Work Text:
It may start like this.
Three siblings united in grief at the loss of the beloved mother. The eldest is angry, the middle one is silent, the youngest has eyes red from crying. They huddle together on the eldest’s bed, trying to find comfort in each other. Their aunts and cousins are downstairs, giving them space and dealing with their own grief. Their father had to return Up There, Elder business, but he trusts 'they will be alright'. It doesn't make the situation any better.
Someone knocks at the door and waits for an answer. When there is none, it's aunt Phoebe’s voice that comes through the door.
"Aunt Paige and Cooper are orbing your cousins home," she announced softly. "I will be staying here tonight with grandpa." She pauses and adds: "Come for us if you need anything, even if we're sleeping. I love you all."
Still no answer. They hear her sigh and walk away. She will be sleeping in the guest room, they know, unwilling to leave them on their own. Right now, they don't really care. After a while, Melinda falls into a fitful sleep. Wyatt and Chris are the only ones awake. Chris won't dare close his eyes, because if he does, he will relive his mother's fall, see the blood on the floor, lifeless eyes and an open mouth. Everything happens so quickly and his survival is more a matter of luck than skill (his telekinesis reacts to his anguished cry and the knife flies from the wall and embeds itself in the demon's body. The demon screams in surprise and explodes in a ball of flames, but the harm is done and his mother is dead). No matter how much he screams for his father, his brother, his aunt, anyone, his pleas go unanswered and it's Melinda who discovers him sobbing over Piper Halliwell's cold body.
Wyatt's anger keeps him awake, because he has heard Chris's cries. He has heard his call, he was going to orb to him, but he was Up There, and the Elders refused to let him go to answer a teenager's whim. They are deeply sorry, of course, when they learn about the event. But they don't apologize. And that -that is what pushes Wyatt one step closer to the edge. He's tired already -his whole life he has been taught the meaning of responsibilities, of the weight of his powers, of how he must use them with precaution. Wyatt is sixteen, the Twice-blessed, the heir of Arthur, and his magic is near infinite. He feels it pulse in his blood, feels its response to his every thought. And those Elders prevented him from using that power to rescue his own family. He won't forget it, ever.
"If you were to take over the world," Wyatt whispers quietly to his brother. "How would you start?"
Chris turns his head, glances at him.
"Take over the world?" he repeats, a little confused.
"Demons, witches, mortals," Wyatt goes on. "So that this would never happen again."
Chris falls silent for a moment. From the corner of the eye, Wyatt watches him as he slowly bats his eyes. He's thinking, considering his question. Wyatt has power, everyone knows that, but Chris is the clever one. He's the brains behind most of their mischief, he's a smartass, a slippery snake and after reading the Harry Potter books, Wyatt thinks he would have done great in Slytherin. So when Chris speaks again, Wyatt listens very carefully.
"I'd take the Underworld first," he says. "Demons are both easier and harder to subdue. They would take time to convince, because they answer to strength, but they like a cunning and honest leader."
"Honest leader?" Wyatt echoes, a little bit surprised. Chris nods.
"Straightforwardness. If they know exactly what is in my mind, what they will gain by allying and what they risk by betraying, it will be easier. I'd have to keep my word though. Demonstrate that I'm not bluffing. Follow up with action. Play straight by them, and they will play straight by me. Especially if I do start killing them whenever they try to cheat me."
It makes sense in a twisted way, Wyatt thinks, and nods in encouragement.
"Any form of authority goes next," Chris goes on. He's warming up on the subject. "So they can't stop me from acting. The Cleaners, the Trial, the Elders -not necessarily in that order. But I'd have to act quick, and I'd have to spare the magic community -or rather convince them to stay neutral. Fairies and dwarfs and elves -they are a non-negligible threat if they rally together against a common enemy."
"How would you pacify them?"
"Straightforwardness again. I'd tell them I want to make sure the world a place where they won't need to hide, where they will be protected against mortals, give them their own territory to flourish in peace. I may have to give them leverage to use in good faith -disposable leverage, in case they decide to betray me. They will have nothing to lose and everything to win."
"Why shouldn't you just deal with them like you'd deal with demons?"
"I don't want to rule over a dead kingdom, and the magic community will keep the nature alive and abundance going on. A ruler who brings nothing but misery will be fought twice as hard. A ruler who favors development won't be, especially in the long term."
That's why Wyatt can appreciate Chris' brains. He anticipates actions, but also consequences.
"What about the witches? Do they come before or after mortals?"
Chris pauses, thinks deeply again. A few minutes later, he answers:
"After. Mortals relish in normality. If I make them understand that nothing will change, except for the emergence of magic, and punish those who cause harm and spare those who comply -they will fall in line. Show them that my rule is benevolent but non-negotiable, and they will bow. Witches will have to follow, because they will have nothing to fall back on and in the long term, they will realize resistance is useless."
"You place a lot of faith in having people submit easily," Wyatt remarks. "Do you truly think one leader will be able to handle everything?"
Chris snorts and shakes his head.
"One powerful leader might succeed, Wyatt. But for this to truly work, to truly last, one isn't enough." He glances at him, and there's a strange glint in his eye. Almost amused. "A good leader needs the support of his people. A good leader needs a reliable right and left hand. A good leader needs to place the right people at the right place. One leader cannot be the face of demons, the magic community and mortal all at once." He looks at the ceiling, still deep in thought. "You'd take the demons, I'd take the magic community, and Melinda would take the mortals."
"Like a triumvirate?" Wyatt asks, feeling a little annoyed. Power is his and he's not sure he wants to share. Not even with his siblings.
Chris merely shrugs.
"You've got power, but I'm the clever one and Melinda has foresight. She can predict, I can advise, you can act." He pauses and adds quietly: "If we were to take over the world."
If. The word that makes all the difference. Chris' diagnosis is theological, a half-baked plan made while he’s half-asleep, but a sound plan nonetheless. Wyatt likes it a bit too much.
"The Charmed Ones would never allow it though." Wyatt remarks, almost absent-mindedly. He's stronger than them, could probably kill them in no time using the right angle. He's reluctant to off his own family though, no matter how useless or morally good they might be. But if he has to...
"Mom is dead, the power of Three is no more," Chris reminds him bitterly. "And in time of crisis, they will care more about putting their families to safety than see the bigger picture."
He knows that because in the end, while family is a big Thing for the Halliwells, Chris has been neglected enough to see through their flaws and spot their weaknesses. Wyatt hums quietly. He can easily think of a few cousins who are just as frustrated as he is about hiding their magic, although not enough to start a revolution. He can also see how easy it would be to turn them, without the influence of their parents.
Afterthought, he begins to understand the merit in Chris' suggestion of sharing power. Or rather, to have reliable advisors and right hands. The more he contemplates the idea, the more he likes it. He can almost see it: him standing in front of a roaring crowd, Chris and Melinda standing by his side, each with a specific purpose. Chris would be great at handling the magical community - he knows more about its population than everyone in his family, history nerd as he is, and his cleverness and silver-tongue would keep him on top of negotiations, when negotiations are permitted. Melinda is too young, but she has both magical and mortal friends and would be a perfect incarnation of a 'witch' in their eyes.
Yes, a triumvirate with him as Supreme King is a nice idea. But that picture requires unconditional trust and a similar mindset. Chris is still too morally good for that, and Melinda is too young. Wyatt too is young, and a young king isn't credible. Conquering the demon realm, according to Chris, will be a matter of patience, subtlety. Gaining reliable allies is not a matter of weeks, but months if not years. He glances at his brother. Chris has closed his eyes and is now sleeping. There's a frown on his face -he might be having another nightmare -but Wyatt will be there once he wakes up. His brother trusts him, unconditionally. If Wyatt can bring him to his side...
He will give him four years. In four years, Wyatt will be twenty, Chris will be eighteen, and Melinda fifteen. They will be old enough to be taken seriously, to have a reputation amongst witches and demons and Fey, to build contacts and alliances. In four years, he will turn his brother and sister to his cause, make it theirs, and together, they will rule the world. Together, or he will have to take the hard path and do this alone.
He’s not too worried though, if that scenario comes to life. Chris gave him every indication he needed to follow after all.
Or like this, four years later.
“I’m the new Source,” Wyatt announces suddenly, when he and Chris are alone in a room. It’s an ordinary afternoon; Chris has the Book of Shadows opened on his lap, is leafing through it to find the trace of some demon he heard of. And Wyatt sits across him, straddling the chair backwards with his arms crossed over the chairback, chin comfortably nested over his forearm.
Chris stares blankly at his brother and tries to understand the joke. There is no trace of humor on his older brother’s face.
“Excuse me?” he asks eventually.
“That’s the first part, right?” Wyatt goes on calmly. “First conquer the underworld, second make a deal with the magical community and get rid of the Cleaners, Elders, etcetera, third invade and conquer the mortal realm, fourth…” his voice trails off and he looks up, brow frowned, trying to remember. “There was no forth, was it?”
“What are you talking about?” Chris goes on, and feels the ice going down his veins. His brother is too calm, too posed, too lucid when he speaks.
“When mom died, I swore to myself that I would make a world in which we wouldn’t need to hide, or cower in fear. I swore I would protect you and Mel.” He leans back. The chair creaks as he moves. “No-one will dare to come after us, once we are at the top.”
Wyatt’s words are so strange, so foreign, that Chris can’t process them for a full minute. He knows his brother has been acting different ever since their mother was murdered. He skips ‘Elder’ meetings, his dressing is filled with black clothes and combat boots, his body is buffed from training, his eyes have hardened and he- he’s been so quiet. Chris is usually the moody, quiet child, but lately, his elder is holding the cup. And these words…Chris is starting to be afraid.
“What have you done Wy?”
His elder smirks, and it’s not a reassuring sight.
Chris!
He stiffens, all thoughts of his brother's weird behavior forgotten.
Chris, help me please! Anyone?
“Melinda,” he speaks up, just as Wyatt does the same. They exchange a glance. They both heard her call. On common agreement, they will put that discussion for later. He orbs away, and feels a pang of genuine fear when he realizes that Wyatt’s orbing are not light anymore, but dark.
A few hours later, he’s sitting in the hospital room, watching her unconscious baby sister lying on the bed. Her face is bruised and has been cut by a blade, her arm and left wrist are broken. The doctors told them her life wasn’t in danger, but it doesn’t make him feel any better. From what he understands, Melinda had to use her telekinesis to save her best friend from a group of boys assaulting her. The group turned on her and beat her. Her friend tried to intervene, and found herself in a coma for her trouble.
Heavy footsteps echo behind him. Wyatt leans back against the wall, crosses his arms. There’s the unmistakable smell of blood on his body.
“They’re taken care of,” he announces quietly. Chris doesn’t ask and honestly, doesn’t care enough right now.
Leo has once again forsaken his calls. Aunt Paige is busy with a charge. He still can’t heal –can’t seem to learn, even though he tries hard and has the right motivation. And Wyatt…now he understands that Wyatt has lost the ability to heal a long time ago.
It should shock him. It should make him angry, outraged, should make him want to grab his brother’s shirt and shake him senseless. Instead, the far-too-immobile body of his sister and the lack of answer from his own family leave him numb, because…
…because they never watched over them the way Wyatt did since Piper Halliwell died. Because the ‘good’ has done nothing to help them when they could, and his brother had to step up when Chris couldn’t handle everything. Because even when they try to be helpful, their aunts keep them at arms’ length, because –we’re so sorry you look so much like her it hurts, but we love you- and in the end, Wyatt is the one who shows up when they call.
“I heard the cops talking,” Wyatt goes on. “They were kids of cops, judges and lawyers. They would have walked away.”
It’s no right justification. Death is never a justification. But in this case, Chris can’t judge. If he ever found himself face-to-face with those boys…He swallows hard. Mel has just turned fifteen. Her control over her powers is growing stronger and sturdier, but she's still rather harmless. She’s the sweetest child he has ever known, even amongst their cousins. She is the last person on earth who deserves to be beaten to a pulp and left to die on the sidewalk. He doesn’t want to image what could have happened, had they not orbed in time.
“We would never let this happen,” Wyatt goes on quietly. “Mortals are no better than demons sometimes. Innocents…” he snorts. “No-one is innocent.” He steps away from the wall, straight on his two feet again. “I am taking over the world, with your help or without it.”
Good won’t help, he knows it. Good condemns revenge –his aunts will condemn Wyatt’s actions, even though they have no trouble getting revenge themselves. And Wyatt is the only one who stood by them, supported them, helped them.
He starts to leave, and Chris knows, feels, that this moment, this very moment, will be a turning point for both of them. Choosing between good and evil –no, choosing between a mockery of ‘good’ and his brother is no choice at all.
“Wy,” he calls. His brother stops in the threshold. “When Mel wakes up, I’ll go talk to the Fay. Find the arguments to make sure they won’t step in when the time comes.”
From the corner of the eye, he sees Wyatt’s knowing, cruel smirk. The man, future King, leaves, and Chris takes his sister’s hand and hopes he made the right decision.
But no matter how it stars, it ends like this.
The bar is crowded, mostly because it’s one of the only ones who still have working televisions. A mass of people watch the screens, waits in anticipation. Mortals, demons, witches and Fays gathered all together, waiting for one thing.
They don’t have to wait long.
The screen light up and shows on a large, white stage, a group of people standing in a semi-circle. They’re Warlords, mercenaries, witches, all heavily armed. It’s a display of strength, they all know it.
“Isn’t that Kronos?” one of the customers blurts in awe. His words make the whole bar whisper, as the well-known demon seems to have joined ranks with the new King.
The group on screen parts to leave some space to three newcomers.
The leading one is a handsome tall, blond-haired, brown-eyed man, dressed in a black T-shirt and pair of jeans. His muscles are clearly visible, his body breathes strength, and nothing other than Excalibur hangs on his hip. He stops at the middle of the room, well in view of the cameras. The two others stop one step behind. The one standing on his right is a brown-haired young man dressed in a tailored black suit and black tie. Everyone knows he is the mind behind the battles, the slippery silver-tongued general who strategically guided his leader to victory. The one standing on his left is a woman dressed in a long, dark green dress. Her face is hidden beneath a silver Venetian mask. Her role is uncertain in this campaign, but there are whispers running about a powerful seer backing the new King in his quest for world unification.
A new word begins to run through the bar, in houses and gardens and under bridges and lakes and in the deepest forests, deepest mountains and deepest seas.
Triumvirate.
They are the new leaders of a world turned upside down by their raw power, their wits, and an army of demons as backup. They are the ones who left a merciless, bloody path of defeated enemies in their wake. Magic will never be hidden again, and the world will never be the same.
The blonde one –the new King –smirks mischievously, like he’s a young man playing a prank and not one of the deadliest being on the planet. He extends his hand, summons Excalibur from its sheath, and holds it high in victory.
As he begins to speak, a lone man slips away from the bar, into the empty street. The wind seems to blow harder than before and the man walks faster. It reaches the farthest park of the block, one that was miraculously spared during the takeover. A group of people are already there, standing together in silence. When the man joins them, someone asks:
“Seven days is all it took, to make the US kneel. What makes you think you can go against that?”
The man huffs, pulls a cigarette and lights it. After breathing in, he replies:
“They’re young, their ‘rule’ is too recent. If we strike now, we will beat them.”
“The Fey won’t intervene," another reminds him. "A lot of witches are waiting to see what will happen next. The mortals have no more weapons and aren’t willing to fight anymore. The Halliwell half-bred is smart, and his bastard brother even smarter –you won’t win against them as long as they are united.”
“As long as they are united,” the man reminds them. “Tensions are bound to happen. The resistance-“
His words fall short as a knife suddenly sticks out of his throat. The others gasp and turn around to run. It’s useless. Knives fly from an invisible point, finds their target in bodies and take the lives away. One of them stumbles and falls to the ground, and the blade misses his neck by inches. He turns around, tries to crawl backwards in panic. A hooded figure suddenly appears near a trunk, right next to where they have been gathering. The lone survivor swallows hard as he recognizes the silver Venetian mask.
“No,” he babbles. “How?”
The hooded figure removes the mask, and reveals the face of a very young woman –not yet eighteen –with scars carved onto her skin.
“Did you really believe you would escape my Sight?” she asks in a surprisingly calm, warm voice. She speaks as if she’s chiding a child, not threatening a grown man. Said grown man is downright terrified. “We’ve been watching you. We know what you’re up to.”
“Please,” he begins to beg, but she hushes him when she puts a finger over her mouth.
“I’m glad you survived after all,” she speaks quietly, steps closer, and crouches next to him. In spite of the scars, she’s a beautiful girl and her wide, dark, doe eyes would make any man fall under a silent spell. “You will bring a message to my aunts for me,” she continues, still soft-spoken and calm. The man doesn’t dare to move an inch. “Tell them to back off and move to a place very, very far away and out of our sight. If either or my brothers or me see them, we will kill them.” She suddenly looks regretful, but not overly so. “I would hate to, but I would kill them. I still love them, in spite of everything."
She stands up, drops a piece of paper on his body, and steps back. The man glances at the paper, reads: ‘To Aunt Phoebe, with love’. He looks back at her, confused.
“What-“ he begins, but is suddenly chocking because his throat is getting tight –and he can’t breathe, can’t breathe cantbreath-
He falls dead, the paper left in plain sight on his body. Melinda takes another step back. Her fingers are shaking slightly –she hates taking a life needlessly –but she knew exactly what she was getting into when she followed her brothers. This man’s body will be brought to the resistance, and the piece of paper she left behind will show Phoebe this exact conversation. He will be the first of many more –a shadow war that Wyatt will lead, with Chris and her to watch his back. She could have sent someone do her dirty work, but the matter was too personal, and hers alone to handle.
With this death, she is signing the end of her life as Melinda Halliwell. Now, she is Lady Melinda, King Wyatt’s sister and Seer. And she will stop to nothing to keep her brothers safe.
“Long lives the Triumvirate,” she whispers, pulls her hood back on, and disappears in the night.