Work Text:
Arthur Pendragon’s strong, self-assured footsteps stop on the pavement just outside an innocuous bookstore, tucked inconspicuously between a restaurant and a gym. The sign above its doorway reads Avalon Books. A tight pressure squeezes at his heart and lungs. If he needed to breathe, he’s sure it’d be difficult right now. All he needs to do now is step inside. He’s hesitating, which has never been his style. Why had Morgana sent him, knowing his history with Avalon’s owner? What did she See?
Before Arthur can make a decision, one is made for him. The door swings open on its own, more ominous than welcoming.
Arthur straightens his back and steps inside. His eyes flit over the bookshelves, noting the titles on haphazard display. He doesn’t doubt the owner knows exactly where everything is. Everything is clean and well-maintained, a sure sign of someone who treasures books. His fingers reach out, almost of their own accord, and brush along the spine of a first edition Alchemyst. Its author had been an amusing human.
“What are you doing here, Pen Draig?” an achingly familiar voice cuts through his exploration. Arthur looks up and lays his eyes on Myrddin—Merlin, as he’s taken up now—for the first time in two centuries. A vision of his past self flickers over him, worn, handspun clothes, bright red neckerchief, long hair, before Arthur blinks and adjusts to his modern clothes and haircut. Merlin’s gaze drops to Arthur’s chest. Arthur would feel flattered, but he knows Merlin is looking at the pendant hanging prominently from his neck.
“It’s Pendragon now,” he replies, carefully. “Arthur.”
Merlin’s eyes remain stonily uninterested. He doesn’t offer his new name up in return.
The dark desire to force that expression to crack makes Arthur clench his fists tightly. He can’t. His nails dig into his palms, just short of drawing blood. He promised himself he wouldn’t.
Arthur closes his eyes briefly and when he opens them again, he’s forced that desire down. “The Volturi has received a report that the half-vampire currently known as Merlin has been colluding with the Children of the Moon. I am here to determine the validity of this claim.” He forces his voice to be even, unemotional, despite everything clawing its way from his chest to his throat.
“And execute me if it’s true?” Merlin asks. His voice doesn’t waver, but his posture shifts.
“Yes,” Arthur replies letting some of his frustration seep through. He imagines it then, striking Merlin’s head from his shoulders. Watching Merlin desicate, fade before his very eyes. The very thought incites a vicious rage that makes him tremble. He would never allow Merlin to come to any harm.
Merlin lifts his chin. “You can try.” Merlin says. The air thickens with tension. Rage bleeds into anicipation, electricity dancing up his spine. His Gift versus Merlin’s. How long has it been since his last decent battle?
He holds up his hands, yielding. “No, I could never kill you. I’m going to find out who made those bogus claims and silence them. Then you are going to move. With any luck, we won’t have to see each other again for another two centuries.” Even as Arthur says the words, he wants to reverse time and take them back. The past two centuries have been dull and meaningless without Merlin. He’s not sure he could face another four the same way.
Merlin’s expression shifts to reveal a turbulence. “Arthur,” he starts. “I…” The door swings open and a bell chime cuts off whatever Merlin had meant to say.
“Dad!” a young girl’s voice exclaims. “I’m home!”
The biggest crack yet fractures Merlin’s expression, revealing a visceral fear. But Arthur has been similiarly sundered. Dad?
Merlin darts away and picks up a young girl with long black hair. As she squeals with laughter, her scent drifts through the air. A Werewolf. Her hands on Merlin’s cheeks, she looks over at Arthur with curious, wide eyes.
“So… it wasn’t a lie,” Arthur says coldly.
“Arthur—”
“The Children of the Moon are our deadliest enemies—”
“Your deadliest enemies,” Merlin snaps. He holds the girl closer, protectively “I am not a vampire, not really. Isn’t that what you said to me?”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Two centuries ago, yes, in the heat of anger! You well know I did not mean it like that.” He groans then, pinching the bridge of his nose. Merlin made everything so damn complicated.
“She’s only six, Arthur,” Merlin murmurs, his voice softened, weary. “I was tracking another Were when they attacked her village. I couldn’t… She’s just a kid.” Merlin looks at him, pleading him to understand, and damn it all, Arthur does.
Of course, Arthur does. The fresh wound of losing his son may have healed over centuries ago, but the scar still throbs.
“Is that your decision?” Arthur asks with a heavy sigh.
“It is,” Merlin replies, his eyes hard, resolute. Arthur loves those eyes. He’s constantly drowning in the memories of their love and affection.
Arthur nods once, shortly, and walks past Merlin, exiting the shop. The sun peeks out from the clouds and he pulls out an umbrella to shield his skin just as it starts to glimmer. His plan remains the same. Even though his Mate is a hare-brained fool, Arthur will do whatever it takes to protect him.
Time to hunt down some vampires.
Arthur wipes the blood off his sword. He steps over the strewn bodies on the floor and crouches in front of the sole remaining coven member.
“You cut off my arm,” the vampire sobs, clutching the severed limb to his chest.
“You’re going to tell me the location of your sire,” Arthur says coldly as he rests his blade on the young vampire’s throat. The vampire swallows, pushing his neck into the throat, and his wide, terrified eyes glance behind Arthur. Eight of his coven lay dead, decapitated behind Arthur. They hadn’t put up much of a fight.
“You cut off my bloody arm!”
“Tell me while I’m being nice.”
“I—I don’t know, man.”
“You still have three more limbs—”
“I really don’t know!” the vampire whines. “He hasn’t been around! He—” The vampire curls in on himself, his whole body shaking. For a moment, Arthur thinks he’s sobbing, until the sound of laughter spills forth. “He said you would come!” the vampire hisses, his whole demeanor shifted. “He knew you’d do anything to protect that hybrid. But you’re too late! You’re too—”
Arthur jerks his arm, and the vampire’s head rolls onto the floor. His body slumps after it, but Arthur is already speeding from the room. Merlin’s in danger. His stomach twists, an iron ball settling into it. Merlin’s in danger. He doesn’t bother with an umbrella. He doesn’t care that he’s running too fast.
All that matters is Merlin.
Merlin looks at him like he’s an idiot when he barrels into the store. “Arto—Arthur, your hood is nearly off! Why would you risk exposing—”
“You’re safe,” Arthur breathes out in crushing relief.
“Of course, I’m safe,” Merlin snaps, but there’s no anger, just confusion.
“We have to go. Now,” Arthur interrupts. The look and scolding are so familiarly bittersweet; Arthur crushes the urge to tease him about it. “The report was a trap to lure me—”
“And it worked quite well, if I do say so myself,” an unfamiliar voice declares behind him. Arthur whirls around, drawing his sword. “Thank you for playing along so nicely.” Six vampires fan out around the speaking, masked seventh. “I have waited centuries to bring the great Pen Draig to his knees, and it was pathetically easy once I figured out his weakness.” As the masked person says weakness, the intruders’ gaze shifts to Merlin.
Merlin laughs. “It’s only a weakness if you lack the strength to protect it. Arthur’s not on his knees yet.” A frission of fear eases inside of Arthur at Merlin’s nonchalance. That’s right. What had he been so worried about?
“I guess he isn’t,” the masked person agrees. “Let’s fix that.” All at once, the intruders rush foward. Arthur lowers his sword and waits.
Before they can even take three steps, an invisible force slams into them and crushes them to the ground. Several snapping noises pop into the air, one body jerking after the other. When the invisible force dissipates, the vampires don’t move.
Merlin yawns. “Was that all?”
“But you’re just… you’re just a half-breed!” the masked person cries out.
“And you’re about to be dead—”
“No,” Arthur interrupts. “Let me have a go. If they want to hurt me, they can try themselves.”
“Arthur—” Merlin starts, warningly, but Arthur ignores him; he’s always been overprotective. There’s a reason Arthur has maintained his position in the Volturi Triumvirate for centuries.
“Give him a sword,” Arthur orders.
Merlin grumbles, but flicks his wrist. “Don’t you dare hit any of my books.” A sword flies through the air from the upstairs.
The masked person grabs it mid-flight and swings at Arthur. Arthur raises his sword and blocks. With a twist of his wrist, his sword slides down. Another flick forward for a counter-jab. It’s parried deftly, and the masked person jumps back to put some distance between them.
Arthur allows it. Then something in him freezes when the masked person twirls his blade—exactly as Arthur had been about to do. There’s only three people in existence that he’d taught that move to, in that exact variation. He barely pulls himself together in time to deflect the masked person’s next attack. It still slices through the skin of his upper arm. Behind him, Merlin hisses, and Arthur holds up a hand.
Who the hell is this person?
Arthur is going to rip that mask off their dead corpse. He’s no longer playing around. The sounds of their swords clashing ring out through the store. Reckless rage drives Arthur forward, ignoring the little cuts acruing over his body, until a heavy-handed swing knocks the sword from the masked person’s grip. Arthur draws back his arm and swings ferociously at their exposed throat.
“Stop,” a cold, feminine voice commands. The sword stops just before it cleaves the masked person’s head from their body. A line of blood drips down their throat.
“What are you doing here, Morgana?” Arthur demands.
“Remove his mask,” she says instead of answering. He angles his body so he can glower at her, but she return his look distinctly unimpressed. It usually leaves vampires shaking with fear. Ugh, fine then. Sisters. Arthur grabs at the base of the mask and yanks—
His back thuds into the wall, horror creeping like frost along his limbs. “This isn’t possible,” he gasps out. “This is some… trick or…” A trick! That’s exactly what’s happening. The impostor starts to laugh. Arthur lunges for the impostor, it has to be an impostor, but Merlin’s hand settles on his forearm, instantly halting him. He looks over, his fury fading into confusion with just a slight shake of Merlin’s head.
“So haunted by your misdeeds that you ignore the truth right in front of your very eyes? I am your son, Mordred!” the impostor(?) snarls. “The son you abandoned for death!”
What? No. Arthur’s legs grow unsteady. It’s only Merlin’s hand on him that keeps him grounded and upright. This doesn’t make any sense. His home had been destroyed, burnt to ashes. He’d held his wife and son’s charred corpses in his hands.
“This is… some sort of trick,” Arthur repeats, but it’s a weak protest even to his own ears.
“It’s not,” Morgana confirms, the final nail on a coffin. “I knew something was amiss when I tried to See the future and Saw only darkness. So I sent you here to lure the mastermind out of the shadows. There’s only one person who would do this.”
“Nimueh,” Merlin murmurs softly, his fingers digging into Arthur’s arm.
Of course.
“Nimueh saved me!” Mordred yells. He lunges at Morgana, as she flicks her hand. Two of her guards appear alongside Mordred and hold him firmly between them. They start to walk toward the bookstore’s exit.
“Wait,” Arthur protests. “Where are you taking him?”
“He has information about Nimueh—”
“He’s my son—”
“Who thinks you abandoned him,” Morgana says. It’s almost cruel, but her eyes aren’t as sharp as usual. “Give him time. Give me time to unravel Nimueh’s web of deceit.”
“I can’t lose him again.” It’s the most defeated he’s felt since—“If Mordred is alive, does that mean Elaine—”
Morgana is already shaking her head. “Give him time,” she repeats. “We all have plenty of that.” Her eyes flicker past him, to Merlin. “Not that you should waste any of it, being petty.”
“Hullo, Morgana,” Merlin says dryly.
Morgana smirks. “Merlin, I’d say it’s a pleasure but I was hoping you’d be rotting in a ditch by now.”
“And lose the chance to watch someone drive a dagger through your heart? Oh wait, you haven’t got one.”
Arthur rolls his eyes, leaving them to their childish bickering. At least they hadn’t started brawling like they usually do. He watches Morgana’s guards push Mordred into a black van. The door slams shut, separating them. Again. His son. He’s lost so much time.
He turns back at Merlin, who’s glaring at Morgana, who’s smirking again. Evilly. And comes to a decision:
No more lost time.
“Morgana, I’m—”
“Taking a vacation? Perfect,” she interrupts, giving up her pissing contest with Merlin. She shrugs. “I figure you’d be useless for a couple decades after reuiniting with your Mate anyway.”
Arthur groans. “Morgana—”
“Vacation,” she repeats sharply.
He didn’t need his Gift to tell him this was a losing battle. “Vacation,” he echoes with a sigh. Sisters.
“Perfect.” She grins and it’s just a little scary. “I think until Merlin’s little… pet is grown up and independent should be enough time?”
Merlin tenses and he dashes away from Arthur’s side, placing himself between the Volturi guards and the upstairs.
Morgana merely rolls her eyes and turns away. “If he takes you back, that is,” she throws over her shoulder.
Ah. Right.
Arthur waits until Morgana and her guards drive away before facing Merlin. Merlin looks at him steadily, not guarded like earlier, but still wary. Arthur can see it in his tensed shoulders.
“I, um…” Arthur starts, then trails off, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I still love you,” Merlin blurts out. “Even though you’re an enormous clotpole, who ignored me for two centuries.” He crosses his arms over his chest.
“Hey! You kicked me out and said and I quote, ‘don’t come back!’”
“I didn’t mean for two whole centuries!”
“I wrote you letters and you never replied.”
“You were supposed to come yourself!” Merlin snaps and suddenly, Arthur realizes how close they are. Close enough to…
“I guess I was being a clotpole,” Arthur cedes, reaching out to cup Merlin’s cheeks. Merlin allows him, nuzzling into his touch.
“We’re a pair of obstinate idiots,” Merlin says with a huff of laughter and closes the remaining distance between them. Arthur’s world realigns as their lips meet. It’s like the sun, the moon, the tide, natural order restored. The gaping hole in Arthur’s chest overfills. He shifts, intent on devouring Merlin, relearning all his sensitve spots, when a child’s voice shrieks in disgust and footsteps run up the stairs.
Merlin pulls away, but he’s grinning. “I’d better go talk to my… daughter.” He says daughter uncertainly, smile wavering, staring into Arthur’s eyes to gauge his reaction.
“Our daughter now,” Arthur says, and it only makes his heart clench a little bit. He’d already messed up one child.
“Ours,” Merlin says and holds out his hand. Arthur slots their fingers together, and the storm brewing in his head recedes.
With Merlin, anything’s possible.