A/N: there will be more Merlin whumpage in this story because, like me, you all seem to find our favorite warlock's pain sadistically enjoyable. However, that will come in the later parts (possibly the next one) - this is just setting the scene. There's not much action in this part, but I wanted to post something, so here it is.

Title: Portents and Prophecies

Author: FlYiNgPiGlEtS

Summary: a guests' arrival in Camelot puts Merlin on high alert after a terrifying prophecy.

Ratings: T

Characters: Merlin, Arthur, Gwen, the knights and Gaius. Also a few OCs.

Pairings: no slash. Gwen/Arthur.

Spoilers: no big ones, unless Gwen and Arthur's marriage counts. Set between series 4 and 5.

Warnings: blood… lots of blood. More in later parts, probably.

Disclaimer: unfortunately, I don't own Merlin; it belongs to the BBC and Shine.

VI: Portents and Prophecies: Part I

Merlin didn't remember how he had gotten to Arthur's chambers or even why he was there. He didn't understand where the intense feeling of intoxication had come from or what this strangely familiar man was doing in Camelot, but he knew as soon as he got there that he was too late.

Something blurred his vision – tears or terror, he couldn't tell which – as he rushed forward, but part of him was glad that he didn't see what happened next in vivid detail. It was almost as if he wasn't really there, watching behind the color-stained windows like the cruel dictators of fate, who he was sure must have been laughing. Laughing at Merlin's stupidity, at how he let a complex meal turn into a simple murder.

The knife pierced Arthur's gut soundlessly and the king stared wide-eyed at his murderer. Then, with a simple twist of his tattooed wrist, the dark, burly man turned the knife in a small circle. There was a squelch and a surprised grunt of pain before the bloodied blade clattered the floor and Arthur's legs gave way. He clutched at his side desperately, clawing at the wound as though that would stop the cascade of blood that now stained his white tunic, but his attempts to save himself were futile. The King of Camelot fell quickly and Merlin knew, before he even hit the flagstones, that Arthur was dead.

With a sorrowful cry, Guinevere collapsed beside Arthur. Blood stained her dress and hands as she begged him to wake up, shook his shoulders and clutched his limp body, but Arthur didn't move. He was gone.

Merlin didn't use his magic. He didn't know why he just watched, just let it happen, and kneeled in the blood with Gwen when it was over. But he did. His own salty tears mingled with Arthur's coppery blood as he sobbed beside his body, doing nothing but stare as Gwen begged him to do something.

Merlin did nothing.

The man, Arthur's murderer, towered over them, black eyes bearing into Merlin. His grin was malicious, victorious, filled with a sick satisfaction similar to that of a hunter's after he caught his prey. It was the smirk of someone who had won, who had got all they needed, and Merlin watched wordlessly as he swooped away as if to claim his prize. There was a crown to seize with the king gone and his queen venerable, and he was going to take it.

Merlin did nothing.

It was ironic, really, that when all the magical attacks on Camelot, and all the mythical creatures that wanted a taste of the king, and Morgana had finally stopped, Merlin couldn't sleep.

He had spent the last five-something years working and worrying, casting spells and cleaning armor, reading books and riding dragons – every tiring, time-consuming activity in existence. With Camelot in a rare period of peace and prosperity, when all these tasks were far less frequent, now was the perfect time to make up for all those sleepless nights and busy days. Arthur had settled into married life with Gwen and was happy to leave his manservant to the odd lie-in so long as he reported for duty by noon, after the king and queen had spent their rare moments of solitude snuggling under the morning sun. What could possibly go wrong?

Of course, it wasn't that he didn't want to sleep – at least, not at first. If there was a safe spell he could have preformed or a potion that didn't rise and taste like bile he could have taken, then he would be getting the hours in by now. Unfortunately for him, though, there wasn't and, in the end, it was down to unbridled exhaustion to lull him into oblivion.

What he saw there made him wish he had taken all those odd-colored potions, cast all those dangerous spells, so he would have slept deeply enough to avoid the nightmare that found him under that mesmerizing full moon.

And so it was a dream – an unimaginable awful dream that shattered Merlin's heart into a thousand panicked pieces that only slotted back into place again when, the next morning, he found Arthur perfectly alive and quite literally kicking – that set it all into motion.

When Merlin woke panting and sweating that early morning, the image of Arthur lying in a pool of his own blood and Guinevere sobbing at his side still fresh in his frantic mind, he knew his – and Camelot's – luck had run out.

Two months later…

Arthur didn't think there was a person out there who could ruin his good mood. In fact, it was quite possible he was the happiest man in the world. He had a beautiful wife, a flourishing kingdom and everything else he could possibly want, from the new array of deserts the kitchen were serving to the unbroken peace Camelot had settled into. All was well and Arthur found himself waking with a smile on his face and a spring in his step.

Still, there was one person – one big eared, cabbage-headed, clotpole of a person – who could go and disturb his much-deserved merriness. His name? Merlin.

The idiot was being incredibly clingy as of late, checking up on Arthur at ridiculous hours and insisting he go into rooms before the king to 'check for woodworm'. It was true that Arthur had, over the last couple of years, come to value Merlin's opinion much more – he went to Merlin with his problems more than he went to his hired advisors – but this was just plain strange, and annoying, and totally excessive if the dollophead thought Camelot would fall apart if he wasn't with Arthur all the time. Arthur, being the incredibly tolerable man he was, should have given Merlin a piece of his mind weeks ago.

And he would have, if he didn't notice the sullen way Merlin was acting when he wasn't bounding through the castle like a hunting dog or babbling uselessly about just how dangerous 'woodworm' was. In two short months, Merlin had changed – and not for the better.

He didn't make jokes anymore. He laughed in a forced, foreign way that made him seem more in pain than amused. At every blind corner, he seemed to tense, as if he was afraid of what he would find when they rounded it, and he watched the shadows like they were enemies.

Then there was the obvious lack of sleep. At first, Merlin had joked about it with Guinevere, claiming that he was too used being woken up before the sun had even risen by Arthur and a full pail of cold water, or doing chores all through the night. Then, after bursting into their room at an hour Arthur might have once seen as acceptable to awaken Merlin and waking them both up simply to check that they were all right, the jokes were suddenly forgotten and his restlessness gave way to the paranoia that now consumed him. Arthur didn't know what had happened in that short amount of time, but he knew that, whatever it was, it had caused Merlin to behave like this – quiet, wary, scared. That was what surprised Arthur most; how the bravest man he had ever known had transformed so quickly into the most fearful.

Arthur worried momentarily and stupidly if his marriage to Guinevere was the problem. Merlin was his best friend and they had been spending less time together now Arthur was a married man. But after a few well-planned hunting trips, when it had just been them, and an uninformative talk with Gaius, it became clear that the problem was much deeper than him neglecting their friendship.

There had been no sign of Morgana for months now. Camelot was settled, strong, safe; any attack seemed unlikely and, if one was to occur, they would be well prepared to deal with it. If that was what had Merlin so worried, then he was getting worked up about nothing. It was true that Arthur had gone through a similar period of worrying obsessively if the peace was just a decoy for some massive, merciless attack, but his concerns had soon be calmed by Gwen's reassurance that Morgana had lost before and would again, if she so much as dared to show her face in Camelot. It was a brief and useless phase, forgotten quickly and yet again replaced by the faith and certainty that helped the young monarch rule so well. But Merlin couldn't be reassured.

No, Merlin's fear was deeply rooted and dangerously established, and seemed to center almost completely on Arthur. Whatever was worrying the servant so much was directly linked to him.

Arthur didn't know how that made him feel. He was angry that Merlin was so distressed by something – a something he refused to talk about, so Arthur couldn't possibly hope to understand, and the less Merlin appeared to sleep or mock him or simply smile, the more infuriated the king felt. He felt guilty because he might have indirectly caused this and, whether it was his fault or not, he didn't know how to fix it. And, perhaps worst of all, he was sad – sad that Merlin keeping things from him. Sad, even, that Merlin had something so apparently sleep-preventing, world-shaking, Merlin-changing to keep from him. It wasn't fair that Merlin had to go through whatever he was going through, alone and afraid, and it made Arthur feel terrible in every way possible.

Honestly, he didn't know whether to tear his hair our or cry, let alone deal with Merlin's latest new-found phobia, or whatever one could call the servant's strange behaviour and sudden aversions. While this particular fear was a little more understandable and, admittedly, relatable he was still baffled at how adamant Merlin was about not allowing Lord Lucius anywhere near the citadel.

Guinevere had warned him about brushing Merlin's worries off. Humor him, she had said; at least listen to what he has to say. Lucius was the son of a notorious warlord and, if the rumors were true, living up to his father's reputation with relative ease. Arthur knew it wasn't long before Lucius became as ruthless and power-hungry as his father, a warlord himself rather than a warlord's son, and that was why this visit was so vital. They needed to make secure relations and ensure they were both in understanding over what belonged to whom soon, because if anyone was going to disturb the peace it would not, rather surprisingly, be his bumbling buffoon of a manservant, but the highly unrespectable Lord Lucius.

Still, it was hard to 'humor' Merlin when he had been rambling on for the last hour about how highly dangerous, inherently murderous and purely evil Lucius (who he had never met before, Arthur kept telling him) was. The situations Merlin continued to make up were ludicrous and improbable, and the worst part was that he was completely serious about each and every one of them. Arthur was no longer glad Merlin had finally expanded on his recent vocabulary of "got to check for woodworm", "be careful" and, most frequently, "are you sure you're all right?" (a question Arthur should have been asking Merlin, for goodness sake!). This was downright frustrating.

"Merlin," Arthur snapped, coming to an abrupt halt in the corridor and spinning around on the balls of his feat. "This is ridiculous; you are ridiculous. I don't know why you're being such a girl about this, but if you're so afraid then just take the day off! Why don't you... go to the tavern?"

When Guinevere heard of this – and Arthur was sure she would – he was going to be in big, big trouble. But it was like talking to a child and, no matter how much he himself was starting to worry about his manservant, he could not put up with it any longer.

"No!" Merlin was far to quick to reply, looking so suddenly panicked and frightened that Arthur wished he could take back everything he had said. "I need… you can't… no."

Arthur felt something inside of him soften. He wanted to comfort Merlin somehow, to tell him that it would be all right, but his irritation was wearing his imagination thin. What could he say, what could he do that he hadn't already done, to make things better? "Merlin. You really don't have to be anywhere near Lord Lucius when he arrives. Take the week off, go and do whatever you usually do and return next Monday. Just be careful – no falling on swords or drinking your own body weight in mead, understood?"

Merlin's eyes were wide and wild. "I can't."

"I'm telling you that you can."

"I don't want the week off. I need…"

"You need to do what?" Arthur asked, intending to sound sympathetic and kind and open, so maybe, just maybe, Merlin would be willing to open up to him, but it came out more frustrated than friendly.

"Nothing!"

"I'm ordering you to take the week off."

"I don't want the week off. I can't have the week off."

Arthur did his best not to punch the nearest wall. "I am giving you the chance to do whatever you want for the next seven days. Take it."

Merlin shook his head firmly. "No."

"It will be paid leave, Merlin; I will pay you to go to the tavern."

"No," he said, with another curt shake of his head. "No."

Arthur let a frustrated sigh whistle past his clenched teeth. "Fine. Two days; that's my final offer."

"I don't want time off!" Merlin cried.

"One day?"Arthur offered weakly.

"No!"

"Merlin, as your king, I order you to take Friday off. Lucius will be leaving then anyway."

Merlin stared at him for a while after that, as if calculating whether it was a risk worth taking to have the day off. Then, looking weary and worried, he finally nodded. "All right."

"Good." Arthur tried to smile, but it was tightened by his growing concern for Merlin. "Now, back to Lord-"

"Sire!"

Merlin startled visibly at the sound of the servant's shrill voice and Arthur turned quickly to where the young boy had come to a sweaty, panting halt, clutching his knees as he recovered from running to them.

"What is it?" Arthur demanded.

"Sir Leon sent me, sire," the servant heaved. "Lord Lucius has arrived."

Arthur's eyes widened. Lucius wasn't supposed to be here for at least another day. "Where is he now?"

"The throne room, sire."

"Thank you." The servant nodded and scurried off, and Arthur turned to look at Merlin, who had gone pale. "My offer still stands."

A new, if slightly frightened determination clouded Merlin's wide eyes. "And my answer is still no."

Arthur nodded and, together, they set off for the throne room.

Guinevere was waiting in the throne room when they arrived. She was looking rather certain and regal, Merlin noted proudly. Standing there, with that strong but welcoming smile on her lips and that unwavering determination in her dark eyes, she looked so unlike the broken queen he had seen in his dream.

No, he thought bitterly; prophecy.

There was quite a large crowd, a mixture of Camelot's red and Lord Lucius' leathery black, and Merlin found himself lost in it as he desperately tried to watch what Arthur was doing and who went near him. The king was making his way through the crowd as if he hadn't only just discovered Lucius had arrived a day early and was soon standing beside Gwen near their respective thrones.

A tall man stood before them, his entire physique impossible muscular and broad, and Merlin should have found the momentarily nervous look that crossed Arthur's face as he too realized just how easily the man could crush him humorous, if he wasn't so focused on something else. Spiraling from underneath the various leather garments Lord Lucius wore were black markings, forming sharp, crescent curves in dark ink along his large arms. To anyone else, it may have looked like some kind of tradition bought over from the continent, but Merlin recognised what it was almost instantly. Magic.

The patterns that spanned Lucius' body were runes, marks of the Old Religion. Each one meant something different, though they were all of enhancing nature, drawn for protection and strength and various other unnatural abilities. Merlin recognized the one on the back of his neck; it was the symbol of immortality.

Engulfed by servants and courtiers alike, Merlin watched as Arthur and Lucius shook hands in greeting. More runes circled his wrists, forming an odd black bracelet against his tanned skin, and horror pooled into Merlin's stomach.

The runes were enchanted to give him unbeatable strength and heightened reflexes, but it wasn't their meanings that caught Merlin's attention. He had seen them before, not just in one of Gaius' old books, but…

The dagger sliced at Arthur's abdomen quickly, easily, and it was almost believable that the entry was so swift and sudden than the king felt no pain. Then, with the power he had refrained from using at first, Lucius twisted the knife around once and Arthur let out a muffed cry of pain. Agony twisted his fair features and Merlin knew then that Arthur's death would not be painless.

In one sudden movement, Lucius pulled the knife out and Arthur fell to his knees.

Across the throne room, two familiar black eyes caught his attention. It felt like Lucius was looking right at him, through him. A shiver ran down his spine.

Kilgharrah was right; his prophecy would come to pass.

End of Part I

So there is was - the scene-setting. It will get better, I promise. Action and whump coming up!

Reviews and prompts always welcome :)