Chapter Text
Merlin retracts his umbrella and ducks inside the coffee shop, shutting the door on the heaving rain.
He spies Gwen instantly, effervescent in her yellow rain slicker, and waves at her as he clumsily weaves his way through tables, milling patrons, and assorted rain gear.
“It’s pouring buckets out there!” He greets her cheerfully, unwinding the wet red scarf from around his neck. He accepts the steaming mug of cocoa she offers him. “Aw, Gwen, you didn’t have to.”
“It was on the house,” Gwen says, giving him a tired smile. “Thanks for coming, Merlin.”
“Cheers, Percy!” Merlin calls across the shop, lifting his mug in acknowledgment to the burly barista behind the counter, who gives him a friendly wave back. He takes a gulp of hot, cinnamony chocolate and gives Gwen a foamy-stached grin. “Of course. So, what’s up? You were pretty vague on the phone. Everything alright?”
Gwen’s eyebrows crease together slightly and she sighs. “Yes. I mean, I don’t know. I hope so?” She blushes and brings her hands up to press to her face. “It might be nothing. It’s probably nothing, but—”
Merlin leans in, concerned, and wipes the foam from his lip with the back of his hand. “What is it, Gwen?” He asks gently, used to the way his friend trips over her sentences when she gets nervous.
Gwen bites her lip. “There’s this kid in my class,” she says softly. “Mordred. He’s really quiet and it’s been so hard to get him to open up. He’s had such a hard time of it,” Gwen explains earnestly, spreading her hands. “His father is dead and his mother was just recently sentenced to prison, so he lives with his uncle.”
Merlin grimaces. It’s always the uncle (when it’s not the husband, of course).
“Oh, don’t be like that,” Gwen chides, correctly interpreting his face. “Arthur is a bit hopeless and a bit out of his depth, but he’s perfectly sweet. He’s really trying, the poor thing. He never expected to have to care for a child, and on his own, too.”
Merlin raises his eyebrows at her unexpectedly vehement defense of the man, but chooses to table it for now. “Alright, so if it’s not the uncle, what’s the issue, then?”
“At first I was excited,” Gwen says. “Mordred never says more than two words to anyone, but we started our creative writing unit and I asked everyone to write a story, and he wrote so much! I was thrilled. And then I read it.”
Merlin tightens his grip on his mug at the look on her face. She looks frightened in a way he can’t remember ever seeing her before.
“What did he write, Gwen?”
“It was a murder story,” Gwen whispers. “Written in first-person. I tried to convince myself that it was just fiction, that he just has a vivid imagination but,” she shivers. “It’s just so detailed.”
She reaches into her bag and pulls out an envelope, her hand shaking slightly.
Merlin accepts it silently.
“It’s probably nothing,” Gwen says, forcing a smile. “God, I hope it’s nothing. But if it isn’t… I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to go to the police. I didn’t want to if it was nothing, you know? The poor kid has been through so much already. And I don’t want to be judgmental, but given his family history, and all the details in the story, I thought it was better to be safe than sorry, you know? And you’re as good as the police, so I thought maybe you could look into it? I’ll pay you, of course—”
Merlin holds up a hand to forestall that line of thought. “No you won’t, and of course I will.”
Gwen wrings her hands and gives him a distressed look. “But the time you spend looking into this you won’t be able to spend on other cases! I have to pay you for your time!”
Merlin leans forward to give her a peck on the cheek. “Gwen, I won’t take your money. I owe you a million times over. This is the least I can do.”
When Merlin leaves the coffeeshop, the rain has slowed to a drizzle. He pops his umbrella open anyway to shield the envelope as he fumbles it open to read.
The handwriting is round and childish, which Merlin should have expected: Gwen teaches third grade. But the diction is oddly sophisticated.
Her eyes like stones. Her black hair.
She was tiny, she wriggled like a worm with her hands tied.
There were toads in the water, surrounded by broken orange pill bottles.
The pond was brown and murky, and there was a green film on the top of it. You couldn’t see your hand in the water if it was right in front of you. The perfect place to bury her.
I stepped on a toad as I carried her, my hand tight on her throat. She was so delicate, but I knew she would fight if I let her. She dragged her nails down my arm like a wild animal when I first grabbed her.
I remember the squelch of the toad under my boot, how it croaked as it died. Its blood was black.
Her eyes were huge, like she was begging me not to kill her, but she didn’t make a sound when I squeezed. Her pink mouth was a perfect O in her pale face.
The Whistletower bell rang. I tied a rock to her chest.
She drowned in brown water with those stone eyes open as the midnight bell chimed.
“Excuse me!” Someone says angrily, batting his umbrella and shouldering roughly past Merlin.
The contact jolts Merlin back to the present. He starts, realizing he has stopped moving in the middle of the sidewalk, transfixed by the kid’s disturbing story.
Jesus, he thinks, suddenly extremely concerned. The victim in the story was a black-haired woman, after all... just like Gwen.
He whips out his cellphone immediately, and darts closer to the wall, out of the way from foot traffic. “Gwen? I want to meet this kid ASAP,” he says the instant she picks up. “And Gwen? For God’s sake make sure you’re never alone with him.” He considers. “Or his uncle.”
The uncle, whose name Gwen gives as “Arthur DuBois,” is surprisingly elusive online. But they don’t call Merlin a wizard for nothing, and it’s not long before Merlin puts two and two together and realizes that the so-called Arthur DuBois is actually one Arthur Pendragon.
It’s no wonder he’s trying to lay low, using his mother’s maiden name. The name Pendragon has become notorious in the last few years since the murder of Uther Pendragon, billionaire business tycoon and, apparently, this Arthur fellow’s father.
It was a very messy case, Merlin learns through a quick search. The whole thing had happened well out of his local jurisdiction, so to speak, but he remembers hearing about it in the news.
Gwen had given him the bare bones of it: the mother in jail, custody of the kid going to the uncle. But she had neglected to mention that the mom, one Morgana Pendragon, was in jail for killing Uther— her and Arthur's father and the child’s grandfather.
Merlin sits back in his chair, floored. His blood is thrumming in his veins and he spares a second to feel guilty for how excited he’s just gotten over a murder case before he grabs his coat. He’s got an uncle to visit.
…
Arthur Pendragon opens the door on the second knock. “Leon, you’re early. I—” The man stops, catching sight of Merlin, and his smile drops away, his eyes becoming guarded. “Can I help you?” He asks abruptly, his voice condescending.
It’s just as well, because the hint of arrogance in his tone allows Merlin to refocus. He knows a lot of things about Arthur from his research. Something his research has neglected to tell him, however, is how bloody gorgeous Arthur Pendragon is. He’s a bloody Adonis with golden hair and a crooked front tooth and a jawline that could probably cut glass. Merlin valiantly doesn’t look down, but he’s pretty sure Arthur could easily break Merlin’s neck between his thighs (and he’s also pretty sure that he would let him).
Focus, Emrys. Christ. Merlin thinks, and he clears his throat. “You can, actually, mate.”
Arthur raises a single golden eyebrow, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe, deceptively casual. Arms crossed, his biceps bulge. Merlin ignores them.
“Is Mordred home?”
Arthur’s eyes go diamond hard and he straightens, looking absolutely dangerous. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Sorry,” Merlin says, lifting his hands placatingly. “I’m a private detective. I just wanted to ask a few questions.”
“Not interested.” Arthur goes to slam the door in his face, but Merlin catches it, just barely.
“Wait,” Merlin says. “Mister Pendragon, wait—”
Before Merlin can properly process what is happening, Arthur has yanked the door back open and dragged Merlin inside by his scarf.
He kicks the door closed and slams Merlin against it, fists still knotted in Merlin’s scarf, and Merlin tingles with a tiny bit of shameful arousal and a whole heap of fear. He recalls the words from Mordred’s story— I carried her, my hand tight on her throat...she didn’t make a sound when I squeezed —and shudders.
“People know where I am,” Merlin chokes out, fingers scrabbling against Arthur’s hands. She dragged her nails down my arm like a wild animal when I first grabbed her — “If I go missing, they’ll ask questions—”
“Who sent you?” Arthur demands, and then he grabs both of Merlin’s hands and yanks them over his head, pinning them to the door.
Christ, Merlin thinks faintly.
“Was it Morgana?” Arthur hisses, crowding Merlin against the door, his body strong and solid. “What does she want?” Merlin flexes his wrists in Arthur’s unyielding grip and wants to die. “Tell me!” Arthur shakes him.
“Oh my God, let me go, you wanker!” Merlin gasps. He jerks his knee up quickly and catches Arthur right in the goods. Arthur’s grip loosens momentarily and Merlin is able to wrench his right hand free long enough to sock him in the nose.
Arthur lets him go completely with a groan of pain, hands going to his face. Merlin makes to scramble away, but Arthur grabs his right arm and twists it behind his back, forcing him to his knees.
Merlin’s kneecaps smart as they hit the floor and he gasps, struggling in the grip. She wriggled like a worm with her hands tied — Arthur wrenches his arm higher, and he cries out in pain.
“Who sent you?” Arthur snarls, putting more pressure on his shoulder and shaking him.
“No one!” Merlin gasps. He’d rather die than bring Gwen into this. “Morgana didn’t send me, I swear! Listen, I told my best mate where I am. If he doesn’t hear from me, he’ll go to the police—”
Abruptly, Arthur lets him go, and Merlin falls down on all fours, breathing raggedly, his shoulder twinging sharply.
When he finally catches his breath, Merlin forces himself to his feet. He will not die on his knees if he can help it. He turns around and lifts his chin.
Arthur is looking at him warily. His perfect nose is bleeding, Merlin notices with satisfaction.
“Gonna kill me?” Merlin taunts, braver than he feels. “Gonna drown me in a pond like you drowned that girl?”
Arthur gives him a truly bewildered look. “What the fuck are you talking about?”