Madness.

Mordred covered his mouth as a yawn stretched it open. He blinked away the tired tears and checked the time on his watch. It's thin silver hands felt like old companions as it read seven thirty five. Exhaustion made each step heavier than it should have been, but the thought of a warm bed, of escaping the underwhelming world, kept him going.

'Congratulations, Mordred. You're the talk of the town,' Bayard said, a heavy hand falling down on his shoulder. He was less than ten feet from the exit, from escape. 'Out of curiosity, where exactly did Old Religion take you? The whole kidnapping thing was never really investigated. Shoddy police work if I've ever seen it. When did you escape? How did you?'

Mordred stifled another yawn and stepped out of the Chief Inspector's reach. 'Is this a formal interrogation?'

'No, no, just curious,' he assured him. While his thoughts felt like tar, his chest hollowed out, Mordred knew a liar when he saw one. Morgana had taught him an important life lesson. He was an expert too, wasn't he? Deception was a forte of his, whether he was morally corrupt under an enchantment or uncomfortably self aware. 'I'm just surprised. After disappearing for half a year you got a job with the Met so easily. Very surprised when I heard you had no substantial education too.'

Mordred narrowed his eyes. 'That's none of your business.'

'What about these disturbing rumours about you and Merlin?'

'What do you really want?'

Bayard grinned at him, earnestly laughing. 'The truth. What else? At my age you develop little patience for lies and corruption. I've seen plenty good men turn criminal and they nearly always influence those around them. Want to make sure you're not a victim of Merlin's fallout.'

'I'm not, and he's no criminal.'

'We'll see about that,' he said with a pointed look. 'He's in police custody right now. Found him at that dump Old Religion were using. I found him at Edwin Muirden's murder scene. Quite the coincidence, don't you think? Another man found dead, Old Religion, and Merlin mentioned by name.'

'By name?'

'Nice little note burned into the wall. Said "Come find me, Merlin." Don't know what games you lot are playing, but it's time to pack up and go,' Bayard said, at ease in his own authority. Mordred would have laughed at his ignorance if another flood of nausea hadn't been tumbling through his body. 'If you're involved in any way, your head will be on the chopping block. Same as his and whoever else's.'

'Thanks for the warning,' Mordred said and fetched up his last false smile of the day.

Bayard smacked him on the arm. 'What are friends for.'

Mordred drifted away once Bayard has retreated back to his lonely corner of Scotland Yard. Out of the door he made the long journey home. Home. It didn't quite feel like it. Nothing really did.

Mordred hesitated at his flat's door, the dying light outside rendered moot by the artificial bulbs' in the stairwell. He could hear the television. He pushed the key into the lock and twisted. The door accepted him, welcomed him back. To his left the hallway housed several doorways, two leading to bedrooms, one to the bathroom, one to the kitchen another to the living room. He could fall into bed and leave Morgana be. Make a cup of tea beforehand. He did neither.

She had her knees pulled up to her chest, keenly focused on the movie.

'What're you watching?' he said, moving to stand behind the sofa.

Morgana didn't look up at him when she answered, 'Stardust.'

Mordred recognised the scene currently playing with Claire Danes lying in a crater. He'd noticed Morgana had a penchant for fantasy and romance. He walked around the sofa and took his seat next to her. The balcony door was open again, gentle light and air filling the room. 'Merlin's in a holding cell. You have to tell them. Tomorrow. Tell everyone. Anyone.'

She looked at him. 'Is anyone important enough still in the office?'

'No, but first thing tomorrow-'

'I tell them,' she finished. It wasn't intrusive. It was understanding. He nodded. 'I was going to make bolognese. Want some?'

'I can help,' Mordred said and made to stand but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.

'Don't worry about it. I've seen this way too many times, so you can relax and I can cook,' she told him with a smile. 'It won't take long anyway.'

'Sure?'

'Exceptionally.'

She unfolded her long legs and was heading out of the room the next second, but she stopped before the doorway. 'Mordred?'

'Yeah?' he said and turned around, elbow hooked over the back of the sofa. He couldn't feel her magic. She'd never felt so separate from him. It felt more secure in one way, his own feelings and thoughts his alone, and the same for hers. In another way, a confusing and hateful way, he felt like he was missing more than his own magic. He was missing Merlin. He was missing

Morgana. Maybe their past lives, their powers, tied them together with strings none of them could ever cut. Not fully anyway. The solid cushions and frame of the sofa comforted him, kept his body grounded as his mind spun.

She paused. 'Everything will work out.'

He smiled. He couldn't help it. 'Are you trying to comfort me?'

'Might be,' Morgana said, hand holding onto the door frame, ready to pull her away.

Mordred's smile grew wider. 'Thanks.'

She returned it and left to the kitchen. He pulled off his boots and crossed his legs. His toes curled into the soft fabric of the socks as they were warmed beneath his knees. Another yawn followed by the slightly blurred vision from tears. The faded smile came back to him. Partly paying attention to the movie, his mind wandered and he found he was relaxed. As relaxed as he could be. His magic was gone. His supervisor had died in his arms. He could never be with Merlin, not the way he wanted. The woman who'd wrecked it all was now making him dinner and telling him it would all work out.

Mordred was as relaxed as he could be.

.

.

.

Morgana felt thin. Her nerves spread across the Yard and then beyond to the Crown Prosecution. Scoldings, silences, swearing. She'd had it all. Monday was coming to a close, and now National to International press watched her eagerly in front of Scotland Yard. Drooling. Waiting. The Commissioner had made his address and stood to the side with the handcuffs ready. It was all a grand affair, highly publicised and highly controversial. She took in a deep breath of the warm evening air and remembered the way Mordred had smiled. The folding of skin under his eyes. How it puffed out with his cheeks. Puffed out the sadness.

Time was running out.

'It's true. All of it. I joined Old Religion out of spite towards Uther, driven by personal vendettas. I emotionally and psychologically manipulated Mordred Leir, attempted to murder officers DS Emrys and Pendragon. I succeeded when it came to my own father and Cenred Mercid,' she said. Her words were clear, controlled, and refreshing. No reporter interrupted. The public watched from the barriers. She was a killer. A police officer and a killer. Taking the fall for Cenred's murder may have bloodied her hands more but it cleared Merlin. Which she had to do. He had to be cleared. The burning of her dreams, the acrid smoke, haunted every breath she took. 'Saying sorry doesn't really cut it, and even if I did it would sound conceited, but I'll still formally apologise to the public and the Met. This is my confession.'

Silence. She quickly pursed her lips to hide the smile at how horrific the scene must be. Proven innocent, the people loathing Merlin were all proved wrong. The courts proved to be corruptible. It felt bubbly. Maybe this was what madness felt like. Hiding a smile from the silent corruptible world. Not knowing who you are, only what you've done and can do.

'Thank you for your time,' she added and walked over to the Commissioner. His uniform was marked by the emblems of his rank, each shoulder bearing a crown and wreath, the cap decorated and his expression stern. 'This is the part where you put me in handcuffs.'

'Why go to all the trouble?' he asked her, his voice audible even for the reporters standing several yards away. 'Why try to destroy the careers of good men?'

Now she smiled. Not in mocking, or some twisted glee. She smiled gently, and sombrely. 'You wouldn't believe me if I told you.'

'Well then,' the Commissioner said. He moved stiffly when he gestured for her to turn around and closed the cuffs around her wrists. 'Morgana La Fey, I'm placing you under arrest for the murder of your father, Uther Pendragon, perverting the course of justice in the highest degree, psychologically abusing Mordred Leir, Merlin Emrys, Arthur Pendragon and anything else mentioned in your public confession. You don't have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you don't mention when questioned something you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.'

The spectators came to life like puppets at a circus show, with the click of metal handcuffs locking into place, and energy rippled through them as realisation dawned. Morgana La Fey: corrupt, killer, confessor. Liar? Ceremony over, more uniformed officers came to take her away.

The Commissioner handled any lingering questions and Morgana was led to the holding cells. The walk was gruelling, officers glaring at her with fire in their eyes. Disgust, betrayal, disappointment, all of it and none of it. She'd become an adult within the ranks of the police, attending dinners with Uther from as early as eight years old. It felt like one large family of strangers all collaboratively kicking her out of the house.

The heavy cell door closed behind her, the cuffs removed and guards posted. It was a grey cube. A thin and hard mattress rested at the opposite end and a small window high up on the wall let in the thin evening light. Merlin's fading magic radiated from the right wall, the warmth of it dying out like a fire deprived of anymore wood.

Morgana pressed her hands against it, spread her fingers and began the enchantment. Protection against Aredian, if it were at all possible, was Merlin's prerogative. The magic was drawn from her palms and fingers like blood, cast into the stone and plaster to then be plucked free on the other side. Drop by drop her magic, her blood, constructed a shield around him. Her own spell was infused with whatever remained of Merlin's power and, row by row, each bead of her magic became a drop of fire.

She could feel it, though. Merlin's strength was drifting. Leaving him to fade in symphony with Mordred.

.

.

.

'I understand you can't discuss the finer points of the Operation, but can you tell us how it felt? It's rare to hear about police officers playing spy, at least beyond the movie screen,' the BBC presenter said with smile. Mordred mirrored it, keeping his expressions modest and controlled. His elbows rested against the shining black surface of the round table, hands clasped together.

Skin against skin and stable support to keep him grounded. 'Were you scared?'

'No, I wasn't scared.'

'Despite your history with them?'

His carefully maintained eye contact faltered. It was all too public. All too exposed. They didn't know the half of it despite that fact. Magic? Reincarnation? They'd laugh and lock him in a padded cell.

Glass surrounded them, his words caught in bubble situated at the centre of Britain's main hub for media. For digging out the truth and exploring human nature. It was a privilege he didn't deserve. One he didn't want.

The video cameras hoisted and held up by black metal arms zoomed and shifted appropriately. Mordred could feel the eyes of thousands staring out at him from the bottomless cold lenses. Imagined he could that is. His magic was well and truly gone now.

'You mean when they tortured me and tried to use me to ruin DCI Kilgharrah's investigation?' he replied. The presenter's eyes widened slightly, but she nodded in agreement and composed herself within the second. 'If they hadn't done those things, I doubt I'd have been able to infiltrate their operations. That's not to say I would have preferred it not happen in the first place.'

'You're also putting yourself at great risk by identifying with the case, aren't you? Such a high profile arrest, the death toll involved alone, is likely to grab the attention of dangerous people.'

'A faceless enemy isn't threatening. I'm making it real for anyone who wishes to harm, like Old Religion. If a man can stop them, find and arrest them at least, then being caught becomes a real possibility. The Metropolitan Police, Scotland Yard, won't hide behind masks like the terrorists, killers, robbers. The face of the Met, if one person's in particular, has been the Commissioner's, and . . . Well, he's not too intimidating,' Mordred said with precisely cued smiles and appropriate lilts in his voice. He was reading off a mental script provided by the Commissioner and the "media liaison" James. It was bordering on professionally insulting, but the Commissioner had seemed convinced some satire was needed. 'Hopefully I am.'

'We'll let the people be the judge of that,' she said with her smile wiped from her lips the next moment. 'Does this mark a new approach by the Met then?'

Mordred nodded and pulled his hands back to rest in his lap. 'It does. The Commissioner made it clear to me earlier today that change is coming. Some might say it's already knocking at London's doorstep.'

The presenter lifted a finger to her ear piece, her mouth opening in shock. 'Sorry, there's breaking news. Morgana La Fey has pleaded guilty to the crimes she was accused of at the start of this year, alongside confessing to the murder of Cenred Mercid,' she said. Her attention returned to him. 'With DS Emrys' accusations slated, you've been forced to work alongside her?'

He paused, mouth open dumbly for a second before he shifted an appropriately concerned expression onto his face. 'Yes, I have been.'

'This must be the greatest scandal of the last decade, if not more,' she said, and directed his focus to the large screens on the curved wall opposite where a live feed had been brought up. 'You

don't mind if we-'

'No, of course not.'

The video stream started playing, and Mordred watched the screen. 'Reporting live from Scotland Yard, Morgana La Fey is being taken into police custody.'

He saw her being cuffed by the Commissioner before two nameless officers picked up the torch of ceremony and escorted her out of sight. Morgana had kept her word. They kept recording as the Commissioner made his closing statements. Mordred's name came up, then the bombings, the internal affairs investigation launched against Merlin, Arthur, their whole team. Then he too left and the reporter at the scene had his final words.

'You seem remarkably well adjusted for a man who's gone through so much,' the presenter said. The cameras had refocused on them.

'Doesn't mean I am,' Mordred said. He was cut off from Merlin and Morgana. He was cut off from himself. At least when he'd been enchanted, anchored to the bottom of his own mind while a monster lived through him, he knew what was happening. Knew he could fight it and break free. This time? He knew nothing at all. 'I have people who get me through everything.'

Her composed expression seemed to soften around the edges. 'Don't we all? Thank you for coming in, Mordred. I'm sure we'll hear good things about your work within the Metropolitan police in the coming months. Next, we look at the growing turmoil in Syria, Calais being brought to a halt by migrants and efforts to tackle corruption in Kenya. More after the break.'

Mordred pushed away from the table on the high black chair. Everything was polished and pristine. Beyond the glass a mass of red carpet, walls, computers and people buzzed.

'I think you'll make a wonderful new face for the Metropolitan police,' the presenter said as she brushed through her sandy hair.

He got to his feet and adjusted his tie. 'Thank you.'

'Got a few days off for your heroics?'

Mordred swallowed and headed to the glass exit. Another draining wave poured through him. 'In this day and age?'

She laughed. 'Have a good night.'

'You too,' he said with what he hoped was a smile. Mordred stepped out of the bubble and was met with an assistant who led him back to the main foyer where he was dutifully left to his own wits. The deep blue hue of night waited on the other side of slanted panes that cut through the dark wooden doors. He was still bathed in the bright light which reflected off marble and seemed to emanate from every corner. The lone receptionist sat behind the low and long table barely blinked an eye at him as he passed. Each step echoed and made his ears ring. How could he still be hollowed out? How was there anything left for the spell to take?

Outside the cool air hit his hot skin like a bed sheet. It wrapped around him as he headed across the rectangular plaza. The broadcasting house stood like an open maw, jaws on either side and the foyer out of mind behind him. Oxford Circus was five minutes away. Five minutes and then the breaths and heat of strangers. Five minutes and he would speed through London within it's veins, pumped full of people and life.

Mordred's pace was quick with strong strides carrying him forward. Even so late and an overcast sky darkening the streets the shops cast their lights out in welcome.

It was noisy. Colourful. Boring. Not once had he missed the days he went without magic. Without it he'd been defenceless. He'd sworn never to be again. Things hadn't been going to plan.

His steps were resolute but his body ached and fear traced its thin fingers up his spine, along the back of his neck, to close around his throat. Three minutes away.

Traffic lights barred his path at the next road and he waited, people pooling around him and those fingers squeezing and pinching at his skin. They pulled at the cold sheet of air, twisted it into a rope and secured it around his neck. Green. He walked. Two minutes.

Mindless conversations, car horns and engines, blank faces staring out from black cabs. Red buses moved slowly along their routes, stuffed with passengers. Mordred marched along. One minute.

The buildings towered seven floors or higher, their ground floors playing host to business and commodity. His button down shirt stuck to his skin in face of the fine and light material. Ahead he saw the crossroads, where one giant artery of trade met three more. The centre was flanked by two holes leading down to Oxford Circus Underground. Salvation.

Ignoring an odd sting which brushed his throat, Mordred descended and hid himself in the crowds. He was being followed. Instincts never lied. Not when they were all he had. The Victoria then familiar Northern lines and quarter of an hour later he was rising again to walk onto his home ground. Fear had melted away in the heat of the journey and he made it back to his flat.

He closed the door and loosened the tie around his neck. It was dark and quiet. A soft breeze danced its way to him down the hallway. Following it, Mordred found the balcony door open and the curtains performing to the wind's tune. They curved outwards, rose and fell in rhythm.

It felt like nothing. The way his pulse began to slow, his breaths deepen. The shadows stretched and bloomed, adopting a blue tinge before brightening into a green. Human forms shifted out from the darkness, eyes shining like amber stones filled with sunlight.

It all turned red. Like the carpets, his blood after the bomb went off, the cloaks of Arthur's knights. His tired eyes saw the ground in time to land on his elbows. Fear was gone. Magic was gone. Mordred's head bent down and rested against the wood as the shadows unfurled, revealing their endless cores of blue and black in the wood's grain. He'd been right. Followed.

A hand veiled with blue smoke reached out to him and closed around his mouth, cold and choking. His next breath was frozen and the shadows spilled and stretched into his body. Each limb disappeared and the red stained world left his view.

Mordred felt the lurch of a Vanishing before his thoughts blurred with the smoke and fell into shadows.