[October 19th, 2007]

Off to the side of the room, the newsreel plays over and over, the trained, practiced tone of a newscaster's voice in the background. Occasionally, someone else joins—a new perspective, some expert, each as useless as the last—but they always leave after a few minutes, a revolving door of minds and political commentary crafted especially to be delivered into the greedy, bloated hands of the public, always clamoring for the sensational or the lurid, or, God forbid, the catastrophic.

It's not that Arthur doesn't see the broadcast. On the contrary, he does, all too well. He can't not hear it—staring at the very blue carpet of a room he's known all his life is not closing his eyes, and even if it were, he can't shut out the sounds.

God help him, though, it's not just a telly broadcast when it's your father they're talking about.

"Your majesty."

He's not ready. But when has that ever mattered?

Feeling like his spine may snap from the strain, Arthur leans back, dropping his hands down to his lap by absolute will alone. He's been leaning with his head down too long, obviously—the ache that radiates from the muscles just below his hairline would call for a good massage under normal circumstances.

"Go on," he says. Even to his own ears, his voice is hard—too cold, but there's nothing else for the situation.

The aid before him is young enough. Early thirties, perhaps. She must be very good if she's risen to this position so early in life. She looks competent enough: smart in her charcoal colored pencil skirt. Good legs, too—firm and lean, and nicely propped up by heals that look more like torture devices to Arthur's eye, but, then, who is he to guess? He doesn't know anything about women, what they like, about their clothes, or even what they're thinking. Her hair looks nice—dark, almost chestnut, and twisted up behind her head—but for all he knows, it could have taken her no time at all.

He doesn't care—doesn't care at all, so long as she's competent. At this point, it wouldn't matter if she were wearing a burlap bag, just as long as she could do her job.

"No one knows yet how they did it."

Not like he'd expect them to. "Are there any survivors?"

To her credit, she doesn't seem shaken by the question. Good. He couldn't handle excess emotion right now. As it is, the situation has him pinching the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes, wishing—just wishing that this would fade away.

"People on the outer edges of the building. But anyone near the epicenter itself…"

No more than he expected. "How the hell did this happen?"

It's difficult to begrudge her the slight skip in the track of her actions—the way her brow wrinkles slightly, hinting at confusion. But in the end she says nothing, presumably seeing that as the rhetorical question that it is. Good thing—if she actually tried to answer…. Trying to explain this—make something so complicated seem simple—he couldn't… Arthur exhales heavily. Sometimes, when you reduce things down to their simplest form, you simply can't avoid losing vital components.

Anyway, it's not like he doesn't know what happened. He knows better than anyone else, actually.

"The press wants a statement, your majesty."

No Parliament left? The king dead? Of course they do. In this case, they might not even be remiss in demanding it. "Then give them one."

The woman hardly even flinches at such an unreasonable order. Somehow, though, it just sets him on edge. She's good—she really is, but she's not the one he wants taking his orders. Every decision of this magnitude that he ever made in Camelot—he'd have been dictating to Merlin. If this had been Merlin, the statement would have already been written—and it would have sounded perfectly like Arthur, because after years and years of Merlin writing Arthur's speeches, any speech Merlin wrote ended up sounding more like Arthur than Arthur sometimes did himself. It'd worked, and it had worked well.

This woman? She can be as competent as she wants, but she'll never be that good. No one else could ever possibly know him like Merlin did.

Not that Merlin wasn't a terrible servant. He was. He was horrid about all the proper protocol, and, yes, Parliament is up in flames, but even just the memory of that makes Arthur want to smile. Merlin broke just about every rule of etiquette that existed for a servant… but he was a damn good advisor, argumentative enough that he challenged and pushed when needed but so ridiculously loyal that there was never any question whose side he was on.

And anyway, somewhere in all of that, wrapped up in mutual respect and loyalty, they were friends. Merlin knew him like a friend—like the very best kind of friend. Two halves of the same whole. Cliché? Oh, yes, but once Merlin had finally told him about that prophesy, Arthur had never been able to find a better way to describe their relationship. Merlin had always just known.

As if anyone could ever find him another aid who can do that.

"Look," he says slowly, forcing his gaze back up to the woman. She's staring at him, face a bit pinched with confusion at the long pause he's just offered her. Too bad. She'll just have to wait; swallowing down the fluttering in his stomach, he finally says, "Parliament is gone. The king is dead. But I'm alive, and I will do everything in my power with the resources now at my disposal to track down the people who did this."

She nods. "Yes, Sir."

"I want Nimueh's face on every billboard, every news station. Everyone even suspected of working with her—I want them found." Does he even have the power to do that? Hard to tell. At this point, though, everyone else in the government who matters is dead, so who's going to call him on it? "And as I'm apparently now the commander of the British Armed Forces, get me someone from the Ministry of Defense who has some idea what's going on."

Funny—he doesn't even need to snap his fingers, and she's already off running. The door shuts behind her with a solid click, and just for a moment, Arthur allows himself the indulgence of leaning back in his chair and letting himself be. But, no—that's not allowed, because that insufferable telly is still blaring off to the side like a cheese grater on his ears.

Parliament. Destroyed by magic. Gunpowder plot of modern day.

It's a really terrible version of V for Vendetta, only this one—it's real. And Nimueh—it's not like it's all that surprising to hear her name in this. It's actually the only name they have—not that she didn't have help. Honestly, though, she never really succeeded in something this destructive back in Camelot. But that… was because of Merlin.

And where is Merlin now?

Raking a hand through his hair, Arthur forces himself to his feet, eating up the ground with sharp, rapid strides until he reaches the television. And doesn't it just feel perfect to punch that button until the screen goes blank. Thank God.

Doesn't stop the words from reverberating in his head, though. Assassination. Mass killing. Magic.

Magic.

For years now, it's been all about magic users' rights. It's been smeared all through the press, and after getting back his memories, Arthur had considered maybe supporting it, for the sake of people like Merlin. But not now. It's not possible now. Magic users' rights? Like hell. He'll give them rights. Maybe in Camelot they could be allowed to run unchecked, but not now—not when there's so much capacity for destruction. Destruction like concealing a bomb via magic—and how did that even happen when those spells are supposed to be detectable?—so that it could be smuggled undetected into Parliament.

No, it can't be allowed to continue. He's not his father—this isn't a blind hatred. This is practicality. And he'll do this right. Not indiscriminately, not brutally—execution is out of the question, as in it's totally and utterly ludicrous. Just a check of some kind, he thinks, breathing out heavily, one hand still resting on the top of the television, soaking in the residual warmth of the plastic under his hand. This won't be a modern day witch-hunt, because that's not what Britain needs, and it's not something he can condone—not when he watched his father play it out. But this isn't Camelot, and times have changed. Things are different than the first time he ruled, back when there weren't dangers like guns and, God forbid, nuclear weapons. This is the way things are now, and Arthur—he'll do what is necessary to keep his people safe. It's what he's always done. If fighting against magic is what it takes, that's what he'll do.

And Merlin.

He needs to find Merlin.

Though, first, he admits, closing his eyes as his stomach rolls and rolls and rolls, he might need to think of a way to make Merlin understand the steps he's about to take.

Because God knows that what he's about to do will look a lot like betrayal.

[October 17th, 2007]

Pregnancy tests are a little like time bombs. They just sit harmlessly, waiting for someone to activate them: once you pee on them, that is when someone pulls the pin and the countdown begins. At least with a bomb, though, you can dive out of the way.

It's a little harder to evade a positive sign.

Even if she tried, Morgana has no doubt it would bite her in the ass in a few months. A bulging belly is really one of those things you just can't hide.

She's seen Arthur a few times since that night. It's a bit hard to avoid him when his father has apparently decided that he needs to look after her. She really could curse her mother for whatever was in that note—doubly so now. Because of all the things she could face? Telling Uther that his son knocked her up is not high on her list.

Tossing the test in the trash, she mutters a curse under her breath, tacking Uther's name and a couple of insults to his parentage onto the end. Except… no, she can't do that. If he's inbred, then that means the baby is already genetically unstable. That's just—no.

Uther is going to be her child's grandfather.

How absolutely funny. So funny, in fact, that she grabs the cup she used to rinse out her mouth after she finished vomiting and hurls it at the wall. It shatters rather satisfyingly, though not nearly enough, and an unfairly short amount of time later—seconds, it seems—she's sinking down against the sink, cradling her forehead in her palms. How the hell did this happen?

She knows better. Always uses protection, which, yeah, right now, is a pretty terrible joke. She hadn't been seeing anyone, hadn't been taking the pill, and when she next sees Arthur Pendragon, she's going shove his face into a glass of alcohol until he drowns, because he will deserve it for getting her drunk that night. Drunk enough to forget to make him use a condom, apparently.

It'd be kind of nice if she were drunk now, though. Laughing a little, she tilts her head forward, resting it on her knees, letting the boniness of them poke into her hairline, pushing away the edges of a headache with the fresher, more gnawing pain of the pressure. Is it possible for her to stay like this? They'll find her body, starved, lying in the bathroom.

Hell, no. This is disgusting. She is not this weak. Except here she is, acting like it: that's as nauseating as the morning sickness, and in a fit of temper—not that she hasn't been in a sustained one of those for the last few minutes—she reaches up and grabs the edges of the sink, hauling herself to her feet.

Right. The mirror. Nice that it's right there, and she looks terrible. Kind of like she's just thrown up everything in her gut. Pale and clammy, almost like a vampire, and, really, that's just not fair, because it's the thing inside her that is sucking life—not her.

Only, it's not just a thing. Certainly, she'd like to lie to herself about that, but she's not a coward, and facing herself down in the mirror—it's impossible to deny. The hard set in her eyes at the thought of what she could do. A very quick medical procedure, and—no. The look on her face, it says no, no matter what her mind is considering.

Swallowing, she looks away.

She won't do it. This baby—for whatever reason, is hers, and that means something. It. Is. Hers. A little tiny part of herself, no matter what Arthur Pendragon had to do with it.

At least it will be a good looking child, if the parents are anything to go by. Hopefully it will get her brains. And her personality. And hopefully Arthur Pendragon will go straight to Hell, because this is his fault….

And she needs a painkiller. Very badly. And a nap. Hell, yes, a nap….

[December 13th, 2013]

Arthur wakes up early the next morning. He never did make it back to his own bed: it had been late, and everything had been a mess. Shoving Merlin over and deciding to share had been the easier course of action. He'd expected complaints, protestations that it was only a nightmare—and after what Merlin said about why he'd saved him, Arthur hardly would have thought he'd want Arthur there. But Merlin—he hadn't said anything. He'd only rolled over, making room, and then had proceeded to lie awake for hours.

Arthur would know. He couldn't sleep either.

Sometime in the night, though, Merlin had managed to drop off, leaving Arthur lying next to him, soaking in the rhythms of his breathing. Merlin's breathing. Frankly, Arthur's breathing. The two are, as Merlin admitted, inextricably linked, thanks to what happened at Camlann.

Sometime in between trying to hold his breath to see if it affected Merlin and drawing air in after giving up, he'd slipped off to sleep.

But here it is—morning. And it's like the night never ended at all.

Physically, the large windows looking out over the city herald the light in regardless of how Arthur feels. And that's all right—he never draws the curtain, and apparently Merlin didn't think to either before going to bed. It's possible he was running too high on emotions to even notice it, but it seems nicer—more comforting—to think that's just Merlin being Merlin. He's always liked the sun.

Stepping out of bed, Arthur sinks his toes into the rug, flexing them as he leans back and stretches the muscles of his back. Oh, that's good. He's never been a morning person, but this first burst of sensation—the feeling of muscles coming alive after a long sleep—it's almost enough to make it tolerable.

Almost.

Making his way around the bed, he heads toward the bathroom, sparing only a quick backwards glance for Merlin. Still asleep. Good. Merlin had a rough night—though one would never know it to look at him now: he's settled on his stomach, mouth hanging slightly open, one hand curled around the top of the blanket until he's drawn it up under his chin and nestled his cheek into it. The peace of the image is comforting, and it puts Arthur at ease, enough that he even feels his cheek twitch upward as he gives way to a smile.

Merlin looks like a child when he sleeps. He always has: countless mornings found Merlin sprawled out next to the campfire on hunting trips, and though Arthur certainly never admitted it to him, he almost felt guilty waking Merlin. It always felt too much like disturbing a child, even in the way Merlin woke: twisting himself around on the bed roll, oftentimes pushing half his body up while his face remained smushed in his bedding, as though his lower half was doing its best to rise without him.

Frankly, Arthur always did wonder if Merlin had slept that way as a child too. Someday, maybe he'll ask Lancelot this time around.

Running a hand through what feels like a spectacular mess of bed-head, Arthur heads for the bathroom, already considering getting those files out again. Merlin's past—at least his past in this life—is always a sore spot, as is Lancelot. It's to be expected: the man ran off with his wife, and, again, here he is managing to push his presence in on something that should be Arthur's. Access to Merlin's childhood—Arthur ought to have been the one receiving that.

"If anyone has the right to look angry, Arthur, it's me."

Arthur snaps around so fast that he almost achieves whiplash. How had he managed to miss Merlin waking? He's been standing here the entire time. Pretty abysmal powers of observation to have overlooked such an important detail.

Despite having woken, Merlin makes no move to leave the bed. He hardly bothers to shift at all, to the point that his head remains on his pillow, tilted only slightly so that he can follow Arthur with eyes that have shed all traces of sleep: his body may still be curled up in blankets, but his mind is clearly entirely awake.

"Did Lance ever stay the night at your house when you were children?"

Apparently, his mind-to-mouth filter has shut down this morning. Merlin clearly thinks so too: he startles, blinks, and then finally raises himself up off the pillows, pushing up to prop his back against the headboard. "Are you serious?"

Serious, yes. But really damn stupid to bring up Lancelot like this—and it's clear they both know it. How in the world had he thought that was a good idea, letting that thought out of his mouth?

Taking it back isn't an option, though, and in some sense talking about these issues is a little like war: once the mistake is made, all you can really do is push on.

"Of course I am," he snaps, crossing his arms over his chest and staring back at Merlin.

All that earns him is an eye-roll and a disdainful little snort. "Don't know why I asked. With Lancelot, you're always serious." He shakes his head and sighs. "We were children, Arthur. Friends. He grew up next door to me. Stop being so bloody obsessed with him and get over it."

Obsessed? Well, probably. He trusted Lancelot, and surely if he'd just looked more closely he'd have seen Lancelot's betrayal coming before it happened. It was obvious in retrospect, but he'd been sure Lancelot and Guinevere were above reproach that he'd ignored what was so obvious. He'd ignored everything about Lancelot that he didn't want to see. Merlin's no fool: he can't possibly think Arthur will do the same thing a second time.

This time, he's going to know everything.

Marching forward toward the bed, he ignores the flash of unease in Merlin's face and reaches out to grab the comforter. One good, solid yank has it slithering off Merlin and to the floor. "Up," he says, perhaps a little discourteously, but he does have things to do, and he's simply not going to suffer Merlin sitting there and staring at him so reproachfully.

"Why didn't you kidnap Lancelot if you're so terribly worried about him!" Merlin snarls.

It's not all that surprising when Merlin takes a swing at him… again. Merlin—well, he's really pathetically simple sometimes. Not stupid. Just naïve. The kind of naïve that has him trying to punch someone who has already effortlessly restrained him less than twenty-four hours ago.

Catching Merlin's wild swing—still no technique—is disappointingly easy. This time, though, he doesn't bother to get Merlin's arm up behind him: he just spins him and gets his arms around Merlin, holding him against his chest.

The moment Merlin realizes what he's doing is easy to see: he goes still, and his breath hitches. He doesn't ease—if anything, he tenses more—but he does stop trying to get away.

Once Merlin stops struggling, he's left with his back to Arthur's front, their hearts perfectly aligned: enough that, when Merlin stills, he can no doubt feel the beating that is the same as his own. A little underhanded? Perhaps. But a reminder that the life in Arthur's chest comes from Merlin is not necessarily out of place.

"I see enough of Lancelot as it is, " Arthur says simply, gripping Merlin's wrists firmly. "If he disappeared completely, it would only make my life easier. Don't except me to care much for a man who never cared enough about me to keep his hands off my wife." It's not all true, of course. Lancelot—it was never that straight-forward. In all other things, Lancelot was loyal to Arthur, but this one thing—most days, Arthur can hardly stand to look at him, knowing what he knows.

"It wasn't like that, and you know—"

"Lancelot's wellbeing is not my priority, Merlin. Yours is." One quick shove has Merlin plunging away from him and falling face first onto the bed. He's only beginning to turn over by the time Arthur's moving away, half-disgusted with himself, but really more irritated by Merlin. Truly, Merlin ought to know better: he understands what Lancelot did, and he should know that it's best that any friendship they had stays buried in the past. He doesn't hate Lancelot—can't, really, but the day when he no longer has to see him—he can't deny that he's looking forward to it.

"You're an ass, Arthur," Merlin calls after his retreating back.

"Yes," he agrees as he reaches out to open the bathroom door. "A royal one."

Pity that in Camelot he couldn't make references to a past life: they do shut Merlin up so very effectively.

[October 21st, 2007]

Merlin makes fish fingers for dinner. There isn't much else he can do when his mum is working a double shift again, and his dad is—he'd actually rather not think about that. Just… out. That's where he is. Somewhere. Maybe that's all right. His dad always likes to watch boring stuff on the telly. This way, Merlin can watch what he wants. Only, the stuff on the telly right now is all talking about Parliament and the thing that happened. That bomb.

Looking over his shoulder, Merlin glances at the worn armchair that is his father's favorite. He won't consider how much better—more like a home—it'd seem if his father were in it, his mother in the kitchen making a real dinner. Still, the image is a sort of comfort against the unease in his stomach, though probably everyone is feeling that sort of thing after what happened to Parliament, and—

He turns back to the telly and switches it on.

It's not all that surprising to find it on the news. A background noise of political mumblings has kind of been the soundtrack of the house in the last few days, especially when his mom is home. Better to be well-informed, she'd always told him; she probably had it on this channel when she turned it off.

It could be that she's right. But Parliament—it's not quite real to him. Just men in a big building, doing something important, something he's supposed to respect, because it's Britain's government, and that makes it worth knowing. Every time he looks, though, sees the pictures of the ruins, hears the newscaster drawling on about death counts like it's any other statistic, it feels… not quite real. Wrong. Doesn't everyone's stomach twist all up when they hear stuff like that? Or is it only him?

Tonight it's not any of it. Instead, it's the prince. The king was killed in the blast, though, so maybe that means the prince is the king now. Or maybe not. Maybe he's everything. Because that kind of sounds like what he's saying. Something about collective security, the only person left to hold control at this time—it's a bit hard to follow. They don't talk about stuff like this in school. There's always been someone to take the Prime Minister's place. If someone dies in Parliament, there is always someone.

Except… now.

Except the prince.

Shifting down onto his belly in a more comfortable position, Merlin stretches out on the rug and leans forward, caught on every world. He never paid all that much attention to the prince before. There really wasn't much reason to do so. Sure, it was kind of neat to see what he was doing, realize that some of the stuff he liked, Merlin liked too—footie, but, then, who doesn't like that?—but other than that, he'd just been a face, only a figure.

And now he's not.

Arthur.

He doesn't understand it at first. It's like an itch, skittering along the inside of his skin where he can't scratch: heat trails in its wake, pushing him to a boiling point, shaking him. What is—what is this? His fingers flex and he gasps, swallowing and swallowing and swallowing, tasting nothing but air until his throat is dry and the skin sticks together, making him cough. Great, scary, hacking coughs. Too much for just tasting air… but he can't stop. Can't catch his breath.

A little frantically, Merlin tries to look away—to wrench his gaze from the television, but it's stuck; his eyes stick open, as dry and trapped as the breath in his throat. All he can see is Arthur, over and over and over, and then—then.

More. No, it's—no, it is more, only things that don't make any sense, don't—

Arthur.

The smell of polish on a rag, rubbing against armor; a sharp word with a teasing smile; red fabric, needing to be washed; a sword in a stone; and, finally, a sword in a body. Arthur's body. Camlann. Before that, Camelot.

"Arthur. Arthur."

He's crying. And he can't see.

"Arthur."

Please, no. Arthur dying. Arthur living. Arthur living to die. Help, help, please…

"Ar…" A gasp, the last syllable stuttered out: "—thur."

When Merlin's vision focuses back in, he doesn't know it at first. How would he? He's face first in the carpet. Nothing much to see there. Goodness, though, it smells horrid, like dust—stuff all choked up in his nose, his mouth—probably because no one has vacuumed in a while. He simply inhales heavily, letting it choke him until he starts coughing, wheezing with it, snuffling for air again: tears are running down his face, and maybe he can pretend he's crying because of the dust?

He's a child. A little boy. Not even a teenager yet. He still spends his time playing with his friends—oh, hell, Lancelot—and this can't be right. Can't be. But it's in his mind—his past is his present, and, and—

"Arthur," he mutters once more, dropping his forehead to the carpet.

He just… just nothing. He just can't.

Can't do anything at all but keep on breathing dust.