7.
The first time Merlin realized was about fifteen years ago, at the age of eight.
He and Will were playing one of the latter's video games featuring Italian guys who ate mushrooms, and Merlin was losing horribly. He didn't mind, though, considering he'd hardly seen Will and now he looked so happy beating his friend. And Will hadn't looked happy for quite a few months.
After defeating the boss—Merlin already used up all his lives and watched comfortably as Will completely conquered, all on his own—Will jumped up from the couch next to Merlin, shooting his game controller into the air with a fist.
And when he jumped, Merlin noticed Will's father who had been sitting beside his son, a grin on the man's face. He was wearing what he usually did—nice pants, button down shirt, shiny watch. He had a five-o'clock shadow, just like the last time Merlin saw him. The man looked over at Merlin, giving him a thumb's up before standing, and leaving. Leaving as in, disintegrating into nothing before Merlin's eight-year-old eyes.
Will's mum and dad had been dead for months. Killed instantly by a semi on their way home from a work party.
When Merlin asked to call his mum and go home early, bile rising in his throat, he could hardly register Will's pleas and complaints much less appease them. He got back to his house within the hour, and promptly threw up in the kitchen sink.
ooOOoo
"It started about four months ago—and that was just the beginning," she sighs, taking her cup off the tray, "but Arthur took it all as silly nonsense until he held a dinner with his new department managers. In the middle of the meeting—well, we took all the other chandeliers down as well, just in case. The one above them fell on the table and shattered everywhere, most of them had to go to the hospital to get glass removed."
She bites her lip, cup frozen halfway to her mouth. "The chain was rusty; that was the logical explanation. But it's happened too many times—lights burning out, doors locking, nasty cold winds blowing out of nowhere," she explains, in a way that sounds like she's more trying to convince herself than Merlin.
"Arthur stopped ignoring the rest of us, and then two weeks ago—"her voice stops, letting out a short breath. She smiles at Merlin apologetically. "Well, Arthur's the best one to ask about that. But afterwards he agreed to consider getting 'professional help,' as he put it. And now here you are."
"This has never happened before, then? In this house?" Merlin's not one for tea; he just holds it in both hands as she sips, awaiting an answer.
"Not that I've heard, or can recall. I haven't been here for very long—Arthur and I have been married a little more than two years, and I'd never spent more than two weeks here before that at a time."
"How long have you known Arthur?"
"Six years. I was his personal assistant for three of them. Then, after we became engaged I decided it best to quit, and a year later I married him and moved here." She takes a big breath before continuing, "In all that time, Merlin, I swear nothing remotely strange happened. It's as if—as if, we've lost favor of this house, and its punishing us for something."
Merlin nods silently, finally taking a sip of his tea quietly. The parlor they sit in now is the same Arthur spoke to him in days before, same stiff decorations and unused furniture. With Gwen in it, however, changed out of her garden garb into dark denim and a frayed-looking, lemon-yellow blazer, sipping tea and looking ever the woman of the house—well, the place looks almost homey, is all.
"I can tell one thing at least," Merlin admits, "Something here is angry. It feels—vengeful, almost. Cold, and bitter."
Gwen looks at him strangely, brows pulled together but eyes wide. "How can you tell? If—if you, would, don't mind me asking," she amends quickly, biting her lip.
The corners of his mouth tug up; not an uncommon question, that one. "Same way people feel the emotions of the living, I think. Sometimes it harder to understand, sometimes it just comes. Like now—I don't feel much about whatever it was in the room earlier, except what I told you just now. But other things, like with you, with your brother and father, they just come. Unbidden, in front of me."
He doesn't realize what his words would mean to her till he watches her dark skin pale; Gwen's face looks frozen, mouth tense and stretched, eyes unbelieving.
"My brother . . . and father?" she repeats, jaw working. Merlin nods and she shakes her head, smiles a little. It's a small, sad stretch of lips. "You impress, Merlin," she says after a minute, more composed. "Am I to assume you haven't looked me up, found out about my family that way?"
"You can assume what you want," Merlin shrugs and intends to leave the matter, but he feels a tug. Like a small arm, pulling on his heart. "They miss you just as much, though. Elyan, your brother . . . " Merlin pauses, images flashing behind his eyes. "He wants your forgiveness. For leaving, after your father died. He would change it, if he could." Shot, in an alleyway, from behind. On the concrete, Gwen's younger face filling his mind. So sorry.
Gwen's staring at him, Merlin realizes as he refocuses, mouth open but unmoving like the words are still frozen on her tongue. "He should have taken your offer, but he was young and stupid. Wasn't thinking about the future, about what consequences his choices would have on his future. Or the possibility it could even be cut short." Merlin swallows, feeling the loss and sorrow this young man held after death. For his sister, for the pain he caused her.
He realizes he's probably gone too far when Gwen puts down her tea suddenly, leaving the room like she's fleeing the plague. Except it's not Merlin's general weirdness that's repelling, in this situation. He knows, in the look she gives him before standing up. Like he's a ghost himself, an unwanted reminder of all the hurt people bury inside themselves. Like he's a foreign weapon, one they've never encountered and never want to get near again.
People don't want to remember.
8.
"Hey, mate. Sorry to interrupt any kind of mourning, but this is my allotted time slot."
Merlin has been exploring most of the day. Which is a little strange, considering most of his jobs involve a thorough, ten minute scour of the premises. But Pendragon Estate is just so huge. Up until lunchtime he went through the house—though most of the doors were locked, else he'd probably still be on the first floor—and since then he's been wandering the grounds. Looking for anything, really.
Of course, mediums seem to have a keen sense of where the dead are, because within the hour he's found the family cemetery, about a half mile from the house and on a much smaller, even more secluded hill. It's a lonely little place, and a strange one. Each grave is a cairn, a mound of rocks raised over the ground. There are no other grave markings.
Merlin turns at the voice behind him; it sounds annoyed, sardonic even, like the person is expecting to be ignored.
"Sorry," he says with a slight smile, eyes resting on a young, dark-haired chap with shining black eyes.
The man takes a step back, annoyed expression immediately turning to disbelief. "Woah, there," he says, a cheeky smile splitting his face slowly, "didn't expect that."
"Expect what?" Merlin says, frowning. But a moment later he sees. He sees.
"Expect you to answer!" The man laughs, clapping his hands together. There's no sound when he does so. "Guess I should have figured. You look like one of them freaky blokes, mate, one of the special ones. Should have figured." He steps forward, though the uncut grass doesn't part around him. He doesn't make a sound as he reaches Merlin, eyes friendly. "Name's Gwaine."
"Merlin. Sorry—you said this was your time slot, or something?" Merlin raises an eyebrow, and the man laughs again. It's a nice sound, though Merlin can hear now that it's a little echo-ey.
"Naw, this is much better. Can't remember the last time I had a decent conversation, to be honest," he explains, sighing dramatically. "Everyone so far has been extremely dull. But you might have some juicy news. I'm guessing, as you're here, you know the Pendragons?"
"Sort of. I mean, not long, really. Just a couple days," Merlin admits, and Gwaine grimaces comically.
"Damn. I was hoping for some real information," he sighs, and goes over to one of the cairns, pulling himself up and sitting on it. At Merlin's disapproving glance he shrugs, patting the stone. "I can if I want. It's mine." He grins, and the disconcerting sight—a ghost, grinning as he sits on his grave, swinging his heels and lightly hitting the stone—bubbles a snorting laughter from Merlin's chest.
The man smiles as Merlin composes himself, like he takes pride in making people laugh. "You're alright," he says, jumping back down. "Especially that donkey-bray laugh of yours. I bet you can tell me this at least—is Arthur still married to Gwen? Are they still together?"
Merlin's brows pull together. "Yes?" he answers, slightly put off by the strange question. "Yes, they seem to be. Why do you ask?"
Gwaine shrugs, starts wandering around the cemetery. He spins on his heel, walking backwards as he says, "Another thing. Does Percival still work in security?"
"Don't know. A man named Leon does, I think," Merlin answers, but Gwaine waves off his words in mock dismay.
"Of course Leon still does." He sounds almost disgusted by the fact. "But Percy, Percy, I bet he left. Well," Gwaine starts walking toward the exit, throwing his hands in that air, "there goes my plans. And all my time—you distracted me, mate." He smiles at Merlin though, flirting with the gate exit. "Guess I should go."
"Not much of a time slot," Merlin comments, and Gwaine nods with a frown.
"It's usually longer," he says, hand inching to the gate. "Guess talking to you was extra. Damn," he says again, hand finally wrapping around the metal, "too bad. Do me a favor though, will you? Come back, same time."
Before Merlin can answer Gwaine's hand pulls open the gate and he walks through it, disintegrating into nothing like they always do. The gate keeps swinging slightly, a raspy squeaking that hits Merlin's nerves. The cemetery is still besides the sound; no chirping birds, no evening crickets. He goes to shut it, the crunch of his step loud in the brittle grass, but it quickly swings back and hits the latch by itself. Merlin freezes, staring as it unlatches again, swings, then re-latches. By itself.
Or maybe not by itself. Merlin's mind runs in hyper-speed for a moment—remembering what Gwaine said, something about time slots, and it's the end of Gwaine's, so maybe now the beginning of another—before he recognizes that cold numbing feeling again. But this time, it doesn't permeate the air, soak the atmosphere around Merlin. It's a bitter, sharp iciness stabbing him, somewhere from behind.
Before Merlin can turn, he hears. The split-second sound of something flying. Then he feels the hard impact against his skull, and the ground is suddenly there, cool against his cheek as his thoughts float away.