33.
Things are making all sorts of sense now.
First of all, this new theory is a lot easier to believe in than Merlin's former assumption—that his life is in danger once Arthur knows certain druidic things about him. It really had no basis. Killing people, anyway, would be bad for business.
And ghosts hold no such reservations.
Most importantly of course, if Uther can be considered murderous, and he is dead, and there just so happens to be both a deceased and a murderous person terrorizing the estate of late . . . But there is still the one flaw Merlin is not capable of ignoring, sits contemplating about for a good ten minutes: Spirits can't kill.
Gaius must know this, he must understand the laws that divide the dead from the living. Especially considering the The Grimoire among others is on the old man's bookcase. Merlin is still inwardly burning with the question as to how a copy of such a book was obtained, why Nimueh would even consider gifting one to another person. Let alone an old physician living in the obscure wooded hills of Albion.
Morgana comes back without Gaius, a troubled expression on her face.
"He left, didn't he," Merlin reads from her eyes, and when she nods he lets out an exasperated sigh. "That man really knows how to avoid me."
"He's driving away now," she confirms, but when Merlin moves to go she puts a hand out. "Wait." He watches in confusion as she steps forward and reaches for his hand with one of her own, holding it palm-up between them. Then her other hand pulls something from the pocket of her cardigan—a folded piece of paper.
"I've already read it," she admits, stepping closer and pushing his fingers closed around it. "From Gaius."
"Does he write better than he texts?" Merlin asks with a slight smile, and then unfolds the message: de Bois Central E, Wenham, East Midlands B9 5SS, Albion. Anyone here you ask, will know.
An address—a business, or some important building like that from the looks of it.
"I know, like it says," Morgana confirms when his eyes rise to hers, though she seems hesitant, saying, "Though I'm not at all sure he would mean for me to take you . . . to go there . . . "
"Merlin, there you are," Arthur appears in the doorway. His face is all business—but Merlin catches a flash of suspicion, crossing the man's features in an instant as he looks at them.
"Is it 'later,' then?" Merlin jests, but Arthur nods.
"Yes actually, it is. Follow me," he answers, and then leaves as abruptly as he came. Merlin moves around Morgana, speaking with his eyes—this conversation will be continued—and unlike with Gaius, this time Merlin's not waiting a week to follow up on that.
Then he catches up to Arthur at the end of the hall, saying through his breath, "You could try one of these days and give me a second."
Arthur's mouth quirks a bit, though he keeps his eyes trained to the hall ahead, the entrance where the stairs also start. "You should remember your priorities—talking to my sister, or doing your job." The way he emphasize 'sister' explains the suspicion from before quite clearly.
"I apologize; I didn't realize your pointless little rule includes refrainment from any kind of civil conversation. Should have guessed, considering you follow it as well."
Merlin smirks, though it dies quickly off his face when Arthur wrenches to a stop, putting a finger obnoxiously close to his eyes. "I have very good reason for my 'pointless little rule,' as you call it," he says, eerily calm, "for your sake and Morgana's. I told you first day to stay away from her."
His words were far from that: "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."
"Actually no, not quite," Merlin raises an eyebrow, swatting away Arthur's pointed-finger-in-face. "You told me not to tell her why I was here. That I was some distant relative of Gwen's. Which was a horrible cover story by the way; I don't think I can be blamed for her not buying into that—no one with a brain would."
Arthur's eyes narrow, his voice both accusatory and testing as he asks, "Then you've told her?"
"Course not," Merlin blatantly lies, suddenly quite wary of how Arthur's looking at him. Not murderous in the real sense of the word, no, but very possibly on the verge of shouting or sacking. Or both simultaneously.
His answer seems to calm Arthur just enough though. The man lets out a grated breath and walks up the stairs stiffly, making a point to stay ahead of Merlin. Who follows after, feeling relieved. He turns curious, however, when Arthur keeps climbing till they've passed the second floor and continued up the staircase.
Then Arthur surprises him with an entirely different tone, almost tired as he explains, "There's something up here you need to be shown. I would explain before we arrive, but—I think it best you see it for yourself. It falls into your . . . area of expertise, as it were, so it was left as it was after I found it myself Sunday morning, going to my room. Must have happened in the night, since I slept in Guinevere's room instead of my own . . ." Arthur trails off, and then throws him an annoyed look. "Merlin, it's like I can hear you thinking. I need not remind you that my marriage life is absolutely none of your business—"
"No, you 'need not,' I promise," Merlin mimics quotations, grinning. But he can't help but be completely perplexed by the strange relationship of Arthur and Guinevere. "That's why I didn't say anything. Just can't help thoughts."
"When you're working for me, you can."
They're almost to the third floor now—which is mostly empty rooms, based off Merlin's inspection of the house a week ago now—when Arthur's steps start to slow, his back begins to stiffen even more than usual. Merlin looks at him questioningly, but then it hits him as well. Like he's been sucked into a chilling current.
The third floor is empty and echo-ey, pristinely clean like the rest of the house. But for a June-nearly-July-day at noon, in the upper recesses of a large house, the air is frankly, cold.
"The door was open," Arthur explains, in a quiet hushed tone, "that's the only reason I even noticed it. That room is always locked." And then he moves forward, feet echoing distantly against the wooden floor. Merlin follows after him, feeling more chilled with each and every step.
It's obvious which doorway Arthur is leading him to—the one at the end of the hall, where all the icy air seems to flow from—even if it wasn't open wide, the inside a dark mouth waiting to swallow them. Merlin can already feel those pin-prickles of cold shooting through his limbs by the time Arthur stops at the doorway. The man looks hesitant, maybe even afraid to go in.
Merlin pushes past him into the room. This is part of what being a medium means, after all. He looks around, blinking to adjust to the darkness. Then staring. Taking in neither the dusty furniture, nor the thick, dark curtains that protect the place from practically all of the noonday sun.
Something leads his eyes directly to the writing on the wall.
34.
YOU HAVE FAILED.
THIS PEACE CANNOT LAST.
I WILL RECOMPENSE.
The three walls not shrouded in curtains each have one of the warnings sprawled across them. Huge letters cut into the plaster like someone has carved them there—except the deep lines slash so roughly, so wildly, like there was absolutely no precision in the act. Just brute strength.
"I found this on the floor," Arthur's voice startles him from behind. Merlin turns, sees Arthur picking up an ornate knife from a dark-wooded dresser. The man is frowning down at the weapon, turning it over in his hands.
"Do you recognize it?" Merlin guesses, and Arthur's eyes are hooded as he looks up at him.
"It was a gift," he answers, and hastily sets it back down. "As far as I knew, safely kept in a drawer next to my bed."
Merlin just nods, turning back to the messages around them. The west wall, to the right of the windowed one, with the dresser against it: YOU HAVE FAILED. He steps toward it, ignoring Arthur's eyes on him as he reaches to touch the gorged marks.
The murky depths of a scene flash behind Merlin's eyes:
You watch with a roll of raging, helpless anger, Arthur in front of a press conference, you look down at the scene disconnected, tired of standing idly by, brimming with ice cold fury the more you hear him as he speaks, he chooses, he ruins . . .
Merlin blinks from the images, realizing Arthur has moved closer and is staring at him. With what looks like dawning realization. "Sorry," Merlin tries for a grin.
"You've dazed off like that before," he says slowly, "Friday morning. What are—what did you, see?"
He sounds so uncomfortable asking about such things Merlin almost feels sorry for him.
But he only gives the man a pointed look, answering with a "Wait." Then he's moving toward the next carved inscription, contrasting with the rest of the smooth, pale wall. Merlin splays his hand out, against one of the A's in THIS PEACE CANNOT LAST.
This time it's a rush, a flood of emotion more than imagery:
Waiting, waiting, always waiting, in the dark dark corners tucked away, hearing their voices, so content and unaware, while not so far away you're brewing, building, growing growing stronger, freer, not too long now . . .
Merlin shudders away from the scrawl, taking a deep breath of icy air. It almost fogs coming out. "He's angry with you," Merlin whispers, and a cloud must have just moved over the sun, because the room starts darkening. "He's waiting, biding his time."
"He?"
Arthur's voice barely registers in Merlin's head—it's like something is guiding his eyes again, to the next inscription. To the last wall, to the words I WILL RECOMPENSE. "It won't be too long . . ." Merlin whispers, feeling his feet take him toward it, his hand reach of its own accord to the letters. Arthur follows, he's talking to him, but there's something more important to hear . . .
CAN'T SPEAK, CAN'T BREATHE, Arthur is somewhere near, CAN'T THINK, CAN'T TALK, Arthur speaks unthinkable words, STUCK IN THE BEEP, BEEP, BEEP OF A MACHINE, He is signing off your death, signing off your life, CAN'T MOVE, CAN'T STOP HIM, Stuck somewhere above, looking down at yourself detached, screaming at him no, No, NO, NO,NO—
I WILL RECOMPENSE.
It's the spirit, it's him, it's that signature chill present here now, no longer an echo from the marks he'd left for them to see.
Merlin gasps away from the murderous tint of those foreign thoughts, the images imposed on his mind. And just in time to realize. A whistling pulls through the air, deadly silent. Except Merlin feels it, more than hears it. Feels the presence of the spirit behind them, next to the opposite wall, next to the dresser, next to the knife—
He slams Arthur to the ground, knocking the sturdy man over only with every ounce of his weight, barely two seconds before he hears the thud of impact in the RECOMPENSE wall.
Arthur is sputtering out some indignant insults as they both sit up, Merlin scooting quickly away. Leftover hatred is still burning like fire through his veins from all he just saw, all that he felt. And its burning for Arthur.
. . . ignored everything I taught him, disgraced all that I have done, soiled our name, destroyed my legacy . . .
Merlin blocks out the spiteful noise, sucking air in and out like he's been drowning. It feels like he has; drowned in the forceful, imposing mind of the spirit.
The mind of Uther Pendragon.
"What . . ." he tries to say, standing, "Arthur, what . . ." But the words are forgotten when Merlin sees the ornate knife wedged hilt-deep into the wall. Right above where their heads to be. "It was just a warning," Merlin realizes. "Just to scare us." The presence is already fading; dropping into the background, off to some corner of the household like he said, biding his time . . .
"What are you going on about?" Arthur says in a rather snipped manner, standing crossly in jerky movements.
Merlin looks at his employer's face, at the partly-veiled fear laced in the man's blue eyes. "He's going to repay you, for whatever you've done," Merlin says, and swallows. "You've failed him, and he won't wait much longer." Arthur says nothing, doesn't nod, but turns away to wrench the knife out of the wall. When he looks back, however, the man looks almost . . . remorseful.
"Arthur, what have you done?"