19.
Merlin is exiting the bathroom, mussing his hair with a towel, when he notices Morgana standing there. She looks like she's been waiting for him, hair black and wet and her form wrapped in an over-large bathrobe.
"Hey," she says softly, eyes flitting to him.
"Hey."
She looks embarrassed. "I wanted to say . . . sorry, first off, for thinking you would—well, assuming that about you and Arthur." A wet strand of hair falls in front of her eyes, and Merlin resists the urge to tuck it back. "Honestly, I don't know why I thought Arthur would do such a thing to Gwen, even after she . . ." Morgana clears her throat, looking down.
Merlin's brows pull together. "You mean that—that Gwen—?" He's not sure how to finish the question. In any kind of scenario Merlin guessed as to why the Mr. and Mrs. Pendragon are having relationship problems, it never would have crossed his mind of Gwen.
Morgana is still looking down, not answering, and Merlin realizes his mistake. "Sorry," he rushes, "that's obviously not my business. Obviously. Sorry. But no, I would never . . . and I like Gwen. Better than Arthur, to be honest."
Morgana's eyes reach his again, a small smile on her lips. "Everyone does."
"Not surprising."
She lets out an amused breath. "Don't be too hard on Arthur. He may seem rude, or callous, or arrogant, but," she bites her lip, shaking her head, "with who he's had as an example most of his life, Arthur's improved extremely."
Merlin's mind connects the dots. "You mean Uther?" Morgana's jaw locks, eyes taking on a hard glint. "Your father, and Arthur's father, right?" he presses. "I'm just assuming, since no one seems to like bringing him up, much less explain who he is." Merlin shrugs as she bites her lip, but inside he's pleading for an explanation. For one mystery, at least, to be solved.
They wait at a standstill, Morgana clearly undecided, till her head suddenly snaps up.
"I'll tell you about Uther if you tell me this," she counters, face switching from conflicted to confident like a light. "You went out to the graves, the cairns, on your first day here?"
Merlin nods, thrown off by the odd question. He's actually gone every day since, excluding today, hoping for a certain spirit to show his face and perhaps provide a nugget of insight. But Merlin has no idea of the actual time he arrived at the little hill, during the first visit. Every time since, it's always silent, empty.
Morgana takes a step forward. And perhaps being close to a person decreases the percentage of oxygen in that given space, because Merlin's breath feels short as she nears. "You saw Gwaine's cairn," she says, eyes searching his face, "you said that, didn't you?"
He nods again, wondering what she is getting at.
It becomes very clear. "How did you know it was his grave?"
Her voice is soft and yet sharp, eyes daring him to lie. But the truth being that Gwaine told Merlin so, he settles on saying nothing. Quirking a smile at her, shaking his head.
"I guess I'll just stick with my guesses," he shrugs, referring to Uther.
Morgana's eyes widen, jaw clenching. Obviously surprised Merlin won't answer, truth or not.
Her hand catches his arm when he makes to go, pale fingers digging into his skin. Merlin looks down at her, face resolute. "Merlin, there's no plaque, nothing with his name on it. How could you know it was his?" Her voice is insistent, hard and yet pleading.
Merlin pulls away. "What do you want me to say, Morgana?"
Her eyes widen again. "The truth!"
He groans, kneading his forehead with a hand. "What does it matter! Why is this so important to you?"
"Why is it such a hard question to answer?" she counters, crossing her arms. "Something is going on. Maybe you're not a druggee, or Arthur's lover, or anything I've accused you of. But I'm not being told the truth, I know it." His silence appears to be enough of a confirmation when she glares in triumph.
"Is it that bad?" Morgana says then, and stares at him, scrutinizing his face. "Is Arthur putting you up to something? Are you a—a grave robber? Or, or just an old friend of Gwaine's? Why. Can't. I. Know?"
An excellent question. Gwen knows, Leon knows, Gaius knows—why not Morgana? What about her makes Arthur order him to stay away?
"This is for both of your own goods. She'll freak out if she knows what you are, and then you'll be pestered by her constantly."
Arthur told him so before even Day 1. At the time Merlin only assumed he meant Morgana would not take the whole "ghost haunting my house" thing calmly, but upon meeting her Merlin can't imagine that. Can't imagine any possible reason for Arthur's request, really.
So he settles for the truth. "Arthur doesn't want you to know."
Morgana's eyebrows lift in disbelief, but when he says no more she makes a frustrated sound.
"And you do everything Arthur tells you to?"
"Yes! Yes, he's my—" Merlin's mouth snaps shut. "The point is, it's his call. You're his sister. And besides," Merlin shakes his head, "I probably won't be here much longer as it is." That's him, Merlin Emrys, the clueless idiot Mr. Pendragon is mercifully paying for a job he's too incapably stupid to accomplish. That is what he is, to Arthur.
Only better than the psychic medium Merlin Emrys, a bearer of the triskelion, one of the few interpreters of The Grimoire, the former follower of the great prophetess, Nimueh. Token parts of his past that need to stay buried, hidden.
Because apparently most of that identity could get him killed.
"You're going to leave?" Her tone is incredulous. "When Arthur clearly needs you?"
Merlin stares at her, dumbstruck. "What gives you that impression?" Besides, you know, a malicious ghost threatening the man's entire household.
"You don't believe me?" When his answering look tells her just how little, Morgana huffs. "Just last night," she says angrily, "I happened to be on the third floor, walking past Arthur's office. I overheard my brother, and he was telling Leon you were their best hope."
When Merlin doesn't change face—though inside his heart stutters a beat—she continues. "Best hope for what, I have no idea. At the time, I thought he was making excuses about you and why you were staying." Morgana stops and scrutinizes Merlin, her stare almost intense enough to make him believe her next words. "But, clearly, you're important to him Merlin. He just needs—he's just a thick-headed dolt sometimes, is all."
A thick-headed, murderous dolt, apparently.
Merlin swallows, sudden doubts pricking him like needles. "I should head back," he says quietly, though his feet step closer. Morgana is looking up at him silently, not answering. "And I . . . I wish you knew."
Her mouth opens, words on the cusp of spilling out, but he's through the door before they reach the edge of her tongue.
20.
Arthur is a prat. Arthur is annoying. Arthur doesn't believe. Arthur trusts him. Arthur's best hope is him. Arthur could kill him.
They just don't add up.
Merlin is back in the front parlor the next morning, the room in which he first met Arthur. Waiting. There are two chairs facing each other, on either side of wide double windows. He sits in one, staring at the other. Waiting.
Not for too long, it seems. The morning is almost achingly bright, the sky a complete blue, beaming onto the wooden floors and the chair across from him. And when a woman walks past him, the light shines straight through her.
She's like a clear, fresh breath of air, a drink from a cool, clear pond. Her presence evokes sensations completely opposite of the haunted spirit Merlin has been trying to reach. Serenity, peace, love, a touch of nostalgia. The woman sits in the chair across from him, face immediately turning to the window and sweeping distantly past him.
He watches her for a little, remembering when he first noticed her during Arthur's chat with him. Feeling again that connection, as strong as tree roots, anchoring her to this place and these people.
My name is Merlin Emrys.
Her neck snaps forward, blue eyes staring at him. Like she hadn't noticed him till now.
What's your name?
The woman doesn't answer, just folds her hands in her lap. Looking at him hard—and immediately Merlin recognizes it. Recognizes that same analyzing stare, another scouring of his soul. Especially by such blue eyes.
You're a Pendragon?
She answers this time. Yes.
Merlin tries not to let his eagerness show; he nods, giving her a small smile, trying tentatively with an untested approach.
I know your son.
Her eyes widen; Merlin has guessed right. This is Arthur's mother.
Arthur?
Yes. He's here, living here still.
She nods. I know. Sometimes I . . . Her words fade off, brow furrowing.
Though he obviously hasn't experienced it himself, Merlin knows what she means. I understand—you can see him, sometimes. And then sometimes you can't.
She nods, looking down at her lap.
You should know: Arthur's in trouble.
Her head snaps up. What do you mean?
I'm here to help him. Because I can . . . well, I can do this. Speak to you.
I don't understand. Why does he need you to—?
Someone else, another spirit, is here, in this house. Wreaking havoc on your family, I think, angry at Arthur for something.
For what?
He shakes his head. I don't know.
They sit in silence, watching each other. He sees her hair is blonde, lighter than Arthur's, but her eyes the same blue, their corners crinkling the same way even without smiling. Merlin sees none of Morgana, but most of Arthur in this woman's gaze.
What could Arthur have done? Do you know of anything, from his past, that could have brought on such hatred?
She's already shaking her head. I passed on when he was born. I know very little of his life, only the glimpses I'm allowed.
And what do the glimpses tell you?
That Arthur is a good man. He rules his life by his heart, and loves fiercely. I have seen him make mistakes, and then make them right, fall in love and out again, and forgive till he's broke with it. Nothing that wouldn't make me proud.
So he's never . . . killed someone, for instance?
Her back straightens, eyes blinking at Merlin in surprise. NO. He would never think of it. If he had to resort to it, in self-defense, perhaps, but he would never . . . he's not a murderer. This spirit, whoever is haunting him—I swear on Arthur's behalf, it's not his fault. He didn't kill that person. I know that much.
Merlin nods. Thank you. I hope you're right.
I am right. I know that much of my son. I haven't always, but—we've spoken before, the two of us, through another medium like you. And everything he said then, and is, and does when I can see him, assures me of that.
"Merlin, what are you doing?"
The strong tendrils wrapping around Merlin like an embrace retract—the woman's face disintegrates into air, like they always do.
"Merlin."
He blinks his eyes, hard, before glancing up in the direction of the voice. Arthur is squinting at him, arms crossed, looking prim and prattish in his usual suit.
"What are you doing here?" Merlin blurts out. When Arthur's eyebrows raise he adds hastily, "I mean, you're always gone by this time. It's nearly 9:30, isn't it?"
"I decided to sleep in," Arthur says nonchalantly. "Now tell me: where in your job description does it include staring at furniture for ten minutes straight?"
"You were watching me?"
"I was not watching you. I happened to walk past is all. And you haven't moved a muscle until that nod just now for at least five minutes." Arthur shakes his head, looking at Merlin like toads are hopping out his mouth. "Honestly. Could you be more strange?"
"I was thinking!"
"Merlin. Thinking. Two words I would have never thought to put together." Arthur smirks, starts walking back toward the entrance hall.
"You know two words that I think match perfectly?" Merlin calls to his retreating figure. "Arthur. And ass."
Arthur turns on his heels, a devious, slightly-frightening grin on his face. "Oh! I just forgot. My secretary Sefa, will be joining us for dinner tonight. And you're the entertainment."
Merlin startles to his feet. "I'm the what?"
"It's not that hard, Merlin," Arthur laughs. "I need you to keep her busy when she comes back with me at three. I definitely don't want to spend three whole hours with the girl." He shudders.
Merlin frowns in confusion. "Why are you heading back so early, then?"
"Because I'm supposed to map out my schedule with her. And she thinks it'll take that long. And I cannot stand her horrible personality for that long."
Well, maybe if Arthur hates her, Merlin will like her. He dimly recalls her voice when he was first contacted, setting up the first appointment, and she sounded nice enough. "Fine," Merlin shrugs. "Whatever. Now shouldn't you get going?"
Arthur waves off his words like they're smoke. "Not an issue. I can arrive whenever I choose."
"Really? And where exactly is that?"
Arthur says the name with flourish. "Headquarters of Camelot Industries."
Merlin's begrudgingly impressed. "You work for Camelot Industries?"
Arthur's grin gets way too smug. "Nooo Merlin, Camelot Industries works for me, the CEO. Bye. Be good—don't get hit by any more rocks today." He saunters off looking pretty pleased by how far Merlin's eyes are bugging out. Though he really should have expected as much.
Inside his head he chips this piece in. It's just another, one more to speak against Gaius's ghastly claim the day before. Two testaments against it: Morgana's, that Arthur needs Merlin, is relying on him; his mother's, that he is a good man, incapable of such a thing.
Merlin groans a sigh, tired of all this puzzling, falling back to the chair. Except he must have misjudged its distance behind him, because instead Merlin falls hard on his arse, hitting the floor.
Ow.
A/N: Review please! What do you all think of Arthur at this point? I'd love to hear :D
And if you've read this far into the story, time to follow and favorite, am I right?