New Battle.

'What would you like to know?'

'Anything. Everything,' he responded. Lifting his tumbler to touch his lips, he savoured the dark golden burn of the scotch as it ran from his tongue down his throat. A smooth smile eased itself onto his ageing features.

The middle-aged politician laughed. 'Want to narrow down the field?'

'I'll let you decide what's up for discussion,' he said firmly, politely. The gentle lighting in the room accentuated the oaks and richly coloured curtains, but couldn't fight off the darkness of the night air which pushed against the french doors. It left the two of them confined in a space reserved for government, formality and business.

'In that case, I think my newest project is a good place to start,' the politician continued, sinking into the comfort of his pride and self-indulgence.

'Please, enlighten me,' he began, but the flash of arrogance in the man's eyes stopped him short of letting him enlighten. He had his own business to discuss after all. 'I must admit, I do have just one question.'

'Shoot.'

Placing the heavy glass onto the table he leaned forward, clasping his hands together. The politician mirrored his action. 'Do you believe in magic?'

'I, uh, I'm not quite sure what you mean,' he said, words stumbling ever so slightly as he rested back into the baroque chair. The smooth smile grew in turn before he wiped it away and replaced it with furrowed brows.

'Sure? No matter. Please, do continue. you were saying? A new project?' he pressed. The politician tapped his finger on the arm of the chair, the spark in his eyes dulled by concern. Worn down by growing realisation.

'Yes, yes, um, well it's really quite innovative,' he rattled off, touching his tie, taking another drink of his scotch. It was an impressive swig, and he downed all of the amber fluid. A cough followed.

'Bit strong?' he asked, eyebrow quirked up. The man stifled another splutter with a hand and shot him a stare of confusion. 'The scotch?'

When the politician's next few breaths struggled out with coughs and wheezes, he stood and walked around the desk. A hand comforted him, felt the expensive fabric of the bespoke suit. The man's skin was reddening, his heart thumping away in panic within his chest.

He lowered his head down to the man's face and spoke softly. 'I want you to concentrate, Mr Thornberry. That pain in your chest? Fire. Right now it's burning away your internal organs, blood, heart. All of it.'

His hand felt the heart thud with admirable force. 'Wha-'

'This world needs salvation, Tom, and it's going to start with you,' he continued, soothing him with his hand, supporting himself with another on the desk. 'I can't thank you enough for the trail you left. Led me straight from the witch, to you. You are essential. Irreplaceable.'

Tom Thornberry's body began to spasm, his hands clutching at the desk, then at him. The politician's fingers dug into his shoulder, their grip fierce and never faltering. Their eyes met, his own grey with the other man's depthless brown. The breaths were laboured, all dignity slipping away as quickly as his life. Spit, drool, whatever you wanted to call it dribbled out of his mouth. It wet his face, soon joined by tears. Like the scotch, he savoured the burning in the air, under the man's skin. How the air shook with the heat of the politician's dying breaths. The flickering gold in the man's eyes which found itself smothered by flame.

Then the calmness when the fingers lost their grip, the terror in the burning eyes washed out and replaced by ambivalence. Death. Carefully, he rested Thornberry's body back onto the chair, onto the desk. With his own handkerchief he cleaned the dead politician's face, leaving only a lingering red pigment which was already cooling into a pale sheen. He finished his own drink and placed it back onto the tray on his way out of the study.

.

.

.

Mordred tugged on the second sock and laced up his Oxford shoes, feeling the bed shift beneath him as one of his companions stirred.

'Good morning,' he said, craning his head back to see the man sit up and give him a disappointed look. He'd forgotten to learn the man's name.

'No round two?' the nameless man inquired as he pushed the rumpled duvet down to reveal more of his chest.

Mordred got up to his feet and did up the blazer's buttons. 'Another time maybe.'

'Too bad,' a soft voice huffed beside the nameless man. She poked her head out, hair frayed and wild with a similar animalistic glint in her dark eyes. Kara. Her, he remembered. 'Don't suppose you'll be coming back later?'

Taking a cursory glance at the mirror he grabbed his bag and helmet, pulling the door open. It was quite the sight, the two of them staring at him with a mixture of irritation, lust and acceptance. Naked all but for the bed cover. Himself suit-wearing, showered and shaven.

'Don't count on it,' he finally said as he left and shut the door. Closed out that life. Down the flights of stairs, onto the pavement, finding his bike. The air outside was warm but crisp with the cool breeze and complimented by the early morning sun daring to show itself. The streets were alive with traffic and pedestrians, as if that day were like any other. He'd missed the beat of life in London. Ensuring the bag was secured with the strap around his chest he climbed onto the motorbike and positioned it snuggly behind him.

Pulling the helmet down over his head, he muffled the world and left himself devoid of distractions. Ignite the engine, kick up the stand and pull into the throngs of traffic. Mordred weaved through the circuit of roads, rows of cars and buses until he finally pulled up where a mass of spectators and reporters had formed. He could barely see pass them, but once he'd parked the bike and removed the helmet he was able to move through them. It took time, fumbling and stumbling but he emerged to see her.

Through the black gates which were now opening, there were officers and men in suits flanking her until they broke off and left her on a solitary march down the path. Leaving the ranks of the journalists he headed forwards to meet her, trying to ignore the camera flashes and invasive questions they threw out at him. Her hair was delicately curled, skin free from any blemish and piercing eyes still alight with that unnerving determination.

'Mordred,' she remarked when she reached the last step. 'Come to save me?' The sunlight caught the shine of her pink lips, no longer hidden by the bloody lipstick. They spread into a grin of triumph, and his chest constricted with the memories.

His thoughts tripped for only a second. 'What else?'

Walking by her side he now turned to face the press.

'What does the false arrest say about the state of the Met?' a young woman asked as a semi circle formed around the pair. Morgana had their complete attention, leaving Mordred out of it. She hadn't lost any of her appeal to the public, not in personality or appearance and her temporary time in prison had, if anything, left her with another, sharper, edge. The tightness in his chest refused to loosen, and Mordred did his best to focus on the press coverage. Submerge the heavy weight pulling at his mind, forget about it.

'They did what they thought was best,' she said, her voice flattering and humble. 'The right people have now been apprehended and that's what matters.'

'And DS Emrys' statement naming you the leader of the Old Religion cult?' she challenged, the microphone held steadily to capture whatever Morgana chose to say. Capture it, catalogue it, and blare it back out to the public.

'From what I hear he's the best detective London has seen in decades. One mistake is hardly career changing, and this one shouldn't be. He followed the evidence, and there was no way to know it was misleading.'

Another round of clicks from the cameras, lens adjustments made for recordings and too many queries later he took Morgana by the arm and led her away. The journalists left them alone, and he found the isolation even worse. For months he knew this day was coming. For months he had endeavoured to ignore it. Before that he hadn't cared. Morgana was free, Merlin a sham, himself a victim. Now her magic tested him with every step they took along the pavement, identifying what she'd known before they arrested her. He let her find what she expected. Drip fed the oozing obsession, the desire and twisted adoration for a man he had almost destroyed. He'd had time to perfect his own magic, to perfect the façade he now employed.

Before she could start a proper conversation with him he hailed a cab for her, gave the driver the address and followed with his bike.

.

.

.

'I have a new case for you,' Agravaine announced, inciting Arthur to look up from the insurmountable amount of paperwork he was tackling. While their success rate was a good thing, it also meant more time filing away the cases. The process was automatic and verged on tedious, leaving him free to roam his thoughts. The last thing he wanted to do.

'A key figure in the Department for Education, Thomas Thornberry, was found dead in his home study late this morning. When he failed to show to a meeting they sent somebody round. Forensics teams have already set up, and since foul play is suspected-' He gestured towards Arthur.

'I'll get right on it,' he said and leapt out of his seat, grabbing his keys and making for the exit. A hand stopped him.

Agravaine nudged him back a step before adding, 'DS Emrys needs to go with you. He has the best reputation out of the lot of you, and the press will be crawling all over this case.'

Arthur felt his heart beat heavier.

'His reputation is a bit controversial too, though,' Gwen reminded them, leaving her own work to help out. 'And it's his day off.'

'It's good enough to settle people's nerves, and if every officer got to ignore cases because of breaks, or holidays, Scotland Yard would be filled with layabouts and invalids,' he sniped. A pungent smell emanated from his superior, and then Arthur noticed the gel in Agravaine's hair. He pursed his lips slightly at the disconcerting sight and held his tongue. 'DS Emrys needs to show up to that man's house with or without you. Understand?'

'Yes, sir,' Arthur bit out.

'Excellent. I'm positive you're team will solve this one just like the last … hundred? I've lost count these past few months,' Agravaine said, giving Arthur a pat and slinking back into his office.

'Want me to come with?' Gwen offered, fully prepared to finish her own mound of work later.

'Gwen, you really are the kindest person I know,' he said while he dug into his pocket for his mobile, 'but no.'

He thumbed in the message and sent it before charging down to his car.

.

.

.

The ache in his muscles was still fresh, the ghostly thumps of his heart still in his ears. His showered hair had dried, and his body felt renewed from the exercise. It left a buzz in every sinew, even as he sat in the café watching the world with the coffee. Nobody batted an eye at him, too absorbed in their own lives, and he felt the freedom, felt like he could take a full breath. Only he couldn't. Not completely.

The low chatter from the other patrons blurred together and Merlin nursed the hot caffeine, watching the steam coil and snake up into the air. Through it he stared into a maze of colours. The magic thrummed through him in time with his breath, his movement. It cast a new eye onto the world and did twice as much after a workout, so he watched. The steam, the imperfections in the glass, the lives of each stranger. Each one tinged with their thoughts, loves, hates, experience. Some had an odd glimmer, others carried more shadows than others. He saw it all, the stain of their existences trailing behind them like their footsteps, broken only by the next story, the next life.

Morgana La Fey, formerly Pendragon, was released from HM Prison Holloway only an hour ago.

The news pierced his reverie. Silently cursing whoever chose to listen to Radio 1 he took another sip of the coffee, sweet and bitter. Vibrations ran through his thigh and up to his hip. Checking his phone he saw Arthur's text. It verged on a threat. "New case. Job's on the line." Merlin eyed the address and sighed deeply. His first day away from work in months couldn't even be salvaged. He took one last moment to appreciate the calming atmosphere, the buzz, the warmth, the smooth wood of the counter, the sound of life. Forcing himself away from it all he snatched up the gym bag and slipped onto the street, heading to the edge of a busy crowd. Merging with them, he took the next instant to Vanish. Since Christmas, since he broke down that door into his real potential, the magic had grown. With it came new abilities. At first it was accident, Vanishing and appearing at the hospital. Now he could do it at will.

Physics, the possible, were all ripped to shreds long ago and every cell in his body felt buildings, the bricks and cement, and people, the fibres of their clothes, the heat of their skin and rushing blood. It all tore through him and then he stepped onto the pavement next to a police car. A PC recognised him and showed him to the suits, taking the gym bag and noting his casual attire. Pulling the sterile white suit on over his jeans and shirt he leaned down to tie on the shoe covers when a shadow moved over him. Looking up he saw Gwaine's smiling face.

'Working on your day off, eh?' he remarked. 'It's a tough life.'

'If killers had manners our jobs would be that much easier,' Merlin said, mood lifting with the joy he felt in his friend. 'Gwaine, can you go and make sure the reporters keep out of our way?'

'Sure thing, DS Emrys,' the Irishman said, emphasising the 'DS' enough for Merlin to notice his formal address. His promotion wasn't even two weeks old, and Gwaine acted like it was yesterday. With a calmer disposition he entered the crime scene, flashing his warrant card as he ducked under the police tape.

'DS Emrys. I'm the scene manager, Dr Eleanor Reed,' a woman said when he stepped across the front door's threshold. 'The victim, Caucasian male, has no clear cause of death. I would guess heart attack, but I don't like guessing.'

'I don't either.'

He followed her as she led him through the small foyer into the kitchen.

'It appears he had company last night, possibly the killer,' she continued and paused before a room, lifting the face mask up and over her mouth and nose. He did the same before she led him in where two other forensic scientists were taking samples and pictures. The stepping plates which marked their path from the front door to the study branched off, circling around the desk in a square formation. The scientists shifted their work to the one branch, and Dr Reed led him closer to the body of Thomas Thornberry. Shifting out of the way she let him pass her to stand next to him, where he bent down and looked into the eyes now glazed over.

'There's another tumbler on the drinks cabinet, and it still has some liquid left inside,' Dr Reed went on to explain. Merlin stood up straight, eyes passing over the picture frames, the ash tray, the silver leaping wolf ornament. Beneath Thornberry's hand sat a leather bound book.

Reaching for it he stayed the action. 'May I?'

'Go ahead,' she replied, and he lifted the cold hand up. The rubber of the glove covering his fingers pressed into the dead skin and a hollow queasiness rushed through him. He fought against rejecting the sensation, letting it flow freely. Allowed the man's life, his memories to pour into him. Only it came out mangled, fragmented. Where he should have heard the echo of voices, of the killer if there was one, felt the chair Thornberry now sat in, he couldn't be sure of anything. Merlin couldn't see it happen. Couldn't see the murder, or his death.

'What's his story?'

Merlin jerked up a little. Arthur. Dr Reed had left, no doubt making a note of the new arrivals.

'I have no idea,' Merlin murmured, voice muffled by the mask as he slid out the book before putting Tom Thornberry's hand back down. He drooped it into an evidence bag and sealed it shut.

'Is it magic then?' Arthur's voice was a hushed whisper, the man himself standing on the stepping plate next to Merlin's.

Keeping his eyes focused on the bag he made to step pass Arthur. 'It's likely.'

The DS shifted and let him. Giving the bag over to one of the forensic's team he saw Dr Reed enter the room again.

'Approximate time of death?' he asked her.

'Somewhere between seven and ten last night. Personal assistant found him this morning,' she replied then shot an irritated glance back to the front door. 'The press want a comment from you.'

'On an active case? Not going to happen,' Merlin said, turning back and crouching down on the stepping plate. From the new angle he scrutinised the study, the patio he could see through the french doors.

'They're adamant,' she pressed.

'Tell them to fuck off.'

'Hey,' Arthur piped up. 'Don't take it out on the messenger.'

'No, no, it's a good idea,' Dr Reed said behind him. 'I'll leave you to your investigation.'

She left without another word, steps clacking on the metal plates, and Merlin focused his attention back onto the scene. He tried to coax out any further evidence, anything at all, but it was all broken. Missing.

'That was uncalled for,' Arthur said.

'What was?' he asked absent-mindedly, studying the fanned leaves of the plants, the small notches of the canvas painting hung up on the wall. The uneven spread of the paint smeared on the fabric.

Arthur remained fixed in place. 'Merlin, even if magic's blocking you out, we'll still figure this out.'

'I know we will,' he agreed, getting up and meeting the king's stare. The king. Ex-king. His head throbbed unpleasantly and he left, each step making breathing that much easier. He felt Arthur follow after a minute or two examining the scene for himself. Once outside he pulled down the hood of the suit, tugging off the mask, stripping off the suit as he walked. The road had been blocked off and he saw Gwaine keeping a watchful eye, but when the press saw him duck under the tape they came to life once again. Shoving the bundled suit and mask into the plastic box in the back of a forensics van he felt ice tap dance along his spine. He scoured the area, but there was nothing.

'What is it?' Arthur asked, disposing of his own suit.

'Nothing.'

Arthur looked out, following Merlin's eyes. 'Car's over here.'

With that he stepped away and Merlin waited a moment before he went to get into the passenger side. Gwaine was flirting with the PC who still held onto Merlin's gym bag.

'Thanks,' he muttered, taking it from them and receiving a wink from Gwaine.

'Oh, the Head of External Relations has requested a meeting with you,' the PC said and handed him a note before quickly returning her attention to the Irishman.

Merlin avoided the spectators as best he could following Arthur and threw the bag onto the back seat before he climbed in, doing up his seat belt as Arthur pushed the key in and started the engine.

'Do you have any painkillers?' he asked after a long silence. Thornberry's house was two or so hours away from Scotland Yard, at least in the traffic they had to battle through. The throbbing in his head had become an aggressive drumming, repetitive and harsh.

'At the office,' Arthur murmured in reply.

He stared out of the window, at the darkened sky with clouds hanging low and dense. The sun seemed to resist any long stints in the sky. 'Right.'

'Merlin, you need to talk to me.'

He could feel it, Arthur trying to reach out to him. 'About?'

In one fell swoop Arthur had turned the steering wheel to the left and pulled over, parking with the machinery in the bonnet still humming, warm and ready to take off again.

'Let's start with your moving out,' he said, the weight of his attention pushing into the side of Merlin's face. Locking out the world he faced Arthur. Those eyes, they were wounded, angry. Surprisingly controlled for Arthur's temper. Another yank of nerves in his mind and another ache.

'It was a temporary set up to begin with, Arthur. It's been over six months after all,' he reasoned, but the words felt cruel and stung him just as much as they injured the DS.

'Don't pretend like this was always going to happen. Things were more than great and then you announce you're looking at flats and … Was it me?' he said, eyes darting away from him and back again with confusion. 'I wasn't the best after my father. I mean, I know that dealing with his will and Morgana, the CPS, all of it-'

'Arthur, please,' Merlin cut in. 'It's not you.'

'Christ,' he huffed, resting is head down on the steering wheel. The man's fair hair shifted, and in it Merlin could see the ghosts of leaves, disarray, an old sun's light brightening it.

'What?'

'I can't remember the last time you smiled,' Arthur whispered, still staring down the face of the wheel. Merlin was a second away from enveloping the man in a hug, forcing his lips to contort into something resembling a grin, but the pounding, the clenching in his chest, stopped him. 'Is it Mordred? His disappearance?'

'No,' he said flatly. That didn't matter. He wanted the monster gone. More so now than ever before. His heart wouldn't let the explanation escape, though. His mind was in agreement to withhold it too. Ignoring his physical refusal, Merlin covered Arthur's hand with his own. His fingers curled around it, matching how Arthur's hand was wrapped around the wheel. 'I know this is hurting you, but I'm moving out, not ending our relationship.'

'Then why does it feel like you are?' Arthur questioned, looking up with a dejected expression.

.

.

.

Mordred stood to the side. 'What do you think?'

'It's beautiful,' Morgana breathed, her eyes bright despite the darkening sky outside. She turned around in circles, taking in every inch of the new flat. 'I can't imagine you went out and bought all these things yourself.'

'I found the number of a personal shopper in your room,' he explained, letting his magic thread around his body to mask the agitation. 'She's lovely by the way.'

'Where'd you find the money?' she asked, running her hand down the silky fabric of the floor length curtains. They were light and blew with the soft breeze from the open balcony doors. A small place, but pleasant. Not the kind of place shadows would linger. He hoped.

'A generous settlement, sold my studio, and rather large donations from certain government officials,' he listed, leaning against the wall with hands in his trouser pockets. It took everything he had to relax his muscles and stance, project the indifferent posture. 'Magic too, obviously.'

'Obviously,' she echoed with a twitch of a smile. Morgana turned from the bookshelf. 'You seem happier than when I last saw you.'

'Well, you're out. They've reinstated you too,' Mordred said, feeling the smile etch itself onto his face.

Her thick eyebrows pushed together. 'They have?'

'It's all a big embarrassing mistake for the Met, and the press are lapping it all up,' he went on, pushing away from the wall and running a finger along the white table's wooden surface. It was uneven, the paint faded and chipped in some areas.

'What are they saying about you?'

'Old Religion kidnapped me from the hospital. All quite grizzly stuff, but some of the rumours are gold,' Mordred said, finger reaching the edge.

'And Merlin?'

'What about him?' He caught her glare, digging into him. Another surge to the net of magic around his skin and he laughed softly. 'Haven't seen him. Only came back to London last week, so. The whole trying to kill him thing hasn't really come up either. Wondering about your little enchantment, aren't you?'

Her smile was gone, but she didn't suspect. Not yet. 'Yes.'

'Never thanked you for that, did I?' he asked, lifting his eyebrows and biting on his bottom lip, wetting it before freeing it once more.

The amusement sparked in her face. 'Thanked me?'

'Yeah, well thanks.' He rounded on her playfully and she grinned. Like a dance he stepped around her, each step placed with thought and strategy. Every twitch of his expression programmed. 'It's been an eye opening experience, to say the least.'

'Has the burning desire to kill him run its course?' Morgana queried, catching his gaze with her own.

It was almost too easy. 'Not quite yet. Tea?'

The joy in her face almost made him forget she hadn't changed. 'Sure.'

He left the dance, consoled himself, and found security in the kitchen. That was another thought he'd been fighting against. Morgana was his new battle, but Merlin had been his defeat. The cold sweat of night terrors brushed his skin in memory of the last few weeks. Reminded him. He didn't want the love he felt, cursed himself for it. She had stolen it from him, abused it.

He'd cared for it and recovered, broke the surface of that smothering sea. His powers were more than hers could ever be, and he didn't understand why. Didn't care why. Mordred turned on the kettle after refilling it. Merlin was his regret and his dream and he loathed Morgana more than he'd ever thought were possible for a human being. Then again, was he even human?