Chapter Two

In Which Not All Hot Blondes in Rivers are Nymphs

Arthur isn't entirely certain what is going on. All he remembers is Merlin calling his name, a cold feeling creeping through his body and seeping into his very bones, and then a comforting warmth not unlike being wrapped in a blanket. He inexplicably feels as though he's been sleeping. The idea is utterly ridiculous, though, as he knows he didn't ever get back to his bed. But a voice had whispered in his ear that it was time to wake up after the immeasurable rest, stirring him from emptiness he seems to have been surrounded by and now he is cold again. And wet.

He's going to kill Merlin if he's thrown water on him again to wake him up. It's only when he manages to open his eyes, finding himself absolutely surrounded by water, that he realizes something is very wrong. Part of him wonders how he found himself in his current predicament, the other part is trying very hard to focus on not drowning.

Gasping for breath as he manages to breach the water's surface, he flings his arms out haphazardly in the hope of finding a branch or rock or something that he can hang onto. But there seems to be nothing around him and the weight of his clothes and armor serve only to pull him further down. His fingers fumble with the clasps of his armor, but his fingers are numb from the icy water and he can't seem to get a good grip on the metal.

This is it. He's going to drown in freezing cold water because his armor is too heavy. He's going to die. Again.

Again?, a part of him thinks. But he doesn't have enough time to think of his first death. The more rational, instinctive part of him is more worried about the fact that his lungs are starting to burn and he's sinking ever further into the water. Being stabbed was a good deal more agreeable than drowning, he decides.

Before he can think further on the positives of his first death as opposed to his impending one, he feels an arm wrap around his chest just below his arm. The gesture takes him by surprise, but he doesn't have long to really process it as he's dragged slowly back to the surface. He takes a gasp of crisp autumn air as they reach the surface. Over his shoulder, he can hear his rescuer's own heavy breaths.

"Can you swim?" a voice by his ear says.

Arthur manages a nod, his throat feeling dry and hoarse like the time his throat was inflamed as a child. If his rescuer notices, he offers no acknowledgement, and seems to look around frantically.

"Then I'm going to need you to help out a bit," the man says. "It looks like I'm going to have to pull us up, and you're awfully heavy."

If the situation was less dire, Arthur would have protested to that. Sure, Merlin had recently had to hollow out another notch in his belt, but he certainly hadn't gained that much weight. Still, he puts as much effort into helping to keep them afloat and helping them to move as he can while his rescuer pulls them both towards a stone wall. A river, Arthur realizes, they're in a river.

As they reach the wall at the river's edge, he can feel his rescuer looking up at the stone. It is rather high, too high for them to jump and reach the edge with nothing to stand on beneath them, and Arthur wonders how the man holding him expects to get them both out. But then he's being spun around and finds himself face-to-face with the man.

In the faint moonlight, it's hard for Arthur to make out too much of the man's face. He's certainly younger than the King had expected, perhaps in his early twenties, and has wild black hair that reaches the nape of his neck and curls around his ears like ivy. His skin's maybe a shade darker than Elyan's, but it's his eyes that make Arthur gasp. He's never seen anything like them before. His eyes are colored like the velvet of Agravaine's cloaks, but their irises are nearly invisible. They've been diminished, almost entirely blocked out like an eclipse, by the pupils. They remind Arthur of Morgana's cat when the mangy beast was on the hunt of something.

"Hold on," the man – gods, Arthur hopes he's a man – says.

He is barely given time to drape his arms over the man's shoulders before they are pushed towards the wall. Arthur barely hears the words his rescuer speaks, but the hair on the back of his neck prickles as recognizes the tone, and he stiffens. The man is using magic. He does not have time to protest as the man raises one hand above both of their heads, gold light swirling in what little of his irises that can be seen, and they are rocketed out of the water and into the air.

He lands on top of the man as they hit the top of the wall, causing the man to gasp as he's crushed beneath Arthur's armor. Two other men rush to their sides, one helping the King to his feet, the other kneeling down beside the now wheezing man. Arthur can't help but stare at his surroundings as he's pulled upright.

"You alright, Hiran?" the kneeling man asks.

Arthur's rescuer – Hiran? – gives the faintest of nods and slaps the man's chest faintly as he rasps, "Peachy."

Arthur's turning in circles as he looks up at the city around them again. It certainly doesn't look like Camelot, with such strange buildings that seem to be made of stone and steel and cut higher into the sky than he's ever seen. Almost every window is filled with light, nearly blocking out the stars above. And then there are the men themselves. They were dressed in the strangest fashion. Their tunics were too short, coming to only their waists, and their oddly bulky boots only came up to their ankles. Their coats were thicker than what Arthur was used to, and only extended as far as their tunics. The fair-skinned man's tunic sported the image of a triangle with a rainbow extending from one side.

Arthur certainly hasn't seen that family crest before. And neither of the others are wearing symbols on their clothing, nor on the sheathes that hang at their hips. Is the fair-skinned man a knight and the other two his servants?

"Is he wearing armor?" Hiran asks, pushing himself off the ground. "Did I rescue a cosplayer? Because I will happily push him back in - you know I will."

Arthur raises his eyebrows at the almost irate tone of voice, "Pardon. Are you referring to me?"

"Who are you supposed to be? Prince Arthur?"

"King," Arthur exclaims. "Do you honestly expect me to believe you don't recognize me? Where are we?"

"Goddess above, he's just mental," Hiran laughs, sounding vaguely hysterical.

The kneeling man looks at Arthur quizzically, narrowing his eyes as he says, "London."

Well, that doesn't sound particularly familiar, Arthur thinks irritably.

"Which kingdom?"

"Kingdom?" the fair-skinned one says, looking towards his companions in confusion. "Are you pissed?"

"Albion hasn't been divided into kingdoms for centuries," the kinder man says, and Arthur gets the impression that he's realizing something important. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Arthur thinks about that carefully, but he feels as though he's wading through mud whenever he tries to recall exactly what he last remembers. It is disorientating and frustrating and he pushes his damp hair back with a hand as he tries to think.

"I remember shouting, someone shouting, but everything was dark then," he says slowly. "Before that…we were traveling to the Lake of Avalon after Camlann. I think I was dying."

The three men go silent at his words, exchanging glances between each other. There is a sort of bond between them that is almost tangible in that moment, as though they have known each other for a very long time and know what the others are thinking, and it reminds Arthur of how Lancelot, Elyan, Percival, Gwaine, and Leon had been.

"If he's a cosplayer, he's a pretty damn inaccurate one," the fair-skinned one says to the others. "And he's two days late for the celebrations."

But Hiran, the one who pulled him from the river, steps forward and looks at him suspiciously, "You said 'we'. Who was traveling with you to Avalon?"

"My…friend," Arthur answers. "His name is Merlin."

If he isn't mistaken, Arthur almost swears he sees recognition in the dark eyes, but he can't be sure. There's something about this man that makes him feel uneasy. It's not that he feels as though he should fear Hiran, but more along the lines of he should know this man but doesn't. At his words, Hiran looks even more surprised.

"Merlin," he echoes. "Could you describe him for me?"

Arthur blinks at him in confusion but says, "He's about my height, black hair, grey eyes; he's a bit gaunt in the face." – he puts hands up on either side, miming as he doesn't know how exactly to politely describe the next attribute on his mind, and knowing that Merlin will kill him if he finds out – "Ears."

"Fuck me," Hiran groans, pressing his hands to his face, and the next string of words out of his mouth are decidedly not English.

"In English," the fair-skinned man says, looking slightly irritated by his companion's actions.

"He's the real thing," Hiran says, pulling his hands away to bow deeply to Arthur. "Guys, meet Arthur Pendragon, the Once and Future King."

Both men exchange another glance, this one markedly confused, as Arthur stares at Hiran.

"How can you be sure," the kind-eyed one asks.

Hiran looked grim, never taking his eyes away from Arthur's gaze as he straightens up, "Because he just described Emrys's true form."

It's two months after his arrival in the palace when Hiran is called to Emrys's chambers. Although the servants and Royal Guard seem to be uncertain as to how to behave around him, they are mostly kind to him, despite the fact that he hasn't spoken aloud to any of them. Or telepathically. He doesn't want to get to know them, for fear that they'll end up hating him just like his old family. Other than not actually speaking to anyone, which is hardly a crime, he can't think of a single reason why Emrys would want to see him.

The doors to Emrys's chambers are made of oak, instead of the usual alder found in the palace, and imbued with magic so old that it often makes his skin itch. Protection spells, he knows. Sometimes he can hear the hum of it all the way in his room. He knocks lightly on the wood, feeling a little trepidation at being alone with the most powerful warlock to walk the Earth.

Instead of receiving an answer, the heavy wood door slides open as though it had been left unlocked. Hiran hesitates before it. If the door had opened through magic, that meant Emrys had to be within, but the idea of it being left open without Emrys inside was even more frightening. And much more tempting. He pushes the door open ever so slightly, poking his head in just enough to look inside. What he sees within prompts him to step inside and close the door behind him.

The threshold he had just stepped over might as well have been a tear in time, as the room around him looks like something from a period piece or a fantasy movie. There are shelves on every wall, apart from the one directly opposite of Hiran, which has two half-opened doors. A messy bedroom is just visible through one and the other seems to hold a couch. Hiran can't tell, as it's only open about an inch. But the stone floor is covered in beautiful patterned rugs laid haphazardly over each other to create a plush surface beneath his feet.

The shelves are cluttered with odds and ends – ingredients for spells and potions, talismans, healing crystals, small sculptures and carvings, and books of every size and color – and the entire space is lit by a handful of glowing orbs that hover six inches from the ceiling. A desk cluttered with paper, pens, and more books is shoved against one of the few empty spaces on the walls and there's a fireplace with a cauldron hanging over it to Hiran's right.

He's turning around in circles, trying to take everything in at once, when his eyes catch something on one of the shelves closest to him. It's a necklace hanging just off the edge of the shelf. He takes a few steps closer to get a better look, realizing that it's a ring and a dragon scale pendant hanging from the silver chain, but he can't make out what's engraved onto the silver scale. Growing ever closer, he reaches out to touch it. There's something about it that looks familiar…

"That was Gwaine's."

Hiran snatches his hand back and straightens up his posture at the familiar rasping voice. He turns, his face heating with embarrassment, as he catches sight of Emrys standing in the open doorway. There is a cloak covering the warlock's long white hair that also obscures half of his face in shadow, but it doesn't look as though he's angry.

"I'm sorry for entering uninvited," he whispers, bowing his head.

Emrys steps into the room and the door swings shut of its own accord. He pulls down his cloak, revealing eyes that are full of affection and the slightest hint of the ever-present grief, and Hiran stifles a sigh of relief. Emrys isn't angry with him.

"Oh? But I did invite you."

Emrys smiles, and the lines around his mouth grow more pronounced. But there's a tightness around his eyes as though he's in pain, Hiran notices, and he moves with a stiffness that isn't the same as that of the elderly.

"Are you alright, Emrys?" Hiran asks. "Are you injured?"

Emrys gives a laugh, and the sound reminds him of the cracking of wood as fire eats through it, "You're very perceptive, Hiran. I'd like to show you something. But I must know that you can keep a secret first. Can you do that for me?"

Hiran nods fervently in answer, but bites back a question as to what it is that the warlock wants to show him. Emrys walks past him, his floor-length red robes brushing against Hiran as he does, and over to the desk. He places his hands on the rough wooden surface and closes his eyes. Suddenly, he pitches forward slightly, his lips parting in a soft gasp. Hiran's heart catches in his throat, but something tells him to stay where he is. He doesn't even move when Emrys's nails score shallow lines into the desk.

He watches in awe as Emrys's white hair seems to retreat back into his scalp, turning to a rich black as its reaches his skin. The warlock's very skin seems to stretch and pull taut, the lines and spots fading as it does, and Hiran can hear the faint crack of bones shifting. It's one of the most astonishing displays of magic he's ever seen. For those who are not born or made into shapehshifters, changing what one looks like is particularly difficult. It takes immeasurable strength and focus, and Hiran has only seen it done once before. Somehow, this instant is more impressive, perhaps because it is being accomplished by a human.

When Emrys is finally done, he is breathing heavily and shaking ever so slightly. But he straightens up immediately, his body now that of a youth in his twenties, and offers Hiran a lopsided smile. He rolls his shoulders back and forth as his long, thin fingers pull the cord at his collar loose and the robes slip to the floor. He is wearing jeans and what looks like an old tunic beneath and Hiran's jaw drops at the sight. This young man before him is certainly not what he expects as the great and powerful Emrys.

"It's terribly strenuous, keeping that spell up," Emrys says genially, stuffing the robes beneath the desk with a booted foot. "I'm glad you noticed."

Hiran takes a second to pick his jaw up off the floor, watching as somehow-Emrys walks across the room and pulls the necklace gently off its shelf. He handles it carefully, as though the slightest force might make it shatter, and holds it aloft so that they both can see it.

"He used to wear it every day, without fail," Emrys says, his eyes lost in a bygone age as he speaks. "At his funeral, I couldn't bear to let it burn with him, but I like to think he would not have minded that I kept it. The ring was his mother's, and the pendant has his family crest engraved onto it. It's too dark in here to see it..."

Hiran clasps his hands together and brings them to his lips. He splays his fingers, as though letting something go free, as he blows gently against his fingers. Little flecks of blue light flit erratically around the air as he does so, making everything in the room a little more visible. Emrys looks up with a smile as the gesture seemingly pulls him from his thoughts.

"Thank you, Hiran."

Hiran beams at the words, but says nothing for a minute as he looks at the necklace in Emrys's hand.

"Who was he?" he asks, never taking his eyes off of the pendant.

Emrys gives that far off smile again as he says, "He was a knight of Camelot and a personal friend of both myself and Arthur Pendragon. You'll likely learn more about him the longer you stay here."

Hiran watches silently as Emrys tucks the necklace into his pocket and sits down on the chair at the desk. He flicks his wrist towards something behind Hiran, his eyes glowing gold for an instant, and the sound of something sliding over the rugs. Motioning towards the stool that has moved from under a shelf, Emrys waits until Hiran has also taken a seat before speaking.

"Ashima tells me you're having nightmares."

Hiran winces, but says nothing. He had hoped that no one would notice his sleepless nights, as it had been years since he woke up screaming in the dark, but of course Ashima had noticed. She has seemingly taken it upon herself to act as a mother figure for him. She's kind and attentive, but she's also highly perceptive.

He doesn't want anyone to know about the nightmares, though, regardless of whether or not Ashima or Emrys can help. He doesn't want to remember them himself.

"She also says you haven't spoken a word to anyone besides myself."

"That's true, my lord."

"Why aren't you speaking?"

Hiran shifts uncomfortably on his stool, not wanting to lie to Emrys while also not wanting to say the words aloud. Saying them aloud, and to someone else, makes them seem more real. But he speaks anyway.

"I don't want them to hate me," he whispers.

Emrys's eyes narrow at that, "Hate you?"

Hiran flinches, his eyes closing as he turns his face away. If Emrys sees his face, he'll see how much it hurts and, consequently, he'll want to know why. Hiran doesn't know why his family said he would do such terrible things. He doesn't know why, but he doesn't want Emrys to know. He doesn't want to know himself.

"Hiran…"

He almost doesn't respond to that name. It is not his true name, which he has come to associate with the venom with which the Fair Folk spoke it, but the one given to him by Ashima on his first night in the palace. He likes it better. She says it with a sort of warmth that makes him feel loved, and because of why she gave it to him. When she had asked him if he would tell her his name, he had shaken his head, but had done nothing when she offered him a new one.

"It means 'gold'," she had told him as she had pulled the dry shirt over his head.

His hands had reached up to the horns protruding from his hair, a silent question in the gesture, and she had shaken her head.

"It isn't about how you look," she had answered, tilting his face gently towards hers with a finger beneath his chin. "I saw you push Emrys out of the way when Eldis aimed to kill him. You put yourself in danger to protect him, and so revealed what your heart and soul are made of."

Gold…

"Hiran, please look at me."

Hiran does what Emrys asks and meets his eyes. They almost seem to change color with his moods, Hiran thinks. Oftentimes they look to be green. Sometimes they are grey. Other days, they are blue like the clear Oberon skies. And then, when he's arguing with the higher ups, his eyes seem to be entirely colorless and inhuman. But now they are so vivid a blue-green that they look like the sea during a storm.

"You can tell me anything," Emrys says slowly. "You know that."

"Yes, Emrys."

The warlock is silent for a second, but then his lips tug slowly into a smile and he good-naturedly ruffles Hiran's already messy hair. But there is something in his smile that puts Hiran off. It's as though it's not entirely genuine, a lie mixed-up with and hidden by a little bit of the truth, and he gets the sense that Emrys is hiding something from him. But he returns the smile anyway. He likes Emrys, regardless of whether or not he's keeping secrets. After all, if he is allowed his own secrets, shouldn't he give Emrys the same right?

"No one will hate you here," Emrys tells him, his hand falling from Hiran's hair to land on his shoulder. "We are all of mixed blood here, yours is simply a little different. But, if anyone does give you any trouble, don't hesitate to come to me. This is your home now."

"Thank you, Emrys," Hiran all but whispers.

Hiran's eyes flick towards the door and back to Emrys, unsure of whether he is allowed to leave yet or not. Emrys pats him on the back with a nod. He relaxes at the dismissal, walking briskly towards his escape from Emrys's scrutiny, but finds himself hesitating as he hears the warlock speaking once more.

"Just one moment, Hiran."

Hiran turns apprehensively, hoping that Emrys hasn't somehow found out the truth anyway. But Emrys only opens one of the drawers in his desk. He waves his hand over the contents, his eyes flashing gold at the use of magic, and pulls something out. Without so much as a beat in between, he tosses the something towards Hiran. Despite his usual grace, he fumbles with it as it hits his fingers.

Finally certain that he won't drop the object, he takes a better look at it. It's a dragon, or rather a dragon carved from what looks like birch, and Hiran turns it over in his hands. It looks fairly old, as there are small indentions in places where it might have smacked against a hard surface and the edges have been worn soft from being handled often. But it has been loved dearly, that much Hiran can sense from it, and he wonders why Emrys would give him what is obviously something very dear to him.

"For the nightmares," Emrys explains, as though he could read Hiran's mind.

Hiran looks back down at the carved dragon, running his thumb carefully over the curve of its wings, "It's beautiful."

"It was a gift from my father."

Hiran glances up with wide eyes, a protest on the tip of his tongue, but Emrys holds up a hand to stop him.

"I want you to have it," he says. "Besides, I would rather you put it to good use than for it to simply collect dust in my care."

Hiran looked from Emrys to the dragon and back, his hands wrapping around it protectively as he realized the importance of it, "Thank you, Emrys. I'll take good care of it. I promise."

And there is that smile again, that same too sweet smile that seems to be hiding something. Hiran's own smile nearly disappears at the sight of it. He says nothing, as he doesn't want to appear ungrateful, and leaves the room without another word. Part of him wonders what it is that Emrys is keeping from him. The rest of him knows he wouldn't want to find out.

"Are you out of your mind?"

Hiran rolls his eyes as George hisses the words at him, but continues banging on the door of the lieutenant's quarters. Both Santiago and George are helping hold Arthur upright, as he seems to have been revived with less than adequate strength, and are unable to truly stop him without dropping the blonde.

"And what would you have us do?" he snaps. "We just pulled the Once and Future King out of the Thames. That kind of thing isn't something you wait to discuss over breakfast, now is it?"

"It is a bit early," Santiago points out.

Hiran bites back a groan. It's obvious that Santiago's trying very hard not to pick sides, but also trying to keep them from getting into trouble for being out and about at two in the morning.

Before he can reply, the door swings open to reveal a very pissed off Captain Sands. Hiran can just barely hear Santiago mutter something very colorful beneath his breath. That's not good, Hiran thinks as he meets Sands' glare. Santiago only swears when things are really bad. He takes a second to glance around, getting a better look at their surroundings, and realizes that they aren't actually in the hall leading to the lieutenant's quarters.

"Are you out of your mind, Suresh?"

Hiran blinks at the shout, but answers, "More so than I thought, apparently."

"What are you doing waking me up at this time of night?" Sands all but spits, his eyes suddenly catching sight of Arthur behind him. "Who the hell is that?"

Hiran spares Arthur a glance before waving his hand dismissively, "That's Arthur Pendragon. Now, I really need to get to-"

"Arthur Pendragon?" Sands scoffs, giving the king a once-over. "The Once and Future King?"

"No, the steward of the aeroplane," Hiran says, doing his best not to roll his eyes. "Of course, the Once and Future King! Do you honestly believe I would bring a random man into the palace and immediately go to your door? If I was going to bring someone for a night, you wouldn't know. Believe you me. I've done it before."

"Hiran," Santiago hisses in warning.

George gives Hiran a sharp kick, taking as much of a step forward as he can while helping to hold the king up, "We're sorry to have bothered you, Captain. We'll be on our way now."

Even with one arm wrapped around Arthur's back, George manages to grab Hiran's arm and tug him towards the corridor. But Sands is quick to stop them, his hand landing on Arthur's shoulder, and is about to say something. The words never come out. Before they can do anything, Arthur has ripped himself away from George and Santiago. His elbow angles upward as he slams his metal-plated arm into Sands' face.

The captain reels back, his hand over his possibly broken nose, and lets out a string of obscenities. George and Santiago rush to catch Arthur as his strength seems to fall away and he nearly pitches forward. Hiran barely has time to register the exhaustion and irritation in the king's face before his eyes catch Sands moving again, his now bloody hand reaching for the dagger at his waist.

Not bothering to hold himself back now, the way he always does in practice, Hiran moves around the three in a blur. His hand grips the blade that's threatening to come down on Arthur, a grimace tugging at his lips as the steel cuts into his palm. It only takes half of his attention to shout a telepathic call for Lieutenant Michelson. The rest is currently using magic to keep Sands' dagger from cutting anything important in his hand.

"I don't give a damn whether you like me or not," he snarls, his eyes inches from Sands'. "This isn't about either of us or your petty hatred. Fate has deemed it a fit time to bring back the man Emrys has waited centuries for, and I'll be damned before I let you send him back to Avalon before they even see each other."

Hiran's lips curled as he spoke, his human façade falling just enough for his sharp canines to show through. It had been meant as a silent warning and, judging by the way Sands' eyes widened at the sight, Hiran knows it's working. He can even feel the pressure behind the dagger easing up.

He can't explain why he had felt the need to throw himself in front of a blade for Arthur. It's just something he knows, a deeply ingrained instinct that feels as natural as his magic. He rationalizes it as knowing how much Arthur means to Emrys, to what he means for Albion now that he's back, because he doesn't believe in anything prompted by first sight. Unless it has to do with lust or greed. Neither of which are the case, he thinks as of the sight of the still fairly waterlogged king.

The sound of footsteps echoing down the hall behind him catches Hiran's attention, but he doesn't take his eyes off of Sands, even when the captain drops his blade. George and Santiago shift on their feet, obviously trying to stand a little taller with the lieutenant coming.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Michelson's voice is as soft as ever, but there is a hint of something else that Hiran can't recognize. He turns to face the lieutenant, barely noticing how Michelson is only wearing loose trousers given the hour, and sees how the man is looking at Arthur with a thoughtful frown. He meets Hiran's eyes very slowly.

"Who is this?"

"Three guesses," Hiran jokes, but the weariness beginning to hit him takes half of the humor from his voice. "And, no, he's not a nymph."

Michelson gives him an expression that he can only describe as deadpan, his lips pressed into a thin line the way that he always does when Hiran's rambling is unwarranted. Santiago clears his throat to get their attention.

"Hiran pulled him from the Thames," Santiago says, sounding much more sincere than Hiran had.

"I am Arthur Pendragon," Arthur says, trying and failing to stand up a little straighter. "Son of Uther and King of Camelot."

Michelson raises an eyebrow at the blonde, looking from the king to Hiran, George, and Santiago. There is a calculating look to his eyes, as if he's working out what to do, before he closes his eyes and sighs deeply.

"This is not the time to be having this sort of discussion," the lieutenant mutters under his breath, causing even Hiran to strain to hear him. "Take…the king somewhere he can rest and return to your chambers. We'll discuss this at a reasonable hour."

The three nod, and Hiran hears the shuffling of Sands' feet as he returns to his rooms, muttering darkly as he does. But his attention is pulled away when Michelson speaks once more.

"And, Hiran, you might want to get that looked at," the lieutenant says, nodding towards Hiran's hand.

Hiran looks down at his hand. It is clenched by his side, the pain barely registering with everything else he's thinking about, but there is still blood running down his skin and dripping onto the floor. He clasps it in his free hand as he watches Michelson go, murmuring a quick spell to heal the cut across his palm.

He contemplates leaving the blood on the floor for a minute. After all, there are servants who will clean it up without so much as a thought. But then he thinks better of it, knowing that blood can be used for numerous spells and the blood of a cambion for even more, and he clears it with a wave of his hand. It floats between his fingertips like smoke before he closes his hand around it and it disappears.

"Where are we going to put him?" George says loudly, catching everyone's attention.

"He can't go into the barracks," Santiago pointed out. "He'll raise too many questions."

"I am right here," Arthur mumbles halfheartedly.

Speaking right over the king, George says, "But he can't go into one of the Guards' chambers. There's no extra space in any of them."

"There's a spare room in Ashima's quarters."

Both Santiago and George glance at Hiran in surprise as he suggests it. Though they're technically Hiran's chambers now, he never has referred to them as his own. They were the rooms he shared with Ashima, decorated entirely to her tastes, and they have remained mostly the same since her death. They all know the only spare room in them is Ashima's old bedroom.

"Are you sure?" Santiago asks. "We can figure something else out if-"

"I'm sure," Hiran tells him, motioning for them to bring Arthur closer. "You two should go get some rest. I'll take him up."

George and Santiago exchange another silent glance, but Hiran can tell they aren't discussing anything telepathically. They shift Arthur's weight to Hiran, and he notices the king is silently watching them carefully, but he doesn't say anything as they walk off towards the barracks. He feels Arthur's eyes on him and meets the king's gaze evenly. From this close, he realizes they're a pretty shade of cornflower blue with slightly darker centers.

"Come on then, your highness," Hiran says, shuffling them around to face the right direction. "Looks as though you're bunking with me."

He thinks about walking all the way to Ashima's quarters, but it's an awfully long way and Hiran's weariness is catching up with him. He hisses an incantation, noting how Arthur seems to grow uncomfortable at the open display of magic, but the king cannot protest as they are whisked away through spacetime. Their landing is a little harder than Hiran would like as the exhaustion after using a significant amount of magic rushes through him. Still, he considers it a success that they didn't keel over entirely.

"You're a sorcerer," he hears Arthur say quietly.

"Nope," Hiran replies, fumbling for the key in his pocket. "Sorcerers are humans who have genetic anomalies which allow them to practice magic. I was born with magic ingrained in my very soul, giving me a bit of an advantage. But I can understand how that may be confusing."

The lock pulls back with a soft click, and Hiran pushes the door open. The sitting room is the first thing that can be seen from the door, the center taken up by a plush red couch and a few matching chairs surrounding a low coffee table, and the fire roars to life as they walk over the threshold.

"Looks like a prince's quarters," Arthur mumbles as Hiran half drags them across the room.

"It might have been once," Hiran replies. "Never really paid attention to the history of this place."

Opening the door to Ashima's private bedroom takes a lot of maneuvering, with Arthur getting jostled a bit as Hiran pulls the door open. He grimaces as he notices the layer of dust covering everything. Hiran hasn't been in her room since she died, unable to clear it of her things, much less clean them up. She would likely smack him upside the back of the head if she could see it now. Of all the things she taught him, cleanliness was one she had stressed often. Particularly given that the energy imbued into the castle from years of its inhabitants using magic tends to excite (and sometimes throw things around) when he stays in any one place for more than two minutes.

Pressing his index and middle fingers together, he brings his fingers to his lips and blows. Dust flies everywhere, the exact opposite of what Hiran had wanted, and he quickly lets Arthur down onto the bed so he can open the window. The dust goes flying out into the night air with a lazy flick of his wrist.

"Sorry," Hiran says as he closes the window, glancing at Arthur. "Magic has been used in this palace for so long, it has seeped into the very walls, and sometimes spells will go wrong. Especially when one is drunk or tired." – he pauses, his lips pulling into a grin – "Or drunk and tired."

"I would appreciate it if you wouldn't…do that."

Hiran frowns, "What? Magic?"

Arthur nods, his half-lidded eyes more discerning than they should be at the given hour, particularly after everything they've done.

"With all due respect, your highness, didn't you spend years with Emr-Merlin at your side?"

"I never knew he was a sorcerer, not until after Camlann."

Hiran watches the king as his words trail off, his eyes focusing on some point on the floor. If he didn't know better, he would say that he could hear the faintest hint of resentment in Arthur's voice, but he knows better than to point it out. Emrys had always spoken fondly of his times with Arthur, when Hiran had been able to get him to speak of them at all. It seemed now that maybe not everything had been as pleasant as Emrys had said.

"I'll get you a towel, shall I?" Hiran says, inching towards the door. "Do you need help getting out of that?"

He gestures towards the whole of what Arthur's wearing, wondering at how the ancient armor survived the journey into Avalon and back. Arthur looks up at him wearily.

"I would appreciate the help."

Hiran nods before walking out of Ashima's room. He hesitates outside the door, wondering what they will do with Arthur in the morning. Emrys would have to come back at last. Hiran scoffs at the thought, wondering if they will even be able to locate him within a reasonable amount of time. After all, he knows that when Emrys doesn't want to be found, they can do nothing except wait until he comes back of his own accord.

Pulling her hair loose from the scarf she has tied around it, Viviane looks down at Merlin's prone body on the floor of her tent. She shakes her head at the sight, as she had thought debilitating the so-called greatest sorcerer would have been more of a challenge, and pulls the vial from the edge of the table. The solution within is glowing vermillion now, the spell she had cast earlier taking full effect. She had known from the moment she had woken up that morning that she would need to be prepared.

Visions of the future are one of the many gifts she has retained from her past life. It had taken years for her to remember, years of seeing a haunted-looking woman in the mirror, of thinking she was going mad from the strange dreams that felt so real. Her parents had been pushed to take her to a healer, but they could not have known that it was all she needed to remember. But she doesn't think of herself as Morgana. That woman, though a part of her, had been too consumed by hatred to think clearly. She would know better this time.

She doesn't entirely think of herself as Viviane, the name her parents had given her in this life, either. She prefers the name her father called her, her true name that only Druids and the Fair Folk can know. Rhiannon. A knight of the Seelie Court had told her it meant 'great queen'. Such a lovely thought, she had mused at the time. She sees it as a promise from fate.

The sound of her name being called pulls her from her thoughts. Slipping the vial of Merlin's blood into a pocket hidden in the folds of her skirt, she waves her hand through the smoke of her incense, uttering an incantation beneath her breath. The smoke swirls in air to form a silhouette of a face. Though she cannot see his face, she knows it is her informant from the London palace.

"My lady," he greets, his voice just loud enough for her to hear. "I hope I am not disturbing you."

She smiles at his usual courtesy, "Of course not."

"I have important news to-" he stops suddenly, the silhouette tilting to look down at the crumpled figure on the floor. "Who is that? If you don't mind my asking, of course."

"That, my friend, is the true form of the great Emrys," she tells him, not bothering to hide the pride in her voice.

"Is he dead?"

"No," she says, the word tasting like venom on her tongue. "Though Courage and Strength rise and fall like the tides, Magic cannot be wiped out. It is an intrinsic part of this world. He is merely asleep, trapped in a dream world within his own mind."

Her informant is quiet, giving only a slight hum of interest before he says, "I thought he would look more…well, more."

"You said you had news?"

The smoke silhouette seems to start at that, turning to face her once more, "Yes. My apologies. Your premonition has come upon us quicker than we had expected."

That stops her satisfaction with her accomplishments in a heartbeat, "What?"

"Arthur Pendragon was brought to the palace this night."

The part of her that is still deeply rooted in her past screams in rage, making her blood boil at the thought of the arrogant king, but the rest of her smothers that thought. If Courage has returned so soon, then she must tread with caution. She may be able to see the future but not everything is clear in her visions. She must think carefully about what this means.

"Are you certain it was Arthur?"

It might seem silly to her informant, but she has to be absolutely assured that it really is Arthur. After all, it may have been a mistake, and there is no use jumping to conclusions without guarantees.

The silhouette nods, "I saw him with my own eyes. He was pulled out of the Thames by the boy – the one Emrys favored. Hiran Suresh."

Viviane's eyes narrow at that, "The cambion?"

"Yes," the silhouette says, giving another nod. "He was with two others, boys in training to be Royal Guard."

"Their names?"

"Cruz and Mitchell."

Their names don't particularly mean anything to her. She has yet to figure out if any of them are actually of importance in the grand scheme of things, but she likes to know about them just in case. It allows her to judge their character from afar, to seek out potential allies in the heart of Merlin's precious Guard, and it doesn't hurt to keep track of the people who come and go in the palace.

"What do they intend to do with him?" she asks. "With Arthur?"

The silhouette bobs slightly, a gesture that had taken her a long time to recognize as a shrug in the past, "That has yet to be determined. He was brought in at a fairly early hour and it was decided that they would wait until after the dawn."

"Where is he now?"

Her informant grimaces, or grimaces as much as he can given that he is speaking to her through smoke, and says, "He is in Suresh's chambers."

She swears under her breath and, if her informant hears her, he says nothing about it. If Arthur is in Hiran's chambers, she knows he is well protected. Though not a Guard, her informant has told her of how he acts, how he works twice as hard for half of the recognition. She knows how much he believes in what the Guard stands for. If it comes down to it, she knows he will defend Arthur.

But, if her visions are correct, she could also find him standing at her side when the time comes for her to make the final move. She will use her informant to push him towards resentment. After all, there is only so far one can surround oneself with prejudice before one snaps. She will bide her time and, in the end, he will come to her.

"Is there anything you would have me do, my Lady?"

She shakes her head, "Leave things as they are, for now. Nothing changes until I know how they will react to this new piece on the board."

"Yes, my Lady," her informant says, but he does not end the spell.

The smoke turns back to Merlin, its head cocking to the side like a confused dog. Viviane gets the sense that he wants to ask a question, one that could potentially anger her, and is holding his tongue. She taps her nails against the table's surface as she waits. When he doesn't say anything, she clears her throat.

"If you have something you wish to say, speak and be done with it."

"What do you intend to do with Emrys?"

She smiles at that, knowing that it will make no difference if she divulges the answer, "He has changed in the centuries since Morgana knew him. Waiting for so long for his precious Arthur, not receiving so much as a sign of his return, has made him more callous. Not only did he watch the failure of his fate, but the death of everyone he ever deemed to call a friend. He blames himself for his shortcomings. If there is anyone who can torment him after all he has seen, it is himself."

There is something unreadable in the silence that follows. She suddenly wishes she had a more stable form of communication, something which would allow her to gauge what her informant is thinking.

"Is that not cruel?"

Viviane laughs, "Do not tell me you've grown soft – that you care for him in any way."

When he doesn't answer, she takes it upon herself to continue.

"No, my friend. What is cruel is pretending to be a friend, letting someone give you their trust, and then betraying them. What I am doing is a kindness compared to what he did to me."