47.

Merlin didn't think much of the hand-fastening until much, much later.

It was at the deathbed of the great Nimueh, who refused to be admitted to a hospital, Cara little more than a weepy mess buried in Merlin's shoulder. All was still, peaceful in the little house. Her affairs were in order, her life's work The Grimoire filed away, the woman herself restful for the most part.

But on that particular evening Nimueh croaked into the silence, startling Merlin, "Take c-care of her, Merlin . . . Don't abandon . . . us . . . "

"'Course not," he reassured gently, but her burning blue eyes didn't falter for a moment.

"Swear to me. Make a vow, under Maiden, Mother and Crone," she rasped harshly, "and be promised to one another. O-only then, can I die, happy." Her sunken lips twitched in a wan smile.

"Would you?" peeped Cara, finally emerging from his shoulder with a hopeful, tearful rendition of those same blue eyes. The prospect seemed to brighten her spirits, he saw, as little could these days.

So, for lack of understanding but no lack of love, Merlin agreed to let Nimueh perform what he saw to be a short, sweet little blessing for the couple, wrapping a conveniently found silk rope around their interlaced hands and declaring "it finished." Whatever 'it' really was.

Which was one of the last things the woman did before she died.

None of it, none of anything Nimueh taught Merlin really added up to what was about to happen, until it was happening. He hadn't seen Cara in a few weeks, her texts simply saying she loved him and needed to grieve on her own for a while. Spring rolled gently toward summer, and when she finally came back, vaguely recounting France, Wales, and Scotland, somehow she seemed . . . off.

Only to be expected, he had excused, after the death of a loved one. Merlin himself had spent months inconsolable over Freya's suicide, going to university more out of obligation than anything and hardly managing to put on a façade of normalcy.

But Cara acted both distant and weirdly clingy all of a sudden, even though she was the one to spend months away. She invited him to a dinner of her preparation, two days after being back, and Merlin went willingly. But a strange sense of foreboding curled down his spine as he entered Nimueh's old house; as he sat for dinner with wine and Cara did little more than stare at him. They drank wine in the main room, Merlin trying to keep up a conversation—and noting a new addition to the house's strange collection of artifacts.

"The horn, there? What's that for?"

"Oh . . . got it off an old peddler of a woman in Wales, think it might be . . ." she trailed off, staring at it as Merlin moved closer. The horn shined in the lowlight, ivory and metal mouthpiece polished, dainty and small where it hung on the wall.

"May I?" he asked, already reaching for it; he jumped back in surprised when she shouted "NO!"

Her gaze burned into him, livid, for a moment—and then the fire dulled, muted as she repeated in a much quieter voice. "No. Just, just, let's talk about what you've been up to. Here, drink some more." He hastily agreed, watching her warily for the remainder of the night.

Of course, by then, it was much too late.

Merlin first felt it in his legs; they felt wobbly, weak, almost numb. When Cara suggested they sit, he was grateful. Then, his already buzzing head grew cloudy, muddled. He thought he must be drunk, even if it'd only been two small servings of wine.

Then his whole body slumped forward, useless, and Merlin thought vacantly how it was strange, that Cara simply and absentmindedly stroked his head where it had landed on her lap, not at all surprised.

"We are ready for you, Mother," he distantly heard her say. And realized, in that dull moment of truth, I have no idea who this person is.

Then—what Merlin assumed comparable to being head-dunked in a pot of boiling water—a harsh, nasty force roughly plunged his soul into absolute hell.

ooOOoo

They arrive at Gaius's hidden retreat later that morning. Morgana is sitting in a lumpy-looking chair, squinting at a tiny television screen where the news "Camelot Industries Doomed for Ruin" flashes, with a tiny frown. It immediately melts away when she sees the two of them enter, however, Arthur smiling tiredly back as she rushes toward them up until his sister completely passes him by and instead jumps Merlin.

"Finally some company!" she smiles, stepping back from a very-stunned Merlin. "What's the news? How's Gwen?" Morgana looks back at Arthur, whose face immediately morphs back from annoyance to resignation.

"Physically speaking, all right I suppose," he says. "But we've . . . got bad news as well."

"What do you mean?" her eyes widen, darting between the two of them. Merlin bites his lip, not quite prepared for another female exhibition of sorrow.

She is a picture of stone, though, once Arthur in so many words explains that Gwen has miscarried. She crosses her arms, hugging herself, staring somewhere behind them the whole time, as he describes in a hollow voice the circumstances, how Guinevere fell. Her rigid pose reminds Merlin of Arthur's stance at the hospital, and not for the first time he connects startling similarities between these two.

Arthur adds, a little bitterly, at the end, "And of course you know, I can see, even if I'm her own husband, for—"

"She had to tell someone!" Morgana shoots back, eyes flashing from vacancy to life in one instant.

"She could have told ME—"

"—You know BLOODY WELL she could not, Arthur Pendragon," the woman thunders, and Arthur takes a step back, "because of the very thing you're suspecting right now. I can see."

"After nearly four years of marriage, you'd think I would have managed it before now—"

"Four years? Gwen said two—"

"Merlin, please shut up and let me yell at this dolt, and Arthur—yes I called you a dolt, you're acting like one right now—!"

"—and I suppose she was going to, what? Pretend she's just gaining weight? When was she planning on telling me if we actually managed to get her pregnant?!"

Morgana huffs, puts her hands up in a gesture that clearly says she is done with this conversation, and stomps up the stairs just as Gaius calls down, "Everything all right down there?"

"Fine," Arthur calls back, and Morgana barks a laugh above, out of sight by now.

"I'm guessing . . . its best not to ask," Merlin says, the two of them alone now on the bottom level, and Arthur smirks slightly.

"Smarter than you look," he answers, looking amused for a moment before his face sobers out again. "As the news is pointing out, I have a lot of work to do," he gestures at the screen, "but I can put it all on hold, for now. I'll trash the company, if I have to, though it might be done for anyway. But Merlin. We have to know how. How to stop it, I mean, for good."

"I know," Merlin agrees, stomach dropping. "I know."

How?

48.

They decide to let the rest of the day play out—Arthur managing things with his business, Merlin staying here, "keeping a lookout for Morgana and Mordred, if you can," and . . . well, somehow figuring out how to exorcise the ghost of Uther Pendragon. His eyes are immediately drawn from the bookshelves and bottles, a dusty duster and a cracked horn, just as they were before, to the thick engraved leather and raised bands of The Grimoire's thick spine.

If there's no help in there, there's no help anywhere.

The second his employer leaves, shutting the door behind him, Merlin gives it his full attention. He glances over his shoulder once before approaching the shelf, sliding his hand over the once-familiar grooves and worn lettering for a moment and then pulling it out by the headband. The book falls heavy on his palm, thick and brown and buckled twice across the fore edge. He undoes the clasps reverently, flipping through the pages aimlessly while taking a seat where Morgana had been earlier.

" . . . according to inside sources at the Pendragon Estate, who also claim . . . " the telly drones as Merlin peers over page after page, memory flooding in almost quicker than his eyes can read—detailed diagrams of the Summoning Circle, his very first lesson under Nimueh's tutelage; how to access one's clairvoyance, Cara giggling as he practiced with her; moon patterns, splaying out on the grass at midnight, whispering; Nemeth and Cathbhadh . . . so many pages of knowledge, but nothing that truly seems relevant.

Merlin is about to groan and drop his head on the pages in frustration when Morgana's voice carries from above: "I'm coming down, Merlin. I assume that thick-headed dolt of a brother of mine has left by now?"

"A while ago," he says, scrambling to hide the book somewhere as she descends before he's in her line of sight. Under the chair? Perhaps in that book pile? Or maybe just on the floor, there's a dozen already littered around anyway—

"Am I not supposed to see that?"

Merlin freezes, turning slowly to take in Morgana's quizzical look, brow poised artfully at the book clutched in his hands still. He laughs, sheepish. She already knows, what Merlin is, anyway after all. Just instinct at this point, he reminds himself. "Sorry. Just a very, very strange book that I don't think I'll find any answers in," he says half-truthfully, sitting back down again.

She surprises him by perching on the arm of the chair, taking it nonchalantly out of his hands and reading, "The Grimoire. Ooooh, sounds strange already." Morgana smirks at him before flipping to a page, a druidic prayer handwritten in a scrawling, smudging font. "What . . . language is this?" she asks in surprise, peering at every page and finding the same.

"A variant of Old English," Merlin answers, nodding. "Not many left who can read it."

She gives him a look. "And you can?"

He shrugs, though completely aware how strange it is for a 23 year old to say, "Yes. Actually, I quit university for two years; this was my only textbook, for a while."

"I never went to university," she smiles ruefully, still turning pages, "too busy trying to rise in the ranks at Camelot. I did of course, but then there was the inevitable falling out, and Morgause pretending I could be useful afterwards, and then Mordred . . . now I'm doing classes online. Definitely not the same, but manageable for now, at least, until Mordred gets older and Arthur stops smothering me or I escape out of the estate for the third time in my life." She laughs and he joins in, her fingers idly touching the next page the book has rested on. Merlin notices with a faint bit of nostalgia it's the chant for summoning passed lovers, specifically.

"Actually," Morgana says, looking down at her hand, "I decided to stay longer than a few weeks, when Gwen found out she might be pregnant. I wanted to be there for her, help her through it all best I could. To make up for all that I've done her wrong. I guess . . . I guess that chance is gone, again."

He lays a hand over hers, locking gaze when she looks up in surprise. "Morgana—whatever you've done, Gwen has forgiven you. She loves you; it's obvious. You don't have to tell me what all of this is about, but—"

"But it would help, right?" Morgana smiles sadly, squeezing his hand. When he nods, she says, "I'm afraid of what you'll think of me, Merlin."

"We can go about it like we usually do—a question for a question, perhaps?" he suggests, half-smiling, and Morgana sighs half in amusement.

"Fine. And I'll go first, then, like usual." She slides from the arm of the lumpy chair, dropping The Grimoire lightly to the ground and slipping into the chair as well, practically sitting on him till he moves to give her more room. "What is this?" Morgana taps his chest, right where his heart is racing, and Merlin's mouth is dry as he contemplates how to explain away why his body is acting like it's just run a 3k race.

It's almost relief he feels, when instead she grabs his dark shirt by the collar and tugs at it, till the spot on his chest she's been pointing to is exposed. Almost relief, if it weren't for what now is bared to her; the thick black ink of the crossing V's, a single black dot in the middle.

"This," she strokes it with a single finger, and Merlin tries not to give away how his skin is tingling from the touch, "I saw it, yesterday. When you were—"

"Wet, yeah, I know," he sighs, mood suddenly dampened as he remembers how Morgana and Mordred both stared at it, Morgana starting, "You have . . . " before Arthur interrupted her with a phone call. It really isn't a part of his past he'd prefer to delve into—for his own sake, not anyone else's. But the expectant look in Morgana's green eyes, so close, decide for him.

"The Mark of—" Merlin starts, resigned to his fate, till Morgana cuts him off.

"Of Nimueh. I recognized it. Do you know her?" She leans closer, hushed though no one has taken notice of them. Merlin searches the woman's face for a moment, wondering if this is a real question or a test. If she has even heard of Nimueh . . .

But her pale concern, already heavy-laden thanks to the circumstances, seems too genuine for games. "Knew her, is more like," Merlin says honestly, watching closely as Morgana tilts her head.

"You . . . don't speak to them anymore."

She doesn't pose it as a question, though Merlin reaffirms, "Well, yes, but—she's dead. Actually."

"Dead?" Her shock looks entirely genuine, eyes wide and lips pressed into a thin line.

"Very."

Morgana looks down for a moment, brow drawn. "Morgause always spoke about her with such respect, such reverence. My sister herself isn't a druid, but she often befriended them and learned from them. Nimueh was how she knew the druidic prayer she taught me, to help for an easier night's rest. Gaius's remedies still help, of course, but," she shakes her head, biting her lip, "not enough. Morgause carries the same mark as yours, because she was a follower of the great prophetess still. And you . . . ?"

"I once was, as well," Merlin affirms, moving her hand away gently so the mark will be covered again.

Morgana frowns. "Are you ashamed of that, then? Morgause always said—"

"—that she was the greatest medium to ever connect the bridge, to track the rivulets, to detect the most elusive of auras. Yes. All that and more."

He turns his head away, not wanting her to see the anger and betrayal he feels. A firm hand tilts his head back, however, Morgana looking at him intently as she warns, "I swear if you shut me out I'll ring it from you anyway."

Merlin can't help but laugh; she leans back in surprise, apparently not expecting that reaction. "I'm useless at keeping secrets," he explains, still smiling, "unlike you Pendragon folk. You hang onto them like precious children. Anyway, I'm not a druid anymore. I don't . . . agree, with her methods, after some bad experiences of my own. So a bit ashamed, yes, perhaps. Which isn't surprising, that you guessed right; I'm also incapable of hiding how I feel, in any given situation. For all that my profession requires mysticism and surrealism . . . well, it's a good job I was never one for conformity."

"No," Morgana agrees, reaching with a hand to run her fingers through his strange hair, "you get props for being unique. And honest. And loyal, and brave, and . . . " her hand moves down to one side of his face, resting it there nonchalantly like she mustn't feel the fire spreading where she's touched him. Merlin certainly can.

He leans in and kisses her. And Merlin has no reaction time at all as he pulls back, to even think about what just happened or really register that their lips just touched as he stares down at her—before she's kissing him back. Grabbing his shoulders and tilting her head and leaning in and moving their mouths together in a way that's never been more fulfilling than in this exact second.

But, for all that he's apparently useless and incapable, Merlin isn't completely incompetent—he fortunately knows how to kiss back as well.

Now he's the one leaning forward, one hand grazing the side of her neck and into the nape of her smooth hair. The other hand slowly traces down her cheek as they part for breath, reveling in the softness of her skin. Only competing with the softness of her lips, which like the rest of her touch seem to leave a trace of fire on his.

So he goes in for another taste of it, and her grip on his shoulders tightens.

At some point he usually catches himself assessing kisses, even comparing them, as horrible as that sounds—honest. Even in the midst of the act. But in this exact second . . . he's not even sure he remembers his own name.

"Merlin," she whispers against his mouth, and a thrill runs through him.

Oh, right, that's what it is.

A/N: Follow, Review(what are friends for?), and . . . HEY! Are you one of those silly people that have read to this point and haven't favorited yet? Ya know, 60,000 words is a lot to still read without actually enjoying it. (OMGOSH THAT MANY WORDS DO YOU GUYS BELIEVE IT I DON'T BELIEVE IT)
Till next time, friends, hope you enjoyed!