "And the day I left home, the day I lost control, she wasn't around to stop me. If she had been—if she'd been in that room—I'd've killed her." His voice wavers. "I wouldn't've meant to, and it wouldn't've made a damn bit of difference. That's why I left. That's why I asked for your help."
Merlin doesn't cringe, but it's a near thing. Because his memory of his old life is still clear, so much clearer than the interim years have become as centuries have worn on. He remembers his own mother, softness and the scent of herbs, and how sad her smile had been when she'd told him he had to keep his powers a secret.
He'd been so young—he hadn't understood what might happen if he lost control, not really. Hadn't understood that his was never the only neck on the line. But things could have gone another way, Merlin knows. Every second dictates a different future. And in some other future, maybe he would be standing where Mordred now stands.
But he isn't. And Merlin has always been selfish and scared when it comes to Arthur; he knows that too.
"I'm sorry, Mordred."
Mordred stares at him. "So that's it, then?"
A voice in his head screams that he's making another mistake, but Merlin keeps it together. "Take care of yourself, all right?"
The boy says nothing in response, just pushes past Merlin and disappears into the back room to get his things. It's going to be odd for a while, going back there and not finding it occupied, but Merlin tells himself that many people have come and gone over the years. Mordred is just the odd one that's managed to do so twice.
He doesn't even bother trying to open up shop. It's a shit day anyway, forebodingly dark skies and humidity a wet blanket over everything, so it's not like they're going to be overly busy.
Instead Merlin goes upstairs and gets back into bed. He sort of never wants to leave it, not that that'll save him.
There's not a fiber in him that wants to have this conversation.
But he can't ignore it—they haven't made it this far by ignoring the issues, not when doing just that caused so many problems in their old lives. Not when just having a conversation takes monumental effort.
It's effort he's going to have to make, and Merlin forces himself to relax. It's stupid to try accessing the dreamscape so soon after the last time; it's draining, tapping into the magic of dreams, into that ever-blurry border between reality and mental construct and finding Arthur there, and he's never quite sure whether he's going to wander out of it again. But this isn't a conversation they can have stretched out through handwritten notes and forty-eight hours.
He drifts in his mind, watches colors swim in the blackness behind his eyes, breathing slowly until the dark begins to take on a more defined quality. If he were prone to poetics he might call it the border of sleep.
Breathe in, breathe out. The magic of it, the magic thrumming in all things, everywhere; it washes over him like a wave on the sand.
Sand. Right. The beach at Gedref, the wind in his hair and the smell of salt. It begins to fall into place, replacing the darkness, piercing blue sky shooting through the black.
Arthur waits for him there. And, well, he looks pissed.
Merlin cringes as he sits down. "I was going to tell you, you know."
"Were you?" Arthur's not even trying to sound neutral. Bad sign. "I'd thought we were finished with keeping secrets."
"I wasn't keeping it secret, I was just…trying to think it through."
"And you didn't think I might like to think it through?"
"I didn't—" Merlin hesitates, but there really is no better way to say it. "I didn't want to give you false hope, all right? I didn't want to bring it up if there was no chance of it working. What would've been the point?"
"The point is that I'm not a child," Arthur says tersely. "I don't pretend to be an expert in magic, that's entirely your arena, but Mordred's given this some thought. It sounds like it could actually work."
Merlin knows, logically, that he's already dreaming, but if he didn't know that then he would definitely be wondering. "How do you figure?"
Arthur gives him that look he gets when someone's being purposely obtuse. "You can't tell me you don't see the sense. You're just stalling because you know you don't have a proper argument."
"Since when did not trusting Mordred become a poor argument?"
"What, then?" Arthur demands. "Are you going to ignore everything he says, even if it makes sense? I seem to recall you being fond of telling me to give people second chances. Does that no longer apply?"
He's already asleep, he shouldn't be this exhausted. "We're going in circles. You know I can't—"
"First," Arthur cuts in, "you won't, and there is a difference. Second, that's bull. Why would you teach him to use his magic if you really didn't trust him? If you think he's waiting to betray us at the first opportunity, then why let him stay? What was the point of any of it?"
"I don't know!" Merlin bursts out. "I don't…"
He puts his head in his hands with a groan. Everything's gone mad, is the problem, and he's not even certain he's the only sane man anymore.
At length, Arthur sighs beside him. "You're an idiot," he says, and Merlin twitches. "But I know you're not stupid. If you know someone's going to stab you in the back, you don't hand them the knife. You saw something else in Mordred."
"Does it matter what I saw?" Merlin asks tiredly. "My instincts have been shit before."
"That doesn't matter. All I know is, my instinct told me Mordred was being genuine when he came here, and I believe he's being genuine now. Yours is either telling you the same or it isn't."
Merlin is quiet for a minute, mulling that one over. Then he lifts his head back up.
"Can I ask—and I'm not trying to be an arse or anything, but—did your instinct say the same about Mordred back then? That he was…genuine?"
Arthur is looking out at the water. "It did," he admits. "I never would have knighted him otherwise." He pauses. "And I still believe it, you know. He only betrayed me because in his eyes I betrayed him first. He tried to kill me, but…I don't think he ever lied to me."
Merlin flinches. Arthur makes an aborted movement toward him before leaning back on the sand and cursing under his breath.
"You know I didn't mean it like that."
"I know."
"But you do have this habit of keeping things from me when you think I can't handle them, and it needs to stop. I thought it had stopped."
"It had, I swear, I just…" Merlin lies on his back and closes his eyes. It's easier to talk about this kind of thing in the dark. "With Mordred around, I guess it all came screaming back. Old habits and all. Really old habits."
"Well, break them," is the dry response. "If I were still your king, that'd be an order."
"Because I was always so good at following those."
Arthur snorts.
Merlin bites his lip. "It's not that I think you can't handle it," he says. "It was never that. It was just that I didn't want to force you to handle it, if that makes sense."
"So your brilliant plan was to handle everything on your own?" Arthur says, sardonic. "Merlin, you really are an idiot."
He cracks a smile. "So I've been told."
"Clearly not enough."
There's a shifting from beside him, which means Arthur's sitting up, so Merlin opens his eyes. Arthur is giving him a serious look.
"You realize it's not the same now as it was then, don't you?" he says quietly. "We're in this together. We're—partners, or whatever the hell it is they're calling it now—"
"Oh, like business partners?" Merlin grins despite himself. "Careful Arthur, acknowledging it might actually cause you to break out in hives."
Arthur's gone pink, but he carries on with all the kingly dignity he can muster. God, but Merlin hasn't wanted to kiss him this badly in a long time.
"Partners. Shut up Merlin, my point is that you don't need to carry everything by yourself anymore. Honestly, that's more likely to make me break out in hives than anything else."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Then stop doing it."
"I know, I know. I will." He takes a deep breath. "So you thinks Mordred deserves a shot, then?"
"I do. But you already knew that."
Merlin rubs a hand over his eyes. "Yeah, I know I'm stalling again."
"You know," Arthur says carefully, "it wasn't your fault the first time everything went to hell with Mordred. And it won't be your fault now if we're both wrong."
"If you're dead, it won't matter whose fault it is," Merlin replies, grim. Arthur's eyes flicker to him and then away again.
"Maybe not. But we'll both have walked into it with eyes open this time, won't we?"
"I don't know if I can live with that," he says softly.
Arthur smiles a bit. "I think you're going to have to learn. Even a great sorcerer can't predict everything."
Merlin's heard that tone before. He knows the choice has been made whether he likes it or not.
And he's not lofty enough to act like he wouldn't forfeit a limb for them both to be human again, which he supposes means he's made his choice as well.
He sighs. "Right, then. I guess I'll—"
Suddenly he stills, the feeling of ice water trickling down his back.
I sent him away.
Arthur's gaze sharpens. "What is it?"
"Oh shit." Merlin squeezes his eyes shut and tries to jerk himself awake. "I think I might've fucked up."
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He snaps out of his trance and immediately regrets it, miserably sore all over and sluggish like he's just slept for a week. Or not slept for a week. Either way.
Merlin tries to jump out of bed and somehow ends up on the floor, knees and elbows burning. He can hear the raven cawing in concern but he can't quite pinpoint where the noise is coming from. His vision is wavering.
With aching slowness, he picks himself up off the floor and staggers out of the bedroom, across the flat, toward the door. The raven lands on his shoulder, talons pricking through the fabric of his shirt in a comfortingly familiar way.
Now it's just a matter of getting down the stairs without taking them all at once and breaking his neck. Should be simple, except that right now he's seeing three staircases.
Well, shit.
Merlin closes his eyes, because apparently vision isn't going to help, and feels his way down the stairs. The raven quorks whenever he's about to make a misstep, which helps.
At the bottom, he fumbles with the doorknob. Wandering around the dreamscape messes with his perception of time, but the sun must be going down soon.
Come on, come on—
He shoves the door open and stumbles like a drunk into the back room, shouting Mordred's name and getting no answer.
He thinks he's probably still shouting it when he hits the floor, the world going abruptly sideways as his legs give out. Merlin wants to howl in frustration and he hasn't even transformed yet. The sound of fluttering wings features heavily in his hearing.
From the floor, Merlin's eye catches on a massive tome lying open on Mordred's armchair, one he remembers containing an ancient map of Camelot. The map is gone; he only wishes he were surprised.
He must be passing out, given how dark his vision is getting. Fantastic. That is exactly what he needed today, thanks.
The raven takes flight again, hovering up near the ceiling above a window. Merlin squints.
There's something wrong.
He can tell the bird is blurring like wet paint, the way they both do on that ever-elusive border between human and animal, but that's not the odd thing. Merlin can't feel his body changing the way he normally does, but that's not it either.
It isn't his vision fading out: The sky is dark. He can see it through the window—the sun has disappeared, leaving the sky black as if night has come already. But it can't be night; there is no moon, although the sky is clear.
"What…?"
He drags a hand up to his eyes, tries to rub the sleep from them—is he hallucinating now? Is this going to be a thing?—and when he lowers it, the raven is gone.
In its place is the impossible.
Slowly, shaking, Merlin forces himself to sit up.
"Arthur?"
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