3.10 What Ties Held Fast
This wasn't Gwen's first time in Paris. She'd been before, and any given scout worth their salt studied, as a matter of course, any city where they expected to be spending any time. So she knew the maps, she knew the arrondissements and the streets and the bridges over the Seine. She knew the trolley lines, and their stops.
What no one could know – except maybe Merlin – was when there would be delays. Like now, when a trolley was stopped dead and had been for the better part of an hour because a turf-biker had been involved in an accident.
Dozens of rumors among bystanders and lingerers and loiterers. "I think he… Non, monsieur said he saw… the fault of the… no, but clearly it was because… c'est malchance, vraiment… I hope he's okay."
Didn't actually matter, to Gwen – no casualties – but now she was on foot, covering blocks where she'd expected to ride in ease, much more swiftly.
Twilight gathered softly but inexorably, and the river carried echoes of inarticulate sounds. Gwen couldn't keep her hurried steps completely silent, didn't have the time or the daylight to scout the location.
She was late.
She'd changed to dark clothing – multi-pocketed trousers and boots and a tough-fabric button-up, which could pass as ordinary enough among unsuspecting pedestrians. But if anyone was watching the property, they'd probably notice – if they were still watching, and hadn't gone inside already to interfere with whatever novice had published that message.
There was no time anymore for circumspection, watchful circling, sneaking up on the river-side of the flat building to climb up balconies.
Gwen strode down the sidewalk to the nearest door of the flat building specified in the newspaper column, ignoring the tickling sensation of being watched that raised the curly hairs escaping the twist at the nape of her neck. She yanked the heavy, rusting door open and moved inside unhesitatingly, maintaining a pretense of obliviousness. It was a stairwell, concrete and metal and sickly yellow lighting.
It was all in the timing. Gwen took the steps two at a time and swung around the landing, the second half of the stairs between first and second floor hidden by the concrete handrail structure.
Pulling her silenced Weston from an ankle holster – ducking to glance to the floors above her and seeing, hearing no one – she readied herself in the hidden corner of the landing.
It was all in the timing – and the illusion.
The outside door – unseen from her position – opened with a cautious rusty squeak. She jogged in place, deliberately slamming boot-soles down, turning on the ball of her foot to scuff like she'd continued to mount the stairs higher. Not a foolproof illusion, but enough for the moment.
The door creaked again, eased to latch rather than bang shut; over her own noise she couldn't hear footsteps on the concrete, but the next two jogging-fast steps were sideways, body bending to minimize the target she presented, Weston at the ready-
Heavy features, clean-shaven, short dark hair in spikes. Seize-9 extended but-
Not quite as ready as she was.
Aimsqueeze.
Her weapon bucked in her hand – his Seize-9 pinwheeled and clattered to the far corner of the stairwell as he recoiled, gasping and hunched over his hand.
"Maintenant," Gwen said coolly in French, gesturing with the handgun. "Ascend the stairs without delay, keeping your hands in sight at all times, and know that I will shoot to kill if it becomes necessary."
The man glowered and hissed an epithet that was decidedly not French, or meant to be complimentary to a female.
Well, that's as it may be. "Let's go," she added.
For a moment as he passed her she thought she was going to have to put a round in his leg. But, though he growled and side-eyed her, he began to ascend; she figured from the way he moved that he hadn't given up hope of catching her off-guard.
She'd put Camelot's training against anyone else's, any day.
Top floor, northward flat.
They were still ten paces from the door when a scream of pain suddenly rippled out, only partially muffled by the thin plaster walls.
Gwen's heart jumped to her throat – she was late, the message-writer was too inexperienced, this enemy's companions had gotten here earlier… The dark-haired agent threw a cruelly triumphant look over his shoulder.
"Knock, and get them to come to the door," she instructed him calmly.
The door in question faced a central stairwell, and was only approached down a short corridor – not good for sheltering to one side or another to take a door-answerer by surprise. Gwen had to content herself with eighty-percent cover and a steadily-aimed weapon, as the stranger raised a fist to the door.
The scream hadn't been repeated, but a helpless panting whimper could still be heard, and it twisted in Gwen's stomach like razor wire.
"My friends," the stranger said loudly through the door.
In Aravian.
Which, on second thought, wasn't that surprising.
"My friends," he repeated. "Open. There is a matter that must be addressed."
He shifted his weight and glanced back at her – probably hoping she couldn't speak Aravian but not really daring to test her, as she fingered her trigger.
How many times, how many rounds, how many of them in the room with the hapless-
"Of course," came the answer in Aravian – the speaker also raising his voice to speak through the door. The chain-latch rattled like it was being drawn. "One moment, my friend, you will join us swiftly-"
Sleep deprivation. Wishful thinking. Hallucination, for the love of Camelot, because that sounded like-
The thick-featured enemy agent flattened himself against the wall, clearly intending that his companion should begin firing at Gwen when he opened the door – must've warned him somehow. But because half of his attention and all of his expectation focused on Gwen, he was entirely unprepared – and she not much better – when the door was flung open to reveal Scout Arthur Pendragon. Clearly mission-ready, after his injury-surgeries-recovery.
Instinctively she tipped the Weston down to a safe angle.
Pendragon, in worn jeans and a dingy t-shirt, hair rumpled and damp with sweat, skin smudged – and a yellow and black power drill in his hand.
Which he unhesitatingly smashed into the enemy agent's skull. The man crumpled senseless to the floor of the hall and Pendragon blinked at her, drill at the ready as panting whimpers curled around him more clearly through the open door.
"What-" Gwen managed, gesturing to him with her off hand, weapon lowered to point at the floor. "What are you-"
"What are you?" he returned.
There was a grin-and-sparkle lurking in his expression that simultaneously reassured, aroused, exasperated. One long step took him over the limp body so he could glance both directions down the long corridor, then into the stairwell.
She was surprised – and then not – to see two more bodies sprawled over the concrete steps of the building's central stairwell, dribbling and pooling blood.
Damn. "The notice in the paper," she realized, "was you. Baiting a trap." He must've seen the article on Mason, and done the math.
"Yep," he answered, irrepressible. "Caught my rat, too. Want to see?"
Following Arthur, she stepped over the tangled legs of the dark-haired enemy; they left the door open. Maybe a quarter of an hour til they'd have to bind him or knock him out again.
There was another, dressed the same as the man she'd caught – tight-short black hair and blood trailing down from a hole in the shoulder of his jacket. He was bound to an ugly armchair in the center of the living room. Slouched in pain or exhaustion or both, he lifted his head and focused on her, expression strained and desperate, eyes deep-sunken close to a narrow nose.
"S'il vous plait," he slurred. "You must help me! You must stop him! Drilling holes in my neck – and soon he will hit my spinal cord and I will be paralyzed!"
Startled, Gwen shot a look at Arthur.
His grin widened – happy little boy – and he squeezed the drill's trigger twice in quick succession – zzz, Zzz! The captive enemy flinched away, cutting a glance to Arthur and showing the fearful whites of his eyes.
But – torture is so unlike him…
She moved behind the bound man to see the damage Arthur had done-
No blood. Only a half-dozen mauve-colored welts married the flushed sweaty skin up and down the man's neck. Arthur squeezed the drill's trigger again – Zzzz! – and she understood in a flash of relief and admiration for ingenuity. He'd run the drill till the tip heated, the noise of the tool probably five times as intimidating where one couldn't see what was happening, then touch the hot metal to sensitive skin – and let fear and imagination do the rest.
She swallowed something that felt like a snort but might sound like a giggle – the tension of the evening had eased for a moment but wasn't over yet. Corpses in the stairwell, an enemy surfacing to consciousness at some point soon… and information to be gathered.
"Did you get what you needed?" she asked, watching a trickle of sweat shiver its way down the man's neck – it probably felt like blood from an open wound, to him.
"Almost. Do you want to ask anything?"
She stepped back around to face the enemy agent, as Arthur absently poked the sharp drill bit into the side of his neck. Distracted by her movement, the man flinched again and hissed – the chair rocked but was sturdy enough not to tip over. She approved of Arthur's choice all over again.
Thank heaven I didn't have to rescue some inexperienced new kid – but rather I get a better-than-competent partner.
"Jack Mason," Gwen said clearly.
Recognition cleared the man's eyes and he probably knew it; he scowled through the stress of fear.
"Tosoldat ordered his death because of what he knew about Jean-Michel Bonheur," Gwen said, watching closely.
Jaw set mulishly – I won't tell you anything about that was as good as a yes.
"John Michael Bonner," Arthur said suddenly, his expression misleadingly vague. Then, "Betcha he places regular orders with Zefsei Tech in Xinyu?"
Which was, she remembered, one of the companies Merlin had implicated with the evidence from Urhavi.
Although, hang on – where was Merlin, because weren't those two supposed to-
"And all the money funding the Isyad goes through the Banque de Paris," Gwen gussed. Damn – and wouldn't they be furious to find that out? That is, if they weren't furious for unsubstantiated accusations being made…
"I don't know anything about that," the man growled. Truthfully. But really, she didn't need his corroboration for that.
"Tosoldat is here?" Arthur said to her, and suddenly body language wasn't saying boyish games, but deadly intent. Quick as thought–
Yes, I saw him… But, last night–
He focused on their captive and repeated himself. "Tosoldat is here. In Paris."
"Not anymore," the man snapped. "He left today. I don't know where."
Which was a lie, and almost as soon as Gwen was registering that judgment, Arthur was squeezing the drill-trigger again. So casually swinging it around toward the back of the man's neck – almost absent-mindedly – Gwen anticipated it touching, drilling, flinging bits of skin and muscle and droplets of blood. She inhaled in alarm-
The man reacted to her reaction – which was probably what Arthur intended – and jerked away from the bzzz! of the drill in panic. "Camelot! He went to Camelot!"
Gwen's heart-rate didn't calm to hear that. Arthur met her eyes, and his finger remained tight on the drill-trigger. Zzzzz…
And what mission had brought Pendragon to Paris?
"He's going to meet the psychic there!" the man offered desperately, leaning as far as he could away from the drill.
"Who?" Gwen snapped back to the immediate interrogation.
"Morgause Renard," Arthur suggested. "Nimueh Foster."
Even Gwen could see those names sparked no familiarity – she knew one, the woman she'd brought into Psych Ops custody, but not the other - but their captive didn't bother dissembling. "Bonheur has some college kid – a provincial, not very good, but he figured out how to read the code in the paper-"
"Just the Journal Quotidien?" Gwen checked.
Yes – but the question prompted the idea of expansion in his mind; Gwen was halfway disgusted with herself. Well, that would have to be dealt with before Bonheur and his college-kid psychic could begin to search other major publications across the continent.
Arthur released the drill and it spun down into silence – she could hear the man in the hallway beginning to stir toward consciousness.
"Come on," Arthur said to her abruptly. "Let's get out of here."
The man in the chair heaved a sigh of relief – too soon, as it turned out. Arthur threw his whole body into a vicious blow with the heavy base of the drill, knocking man and chair over onto worn stained carpet. Unconscious, bloodied-
You could've bashed his skull in with that-
Yeah. I know. Don't care… Not enough blood for that, though, and no gray matter.
Arthur detoured slightly to shoulder his rucksack from where he'd left it on the flat's kitchen table. Then she followed Arthur to the door, cringing a little to herself as he repeated the maneuver on the semi-conscious agent there before tossing the drill back into the apartment.
Well, they had intended to capture and probably torture whoever printed that ad in the paper, after all.
"So," Arthur tossed over his shoulder, leaning his weight on the concrete stair-divider to hop over both corpses and puddling blood. "Your mission?"
"Following the money trail," Gwen told him. "If we can get a message to Gaius-"
He glanced up at her darkly, never slowing. "You mean Director-in-Chief Gregory?"
Oh, yeah, that. But-
"I don't trust that transition," Arthur said bluntly, reaching the street-level external door. Rather than opening it for her, he blocked her in the doorway, scanning the street for any threat – if it came, it would take him first – before pushing the door open wider and beginning to stride north. "Gregory isn't psychic. So what's being done with Nimueh? What about other Psych Ops missions regarding psychics, ours or others?"
And who's Morgause Renard? What's her connection?
"So you think… what?" she said, confused – just beginning to glimpse his thought process, but finding too many gaps for a coherent picture.
"Gaius is out, however it happened," Arthur said shortly. "They've discredited Merlin, shipped him out to the sandbox… Hey, are you wearing anything under that?"
They? And – what?
She slowed, and he gestured at her no-nonsense button-up. And she realized they were approaching the front door of an unmistakable establishment whose neon and noise spilled over the pavement.
"Comm-block?" she guessed. And his three-days-old attire would be fine in the dim lighting of the bar, but her own mission-ready canvas-tough clothing, not so much.
She didn't carry a bag, like his rucksack, mission necessities fit fine in her various pockets. So it was the work of a moment to unbutton the canvas shirt and wriggle out of it, repositioning and tying the sleeves around her hips. The white sleeveless undershirt probably didn't show the gray-lavender shade of her bra next to her skin through the thin material, but it left little else to the imagination. Night breeze brushed up some goosebumps over bare flesh – but the chill was flushed by the look she found in Arthur's eyes when she was finished.
"If I open the door for you-" as he did just that, and a wave of warm odors and music-voices-drinkware flooded over them – "can I call this our second date?"
She made a face at him over her shoulder and spared a brief moment to check the dimly-lit room – female bartender in a tight red shirt, slouched patrons at the bar, a couple past their prime in one booth, a youngish fivesome in another. "So what's this about Merlin?"
As they edged between tables littered with peanuts and pretzels, abandoned baskets lined with cold greasy paper, empty and half-empty glasses, straw-papers and balled napkins, he gave her the gist in short sentences. The murder, the request for their assistance, the ambush – the shooting – the suicide. The inexplicable accusation from his sister – whom Gwen had never met, though she'd formed some opinion about her through others' impressions – that ended their collaboration with regular law enforcement.
How he'd continued to investigate Morgause Renard – and the detail about the weaponry of their assailants that led him to Paris and Mason.
More pieces of the puzzle filled – who and what, where and when – but not why. Mentally she sifted the new information as they simultaneously chose the same table, high and round and small and nearly within reach of the comm-block unit on the wall. She perched on one of the stools and he hooked another to drag it right next to her instead of sitting across, signaling the bartender to pull deux bieres for them as he slung his rucksack in one of the seats neither of them was using.
"We thought they were planning something bigger than recruiting and rebuilding," Gwen remarked. "No definite indicators, but Gaius wondered if it would be something close to home – d'ya think he meant that literally?"
He didn't sit, angling his body toward the comm-block. "Do you know of any others close enough to bring in on this?"
She frowned at him, aware that the bartender was carrying the dripping golden glasses to their table, and switched to French. "Do you not trust our supervisor to distribute this information and assign duties adequately?"
"Trust," he quipped lightly. "Supervisors."
The bartender was two steps away. Arthur touched Gwen's face, sliding fingertips lightly from jaw to chin and she lifted her mouth to him without thinking as he bent to kiss her.
And he kissed her thoroughly. So thoroughly she was breathless and light-headed, responding as though they were alone and she had nothing to hide…
It was a cover. It was not a cover, it was him offering himself and his heart, without hesitation or second thoughts and she couldn't help it. I want… I want… yes, I want.
He broke away from her slowly, pulling back and giving her a chance to recover before she opened her eyes to see him smiling something so genuine her quickened breathing caught again.
Yeah, he wants, too. Wants me.
The beers were leaking condensation onto the dark-wood table, and the bartender was already back at her station, and no one was looking at them any longer. Confirmed lovers.
Omigosh, lovers. Her heart did a funny little flip and maybe it was too late for anything else, now.
Turning away and sliding from his seat, he leaned on the wall to cradle the comm-block between his ear and shoulder. The connection was established quickly. "Gaius," he said without preamble. "Pendragon… Yes, I know what time it is."
Gwen had to do a little mental math – how far ahead were they, how late had it gotten here – but she didn't bother hiding her smirk at the Old Man's reaction to the connection, and Arthur rolled his eyes at her. Exactly as if he hadn't just kissed her breathless.
"Yes, I know I'm supposed to report to Greg now, but- No, haven't had a chance to look at today's paper."
He raised his eyebrows to her, and she shook her head. Front-page headlines, and a quick scan of the personals to see if anything further from a scout of Camelot had been printed.
"You… he… what? No, there's no way he would… Are you sure… a mistake…"
Arthur tucked his chin and hunched away from her and whatever Gaius was saying – Gwen felt her heart sink at the reaction from this scout, specifically. Because whatever else Pendragon was, he was also… indomitable. Indefatigable. Irrepressible.
She could barely hear him above the noise of the bar; slipping from her own seat, she angled her body to hide and protect him from any stray curiosity. The bartender flirted with two of the closest slouched drinkers simultaneously – the five together in the corner booth laughed uproariously at something one of them had said – the older couple snuggled like they'd both had the right number of drinks.
"Yeah. Yeah. No, I… know that. But do you think – Oh. Makes sense. Dammit." His entire body released his sigh, and it felt an awful lot to Gwen like surrender.
And that was so wrong, she turned and plucked the comm-block from his hand – he allowed it without any resistance, didn't straighten or turn.
"Gaius," she said. "Scout Thompson. I'll get the details from Pendragon, but you should also know that I tracked Isyadi money to Jean-Michel Bonheur. And put eyes on Tosoldat at Bonheur's place. According to intel we got from one of their workers bees, he's headed to Camelot. Might already be there. Might be working with a psychic."
"Indeed." The Old Man sounded very tired, and she was wild to know what he'd told Arthur that had derailed his attention from the news they had.
"We don't know what his purpose might be, there…" she hedged.
"I will make sure the right people are aware. We won't be caught as unprepared as our enemies would like to think, that's for certain."
"What about us?" Gwen said. "Should we stay here, in Paris? Or come straight home?"
"I will contact Leon with your information about Bonheur. He will know who to send – perhaps Tristan, he plans to attend an uncle's wedding in Paris this weekend."
"Good," Gwen said. "Yeah, I think a discreet little bank job should do it." And the funding would disappear, and maybe Bonheur would be arrested, or just… detained by the right people. Person. She'd not worked with Tristan personally; he was cool and sarcastic – but professional. "Should we remain here and connect with Tristan, then, or…"
"I am not your Director anymore, Scout Thompson."
Yes, I know, but-
"Use your best judgment. We trust you."
The comm-block disconnected and Gwen was left staring disconcertedly at the side of Arthur's face. When was the last time the Old Man had declined even to suggest a course of action?
He'd never been retired, before. He'd never been retired when a known terrorist had a target on Camelot soil – and at least one psychic ally.
She replaced the handset absently. "You think it's a kid?" she said to Arthur. "The guy said Bonheur had a college student here in Paris, and there was that boy in Urhavi, and-"
"And Merlin is barely legal," Arthur said grimly.
That drew her focus. What did Merlin have to do with… Involuntarily, she remembered what Nimueh had said at the moment of her capture. Someone she thought had been sent to assassinate Merlin because of his defection, and his skills.
He played you successfully for months. You trusted him – you took him in, and told him things, and showed him things…
But the defection was genuine. She knew that, to her bones. And Nimueh had been arrested because of his information. And Arthur had said discredited…
"Where's Merlin?" she demanded. "Why isn't he with you?"
He gestured his inclination to return to their table, and she obeyed; arm over the back of her chair, he leaned so close his lips brushed her ear.
Because the music was loud, and they ought to continue looking like they were dating. Lovers. Not holding an intensely serious conversation upon which the fate of nations might rest.
"Gaius said. The First Minister of Camelot recalled all troops from Aravia, and elsewhere."
All of a sudden was never good, she knew that much. "Why did he-" she said. "Was there a-"
It had happened before that a country's civil war had exploded so far out of control that Camelot's personnel were too far outnumbered, and had retreated to regroup in safety rather than remain to defend a position in imminent danger of being overrun. But that would have been front-page news, wouldn't it? Even in Paris.
"Then he announced a recess – in the middle of the session."
Apprehension slid down her spine like the gathered perspiration down the golden glass of beer in front of her. Both were unfavorable actions so rarely taken by a First Minister they'd constituted grounds for dismissal and removal from office. Indicating potential mental instability, or dire physical infirmity, or…
She forgot the various smells of alcohol, the laughter and the baseline and the bartender glancing at them. The bottom was falling out of the world, and if it was anyone else she'd suspect… But no, he wouldn't joke about this. Not when it was his father.
"All parties expected to scramble for an emergency election. Two weeks' recess for lightning campaigns probable."
"This was in the paper?" she said, aghast, turning so her cheek rested alongside his; he hadn't shaved. His breathing was quickened and stirring her hair, as if he strove to contain great emotion.
"No, just an article about the First Minister's health. They're keeping everything quiet so the public doesn't panic. Present it as a smooth transition – a fait accompli – when it's done."
She reached up to cup his face, holding him against her and trying to ignore his breath on the bare skin of her neck and shoulder. "Arthur…"
He pulled back from her, but not very far, and the blue of his eyes was dark in the dim light of the bar. "Morgause Renard of Otherstone."
She pictured it on a map – just over the northern border from Essetir.
"Is my sister's closest confidante. Has been to our estate. Has access to my father. Could have influenced the accusation that… exiled Merlin."
In fact, if not in name. The sandbox, Arthur had said, and a feel of anxiety wound around her heart to remember what Aravia was like, especially for a new soldier. And Merlin was psychic, too.
"They sent him to Camelot for a reason," Arthur told her. "But when he defected in truth-"
He derailed their plans.
"Urhavi and the Isyad – Essetir and Morgause and Merlin. Gaius' retirement – these abrupt changes – Tosoldat on the move. Gaius said something big was coming."
And this was it.
"What are you going to do?" Gwen said, mentally relegating John-Michel Bonheur and the money to Tristan. A day or two probably wouldn't mean much – if imminent action was being taken, funding for that had already been dispersed. Tristan's bank job could only prevent further criminal activity from that quarter. Plug one of the few holes left.
Arthur picked up one of the untouched glasses, and swallowed three mouthfuls in a row. She knew she'd need something like that, if it was her family involved, but every movement assured her, he was back in control. "I'm going to drink my beer. Then I'm going to find a boat to commandeer as far as Troyes. Train to Marseille. Then I'll have to improvise to get to Alexandria across the sea."
"We're going south and east?" she said, straightening and reaching for her own glass. There were things she'd left in the room she'd rented, though nothing she couldn't leave behind, but Camelot was north and west.
The pronoun and its assumptions – that she'd intended – caught his attention, but only briefly before he gave her a nod. Confirmation, gratitude, something else she couldn't name and didn't want to, but it heated her belly like the alcohol couldn't.
"Yeah – to Aravia." He drank again, downing half the glass, and when he set it on the table with a thud, his eyes reflected a cool faraway intensity. "We need Merlin."
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Riding north from Camp George in the back of the troop transport, Merlin found his thoughts returning time and again to the trip out of Drysell in the back of the stolen truck. A hard seat, an uncomfortable audience – his life and direction in the hands of a driver he couldn't speak to from where he was… And no way of looking outside.
Just jounce, and rumble, and wait. Drawing inexorably – helplessly? – toward some undefined fate, and feeling… what?
All of this turmoil. Uncertainty – responsibility – danger they were approaching, not fleeing.
Someone's hand slid into the tangle of his fingers twisting between his knees, and his spine straightened slightly though he didn't look at her.
Next to him on the hard wooden bench, she made all the difference, on this trip. Someone who knew psychic, inside and out, good and bad and confusing and exasperating and inspiring and terrifying.
He explored the sensation of her hand in his, the slender strength of her fingers and her willingness to touch him and her willingness to be noticed by their companions touching him, which actually was the most significant thing, in the moment. They each could ignore that sort of thing alone together – it isn't anything, it doesn't have to be anything – but if anyone saw and repeated, reported and gossiped… then it would be something.
Freya, with the psychic. Freya with the psychic… With. the psychic.
But she squeezed, and he felt her smile without having to look at her face between the collar of her jacket and the rim of her helmet, curls flattened and formed around the chin-straps. She was solid, she was steadfast. Somehow she trusted him, and had decided to be trustworthy for him in return.
That was magic, however it happened.
She swayed into him as the momentum of the truck was arrested, and all down the lines of troops facing each other from either side soldiers looked up – toward the cab, as if anyone could see anything but canvas – then toward the back flap.
Slowing became stopping, and shifting into park. Passenger-side cab door slammed, though the motor never faltered, and a shout sounded from outside.
Freya's hand was tight in his; she was good under pressure, in the few encounters they'd had with an enemy, but she was nervous. She let him see that she was nervous.
He squeezed her hand back. "Just a pee break."
She gave him a grateful glance for the intel and pulled her hand back even as the soldiers in the rear of the vehicle stood from their seats on the ends of the benches and leaned outward to stow the flaps, letting dust-colored daylight filter back to them.
Every three hours. Because they were all supposed to be drinking periodically from water-bottles filled from the cylindrical tank of potable water on its own little trailer pulled along behind one of the trucks. Desert conditions, after all.
It was hot under the canvas of the transport, dusty of course, and they all smelled of the heat, but outside it was direct sunlight. Midafternoon, which Merlin thought was actually worse than noon because no morning cool lingered at all, anymore.
"Ladies to the left, gents to the right," Gwaine called, supervising their dismount from the back of the truck, rifles dangling nonchalantly from shoulders.
"Gents to the right," Hector said. "Hear that, Marlene? Remember that, the next time you disagree with me – gents to the right."
"Means you're only right when you're relieving yourself," Marlene returned. "Otherwise – not."
Someone else hollered from further down, "Hey, keep your crap on your own side of the line!"
Merlin loitered near enough Gwaine to be noticed, if the second sergeant chose. They were lucky to be in his unit – he was fair and smart, steady and good-humored through everything they'd faced so far. Open to using Merlin's abilities, without pushing.
Gwaine caught Merlin's eye – the fact that he didn't say anything would tell the second sergeant there was nothing to say, about this stop in enemy territory. The second sergeant neither invited nor dismissed, only turned toward the larger landscape beyond the dusty road.
Dust, and sand, and scrubby brush, and rock – sometimes in formations the size of a truck, or a building, or an entire city, like that massive example rising from the desert floor maybe a league out, halfway to the horizon.
Something wrong with it.
Instinctively Merlin left the road, the trucks and drivers smoking cicalas, the troops dispersing to makeshift latrines – moving further from the psychic noise and distraction of the familiar, toward the strange and…
It was misshapen, somehow. A lump with a dent, a chunk missing, and more larger rocks strewn about the desert floor below it. Almost like it had-
Exploded.
"Urhavi," Gwaine said behind him, adjusting the hang of his rifle in relation to his healing wound.
Merlin shivered, a helpless full-body thing that Gwaine noticed.
"Bothers you?" the second sergeant asked casually.
"Trying not to let it," Merlin managed.
Because, damn.
Arthur had done that, Arthur and Gwen. Had done that. Had done that to a mountain fortress of a terrorist clan in the middle of the desert, days from any support to speak of. And if he wasn't careful, he was going to plunge right into the emotion and the memory, linked as he had been with the objects he'd scoured in the debrief room with Arthur.
Why had they thought he could be one of them? His mouth was dry just looking at the result with physical eyes.
How many dead? He could probably discover the answer if he let himself focus long and hard enough. What value of materials destroyed, meant to spread death and damage exponentially.
"Helluva thing, isn't it?" Gwaine said conversationally, gesturing. "Pair of scouts did that. Just about rendered Camp George and all of us unnecessary here in Aravia."
"Just about," Merlin responded.
Gwaine glanced at him again, alerted but still uncomprehending. "That's something I couldn't do. Glad no one ever asked me. Huh? Out here alone for weeks at a time, risking discovery and dis-freaking-memberment, if they're caught. And then do something like that… And drag into camp days later filthy and bloodstained but acting like it's no big deal."
Merlin turned from the wreck of the distant fortress to look at Gwaine, because that was more than speculation.
"Yeah," Gwaine confirmed, grinning wryly. "Helluva guy. Helluva girl, too."
"You know them," Merlin said, faintly incredulous at the coincidence.
"Yeah. Well, knew them, for a minute or two. Smith and Jones." The smirk said he guessed pretty accurately at falsified names. "The Old Man asked me to liaise."
Gaius' word, from the way Gwaine said it.
And now Merlin was convinced it was no coincidence that he'd ended up here, assigned to this second sergeant's unit, in spite of their initial suspicion about his tag and Freya's past. Yet Gaius had said nothing to Gwaine about Merlin… letting him make his own way. Stand on his own two feet.
"You came from Psych Ops," Gwaine remembered. "Ever do anything like that?" He nodded to Urhavi; some of the other soldiers had taken notice and were discussing the most striking feature of the landscape.
"No," Merlin said. "I doubt anyone else has, either."
But it was true that Arthur – and Gwen, both – acted like it was all in a day's work. Just routine expectations of an ordinary scout.
But to Merlin's mind… heroic. Helluva girl.
Helluva guy, too.
He guessed he didn't blame Arthur after all for the way things ended up. Faced with a choice between Merlin and his family – yeah, he'd made the only one he could.
What would he do if he ever faced a choice like that? Either one or the other, but not both, even if both were… important.
Was he important to Arthur?
He probably shouldn't be… but the scout was on the continent, and if Merlin wasn't mistaken, incrementally closer than he'd been previously.
Maybe that was just Merlin's own movement north.
"Go pee before we load up again," Gwaine advised with another grin. "I don't have to be psychic to know you gotta. We all gotta, yeah? Won't stop again til Janada."
A bead of sweat trickled down Merlin's spine beneath his t-shirt, its path random and unexpected enough to make him shiver again – and hurry to comply with the reason for their stop.
Maybe he was glad to have seen Urhavi with his own eyes – but he'd be just as glad to have it far behind them.