27.
It's the worst kind of feeling, knowing what you're supposed to say to make things better, but having no idea how to.
Memories of helplessness always seem to accompany memories of Freya in this way. After the first night of triumph—her voice on the other end of the phone, her very-much-alive-self letting him in, her arms staying wrapped around him for hours after she'd talked to sleep—Merlin can remember feeling powerful. Triumphant. Victorious.
But kisses and compliments, smiles and reassurances, they only medicate so much when you can't cure someone of the life they live.
She seems happy now, though, standing in front of him where he leans against the wall. There aren't any dark shadows under her eyes, or weight slumping her shoulders. Freya's dark hair is tucked in a loose ponytail like it always was, bangs and fly-aways softly framing the curve of her face. Merlin can remember running his hands in it, smoothing two fingers through a strand of it every now and then.
"So, how—how are things?" he tries awkwardly, feeling almost nervous. It changes to relief when Freya laughs.
"Fine, thanks," she grins, shrugging in a small, endearing manner. "And am I to assume you're doing pretty well?" She raises an eyebrow, and Merlin can practically feel his face heat.
"Not that well, honestly," he admits, thinking of the past week. "In fact, I don't know why I called you—not that isn't great to see you, truly—but it's not how it usually is. I'm not, well not, serious, with anyone right now."
He's only unintentionally called Freya to him twice before—the first time after telling Cara he loved her. The second time, when Mithian met his mother. Two relationships, two people he ended up falling for, and he'd inadvertently brought his dead high school sweetheart to him in the most pivotal moments. In the past Merlin has accosted it to worry, fear that his other relationships would be just as futile.
But he knows now, if he didn't before, that this has more to do with guilt. Guilt, not only that he couldn't save her so many years ago, but that he's learned to accept this truth, now.
"She knows I can see you," Merlin says bluntly, and a look of confusion passes over Freya's face. "I'm—I mean Morgana, she just left a moment ago. I just, just told her."
Freya inspects his face closely. "It didn't go well?"
"No. I mean—well, yes, in a way." Merlin groans, rubbing his eyes, and half-chuckles, "It went too well. Weirdly so. She just, nodded." His hand flies from his face, searching for something in her expression that will tell him he's not being crazy about this. "Nodded. NODDED."
"Really? I dunno, maybe—"
"I TOLD HER I SPEAK TO THE DEAD AND SHE NODDED, FREYA."
He has no idea where that came from, but as soon as Merlin shouts the words he realizes how frustrated he is. Why can't anything in my life go . . . normally? He feels like stomping on some ants, crumpling up some really important pieces of paper. Meanwhile Freya's dark eyes are widening, a smile shaping both perplexed and amused. "And what did you want her reaction to be?"
Merlin barks a laugh. "I don't know, maybe something a little more expected? Like, 'Merlin, what are you talking about?' or 'Merlin, please explain this to me,' or even 'Merlin, are you on the cider?'" He mimics a very horrible personation of Morgana's voice, which probably isn't going to convince Freya of anything—except that he's off his rocker. And he might be.
She squints her eyes at him. "Hmm. I would have thought this would make you really happy—or at least it wouldn't be so unusual, for you."
Merlin stares at her, mouth open. I will never understand women. Not even dead ones.
"Wh . . . wha . . . why?"
The look she gives him is almost pitying. "You told me, Merlin. You told Mithian. And you told Cara. Three women in your life you truly cared about, at some point. Think about it-which one of our reactions is most similar?"
Merlin does think about it. Freya, his first, had played along when he first revealed the truth, assuming it was part of his "emo identity" as she'd called it. Until, of course, he mentioned things about her grandfather and names and descriptions of people right before their faces were plastered on the news, right above "MISSING" or "KILLED." Then she'd looked at him with wide, awed eyes and shake her head.
Mithian, most recent, never believed him. He'd never meant to tell her in the first place anyway, had planned on spending potentially the rest of ever ignoring it, at that point in his life. But when the voices started speaking louder, the faces returning in greater numbers, the truth came out. She told Merlin he was being funny. And then, as time went on and "it really isn't funny anymore," they broke up over it.
Cara, in between those two . . . Cara had been delighted. Ecstatic. She led him down a road that took years to travel, and even more years to return from.
She hadn't been surprised—not at all.
Merlin looks up, and Freya's expression relaxes as she plainly sees his recognition.
"Cara? But—she hadn't been surprised either, I guess, but . . . "
Cara had used him. Merlin knows that now. And Morgana is nothing like her.
"Merlin," Freya starts, but she pauses, frowning. "I . . . something's happening."
Her image flickers once, then twice. Merlin raises his eyebrows, but considering he's lost connection with two other spirits just this morning, he can't say he's surprised.
"Freya I'm sorry, something here, it's blocking my reception to any of you," Merlin says hastily, immediately replacing 'something' with 'someone' in his head. This is his shortest interrupted conversation yet. "It . . . it's been good to see you."
And that's that. Freya smiles a little and he returns it, locking the memory in his head as her face disintegrates into the air—just in case this'll be the last time.
He's a little worried: both that it won't be, and that it will be.
The rest of the morning passes uneventfully, luck of all luck, giving Merlin a moment to call Will back. "Hey," his friend picks up on the third ring. "We still up for dinner date? Tomorrow night, right?"
"Yeah. Sounds good."
A pregnant silence.
"Are you okay, Merlin? You sound . . . off."
Merlin tries for a laugh. "This is just how my voice sounds through the phone."
"Ha ha, Merls. Bet the Anal Orifice is dealing out shite the only way he knows how." When Merlin doesn't laugh, Will's voice cuts in sharply, "He is? You should quit Merlin. Seriously! Who needs that kind of tainted money anyway? I can come over and teach him a lesson if you want. Or even, if I were you, I'd just sell a story to the press—a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush—"
"Will, stop, please shut up a second." When Will does, Merlin lets out a breath. "Before you come up here to show Mr. Pendragon a piece of your—albeit emaciated—mind, listen: I'm fine. We're fine. He's actually not home, more than half the time." Which is getting horribly annoying, considering most every paranormal activity Merlin has experienced in this house the past week happened while his employer was away.
"Alright. Then what do you sound so broken up for? I can hear that frown on your face, Merlin. Hear it."
Merlin feels his expression, silently curses as he realizes, and quickly un-tenses his face. "I'm not, Will, really. Anyway, yeah we're good for tomorrow night. It'll probably be good for me, I think, this weekend. Away from this crazy place." The last past is muttered into the phone, and Will laughs.
"Good. 6:00, don't be late. Now I've got to—"
"Wait, before you go—" Merlin rushes to cut him off.
"Yeah?"
"What did you mean by. . . Tainted money, you said."
Will snorts. "Just what everyone's been saying, really. And it's true. It's no secret Camelot Industries has a finger dipped in every honey pot around Albion—even the rotten ones. The past two years—I'm surprised if you don't know—the press got wind of it, some things got uncovered when Pendragon Senior's health started declining."
Merlin swallows. "Things like . . . what?"
"I dunno. Camelot has been supporting and building like a gajillion companies. I think I remember something about foreign factories, little kiddy foreigns getting worked to death. Maybe even human trafficking, though that was probably just a rumor—" Will cuts off for a moment. "My break is up. I've got to go, Merlin. See you Saturday night, right?" He hangs up.
Merlin lets out a breath. "Right."
28.
"Merlin, my secretary Sefa Trahir. Ms. Trahir, Merlin Emrys, my . . . lot inspector. And my wife's cousin. Once removed—"
"Just her cousin, really," Merlin jumps in, reaching for the girl's hand with what he hopes is a reassuring smile. "Lovely to meet you." It's small and just a bit shaky, like the smile he returns. "You look even nicer than your voice." He winks.
"You as well," Sefa says tentatively, gaze flickering between the two of them when Arthur rolls his eyes at Merlin and Merlin gives him an innocent puzzled look back.
"Merlin will be accompanying you to my office," Arthur cuts in, "where I will be with you shortly. If you could sync the schedule I've had Guinevere pull up on my computer while you wait . . . "
"Of course, sir," she says quickly.
"Excellent. Merlin's pretty incompetent when it comes to where the rooms are still, but—oh, Eira!" Eira the maid, who happens to crossing through the parlor just now, jumps a little before nodding.
"Yessir?"
"In a moment could you take these two to my office? I know you, Sefa, have been there before, but it's been awhile."
Sefa looks a little pale. "Of-of course. Yes, I've probably forgotten by now."
"It's settled then." Arthur claps his hands in a final way before adding, "I'm just going to borrow Merlin at the entrance for a few words, and then you three can go ahead." Merlin stares at him blankly, then down at some strange finger-twitch Arthur does before the man starts to leave.
Arthur pauses and looks back after a moment, heaving a sigh. "Merlin."
"What?"
"That means come on, Merlin!" He does the finger-twitch again, and suddenly it makes sense.
Well, an Arthur-sort-of-sense.
"Got it," Merlin nods, following him into the entrance hall, up to the staircase.
Arthur rubs his hands together when they get there, his expression almost mischievous. "Alright, then. You entertain her. I'll be up here, trying to get a moment's peace—hopefully. But I think you can occupy her, can't you? It'll all work out perfectly." He looks a little excited, like they're about to unleash some clever plot.
Merlin snorts. "I'll try to occupy her, I guess."
"Good." Arthur looks pleased, though quickly it sours, like he's thought of something horrible. "But, please, for my sake Merlin, do not keep flirting with her."
"What—you think I was just flirting with her now?"
"Blatantly."
Merlin scoffs. This man is ridiculous. "General kindness might be a foreign concept to you, sir, but its common courtesy for people to not act like a pompous ass whenever they're introduced to someone. Not even excepting you, Mr. Pendragon."
Arthur huffs indignantly, though Merlin swears he can see amusement in the man's eyes. "It's Arthur, for the last time. Mr. Pendragon is my father. Nobody calls me that. If you're going to be so formal, I'd much prefer you try out Boss or President or something."
"And I'd much prefer if it was already seven and I could head home for the weekend. But we can't have everything, can we?" He shrugs, smile facetious.
Arthur actually laughs.
Merlin is a little in shock by the foreign sound, only half-awares as Arthur then claps him on the shoulder with a smirk and mutters a quick "Have fun!" before heading towards the stairs cheerily. The skip in his step seems a pretty good indicator of who he's going to see.
Merlin sighs long-sufferingly and goes back to the parlor, slightly taken aback when he sees the two girls, Sefa and Eira, standing just a few meters apart and deep in conversation.
"On Monday, I think, but then—"
"Merlin!" Sefa cuts the maid girl off when she notices Merlin, turning toward him with a flushed face. They both jump back, looking away from each other. Merlin raises an eyebrow. He seems to have caught them in an almost—well, intimate moment.
Wow. Looks like everybody's trying to get a bit of time with their special someones.
The thought starts out amusing, but gets embarrassingly pathetic when it brings his mind round to Morgana, the checkers match and the desk and—well, yeah, that was it. Merlin has spoken to Arthur's mother, had a run-in with the malignant ghost, interrogated Gwen and met up with both Gwaine and Freya . . . but Morgana has been the one predominantly filling his mind.
"Sefa," he answers back, giving them both a reassuring smile. "Ready."
Eira nods and turns rather quickly away, leading them briskly away from the parlor down the same hallway Gwen first led him through just this morning. She stops in front of two large double-doors however, drawing out a key from one her pockets.
With a click it's unlocked, and Merlin blinks away his surprise as she lets them enter.
It's beyond unusual, or ridiculous, or absurd. Its plain bizarre.
"This is Arthur's office." He's not sure whether he's going to die from laughter or vexation. It's just so . . . Arthur.
Eira's voice drips with mirth as she answers, "Welcome to the throne room."
A/N: I've updated my profile, if you want to take a look. Its been a rough week, but writing this is a nice way to lay off the load a bit. I've just joined the cast for a play called "Done to Death," so my life is even crazier! But here it is, and I want to hear your thoughts: What do you think about Freya or Cara, about "tainted money," about Sefa and Eira, or about this "throne room" of sorts?
Or just, you know, about anything? Haha. Basically I'd love to hear from you, so review!
P.S. The other day I spent a whole period in Drama Lit (not paying attention) writing out every question that needs to be answered by the conclusion of this fic. And Wowsers it was a long list.