Arthur's Mage-Guard: Maturation
"Are you still mad at me?" Arthur demands, leaning back on the bar stretched across the back of the personnel transporter for passengers' balance and convenience.
Merlin leans in the opposite corner, eyes down and arms crossed over his silver-gray mage's tunic. The corners of his mouth are turned down, too; he's unhappy, which happens rarely, not mad – which Arthur doesn't think he's ever seen. But sometimes when Merlin goes uncomfortably silent and thoughtful, he can be provoked out of it like this. Merlin provokes Arthur out of moods by making him laugh; Arthur provokes Merlin out of moods by making him argue.
"I'm not mad," Merlin says softly. But there is still that line between his brows, and he doesn't meet Arthur's eyes and he doesn't uncross his arms.
"If you're mad because moving out of quarters means Hunith won't sneak you extra food anymore-"
"Hunith snuck me extra food for you," Merlin interrupts to point out.
At least he's talking again. Arthur pushes upright as the transporter doors whoosh quietly open, and steps out into the corridor. He glances right, then turns left, as he's been told at the pre-interview. Merlin follows behind, not beside, so there's still something bothering him.
"Are you mad because Gwen was accepted into the textiles guild?" Arthur tosses over his shoulder. It's been years since he suspected her of harboring interest in his mage-guard as a male, but he doesn't think Merlin was ever aware of that. "Or that Gwaine's going to train with the were-dog handlers?"
"Why would I be mad about that?" Merlin says, sounding puzzled. "They'll both be brilliant. And happy. And they won't even leave the city, we can see them whenever, as long as…"
"As long as I'm not posted somewhere else," Arthur finishes. "So you're mad that you'll have to go with me, and you don't get any say in the matter."
Merlin doesn't say anything, and the tension is suddenly too much. Today is the most important day of Arthur's life so far, and he's going to make a hash of his chances because his mage-guard is a big girl with girly feelings.
Arthur stops walking, swinging around to shove Merlin into the corridor wall with one hand on his chest. He says nothing either, but glares, and Merlin is startled enough to meet his eyes – and then, he doesn't look away, but only searches Arthur. For what, he doesn't even know.
"I heard you last night," Merlin says finally. "You and your father."
"What?" Arthur says blankly, scouring his memory. Yes, they had a private conversation in Uther's office, but he didn't say anything he wouldn't say to Merlin's face – and anyway, Merlin was supposed to be with Uther's new mage-guard Gilli. Gaius' replacement, a round-eyed youth appearing only a couple years younger than Merlin though he was created only a year ago. A little magic and used often, and ten years went by in one.
And after ten years, Merlin still only looked seventeen.
"You really want to be free of me?" he says quietly.
Arthur swallows. Oh, that.
"We haven't been apart for more than an hour since I was made," Merlin goes on, and there's confusion as well as sadness in the blue of his eyes. "You're frustrated. You want to be on your own, and take care of yourself. I know Gwaine was excited when he moved last week. And I know why. I guess… it's natural that you should feel the same, but… I thought it was because of your father that you wanted to be on your own."
They're not late, yet. And maybe it'll be better to get this out in the open before his exams.
"Yeah," he says honestly. "I do feel like Gwaine. I do wonder what I might be capable of, on my own. Making decisions, taking care of myself-"
"I don't tell you what to do," Merlin interrupts.
"You don't have to," Arthur says, mildly exasperated. "I know you so well by now. What you disapprove of, what you'd say I should do. What you think when I do something else and it turns out wrong and you don't even say I told you so."
"So you do want to be free of me," Merlin says again, and now he sounds like when Arthur told him the news, Gaius breathed his last. Desperately hoping for some other explanation, but knowing.
"The part of me that makes those stupid wrong choices does," Arthur says. "I know you make me a better person just by being around. But you missed the point of what my father and I were talking about."
Merlin cocks his head. "What?"
"Because it isn't fair that you just go where I go and all you ever do is watch out for threats," Arthur tells him.
"That's my job," Merlin reasons. "And anyway, that's not all-"
"You didn't even go to school properly," Arthur continues. "Sitting there listening every day in the back corner, even if you didn't do the assignments or the exercises or experiments. But you know all that stuff better than I do. If you took those tests-"
"I'm not supposed to take the tests," Merlin objects. "I never helped you cheat."
"That's not what I'm saying," Arthur retorts, frustrated.
He pushes his hand through his hair and glances down the hall – there are other people about, but none passing close enough to hear. But they're wasting time they probably don't have – and he doesn't expect Merlin to understand, anyway. Not without having the principle of the thing pointed out to him, and then reacting like he was being scolded for a shortcoming.
"Part of why Gwaine is excited to get out from his house," he says, trying to make his point succinctly. "Because he knows it'll be his brothers' turn, next. To finish their schooling and take their own tests and be their own man and make their own choices. His freedom gives them a little more freedom, do you see that? And what if you did take the tests, the aptitude exams?"
"I already have a job," Merlin says, confused but reasonable. "I'm meant to protect you with magic." He tilts his chin and shifts his eyes away as a thought occurs to him. "You think I'm not going to earn my keep anymore?"
Arthur growls and spins to stalk away, and Merlin follows. Merlin always follows. Sometimes Arthur wants him to suddenly wheel and stomp off in the other direction and stay gone because he's pissed about his situation and his lack of choice. Even though the thought scares Arthur for himself, he thinks it might satisfy him on Merlin's behalf. But Merlin doesn't, and he never will.
"That's not what I mean," he says.
"I don't understand," Merlin adds, lengthening his stride to walk beside Arthur again. "You don't want me to leave you, but you want me to want to leave you?"
"It sounds stupid when you say it like that," Arthur snarls.
"Today is about you, Arthur," Merlin says, and he doesn't sound mad or unhappy anymore – not even confused, as if he's given up understanding, and decided instead to address and fix the problem for Arthur. "What you want. What you're going to be. Focus on that, and… let me be happy doing what makes me happy."
Arthur is glad to hear that. And kind of wishes that Merlin has the freedom to want something else – because then if he didn't, and chose to stay with Arthur, it would mean more. But mages, it seems, can't be more than they're made to be.
"This is it," Merlin says then, as Arthur is about to stalk past yet another closed door. "Isn't it?"
He studies the label next to the door, and Arthur takes two more steps to look through a long flexiglass window that divides the room from the corridor.
It's set up like a classroom, a dozen or so desks, each with an IDA-device waiting on them, facing one larger one under a time-keeper on the wall. There are two other guys already waiting, not sitting right next to each other but facing each other and chatting in a way that makes Arthur think they know each other.
"Yeah?" Merlin adds, for confirmation. He waves a hand over the sensor that causes the door to retreat into the wall with a whisper of motion.
Inside the room, Arthur sees a similar panel slide open behind the administrator's desk. He glimpses a woman in a white uniform, with black hair pulled back into a knot, and very red lips. He backtracks to enter the room, Merlin waiting to trail behind him, and registers the presence of another person behind the woman in white – in the silver-gray of a mage's uniform.
The woman in white – she looks like she might be ten years older than him – stops for a moment, brilliant blue eyes going past him to Merlin.
"Ah, Mr. Pendragon," she says, identifying him by the presence of his mage-guard. "You were almost late."
The other two young men are looking at him – and at Merlin – in evaluation that's not unfriendly. Arthur glances at the other mage – in what capacity does she serve? – at the administrator's elbow. She's a petite girl, chocolate brown hair in waves to her shoulders, fine pretty features, air of shyness. Her tunic is subtly different from Merlin's; it's feminine.
"Sorry about that," Arthur says, respectful but not subservient. "I'll just sit wherever?"
"That's fine," the woman says. "But your mage will need to wait outside the room."
Not really surprising. Arthur looks at Merlin, who cocks his head in studying the woman a moment the way he always does when they meet new people – like he's reading her mind, or at least her intent, for any indication that Arthur might be in danger.
"Freya?" the administrator adds, making the name an order to her mage.
The girl meets Merlin, gesturing for him to accompany her to the corridor. Merlin meets Arthur's eyes and nods, then moves for the door – pauses to let the girl mage leave the room first – but a moment later is visible through the window. He leans against the corridor wall like Arthur has seen Gaius do a thousand times, waiting on his master. Gaius wore patience like his mage's uniform, as a duty; Gilli fidgets as if afraid he's somehow waiting the wrong way; Merlin looks like there's nowhere else he would rather be, and boredom is an alien concept to him.
The girl leans beside him, and Arthur can't gauge her attitude; he wonders if she's a guard for the administrator, too.
"My name is Nimueh," the woman says. "I'm here to administer your exams, and answer any questions you may have. The nature of the exam obviously discourages cheating, but of course can't prevent it; that's also my task, and one that I take very seriously."
She doesn't say it like she takes it seriously, but like it's a speech she's given many times before. Arthur chooses a seat in the middle of the row nearest the window, as Nimueh goes on stating the parameters of the exams, that are fairly self-explanatory.
And the other two have no questions, and the exams begin.
All sorts, and in no particular order that Arthur can guess. From reaction time to vision accuracy to academics they finished in their required schooling, and the academics for various fields they haven't yet studied. Language and theoreticals and psychology. Even what little physical evaluation can be done at a desk with an individual-data-assessor.
There's no point rushing; you're done when you're done. But as the minutes and hours of the day tick by, Arthur is always aware of Merlin and Freya outside the window. Merlin watches Arthur – and sometimes that affects his answers in the nuances – but he talks to Freya.
And she's not watching Nimueh like a guard, she's slowly warming up to Merlin. Answering less slowly – initiating. Laughing. Even slapping his arm a couple of times; Arthur knows how cheeky Merlin can be. And Merlin is beaming, chattering on to her while keeping his eye on Arthur – and instead of feeling jealous like he'd felt at Gwen's attention to his friend, Arthur feels a great satisfaction on Merlin's account.
He wonders what Nimueh's regular job is, where she works, whether he can get a job in the same building, and what sort of a job it might be.
As far as he can tell, Nimueh is aware of the interaction occurring in the corridor outside the room, but not at all bothered by it. She works with steady focus at the administrator's desk, evaluating the portions of the exam the three of them have completed, at intervals.
The midday meal is brought to them, the only break they all take at the same time. They're discouraged from discussing the test, but Merlin is allowed back into the room, and they introduce themselves. Percival is the big one with short hair; he's interested in all things nautical. Lancelot is the other, with longer hair; he thinks military psychology is fascinating and hopes there might be work in whatever crossover those two fields might have. They were in school in the same district, so they've been friends a long time, but they both respond to Merlin like Gwaine and Leon always have – as if the color of his uniform and his possession of magic doesn't matter in the slightest.
Arthur isn't as sure as either of them, where his interests might lie. He wonders if the fact that he's got a mage-guard – and that it's Merlin – might be influencing his ambiguity.
Because they work at their own pace and because Arthur is less sure of his ambitions – and because he keeps watching Merlin and Freya make friends right in front of his eyes – Arthur is the last one done. He's aware that Nimueh discusses results with each of his new acquaintances privately before their departure, so he isn't surprised to be told to take the positioned seat beside the administrator's desk when he's through.
"Admirable results," Nimueh says, her eyes on her IDA, fingers actively flicking through some form of compiled or computed data. "Not unexpected for the son of Uther Pendragon, of course. But quite… general, comparatively."
"Is that bad?" Arthur says, a little defensively. Something about her manner makes him feel rebellious.
"No, not at all, quite the contrary." She sets the device down and twines her fingers together on the desktop, leaning toward him. "It means you can enter almost any field you desire, provided there are openings at the appropriate levels. But it also means, you have to choose. Your aptitude scores don't provide much emphasis at all, or tell us exactly what you're suited for. So, Arthur Pendragon. What do you want to be when you grow up?"
He found he resented the question, as if he were years younger and hadn't given his future much thought at all. "I'm not really interested in Production or Agriculture," he says. "Defense, Government, Technology. Maybe Research, maybe Medicine."
"That's still quite broad," she says. "How can we focus your concentration a bit more?"
"Well," he says, leaning forward a bit, himself. "There's Merlin."
Her eyes flick over his shoulder to the corridor window. "Your mage-guard."
"Yes. The thing is, I've had him for fifteen years, and he still looks about two years younger than me."
"Weak magic?" she suggests. But there's something in the squint of her eyes and the way she holds her mouth that makes Arthur suspect that she knows, that she's heard some of the stories that have gone public over the years, accidents averted or attempts thwarted.
"No," he says. "The quantity gauge of the magic generator malfunctioned when he was created, but I think it's actually quite a lot. He uses it frequently and easily, even for new things, and ages at the same rate I do. Which means I can hope that he's with me for years – decades. And with his mage-made brain, intellectually he's more clever and capable than I am, a faster learner – though physically he's more clumsy and takes more practice to master gross motor skills."
"Fine motor?" she says.
"We're about even, there," Arthur tells her. "So it's been on my mind to seek a job where he can be of use also, more so than just following me and protecting me."
"You have specific ideas?" she says, her blue eyes narrowing.
"Well… Just a few things that have occurred to me, nothing I definitely want. For instance, if I was a pilot, he could be my copilot. If I was a surgeon, he could be a nursing assistant. If I was a judge, he could be my bailiff. That sort of thing."
"I see," she says; something about her tone makes him sure that she doesn't, quite. "Is this desire to expand his horizons and abilities something that comes from him, or from you?"
"From me," Arthur says. "I mean, he wouldn't want a job that would take him away from me, his primary purpose and pleasure is assuring himself of my safety – but I think he'd be happier doing something, rather than just sitting and watching. At school, at least he could listen and learn, and I'm sure he'd do the same with any job I was assigned, but… it does seem kind of a waste of intelligence and ability, for him to wait for something to happen to me."
"Uh huh," she says. Carefully. "And how often does… something happen to you?"
Merlin uses magic every day. Every hour, almost. But for the moments when Arthur's life is truly in danger, and not just accident-prevention – "Maybe once a month. Because of who my father is," he adds, feeling a little self-conscious. Hoping that Nimueh won't disqualify him from anything because of the possibility of bystander casualties. There haven't ever been any of those, anyway; she can check that.
She taps her thumbs together. One-two… three. One-two… three.
"Mr. Pendragon," she says. "I'm in research technology myself, in the field of magic. Freya is my test subject; I've had her thirteen years, and I requested the highest setting, so her age-rate is nearly that of a human's as well. I wonder if you might be interested in a junior position in my department – that way your mage might be utilized without causing the controversy that might arise were you to suggest his filling any other position, socially or commercially or so on."
That was what he'd been arguing with his father the other night, which Merlin overheard in part. Whether a mage should be limited to the task he was created for, if he was capable of more, and the common prejudice against that consideration.
"I might," Arthur allowed slowly. Test subject sounded… maybe interesting, maybe horrifying.
"Perhaps a trial period," Nimueh suggested. "It probably doesn't sound as glorious or exciting as a pilot or surgeon… Three months, say? Since your exams don't clearly delineate your career path? We could even delay a permanent move from your current quarters, and give you a temporary status here if that's more convenient."
Arthur sits back, and breathes, and thinks. It would give Merlin opportunities to be around Freya. And he might always wonder what test subject means, if he doesn't find out personally – Freya seems happy enough, but… And maybe, in this field, he can explore the questions of magic and free will.
"All right," he says. "A three-month trial period."
"Starting Monday," Nimueh says, pleased. "You'll receive instructions on where to be and when, sometime this weekend."
He wishes he knew if he made the right choice. It feels right; he's pretty sure Merlin will approve, too. He stands up and offers to shake her hand. "Thank you very much."
"Oh, no," she tells him, standing and grasping his hand in return. "Thank you."
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…... …..*….. …..*…..
Arthur loiters in a far obscure corner of the boardroom, behind the rows of stationary arm-chairs placed for the assistants of those people who'll be seated at the enormous egg-shaped table itself. He watches people enter – people in suits and in white technical jumpsuits, greeting each other and finding their places.
He wishes Merlin was with him. Though he got his wish when they started working for Research – Merlin is in a different department from him. As independent as he's ever going to get for a mage, probably.
Arthur himself works with mage-creation, these days, the same rooms where Merlin was made. Not to liaise with the public – whichever rich or powerful personage comes to choose and form their own mages – but as a technician himself. Calibrating and maintaining and checking and double-checking. As he works, he sometimes remembers and wonders about the mysterious malfunction that occurred during Merlin's creation, resulting in a mage that can use and use and use and still age at a rate so comparable to a human that there's no perceptible difference, after fifteen years. Which is maybe what they're studying in the department where Merlin is happy to supplement Freya's role as a test subject. To Arthur's knowledge, nothing like that ever happened, before or since.
When they started working here, Arthur resurrected an old worry, that he never shared with Merlin. What if what they asked of his mage-guard in the Testing department – more and more often than he was used to with Arthur – would start to age him more rapidly? use him up? But it's been almost two years now and hasn't happened yet. Merlin is still energetic and effervescently cheerful and probably quite a bit of that has to do with Freya.
He's seen them holding hands, sometimes when he's off early and goes to meet Merlin at Testing before they leave for the day, and evidently Nimueh hasn't objected. It prompts Arthur to send a message to Gwen, sometimes. Just to stay in contact with a friend, since they and Gwaine don't live in the same building anymore.
All around the room, people settle into chairs. Arthur now wishes he'd chosen one, even at the risk of taking and having to be evicted from someone else's. But there are a few others on their feet, in the corners, and no one's taking special notice of him… he figures he's all right. If he does something inappropriate out of ignorance, they'll forgive and correct him, won't they?
He has to focus on the fact that there's a reason he's here.
The one question he raised to his superiors down in the Formation department, that they hadn't been able to answer. One looked at him blankly – and his supervisor hemmed and hawed and blustered and excused. And Arthur posed the question to his father, who frowned at him… and two days later, Arthur was allowed to submit his question in writing to the supervisor of his supervisor's supervisor… who probably has a seat at the table, today.
Question being: What exactly is a Master Control Sequence?
MCS: Y/N?
In setting the equipment of a Formation chamber for another mage's creation, it's a simple toggle switch. Arthur flipped the switch for months, learning procedure and then the reasons behind the procedure, before he even though to ask, what's MCS?
Master Control Sequence.
Okay… but what does that mean?
First he thought, control of the mage's master, but that doesn't make sense, to give a mage the option of controlling their master – and how? No, it's the facility's master control over any mage it chooses, at inception.
Which is puzzling, and alarming, that this board, or possibly an individual within the upper echelons, can supersede any chosen mage's… programming. But there is no programming beyond the mage's intended use. Like Merlin is a mage-guard. It's ingrained as deeply as Arthur's blood for his veins, to guard. The rest is all, physical characteristics chosen by the owner, and the personality or intelligence or specific skill that develops or is taught over time.
Why would they want to be able to command certain of the mages scattered through society? If it's an old fail-safe dating back to the origins of the process, might they not simply delete that function? It seems to Arthur, it might be dangerous if someone can potentially find and command any mages with MCS: Y in their coding. Or if the privileged public discovers the possibility that their – or any – mage can be subverted without recourse…
Nimueh sweeps into the room, and the door materializes behind with a swish of air that's audible as all other sound ceases.
"Good morning. Thank you all for coming."
He's not sure of her title. Something like the current elected chairperson – a leader of equals. Which makes him wonder, sometimes. Why she'd proctored an aptitude test for academy graduates. He's sounded out both Percival and Lancelot on that mild curiosity in their sometimes contacts, but neither know nor particularly care.
"I'm very pleased to see such solid support," Nimueh goes on, laying her individual data assessor on the table in front of her.
Excitement almost crackles in the air around her, and the people in the room can sense it. Arthur is in the back, but what he sees and feels is eager attention, from most. Only a very few who are sternly neutral, noncommittal, or quietly tense.
"At very long last, we can put Step Two behind us, and definitively initiate Step Thee. Statistics, you have your report?"
"Yes, ma'am." A young man stands, halfway down the table on the opposite side. His hair is military-short, like Percival's, and he's one of the eagerly attentive. "We have eleven in Defense. Five each in Government and Technology, eight in Medicine, and two in key positions in Production. Nine in Agriculture."
A murmur runs around the room, and Arthur sees that people are impressed. He doesn't know what to think. How many of what?
"Thank you." Nimueh releases the young man, smiling, and turns to an older woman with gray strands in long black hair, and a gap between her front teeth. "Logistics?"
Arthur understands even less of her report. Sometimes about reception of a signal – several signals? – and response time. This too, seems to impress the gathering. Arthur feels more out of place than ever – would Merlin understand if he was present? but there aren't any other gray-suited mages in the meeting – and wishes he could have gotten an agenda, or a briefing.
Then it's the turn of a thirty-something man, tall and lean with incongruously flowing red-blonde hair and droopy lips, dressed in combative black with heavy boots. He's from Operations, which Arthur has taken to mean the department that handles and oversees the other departments of Research. But dressed like that?
He begins, "We estimate for shock and disbelief, four hours. Realization, eighteen hours. Resistance, twenty-four to thirty-six hours. And acceptance, another twelve. In total, less than a week til full control."
"This is of course the best-case scenario." Nimueh plants her hands on the table and leans over them. She's wearing skin-tight bright blue that matches her eyes and contrasts with scarlet lipstick; she's magnetic and she knows it. "But of course, worst-case scenario still brings us success, and casualties are eighty-two percent limited to the mages themselves."
Arthur can't help it. He blurts out, "Casualties?"
The room goes cold-silent and everyone looks at him. His stomach cramps with uncertainty and embarrassment – but he's learned how to deal with that since he was very small. He lifts his chin – not with defiance, but with firm confidence.
Nimueh smiles. "Everyone, I'd like to introduce you to Arthur Pendragon. Come up here, Arthur, I'd like to address your concerns."
He looks away from her to make his way through the chairs without tripping over any legs – human or furniture – and manages to find a clear path between the wheeled armchairs at the table, and the stationary ones of lesser folks rimming the wall haphazardly one, two, or three deep.
Nimueh adds, addressing the room, "Of course you all know his father by name. Uther Pendragon, an eminent and long-standing member of the Government."
No one rustles or murmurs in surprise; Arthur is disconcerted to face the room and see no smiles. Of course no one in Government is ever thoroughly popular, but it's been peaceful under his father's faction for almost three decades.
"Arthur," Nimueh says, speaking not to him but to the people who control Research, "has voiced some doubts about the composition of our mages. Specifically he's concerned about the Master Control Sequence."
Some laugh outright. Others sneer. Most wear expressions of amusement and disbelief.
What is he missing? A chill stiffens his spine and he resists the urge to clench his fists.
"I suppose," Nimueh says dryly, "you're worried that someone could potentially signal the sequence activation, and issue orders to specific mages in specific departments and…"
"Try to take over the world," Arthur says numbly. It's absolutely fantastic, but… it seems to be happening anyway. Those reports from Statistics – Logistics – Operations…
Nimueh makes an impatient noise, as titters ripple through the rest of the room. "Not the world, Arthur. Just the City."
"For starters," the man from Operations says mildly – and the chuckles for his joke are warm.
"We did hope you would support our efforts," the older woman from Logistics says, and the sentiment seems genuine, at least from her.
Arthur swears inside his head, trying to think of what he should do. Get out of here, warn someone – but how can they find all the mages affected, and what do they do with them when they find them? If this gets out to the public, there could be riots. Lynchings. Mages aren't real, and can be deleted as easily as made.
"There's no reason to be nervous, Arthur," Nimueh assures him, smiling unperturbed. "We want you with us."
She puts her hand on his sleeve and he flinches away before he can think, better to play along, to pretend til he can get clear and then run screaming to the authorities. And her blue eyes narrow.
"I can get back to you on that, right?" Arthur says, shifting and trying to figure his best path to the door, without being obvious about it. Unless the door is locked.
"We'll take a vote," Nimueh says smoothly. "But whether or not you're with us, you've still proven to be a valuable asset. We assessed a twenty-five-percent possibility that you'd notice the MCS, much less question it. We don't want to waste your potential – or at least, we don't want you to waste potential within your possession." She turns to the assembly. "I would like to introduce our demonstration at this time, for those of you who still have doubts."
She looks down at her IDA on the table, and tap-tap-swipes the screen. A moment later the meeting-room door dematerializes to reveal two young men in mage-gray, one behind the other. The one in front is Merlin, his hands empty, and he's smiling in shy self-consciousness as he steps inside the crowded room, visually seeking Arthur.
"Hello," he says to no one and everyone. "Sorry, they said I was needed…"
The door solidifies behind him, and it's probably locked. And Arthur thinks, Master Control, and was Merlin's set to Y or N? his throat is tight; he can't swallow. Almost he takes a step back, but there's no room – nowhere for him to go.
Nimueh doesn't reply. Her fingers flick over the screen of her IDA – the sequence – then she says to the room, "Observe."
A nearly-inaudible noise erupts from the device, like the ringing in the ears that happens when a loud continuous noise abruptly ceases.
Merlin's smile loosens, and vanishes by slow degrees. His eyes are puzzled – then blank. His spine straightens, and his hands drop to his sides.
Arthur's voice sounds pinched when he says, "Merlin…"
His little brother doesn't respond.
Between them, Nimueh gives the awe-struck room a triumphant smile. And says, "Merlin, use your magic to break Arthur's legs. We want to keep him with us, after all."
Collective gasp of shock – but no one moves. Arthur feels sharply nauseated, maybe light-headed – Merlin turns to him and begins to lift his hand, as Arthur has seen him do thousands of times over the years. At his own command, in his own defense. Sometimes even risking himself personally to protect and defend Arthur.
He knows it's no good to duck or hide. Merlin's magic is both precise and thorough. Instead he springs for his friend, closer than the upraised arm, and curls his arms around the ribs, over the shoulder, slamming their bodies together so that Merlin's back thuds into the room's door behind him, bruising Arthur's fingers. He doesn't let go.
"Hugs," he whispers fiercely into Merlin's ear, the black hair tickling his mouth and nose.
Merlin twitches, doesn't drop his arm, and Arthur doesn't let go.
"Hugs. Merlin – don't listen to her. We're in danger, we've got to get out of here. Do you hear me? You need to get both of us through that door and out of this building, safely and immediately. Magic, Merlin. Your blood is mine, but your magic is yours."
Merlin shudders. His hand drops – Arthur half-expects sudden and vicious pain in either or both of his legs – and the door behind them disappears.
They stumble out to the corridor.
"Merlin!" Nimueh says sharply. Some of the people in the room still in view rise to their feet, startled by this unexpected turn of events. She taps on her IDA, and looks up expectantly.
Merlin gives a full-body shiver, and Arthur shoves him down the corridor.
"Run!" he says. "And close and jam that door, if you can!"
Merlin stumbles, trying to move forward and look back at once. Nimueh leaps through the doorway, and yelps as the door forms solid behind her. Usually doors will not materialize if something obstructs the doorway, but – Arthur shudders, and turns to sprint, hauling Merlin beside and behind him with a handful of mage-gray tunic sleeve. There are tears on Merlin's face, and he hasn't made a sound.
Behind them Nimueh is screaming, but not giving chase; she doesn't have to. There are eighteen members of building Security, and that includes four mages.
At the far end of the corridor, the destination they're pounding towards – and Arthur hopes to get Merlin out of sight or earshot, then he won't have to worry about Master Control – one of the mages appears.
Feminine gray, and shoulder-length chocolate-brown curls. Freya's mouth drops open in surprise.
Behind them, Nimueh screeches something that includes the word kill. Freya's eyes go blank and her palm begins to rise.
They're both already running full tilt, but somehow Merlin breezes past Arthur, never hesitating, and sweeps Freya into his arms, kissing her right on the mouth. He kisses her and kisses her, slowing but not stopping, taking her right around the corner as Arthur gapes and follows.
Nimueh is still screaming. But not following.
Freya makes a startled noise against Merlin's mouth, and flails her hands behind his back. He releases her – eyes wide, mouth dropped open.
"Come with us," Merlin says. It sounds half-plea, half-order.
Freya jerks a nod.
"But how are we going to-" Arthur begins.
Then Merlin, one arm still half-around Freya, turns to him. He's never seen Merlin like this.
Merlin is pissed.
He reaches out and grabs Arthur's upper arm and his eyes blaze with such blindingly golden light that Arthur first squints, then closes his eyes.
A wall of air blasts him, buffets around him like he's standing in the middle of the hover-track. But he can feel Merlin's grip tight as a band around his arm, and he breathes and doesn't panic.
Whatever Merlin is doing – magic – to get them out of the building, Arthur thinks, We need to go somewhere they don't expect, somewhere someone can help us. The ground rocks a little beneath his feet, and he opens his eyes, blinking in a dim light, green-black reflecting tile. Around them are stainless-steel shelves, two feet wide and as long as the little room, and filled with stacks of trays and dishes. He recognizes it instantly for a childhood retreat – the dry storage of the kitchens in the building where he and Merlin grew up.
He says stupidly, "Here?"
Merlin and Freya are both in front of him, standing in the same positions as a moment ago, on the fourth floor of the Research headquarters. Freya is clinging to Merlin and swaying a bit. She's just left her master/owner; Arthur didn't think that was possible – but then, he didn't think it was possible to reverse a mage's purpose, either.
"They'll never think of Hunith," Merlin says.
It's an excellent idea. Arthur is surprised and grateful; he'd probably have to think through a dozen acquaintances and friends that Nimueh could probably track by his recent contact with them, that there will be records of.
He and Freya crowd into a far corner, out of sight of workers coming for most items, while Merlin slips out to find Hunith. Freya doesn't say anything to him, and he doesn't try to talk to her; Research was probably her whole life, with Nimueh. He thinks instead of how Hunith will be able to call up to his father and then – hopefully – they can stop Nimueh's plan to take control via re-programmed mages.
The door-seal sucks open, and Hunith looks surprised to see them, as though she didn't really believe Merlin; he slips back in behind her, glancing out to make sure they've gone unnoticed. She hugs Arthur, and smells like always, like onions. It seems to overwhelm her when he tries to tell her what's happening, but she hid and helped them when they snuck down for snacks, fifteen years ago, and she promises to help them now. She calls up to his father, returns to tell them his father isn't in.
"You could take the personnel transport up to your father's quarters and wait there," she suggests.
Merlin looks at Arthur, who says, "I don't want to risk it. They might not think to look for us down here, but surely our old quarters will be considered."
He thinks suddenly of Gilli, and whether his MCS read Y or N.
Gwaine at the were-dog training center calls Hunith, actually, to check on the truth or her belief in the rumor he's heard, that Arthur Pendragon is a wanted man as of that afternoon, for crimes committed by his mage Merlin. There isn't anyone else in any position of power or control or authority Arthur can call and get through to who will believe him, anymore.
Hunith brings them self-cleaning aprons so they blend in with the other works, and they wait almost an hour til a shift change, and she brings them to her private room in the sub-basement. It's early, so no one else hangs about the workers' apartments.
It's tiny, room for bed and nightstand and wall-hooks for changes of clothing. Communal bathroom down the hall. Arthur paces – three steps up and three back, while Merlin and Freya sit on the bedcover and hold hands. And outside in the world, is this happening.
"What she did," Merlin says suddenly into the troubled silence. "What she almost made me do…"
"Never mind, Merlin," Arthur says roughly. But he is sure he will have nightmares about that awful blankness in Merlin's eyes that for a single instant made Arthur afraid of him.
Merlin lifts his face to look at Arthur, and says in a near-whisper, "I've never felt this way in my life… I hate that I'm a mage."
He's pale, and shocked at himself. Tears roll down Freya's face, but she doesn't disagree.
Arthur stops and crouches in front of the two gray-clad mages, taking their shared hands between his. "I'm not," he says intensely. "I've rarely been more glad that you are who you are."
"Do you think any of the others," Merlin says, "can fight the activation sequence?" Freya nestles into his side.
Arthur says grimly, "I guess we'll see."
When Hunith returns at the end of the evening, she's trembling and trying to hide a very real, deep fear. Something has happened – a rash of deaths across the city. Murders, accidents… all across the city, men and women in positions of power.
"They're saying that mages did it," Hunith repeats, in shocked disbelief, even though Arthur has tried to explain, that's what they planned.
The chairperson of Research has taken the role of primary leadership for the city.
Uther Pendragon doesn't return home that night, nor the next.
They need a better place to hide, and a safe way to secure supplies, since Arthur will be arrested on sight and probably worse will happen to Merlin and Freya. But they can't just let Nimueh have the city, and change things to suit herself. And neither can they hide until she forget about them, or discounts them as a threat.
Arthur thinks carefully through his friends and contacts and decides upon half a dozen names he can trust, with the truth. And to help.
Shock and disbelief, four hours. Realization, eighteen hours. Resistance, twenty-four to thirty-six hours – or much longer, if Arthur can manage.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
The derelict warehouse is a good fit for them. It's the best headquarters-hideout they've had in the last eight months. It's at the far edge of an area on the outskirts of the city that's been abandoned because of wild half-breed were-dogs – which aren't a problem for them anymore, thanks to Gwaine.
Gwaine is one of the few who keep their jobs and lives and identities in the wake of Nimueh's successful coup. Loyal to the regime change by day in his position as a were-handler, and coming to Arthur's group by night for things like, training the roaming feral menace of the neighborhood into the best security system they've had.
Thinking of Gwaine – Arthur looks up from his desk in a flexi-glass-walled office in the center-back of the warehouse's main floor to see that his friend has just come in. Gwaine's twin brothers must have been anticipating his arrival; freshly graduated, wild and daring and incorrigible, they are Arthur's go-to guys for missions involving stealth and acrobatics and nerve. Just last week they climbed the outside of the Government building to the fifth floor to pirate an interior signal and duplicate it for Resistance use. Gwaine hasn't come alone, though; he's not the only one the twins are dancing about and punching delightedly.
Arthur stands, then comes out from behind the desk to the doorway that once featured an old-fashioned hinged door – missing, door and hinges – to see that Gwaine has brought his youngest brother with him. Baby Mordred. Seems like yesterday he was spitting squash on his bib and trying to hit the spoon out of Gwaine's hand.
"He isn't," Arthur says loudly, sarcastically.
"He is," Gwaine answers back – and beneath the roguish grin, Arthur sees a weary sadness.
"Not eighteen already?" Arthur questions.
Time flies. And, they thought they'd be done with this - past the Resistance, successful in re-establishing self-rule to the city, freedoms Nimueh's hijacked mages took away that they haven't gotten back – before Mordred was old enough to join.
I want to come, too…
Mordred grins shyly, hopefully. They promised, didn't they. Made him wait til his birthday.
"Yesterday," Mordred says, shrugging off Gwaine's arm and trying to keep his twin brothers rom ruffling shaggy hair. "I would've come then, but they got me drunk and I passed out."
Why is Arthur not surprised. He says to the twins, "Okay – go feed him to the were-dogs for now, and we'll discuss training tomorrow."
One of the twins whoops, and the other gives Mordred a shove toward the rear exit. They have trackers on the feral were-dogs, so locating them on their random patrols will be easy. Introducing his scent to the four-legged sentries means Mordred can come and go on his own from now on.
"Merlin back yet?" Gwaine asks, lingering.
As if Arthur wouldn't have said that, immediately. His neck muscles tighten distinctly, as he shakes his head. Gwaine has asked the same thing for nearly a month, now.
Gwaine curses the undercover job in more colorful terms than last week. For a while they worried that they'd know Merlin failed because Arthur's black-haired mage would lead the last charge against their hidden base – but now, the worry is far more bleak. Would they even know if Merlin suffered the ultimate failure? Deletion left no trace; they'd simply never see him again.
"I expect Lancelot tonight," Arthur says mildly, leaning on the inside of the office's doorway as Gwaine leans on the outside.
Lancelot, in Defense, contacted him through Percival. Whose involvement includes the passing of information only, as they don't have any use for a naval officer beyond sowing doubt in the military as to Nimueh's effectual leadership, without spreading prejudice about mages. Lancelot informed them – through Percival – that he had a decent chance at freeing a prisoner the Resistance as a whole and Arthur personally would find valuable.
He can't allow himself to hope, but he knows Gwaine knows what he's thinking.
"How's things otherwise?" Gwaine asks.
"Hunith's contact in Agriculture was promoted," Arthur says. "So we shouldn't have to worry about shortages for the refugees." The entire top floor of the warehouse was peopled with those who'd spoken too freely or helped too carelessly – and a handful of mages they'd managed to jam, and wipe. Take away Nimueh's resources and hopefully they'd become his – but none as trusted, yet or ever, as Merlin.
Gwaine grunts. "That's good."
A shout from the main – hidden – entrance draws their attention. It's Leon, the scout-guard who left his father's gym after an incident involving one of Nimueh's mages. Evidently foiling a coup-approved assassination is frowned upon by the new regime.
"Arthur!" Leon shouts, his voice echoing around the dimly-lit dura-crete and flexi-glass. "Lancelot's here! And-" figures come into view from behind him as he remains near his post. "Your father!"
He pushes upright; Gwaine does the same, and from the corner of his eye he sees Gwen in her slim-fitting jumpsuit come around the corner of the office – also focused on the new arrivals. There's folded fabric in her hands, but his attention is full of his father.
Uther is limping stiffly – but his shoulders are back and his head is up. He's thin, and a scraggly beard blurs his jawline, but Arthur's heart squeezes. Father.
He remembers just in time to put out his hand instead of anything more unreserved or demonstrative, though he hasn't seen Uther since before that disastrous day in Research, the day Nimueh took the City. But his father stuns him, brushing his hand aside to grip him in a hard embrace.
"Arthur," he says, and his voice breaks. He's trembling, and it shocks Arthur.
He reverts back to what he's accustomed to, in welcoming and reassuring refugees. "It's all right. You're safe now."
After a moment Uther withdraws, making a visible effort to compose himself. "It's been hell," he says. "You've no idea. I couldn't believe it when this young man showed up with orders to transport me – and then he said he was acting for you, to… free me."
"It's been a priority since… that day," Arthur tells him.
"Yes, but – I never expected you to lead a resistance effort," Uther says.
Arthur isn't sure whether to be flattered or offended. He decides to take nothing his father says seriously til the older man has had a few hours – or days – to rest and process his freedom.
"Why don't you sit down," he says, gesturing to a padded bench with a crooked back and an arm missing, that sits outside the front windows of his office-room. "The night's still early, we can get you something to eat if you're hungry, and set up living quarters near mine."
He hasn't wanted to tempt fate by preparing in advance, anticipating Lancelot's success. As his father slumps onto the bench, Arthur turns to Lancelot, who's wearing a little smile. He knows he did well. But Arthur takes his hand, hugging it to his chest and encircling his friend's shoulders with his other arm.
"Thank you," he says quietly. "And well done."
"Walk with me a minute, Gwaine," Lancelot says. He can't stay forever, of course, he's not ready to blow his regular life to join the Resistance physically. "We'll stage a reasonable excuse for Pendragon's escape and evasion. With luck, we'll divert attention from here – and me."
"Good luck," Arthur says.
Lancelot turns to leave, saying, "Hey, Gwen," as both hello and goodbye – and Arthur relaxes to turn to her, now, too.
She looks tired, and glances at Uther uncertainly, as if she anticipates changes. She's probably right, but they've all changed since their academy days when she last saw Uther.
"We've done it," she says to Arthur, stepping close with the folded cloth in her hand. "At least the part that matters. It won't grow or shrink – but it's better than body armor against weapons – fire, acid, whatever."
He reaches out to pinch a fold. It doesn't feel quite like Merlin's mage-suit, and it's dark-charcoal rather than silver-mist, but he believes her. "Expensive?" he asks. "Difficult, time-consuming?"
"Not really," she says, nearly cheerful to be able to say so. "And now that we know how, we can simplify the process."
"Good," he says, pleased. "Suits for the fighters first, then the children – then the rest. Then, we can talk about the black market."
Her dark eyes sparkle at him, and her body brushes his briefly as she leans close to tweak the collar of the tunic he's wearing. "The first suit is for you, Arthur."
Warmth floods him, and he grins back, not arguing. He'd lose, and if there's one thing he's learned in becoming a leader of the Resistance, it's not to start an argument he can't win. Plus, she's been looking at him differently than any other man here – maybe the way he looks at her instead of any other girl. And if it's slow to develop – well, then it will be more certain in the end.
"How soon do I get it?" he says, teasingly challenging.
"Freya says another day," Gwen tells him, and he sobers slightly at the mention of that name. Freya has been using her magic to assist in Gwen's replication and production of mage's-clothing-like material. Since they all decided, she wasn't to use it in any riskier pursuit. And especially not as back-up for Merlin's mission, like she wanted.
"How is she today?" he asks, angling his shoulder so it's a private conversation from his father, Lancelot, and Gwaine.
"Fine," Gwen says. Then qualifies, "Worried. I mean, I guess it takes a lot of worry to worry yourself sick, but Hunith doesn't seem worried about her, so…"
A piercing whistle shrills out, and Arthur whirls to Leon's position, tensing as the others do also – but the alert isn't followed by another signal. Leon's out of sight down a short corridor to the door; they don't see him and they don't hear him, but that whistle-
Then Leon comes into sight, beginning to cross the open floor of the warehouse, his arm slung around another man's shoulders. Behind them, the twins carry on their usual mad, noisy caper – and Mordred is under the arm of the new arrival Leon announced.
And Arthur thought he was glad and relieved to have his father delivered safely to them. That would be the highlight of the night – but this, this is one of the best moments of Arthur's life.
Beside him, Gwen gives a glad little cry. "Oh, he's back!"
And spins to rush away. He knows where she's going; it's been a very long time since he was jealous of the juvenile attention she showed to another.
Because it's Merlin, beneath Leon's arm and with his own slung about Mordred's neck. His feet are shoeless under the baggy trousers of a once-white jumpsuit, its sleeves knotted around his waist to reveal an also once-white undershirt. Head to toe, he looks like he's crawled through a drainage tunnel underground to escape. The undershirt is torn and bloodied, though his movements are free and easy to the point of being cocky. There's blood on the side of his face, too, but his teeth are gleaming with a grin that pure and irresistible Merlin, as he gives his attention to all four of the young men around him.
Arthur can't help but wonder if Merlin hasn't noticed him yet.
He got his wish. All their lives they haven't been separated more than an hour or two, even the months they both worked in Research. And Merlin has been gone more than six weeks. He's different, Arthur feels it in his bones and empty-thudding heart, just to watch him cross the warehouse floor in filthy socks and dragging cuffs. He's independent. A solo undercover mission – and his return means he's triumphant.
For a moment Arthur can't breathe. All this time he felt like he's missing a limb, without Merlin. He kept turning his head or opening his mouth to speak, like his mage-guard is simply waiting out of sight behind him. And now to think, Merlin hasn't felt the same.
Arthur is frozen in place, arms hanging heavy and useless at his sides, as Merlin laughs sideways with Mordred, approaching them.
But Merlin doesn't even slow. Drainpipe-grimy skin and whatever clothes they kept him in, after his capture, he doesn't hesitate to crash into Arthur, almost exactly the way he did, that last day at the Research meeting. He grips Arthur almost too tight to breathe, and Arthur realizes he's trembling too, as much as Uther.
He swears like one of Percival's sailors, breathily into Arthur's ear, and adds, "I missed you."
Maybe it's Arthur that's trembling. He waits for Merlin to pull back, and he doesn't, and Arthur doesn't, content to feel his friend's presence in this most convincing way.
"We thought," Arthur starts, and loses his words. "We were afraid that…"
Then Merlin retreats, enough to look Arthur in the face, but keep hold of his shoulders.
"If they turned you, they'd use you against us." Arthur manages to sound normal, like the leader of the Resistance should sound. "And they didn't. That was all we knew."
Of course we means I, and Merlin understands that.
"It took them awhile to believe the act," he says, grinning and shrugging, but Arthur winces at something dark that lurks behind the blue of Merlin's eyes. "That they captured and overpowered me. Then it was a lot of testing and restraints-"
Gwaine makes the noise Arthur feels in his chest, and grips Merlin's shoulder.
"Boring," Merlin dismisses lightly. "So it took me a lot longer than we thought, but I got it."
Arthur doesn't bother looking for an object, in Merlin's hands or pockets. Of course the key will be hidden, absorbed and enduring, in Merlin's mind and memory.
"The sequence to deactivate the Master Control?" Gwaine says. Arthur feels more than sees his father rise from the padded bench behind him.
"Permanently." Merlin's satisfaction is brilliant. "And, because the escape of a valuable prisoner – I assume that was you, sir?-"
Arthur wants some time to gauge his father's reaction to this Merlin, but he can't spare the attention, at the moment. It'll come in the next few days, as well as Merlin's reaction to his father joining them. Changes, like Gwen anticipates, but good ones, Arthur hopes.
"Threw everything into a bit of an uproar…" Merlin goes on. "I was able to set implosives before I got out."
Even the twins go quiet. Arthur feels his father's gaze, uncomprehending and trying to read him.
"That was," he says. "That had a-"
"Eleven percent chance of success, I know," Merlin says. His self-satisfaction settles a bit as everyone processes the significance of his news. "Three floors of Research ruined, and possibly the rest of the building, collapsing over the next thirty hours, approximately."
"And they'll never make another mage," Gwaine says.
If the technology is obliterated, the raw materials ruined. And none of the original developers or their progeny or apprentices are alive, anymore. Research's monopoly means no residual information anywhere else, either.
"Does that mean," Uther says in a gravelly voice, "that this generation of mages is the last, and then they'll be… extinct."
Merlin meets Arthur's eyes, and his are shining with unshed tears, but he's still smiling. No one else could have made that choice.
But then someone touches Arthur's elbow, and he shifts to allow for Gwen – and Freya, behind her. Merlin notices, of course – and the excitement is back. If he's missed Arthur, how much has he missed his lady? Especially since…
Merlin starts to smother Freya in a hug like Arthur received, but a shock ripples through him before he gets his arms fully around her, and his upper body springs back, enough for him to focus on Freya's midsection.
Six weeks ago, no one would have guessed. They don't have access to traditional medical facilities, after all. Now, even in the dim warehouse-at-night lighting, on Freya's slim frame, it's hard to miss.
Uther inhales sharply.
Merlin vibrates with shock, fingers spread but not quite touching the unmistakable bulge of Freya's lower belly.
"Yep!" she says, laughing and whisking away a tear. Gwen is clutching Arthur's arm and glowing with happy tears, herself.
Merlin is going to be a father. That's supposed to be impossible for mages. Maybe not anymore. And maybe extinction is not their future.
His mage-guard, his little brother, swears again – but quietly and reverently. Then again, with happiness increasing in leaps and bounds. He throws an incredulous grin in Arthur's direction before swooping on Freya, lifting her in his arms and spinning her around.
They have no hover-carriages, no comfortable quarters in high-rising buildings in the center of the City. No kitchens equipped to send them anything they like within seconds – no freedom to go anywhere and do anything on the fame and power of his name and his father's position. They have no guarantee that tomorrow will be easier or safer than today.
But watching Merlin spin his pregnant mage-wife, Gwen's arm in his, Uther and his friends surrounding and supporting, he couldn't possibly ask for more.
Maybe life isn't fun. But it's better.
A/N: And that's it for this little set of stories. I know there's a lot I implied but left out, but I have no intention right now of expanding on 'Arthur's Mage-Guard' any more. Instead we'll go to a totally different story, next chapter and the ones following…