Naked.

Mordred returned to the abandoned block of flats Old Religion had overrun as Nimueh took him to the last stop of the day's tour. Testing his magical abilities had been the first stage. The second: orientation. She was leading him through an unfamiliar floor. Less people, more boxes, more questions. 'What are the crates for?'

'Drugs,' she said, slowing her pace to accommodate his curiosity.

'Drugs?' he repeated, the wooden boxes losing mystery and playing host to dread. The girl he'd seen injecting herself, the drugs had been provided by her own kind. It was horrific, understandable, frustrating.

'Hard of hearing, Mordred?' Nimueh mocked. Her ethereal beauty felt out of place in the surroundings. He probably suited them well. 'They're the one thing which can actually suppress the corruption of magic, remember?'

'You have a lot of it.'

'Well, it's not just drugs,' she explained. He'd been feeling more tired each day he spent with her, with them. His own lies were equally matched with whatever they kept hidden. It made his skin crawl. 'What you did last night was an important step. You shouldn't mourn their deaths.'

His gut wrenched. 'What should I do, then?'

'You're very eager. The rumours must be true,' Nimueh remarked with a curl of her lips.

'Rumours?'

'Did you know those with magic can sense their kindred?'

She had an annoying affinity for melodrama. 'Yes.'

'Well, people feel you, Mordred. Your magic. It's much stronger than most.'

'Stronger than yours?' he asked, part jokingly, and he quirked his brow to sell it as such. Part of the question yearned for a genuine answer, to confirm whether he could take her out. He had talent in smiles and lies, and testing her talent was hard, near impossible.

'Careful now,' she said, pale hand opening a door to reveal a room covered in papers, books, more crates. 'I'd like you to meet Edwin Muirden.'

'Mordred, what an honour,' the supposed Edwin Muirden rushed, taking his hand a shaking it with both of his own. They were hot, slightly sweaty. The man's hair was longer than most, a washed out brown with a ginger tinge. Half of his face had scarred skin, shiny and uneven. It left him gruesomely mangled. Mordred could smell the smoke of the fire which had singed and destroyed the cells.

'He's our pharmacist, of sorts. Makes sure the drugs are safe, among other things. He's also essential to the plan. Like you.'

'How do you make them safe?' Mordred asked as he circled around the room. Flasks and vials and tubes. Experimentation, chemistry, powders of assorted colours, it all layered the heavy wooden tables. The air was clogged with the strange and magical vapours.

'I remove any dangerous impurities. Ensure the antagonists, or agonists, contained do not harm the nervous system. Ensure they give the user the relief they deserve.'

'Relief,' Mordred murmured. The choice seeming wrong in Edwin's use. 'You give it a high price. Drugs are addictive. Sometimes deadly. Can your magic promise no risk?'

'Sadly not. My gifts cannot compare to yours. Some would say it's a risk worth taking,' he said, hand encasing the other in front of his chest. They parted to extend towards him elaborately. 'It truly is an honour.'

Mordred couldn't bring himself to fake a smile. 'I'm sure it is.'

'You can think of me as a doctor. Nimueh here is the strategist, and you,' Edwin paused, folding his arms. 'You are the sword. Deliver the killing blow. Magic has its foundations in the Old ways. Tradition. I must admit I've become a bit obsessed with it. Something you can sympathise with, yes? The modern world has no such interest from me. To have such a weapon marry the roots of magic? It's remarkable.'

'Thank you, Edwin,' Nimueh silenced him, inviting Mordred to leave. He accepted whole heartedly, savouring the cleaner air in the corridor.

She gave him an understanding look as they headed back outside. 'The fumes have created a surreal reality within his mind. Makes his magic more effective thankfully, but it has its side effects.'

'He's mad,' Mordred clarified. 'You have a man man checking on the safety of illegal drugs.'

'Before you leave, I think it's time you hear more about the war I intend to create,' Nimueh said. He wanted nothing more than to escape into the night air, go back to his temporary home, wash off the grime. He couldn't. This was what he'd been hoping for. He stayed. He listened.

.

Mordred got back to his hotel room later than planned, mind racing. Pulling off the jacket he snatched up the room's phone and called Aglain, heart pumping.

'Mordred?'

'A rebellion,' he huffed, catching his breath. 'They're going to provoke a rebellion and try to replace Parliament, even the monarchy. Take them prisoner.'

'Slow down, Mordred. Are you sure?'

He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. 'That's what Nimueh told me.'

'How are they going to do it?'

'I don't know yet. I don't think I'm-'

'Mordred, you're doing well,' Aglain said. Mordred started undoing the buttons of his shirt. 'Better than any of the others. Less that a week and already we have more than we've ever had before. We need to be sure, though. If you say that's their plan, I'll need more evidence before we can make our move.'

'Yeah,' he mumbled, appreciating the cool air on his bare chest when he tugged the shirt off, leaving it in a navy pile on the dresser. Breaking ceramic sounded from outside. The fighting couple. They hadn't failed to alert him of their issues for the last three nights, why would this night be any different? A thud. Another crack.

'You'll be out soon and back to your home, Morgana, okay?' Aglain continued, but the second heavy thud followed by a groan kept Mordred's attention.

'I've got to go.'

'Mordred? Is something happening?'

He hung up, sliding the phone back into its hub. No more noises. He moved towards the door.

It splintered inwards, the magic hitting him like a brick wall. A hand latched around his throat and rammed him to the ground.

'It was you. Falsifying evidence? Have to say that's pretty low,' Merlin growled, both hands clasped tightly around his neck. His eyes burned golden in the shadows pouring over them. Mordred pushed at him, but he didn't budge. 'Destroying the bridge was sadistic. They were children. They died because of you. Just got their licence and killed because of you.'

Winds blew outwards, swirled and took half the room's contents flying. The door slammed shut. Mordred tried to pull at Merlin's fingers but they were locked like a statue around his skin. The rough fabric of Merlin's jeans scratched against his exposed skin, the biting cold seeping into his bones. Merlin's words seemed to bury themselves deep in his mind, forcing him to listen.

'The doctors there to help you were left in their own blood for fuck's sake. Everywhere you go, death and more death and you wanted to make me one of them, didn't you? Didn't you?' The question made Mordred's eardrums ache, even bleed. Merlin was infusing his voice with magic, accidentally or purposefully. 'You killed him and I loved you. I fucking loved you, and you were the one who killed him.'

His grip lessened enough for Mordred to croak, 'Killed who?'

'Arthur.'

'He's alive.'

'Don't tell me you don't remember,' he snarled.

'Merlin, get off me,' Mordred said. The hands squeezed, cutting off the blood flow. His face heated up. The pooling blood burned behind his eyes and his chest screamed for oxygen. The gold churned and grew brighter as it fed Merlin's muscles with relentless strength.

He leaned down, face a thread's width away. 'Why? You didn't.'

Mordred's vision became blotchy. His regret. His defeat. A missed chance in both times. He wouldn't deny it, but like hell would he be killed by him. Eyes squeezed shut he lashed out with his magic. A red gash ran down Merlin's cheek. He struck Mordred with a fist. The metallic taste flooded his mouth. Merlin's hands were gone, the warlock, the detective, falling onto the bed, covering his face. Blood stained his knuckle. Sitting up in spite of the complaining muscles, Mordred assessed the situation as he rubbed the sore skin of his throat. The room was trashed. The shadows and winds gone. Merlin cradled his head, elbows balanced on his knees. No longer bony with their proper muscle.

'You're a bastard,' he mumbled, looking up when Mordred sat down next to him. The soft bed was a treasure compared to the floor. Merlin's thick eyebrows seemed to sit lower on his brow, wiping the innocence, ignorance, awkwardness, from his features. He'd had a hand in it. He didn't doubt what Merlin had said. They were echoes of what he'd accepted weeks ago. He couldn't escape it.

'I didn't fake any evidence, but the rest? For that I am a bastard.'

Merlin looked at him with his real eyes. Human eyes. 'You remember?'

'I do,' Mordred said, knowing he anger and hurt he saw in Merlin was mirrored in his own expression too. 'Guess this means it's not just my imagination.'

'Guess not,' he muttered. Mordred felt naked. Not because of his bare chest, not the emotion, the attack. Merlin was looking at him and seeing through the facade. He saw through it all. 'When did you break Morgana's enchantment?'

'It's been almost four months now.'

'How?'

'I was fighting it the whole time. Finally broke free,' he said, fingers tracing the mark over his heart with shivers running through his chest, around his shoulders. The ink which blackened his mind had imprinted the story, the spell, onto his skin. Ancient magic. Even if he was free, he could never forget. 'How could you tell?'

'Your eyes. When you left Kilgharrah's office, said my name using magic, I felt it. Saw it,' Merlin explained softly, eyes dropping to his chest. The tattoo. 'Does it hurt?'

'Unbearable sometimes.'

Mordred didn't stop Merlin from reaching out, tracing the black knots and twists with his cold fingers. More shivers. Mordred didn't want to act, to fight, to forget. Right then he wanted Merlin, wanted to hold him. He didn't.

'I hear the battlefield every night,' he said instead.

Merlin's fingers stopped following the pattern on his skin. 'Camlann?'

'Where the prophecies screwed us all over.'

His cold hand left the tattoo, resting on the duvet next to Mordred's. 'I hoped this was all a dream when I remembered.'

'In a way, it is. It's only real in our heads. Look at the rest of them. They have no clue,' Mordred said, realising why they all seemed disjointed, something muffling the usual buzz of Gwaine, Percy. Their looks of derision remained at least.

'Why is that?'

'I don't know. Maybe magic has something to do with it,' he said, watching Merlin. The stubble he'd let grown out, the haunted look in his eyes, the coagulating wound which dove across his cheek like a brushstroke. 'I fought, Merlin. Hard. I wish . . . I had no idea before, about magic, about any of it. If I had-'

'I know. It's okay.'

'No, it's not. It can never be-'

'It can be if I say it is. I'm sick and tired of fate. Of people like Morgana. If I can control one thing in my life, I want to control this,' Merlin said. His hand moved to cover Mordred's. The sensation was alien. Comforting. Merlin's cold permeated his skin and Mordred did his best to warm him with small doses of magic. 'It wasn't you. Wasn't me. It was Morgana. Morgause. You say you fought and I believe you.'

Mordred noticed that Merlin was studying him too. 'What is it you see in my eyes? I have to ask.'

'I'll tell you if answer a question of mine.'

'What?'

The corner of his lips twitched. 'What the fuck are you doing in this place?'

'Confidential,' he said flatly. 'Your turn.'

'I see,' Merlin started, his stare seeming to delve into his thoughts, his magic lingering over the mark on his chest. 'Oceans. A storm. The waves and the sky alive and filled with colour.'

'And this storm, the colour, reveals my temperament, does it?'

A throaty chuckle broke out of Merlin, partnered with a bright smile. 'Yeah, dead give away. Especially now. My magic's stronger and yours is too.'

Another pause. 'Do you really think it was Morgana? That the blame is hers alone?'

'I'm exceptionally rational when I have to be. Want to be.'

'Tonight isn't the best example,' Mordred said with a matching smile. It dimmed as he felt Merlin's hand finally warm. Noticed the ghosts of what he did swimming in the night skies he saw in Merlin's eyes. 'If I can't forgive myself for it?'

'You don't have to,' Merlin said. Soft words but firm. 'We drag the past with us. Everyone does. If you can cut the ties, then you can. If you can't, you adapt. Either way we make new connections. Better ones. Get stronger.'

'You're doing well on the getting stronger front.'

'Hey, you've already made a new connection with me,' he pointed out, nudging Mordred with his shoulder. 'Still, "messed up" barely covers this situation.'

'At least it's unique.'

'Should we feel special then?'

'In a really depressing way? God yes,' Mordred said with a smile. He lifted his free hand up towards Merlin's face. The movement was slow, eyes checking with him if it was okay. No rejection. He pressed his thumb lightly against the one end of the gash. Running it up along the injury he let his magic stitch and sew the skin back together, soothe it. His hand remained there, resting against the defined cheekbone, the hollow. He felt too cold. Mordred only pulled it back once he'd left a small spell on his skin. Temporary, harmless, designed to warm him up.

The decimated door sat in the background, jagged splinters of wood sticking out haphazardly. 'What did you actually do out there?'

'They'll be fine. Blame it on robbers or something.' Merlin brushed it off. He turned his hand around, lacing his fingers with Mordred's in a gentle but secure grip. 'Let me show you something.'

The stars, cosmic dust and ghosts in Merlin's eyes were masked by the growing light, the magic surging through their connected hands. Mordred was pulled into his past. Into his heart.

.

.

.

Merlin dropped in the final pile of books, stuffing the empty space in the box with an old hoodie. A stack of cardboard boxes had grown in the living room and his belongings around the flat decreased day by day. He'd begun packing the morning after he attacked Mordred a week beforehand to the day.

Gwaine plodded over to him from the bedroom, a black leather jacket held in his fist. 'This yours?'

Mordred's. He'd insisted Merlin take it when he left, to keep warm. 'Yeah.'

'Seems a bit big,' he said, regarding it sceptically as he held it up against Merlin's torso.

Merlin scoffed as he sealed the box with a strip of scotch tape. 'Not everything needs a skin tight fit.'

'What? I'm proud of what nature gave me,' he said with a mischievous grin.

'I bet you are,' Merlin muttered, crouching down to tape another box shut. 'We can pack the jacket in loose.'

Gwaine threw it over the back of the sofa. 'Arthur keeping an eye on Aredian?'

'Think so. With Leon. Not that it's any use. A week and he's done nothing suspicious, early morning or late at night.'

'Is he still pushing for Maclain to know about magic?'

Merlin breathed deeply. 'Yeah. He's got a point, but-'

'It's not worth it,' Gwaine said. He crossed his ankles over leaning against the sofa's arm. 'We can always take Aredian out back, put a bullet in him and throw him in the Thames.'

'Don't joke,' Merlin warned as he leapt up and grabbed a sharpie to label the box.

'This stuff goes beyond normal law and order,' he continued.

'Doesn't mean we will,' Merlin said, scrawling BOOKS onto the brown surface. 'That's the last.'

'You and Arthur,' Gwaine began, waiting for Merlin to pay him complete attention. 'Do you want to keep it going?'

'Yes and no,' he said, clicking the cap back onto the pen using his palm.

'Bet Dr Ruadan loves his sessions with you.'

'According to him, I've had a break through,' Merlin recalled with an amused twitch in his lips.

'With what?'

Merlin smiled and dropped the pen onto the coffee table before he shrugged on his own jacket. 'My issues.'

'Play the mysterious game all you like. I'm your best friend in this world and the last so you'll open up eventually,' Gwaine said. Merlin looked at him long and hard. *And the last?* Gwaine picked up on the expression of confusion and concern and adopted a false look of deep thought and ambivalence. 'Didn't I mention it? You've got a big mouth when you're drunk.'

Had he . . .? Did he tell him? 'The drink we had after we broke into Aredian's? It's been over a week since that, Gwaine.'

'A big mouth and a pathetic memory. Didn't think you were that far gone,' he remarked as he pushed away from the sofa and pulled out his keys, twirling them around his finger. 'So, technically, I'm Sir Gwaine. Being a knight.'

'What exactly did I-'

He didn't bother hiding his smug grin. 'Rambled on about being a manservant, which is pretty kinky if you ask me. Also something which stuck with me. Hard to get that mental image out of your head. The rest was stuff about dragons, big baddies, my charm and allure, that kind of thing.'

'You believe it?' Merlin asked, assessing anything and everything he could. The greenish hue which clung to Gwaine seemed to glow as usual, bright, full of life. No negativity there. At least not aimed towards him.

'I'm open to anything at this point in my life, Merlin. Magic exists after all, why not fucked up reincarnation?'

'Grab some boxes and let's go, we have work in two hours,' he said, another weight lifting off his chest. Disclosure with Mordred had been intoxicating, literally magical, and left him feeling less alone. Gwaine's awareness strengthened that feeling. 'You really shouldn't keep that kind of thing to yourself.'

The detective piled up to boxes and hauled them up with little trouble. 'You're one to talk.'

They began to fill Gwaine's car, the boot first, then the backseats. Box by box Merlin left Arthur's flat. The home they had shared. The home which made him want to laugh hysterically and break down at the same time. He had to go. Gwaine's light jabs and questions about their past lives kept Merlin together as they packed. The suffocating touch of Aredian hovered over him the whole time. Reminded him why leaving was so important. He had to protect Arthur. From people like the witch hunter. From himself.

.

.

.

The powders rose in coiling ribbons, mustard yellow and light blue winding around one another as Edwin whispered an incantation. Mordred watched it with some interest, but his chest could still feel Merlin's touch and magic. He hadn't seen him since, thanks to Nimueh's insistence he integrate more fully into Old Religion. 'Is it possible to see past lives? To see a previous existence and show it to another person?'

'The gift of prophecy,' Edwin said, brushing one finger against the streams of powders which now merged together, grain fusing with grain. 'It hasn't been given for centuries. There's a handful in the world who turn with the wheel of the Old Gods. Their lives create the veil between worlds.'

He sighed. 'It sounds like a story. Fiction.'

'Such visions, if honestly told, speak of a connection with Earth rarely experienced,' Edwin continued, letting the green grains pool back into the mortar before looking at him. 'Have you had one?'

'No.'

He smiled, the scarred half of his face crumpling strangely. 'Your surname's Leir, is it?'

'Yes,' Mordred said. It wasn't something he liked to share but what choice did he have? It shed his childhood, replacing the varied selection of surnames he'd lived with. Even a changed name told of a past, though. Like his time spent in hiding centuries before, he'd run dry on luck when it came to upbringings.

'You should be proud of your name. Your heritage is rich. I feel your power everyday,' Edwin said with that unnerving smile, the green powder now joined by small leaves which drifted into the mix from their jar of their own accord. The pestle began to scrape and mash and crush it all together. 'I also know about your encounter with Merlin Emrys. If Nimueh were to discover the meeting? Her trust in you would utterly fail. Still you intrigue me, Mordred Leir. Why don't you try some? It's a rite of passage in Old Religion.'

Mordred eyed the bags of snowy powder Edwin gestured to. 'It's fine. My magic doesn't bother me.'

'How about this then?' he asked, the pestle floating to the work surface. Edwin reached in and grabbed some of the mixture, piling it neatly onto the centre crease of filter paper. 'It's my own mixture. Some harmless herbs only, I assure you.'

'Harmless?'

Edwin sealed the two sides of the paper together, a perfect roll of whatever it was created and prepared. He picked it up between finger and thumb, lighting the one end with a flame which sputtered out of a free fingertip. Smoke rose and leaves were singed, an amber glow shining out at the one end. He offered it to Mordred. 'Completely.'

If he built trust with Edwin, he'd have better chance of stealing some of the drugs. Enough evidence for Aglain to order a raid on their operations? Mordred took it, putting it between his lips and inhaling the concoction.

'Nimueh doesn't care for politics, for interference from the justice system. She just wants to hurt them,' Edwin explained, watching Mordred breathe in the fumes. It tasted bitter and metallic, like the blood when Merlin hit him. There was a sweetness too, like fruit, and even heat from a spice like cinnamon. The flavours and scents collided together and bathed his lungs, mouth, nose in their signature.

'Politicians?' Mordred asked, the tinged and used vapours escaping his body when he exhaled.

'The people with power, those who abuse it. This isn't a grand plot of terrorism or rebellion, Mordred Leir. It's underhanded, manipulative. We control them, and we control the power,' he said, the sombre expression he bore more suited to the injury marking his face. Until death do they part? Edwin would be buried or burned with the wound. Like he would die with the ink carved into his own skin. 'Open the eyes of the people to real strength.'

The tastes and flavours clouded Mordred's thoughts. 'It'll never work.'

'Not peacefully. It's a recipe for blood and war, but she's let her hate fester for over a thousand years. She's strong enough now to act on it. Only with you. A fist needs a sword to kill.'

'I won't do it,' Mordred said. Blunt and honest. Hateful. The smoke made his limbs weightless, his thoughts knotted and small. 'I'm not going to kill anyone.'

Edwin chuckled, the unpleasant sound stretching and shifting pitch in Mordred's mind. 'You already have.'