[November 7th, 2013]

The first thing that Merlin sees when he enters the building of Morgana's choice is Gwen. Beautiful, lovely Gwen, who has never looked more perfect, even though she's dressed in baggy sweat pants and her hair is tossed carelessly up in a knot. He's seen her clothed in the finest splendor that Camelot has to offer, but presence isn't necessarily about beauty: she's never been more striking than she is right now.

It's been years. Decades. Centuries. Whatever.

Too long.

"This is Gwen," Morgana says as she shuts the door behind him. It swings closed, sealing them down into the little entrance room and cutting off the chill that had followed in after them. "But I suspect you already knew that."

"Nice to meet you."

It's not like Gwen remembers him, so he just inclines his head and grins when she offers him a little smile. And that—it's just—what if she had changed? He hasn't thought about it until now, but Arthur changed, and who would have known whether she'd still be like the Gwen he'd known. But that smile—it's reassuring. It's Gwen.

"I expect I look a little less impressive when I'm not on the telly," she says, twisting her hands. Nerves. Just like when she was younger and still a servant. The idea has him smiling all over again.

"No. Just different."

She nods slowly, her brow creasing right along with the downturn of her lips. "I suppose that makes sense."

"You look better."

Off to the side, Morgana gives a soft snort. When he turns to look, she's eyeing him speculatively, hands planted on her hips, one foot almost twitching like she wants to tap it—or possibly kick it right up his backside, which, for Morgana, would be something akin to a warning: she'll grind him right into the ground if he hurts Gwen. She was like that once—protective in a way Merlin didn't understand until he noticed the same traits in Arthur.

That's rather like a blow to the gut now.

It's possible some of that shows on his face—though, by now he ought to be pretty adept at hiding things like that—because Morgana's look eases and she relaxes her arms, shooting an easy glance at Gwen. Gwen, for her part, returns it smoothly, lips pursed and weight resting mostly on her right side as she leans toward the wall until her shoulder scrapes it.

"I'm surprised you'd take me straight here," Merlin finds himself saying after a few moments.

Morgana laughs, though there's no humor to the sound. "Do you really think this is the heart of everything?"

This? No. A dingy little entrance room, half below ground with windows only high up on the walls—which isn't saying much, given how low the ceilings are. It's not an implausibly small room, but the ceiling is close enough to his head—a couple of inches clearance, maybe—that he finds himself experiencing a niggling itch of claustrophobia. Maybe it'd be different if it were better lit or if the carpet weren't that dingy sort of red that might have been bright when it was first put in about thirty years ago when it was in style, but now just leaves him feeling a bit like he's in a cheap, pay-by-the-hour hotel. The kind with cockroaches.

He's had to stay in a few places of that caliber in recent days.

"How old are you, Merlin?"

It's an unexpected question, and he finds his gaze shifting away from Morgana—who is still looking at him a little like she'd look at a foolish, naïve child—to Gwen. It's not all that surprising to find her staring back at him in a way that's so much softer than Morgana could ever hope for: her eyes have narrowed slightly, but there's only concern in them, maybe laced with a bit of pity. He knows he looks young, but this—does he really look this bad?

"Doesn't matter," he says with a shrug. Not in the way they think it does, at least.

"Eighteen," Morgana says evenly.

Well, good for her. She's done her homework. She always did. Though, he does have to admit that it's a bit of a switch to see Gwen casting a frown at her for it. Even more surprisingly, Morgana's face softens out when she's presented with that: once, back in Camelot, Gwen had mattered to Morgana, and here—well, maybe that's not so lost this time around.

"If you like," he agrees simply. It's not true, of course. Trying to explain his real age, though? No. Just… no.

Gwen's hand on his arm startles him. "Where are your parents?" she asks, slipping her fingers away when he glances down at them. It just—no—he hadn't meant it like that. She can touch him. It's been so long since he's felt a friendly touch—one he doesn't have to question.

"Dead."

Across the room, Morgana just nods. "It's true."

No doubt then that she'd had access to the information Arthur has undoubtedly compiled on him this time around. Whether Arthur let her see that willingly is impossible to say for the time being.

"I'm sorry then," Gwen murmurs. Obviously means it too—that's clear enough. She would. Even when she was off being unfaithful to Arthur, she still cared. She always cares, and part of him would like to just sink down against her like the child he still is in this body and let her rock him until the world sinks away.

Morgana's murmured agreement of, "We all are," is startling enough to chase that thought away.

Too late he realizes that he's jerked his chin up, fixing his eyes on her with what is so obviously surprise that there's no use pretending that his eyebrows aren't halfway up into his hairline.

"What?" Morgana asks, crossing her arms testily. "I am. Why wouldn't I be? I know how they died, Merlin—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Morgana shuts her mouth. That's… unexpected. But good. Very good. He can't—not now…

But Gwen doesn't know: that much is obvious in the softening in her cheeks—that kind of slack-jawed expression that only comes in confusion. She'll have to be told, of course. It should be now. Waiting—it's only going to hurt more.

Of course, it hurts anyway to swallow past the lump in his throat—who says betrayal isn't a tangible thing?—but that's pretty par for the course these days. "They tried to arrest my father. It went wrong." Yes. Balinor Emrys. It's not like Arthur didn't know who that was, is, whatever. And if there had been a Balinor, there had to be a son, and, suddenly, Merlin hadn't been able to sit back on the sidelines anymore and just wonder how it had all gone to Hell. Oh, no—Arthur hadn't been willing to allow it. And still, Merlin hadn't been able to bring himself to fight. Until… "He was killed trying to fight them off."

It had and hadn't been a surprise. Everyone knows that Arthur's men aren't gentle. Magic users slated for arrest—Arthur's men have orders to use force if necessary. Lots of force. And they'd known Arthur was looking for them. But… maybe it's naive, but Merlin hadn't thought Arthur would give a kill order. He might not have. Impossible to tell, really, because unless he wants to ask Arthur directly, he'll never get that information.

And he's not planning on seeing Arthur. Not ever. Or at least not soon.

Gwen's practically staring a hole through him, brown eyes wide. There's no surprise there, and, well, there wouldn't be: she's married to Arthur. Estranged, yes—that's probably how someone allied with an underground movement to take down her husband would be described—but still married.

Pity, then. He hates pity. "My mother—they—she died a little while after that. Car accidenct." Though, the "accident" part is debatable.

The thing is, Gwen looks genuinely sorry, like she thinks this is her fault. Right along with the fall of Rome. Maybe even the dark ages. Although, she did have a hand in Camelot's fall. But this? Never this. "But your mother wasn't magic—" she tries to say, hand skipping up to her mouth, fingers hovering.

Morgana just laughs, hard and cold. "No. But his father was. And that meant his mother probably knew something. And if there was magic in the father, the son—"

"None of your business," Merlin hears himself snapping.

Maybe she even agrees, because she nods, fingers tightening on her elbows where her arms are still crossed. "Little late for that, isn't it, Merlin? There's something about you, and it's something Arthur wants, badly enough that he's willing to pull out all the stops to find you." Finally, she drops her arms and glides forward, swinging her hips sharply around just quickly enough to pull herself between him and Gwen. She's too close now—half a foot at most from his face, but the venom there—it doesn't really seem to be for him. "You're not the only one with magic. But you're the one my brother wants the most. Why is that?"

Oh, if only you knew, Morgana… "I don't know."

The green of her eyes narrows into slits, pinched by the skin. "You—"

"Leave him be, Morgana."

Somehow, when he wasn't looking, Gwen has managed to slip forward, one hand settling gently on Morgana's elbow. Her fingers don't bear down—there's no command in the touch—but it is a request.

Watching Morgana heed it—it's like something slippery settling in his gut, sliding up slowly through his throat and choking him. Gwen. Morgana. Like they were. Why not Arthur too?

What went wrong?

"Do you have any family left at all, Merlin?" Gwen asks after a few moments.

It's easier just to shake his head. It's not like he could form words right now anyway.

"Any place to go?"

"No." Good God, is that his voice? He shouldn't sound like that—like someone's wringing his throat.

To Gwen's credit, she only gives him a small smile. Nothing to worry about her eyes say, even if the tension in her mouth screams I'm sorry. "He'll be staying here, then?" she asks Morgana, though her tone, while polite, clearly doesn't make it a question.

Merlin has to fight the impulse to close his eyes. She should have been a mother. Maybe then, maybe if she and Arthur had managed a baby…. She would have been a good mother, caring like this.

Why did everything go wrong?

"I think that would be best," Morgana agrees, and surprisingly, there's nothing grudging in her voice. "Half of Britain is looking for you."

"Only half?" he manages, though he can feel that his smile isn't anywhere near genuine.

Leave it to Morgana to snort and still manage to somehow make it striking. He'll give that to her—even when she was trying to curse the life out of his body, she was always striking.

"Yes," she says, grinning. How very wolfish… really, though, he's missed it—missed having this on his side. "The rest are looking for me."

Insane and too cavalier? Oh, yes. Call it black humor, call it gallows humor, call it whatever anyone likes, but he feels a laugh pushing up from his chest, spilling out his throat, and it's good. Sometimes, that's just what laughing in fate's face is.

"Then I suppose they'll either find us together or never find us at all."

Has he said something wrong? Her stare is strangely fixed, and the way she's tilting her head, almost confused—but, no, there's a smile. "You know, Merlin," she says slowly, tongue darting out to wet her lips. "I think I'm going to like you."

That would certainly be a change-up.

"Oh, yeah?" A quick glance at Gwen makes it pretty clear that she's thinking the same way. Only, there's a little bit of a flush to her cheeks—just contentment, and sometimes he does forget that he's not the only one stripped of that sort of thing these days. These little moments when things go right—they're precious to more people than just him.

"Yeah," Morgana echoes, smiling with all her teeth. "Yes."

[Camlann]

A life for a life for a life for a life. There is always payment. Deferred, withheld, immediate, but always a collection, somehow, sometime.

"Don't do it." Bubbles of blood. He can taste it at his mouth. He's dying. God, he's dying.

"Arthur—don't—keep your eyes open—"

Dirt cradles his cheek, and the world rocks, graying. He blinks. Stay awake. Or die. Choose one. But do it before Merlin does… whatever he's trying. Die. Live. So similar. So close.

"You know the price, Merlin," she says, soft, like she used to be. He'd never understood how she'd changed. Her eyes are the same, though, green, like his sister—the one he knew, before she was someone else. Morgana, Morgana…

"It can have my life!"

"This life. And it's not just you, Merlin. It could turn out worse."

He could—if he could, he'd reach up, but his hand is heavy, weighted to the ground. Merlin, Morgana—can't they hear him? Hear what he can't ask? He thinks he groans then, and he must have, because Merlin's hand slaps at his cheek—"stay awake, stay awake"—and somewhere above him, the sky becomes Morgana, dressed in black.

[December 12th, 2013]

"Arthur, just—just don't—"

Right now, Merlin really could be all of eighteen again. Maybe. That might not be it—he was always a bit like this, no matter how old he got. Never could stomach killing.

It's an admirable trait. It would have been nice to have had that luxury.

Sighing heavily, Arthur takes a final few steps forward until the gun is pressed firmly up to his chest. All it would take is just a twitch of Merlin's finger, almost nothing, really—cloud light pressure—and it'd all be over for another thousand years or so. Possibly. Hard to tell.

The shot never comes.

Merlin's eyes flutter closed.

"That's what I thought," Arthur whispers. Merlin, Merlin, Merlin—dear, squeamish Merlin. "No shame in it, Merlin."

When Arthur's hand wraps around the gun, there's a surge of real affection—he can feel it pulling veins tight in his chest as surely as a warm campfire always pleasantly shrank his skin, leaving it tight over his fingers. Merlin wanted to be loyal—that's clear enough. He just never understood, and who could expect him to? He lives in a world that's so much more black and white. Camelot was never that, but it was closer, before all the biological warfare and nuclear weapons and loads of other madness that make it very possible for one man to end the world. It wouldn't take much, and if one man can destroy everything, then the one who won't choose to do so must be the only one to have that power. It was that simple in Camelot, still is in today's world-anywhere. This is his destiny—to protect by ruling. But Merlin can't understand that yet. All he sees is magic being dampened.

"I don't blame you, you know," he tells Merlin softly as he removes the gun from Merlin's hand. Merlin's fingers slide after it, trailing over hard metal, but they do eventually part company, letting Arthur have it. It's true that his face twists miserably as he lets it go, and his hand remains slightly outstretched for more seconds than Arthur cares to think about, but he does release it.

Clicking the safety on, Arthur tosses it away. Let it rest in some corner for now. He'll get it later.

Sharp blue eyes suddenly jerk up, staring into his. Merlin isn't quite crying, but there are tears hanging in his eyes, waves in his irises, turning over like his thoughts, or maybe like the ocean. Hard to tell—Arthur was never much one for poetic images, and thoughts like that—they just seem cliché. Anything he tried, he did for Gwen, and, well, so much for that poetic end…

Though, it is interesting to read about himself. Malory. Tennyson. White. Each a different take on what went wrong… and they always seem to make Camlann sound so different from what it was.

"But I do blame you," Merlin hisses, raking his sleeve across his face, smearing away the tears.

Arthur just shrugs. "If it helps you. But can you really not see why I did it, Merlin?"

Rage whips through Merlin's face, sword-edge sharp. "All I see, Arthur, is that you're hunting people like me. And this isn't Albion. The world is not Albion!"

That does rankle, he has to admit. Why can't he just see? "And conquering is acceptable on only a small scale? 'Unite Albion, Arthur.' 'It's your destiny, Arthur.' 'Albion needs you.' Why not the world then, Merlin? The problems are the same. Lack of justice. Lack of order. All those reasons that it was good for me to conquer Albion—they're true now too. What makes this situation different?"

"The world has changed, Arthur!" he snaps, fingers hovering at his sides. A few more minutes and they'll probably end up tugging at his hair in frustration. "It's not a world of kings anymore. It's not the same."

"It isn't? Or you don't want it to be?"

Frankly, it's no surprise that this is Merlin's breaking point. Arthur knows the signs: sees the way Merlin's jaw drops open, a little slack as he jerks back, recoiling. Recoiling from Arthur. Honestly, though, he hadn't meant it like that, Merlin, don't be so sensitive. But, no—he really shouldn't have pushed. Merlin didn't deserve it. Stupid as Merlin is being, it was uncalled for—a rare tactical mistake.

Like all mistakes, though, there's nothing to do but fix it, and so he reaches out, dropping his hand down onto Merlin's shoulder. To the boy's credit—and how strange it still is to think of him like that—he doesn't flinch. He even holds Arthur's stare.

Merlin, you never change. Thank you for never changing.

He's smiling—he can feel it. Merlin must be able to see it too, but he says nothing. Maybe he knows it's out of the sheer joy of finding Merlin the same in this—in this questioning of Arthur's authority. Maybe he doesn't know that. But, regardless, this is the Merlin he remembers. His friend. Really, just his, because destiny gave Merlin to him. The best friend he ever had. Family. Two sides of the same coin. In some ways, Merlin is just an extension of him in another person, a little like a twin. Conceived in destiny's womb.

The half can never truly hate that which makes it whole.

No, he thinks, smile sliding more firmly into place even as he sees the growing anger on Merlin's face. No, Merlin will never hate him. Arthur may never have heard the dragon's prophecy himself, but Merlin believes it, and that's enough.

Anyway, the prophecy is true.

And if it's not, Merlin makes it true for himself just through his belief.

"I'm sorry about the magic, Merlin," he says gently. "But you have to be able to see just how dangerous it can be in today's age. Anyway, I'm not taking it away—only adding an off-switch, if you will."

"Didn't you learn from your father?!" Merlin snarls, and it's not like Arthur didn't see it coming, but it's still not quite pleasant when Merlin launches a fist at his face. Even so, it is fitting: as he catches Merlin's fist, fingers tightening around knuckles and twisting, he can almost smell the aroma of the market, of the open air in Camelot on a bright day when a mouthy boy walked into town and called him out.

"Of course I did," he answers calmly, holding Merlin firmly, twisting his arm up behind him. Like always, though, Merlin doesn't quit: he keeps right on struggling, pained noises breaking out of his lips until it almost sounds like he's choking on them. "Good Lord, Merlin, hundreds of years and you still haven't learned how to properly walk on your knees."

Merlin goes still against him. "I hate you."

No. He doesn't. If he did, Arthur would have a bullet in his chest. Merlin never knew how to hate. "I did learn from my father," he tells Merlin, words gentle where his hands aren't. No, not too rough—bruises if necessary, but nothing more. "His mistake was in banning magic. I don't want to ban it—I want to make sure it's used the way it should be."

Another sharp jerk from Merlin, twisting the skin of Arthur's palms where he's got a grip. The wet, breathy cough of pain—that's not a good sign. Damn Merlin, fighting to the point of hurting himself. Damn him.

"Let me go, Arthur."

Enough of this. This is getting them nowhere. "You know better."

"I won't help you."

Maybe not yet. Still, there's something in the way Merlin stops struggling when Arthur's free hand goes to his neck, not forcing, but just holding gently, intimate, like they used to be. Vaguely, he hears soft shushing noises, realizes they're coming from him, but it's got Merlin stilling, so he makes no effort to check himself. Anyway, the sounds feel at home on his lips—it's taken him this long to find Merlin, and if a little blow to his pride is what it takes to make things better, he'll do it.

"I won't help you."

"And what do you think that will do?"

"I'm of no use to you."

Which is really just like saying a broken arm is of no use to him: it's not, but that doesn't mean he doesn't still want it. It's part of him in the same way that Merlin is, for his cause or not. And besides, just because an arm is broken doesn't mean it can't be fixed. "You'll still stay until you are of some use," he says simply.

Merlin twitches a little against the hand on the back of his neck. "You can't—"

"I protect those I care about, Merlin. You know that. I protected Gwen, even after she betrayed me. I even protected Lancelot as best I could. And Morgana—I never could quite bring myself to kill her, could I?"

"Arthur—"

"It's destiny, Merlin. Are you going to fight that?"

This time, Merlin's muscles surge under his hand, twisting and tensing. "Who says it's destiny this time around?"

Who says? Such a foolish question. No one ever had to say, and Merlin knows that. These things—they just are.

"Merlin," he finds himself saying, smiling gently, "how can it not be?"