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Chapter Text

“Arthur. Come and take a look at this.” Leon calls.

There is something off about his tone. It isn’t quite awe, but too stunned to be purely curiosity. It’s enough to get Arthur to stop searching for the tracks they’ve been following for several kilometers now and double back. He finds his squad standing in a semi-circle. Their figures obscure whatever they’re standing around, but Arthur can smell it; the familiar metallic sweetness of blood. But there’s something layered within it, reminding him of the smell of soil after rain or maybe the air after a lightning strike. Nothing with blood should smell like that. No doubt that was Leon’s cause for concern.

The semi-circle shifts apart as he approaches without him having to ask for them to make room. He slides easily into place alongside Leon, and Kay stands to his other side.

Kneeling on the ground is a man. It’s difficult to tell how tall he is, but he is built with wiry muscle and fine bones. His hair is dark and cut short, his skin is pale. He wears worn jeans, a brown jacket, and a dark grey T-shirt, and his boots are practical and tan. His head is tilted down like he is utterly fascinated by the grass he’s kneeling on, not that he should be able to see it. He certainly isn’t another vampire, Arthur would be able to smell that. Which begs the question, what is an Unturned doing so close to the Citadel?

Arthur slides the strap of his gun off his shoulder and passes the whole thing to Leon who accepts it in silence. Better not to let an Unturned near a gun. They may not be able to be killed by bullets, but it still hurts like hell to dig them out and cornered Unturned have shown time and again that they are cleverer than vampires have given them credit for. Arthur sweeps back the hem of his dark leather coat so it doesn’t get caught under his knees, and goes to one knee in front of the man.

He tilts the man’s chin up. His eyes are startlingly blue, but the expression is vacant and vaguely dopey. It’s an expression Arthur has seen tens of times, but something about this one in particular feels wrong. It prickles the back of his neck.

“Who put him under thrall?” Arthur asks, breaking the tense silence.

Bedivere steps forward with his usual harried expression, “I did, Sir.”

“What was he doing before that?”

“We believe he was camping, Sir.” Leon answers and gestures to a sleeping bag and a rucksack Arthur missed previously.

He temporarily let’s go of the man’s chin in favor of going to poke through his belongings. The sleeping bag holds nothing but a loose sock. Inside the rucksack, Arthur finds a supply of dried food and water. Nothing personal to the man they’re looking at.

Arthur returns to the man in question and once more tilts his head up. He is met with that same unnerving expression.

“What’s your name?” Arthur asks, keeping his voice low and soothing so as not to break Bedivere’s thrall.

The man in question continues to look blank and vague and happy about it as he answers, “Merlin.”

“What are you doing here, Merlin?”

“Camping.”

“Why here?”

“It seemed like a good spot.”

Arthur frowns. No Unturned ever wanders this close to the Citadel. Not unless they are some of the strange type who get a thrill out of the idea of being Turned. That is unlikely to be the case here, otherwise Merlin would be babbling about being a creature of the night.

“We haven’t drunk for two days, Sir.” Kay says, “Drinking him would solve multiple problems at once.”

That post-lightning smell tingles the inside of Arthur’s nose, and he shakes his head. He’s heard the stories. They all have. The ones who follow the mythical slayer, Emrys. The Unturned who have figured out ways to poison their blood without poisoning themselves, eating copious amounts of some bulb called garlic that did not exist back in their home plane or drinking copious amounts of blessed water. He has yet to stumble across his own evidence, but he trusts his fellow soldiers. He won’t risk his own men.

“No.” He answers firmly, “Something isn’t right.”

“Do we execute him then?”

“Not until we get to the bottom of this. For now we take him back to the Citadel.”

Leon, ever loyal, leans down to speak in only Arthur’s ear, “Who will be in charge of supervision?”

“He’ll stay in my quarters. I’m the one bringing him home, he is my responsibility.”

“Are you sure this is wise?”

Arthur can’t say with any certainty that it is, but his instincts are screaming that this mystery needs to be solved. His instincts are rarely wrong.

“We have been following the same tracks for days now, and all it does is lead us in circles. Let’s return to the Citadel. I’ll let the Council know it was my decision, and I will keep an eye on our prisoner until we get to the bottom of this.”

His men snap into action. Each of them completing tasks with their usual efficiency. Merlin is dragged to his feet and handcuffed. His rucksack and sleeping bag are gathered in case they reveal anything important on closer inspection. Arthur dusts off the knees of his trousers. Leon hands Arthur back his gun.

The moon hangs high and full in the sky as they return to the Citadel. They’ve been in this plane for nearly a hundred years, but Arthur still isn’t used to the sun. He lived most of his life in a plane that was varying shades of darkness, and the concept of having to stay inside for twelve hours a day or otherwise burn to a crisp still feels unnatural and suffocating. The walk back to the Citadel is done in silence. As much as Arthur relies on his squad, none of them have learned the art of small talk.

Arriving at the Citadel after traveling is always disorienting. For kilometers around there is nothing but thick forest, and when you finally arrive in the cities all of them are pitch black. There are signs everywhere of what used to be a vibrant night life. Pubs shuttered tight whose glass is etched with hours between 1pm and 3am, large spaces with names like “Inferno Night Club” permanently shut, corner food vendors with fading paper notices alerting customers to new store hours. Arthur always awards the cleverness of the Unturned. Being able to smell them does not give vampires the ability to know exactly which building they are in when the lights are off, and none of the vampires are willing to risk an ambush by entering without certainty of numbers.

In comparison, the Citadel is well lit. Candles burn in every window, more because the council enjoys the aesthetic than because anyone needs the candles to see. The grounds are abuzz with activity. There are always people coming back from hunting or scouting trips, others bringing reports from other strongholds, some just milling around because their work is finished for the time being. There are no brittle paper notices, or stretches of abandoned black road. It is tall walls and a wrought iron gate loosely guarded by people in dark coats with guns slung over their backs.

Arthur swipes his id badge in one of the tablets that the guard presents, and the screen flashes green to allow him through. One by one his men do the same. When the last one has had his id badge confirmed, the guard punches the code into the gate. It swings open with a mechanical purr so soft it could almost be silent.

Once they stand in the courtyard outside the castle, Arthur turns to Leon, “Take him back to my quarters. Don’t let anyone else put him under a thrall, I need him to respond to me and me alone.”

“Understood, Sir.”

Say what you will about Leon, but he is damn good at following an order. He hooks one hand through Merlin’s elbow and tugs, and Merlin goes tripping after him like he’s drunk. It takes a lot for vampires to get intoxicated, but it happens. Especially these days when the Unturned have gotten better at keeping themselves safe, and the hunting parties often catch lucky breaks in the form of drunk idiots stumbling down the street. Something about the stumble seems off. There is just something about Merlin that has gotten under Arthur’s skin and is making him itch.

He dismisses the rest of his men to go enjoy their night, and then enters the castle. He knows the direction to the council chambers better than he knows the contents of his own closet. After trailing his father for the first twenty-five years to and from meetings for the first twenty-five years, and reporting back to the council for the remaining seventy-five he can walk the route in his sleep. The stone corridors are lit by torches, and it makes Arthur’s eyes ache for the first several minutes he returns. They will adjust given time, but he has never needed more than the faint light of the moon from their own plane to see. It is the same here. The torches and candles serve no purpose other than to create interesting shadows on the faces of the undying Council.

The double doors are made out of some solid wood; sturdy with iron detailing set deep into the wood itself. Arthur slides his black leather gloves from his hands, tucks them into the pocket of his coat, and knocks. There is a long, dramatic silence, of the kind that would make Morgana roll her eyes and mutter seditious things. Arthur just accepts it as part of tradition.

Finally, Bayard’s voice rings out, “Enter.”

Arthur twists the handle on the door and enters. The council chamber is as large and echoing as it always is, and lit with even more candles than the corridors are. A head of each of the houses sits around the long rectangular table. Godwyn of House Gawant with his short cropped grey hair and goofy apologetic expression, Bayard of House Mercia with his shoulder length, frizzy salt and pepper hair, Annis of House Caerleon newest to the council after the death of her husband on a hunting trip gone wrong and a stern expression that rivals Arthur’s tutors’, Cenred of House Essetir with his greasy black hair that must get that way from hair product in this plane because Arthur remembers what it looked like in their home plane, and finally his own father with his familiar stony expression and hair greyer than Godwyn’s.

“Arthur,” his father greets, “what news do you bring us?”

Arthur steps up to the council chamber and grips the back of one hand loosely in the other behind his back, “I’m afraid the tracks that were spotted amounted to nothing exciting. All they did was lead us around in circles.”

“And you’re sure you investigated every angle?” Annis asks sharply, red hair glowing in the candle light.

“Yes, Ma’am. I would not have returned if I was not absolutely certain. The tracks looked like they were made by an Unturned, but it is just as likely an animal made them. As a whole, scouts still struggle with the prints of the animals from this plane.”

Annis sits back, expression no less stern, seemingly willing to believe him.

Cenred, however, takes the opportunity to sit forward with a smug expression, “If the hunters from House Camelot are not prepared for the task, House Essetir is always willing to loan our expertise.”

Arthur is fairly sure that the expression is “lend you our expertise”. Then again, with Cenred it could very well be a loan. An offer that would require repayment. He’s been trying to get other council members in his pocket for years.

“I am sure Arthur is up to the task. I trained him since he was a child.” his father says with a warning narrowing of his eyes.

“Of course, of course.” Cenred agrees, “No harm meant.”

“Is there anything else, Arthur?” Godwyn asks, overly friendly. He’s still holding out hope that Arthur and Elena might wed, even after nearly two-hundred years post mutual agreement that they were not right for each other.

Arthur considers telling them about the strange Unturned they came across in the forest, laying out all the details, but thinks better of it. If his instincts are wrong, he would rather not have his mistake paraded in front of the council and his father by extension. No. Better to be vague.

“Something strange happened as we were returning home.”

“Elaborate.” Bayard orders.

“I don’t wish to get into too many details before I know everything. I plan to investigate the situation, and as soon as I learn more you will be the first to know.”

“Very good. If that is all?”

“I thank the council for granting me this audience.” Arthur says solemnly, and bows.

He turns on his heel, and marches back to the double doors. His presence goes unremarked upon as he leaves. The Council return to whatever business they were discussing before his arrival, and the doors swing shut with a thump behind him. He loosens his stance into a regular walk as he returns to his quarters.

As the son of the council, his quarters are far nicer than his fellow hunters. For one, he gets them all to himself. For another they come complete with a shower, and a luxurious bed. He is looking forward to collapsing on it when he arrives and spots Leon. Then he remembers collapsing is out of the picture for time being. He still has to deal with the Unturned currently locked into his quarters.

“Has there been any change?” Arthur asks quietly.

Leon leans in, keeping his voice down in case anyone passes by and overhears them, “He was starting to come out of the thrall when I locked the door. You know Bedivere’s thrall never last long.”

“So there is a not so small chance I have an angry Unturned in my bedroom, plotting revenge?”

“That seems to be the case, yes.”

“Well that’s my own fault for insisting he be under no one else’s thrall but mine. Have my back, if he attacks, shoot him. We’ll deal with the clean up later.”

“Yes, sir.”

He swipes his id card through the lock on his door. The lock beeps and flashes green a moment later, and the familiar telltale click of the tumbler sliding open echoes off the stone. Arthur pockets his id card, Leon draws his gun, then Arthur shoves open the door. Merlin does not attack, which is a relief. Instead, he stands in the middle of the room. He keeps blinking at the candle light like he is disoriented and it is the only thing that he can recognize. At the sound of the door opening, he turns to face Arthur.

“Where am I?”

“The Citadel.” Arthur answers shortly, “We have some business to take care of.”

Merlin frowns, deep lines appearing between dark brows, “This is bad for me isn’t it?”

“Well, you’re not a complete idiot.” Arthur allows, and gestures for Leon to leave and close the door behind him. Arthur approaches Merlin, and places a friendly hand on his shoulder, “I need you to look deep into my eyes.”

To Arthur’s immense relief, Merlin is still discombobulated enough to comply. His blue eyes meet Arthur’s, and Arthur reaches out to touch Merlin’s mind. When their minds brush, there is something like a static shock that ripples down the back of Arthur’s mind. It makes him jerk away, and he once more smells that air after lightning smell. He presses a hand to his temple until his ears stop ringing, and looks at Merlin. That same vacant dopey smile is back in place.

“Are you prepared to my bidding?” Arthur asks, a deep well of suspicion forming in his gut.

Merlin’s eyes remain vacant, but his grin widens, and he says, “Yes, Sire. Anything you need or want.”

“Help me get undressed.”

Merlin steps forward like someone is reminding him how each one of his limbs works. He undoes the buckles on Arthur’s coat much more slowly than Arthur himself would have done, but it saves him from having to twist himself into impossible shapes to do it. Once the coat is laid neatly on the end of the bed, Merlin removes Arthur’s shirt. It is all mechanical. In essence, it looks like any other of the few thrall-servants that haunt the Citadel. They survive by the sheer luck that their blood is in some way undrinkable. The well of suspicion is not eased by this test run.

He leaves Merlin standing in the middle of the room and goes to shower. He makes it quick. There is no reason to be caught off guard. He steps into a pair of black underpants, and towels his hair off. Merlin hasn’t moved a muscle since he left.

“What were you doing in the forest this close to the Citadel?” Arthur asks, leaning up against the desk in his room.

Merlin jerks unsteadily around to face him, “Camping.”

“Why did you choose that place to camp?”

“It seemed like a good spot.”

Arthur nearly groans with frustration. This is exactly how the conversation played out when they first met. Normally he would think that Merlin was just a run of the mill idiot and be done with it. But that lightning smell…

He tries another approach, “You aren’t in any trouble, Merlin. I just want to know the truth for my own sake is all.”

“I’ve told you the truth, Sire.” Merlin insists.

Arthur drags a hand over his face and sighs into his palm. He takes a moment to consider Merlin. Nothing has changed about him, not really. In the candle light, he is more visible even as Arthur wishes to put it out. His hair is still dark, but now Arthur can detect the slight waviness to it that is hidden by it being cut so short. His cheekbones are high and sculpted. Other than a fine layer of grime, Arthur can admit there is something beautiful about him for an Unturned. At least he will have something nice to look at while he gets a headache trying to untangle this mystery.

“I’m going to fathom you out.” Arthur grumbles, mostly for his own benefit.

Merlin’s cheerful, “Of course you will, Sire” only serves to make Arthur’s headache worse.

Chapter Text

The knock comes when the sun has barely set and Arthur buries his face in his pillow and ignores it. He has never been an early riser. Knocks come again, louder and more insistent.

This round is followed by Merlin’s cheerful, “Should I open that, Sire?”

“Absolutely not.” Arthur responds, voice muffled by his pillows.

Knocking turns to pounding and it is followed by Morgana’s voice shouting, “Arthur, open the door!”

“Somehow,” Merlin says as Arthur pulls his head off his pillows to glare in the general direction of the door, “I think she won’t take no for an answer.”

Arthur darts a cautious look at Merlin. That had not sounded like the obedient tone of an Unturned in thrall. There was too much amusement in it, like he was enjoying Arthur’s irritation. Looking at him now, his eyes still hold that vague unfocused look. Arthur remains unconvinced. Something about Merlin itches at the back of his brain. Merlin is the word on the tip of Arthur’s tongue that eludes his grasp.

“Open it.” he grunts and swings out of bed.

He has time to shrug into the black robe he was given for his birthday so long ago he can’t remember which before Morgana charges into the room. Her cool green eyes are slight with fury, and her dark wavy hair is partially pinned back away from her face leaving the rest to tumble down her back. Her dress is an elaborate style in saturated blue, and it sets dread creeping up Arthur’s spine. If she’s wearing something other than traditional black, it means she is in a rebellious mood. If she is in a rebellious mood and standing in Arthur’s room, it means she intends for him to face down one of her tirades.

Her gaze lands on Merlin, sitting at Arthur’s desk and meticulously cleaning the parts of Arthur’s disassembled gun, and her eyes narrow. She fixes Arthur with her disapproving sneer and shakes her head, “I thought you were better than this, Arthur Pendragon.”

“Please tell me I’m not about to listen to one of your pro-Unturned rants.” Arthur groans, “I already know your positions on all of this.”

“And I thought you agreed with me.”

“I said I thought many members of the council were lacking in nuance, I didn’t say I disregarded them entirely.”

“So you thought it was perfectly alright to take a human as a slave?”

“Morgana—”

“What has this man ever done to you to deserve a life of unconsented servitude?”

“Morgana!” Arthur snaps, breaking the gathering steam of her rant, “I’m hardly keeping him for my own entertainment.”

“You are such a liar.” Morgana says disapprovingly.

“I am not lying.” Arthur snaps, irritation flaring bright enough in his mind to disregard Merlin’s presence entirely for a moment.

“I can always taste your blood and find out if you’re telling me the truth.”

“Blood Memory, Morgana, really?”

“It never lies.”

“Merlin is here as a mystery to be solved. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Something about Morgana’s shoulders loosen. Merlin remains hunched over the parts of the gun laid nearly and precisely in front of him. He is still wearing the shirt and jeans from a couple of days ago because Arthur’s clothes sagged off him. From his position at the end of the bed, Arthur gets a quarter-view of Merlin; just the hint of a pale cheek and full lips, dark hair, the surprisingly toned muscle of a pale arm. It’s like he hasn’t heard any of what Morgana has been saying, or if he has he is unable to process it. There is no tensing in his neck of shoulders, no shaking hands or white knuckles, nothing to indicate Merlin is aware that he is being spoken of.

“You learned his name.” Morgana says, relenting a little.

“As much as you enjoy making me out to be the monster, I’m not actually one.”

“If you’re not using him for your entertainment, then why is he here?”

“I don’t know.” Arthur admits, deciding not to call Morgana on ignoring the barb about being a monster, “There is something wrong, but I just can’t see it.”

“If he has a blood disorder you should let him go.” Morgana says with an arched eyebrow.

“You know as well as I do that blood disorders all have certain scents. If this is one, it isn’t one I’ve smelled before.”

“There are a range of conditions that we don’t know about. The Council isn’t a wellspring of information.”

“He isn’t acting like someone under thrall.”

Morgana looks pointedly at the table where Merlin sits. He has since finished cleaning Arthur’s gun and is slowly assembling it with sure, dexterous fingers. With Morgana there, Merlin has suddenly begun behaving exactly as he should. His movements are slow and dream like. He does not ask for a light to be turned on, even though the moonlight filtering in from the window (whose metal sun proof shielding has been raised for the night) surely cannot be enough to see by. He leans close over the parts of the gun and does it by feel. He makes no noise.

“He wasn’t before.” Arthur insists.

“Are you sure about this?”

“My gut has never steered me wrong.”

Morgana finally looks away from Merlin and she turns to Arthur, “Fine, but if I hear a word about mistreatment…”

“I know how capable you are with a knife.” Arthur rolls his eyes, “I hardly need the reminder.”

She smirks and presses a kiss to his cheek, leaving a bright red lipstick stain that he will have to scrub off before he can present himself to their warriors for drills. She murmurs something in his ear about someone having to keep him on the straight and narrow, and then swans as dramatically from his room as she entered it.

Arthur is left alone with Merlin; a fully cleaned and assembled gun resting on Arthur’s desk. It adds to the mystery that is Merlin. Not many of the Unturned in this region have firearms training. In former-America the Unturned have proven much more difficult thanks to large stockpiles of guns and ammunition in increasingly improbable places. In former-England, however, guns in the hands of Unturned are rare to come by. Occasionally they will stumble across someone who had a hobby hunter in their family and inherited their guns generations later, but it is happening less and less with every day. If Merlin has firearms training, enough to clean and assemble a gun in the short conversation Arthur had with Morgana, it adds further confusion. No one comfortable with firearms these days is stupid enough to wander this close to the Citadel by accident.

“Merlin,” Arthur calls and Merlin twists around in the chair, making it wobble dangerously on two legs, “fetch my breakfast, will you?”

“Your usual order, Sire?” Merlin asks, voice bright to the point of mocking, “A Positive? Or would you prefer a universal donor this evening?”

“Usual is fine. Don’t forget to fetch something for yourself.”

“Yes, Sire.”

Merlin hops to his feet and strides barefoot to the door. Arthur pretends to unlock the tablet he keeps next to his bed to check his daily alerts, but watches Merlin out of the coroner of his eye. Merlin does not stop to put on his boots. It should put Arthur at ease. After all, the floors of the castle can be freezing even for vampires. Surely if the thrall had not held completely, or was improperly done somehow, Merlin would take a moment to protect his feet. Merlin opens the door and steps out into the hall. Before the door closes, Arthur swears that the air after lightning smell picks up.

Merlin returns with a goblet of blood for Arthur and a small plate of eggs and toast for himself. To Arthur it smells hideously unappetizing, but Merlin gobbles it down as soon as Arthur gives him permission.

*

Training is meant to be a time when Arthur is at his most comfortable. Teaching others to track, hunt, and fight comes as easily to him as breathing comes to the Unturned. He moves between the rows of recruits in their black uniforms and corrects stances, or give pointers about how best to follow a scent. He referees the sparring matches between recruits. Here is every inch the commander that he was promoted to a short ten years ago. Nothing ever shakes him here.

Or nothing did.

The problem with having a thrall you can’t trust? You can’t leave them anywhere. The heads of the houses leave their thralls (if they have any to speak of) to minor chores. While the council deliberates the fate of the Citadel, thralls dust and wipe up spilled blood. Arthur can do no such thing with Merlin and so Merlin comes with. He stands out of the way of the recruits, half tucked behind a pillar. In the grainy grey fluorescent light they use because the training hall holds no windows, most of Merlin’s charm is washed out of him. His skin is grey, his eyes are grey with only a twinge of blue, his hair is dull, but his gaze burns into Arthur’s back.

Arthur helps a young woman adjust her grip on her gun and the whole time he can feel the familiar prickle between his shoulder blades that says he is being watched. Yet, when he turns back Merlin’s expression is dreamy and far away. Flickers of movement out of the corner of his eye turn out to be recruits, not Merlin. It makes him irritable. His critiques of the recruits are harsher than they should be. He is less patient when giving them the same correction he did five minutes earlier.

Leon comes down to observe half way through. It is the routine of things. As soon as Leon finishes his duties for the day, he joins Arthur in training. Sometimes he picks up the slack if the recruits are being uncooperative. Other times he joins Arthur in the ring and they spar to show the recruits how it’s done. Today his eyebrows come together in a harsh pinch. With two pairs of eyes on him now, Arthur’s temper worsens. He can’t work like this.

Leon’s hand comes to rest on Arthur’s shoulder, and he leans in as he always does and suggests, “Perhaps a break is in order, Sir.”

Arthur shrugs the hand off, but he does call for a break. He pretends not to notice when the recruits flee from the room like Arthur is sunlight incarnate. Reluctantly, he follows Leon to a far corner of the room. He leaves Merlin where he is. He doesn’t want to risk being overheard.

“It normally takes days of poor training before you try to scare them straight.” Leon says softly, “What’s going on?”

Arthur glances over at Merlin still standing dreamy and unfocused behind a pillar. Leon looks too.

“Have you gotten any close to figuring out your gut feeling?”

“No.” Arthur says tightly, “It’s driving me mad. I swear, it’s like he is fighting the thrall.”

“That’s not possible.”

“I can only tell you what I’ve seen, Leon, and it isn’t a man being used as a puppet.”

Leon’s face suddenly goes a bit pained and awkward.

“Spit it out.” Arthur sighs. Whenever Leon gets a look like that, it means he has something important to suggest but is worried about angering his leader. Unfortunately it is often embarrassing for Arthur, and even worse Leon is often right.

“Perhaps it isn’t Merlin at all, Sir.”

“What is it, then?”

“It could be you.”

“Are you suggesting I can’t hold someone in thrall?”

“No! No, I would never suggest that.” Leon protests, a little too loudly for Arthur’s comfort, then quiets, “I just mean that your relationship with Sofia was a long time ago, even by our standards and Merlin is not unpleasant to look at for an Unturned…”

“You’re suggesting I’m letting the thrall slip because I can’t keep it in my pants.” Arthur says flatly.

“I believe I said it more diplomatically than that but, in essence, yes.”

Arthur sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, “I don’t know why you and Morgana are both so concerned about my intentions with him. I had this strange feeling since the beginning. YOU must have as well.” He looks imploringly at Leon, “You wouldn’t have called me over if everything seemed perfectly normal to you.”

“It was only a suggestion, Sir.” Leon says diplomatically, “There may very well be something wrong that the rest of us are missing. I only wanted to clear the air.”

“Send in the recruits.”

*

“Would you like me to draw you a bath, Sire?” Merlin asks that dawn.

He sounds eager to do it. All of the thralls Arthur has met have spoken in flat unemotional tones. Then again, generally only the council members keep thralls. Arthur may one day hope to be as powerful as his father, but he isn’t there yet. There is every chance that Merlin is just an exceptionally stubborn individual, and Arthur hasn’t had to exercise his hypnotic gaze for close to fifteen years. Maybe Leon was right. Maybe this is just a case of subconscious self-sabotage.

He picks up his tablet to read over any briefings he had to miss that day and waves a hand in Merlin’s direction, “Call me when it’s ready.”

“Would you like bubbles, Sire?”

“I don’t have bubbles.”

“Is there someone who does? I could go fetch them for you.”

Arthur looks up from a report on the new security measures being installed on the armory, and frowns in Merlin’s direction, “You want to fetch me bubbles?”

“I could fetch you bubbles, or maybe oils. Oils are meant to be soothing.” Merlin rambles on, eyes still unfocused, “Chamomile is what most doctors recommend, but I have heard good things about lavender. I could also make you whatever the Dark Lord equivalent of a cuppa is. Tea is also meant to be soothing, Do creatures of the night drink tea? I had a nan who swore—“

“Merlin, for fuck’s sake, shut—up.”

“Yes, Sire. Of course, Sire.”

Merlin sweeps from the bedroom into the en suite. At this point Arthur thinks he is more likely to strangle Merlin to death than consider shagging him. Leon and Morgana’s opinions be damned.

Famous last words.

After weeks of perpetual twitchiness, and being woken every evening by Merlin’s ridiculous morning centric greetings, Arthur has to admit Leon and Morgana may have had a point. There is something beguiling about Merlin. None of his features seem like they should add up to be attractive, but they do. His face is narrow, but his features are exaggerated. His ears stick out a little, but it defines his face in a way that makes him unusual and fae. (A comparison he will never make aloud after his disastrous relationship with Sofia shortly before the houses came to this world. Morgana would never let him hear the end of having a type.) His cheerfulness is endlessly irritating, but Arthur becomes endeared to it. It makes for a change from the perpetual gloom of the Citadel.

But Arthur is stubborn to the very last. He had a strange feeling before the attraction, and he has no intention of letting it obscure his goals. Which is how he finds himself here. Merlin neatly patching a wearing spot in the leather of Arthur’s coat as Arthur peppers him with questions.

“Why were you camping in those woods?” he tries again. He’s tried a hundred variations of it. They all get answered the same way.

“It seemed like a good spot.” Merlin doesn’t look up from his needle and thread.

“Are you telling me the truth?”

“You ordered me to.”

“That isn’t an answer, Merlin.”

“I am telling the truth, Sire.”

“Then why don’t I believe you?”

“I don’t know, Sire.” Merlin says placidly, “Are you a distrustful person by nature?”

Arthur throws his hands in the air and sinks back into his chair. He falls silent and studies Merlin a moment. His eyes are still vague. It seems like his skills with a needle and thread should be impacted by that. He hasn’t pricked himself once. His fingers are absurdly pale against the black leather of Arthur’s coat. There are calluses there that Arthur hasn’t noticed before. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth and Arthur finds himself fascinated by it, wonders how warm it would be. He knows at least one of the hunters claims that sleeping with an Unturned is worth it just to feel how warm a fresh blooded body is. He wonders if that is true.

“Merlin.” Arthur says hesitantly.

This time, Merlin actually pauses in his work to look in Arthur’s direction, “Yes, Sire?”

“If I asked you to kiss me, what would you say?”

“What would you want me to say?”

“Yes.”

“Then I would say yes, Sire.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, “But what would you want?”

“I am meant to serve you, Sire.” Merlin answers, voice as blank as his eyes.

“That isn’t… If you were not under my thrall, would you still do it?”

“Why would I ever be out from under your thrall?”

“Never mind.” Arthur growls and gets to his feet, “I’m going to the kitchens.”

“Do you need me to fetch something, Sire?”

“No! Just sit there and don’t move from that spot until I come back!”

He does not slam the door behind himself because he isn’t forty, but he thinks it might have helped work off some of his frustration. Call him a bleeding heart, but he has no interest in a partner who has no interest in him. With Merlin under thrall, there will never be a guarantee that he wants Arthur’s attention, and until Arthur figures out the mystery he cannot risk breaking the thrall on Merlin. The whole situation is a mess. He blames Leon. If it weren’t for him, Arthur would still be happily in denial about Merlin’s finer features affecting him so.

Chapter Text

Arthur raps sharply on the doors to the council chamber and waits. After a moment, someone calls for him to enter. He thinks it might have been Godwyn, but with how distracted he has been it could have easily been Annis and he wouldn’t know the difference. When he steps into the chamber only two of the councilors remain. His own father is focusing intently on a task involving scowling at his tablet. Bayard, who like things more old fashioned than most, is the other and there is a stack of papers spread across the dark surface of the table. Arthur strides up to the table and falls into the required resting stance while he waits to be acknowledged.

His father taps firmly on the screen with a satisfied sigh and looks up at Arthur, “I see you got your summons.”

“What is it that you need from me?” Arthur asks.

“We have an upcoming hunt we need you to lead. It won’t be for some time yet, but the council hoped you would take your most promising recruits.”

“Getting temporary hunting clearance will take some time. It will also take time to choose who to take with me.”

Bayard twists his pen shut and joins the conversation, “You will have enough time for the whole process. Some of us wanted to give you less time, but out of respect for Uther’s commitment to this council we agreed to extend the deadline.”

“He is exaggerating my importance.” Uther objects with a flat bored tone, as if he doesn’t want the weight of the council doing him a favor on his shoulders, “Annis and Cenred also objected to risking the recruits from their houses if they were chosen in haste.”

“Regardless, I thank the council for not forcing me to rush this decision.” Arthur says. There is a flash in Uther’s eyes that looks something akin to pride, but Arthur has never quite managed to make him proud before. Perhaps it is just relief that Arthur’s lessons stuck.

“We will send you further details. Keep your tablet nearby for the files.” Bayard orders, though not unkindly.

“Of course, Sir.” Arthur agrees.

Uther starts to turn his attention back to his tablet, pauses, and frowns curiously at Arthur, “Did you ever get to the bottom of that mystery you brought to our attention six weeks ago?”

Arthur clenches his hands behind his back. As of now, Merlin is still back in Arthur’s quarters. Who he was before being found in the woods is still unsolved, the smell of lightning still hangs in the air around him with no explanation, and Arthur still can’t settle the piece of his mind that insists there is something off about the way Merlin handles thrall. He has made no progress. With this mission now hanging over his head he has the looming prospect of leaving Merlin behind hanging there as well. He can’t risk leaving Merlin alone in the Citadel without getting answers first. If there is something wrong, Arthur cannot be responsible for bringing it here. Morgana will refuse to watch him because of her beliefs. Leon will probably lead the team with Arthur. He trusts no one else. Pressure applied; deadline approaching.

He lets none of his inner turmoil show on his face, and says, “It turned out to be nothing. It turned out to just be an Unturned acting strangely.”

“As they can be prone to do.” Bayard remarks, “I have had contact from our friends in former-Norway that there is a population of Unturned there giving themselves blood infections intentionally.”

Uther wrinkles his nose in distaste, “When our ancestors first travelled here, the Unturned they caught accepted their fates with far more grace.”

“That is something we can both agree on.”

“Is there anything else you needed, Sirs?” Arthur asks, bringing their attention back to him.

“You are free to go, Arthur.” Uther answers.

Arthur bows shallowly, and turns on his heel. As he leaves, his mind fills with a singularly bad idea. There is one sure fire way to get all his answers from Merlin; Blood Memory. The problem is that if that lightning smell is a result of a disease or disorder, Arthur could be ill for a long time. If it is a progressive affliction, he could even die. The council relies on him to train recruits and lead his team on hunts. If he dies Leon can step in, but there will be turmoil. Arthur has lead this for nearly two hundred years. No one likes rapid change like this. Yet, he can’t ask one of his men to risk themselves if he is not willing to do the same. He has lived by that tenant for as long as he has been a hunter, and it is why his team respected him when he rose to a leadership position. If he is going to risk Bloody Memory, he has to be the one to do it.

Merlin is sitting in Arthur’s quarters in nearly the same position Arthur left him. In the six weeks since his arrival, they found him some clothes to fit. One of the newest recruits was roughly the same size. Merlin sits perched at Arthur’s desk, dressed in a long sleeve black t-shirt and trousers. He has one knee tucked up to his chest. With no chores to do, he stares absently at the desktop.

He is still lovely to look at.

Arthur decides to hell with it. He needs to cut his losses before something goes terribly wrong, and he has given himself six weeks to do it in. It’s time that he gets to the bottom of this. Bayard’s warning about self-inflicted infections still rings in his ears, but he does not allow himself to frighten. There is a specific way he needs to do this, and he can’t do it if he can’t focus.

“Merlin,” he calls, “come here.”

Merlin rises, wobbly as ever from his seat, and wanders over to Arthur. If Arthur had breath to speak of, it would have caught. This close to Merlin, the lightning smell is stronger, but that isn’t what makes him react. It is being this close to the pale expanse of Merlin’s skin. It is the heat radiating off of him. It is the blue of his eyes, blank as they are. He is just… beautiful.

Arthur catches Merlin’s hand in his, strokes his thumb over the knuckles, lets his hand slide down to cup the back of Merlin’s wrist. He nuzzles against the skin on the inside of it, can feel the pulse thrumming beneath it. There isn’t really a need for Arthur to be so gentle. He can come up with a million excuses about not wanting Merlin’s fear response to kick in, or trying to be gentle so no more blood is drawn than necessary. In a deep secret part of himself, he can admit he just wants Merlin to enjoy the attention. He presses a kiss to the inside of Merlin’s wrist.

“What are you doing, Sire?” Merlin asks.

Arthur presses another kiss in the same spot, and his answer comes out slightly muffled by the skin, “Nothing you need to be frightened of. I’ll be gentle.”

He gets no response after that. He presses another kiss there, and sweeps his thumb comfortingly against Merlin’s skin one last time. Then he lets his fangs extend. He lowers his head to the stretch of pale skin.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

The voice is calm and in command. It carries an undercurrent of darkness and confidence that are entirely out of place in Merlin. Arthur raises his eyes. Though Merlin has not physical changed his face in anyway, it is like Arthur is looking at different man. Gone is the vague absence and goofy grin. Merlin’s eyes are clear and focused, and the color is a fathomless mix of blues. His jaw is firmly set, mouth a straight line. He even stands taller somehow.

They stand frozen for several heartbeats. Merlin makes no move to pull away, Arthur makes no move to bite. Tension spools between them. There is a flicker of something in Merlin’s eyes. It isn’t fear. More like desperation. That is what makes Arthur move. It is one thing to be afraid of pain, or potentially being turned. It is another to be desperate for something. He sinks his fangs into the veins in Merlin’s wrist. His mouth is flooded with the hot metallic taste of blood. There is something that makes his mouth tingle, but he can mark that up to blood type. Sometimes B negative has that effect. He closes his eyes and reaches. The cells react.

He stands in a green field. The sun hangs high and golden-white overhead and warms the air around him. Arthur has never been this warm. An arm is thrown around his shoulder and he turns his head. Another man that Merlin knows, but Arthur does not, is grinning at him. There is familiarity, amusement, love.

It is the last un-muddled memory for a long time.

The days come in rapid fire. Season pass by in a blur, years go by in the blink of an eye. Merlin’s friend grows old, the woman who must be Merlin’s mother dies. Then Merlin’s friend dies. Arthur as Merlin keeps living. Boundaries on the map of the world distort and change over and over again. People begin dying on mass. A disease. Arthur as Merlin remains unaffected, takes up as a doctor, does his best to help. More people die than not. Bodies get burned in town squares to try to ward off infection. Factories rise, the world changes again. So many changes. So much daylight. It makes Arthur’s head spin. Throughout it all, there is that electric crackle at the edges of the memories. Sometimes, when someone is in desperate need of a miracle, Arthur as Merlin risks letting the electricity gather at his fingertips. It never resolves into the bolt he is expecting. Sometimes people are thrown hard away from their victim. Other times, it heals. The breath he does not have is whisked away from him. He can feel his body sink to its knees even as the memories continue to play. He sees the invention of cars. It must have been nearly a thousand years since that first memory.

Memories finally begin to slow.

It is night. The space Arthur as Merlin is standing in looks familiar. Arthur gets the feeling he has been here before, just from another angle. There is a strange rumbling, and a heavy gust of air blasts against Merlin. It nearly throws him, but he hangs firm. A shimmering silver portal erupts from a central point in the room, and Arthur remembers. This is the night they crossed planes. He was towards the center back, and by the time he stumbled out he was walking in the ashes of thousands of his people. As Merlin, he extends his hand towards the portal.

“Lehot.”

The electricity bursts from Arthur as Merlin’s fingers, and resolves into sunlight. A huge ball of sunshine presses against the entrance to the portal. None of the vampires first through could have prepared themselves. They burn in droves. Crumbling into ash. He expects to feel satisfaction from Merlin. Instead there is only a deep sadness. He does not wish to do this, but there is no one else that can do what he can. No one else who can come close to keeping humanity safe. Not like he can.

Magic, Arthur understands that it is magic now, begins to fade. Merlin grits his teeth, gathers on the reserve of magical energy that flows through the world. It has always flowed through his body like he was a ley line himself, but he has never channeled this much. Had never dared. It burns through him. He becomes aware of blood dripping from his nose. He wipes it with the back of his sleeve and pulls harder, begging the earth for just a little more. Earth begins to rebel, pulling the magic deep inside itself to keep from hemorrhaging it all to stop this one fight. It leaves Merlin with only the last dregs of his own magic. He digs into it. Blood has gotten into his mouth. It is unclear if he coughed it up or bit his tongue. He burns through the last dregs of his magic. The spell falters. A small flicker of sunlight. It is enough for someone to get through only mildly singed. They turn their eyes on Merlin. All they have is a dagger, but they drive it deep into Merlin’s guts. Merlin chokes on the pain, forces the last drop of magic the earth is willing to lend him. The sunlight expands. It fills the room, and the vampire who stabbed him is incarnated along with the vampires still inside the portal. The spell ends, and Merlin grasps uselessly at the dagger protruding from his gut.

He laughs, but it comes out as more of a cough. With the last of his magic burned through, he is weak. He coughs again, and this time his lips are flecked with blood. His body slumps to the side. The last image he sees before it goes black are the thousands of other vampires marching through. It isn’t the victory he was hoping for, but he might have bought earth a chance. There is a moment in the black void that Merlin is glad to feel his life slipping away. He has gone on for so long. At least now he might be able to rest.

Memories get patchy after that. He heals. The legend of Emrys spreads in a way it hasn’t for fifteen-hundred years. There are humans. A woman with tight brown curls, tan brown skin with freckles, and a warm smile befriends him. They bring her brother onboard. Her brother brings the man he loves. A giant of a man who looks more likely to crush your head in his bare hands than bake the cookies he does. They find a man with too much swagger and long hair. They find another with dark shaggy hair who makes doe eyes at the woman whenever she isn’t looking. Maps are made. Plans are thought through. Merlin gets caught in the forest while trying to gather intel on the movements of the Citadel.

Arthur surfaces from the memories, gasping for breath that he does not need. He swallows and looks at Merlin. His eyes are burning gold. In his hand is a small version of the ball of sunlight from that first night.

“It was you. You’re Emrys.” Arthur says hoarsely.

“I’ve never used that name. I’m just Merlin.”

“A man who can summon the sun, move things with his minds, heal wounds.”

Merlin’s jaw tightens, “I do what I can.”

“You killed thousands of my people.” Arthur growls. He wants to lunge, rip Merlin’s throat out. The ball of sunlight prevents that.

“I didn’t want to.” Merlin says almost sadly, “Your ancestors started exploiting the rift when I was thirty. I thought I could speak with them when I learned of the plan, but they refused to meet with me. I did what I thought would protect humanity.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why would you try to save them? You have done it all your life, but I’ve seen the way they treated you. You run from them. None of them accept you for who you are.”

“I grew up thinking I might be a monster.” Merlin answers, “When I realized my gift could help keep people safe, I knew that was the purpose. I don’t help for praise. I do it because it is right.”

Arthur staggers to his feet, “You’re not one of them.”

“My mother never had a drop of magical blood in her. Even if my father did, that means biologically magic is a genetic quirk.”

“You have been alone for over a thousand years.”

“It hasn’t been easy.”

Arthur takes stock of the situation. He needs Merlin to put away that light, but as long as they are enemies that won’t happen. There has to be some kind of understanding.

“It must have been lonely.” Arthur tries.

Merlin narrows his eyes, “What are you getting at?”

“Always running, never getting close to anyone, or getting close to someone and watching them wither and die. I could feel how much it hurt.”

“Curse of immortality I’m afraid.”

“What if your immortality isn’t a curse?”

“You want me to join you.” Merlin says with understanding, and the corners of his lips turn down.

“Would it be so bad? To be with like-kind?” Arthur asks.

“For better or worse, I am human. I may have killed thousands of your kind, but your kind has killed billions of mine.”

“How can you think you’re one of them when you have gifts beyond their wildest imagining?”

Merlin lets the sunlight in his palm flare, “I will always belong with them more than I belong with you. Humanity is imperfect, and flawed, but it is their planet to fuck up. Not yours. Give me your coat?”

“My coat?”

“I’m leaving, Arthur.” It is the first time Merlin has called him by name, and Arthur wishes desperately he could enjoy it, “I need it if I’m going to sneak out.”

Reluctantly, Arthur strips off his coat and extends it to Merlin. The sunlight drops, but the golden glow does not fade from Merlin’s eyes. Arthur is not foolish enough to test how quickly Merlin can react to an attack. He has no desire to be charcoal. Merlin shrugs into the coat. It is too big in the shoulders and chest, but it is passable. Merlin does up the hidden zip.

“Answer me a question before you go.” Arthur says as Merlin makes for the door.

Merlin pauses and glances back over his shoulder.

“Were you ever really under my thrall?”

A grin breaks across Merlin’s face, and Arthur is struck by the thought that Merlin’s face was meant for smiling and mischief, “No. My magic makes me immune.”

With that, Merlin slips from the room and the door swings shut behind him. Arthur waits for the telltale bells that indicate suspicious persons in the Citadel. They never come.

Chapter Text

Visions of Merlin haunt Arthur wherever he goes. He wasn’t in the citadel all that long, just a little over six weeks in total, but signs of him flicker out of the corner of Arthur’s eyes. When he straps on his gun in the morning, he remembers that the last person to polish it was Merlin. When he sees the mend in his coat, he remembers Merlin did it. He remembers the way Merlin bent silently over the desktop, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Even in the training room, he is reminded of the times Merlin stood silently in the corner and watched him. How Arthur ever fell for the perfect enthralled servant performance, intense suspicion notwithstanding, is a wonder. Merlin was strange and alluring from the beginning.

Arthur feels like he should be horrified by what Merlin did to the vampires the night they crossed. He wiped out thousands of an already dwindling population, and it was only because they had an overabundant food source that they were able to grow their population once more. That said, the number of pure blood vampires, the ones like Arthur and Morgana who were born not turned, will probably never recover. The Turned don’t have the ability to reproduce naturally. They have no choice but to turn others if they wish to have anything resembling children. All that in mind, something about what Merlin said sticks with him.

From what Arthur can tell, Merlin didn’t want to kill anyone. He has been protecting humanity since the early days, and it should have given him the cool heart of a killer. It didn’t. He cares for those around him. The people who would see him killed or locked up and experimented on, included. The council always justified their population of Earth as taking over a world already heading towards self-extinction, and Merlin hadn’t denied that. Not really. He just believed in humanity’s right to determine their own fate, and perhaps even believed that they would pull it together in time to save themselves. It strikes z chord. After all, around the world vampires have reported Unturned… reported Humanity banding together in groups large and small to push vampires out. Arthur’s council used it as proof that Humanity was inherently savage, but Arthur has to reconsider. If someone was willing to spend their immortality in service of it, then surely there must something that the vampires aren’t seeing.

Merlin and Morgana never got the chance to speak, but what little Merlin said before disappearing into the night reminded Arthur a lot of what she always says. She has always been to walk the line of treasonous talk; telling everyone and anyone who will listen that there has to be a better way for everyone to survive and share this planet. Arthur grew up with her thinking that her goals were too lofty, and that they had made the fight as fair as possible. Now he isn’t so sure.

Perhaps if Merlin had ranted and raved about the cruelty of vampires, Arthur could have dismissed his claims and put them down as a disgruntled Unturned. There is nothing to dismiss in the solemnity of Merlin’s gaze. He is someone who has seen the very worst of Humanity and still came out believing that there were parts of it worth saving and worth fighting for.

Most baffling of all is the way Merlin reacted to Arthur’s use of Blood Memory. Arthur’s mind was not equipped to handle over a thousand years of memory, and normally he wouldn’t have had to. Blood Memory was meant to go back a couple of years at most, even if the vampire drinks the victim dry. Something about Merlin’s magic must have shown him more. Arthur was weak, vulnerable, and Merlin had conjured the one weapon guaranteed to kill him. Yet the weapon was never used. At any moment Merlin could have released the sunshine in his hand and wiped Arthur from the face of the Earth. Instead he kept it tightly controlled. If Merlin was a crazed Unturned bent on revenge, he might have waited to collect information for a time but as soon as his cover was blown he would not have hesitated to leave a trail of ashes in his wake as he escaped. He didn’t. He left silently and vanished from sight. He chose a peaceful path when no one could blame him for picking the path of violence.

Contemplating all of this is madness, but Arthur can’t stop. He lays down in the morning to sleep and images of Merlin dance behind his eyelids. He nearly gets knocked on his ass by the shittiest of the recruits because he is so busy thinking about whether or not he should be training them at all. He gets invited to Council meetings, but he misses half of what is said because he spends long moments reading through the supply list and wondering if any of the killed humans are people that Merlin cares about. If any of them are people that Merlin swore to protect and failed.

Leon notices. It was only a matter of time really. He is Arthur’s second in command. The two of them spend more time together than they spend with other people. They plan hunts and training, and are often put together on special tasks the council deems necessary. Leon would have to be an idiot not to notice something, and Leon is far from an idiot. He would never have becomes Arthur’s second if he was.

Arthur is frowning at his tablet, lost in thought about the faces behind the numbers on his screen, when Leon asks, “Is something wrong, Sir?”

“No.” Arthur answers and locks down the tablet. His own face stares back at him, reflected in the dark glass. “Just thinking about the upcoming hunt is all.”

“Does this have something to with the Unturned that was acting as your servant for a time?”

“Why would you say that?”

“You told the council that you had disposed of him when it became clear he was just exceedingly stubborn and fighting off the thrall, and that was what was feeling so strange, but you have been different since. Quieter. Distracted.”

Arthur keeps his features carefully blank as he contemplates how to respond to Leon. They have been through hell together. Literally. The night everyone crossed, he and Leon were some of the first to step into the ashes of their fallen people. They were some of the first to see what Merlin had caused. Surely, as long as Arthur treads carefully, Leon won’t report him to the Council. He could have done it to Morgana twice in the last week alone, but he didn’t. There is a chance that he isn’t as much of a bootlicker as Arthur thought him to be.

He looks up from his tablet and meets Leon’s eyes, “I’ve been considering the way we live our lives.”

Leon settles forward, elbows on the table, concerned frown wrinkling the skin around his eyes, “What do you mean?”

“What if…” Arthur trails off, “We have all been eager to regain our lost numbers, and take full advantage of the supplies this world has to offer, but what if we are making a mistake trying to make life here like it was in our own plane?”

“You think we’re hurting ourselves in the long run?”

“We left our plane because we dried up our resources. We all know that we don’t have to kill Unturned to have enough to drink, but most of us kill anyway because it is easier than making sure the Unturned survives the encounter. What if we are just repeating the mistakes of our ancestors? What are the chances that we can run from this plane too?”

“I trust the Council to make the right decision four our people.” Leon answers with a smile.

Arthur pulls back and drums his fingers absently on the armrest of his chair, “Didn’t our trust in them send us running here in the first place?”

“Sir, if you think there is a better way to do things then you are welcome to ask our squad to experiment, but you will have to accept the consequences if it fails.”

It’s nothing but the truth. Part of the reason vampires always go for the kill instead of draining just enough to be full is because of the fear that the human they fed on will take advantage of it to kill them. If Arthur asks his men to drain just enough, there is a chance he could cause their deaths. But would the humans have to kill the vampires if the vampires hadn’t made it clear that they would kill with no remorse.

Arthur drags his hand over his face and nods, “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. Let’s focus on this hunt.”

*

The city streets are dark. They always are. No one risks lighting their homes now like they did in the early days. They learned quickly that vampires could enter without needing permission, and ever since they have made their homes as uninviting as possible. Blessed water is often sunk into the wood of their doorways, many places have thick strands of garlic hung up over windows, or have rubbed the oil from it onto the house in the same manner they placed the blessed water. The only sound is the hum of the engine of their car. They draw to a stop in the center of the street, and Kay turns the car off and pulls the key out of the ignition.

Without the engine the entire street is silent. Nothing stirs. In the absence of noise, Arthur can hear the faint thrum of heartbeats. There are humans nearby. A lot of them. It’s why they came after all. Supplies were running low, and there needed to be a hunt. This was one of the few villages with a population still dense enough to bother hunting in. The special scouting missions he was assigned by the council were used to establish this fact. At the time he was proud to be given the responsibility; a sign of ongoing trust. Now it doesn't sit right.

“Ready, Sir?” Bors asks, slinging the strap of his gun over his shoulder in the back seat.

Arthur hesitates for a moment. He considers calling the whole thing off, but the consequences would be too great. Regardless of his attitudes towards humans, he needs the Councils’ trust. He can’t afford them to ask too many questions until he figures things out. So instead he picks up his own, jaw clenched, and nods.

The car doors slam shut behind them with that strange hollow metallic sound that Arthur still isn’t entirely used to despite a hundred years on this plane. His squad pools around him. He takes one last moment to compose himself, and then turns back to his fellow vampires. He ignores Leon’s gaze. Leon has been kind enough not to repeat the things Arthur said, but he watches Arthur now; like he is waiting for Arthur to snap. It puts Arthur on edge in a way he never has been with Leon.

Silently, he gestures to each of them. One by one they peel off, ready for a hunt. He loses track of them in the gaps between houses, or the alleys behind houses that once held garbage cans. They still do, but they aren’t nearly as full these days. Once the last of them has vanished, he starts his prowl down the sidewalk. Ahead is a little convenience store. The doors are made of glass and there is a big sign in the window that reads: ‘Store Hours: Half an hour after dawn to one hour before sunset’. The material is brown and papery, but too thick to be a sheet of paper. It’s strung up by a decorative ribbon that runs through a carefully punched hole at the top. Arthur takes the opportunity to look through the glass, but nothing moves. He didn’t expect anything else. Humans have gotten better at all of this in the last hundred years.

He shoves himself bodily away from the doors and continues on down the block. There is a gap between the store and the building next to it to allow access to the alley behind and takes it. About half way down he pauses. He can smell it. Blood. He can hear the racing heartbeat that pumps it. Instinctively, he whips around and plunges his hand into the stacks of crates shoved in a precarious tower against the wall of the store. It closes around soft material, and he pulls. A human young woman staggers out. Her lip is caught between her teeth as she tries not to cry out in fear. Smart. Her screams would have been sure to attract the others. Arthur releases her shirt. The moonlight washes her brown hair into dark grey, same with her eyes that are wide with panic. He knows how easy it would be like this. She isn’t holding any weapon, and if she is hiding one Arthur can move faster than her. She would be dead on the ground before she could fully pull it. But all Arthur can see is Merlin.

“What are you doing out?” he asks.

The young woman’s heartbeat ratchets up a couple notches and she swallows instinctively, “What?”

“You have to know how dangerous it is to be out after dark. What were you thinking?”

“My…” she swallows again, her voice is hoarse as she whispers, “My sister is sick. I needed cold medicine.”

“And it couldn’t have waited until daylight?”

The young woman shakes her head. It’s then that Arthur notices the bottle of medicine clutched tightly in her left hand. He knows what he is going to say. If his father ever found out, he would be beyond disappointed. Beyond livid. The rage would be apocalyptic.

“How far do you live?”

“A couple blocks south from here.”

“Follow the alley down.” He instructs, “I’m the only one meant to be patrolling this area, but if they see you I can’t stop them. Be careful if you cross the street.”

The young woman’s face screws up in confusion, “You’re letting me go? Why?”

“It doesn’t matter. Go.”

She hesitates.

“Go!” Arthur says more firmly and takes half a step towards her. It’s enough to startle her into action. She sets off down the alley at a dead sprint. He watches her go, feeling uneasy. He just let a source of food go. There isn’t a law against it because no one has been stupid enough to do it before. First time for everything.

*

He can’t un-see that moment in the alley. It presses in on his awareness as much as Merlin does. Twice now, he has let a human go. First with Merlin, now with that young woman in the alley. For a few days, he tells himself Merlin must have enchanted him. When he comes to the conclusion that he could not possibly have been enchanted, he considers that something about Merlin’s blood made him ill. In the end, he has to admit to himself that something changed. Merlin might have been a catalyst, but it was Arthur’s own stubborn unwillingness to let a puzzle go unsolved that lead him to that moment in the alley. He can’t think of things the same way he did before.

It takes him a couple of weeks after that conclusion before he realizes what he has to do.

Morgana catches him with his bag unzipped, and half his clothes shoved inside. He freezes, caught in an obvious act. There is no explaining his way out of this one. She knows all his tells when he lies. The hazard of spending nearly five hundred years together.

“You’re leaving.” She says, dragging the elephant in the room into full focus.

“Didn’t you learn to knock?” Arthur sneers, trying to get her to change the subject, “How did you get in?”

“The key smith owed me a favor. I was tired of waiting for you to answer the door. Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.”

He only has the faint impressions of Merlin’s memories to guide him. By the time they get there, the operation may have moved. Assuming, of course, that Arthur can find it in the first place.

“This has to do with that Unturned, doesn’t it? Merlin?”

“It’s nothing. Just leave me, Morgana.”

“You’ve been different since him.”

“I wish everyone would stop saying that.”

Morgana’s hand alights on his shoulder and her eyes are very wide and very green, almost panicked, “Please let me come with you.”

“It’s dangerous.” Arthur protests.

“It’s dangerous here.” Morgana rebuts, “I have burned through all the protection being Uther’s daughter awards me. The Council has warned me that anymore outbursts will not be tolerated.”

“You’re the daughter of an influential house!”

“But I’m not the one destined to take Uther’s seat on the council. Please, Arthur, let me come.”

When the choice is between leaving her to certain fate, or giving her a chance, there is no choice. Morgana packs a bag. They make up a pretty lie for the council about needing to visit the council in former Scotland. The council just seems relieved to get Morgana out of their hair.

*

It takes more time than Arthur is comfortable with. Far too many times they have to sleep in the car and pray that the blackout curtains over the windows do their jobs. They find it eventually.

The house is dark, and if it weren’t for the thrum of heartbeats on the other side of the walls, Arthur would think it was abandoned. The lawn is overgrown and wild. Paint is peeling in places. A broken down car sits at the curb. He moves to mount the rotting porch steps, and is met with the overpowering scent of garlic and that lightning smell of Merlin’s magic. At least he knows he is in the right place. He stops, roots around in the tall grass and finds a stone. He hefts it in his hand and hurls it at the door. It strikes it with a heavy thud.

He is rooting around in the grass for another when the door creaks open. In the doorway stands a familiar figure. Same lanky build, same high cheekbones and dark hair. Same grin.

“Any idea what time it is?” Merlin asks, propping his shoulder up against the frame.

Arthur huffs a relieved little laugh, “It’s good to see you too, Merlin.”

Chapter Text

It takes a few minutes for Merlin to make the entrance to the house passable for Arthur and Morgana. He crouches low, palms pressed firmly against the old wood of the front stoop, fingers spread. He chants something in a language that was probably lost to time before he learned it. All the while his eyes glow faintly but brilliantly gold. The wood groans under the force of the magic, and smokes. Finally, Merlin stands with that eye-crinkling grin.

“I had to make sure the wards were only dropped for you two. Don’t want any run of the mill vampires getting in.”

“Thank you,” Morgana says, voice trembling in the way that only comes from finding shelter from certain doom, “for trusting us to enter.”

Merlin slides an unreadable glance at Arthur, and Arthur shrugs. He still hasn’t told Morgana about the way Merlin held sunlight in his palms, or the way he snuck from the Citadel undetected. How can he explain something he doesn’t understand himself?

“Better come in before the sun rises.” Merlin says finally and pushes the door back open.

The interior of the house is dark. Clearly Merlin and his friends play by the same rule book as others Arthur has encountered. If it looks like nobody is home, the vampires are more likely to pass it by. He can hear other heartbeats in the house, but they are slow and steady. Asleep. What is early for vampires must be late for humans.

They are led past an old staircase and into a kitchen. Windows are small, and the lacy floral curtains are drawn tightly shut. Merlin double checks them before he turns on a bedside lamp that was tucked into one corner. He may be magic, but he has all the same short comings as a normal human. There is a dented toaster oven sitting on the work top, and the worktop itself is made out of hideous yellow tile. It doesn’t match Merlin at all. The table is wooden and scarred from years of bowls and plates being set on it. Merlin gestures for them to take a seat.

“I’d offer tea, but I’m not sure your kind drink that kind of thing.”

“Only if we are prepared to be violently ill in the morning.” Morgana answers, and pulls out one of the chairs. She sinks into it with grace that is derived from centuries of practice. You get good at random skills when the future stretches unending beyond you.

Arthur takes his seat as well but with less grace than Morgana. His focus was on combat, not etiquette. It’s made him an excellent soldier, but as heir to Uther’s Council Seat he struggles. Not that it matters much now anyway. He can’t have consorted with humans and still expect to be given a position on the council; not even if five hundred years passed. Vampire memory lasts too long.

Merlin pulls a battered red plastic kettle from one of the cupboards and puts some water in it, then sets the whole thing on its base to heat. He pulls out the third of the four chairs at the table and takes a seat, long legs folded at the ankle to make up for the lack of room. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks for all the world like he is calm and in control. Not even the thrum of his heartbeat gives him away. The whole house smells of lightning.

“What do you want Arthur?”

“I’ve been thinking about what you told me the night you left.” Arthur admits, “About humans making their own choices.”

“And what have you been thinking?” Merlin asks, one dark eyebrow raised.

“That what I was raised to believe has been a crock of shit.”

It’s Morgana’s turn to give Arthur a disbelieving look, “I have been trying to get you to listen for years, and you believed him over me?”

Arthur sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, “If you remember correctly, Morgana, I was the one who convinced father to abandon the unsavory factory idea.”

“But—”

There is a creak on the stairs and then a young woman’s head pokes through the doorway into the kitchen. She doesn’t notice him and Morgana at first. Instead she focuses her brown eyes, still groggy with sleep, on Merlin and asks, “Is everything alright? I heard you speaking to someone.” Arthur recognizes her from his overwhelming foray into Merlin’s memory. Her hair is pulled back out of her face, so he can’t see the riot of tight curls like he did then, but a few pieces of hair escape around her face.

“Gwen!” Merlin says, sounding startled, “Nothing is wrong. Morgana and Arthur came to have a chat.”

Gwen’s focus shifts to them, and a stricken look passes over her face, “You let vampires in? Without asking or waking anyone up?”

“Ah. Right. I should have done that.”

“You should have.” Gwen agrees, “I’m waking up the others.”

Arthur didn’t think anyone could deliver that much disappointment and disapproval while wearing flannel pajamas with cupcakes on, but even he feels apologetic though it wasn’t his mistake. The kettle makes the telltale click that means the water has heated, and Merlin gets up from the table. Rather than pull put one mug, he pulls out several. He puts a teabag in each one, but runs out of water on the first cup. He refills it and starts the boiling process with a new batch.

“If everyone sees I have tea, they’ll all want it.” He says by way of explanation.

Minutes later, there is the slow procession of feet on the floor above. One by one people trickle into the kitchen. Arthur recognizes them all. Merlin must have used magic when he wasn’t looking because the kettle is somehow perfectly boiled by the time the first member arrives. It is a man with exceptional hair and proud defined nose. His eyes are still half closed but he shoots Merlin a grateful look as he fills his cup to make tea. Gwen returns, tugging a man a little taller than her by the arm. The resemblance is uncanny and Arthur assumes they are twins. The last two people to trickle in are a man that looks like he should be pushing boulders for a living, and a man with dark brown short wavy hair. Each of them make a cup of tea to their exacting specifications and find various surfaces in the kitchen to perch on.

“What’s going on?” the man with the good hair asks, sounding far more awake than he was when he walked in.

“This is Arthur,” Merlin gestures, “and that is Morgana.”

Everyone sits up at that announcement. No doubt Merlin told them all about his escapade pretending to be under Arthur’s thrall. If he wasn’t seriously considering committing light treason, he would be embarrassed that he allowed Merlin to glean so much information during his stay. With magic there is untold things Merlin could have done to get into their systems. It is a mess. Just not a mess Arthur needs or wants to solve, a mess that is quite helpful to the cause actually.

“As in the Arthur and Morgana you were trapped with for six weeks?” the same man demands.

Merlin rolls his eyes, “They kept me for as long as I wanted them to, Gwaine.”

Gwaine remains unconvinced, Arthur can see it in his face, but he makes no move to contradict what Merlin said. One by one they introduce themselves. Elyan turns out to be Gwen’s brother. The one who looks like he should be pushing boulders is Percival (or Percy as he likes to be called), and the dark haired one is Lancelot. Arthur and Morgana introduce themselves as well. The whole things is stilted. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur can see Merlin wince more than once.

“Why are you here?” Elyan asks, “Merlin wouldn’t take the risk unless it was worth it.”

Morgana brushes invisible wrinkles from her skirt, “I came because I have become rather unwelcome at the Citadel.”

“Why is that?”

“My views on humans is too forward thinking. In that I think humans should be treated as citizens and not a food source.”

“That’s all well and good,” Gwen remarks, “but one vampire doesn’t change much.”

“She had a part in changing my mind as well,” Arthur speaks up, “Merlin’s little speech before he left might have been a catalyst, but if it weren’t for Morgana rambling at me for a century I would have thought he was talking out of his ass.”

“Then we welcome you to our ranks.” Lancelot says solemnly.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific about what you plan to do. I may not agree with the way you have been treated, but I can’t justify punishing people for fleeing a dying world.”

Merlin leans forward and rests his elbow son the table. His face is lite with excitement, “That’s the cool bit. We don’t want to eradicate vampires. At this point is far too late to try even if we wanted to. You’re everywhere.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Coexistence. We want rights from your ruling councils, and we want to provide you an alternate food source as exchange.”

“Alternate food source?”

“Lance is a biochemist. He’s been researching a way to convert pigs’ blood to a useable food source for vampires. He cracked a little over six months ago.”

“It won’t be as easy as that.” Arthur says, “The ruling councils barely give vampires rights, let alone humans. Trying to convince them to switch food sources alone will probably get you killed.”

“We have to try, Arthur. Living this way is doing no one any good. Not vampires, and certainly not humans. We’re going extinct.”

“Do you have plans? An attack strategy.”

“Merlin likes to preach peace and coexistence, but he is not above defending us if things go awry.” Gwaine answers. Arthur is viscerally reminded of the ball of light in his quarters, and the light that burned thousands of his people. No. Merlin is no naïve pacifist.

“As for details…. I was hoping the two of you might be of help?” Merlin suggests, peering hopefully first at Morgana and then Arthur.

“I will do whatever I can.” Morgana swears, “It’s time for things to change. Has been for a long while.”

Arthur considers the people around him. These ones that have fought vampires their entire lives, have never had a chance to grow up without being hunted. Yet still extend the offer of peace. Merlin had said he would always have more in common with the mundane human than with Arthur. That is no longer true. Now Arthur has more in common with them than his own kind.

“I know their military and hunting tactics. All my knowledge is at your disposal.”

Merlin’s face splits into the bright grin Arthur remembers from their last encounter. Something about it makes him feel as though he has done right.

“We can hash out details later. For now let’s get you set up in the basement. Don’t want our allies burning to a crisp before they can be of help.”

The basement turns out to be a space half dedicated to relaxing with two big squashy sofas. Arthur helps spread out the sheets and blankets on the sofas while Morgana helps Percival wash up the mugs upstairs in the kitchen.

“Thank you for not burning us on sight.” Arthur says as he tosses a pillow to Merlin.

Merlin shrugs and tosses the pillow onto the sofa, “I figured if you were out for blood, you would have come much sooner.”

“Just as a matter of curiosity, how many vampire related puns am I going to have to endure while I’m here?”

“Loads. Mostly from Gwaine.”

“Wonderful.”

Merlin finishes smoothing down the sheets and blankets, and shoots Arthur another mischievous grin. He closes the gap between them in a couple of steps, and tugs Arthur into a kiss. Arthur has had plenty of kisses over the years, but this one is nothing like what he has felt before. It is hot. Searing hot. Merlin’s mouth is soft, but his grip on Arthur’s neck is firm. When Arthur recovers from the surprise, he leans into it. Eventually Merlin has to pull back for air.

“Are you sure about this?” Arthur asks softly, because he may have wanted a kiss back then, but he still doesn’t want Merlin to feel beholden.

Merlin chuckles, soft and warm, and says, “It’s all the black leather. I’m only human after all.”