[October 25th, 2007]

Arthur,

I remember.

That's one hell of a greeting. Or is it a farewell? It's a little difficult to tell: Merlin's home is empty, picked clean and settling into disuse with such finality that everything echoes without the furniture and signs of life to muffle the noise.

Merlin remembered. And he saw what Arthur has done. And so he ran. It's not so difficult to deduce.

Swearing under his breath, Arthur pivots, cursing again at how the squeak of his shoes bounces of the walls, and then, just for good measure, he flat out punches the wall, because the bloody thing won't stop echoing.

Damn it. Damn everything.

He's blowing air hard when he finally settles back down. Pain zips up and down his arm, sawing like the blow was made with serrations, but he doesn't feel compelled to do much more than lean his head in against the wall, right next to the fist sized dent.

He hadn't thought Merlin would run.

There are a million reasons why Merlin would, of course. Gaining your memories and waking back up into life to find your best friend on the television essentially taking control of all of Britain when that is decidedly no longer social acceptable—that can't be pleasant. More importantly, Merlin isn't stupid: he has to know that Arthur would want his help. And things a child wouldn't understand—anonymous scholarships, raises for his mother, random acts of charity—Merlin, with all his memories intact, couldn't fail to recognize those things for what they were. He'd have known immediately that Arthur knew who he was, where he was.

But running? Merlin had to know no harm was meant to him.

Maybe he did know that. But, then, maybe all he saw was Arthur issuing the order to place a suppresser on anyone who tested with any magic at all. And that wouldn't look like good intentions, would it?

Breathing out hard through his teeth, Arthur pushes himself back up off the wall. He hadn't meant for it to go like this. He'd meant to explain to Merlin what he was doing the moment he knew Merlin had his memories back. Only, Merlin ran. No chance of explanation now, he thinks, each footstep mocking him when the noise of it ricochets back into him, smacking him in the face with just how empty the place is. Empty. No sign of Merlin.

Only, that's not quite true. The note in his hand—that's a pretty clear sign… just not the sort Arthur wanted.

Amazing, though, how the handwriting is Merlin's. Not Merlin as a child—not the sort of loopy scrawl he displayed just days ago (Arthur would know—he has copies of much of Merlin's schoolwork). No. This is Merlin writing like he did back in Camelot. It's a sharp, precise piece of penmanship, not at all like Merlin's handwriting had been when he'd first come into Arthur's service. That'd had to change, of course—it's impossible to practice a speech if one can't read what his manservant has written. And if a 5 could possibly be a 6, or if a 2 could be a 7—well, the figures won't be very accurate. So, Merlin had gotten better. By the time Camlann had rolled around, he'd had a neat hand that was often more legible than Arthur's own.

And that writing—it's what Arthur is faced with now.

The words are there to see. Arthur holds them up, tilts the paper to catch the light filtering in through the window. Merlin's writing, yes.

But the man who wrote the words isn't here.

And the note is covered in dust.

[September 2nd, 2007]

"I… didn't know."

Morgana scowls and props her head up in her hand, the fingers of the other hand taping an idle rhythm onto the tabletop. "Arthur, I suspect the things you don't know would fill a book. Try to be more specific."

The face he pulls reminds her a bit of a kicked puppy, but, at the moment, she's got bigger things on her mind. Why Gwen even let him in….

"I don't—" he mutters, hand pushing nervously across the glossy tabletop. "I—"

She has no time for this: a spoiled daddy's boy who realized that this time his tendency to think with the wrong head has gotten him into a situation that he can't just pay his way out of. "Out!" She isn't just going to disappear and save him the mortification of having to find a way to survive her presence at social functions from now on, but she can sure as hell make him vanish, at least from her home.

Another stutter, a few more incoherent syllables. He certainly does do an interesting impression of a fish. Dog, fish—is he planning on going through the whole animal kingdom? Perhaps he is devolving. A bit of a pity, that—in his current state he's at least very pretty to look at.

"No, just—wait!" he finally manages to say as she stands from the table, pushing her chair in meticulously and fixing him with an impatient look. "I—here."

In the first stroke of confidence she's seen since he entered her apartment, Arthur reaches into his coat jacket and pulls a letter out. He waves it lightly at her, holding it between his thumb and forefinger as though the thing is poisonous and barely fit to be touched. Figures he's trying to hand it to her.

She drums her fingers along the back of the chair. "What is it?"

"Read it."

"You aren't capable of explaining?"

"Not in the same way this letter can."

Of course not. That would be easier.

Irritated, she reaches out and snatches the letter from his hands. He lets it go, but his lips pinch into a bow and then flatten out, suggesting he's biting nervously at them from the inside of his mouth.

Carefully, she unfolds the note.

The first thing that stands out is that this is her mother's handwriting. That much is obvious, even just from looking at the name at the top, etched out across the paper in her mother's fluid script. It's tempting to linger over that, to focus entirely on the way the letters run together—almost like water, she'd thought when she was younger. Once, she'd asked her mother how she'd learned to write like a stream. It's a good memory. A simple one.

The name is a darker one. Uther. Her mother was writing to Uther. Her father been an MP—it wouldn't have been strange if Gorlois had written the letter. But the letter is unmistakably in her mother's hand. The implications—they aren't entirely unconsidered—but even that name, cradled as it is by her mother's writing, is no better than a portent.

The letter does not disappoint. It is sharp, to the point—cutting, just as it had to be. Maybe she should have expected this. Maybe she did. There's no point thinking on it. There's no point in thinking on any of it—not what she already really knew, not what she suspected, and not what was too deeply buried.

Her hand doesn't shake. Her lips don't form the words.

Regardless, they are seared into her mind.

She is your daughter. Take care of her.

The letter is dated two weeks before her mother's death.

"Has this been tested?" she asks calmly. She can't quite deny the inclination to toss the letter away from her, but she does manage to hold herself to just a flick of her wrist that sends the offending paper fluttering onto the table.

Arthur blinks and exhales slowly. "The letter?"

"The claim in the letter."

"You even have to ask?"

She snorts softly. "Hardly. That physical my mother insisted I have a few weeks before she died—the one with blood work—was obviously not just a way to settle her mind about my good health."

"Apparently not," he agrees, and if she's not mistaken, there's a trace of shame in his voice. A shade of apology, even.

"Does he know?"

"Know?" Arthur echoes. "What happened after the fundraiser?"

She nods.

"No. And, if we're in agreement, he never needs to."

Oh, in this matter they couldn't possibly be more in agreement. Sleeping with baby brother is—is—it is something. So many things, honestly, and, if she could, she'd dig a hole and bury it all away. Send it to space like she'd heard someone suggest people ought to do with garbage. Get it away from here.

"For what it's worth, I am sorry," Arthur says finally, glancing up at her. His eyes seem almost too blue, lit with the light that streams in from the window. How handsome he seems like this, clear and honest and sorry.

God help her, she'd like to cry.

He is beautiful, and she is beautiful, and they are siblings, and, oh, what have they done? Really, what have they done?

Standing up from the table, he wipes a hand across his mouth and then pauses, hand still halfway covering his lips. He has no idea of the correct course of action either, it seems. Reach out? Run away?

And so she takes the only option that seems truly thinkable: "I think it would be best if you left."

He does. He leaves without another word. She is left standing, hands gripping the back of her chair in a quest for support that simply no longer seems to exist.

When the door closes behind him, she could swear the breeze knocks her over.

Though, more than likely that's just the force of her sobs.

[Noverber 15th, 2013]

When Morgana set up this safe house, her priority was obviously not procuring comfortable beds. Cleaning doesn't seem to be her focus, either, but that's more believable: the Morgana that Merlin knew never had to lift a finger to clean until the time she was ousted from Camelot, and, after that, her places of residence were seldom very neat unless she had someone—some peon, and she was good at finding those—to do it for her.

It's a bit surprising, however, to find that she's willing to sleep on something as lumpy as this. Goodness, thinking that—it's a bit absurd, isn't it? He's been spoiled by years of sleeping on any mattress at all. When he first came from Ealdor, this lumpy mess of padding with the outline of springs poking up through it would have been sheer luxury.

Groaning, Merlin flops over onto his stomach and stuffs his face into his pillow… which, coincidentally, also smells like mothballs. Really, though, now he's just being foolish. He's been sleeping in doorways and parks for months now. A poorly made mattress isn't truly bothering him—but he can feel the tight ball of irritation twisting up his nerves: protesting, even to himself, that nothing is wrong would just be a waste of time. Even contemplating it makes his head ache, which he really doesn't need right now.

Squeezing his eyes tightly closed, he takes a deep breath and takes that mothball scent in. He can just suck it up, accept what's really bothering him, and stop whining about things that aren't the problem. He's better than this. He has to be.

God help him, though, his nerves feel frayed thin, worse than if they'd been spliced straight down the middle.

Will it always be this bad?

He can't believe that his brain will always feel like it's eating itself from the inside out. Best as he can tell, it's not even anything to do with the spell that bound him to Arthur. This is just… him. Guilt. Anxiety. But mostly guilt. Some days, though, it doesn't even feel like him anymore, but just someone too saturated with those feelings to ever find himself right again.

"If you want dinner, Mum is ordering pizza."

The voice from the door is startling, and when he actually looks up and finds a small dark haired child with disturbingly familiar blue eyes staring back at him, startling tips right over into disturbing. Mordred's is a face that's not easily forgotten. Even if the face could be, those eyes—no one would ever forget those eyes. Personally, Merlin's always wondered if they're just an extension of Mordred's ability to speak into his mind: that stare certainly makes it look like he can see straight into Merlin's thoughts. It darn well piercing.

Rolling onto his side and then levering himself up enough to swing his legs over the side of the bed and throw himself into something that at least resembles a sitting position, Merlin finds himself asking, "Your mother is going to order pizza?"

Mordred looks at him like he's exceptionally stupid. The kid is probably no more than five, and he's judging Merlin. Fabulous. Just fantastic. "Yeeeah," he says, crossing his small arms. "Don't you do that sometimes?"

"I didn't figure Morgana for the type to order pizza when she's doing her best to keep herself hidden." Should he even be saying that? Does this kid know that his mother makes a career of keeping herself under the radar and opposing her brother? She's trying to assassinate this kid's uncle, and what if Mordred didn't know that? Forget being found by Arthur—Merlin would probably have to give himself up just to get protection from Morgana if he manages to scar her son.

Mordred just shrugs. "S'not like she goes to get it herself."

Yeah… he really doesn't want to know what poor sod she sends. She probably could go herself if she wanted, though. It's not like Arthur is going to be scanning pizza shops trying to find her. Though, taking chances—it's never good. Merlin never did favor overly public places in the year he's been on his own. Too many cameras. CCTV can be a real bitch. Back alleys and under bridges, small doorways away from anything important—those worked better. Walking through a crowded place was all well and good, but staying there too long was just asking for Arthur to get a lock on his face off some of the surveillance footage.

Right. So, ordering pizza seems a bit of a risk.

But, then, that's Morgana.

"Says when she was gonna have me, she wanted pizza all the time."

Yes, Morgana would tell her five-year-old son that. Not that it's bad, but just… how many five-year-olds would know something like that?

Finding any response to that is a bit of an effort, and in between that and actually answering—yes, he is stalling against answering a child's question, and, no, that isn't pathetic, really—he shifts so that he's sitting up a little straighter. Mordred watches him carefully, seemingly studying how Merlin's elbows come to rest on his knees, his lower arms hanging loosely between his legs.

Thankfully, Mordred doesn't really seem to want a response. "My father would get it for her, she told me. Guess he got real sick of it, though. Used to tell her that when he was king, he was gunna get rid of the stuff."

What?

Merlin could swear his throat just closed. Mordred… can't be saying what it sounds like. Morgana, Mordred… Arthur. That's—right, no, just breathe, don't be stupid, don't think stuff like that.

It takes him a moment to get his composure back—and if anyone ever asks, he certainly will not be admitting that he lost it because of a five-year-old—but when he does, he looks back over at Mordred and nods. "Who's your father?"

Mordred's lips dip into a frown. "Dunno. Mum doesn't say."

Conclusions are so terribly easy to form. And in this case, what if he's right? Damn it, though, that headache he was feeling coming on—it's starting to take up tap-dancing. Or maybe football. Or possibly tap-dancing football with a side of rugby. "She's just joking about him being king, right?"

That frown gets deeper, marring his brow and even causing his eyes to narrow. "Bet we'd live someplace better if my father were a king."

Meaning he doesn't know. Meaning Morgana might actually have slept with Arthur. Or… no. That can't be possible. Grimacing, he rakes a hand through his hair. He's going crazy. The headaches and the stress, everything—he's seeing stuff that isn't there. This is England. Of course there are jokes about being the reigning monarch. Just because Morgana's boyfriend or whatever he was used to joke about banning pizza does not make him Arthur.

Bloody hell, that ought to be a t-shirt. It's that absurd, he thinks dismally, pushing his hand up into his hair again and this time just letting it linger. He'll probably only be doing it again in a second anyway: might as well economize his energy.

"Yeah… right. Uh, tell your mother I'll have some if she's offering."

"'K" he says, shooting Merlin one last speculative glance—the kid probably thinks he's crackers—before turning and tottering out of the room. He may not sound quite like a kid, but at least he still looks and walks like one. Small comforts—Merlin will take what he can get. Frankly, though, he'd love a Mordred who didn't talk at all. This new version—one that actually uses words—is almost disconcerting in his normality. At least back in Camelot, he'd known to expect the voice in his head, mostly because Mordred's irregularities eventually became regular in a very dark, deadly way. To hear him talk now just feels wrong. It's not surprising that he does, though—he's being raised by Morgana.

Honestly, though, that's not much better: this time around, Merlin is simply hearing the things that were always silent.

Silent. But still more or less there.

[December 14th, 2013]

The cold is the first thing Merlin notices. It's that icy ache that sinks down into his skin and wraps its brittle fingers around his bones, shaking him hard enough to set him shivering. He shivers in sharp spurts, and it's only once he opens his eyes that he realizes that the motion is grinding his side into the ground.

The ground. The cobblestone beneath him is a far cry from the soft bed he'd last woken in, and the slick of the stones is off-putting, but something about it yanks out the last bits of hope and pulls it to the surface of his mind. Where is he? Unknown. But he is not with Arthur.

The alleyway that he's found himself in isn't a particularly bad one. Already, his hearing is picking up the obvious noise of motor vehicles nearby, and once he gets his elbow under him and is able to twist enough to prop himself partially upright, a quick glance reveals that the end of the alleyway appears to open onto a busy street. At the very least, another quick look around reveals no discarded needles or broken glass; and the area in general seems relatively clean.

Carefully, Merlin gets his hands under him and gingerly propels himself to his feet, catching the nearest wall with shaky hands for balance. If he can stay upright, keep one foot in front of the other….

He stumbles to the end of the alleyway, and though he doesn't quite move out onto the street, he does take a good look outward. Perhaps he should be surprised when he finds himself facing Hyde Park, but the more he stares, drinking in the sight of grass and gas lighting that is just beginning to stand out against the twilight, he can't find it in himself to be shocked.

Neither can he quite manage to feel as trapped as he knows he undoubtedly still must be.

He blacked out against Arthur. In Arthur's flat. And he woke here. Unless his magic has found a way past the suppressor—which is always an outside possibility—he didn't simply appear here. More than likely, Arthur put him here. There is little sense to it—no plan that Merlin can see—but nothing about these last few years has been quite sane, and Arthur, for all his faults, is still a brilliant tactician in a way that Merlin never could be: how can he possibly be expected to foresee what Arthur is planning, no matter how intimately he knows Arthur's mind? He has sat in on war councils; has been party to battles themselves; and, more than once, has been Arthur's audience on late nights when the king simply couldn't sleep through the battle tactics that ran about his head. For all of that, though, there were times when he still couldn't anticipate Arthur's plans.

It is, in some ways, he thinks, grinding his finger against the brick of the building into which he leans, somewhat to his credit. Peace has always suited him better: he only ever went to war for Arthur, and when the war is Arthur, there is a terrible sort of disconnect, almost as if destiny is grinding back on itself as it flails against the reality that it is no longer Merlin and Arthur, but Merlin against Arthur.

With a slow, shuffling step, Merlin pushes off the wall and onto the path, ignoring the bright lights of the cars that pass by. If he can get to the park, to a bench, he could think, could sit for a while without arousing undue suspicion as he might if he were simply to collapse here, by the side of the road.

Somehow he manages, eating up the distance until it changes from harsh blacktop to soft grass and the gravel of a walking path. Never have the wooden slats of a bench felt so welcoming; in this moment, Hyde Park may as well be home. It's certainly a circumstance he hadn't anticipated—a feeling he has felt precious few times since he regained his memories.

For a few moments after he leans back into the bench, he simply breathes. If that were all he had to do, life might be easy, but the thoughts that chase him—he simply can't avoid them. Arthur placed him here. For the moment—unless something else presents itself—that's the conclusion he must make. He can still feel the suppressor in him, benign and dormant so long as Arthur doesn't activate it, but always there, resting on his magic and promising a brutally efficient check if Arthur wishes it.

The ultimate issue? He cannot rely on his magic while the chip is there. There is too much risk—too much of a chance that Arthur could short him out when he needs him abilities the most. And where will that leave him?

It's a convoluted situation at best. The chip is still in place. Arthur still has a hold on him, and, no doubt, a tracker. Merlin would like to curse the unfairness of it all, but the number of people still strolling down the paths, enjoying the dying day, prevents him. Is Arthur simply hoping he'll lead him to the resistance? It's the most obvious answer, but surely Arthur must know that he'll see through that. He would hardly waltz up to Morgana when he has a microchip implanted in him.

Unless… unless Morgana comes to find him.

The realization sucks the heat from the mild night, turning it infinitely cooler, right down through his skin and into his muscles. He's a liability. From Morgana's perspective, who knows what he has told Arthur. She'll need to know if she wants to take steps to ensure that the information he leaked isn't crippling, and to take those steps, she needs… him.

The urge to run is overwhelming. Conveniently, there is a late night jogger visible from across the park, but as tempting as it is to simply sprint after him (and keep on running to who knows where), it would be useless. He's got nowhere to run to—not really. Arthur is tracking him—and will be so long as the chip is active. Any contact he has with anyone will be observed. If Morgana interacts with him—at least in the way she would need to in order to determine what he's told Arthur—she will be traced, and she will lead Arthur back to whatever place she's gone to ground.

He could run. Hide from Morgana. He could simply move, get up—and he does finally push himself off the bench—and walk away. He could hide, and she'd probably never find him, not when he's so very good at hiding. But what good would that do? Arthur will realize the game is up, and he will come find Merlin instead. Each step Merlin takes leads him a little deeper into the park, and every minute sees the sun sinking lower behind the horizon, casting shadows hauntingly over his path, but none of that is going to hide him from a tracking device.

So, run from Morgana, or run from Arthur?

Hide from neither? Both?

Or… or shut himself down.

It's always an option. He can feel his magic still humming under his skin, tickling over the nerve endings and curling around his insides like an affectionate animal that's taken up residence. It's still there. If he wanted, he could clamp down on the chip, stop it from transmitting.

But it wouldn't get him his magic back—because the moment he suppresses Arthur's tracker, Arthur will no doubt stifle his magic.

Grinding his teeth, Merlin stops what has quickly become a hurried walk and veers off to the side, choosing another bench at random and slumping down onto it. Sitting doesn't make thought easier, but at least he doesn't have to consider where he's going when he's sitting still. It's tiring to try to command his feet while at the same moment doing his best to force his mind into some semblance of logical decision making.

Right. Logical. Logic means using the knowledge that while Arthur's chip, when activated, can suppress his ability to use magic, it does not drain the magic from him. It locks it inside him, yes, but if what he is suppressing is within his own body, the chip will be useless. If he is willing to sit alone with himself for the rest of his life, concentrating on suppressing the part of the chip that's transmitting his location, then he could do so. But that would be all he could do. Arthur would be unable to find him, but Merlin would be unable to do anything beyond concentrating on using his magic to hide himself.

Unless… unless he only had to concentrate long enough to dig the chip out. He can locate the chip—that's within his capabilities. At least, it should be. The chip is within his body. His magic won't have to leave his own skin.

The thing is, though—thing is, he will have to dig it out.

He can't go to anyone else for this. At this point, he can't endanger them—and that is exactly what he'd be doing. If what he's trying fails, Arthur would be led right to whomever helped him. No. It's got to be his own doing.

Immediately, he's back up off the bench and moving. He can't think. Doesn't think. Thinking will make this worse. Just go, go do it, find a space, somewhere private, and… now. It has to be now.

It's a maddening itch, this impending harm. His fingers clench against each other, and he keeps shifting his shoulders, uncomfortable, though there's no comfort to be found. Calling Arthur seems so much easier. Let him have what he wants, and then maybe Merlin can lie down for a while, get some sleep, stop having to be so much. But, Arthur, he is wrong. But does it matter so much? Does any of this matter?

No. Stop.

Taking a deep breath, Merlin swallows down the jitters. Of course it matters. Of course it does. That's just the anxiety talking. That's just the sense of wrongness that wears at him when he fights against Arthur. And why doesn't that go both ways? Does it go both ways? Does Arthur feel this too? Or is he exempt, because he is the king, meant to be followed, while Merlin was always meant to serve?

Destiny. It is always destiny.

Useless the city seems to hum around him. Useless to fight it.

But can he really do anything else?