31.

Once upon another time, Merlin was standing looking at the dark horizon, hand intertwined with the woman beside him. It was entirely quiet; but his senses were overloaded, filled with whispers and faces and memories. The darkness had never been more illuminating.

"Do you feel them?" Cara whispered, squeezing his hand. He nodded. "She says your sight was stronger than any she's encountered. And now . . ."

"And now I feel like I was blind, before," Merlin answered, staring out and not seeing the moors of tall grass, pale under the moonlight. Instead he saw layers—layers and shadow and truth. Wandering souls.

Nimueh was inside. Cara was practically the spitting image of the old woman, the same smile curving the latter's lips as she spoke of druids and talismans and some triple goddess. After only one night under her tutelage, hearing her words and reading them from her book The Grimoire, Merlin felt almost disconnected from himself. From the person he was before Cara brought him inside. The person who had spent almost an entire year trying to bury any connection to the undead world around him—and in consequence buried himself.

Even before he attempted such a thing, this ability had always felt like a dull roar, like swimming in the rush of a fast-moving current. Too much churning around him, demanding to be heard and felt and understood. Overwhelming.

"It's all so quiet now." He shook his head. Like a guzzling brook; tiny streams, droplets, trickling slowly around him, weaving through . . . everything. "How can they be quiet, if I feel more?"

Merlin turned to look at Cara, at the calm contentment in her smile. Rivulets curving from her as well, cool and gossamer in the night. A story of ambition, filled with the need to prove herself, deep understanding of those around her, and a fascination with power . . .

"Perhaps they don't have to be so loud, anymore," she smiled wider, and a kind of fizzing happiness hit Merlin at such a startling revelation. He ensnared her waist, twirled her around, kissed the smile from her lips with a laugh as she grabbed either side of his face and kissed him back.

Basking in the knowledge that maybe, just maybe—he'd found a way to live.

ooOOoo

Merlin does not usually know he's dreaming, honest. In fact, this kind of thing has happened less than he can count on his hands, and it's always the same: a blank, bright somewhere and a shadow of a person waiting for him.

"Sorry to interrupt any beauty sleep," something in the shape of Gwaine says, beckoning Merlin forward. He feels himself getting closer, but it's the blank place around him moving, not his legs. Disorienting. "Just, really quickly: don't forget what I asked you, last time. Just try—and trust. It's a good idea. That's all."

Oh—another thing that always identifies it as one of those dreams: Merlin wakes, clammy and cold, stumbles to the attached bathroom, and ends up retching into the toilet.

Apparently my digestive system doesn't agree with limbo.

Merlin still feels a little bit shaken the following morning, waking up two hours past when he was supposed to leave. He's breathing down nausea during the entirety of the long drive to the estate—even before he sees the sight that awaits him.

Reporters and press everywhere. Lining the normally recluse road all the way up to the iron fence, pressed up against it like that will make the gates open. Some stand in front of cameras speaking importantly for news coverage; others snap photos of the silent lot and write on little pads of notepaper, though no one is being interviewed. Merlin stares around in shock at the whole of it, eyes widening even further when people notice his car and start to move in on him.

What the hell is going on?

His already queasy stomach is churning further at the prospect of driving through that mess to the gates, but it's already three hours since he was supposed to arrive. Assuming there's still a job to get to, he can't afford further delay. "Excuse me!" Merlin rolls down his window and shouts, waving away the people in front of his car. "I need to get through!"

Bad idea. Bad. Idea. Four different people stick their microphones into his window, shouting so many questions he can't understand anything beyond "Can you tell us this morning—" and "Camelot Industries now—" and "Who are you to the Pendragon—"

Eventually a few people from Security slip out from the gates and back everyone up, basically creating a bubble around Merlin's car to let him through. Leon pulls all the wrists out of Merlin's window, grinning at him in good humor as he says, "You may want to keep that closed from now on."

By the time he's finally in through the gates—despite the press's best attempts to well, press through the shortly opened gates—it's almost been another half hour of time. The house inside is as silent as the lot, not a soul to greet him as he quickly enters and shuts the door behind him. All noise from the craziness outside fades to nothing.

Leon comes in shortly as well—not wearing his usual black attire Merlin suddenly notices, but a suit and tie. "Come on, Arthur will want to see you," he motions for Merlin to follow, and they turn right passing the parlor, heading through the long hallway and stopping at familiar grand double doors.

The inside isn't the same as before—the mahogany desk has been pushed against the wall, and a dozen extra chairs have been added to the room circling a gleaming wooden table. Arthur stands in his usual formal attire holding a screen, in the middle of saying something obviously very important when they walk in and Merlin catches his eye.

"Nice of you to show up," he says, and for once Merlin can't form an immediate gripe to throw back. It may have to do with the dozen pairs of eyes on him; looking surprised mostly, but some annoyed. "I'm in the middle of something. Gaius is visiting right now, though—he'll want to see you."

"Gaius?"

"Yes. About your head, I assume. I'll need to speak with you: later." Then he looks down at the screen in his hands, like Merlin is dismissed.

But he has to ask. "Arthur. What's going on?"

When Arthur looks up to meet his eyes there isn't annoyance, exasperation, or impatience sent across. Just a deep, thick-rooted worry. "Later," he repeats, and it's firm but gentle. Eira takes Merlin there—he still cannot for the life of him figure out this place on his own—but his mind is entirely on the look of Arthur's face.

Sod it. There's no way the old man had been telling the truth.

Speaking of, Gaius is waiting for him in the lounge, where they first met, ready with his hard plastic container of random medical things. His lips purse when he sees Merlin, sees the questions already spinning around in his head.

"Gaius—"

"Not yet, Merlin. We'll talk after I remove those staples," he answers firmly, and Merlin sighs, plops on the couch in resignation. He puts his head on the arm rest again, Gaius scooting a chair up, and before Merlin knows it some nasty pulling sensations are being administered to his scalp.

When Gaius has both of them, however, Merlin immediately straightens up and blurts out: "Why would Arthur want to kill me?"

Alright, not the best exemplar of a level head. It was probably too loud and anyone could have heard it and next time he should think before he speaks—but that's always been a lost cause.

Meanwhile the old man stares blankly at him, an eyebrow arching almost to his scalp. His hand holding the pliers goes still halfway to its destination where the medic kit sits.

"What are you talking about?"

32.

It's a decidedly female voice, curious and apprehensive from the doorway.

"Nothing, Morgana," Gaius starts quickly, "Arthur was just a bit annoyed with Merlin, if you remember. About being so late."

Morgana takes a few steps into the room, hesitant. "Right, yes."

"I don't see what the big deal is," Merlin recovers and puts in, moving to look pointedly at Gaius. "Arthur doesn't seem the type to be like that."

Gaius is staring at him, though it's unclear whether he yet understands what Merlin's actually saying.

"Oh, he does like his schedules," Morgana rolls her eyes.

"Actually, I believe he thought the number of reporters would have been less . . . overwhelming in the early morning." Then Gaius turns to Merlin to add: "Arthur really isn't the one to worry about."

Merlin shakes his head in confusion, positive they're not communicating, albeit back-handedly, about the same thing.

"Yes, well, I came by because you said you would bring more," Morgana moves closer, eyes flicking between them.

"Ahh yes," Gaius says, and starts rummaging through his kit.

"A lot has happened since we last visited, Gaius," Merlin says conversationally. "Arthur is not really how you made him out to be." Gaius gives him a single eyebrow before continuing his search.

"Oh, so he's not still a thick-headed dolt?" Morgana asks with a grin.

"No, that'll never change," Merlin smiles back easily. "And apparently not just for me—or is there some other reason there's an entire army of reporters marching against Pendragon Estate?"

Morgana and Gaius glance at each other almost in unison. "They're not the ones Arthur has to worry about battling against him, though I'm sure the press would pay to watch it happen," Morgana says, still half-smiling. "There's a lot of people feeling murderous toward Camelot right now."

"Murderous, really?" Merlin repeats, emphasizing. He gives Gaius a pointed nod—and the old man's eyes widen at last in understanding.

"Yes. On Saturday he made a public statement as CEO of Camelot Industries. They're not just freezing assets now—Arthur is pulling out his investments in 56 public limited companies. Like Odin Financials, or Gor . . . Gormause Inc. Which leaves him with practically nothing, in venture," Morgana explains. She swallows, looking away, and for once Merlin can guess why: it's the company department of the same investment firm she'd once betrayed Camelot over.

Which makes little sense, looking at her now. The past how many years, Morgana has lost her father, gained her son, and betrayed her family. She was completely estranged, and yet. And yet. Pendragon Estate, where Elena would never have dreamed learning the woman she heard of would even visit—now the house is Morgana's residence, with the very brother who once hated her.

Merlin studies the pale, strong contours of her face, the firm set of her jaw, the fiery life glimpsing in her cool eyes, and for the second time in his life, draws the conclusion:

I have no idea who this person is.

"Morgana?" the old man asks abruptly, changing subject, "is Mordred experiencing any similar troubles, to yours?"

"Mordred? No. Well, yes. But . . ." Morgana bites her lip, glancing at Merlin. Her features harden in resolve, quickly saying, "It's all a game to him. It's not terrifying, like it always has been for me."

Gaius nods, seeming to be successfully managing two private conversations at once—because Merlin has no idea what these two are on about, and it'd be pretty impossible for Morgana to understand his meaning-laid words. "Luckily, the younger generation always seems to improve, some way or another," He smiles at her easily, handing over a bottle of what looks like homemade pill capsules. But then his eyes slit over to Merlin, heavy with meaning.

"The younger generation always seems to improve, some way or another."

What was that supposed to mean?

"Thank you. Hopefully he'll never need these, then," she regards the medicine with a look of cold disdain. Like tasting bile or facing an old devil. "I can already tell these next few days are going to drive me insane, even without needing these. Best of luck in your line of work this week, Merlin," Morgana adds, and Merlin's stomach flips at the thought she knows exactly what line of work that is. "Arthur will be around all day from now on, but he'll probably act like a caged animal."

"Has this never happened before? I would think Camelot Industries is under public scrutiny most of the time anyway," Merlin says.

"Mr. Pendragon always had his hands full," Gaius agrees.

"But of course, didn't Mr. Pendragon have his father then to help him?" Merlin inquires. "I thought Arthur has only been the CEO for a small while—or was it only in name, while Uther was sick?"

"No, Mr. Pendragon as in Uther, his father. Not Arthur," Morgana says, echoing Arthur's words. "No one calls Arthur that, really."

Merlin's heard it before: "Call me Arthur," he was told upon first meeting his employer. "It's Arthur, for the last time. Mr. Pendragon is my father. Nobody calls me that," Arthur said just last Friday.

"Oh. Yeah, I keep forgetting," Merlin grins, but it fades as Gaius wrenches up suddenly, his kit knocking to the floor. His face is one of growing horror.

"Merlin, when I speak of Mr. Pendragon I mean Uther," he says forcefully to him, face white.

Merlin's brow furrows in confusion. ". . . Yes, I understand—"

Gaius shakes his head, grabs Merlin by the wrist and pulls him to his feet with surprising force. "In any moment we've spoken, anything I've said to you—"

"Yes, it's fine, Gaius, he gets it," Morgana puts her hand out to placate the old man. Merlin nods with her, taken aback. For why would it matter, when would it make a difference . . . ?

Gaius's most poignant words filter in, like his subconscious has already figured it out:

". . . if Mr. Pendragon learns of your past, of your title, Emrys, you will regret it . . . He'll kill you."

Merlin's lungs deflate; Morgana is prying Gaius's hand off his wrist, leading the old man out. But Gaius looks back, nods gravely at Merlin's frozen face as it all starts sinking in.

Good Ghandi. Gaius had been warning Merlin about Uther.

A/N: Alright yes, I'm irregular at updating. Tell me something I don't know. Liiiiiiike what you thought of this chapter! I'm going to say I'm very proud of this one, so I won't wait to grade it by its review/view number like I often do to say it: GO ME! And go you, if you've read this far.
Anyways: Is the pace good? Are things getting revealed in a timely enough fashion for you all? What did you like best? reeeeeeeeVIEW!!