A/N: Written on 6/29/24 as a fill for a Land of Myth Melee centered on platonic applications of forced proximity tropes (prompt lines included in the end notes).
Also fulfills my Merlin Bingo 2024 square Y4 - "Steampunk AU"
Boiling Point
For a place as swanky as Camelot Palace, Merlin would have expected fancier accommodations. Like individual cells, for example.
From his current vantage point—lying on the bare concrete cell floor where the burly guard had just tossed him before returning to the guard station around the corner at the end of the windowless corridor—Merlin had a particularly good view of the low gray ceiling. It didn't bear any resemblance to the gaudy murals adorning the ceiling of the state room where he'd just been sentenced.
Guess Uther doesn't care about cohesive interior design.
That might be for the best, honestly; those murals were frankly hideous. He had no idea how the royal family could stand having glorified family portraits glaring judgmentally down at them every hour of the day and night. Gwen had once told Merlin that it was sad that the prince and princess had gotten shipped off to the Academy for six years—all the way on the other side of the country—as soon as they had each turned sixteen. Gwen thought it would be lonely to be so far from family, but Merlin was beginning to wonder if getting far, far away from the cloying, ostentatious Palace might actually be a relief. He'd certainly feel much better once he was out of here.
Merlin propped himself up on one elbow and glanced around at the thick steel bars. The gas lamps along the corridor cast criss-crossing shadows on the floor. "Well, this is cozy," he observed wryly.
The only other occupant of the cell snorted, then pointedly looked away.
Tough crowd, Merlin thought, rubbing his shoulder where it had taken the brunt of the impact on the concrete. Clearly, he's too high and mighty to talk to the unwashed masses. The man's waistcoat and spats—not to mention the cocksure way he sat lounging against the back wall like he owned the place—marked him as upper crust as clearly as if he'd disembarked directly into the cell from a SteamLine airship, heralded by trumpets. Or, the polite part of his conscience—which sounded suspiciously like Gwen—interjected, maybe he's grumpy because your dramatic entrance woke him up. It's nearly 2 AM, after all. With a sigh, Merlin untangled his legs from his long, soot-smudged coat and rose to inspect the lock on the cell door.
His cellmate cleared his throat. "What are you, uh, what are you in for?"
"Oh, treason," Merlin said glibly, turning back to face him. "You?"
The corners of the man's mouth twisted up into a bitter half-smile. "Something like that."
"Ugh. Tough luck, mate," Merlin commiserated. I'll have to tell Will he was wrong; not every member of the peerage has a gold-embossed Get Out of Jail Free card.
Merlin shook his head and turned his attention from his best friend's revolutionary rhetoric to more pressing topics, such as breaking himself and his posh cellmate out of this grimy dungeon. He approached the cell door and ran his hand down the smooth lock panel, probing at it with a thin gold tendril of magic. He rescinded his earlier assessment of the dungeon; clearly, the vast majority of the construction budget had gone into this lock. It was a state-of-the-art hydraulics number—the kind Merlin would have expected to find securing a bank vault rather than a glorified drunk tank, even one that belonged to Uther Pendragon.
"Don't waste your time," his cellmate informed him. "It's warded against sorcery."
"Hmm. Against telekinetics, yeah." Merlin glanced over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow at his supercilious cellmate. "Lucky for us, then, that I have other skills."
Merlin squinted through the bars at the complicated configuration mounted on the wall across from the cell. One sizeable reservoir, several small steam pipes and turbines, a couple of industrial pistons, and a smattering of gears and pulleys collectively controlled the advanced locking mechanism. It's going to take a lot of heat to shift all of that, he thought with a sigh, reaching out through the bars. His arms were long, but the hall was too wide to reach the reservoir. Gonna need tools for this one.
As Merlin dug through the many pockets of his coat, the man watched him with, well, Merlin would've said 'bored indifference,' except that being imprisoned by Uther Pendragon on treason charges was not something any sane person would ever be indifferent about.
As Merlin laid out his supplies on the floor, the man broke the stuffy silence.
"You really have no idea who I am, do you?" Each posh vowel rubbed Merlin the wrong way.
"Oh, I know who you are. A dead man," Merlin retorted, "unless you stop distracting me from getting us out of here."
The prat opened his mouth, then shut it again wordlessly.
Merlin worked quickly in the silence, starting with the handful of small metal rods that he'd piled on the floor, each about the length of his hand and roughly the width of a charcoal pencil. One by one, he picked them up and systematically attached them end to end with a linking incantation until he had a slim, sturdy rod the length of his arm. He stuffed the remaining spare rods back into his right pocket. Next, he picked up a shallow metal dish a little longer than his thumb and laid it down at the very end of the rod.
Now for the fun part, Merlin thought, pulling his welding goggles up from under his scarf and trying not to think about having a stranger for an audience. Goggles firmly in place, he murmured "Forbærne," and a vibrant flame sparked to life on his palm.
The stranger inhaled sharply.
"What?" Merlin snapped, looking up.
"I thought that was just a legend. The fire conjuring, I mean."
Merlin held the flame out toward him and raised a smug eyebrow. "Not a myth, sorry."
"I can see that," the man said, eyes very wide. "How does it work, exactly?"
"If I figure that out, I'll let you know," Merlin replied with a snort. "Probably something to do with the dragonblood on my father's side."
"The what?"
"How about saving the inquisition until we're out of here, yeah?" Merlin picked up the flame between the thumb and forefinger of his other hand, willed its essence hotter, then held the blue-white flame to the spot where the rod and the bowl met. In a matter of moments, the bowl was firmly welded to the rod. Merlin extinguished the flame and scooped up the last of his supplies: a little vial of water. He pulled out the cork and dumped the contents over the weld to quench it. It cooled with a gratifying hiss.
He replaced the stopper, returned the vial to his left interior breast pocket, and surveyed his handiwork.
Now for the hard part. He conjured another flame in his palm, picked it up with his fingers, and tried to set it down in the little bowl. It flickered out the moment he withdrew his hand, and he cursed under his breath.
"What's wrong?" the man asked.
"The telekinetic wards are really, really strong down here." Merlin conjured another flame, cradling it in his palm as he picked up the bowl with his other hand. "They block my ability to move objects—even pure elements like fire—telekinetically. That's why I can't just command the water to move through the lock's turbines from over here and why I can't just drop the flame into the bowl, or even conjure it in there to begin with instead of starting it on my hand. But if I can set it down without losing contact with it before it's settled on the surface"—he turned the bowl on its edge and scraped it along his palm to scoop the flame into it—"it wouldn't be telekinetic movement, so it shouldn't trigger the wards." He grinned proudly as the flame rolled into the bottom of the bowl and continued flickering merrily up at him. "Like so."
He climbed to his feet and slipped the bowl and rod through the gap in the bars, adjusting the angle until the bowl with the flame rested neatly at the base of the glass reservoir that was the key to their freedom. "I can keep it burning without touching it," he explained. "I just can't move it from here to there." Again, he wordlessly willed the essence of flame hotter, but not so hot that it might melt the bowl or shatter the glass. The water in the reservoir reached a rolling boil in less than a minute, sending a targeted plume of searing steam racing up the coiled copper pipes and whistling through the turbines. The pistons and gears sprang to life, and the lock turned with a satisfying click.
Merlin pulled the rod back through the bars, extinguished the flame, pushed the cell door open wide, and gestured with the rod in a sweeping invitation. "After you," he said, pulling down his welding goggles to hang beneath his scarf once more.
Merlin knocked the sole guard over the head with the rod and left it beside the man's prone form before they sprinted up two flights of stairs. Merlin pulled up sharply when they exited the top of the stairwell and found themselves at a three-way fork. He glanced to the left—a short hallway with a blind corner at the end—and to the right—a short hall leading to a spiral stairwell. Even if the wrought iron hadn't looked ancient and rickety enough to break under the weight of one grown man, let alone two, it only led in the wrong direction: down. The path straight ahead—up four steps from the landing with another upward stairwell at the far end—was clearly their best option. Merlin gamely started forward.
"No, this way," the prat said, grabbing Merlin's sleeve and tugging him in the direction of the downward spiral staircase.
"Are you mad?" Merlin asked, pulling his arm free and jogging up the four stairs in front of them. He turned back to see the man still standing in the middle of the landing. "You do understand that we should be heading up, don't you?"
The man opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again.
"Come on," Merlin huffed. "We need to keep moving so we don't run into any patrols."
"Halt!" a terse voice called from the end of the hall Merlin had just entered.
Speak of the devil, he thought, lamenting the bad timing as he leapt back down the four steps to the landing, grabbed the stubborn prat, and shoved him in the direction of the hall with the blind corner. Lesser of three evils.
The prat stumbled after him, cursing under his breath, as Merlin barreled around the blind corner.
He didn't run headlong into another patrol, but it was nearly as bad: the hallway was a dead end.
The prat cursed under his breath again and yanked Merlin into the nearest alcove. "Quick," he whispered. "Do something." He waggled his fingers in a poor imitation of magic.
"I can't teleport us both. The Palace's teleportation wards are too strong for that, even for me," Merlin snapped, running through their dwindling options in his head.
The soldiers' footsteps were getting steadily closer.
The man frowned. "Can you get yourself out?"
"This far from the exterior walls?" Merlin grimaced. "Probably, but—"
"Then do it," he hissed.
"No," Merlin shot back, pulling them both deeper into the shadows of the tiny nook. "I'm not leaving you here to die alone."
"I'm not—" The man cut himself off, then scrubbed a hand down his face, accidentally elbowing Merlin in the close quarters. "This is the worst day ever."
"Oi!" Merlin muttered, giving in to his bad habit of growing increasingly contrarian under pressure. "It could be worse. In theory." He swallowed thickly as he heard the sound of hammers being cocked. "Not sure how, though."
Before his fellow traitor could reply, the lead soldier reached the entrance of the alcove and raised his gas lantern, dispelling the shadows. The soldier's mouth dropped open. "Sire?"
Oh, Merlin thought. That's how.
"Sire," the soldier sputtered again. "How? We didn't expect you home from the Academy until morning!"
"At ease, Leon." Arthur waved off the impending apology as he squeezed past the sorcerer, subtly stepping in front of him to shield him from the armed soldiers. "My airship had a strong tailwind the whole way; I arrived just before midnight and went straight to see the King."
His mind raced as he systematically regretted all the choices that had led him here. If he'd protested more about being sent to the Academy, if he hadn't befriended scholarship students during his rebellious phase in year two, if they hadn't introduced him to their sorcerer friends in year four, if Morgana hadn't confided in him about her magic. If, if, if—
All of it had led up to a massive row with his father—about inflated taxes, of all things—within minutes of sitting down with him for a quiet glass of scotch in his study just after midnight.
If Arthur had tempered his words even a little, if he'd been a bit more willing to play the slow game of politics instead of trying to be a hero—
His father hadn't taken kindly to Arthur's 'radical insubordination' and had promptly ordered his personal guards to toss Arthur into a cell until dawn to 'cool his head' and 'correct his attitude' before Arthur had to make an appearance at the grand public welcome breakfast scheduled for his expected arrival time.
If Arthur had succeeded in keeping his emotional distance from a snarky cellmate he should have known he couldn't save—
Well, then Arthur wouldn't have been racing through the back corridors of his own Palace in the dead of night, trying to save a sarcastic sorcerer's life.
If, if, if—
He cleared his throat and offered Leon the first excuse that came to mind. Gesturing to the sorcerer, he said, "This is a friend of mine from the Academy who arrived with me tonight."
Leon's brows understandably rose. Six years ago, Arthur wouldn't have been caught dead in the company of someone who looked like the scruffy man behind him. A man who'll be dead if you don't sell this farce. Arthur laid it on thick. "A friend of Princess Morgana." He smiled. "If you take my meaning."
The soldiers' eyes widened. She was going to kill him for this.
"I was escorting him to visit her"—never mind that her chambers are on the opposite end of the Palace from here—"but, as you can imagine, we're not keen for the King to hear about this. Not until I've succeeded in elevating his status significantly."
There was an affronted huff from behind him. Arthur subtly leaned back and jammed his elbow into the man's stomach to silence him before continuing, "I was thinking a barony, or perhaps a dukedom."
The soldiers shifted uncomfortably, glancing between their prince and their flummoxed commanding officer.
"So…" Arthur drew out the word, folding his arms and looking pointedly at the soldiers' cocked pistols.
The soldiers hastened to lower the hammers. One in the back, who looked barely old enough for peach fuzz, went so far as to unload all the bullets from his. He dropped one in his haste, and Leon sent the boy a disapproving look before holstering his pistol and taking a step back. "My apologies for detaining you, sire."
"Don't trouble yourself; no harm done. However, we don't want to keep the Princess waiting any longer." He gave Leon a regal nod, then turned and placed a firm hand on the sorcerer's shoulder. The soldiers parted deferentially before him as he steered the sorcerer down the corridor at a measured pace. He felt the man's fear in the tight muscles bunched beneath his grubby coat. "Relax," Arthur murmured as they approached the turn, not loosening his grip. "You have to act like you belong here; don't make me regret this."
Once they turned the corner, out of sight of the soldiers, Arthur headed straight for the old iron stairwell.
"What are you doing?" the sorcerer hissed, shrugging free of Arthur's grip.
"Leading you to the nearest exit. We'd already be there if you'd listened to me the first time."
The man stopped short, a mulish pinch to his mouth. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, eyes hard and wary. "Shouldn't you be ordering my execution, rather than preventing it?"
Arthur rolled his eyes. Despite his rising irritation, he kept his voice low. "Let's just say that the Academy was an enlightening experience, and not just in the way my father and my tutors intended."
The man blinked at him.
"So," Arthur said firmly, tipping his head toward the staircase that would lead down to the secret dock on the river that served as an escape route if the royal family should ever need one, "are you coming or not? Also, how's your swimming?"
"Um, not great?"
Arthur chewed his lip, then sighed as he turned and continued toward the stairs, pulling the man along behind him by the arm. "Well, I guess we're adding 'theft of royal property' to your crimes."
"What?" the man sputtered.
"There's a tiny boat that I used when I first learned to row as a child. It should hold your weight long enough to get across the river. If you're as rubbish at rowing as it sounds like you are at swimming, it also has a little outboard steam motor that hasn't worked properly in years." He glanced back and raised an eyebrow. "I assume that won't be a problem for you, though?"
The man's grin was blinding. "Nope, no problem at all."
When they reached the bottom of the staircase, Arthur deftly led them through the maze of progressively narrowing corridors without any wrong turns—which he was pleased about, given that it had been six years at least since he'd done this. Thankfully, they didn't encounter any more patrols and soon reached the little dock.
As the sorcerer settled into the laughably tiny boat, his folded knees almost taller than the sides, he looked up at Arthur with a soft, unguarded expression. "Thank you," he said. "You're a better man than your father."
"I hope you're right," Arthur admitted quietly, then used his foot to give the boat a small push away from the dock. "Take care of yourself, uh…?"
"Merlin," the man supplied. "My name's Merlin."
"Perhaps we'll meet again someday, Merlin."
Merlin nodded, whispered a word, and held his hand beneath the little steam engine's reservoir, shielding the flame cradled in his palm from the gusts dancing over the water as the boat slipped away into the moonless night.
Arthur turned to leave, smiling to himself as he heard the left-for-scrap engine sputter to life.
Late in the evening, roughly a week later—once Arthur had made his insincere apologies to his father and resigned himself to taking the hard, slow route to bringing much-needed changes to his country—Leon knocked at his study door.
"Apologies for disturbing you at this hour, sire," Leon said, holding out a letter. "The royal mail clerk alerted me to this letter as a potential threat, given the crude paper and the return address. I, uh, told him I'd take care of it."
Arthur could see why the clerk had flagged it. The envelope had water spots on one corner and a couple of scorch marks on another, like stray sparks had landed on it and been tamped out a moment too late. Arthur's name, title, and address looked like they had been scrawled in charcoal pencil, and the field for the sender's details simply read "A Friend," followed by an address somewhere in the industrial slums.
"Is it from him? The man Princess Morgana is—?" Leon broke off abruptly. "Forgive me. It's not my place to ask."
Arthur took pity on him; Leon had been the closest thing he'd ever had to a decent friend—save for Morgana—prior to leaving for the Academy. "Thank you, Leon," he said, neatly ripping open the envelope and extracting a single soot-smudged sheet of paper.
Arthur, Thanks for the boat. I don't know why you said the engine was rubbish. I thought it worked just fine. -Merlin
Grinning, he looked up at Leon. "You did well. If you see any more like this, especially from someone called Merlin, please also bring them directly to me."
"Of course, sire," Leon said with a bow.
Once Leon departed, Arthur settled at his desk to pen a reply, hopefully the first of many. He cringed when he remembered belatedly that if Leon—and possibly other staff—would be aware of any ongoing correspondence and therefore the accompanying ruse, he would have to abandon his extremely solemn resolution to never tell his terrifying sister about the existence of her 'lover.'
A/N:
~Later~
Morgana, deadly calm: "Arthur, brother dear, would you care to enlighten me as to why half of the palace staff seem to be under the impression that I'm involved in some sort of torrid affair?"
Arthur, sweating: "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."
(Yes, she eventually drags the truth out of Arthur and demands to meet Merlin for herself. They get on like a house on fire and become lifelong friends, and Arthur never again knows a moment's peace from the combined power of their sass. Even so, he can never quite bring himself to regret all the decisions that led him there.)
Also: In case anyone's wondering, the steam-powered cell lock was manufactured by Handwavium Inc.
Below are the prompt lines from the Land of Myth Melee. Participants had to include at least one line of dialogue and one line of narration; the ones I used are in bold. (The rules permitted changing pronouns and verb tenses as needed to fit one's fill.)
Dialogue
1) "It wasn't my idea."
2) "Tell me what you really think."
3) "Of course not, because that would be convenient."
4) "Why, of all people, did it have to be you?"
5) "Well, this is cozy."
6) "It could be worse. In theory."
Narration:
1) He systematically regretted all the choices that had led him here.
2) There must be some mistake.
3) It was going to be a long, long [unit of time].
4) It wasn't her worst nightmare, but it was definitely in the top three.
5) She was going to kill them for this.
6) He was looking for a silver lining, but so far, all he'd found was [blank].
