Chapter Text
Merlin
Merlin reels from the bright flash of light and runs away from it as soon as he can see. His heart pounds as he slides across the wet pavement. The sight of blood on the ground is burned into his eyes, flashing red in the pitch darkness. He hears shouts and shots being fired behind him. He slows to look over his shoulder at the wrong moment. A body veers out of an alley he’s passing and pins him to the ground. Merlin gasps for air, but the man’s crushing his throat with his forearm. He grabs Merlin’s face with his other hand and forces him to look at him.
“Not a word to them, got it?” he hisses. He digs his nails into Merlin’s cheeks. “Got it?”
A gun fires, and the man grunts in pain. Merlin shoves him off and scrambles to his feet, massaging his neck as the Enforcement officials, all dressed in Camelot red, surround his assailant and drag him away. The man’s eyes never leave Merlin’s, focused even through the glaze of pain.
“Son?” a man says, shaking Merlin’s shoulder. He flinches. “You all right?”
“I’ll be fine,” he says faintly.
“Did you see what happened?”
Merlin pauses. The man told him not to say, but it didn’t really matter, not when he’d nearly killed two people in front of him – two people like Merlin.
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to ask you to come to the station. We’ll get you patched up,” he says, nodding at Merlin’s head. Merlin touches a spot that hurts worse and his hand comes away bloody and dirty. He looks at his clothes – muddy, wet, and essentially ruined. His mother isn’t going to be happy.
---
It’s late when his parents arrive to pick him up. Will is at home, but he’s apparently impatient for an explanation. The walk back is silent, what with the Enforcement officer walking a few feet behind them all the way to their tiny home on the edge of town. Before he leaves, the officer tells them to be careful.
“The amount of hate crimes around this area has skyrocketed recently,” he says. “But, then again, so have the magical attacks.”
“Are you still trying to find the Greenhouse Fire culprits?” Balinor asks.
The officer nods.
“No luck yet, but we know they’re connected with the Priestesses,” he replies. Balinor makes a face, but the officer doesn’t see it. Merlin gnaws on his lip.
“And the hate crimes?”
“All victims have been members of the Druid Group,” he states. “There’ll be an article in the paper tomorrow morning, given what Merlin’s told us.”
“Looking forward to it. Good luck, officer,” says Balinor grimly. Hunith thanks him as well as she closes the door. The locks click and Merlin can feel both of his parents’ demeanors change entirely.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Balinor shouts.
“I was taking a shortcut! I always take that route!”
“Yes, but there was another attack there two weeks ago. We told you—”
“Fine. Sorry. Don’t yell at me for something that’s already done. We’re here and we’re safe. That’s what matters, right?” says Merlin. Balinor shakes his head.
“We will never be safe, Merlin. It’s a damn miracle—,” he cuts himself off. Balinor crosses into the living room and sits on the couch. Merlin jumps when he realizes Will has been there the whole time louging in his favorite chair. Merlin narrows his eyes at him.
“So. You gonna tell us what happened?” Will asks. Hunith takes Merlin by the elbow and sits him down. He sighs loudly.
“I was walking back the same way I always do from work,” Merlin says, absently touching the fresh bandages on his head. “I heard some shouting, and I caught a few words of what they were saying. Something about the Priestesses. I looked around the corner and I saw they were wearing their Druid badges. It looked like there was a meeting nearby and they were just having a smoke. So I… listened a little?”
Will smacked his forehead. “You dumbass. You should’ve run.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t get the chance. These guys came out of nowhere at the other end of the alley and started beating the crap out of them, saying they heard the stuff about the Priestesses and they wanted to know more, and a load of other really terrible things,” says Merlin. He shuts his eyes. “It was horrible. The Enforcement officers showed up and used a flare, and then I ran.”
He ends his story there. The last thing Merlin wants to do is worry them more with the thug’s threats when they’re essentially empty. He saw the officials arrest the man and his friends and send them away.
“Love,” Hunith says in a quiet, steady voice. “We’ve talked about you going to Camelot before. I think now’s the time to go.”
“What? But – I’m happy here! I’m with you, and I can protect you—”
“You’re not happy,” Will cuts in, “and yeah, you’ve got more magic than the rest of us, but you can barely control it. Something’s screwy with you, we all know it, and that’s not safe.”
“Will’s right,” Balinor says sharply. “If your magic had flared up when you were out there, you probably wouldn’t be alive, Merlin. They’d have killed you on the spot, especially since you’re not part of Druid.”
“Being part of that damn support group would make me a bigger target!” Merlin shouts. “Those badges are glowing neon signs.”
“Yes, but it also means you have people like you around all the time,” Balinor states evenly. “No, you’re not quite like everyone else, but… we’ve discussed this. We can’t protect you anymore. These flares are getting worse, and you need to go to someone who can help you better than I can.”
“But – you have magic, too,” sputters Merlin. The same old question tumbles out. “How am I so different from you? Why?”
“You haven’t come into your powers. Something else is at work here, and I don’t know why,” Balinor says vaguely. Merlin scoffs and stands up.
“No. I don’t care what’s wrong with me. I need to be here.”
“Merlin, we will be fine,” his mother says, tugging him back onto the couch by the wrist. “Your father is more than capable of keeping us safe. I know a few things, too, and Will’s not exactly defenseless. It’s you we’re worried about.”
Merlin looks between the members of his family, imploring them to say something other than this, but he quickly sees they’re right. His magic hasn’t stabilized the way it does for others by the age of fifteen or so. No, at twenty-four, Merlin is still unable to predict when his magic will flare or what it will do or what triggers it. It’s been more frequent and more intense in the last year or so, and there have been several near misses with bystanders.
“I don’t have any skills,” Merlin says weakly. “My degree is useless.”
“A bit,” Will snorts, “but maybe in Camelot you can find a job that pays you to you read old books all the time.”
“I can call Gaius,” Hunith says, “and see what he can do.”
She goes straight to the archaic cord phone on the kitchen wall and huddles into the corner as she speaks. Merlin turns back to his father.
“Are you sure this is the best thing to do? Camelot isn’t going to welcome an untrained, freakish sorcerer any more than Ealdor,” Merlin says, “let alone one who isn’t documented with the Druid Group.”
“No, but you stand a better chance of fading into the crowd there,” Balinor replies. “Things are getting worse here, more violent. Druid can’t offer you any protection, not at this point. I want to be sure you’re not caught in their problems.”
“Are you going to leave, too?” Merlin asks.
“We’ve been considering it. We have a place ready in Mercia if we need to flee, but we’d need help getting out without the proper papers,” he replies, not looking directly at Merlin.
“I suppose… you’ll be safer, too, if I go,” Merlin murmurs. Neither Will nor Balinor refutes him.
He’s been the crux of their problems as a family since he failed to come into his powers. Before, sure, they had other issues – things Hunith and Balinor refuse to discuss, even now, so many years later – but for nine long years, as the tensions between the magical and non-magical communities grew in Camelot, as the attacks on Druid members became a daily occurrence, as the newspapers begin to speculate about another Purge to keep the insurgents in line – Merlin has been nothing but trouble for them.
At this point, him staying here poses a greater threat to all of them than him leaving. It’s for the best, for everyone. It’s that simple.
Merlin stands up.
“I’ll go start packing,” he announces. Will stands and follows him to the stairs. Hunith walks back in before they get halfway up.
“I’ve spoken to him,” she says. “He doesn’t have a permanent living space for you, but he’ll let you stay with him until you find a flat. Gaius says he can find work for you, and he promises to help you with your problem.”
“Good,” Merlin says. It’s a good thing, and he knows it, but it still feels a bit like a defeat. “When should I leave?”
“There’s a train that’s passing through a station on the edge of the Darkling Quarter of Camelot. It stops here at nine tomorrow morning,” Hunith says. “Gaius has given me instructions for you to follow to get to him.”
“That’s so… soon,” Merlin sighs. “Okay. I’ll pack, then I’ll call up the shop and tell them I’m shipping off.”
“I’ve already called them, love.”
“Oh. Thanks, mum.”
“Merlin?” Hunith calls, stopping him again. He turns around at the top of the steps and looks down past where Will hesitates, too. “We don’t want this any more than you do.”
Merlin smiles at her as reassuringly as he can. He waits until Will is in his room before shutting the door and collapsing on the bed. Will starts pulling the drawers out and throwing his clothes on the floor.
“You’re just raring for me to leave, aren’t you?”
“More of mum’s cooking for me,” he says with a wolfish grin. He tosses a fresh pack of underwear into the pile. “Merls, you’ve been talking about going to Camelot for years. This is it!”
“No, we’ve been talking about it,” he pouts. “I don’t want to go without you.”
“Look, I know I’m your only friend, the kindest and wisest and handsomest man you know – ow!” he shouts when Merlin throws a book at him. “All I mean is we’ve been dreaming about this. You’re gonna get the chance to go and be someone. Ealdor ain’t big enough for either of us.”
“Right,” Merlin says, unable to stop the grin on his face. It’s their old childhood motto, after all. “I just wish—”
“Look, I’ll get there eventually. Things aren’t easy right now, and I’ve gotta make sure mum and dad are safe, right? That’s what we’re both doing, keeping our family safe,” Will says. “There’s no better cause than that.”
“Sure, says the man who goes to Druid meetings every damn week,” Merlin mutters. “You haven’t got an ounce of magic in you, Will. Haven’t they figured it out?”
“Oh, hell yeah. They don’t mind, so long as I don’t say anything to anyone, and show up after all the therapy and shit is over,” Will replies. He’s reached Merlin’s closet now and is holding up a red shirt and a blue one. He shrugs and throws them both on the floor.
“They’ll wrinkle!” Merlin says, throwing himself back on the bed. “I’ve got to carry all this on my back, too, William.”
“Don’t William me,” he grumbles. He tosses a pair of shoes back into the closet.
Merlin stands up and starts folding the clothes. They pack in silence, working through his wardrobe, adding only his absolute favorite books and a notebook to the necessities. Will holds up the sculpture of a dragon Balinor had made for him for his fifth birthday. Will, who’d recently joined their family after his parents died, has a bear made of the same wood. Merlin nods and Will packs the dragon gingerly between a few shirts.
It all fits into one brown bag, sadly enough. They sit on the bed and stare at the bag in the center of the room when it’s all over.
“Write us a letter, yeah?” Will says, shoving his shoulder lightly.
“Yeah,” Merlin grins. “You’d better keep your promise. You’ll come to Camelot too someday and we’re going to take the world by storm.”
“That we will,” he says firmly.
Merlin knows it’s probably not true. Will doesn’t realize how much Merlin knows about what he gets up to at these alleged Druid meetings. Will’s in too deep in a cause he shouldn’t even be part of; he chews his lip nervously at the thought. He knows they’re both grown men and can take care of themselves, but Merlin wishes he could just talk some sense into his friend.
“You sure you don’t want to come now?”
“Nah. I’ve got a lot going for me here,” he says, grinning hugely. He yawns. “Bedtime. See you in the morning?”
“Yeah. ‘Night.”
He leaves, banging the door shut as he goes. Merlin sighs and curls up on the bed. He feels a trill of excitement at his core, but it’s too soon. He touches the bandages on his head again, and he remembers what the men looked like – animals, determined to tear the Druids to shreds. Merlin shudders. He wants everyone like him to be safe – that was the whole point of telling the Enforcement officers the truth – but it won’t come any time soon if that’s the way people react to so little magic as lighting a cigarette.
After a while, Merlin gets up, changes into pajamas, and goes to the window to close the curtains. He stops.
Two figures all in black stand across the street looking up at the house. Merlin strains, but he can’t recognize them specifically. The two men walk away. He pulls the curtains shut and turns off the light. He curls into himself under the covers and exhales. Just before he passes out, he realizes that finally – finally – his might be able to get his life under control. Finally, his life might change. Even well on his way to sleep, in spite of the circumstances that brought him to this realization, this situation, Merlin smiles, looking forward to the dawn.
Gwen
Gwen drums on the countertop and looks up from her catalog. Ten more minutes until closing. It was a slow day – the chances of someone coming in are so slim—
The bell over the door rings. Gwen sighs and slides the catalog out of view.
“Hello. Just so you know we’re closing in ten,” she says with a smile.
“No problem,” one of the two customers says. She turns away and continues consulting with her friend.
Gwen starts closing up the front of the shop and is halfway to the back room when the door opens again.
“We’re closing!” she calls.
“Ma’am, this’ll only take a minute,” a man says. Gwen turns around: three more people stand in the shop than before. Her original customers look smaller, cornered.
“If you’re not here to buy something, I need you to leave,” Gwen says, getting angry. She walks around the counter into the main shop space.
“You wouldn’t let them stay if you knew what they are,” spits one of the men. He’s tall and imposing, blocking out the late afternoon light streaming through the glass storefront. Gwen crosses her arms and sets her stance.
“I don’t particularly care. The only people I don’t allow in here are bullies,” she states.
“They’re bleeding sorcerers,” the third, a young woman, says, pointing a shaking hand at the couple.
“Like I said, I don’t care. Now, please leave.”
“We’re not leaving without them,” said the first man. “We’ve got some business to settle, and we don’t want your shiny floor to get dirty.”
“I will call Enforcement if you don’t leave in the next ten seconds.”
Gwen holds up her phone. The three look to each other, the second man edging toward the door. The woman grabs his hand and digs her nails into his skin.
The door opens.
“Aren’t you supposed to close up?” said the newest arrival – Lancelot. He crosses the space to stand beside Gwen. “Is something wrong here?”
“I’m about to call the authorities. They’re threatening violence on my customers.”
“It’s nothin’ they don’t deserve,” the woman screeches. She lunges for the nearest of the two sorcerers. She falls back into a display case in her haste to dodge the attack.
“Out! Now!” Gwen shouts. Lance is already on the phone speaking with the operator on the emergency line. He stares the three assailants down until they scurry out of the shop.
“Yes, I’d like to report an attempted hate crime….”
Gwen turns to the customers. The display case is shattered but they seem to be all right. The one who fell scrambles to her feet and begins apologizing profusely.
“It’s all right,” Gwen interjects. “Really. I’m sorry that just happened to you. Those people were monsters.”
“They’re scared,” the woman says, shaking her head. “They don’t understand people like us, what it’s like. They just think we’re bombs.”
“They think we’re freaks,” her companion adds.
The light catches the Druid badge pinned to the woman’s shirt.
“I don’t think any of that. You’re both welcome here anytime – any sorcerers are welcome in my shop,” Gwen says firmly. “The only people I won’t allow are people like them.”
The woman smiles, but Gwen sees something crumble behind her expression. She looks away. They’re strangers. She can’t ask, but she wants to more than anything.
“If there’s anything I can do—”
“You? We ruined your shop!” the woman’s companion – a rather androgynous person with curly hair and large glasses – gawks at her. The woman nods in agreement. She raises a hand and murmurs a few words. Before Gwen’s eyes the display case reassembles itself. Shards of glass melt together as though they’d never broken apart. Even the pieces of intricate metalwork and jewelry inside come together and end up glistening more brightly than ever.
“That was… thank you. That was incredible,” Gwen says, staring at the case.
“I hope that was all right with you – some people are okay with people like us but seeing magic scares them—”
“It was more than okay. Really,” Gwen insists. “I’d understand if you didn’t want, but please come back again when we’re open and I’ll get you both whatever you like on the house.”
“Oh, you don’t—”
“I insist. It’s absolutely necessary.”
The couple looked to one another, disbelief pure on their faces.
“Thank you,” the woman says. “Honestly. Camelot hasn’t been too kind to us lately. It means a lot.”
Gwen smiles, unsure how to respond. They bid thanks and good-bye and leave the shop arm in arm. Lance is still on the phone giving detailed descriptions of the three assailants, so Gwen carries on closing up shop. She’s locking up the register and the display cases just as he hangs up. He draws the blinds and turns on the alarm system while Gwen holds the front door open for him.
“Hattie’s has one of those signs now too,” Lance notes. Gwen finishes locking up and throws the keys in her purse. She turns around and looks at the neighboring shops. Hattie’s, a café across the cobbled street from her, now bears a shiny sign with bold red letters: NO MAGIC NO SORCERERS.
“That’s the third one on the block,” she murmurs. Lance puts his arm around her shoulder and kisses her curly hair. “I think it’s time to take a stand.”
“You know, I’ve got some spare paints and cardboard at mine,” he says. “Let’s make a sign of our own.”
Gwen, envisioning green letters welcoming the customers Hattie’s and the other shops are going to lose with their hatred, kisses him.
“I think that’s a brilliant idea.”
Morgana
She hangs up the phone, her perfect red nails trailing across the screen. Morgana throws her closet doors open and looks down the long racks of clothes ranging from jeans and t-shirts to ball gowns and glittering evening wear. She dons a sleek green dress and paints her face to bring out her eyes and make her lips pop red. She checks herself in the mirror – modern and stylish, yes, but the colors are bright, and, by the laws of nature, a warning sign – before calling out for Martha.
“Yes, my Lady?” the woman says, panting slightly. She has soapsuds up to her arms. Morgana sighs.
“Never mind, I’ll take care of it. Go back to cleaning,” she says. “Do you know where my black hat is? The one with the wide brim?”
“Ah. Down the hall in the third closet,” says Martha. Morgana starts making her way down the hall, her tall black heels cutting through the utter silence of the palace. “Have you got something planned tonight again?”
“Oh, yes.”
She tilts the hat on her head, puts on a black and white jacket, and descends the great white staircase. Through the window she sees the paparazzi are already there. She grins, then reels it in; she puts on her best bored out of my mind expression and oversized sunglasses and steps into the spotlight. She crosses the gray flagstones of the courtyard, deftly ignoring every flashing camera while managing to give them exactly what they want. She gets into the limousine waiting for her and flashes the cameras a withering look.
“Very nice,” Morgause says, nodding at her outfit.
“I’m hoping to attract attention tonight,” she replies. “We’re going to Lothian first, yes?”
“Absolutely,” she says with a cat-like smile. “Then, we get to work, but it’ll be a short night at the office.”
Morgana nods, looking away at the streets passing them by in a blur.
“Are you certain this will work?” Morgana asks, turning back to Morgause. “I’m not certain Uther will be so easy to fool.”
“Do you think he suspects?”
“No, of course not,” Morgana says with a harsh laugh. “I only mean the proposal is a bit of a stretch.”
“That’s why we’re putting on this show first. You’ve already mentioned it to him before, yes?”
“Twice, yes, but that was before we knew what was under the theater,” Morgana says. She twists the rings on her fingers. “Before, it truly was just a vanity project with a chance of finding something useful to us.”
“We’re close to finding it, sister. I swear, this will work.”
Morgana relaxes at Morgause’s touch on her shoulder.
“You’re right. I trust you. We’ll play our parts and everything will go according to plan,” she says just as the limousine slows to a stop. “Shall we?”
“Let’s,” Morgana says with relish as she opens the door, kicking it wider with the heel of her stiletto. They climb smoothly onto the curb where a long line of patrons already awaits. Cameras flash. They make their way through the dark blue doors and into the large space of the club. Other high-class socialites like to come here, both ones who Uther likes and dislikes. Morgana spies a few of the latter and makes a beeline for them.
A while later, she’s had a few drinks, danced a few times, and abandoned her coat in some dark corner of the club. Lothian is one of her favorite places in all of Camelot, and by far her favorite club. She makes her way to the bar where Morgause is speaking with the owner/bartender.
“Gwaine,” she says by way of greeting.
“My Lady,” he says with an exaggerated bow and a sloppy kiss on her hand. “Getting started early tonight, are we?”
“It’s never too early,” Morgause states, handing Morgana a shot of shockingly green liquid. They knock their glasses together and down the shots. Gwaine’s giving them a funny look, but he hands over another pair of shots without hesitation when they ask.
“What’s the occasion?” he asks.
Morgana shrugs. “Bored, I suppose.”
“I expect things would be dull, cooped up at that palace all day,” Gwaine agrees. “Won’t the King be… y’know, royally pissed for this? Plenty of people have seen you out here.”
Morgana flashes him a grin. Gwaine’s smile widens.
“Ah. That’s the plan, is it? Well, you know my thoughts on the matter of the King, even if he is your father,” he adds. Gwaine digs under the bar and produces an old bottle of liquor. It looks like it’s from the Pre-Purge era. Morgana can see Morgause’s mouth begin to water. Gwaine hands it to her. “Bottoms up, ladies. You only live once, yeah?”
“Cheers,” Morgause says before drinking straight from the bottle. Morgana leans across the bar and crooks her finger at Gwaine. He leans closer to her.
“You remember how we got to be friends, yes?” Morgana says, reaching for the chain around his neck. She drags her red nails along the metal, tracing the ring and the half-moon as she speaks. “We’re not going to ask you to pay us back in money, but we want to be able to call in a favor.”
“I can afford to pay you back for the loan ten times over, Morgana,” Gwaine frowns.
“I know. I don’t need the money.”
“Well, no shit, you’re the fucking princess,” Gwaine snorts. “I’d feel better if I paid you back.”
“Consider it an IOU, and we’ll hopefully be calling it in soon. I’m just giving you a little reminder,” says Morgana softly. “Understood?”
Gwaine nods, leaning away.
“Want a Cosmo?”
“God, yes.”
---
Her head isn’t thanking her the next morning, but Morgana’s glad to be greeted by her face all over the gossip mags and even a few mainstream newspapers. It’s not the only wild night she’s had in the last few weeks, not by a long shot, and while she hasn’t exactly been complaining about the partying, she hopefully won’t need to do it again any time soon.
She eats breakfast and dresses in a white frock with silver embroidery. She paints her lips red and lines her eyes with black, but everything else about her is as plain and honest as anything.
Morgana makes a beeline for Uther’s office. She enters without waiting for his secretary to buzz her in. He’s got the mags and papers spread across his desk and he’s slightly red in the face. Morgana can’t stop a laugh from escaping her lips.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he shouts the moment he realizes she’s there.
“I’m bored,” she states. “Haven’t I been telling you this?”
“This is hardly the way to cope with boredom for someone in your position!”
“You don’t allow me to do any of the things I want,” Morgana shoots back. She plants both hands on his desk and forces him to look up at her. “I’ve asked time and time again for you to let me open up the DeBois Repertory. That’s all I want.”
“The answer is still no, Morgana,” Uther says, sitting back. “It’s a condemned building.”
“Only because of the Purge,” she spits, “and it’s been like that for over twenty years. There are people who live in the floors above the Repertory and in the buildings around it. If you haven’t destroyed the building yet, I don’t believe you will today.”
“Perhaps I will,” Uther says, standing up.
“Oh? To spite me?”
“To – no. Morgana, I’m denying you this because it’s a silly endeavor, not because of the state of the building,” Uther says, softening quickly. “The media follows you like hunting dogs; they’ll catch wind of whatever you choose to do there, and the whole of Camelot will know.”
“What if I can keep it a secret?”
“How?”
“I’m not as easy prey for the cameras as you think I am,” Morgana says. Uther’s lips tighten. He walks around the desk to stand in front of her.
“You know I’m sorry I can’t put you on the council, Morgana,” says Uther quietly. “It’s nothing to do with you.”
Morgana forces herself to hold her tongue. If she speaks, a lot more than words will come forth in response, and she doesn’t want to murder her father by setting him on fire with magic just yet. She takes a steadying breath.
“I understand,” she says, “but that’s all the more reason to let me have this. I need to keep busy. I refuse to float about this palace all day.”
“And you truly believe putting together a musical will be much better?”
“I did it several times at uni,” Morgana says breezily, “and I loved it. I’d have made a profession of theater production, if I weren’t, you know, me. Indulge me, father. Let me do this. I promise you can come see it when on opening night and no one will even know you’re there.”
Uther sighs, rubbing his eyes. By the curve of his shoulders Morgana already knows she’s won this.
“Will these crazy nights stop?”
“Maybe not completely, but I won’t be driven to drink with such a massive project to undertake,” she says dryly. “I’m not that sort of director.”
“I’ll have the keys sent to you later today,” Uther says, resigned. He starts piling up files and packing them in his briefcase. “Have you considered what you’ll do?”
Morgana’s already smiling.
“I’ve chosen Wicked.”
Uther straightens up and stares.
“It’s banned.”
“I know, but I figured if this is a private pet project of mine, no one will ever hear about it,” she says.
“Morgana… you’re testing both me and my laws.”
“When have I done anything less?” she says, tilting her head as sweetly as possible. Uther melts at that and cups her cheek. He presses a kiss to her forehead.
“I trust you to keep this quiet. Will Arthur be involved?”
Morgana frowns. “I hadn’t thought about him.”
“Give him a chance, if he chooses to audition, before turning him down,” says Uther with a wink. “He’s got a good voice, if I recall.”
“Indeed. He did Les Mis with me when we were at uni. He made an excellent Jean Valjean, actually,” Morgana murmurs. She hasn’t even considered her brother yet, but it only makes sense. In all honesty, he’s one of the richest tenors Morgana has ever come across in her years of studying music. It always seemed a pity that he went into Law and gave up theater after the second year of uni.
“I’ve a meeting to attend,” Uther says, startling her out of her thoughts. “Will you be joining us for dinner tonight?”
“I’ll try. I’ll let you know.”
Uther kisses her cheek on the way out, bearing a pleased smile all the way. Morgana waits until she’s back in her chambers and the key arrives in a dusty black box. She dismisses the servant quickly and calls Morgause. By the time she picks up, she can hardly contain her excitement.
“We’re in.”
Arthur
Leon’s email is short: shit’s heating up on the fringes, and it comes with an attachment. Arthur opens it and finds a scan of a local paper – Ealdor Times. He loosely recognizes the name as a village on the edge of Camelot, close to the border with Mercia. It rings the faintest of bells in his head, but Arthur doesn’t have the time to place it.
The headline reads: FOURTH HATE CRIME IN TWO WEEKS – SUSPECTS IN CUSTODY CLAIM THERE’S MORE TO COME.
Arthur reads the article carefully. The attack isn’t unlike others he’s heard of in the outer edges of Camelot. The ones in Camelot City proper aren’t nearly this violent or frequent, but if the archives are anything to go by, Ealdor and places like it weren’t either until a few months ago. It has been a busier week than usual, and Leon sending this article to him surely means he’s not the only one noticing it.
His eyes rest on the picture of the crime scene – blood on the ground in a dark alley, clear marks of Enforcement stun guns on the walls and the remnants of a flare. Arthur looks up from the screen and glances at his badge sitting on the desk. He’s had to use his own stun gun far too many times in the last several months. It’s a constant reminder of what Arthur ultimately wants to do in his position as an Enforcement officer – make Camelot fair and just for everyone, including the persecuted magical population – but Arthur knows it’ll take small steps.
For now, though, he needs to worry about what the witness in the most recent Ealdor incident said regarding the assailants.
“Nothing,” Arthur marvels as he reads. “He saw them, but there wasn’t a damn identifying factor.”
A knock comes at the door.
“All I know is they heard the two Druid members talking about… something sensitive, apparently, and they saw them light their cigarettes with magic. They attacked, nearly killed them both, asking about what they were saying, but I don’t think the Druids said a word.”
Arthur stares at the page. Somewhere in the article, he catches the word Priestesses. Arthur’s breath catches. Apparently, the witness, after some coaxing, admitted the two Druid members mentioned the Priestesses, though he didn’t catch the context of it.
“Does it matter? The only thing those bastards needed was one damn word as a cue to start murdering them. I know what’s happened around here; sometimes it takes even less.”
The door opens.
“What?” he snaps.
“You’re late for your meeting with your father in the council room,” says George, his PA. Arthur deflates and nods. He hates having the man around – he jokes about staplers, for god’s sake – but being the son of the King with a day job means he needs some help managing his non-work-related affairs.
“Right. I’m on my way.”
Arthur grabs his badge and the rest of the things he’ll need when he reports to work after the meeting. The halls are silent and empty, as usual, as he makes his way to the council room. It’s just as empty as the halls but for Uther sitting at the lowest row of tables, clicking away at his phone.
“Father,” he says. Uther turns and looks up at him as he descends the steps.
“Good of you to join me,” Uther says curtly, “eventually.”
Arthur takes his place next to Uther and turns the spinning chair toward him.
“What’s this about?”
“I have a job for you, and I believe if you succeed you’ll be pleased with the rewards,” Uther says. “Morgana has asked, yet again, to open up the DeBois Repertory. I’ve let her have it.”
“Right. So? She’s always loved theater.”
“The building was shut down and locked permanently after the Great Purge,” says Uther. “It was one of the suspected locations with a passage to the Underground.”
“Ah.”
“If I’m correct about where Morgana’s loyalties currently lie,” Uther says, his face pinching as though it hurts to speak, “then that’s what she’s looking for in opening the Repertory. It is, if I’m not mistaken, the supposed entrance to the Gatehouse of the Underground, and to the Dragon’s Cave.”
Arthur’s heart is pounding.
“Are you certain?”
“Fairly certain, though since we had no sorcery to aid us when we sealed and fortified the passages, we couldn’t access anything beyond a certain point beneath the building,” says Uther. “But that was our best bet for those two particular structures.”
“And the dragon?”
“It may still be down there,” Uther says, lip curling, “but no dragonlords live. If Morgana and her companions get that far, they won’t be able to control it, and the monster will do them no good.”
Arthur says nothing for a while. His heart feels hollow as it beats in his chest.
“I hoped… I wanted us to be wrong about Morgana,” says Arthur rather lamely.
“As did I, but she’s no longer my daughter, nor is she your sister. The day she chose them over us was the day she relinquished these titles.”
He turns to face Arthur, his body made of tense lines.
“My task for you is to keep close to her. Audition for her musical. Give her no reason to suspect you,” Uther says. “I want you to keep tabs on who she casts in this production and see if they match our list of suspected Druid members. Investigate them. You know the drill, Arthur.”
“You want me to go undercover… in her musical?” Arthur says disbelievingly.
“Yes. I have enough evidence to suspect that Morgana’s connections are to the insurgents we’ve been trying to stop for months now,” says Uther. “You find their nest through her, you take them down, and you’ll have earned the top post in Magical Enforcement.”
Arthur freezes.
“You’re joking.”
“I don’t joke about matters this serious.”
“That’s—”
“You’ve nearly earned it, Arthur. Put an end, once and for all, to this liberation nonsense, and you will have the authority to make their lives as easy or difficult as you wish.”
“The current Commissioner doesn’t have that kind of power.”
“I’ll sign it over to you, if you do this,” says Uther lightly. He turns his piercing gaze on Arthur momentarily. “I trust your judgments. You are my son, after all.”
Arthur swallows dryly. Uther takes his pen and signs his name on a page with a tight flourish.
“Do we understand each other, then?”
“What about the Priestesses? Am I still searching for them with the rest of my team?”
“I think if you can find the nest, the Priestesses’ network will come crashing down, and we’ll find them in the rubble easily,” Uther says. He meets Arthur’s eye. “I know you’ll make me proud, Arthur.”
“Yes, sir,” Arthur says. He starts to smile. “I won’t let you down, father. I swear it. I’m going to put an end to the madness.”
“See that you do.”
Arthur leaves the hall just as the doors open and the council members file down the steps. His heart is pounding, but he doesn’t let himself react to the news until he’s safe in his office at the Enforcement Building. Leon gives him a curious look as he shuts the door and locks it. Arthur heaves a deep breath and collapses in his desk chair. He pushes all thoughts of Morgana – which induce a dull ache in his head and the sensation of a hand gripping his internal organs – out; now isn’t the time to think about what this really means for her.
The most important piece of information gathered in this meeting is that Arthur’s goal is finally within reach.
It’s an old petition of Arthur’s, to be able to change the laws on the rights of magical citizens of Camelot. He’s a lawyer, so he knows how to fight this battle fairly, only Uther isn’t one to return the favor, not when magic’s involved. He has been telling Arthur for years he would have to earn a government position that would allow him such power. Finally – finally – that day has come and he has a concrete path to what Arthur truly wants for Camelot: peace. Arthur isn’t about to let the opportunity go to waste. No. He’s going to kill two birds with one stone, and he’ll make Camelot a better place for it.