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jazzy_peaches!
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merlin_holidaysTitle: Stage of the Ice, the Solid Ocean
Recipient:jazzy_peaches
Author:jane_monday
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Arthur/Merlin, Gwen/Lancelot
Word Count: 9,179
Warnings: None
Summary: When Police Sergeant Lance Dulac begins to investigate a crime in the small Welsh village of Camelot, it stirs up decades of secrets.
Author's Notes: I hope you enjoy it,jazzy_peaches!
Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavor.
When Sergeant Lance Dulac got the message from Wrexham to run down to Camelot to ask around about the late former Mayor Uther Pendragon, he was in the middle of his coffee and bacon-and-egg sandwich and reluctant to move. It was below zero and his Volvo was fifteen years old and took ages to warm. But he’d only just worked his way up to SOCA and the Pendragon investigation was the event of the season, so to speak. You didn’t get much bribery in Northern Wales. When he’d first been a beat cop in Cardiff it was murder this and robbery that, but in the north it was only drugs and the odd bit of prostitution.
Camelot was a quiet village. The very nature of his post ensured Lance knew all the local government, and Albion County had always been a bit of a calm, prosperous nothingy place. No scandals, reluctant to adapt to the new ways. When Lance had spoken to the local doctor, Gaius, who had spent nearly as many years on the community council as Pendragon, Gaius had said, “You won’t find a lot of support for this investigation, I’m afraid. Before Uther started on the council there were places without any telephone. He brought Camelot into the twentieth century.”
Lance knew the mindset of the smaller towns. He was from one of them himself, and had seen firsthand how the locals knit together against any outsider, especially an official one. But he had his methods. The first stage involved getting close to the local bobby, who could usually sway people to answer a few questions. In the Pendragon investigation, the local bobby was Arthur Pendragon, which meant the investigation could go one of two ways. If Pendragon cooperated, things would move as smoothly as any case ever did. If he did not, Lance would get nowhere and likely be transferred out of SOCA and back into the ordinary police. Luckily, Arthur Pendragon had a reputation for being as straightforward as Uther Pendragon was not.
Lance hadn’t any GPS and had to ring his assistant, young Howell, and ask him to relay directions to the village centre. It was nearly eight and a thin dawn finally lit the horizon when Lance walked into Tintagel, home to the best laverbread in the north. Lance’s stomach grumbled as he went in, and he told it to behave. He wanted no reports to his superiors of his tactless stomach making noise as he questioned a witness.
There were several iron tables outside on the deck, left to weather the winter. In the warm restaurant there were nine more tables, white wood with red tops, and they were all full. Gaius had told Lance that Sergeant Pendragon and his constable, Percival, ate breakfast at Tintagel every morning, so Lance looked around for a uniform and found only one.
The man was enormous, and had what looked like the remnants of seven separate breakfasts in front of him. “Hup,” he said affably when Lance caught his eye. He tapped his eyebrow with the tip of his finger out of respect and added, “You here to see Arthur?”
Lance nodded, and the constable pointed to the door that led to the kitchens. “He’ll be in back with Merlin,” he said.
Lance walked to the door with the eyes of every person in the dining area upon him, though when he glanced over his shoulder they were all looking carefully elsewhere. He wondered if every kitchen in every restaurant was the same– the same fried-egg-and-ham smell, the same layers of grease, the same man in the corner pushing the same batch of muffin dough round the same enormous silver bowl.
“But I told you I wanted chocolate chip today.” Lance could only see the back of Arthur Pendragon as he hovered over the man with the silver bowl.
The man, who Lance assumed must be Merlin, nudged Pendragon away with a hip. “And I told you I was making apple and brown sugar.”
“Excuse me,” Lance said, and they both turned around. “Hello, I’m Sergeant Dulac. I need to speak with you, if you’re Sergeant Pendragon.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve been expecting you,” Pendragon said. He was a broad, blond, handsome man about Lance’s age, with high colour and the bright blue eyes common to the area. There was something firm about him, in the sharp planes of his face and his level honest gaze. He wasn’t happy to cooperate, Lance thought, but he would. It was a quality Lance responded to, for he appreciated rare honesty when he found it. “We can talk outside. It’s a bit cold, but we’ll get no privacy anywhere else.”
Just as they walked out of the kitchens, Merlin called out, “There’s a batch of chocolate chip cooling on the racks.” Pendragon said nothing, but Lance saw the private half-smile and his curiosity twinged.
The air was still, but it stung the eyelids and the nose and lungs with every breath. “I’ve thought about this quite a lot,” Pendragon murmured, pulling out his gloves, “and I don’t know what I can tell you, really. I didn’t live with my father. I saw him for Sunday dinner every week, but our conversation was never very– it’s– we never talked politics unless he was asking me when I wanted a promotion.”
There was a bitter, trembling note in his voice. Lance ignored it and asked, “Do you smoke?” He always kept a pack with him, though he didn’t smoke himself.
Pendragon shook his head. “Gave it up years ago.”
“All right then,” Lance said. “Did you and your father ever discuss the repeal on the magic ban?”
Pendragon’s face tightened. “I knew my father’s stance. He was...very hard on magic-users. I don’t think I’d have liked to live here if I were magic, to be honest. Other areas have relaxed a bit, but until the last few years I’ve had one, maybe two assaults a month, and every time it’s about magic.”
Tintagel sat at the top of a hill, looking over the land. The lake was half a kilometre or so away and Lance could see the fishing dories, taking advantage of the low winds. “Did you ever suspect your father might take it any farther than disapproval?”
Pendragon hesitated. “On occasion I wondered if he had ever participated in any of the attacks, back when it was illegal. I’ve heard stories. It was a different time. But if you’re asking whether I thought my father would have really hurt anyone, no, I can’t imagine it.”
He could imagine it, but didn’t want to let himself, Lance thought. “I might as well tell you now, this investigation is going to be big. You’re going to have to give quite a bit of your time over to it, to giving as much information as possible. Your father’s entire life and business will be aired in public. If there’s anything you can think of, anything related to magic, any small thing you might have seen, it will only speed things along.”
“I’m cooperating to the best of my ability,” Pendragon said coldly.
Lance felt small and cruel at the look on his face, but pressed on. “I assume you’ve gone over the information we’ve uncovered.”
Pendragon sniffed. “You haven’t uncovered anything, Dulac. It was given to you.”
“All right, then, the information that’s been given to us. If you’ve gone over it, it’s clear he gave bribes to have magic-users incarcerated under flimsy pretense. If you can think of any registered magic-users who might know anything, you’ll let us know.”
Pendragon nodded, tipped his hat, and said, “I’ll be in touch with Wrexham.” He headed back into the restaurant, then turned and said, without looking at Lance, “Once Percival and I’ve left, you might ask inside. The old men aren’t magic, but they know everything.”
Lance peered through the door, saw two dozen wrinkled faces staring blankly back, and didn’t reply.
*
Once Pendragon and his constable had left the restaurant, Lance went in and sat near the biggest cluster of old men. They glared at him, but it was the general glare of the elderly and not anything personal.
“You’re the one come to dig up Uther Pendragon,” one of them said. He smoked a large, smelly, hand-rolled cigarette. One of his trouser legs was empty, rolled up and pinned in place.
“I’m investigating a few claims, yes,” Lance replied. “I hear he had a strong hand with the magic-users.”
They were silent. The one who had spoken tapped his cigarette and looked at Lance thoughtfully. “You interviewing witnesses, yeah? So where’s your tape recording?”
He didn’t bother to correct them, although he fought a smile. Since the advent of the police dramas, everyone thought he was a star witness and expected to go on trial in some American court room. He pulled out his flash drive and set it on the table, pushing on one end of it. “If you’ve got any information that could be useful to us, we might need to call you in for further examination,” he said, drawing on a vague memory of the last procedural he’d seen on telly.
More silence. Finally, the one with the hand-rolled cigarettes, who seemed to be the leader of the group, bent and said loudly into the flash drive, “Jasper Fairchild, Eagles Meadow. I do mind Uther Pendragon had a heavy hand with the magic-users. Back when it was illegal, we all had the heavy hand, but even when the laws came down he would stand up in the council and say the sorcerers were the scourge of the countryside, that they were harming the babies– cot death was high then– and they were stealing the sheep and killing the crops.”
Another man, skinny with a piping voice, added, “We used to have one of ‘em at the edge of the village, lived alone. Pendragon went on and on about him. He disappeared one day with his fire still going. Lot of us thought he himself had something to do with it.”
“Do you think the man was killed?” Lance asked.
Jasper glared at the man and interrupted. “Och, no. Can’t imagine anyone round here going to the trouble.”
Lance opened his mouth to ask another question, but piping voice said, “You might ask our Arthur if he knows the man. ‘Twas Balinor.”
“Arthur wouldn’t know, he was only wee,” another of the men said. It sounded as if he had kicked someone under the table.
“But Merlin would. His mum and Balinor were great friends,” piping voice added.
“Shush your noise, Phillip Grouse,” Jasper said. “Hunith never went near any old mushty. She was a good girl.”
Lance spoke over the din as the men began to grumble at one another. “So are you saying Merlin would have known about a crofter who had magic and was driven out of the village?”
“No,” Jasper said, sounding exasperated. “It was before his time.”
“Do you think he might have told Sergeant Pendragon anything about it?”
“No,” Jasper said.
“Might have done,” said piping voice. “The boys are that close.”
“Close,” the other men echoed.
“Close.” Lance said, picking up on an odd tone. “Are they–”
Piping voice tapped Lance on the arm. “Merlin’s a poofter!”
“It don’t matter though,” Jasper said. “We’re not like them up at Mercia. We appreciate diversity.”
They all nodded proudly. Lance sensed he had lost control of the conversation. As they spoke, Lance had noticed Merlin going to and from the kitchens, bringing food and tea and wiping down counters and empty tables. He was a tall, thin man with a dark shock of almost-curly hair, the beginnings of a beard, and a sweep of black lashes. If Arthur was thirty-five or so, around Lancelot’s age, Merlin must also have been, though he looked younger.
“I should speak with Merlin next,” he said. “Thank you, gentlemen.”
He picked up his flash drive and pretended to click it off. “If you need the subpoena, we’re all at Eagles Meadow,” Jasper said.
“I’ll send a summons for all of you if this goes to the higher courts,” Lance replied, and finally let himself smile as he headed back into the kitchens.
*
“Sorry, I’ve never heard of anyone called Balinor,” Merlin said.
“One of the men seemed to think your mother might have known him.” Lance leaned against the counter and watched Merlin work. He deftly mixed what Lance assumed was a cake, without measuring spoons or cups, and started up one of the big electric mixing bowls, then wiped his hands on his blue half-apron and faced Lance.
“I don’t think so.” He looked as if he were thinking for a moment. “She’d have been too afraid to associate with a sorcerer in those days.”
He was lying, Lance thought as Merlin smiled sunnily. There was no smile in his eyes, and he continued wiping his hands well after they were clean.
“How old are you?” Lance asked. “You’re the same age as Sergeant Pendragon, yeah? The men said you two were close.”
“I’m thirty-four,” Merlin said. “Arthur and I have known each other forever. My mum was his nanny until he went to school, so we were brought up together in a way.”
Lance heard the way Merlin said the word ‘Arthur,’ the small sigh underlying it, and decided to take a chance. “They seemed to think you were closer than that.”
The smile withdrew, turning pinched. “We’re not,” he said. “Not like that.”
“But you know everything about each other, is that true?”
The flush crept down over Merlin’s face, spread over his cheeks and onto his ears, which Lance noticed were artfully covered by his hair. “We’ve been friends for over thirty years,” he said. “We know a lot.”
Lance knew he’d pushed too far, and would get nothing more out of him for a long while. “All right then,” he said. “Let us know if you have any more information, anything you might have overheard about Uther Pendragon over the years, or this Balinor fellow.”
“Uther was a horrible man,” Merlin said as Lance walked away. It sounded as if it had broken free from a tightly-locked place in his body. He looked surprised at himself, but continued. “Whatever you’re investigating, he’s done worse.”
“I know,” Lance said. “That’s always the way.”
He waited for Merlin to go on, but he only wiped his hands once more, nearly wringing his apron. “Don’t tell Arthur I said that.”
“I won’t,” Lance told him.
On his way out, the man with the piping voice stopped him with a gnarled hand and said, “If there’s something wrong, it’s Morgana’s doing.”
Lance nodded and tried to disentangle himself. “Shut it, Phillip, you mangy old gossip,” Jasper Fairchild called out, and finally Lance was free to leave.
*
That evening, Merlin met Arthur down by the largest of the ponds on the Pendragon estates. He came carrying a bowl, out of which steam gradually wafted as he walked. He had a pair of skates over his shoulder. Arthur sat on the massive stump beside the pond with his skates already laced, holding the hockey sticks. In the winter, they played every Friday evening. The large pond always froze through before the others did, long before any other water froze in Camelot. Arthur had mentioned it once and Merlin had shrugged and said it must have to do with the algae.
“Potato cakes,” Merlin explained when Arthur indicated the bowl. He tugged Arthur’s gloves off and wrapped their fingers together around the warm cosy covering the bowl, and they both smiled. There was a bit of spicy mayonnaise to dip the cakes in, and Arthur ate happily whilst Merlin put on his skates.
“You’ve overcooked them a bit,” Arthur said when he straightened.
“I’m going to pretend that’s your way of saying ‘thank you, Merlin, your food is always appreciated, especially when it’s twenty-thousand arsing degrees below zero and I want to play hockey.’” But he knew what Arthur meant.
“You’re worried,” Arthur murmured.
“It’s that Dulac man from Wrexham.” He padded gingerly over to the ice and Arthur handed him a stick.
“He’s only doing his job.” They scuffed the surface of the pond, untouched but for the thin scratches from the previous week’s match. Arthur pulled the puck out of his pocket, tossed it up, and they began their usual uncoordinated, half-serious, half-joking volley for control. “Seems like a good bloke. I was afraid they’d send some wanker from London.”
“Doesn’t it bother you, him asking you about your dad?” Merlin asked.
Arthur checked him so hard he almost fell over. “Nope.
“It bothers me,” he said. He sneaked in between Arthur’s legs and nabbed the puck, shoved it hard across the line they’d drawn for Arthur’s side.
Arthur’s eyes narrowed, but he merely retrieved the puck. “Why should it? It’s not your family being examined, is it?”
“But it is, though. He’s asking into my life, asking about my mum, about who I know.” Merlin knew he shouldn’t continue, but he couldn’t seem to stop. His back and hips and jaw hurt from the tension that had strung him tight since Dulac had asked him about Balinor. “I don’t know why you’re co-operating either.”
Arthur checked him even harder. “I’m the police, Merlin, how would that look? And if my father did something wrong, I can’t very well stick my head in the sand.”
“I thought you’d be more loyal than all that,” Merlin muttered, and Arthur froze, barely registering Merlin’s second goal.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he whispered.
The words burst out, hateful, bilious, like the opening of an infection. “You’re acting like Morgana.”
Arthur pushed out at him fast as a snake, white-lipped. Just as he did it, the wrens in the trees around the pond began to call out to each other in angry little squawks. Merlin slid on his arse halfway across the pond and Arthur skated up to him, stopped with a snap and bent over Merlin. “Get off my land.”
Somewhere in the back of his head, a bewildered part of him wondered how they’d gone from potato cakes to Arthur looming over him with his face contorted and his fists clenched as if he might actually hit Merlin for only the second time in their lives. The first time, Merlin had been four and Arthur five, and Merlin had picked up one of Arthur’s toys, a little dog with a broken tail and most of the paint gone. It was old and shabby and therefore, he reasoned, Arthur wouldn’t mind if he played with it. But Arthur had seen him, run over, and smacked him in the face. He had been about to cry, more out of surprise than hurt, but Arthur had burst into tears and cried so hard Hunith had had to lead him out of the nursery and Merlin hadn’t seen him for several hours. When Arthur returned, subdued and miserable, he had apologised and handed Merlin the dog. “You can have it,” he’d said. “I don’t want it.” Merlin had the dog still; he discovered years later that it was the only thing Arthur had of his mother’s, and tucked it away in one of the boxes of things people accumulate over time, planning to sneak it back into Arthur’s flat someday.
The memory usually flooded him with affection, but at the moment it was the first in a long line of injustices he felt he’d suffered. “Go fuck yourself,” he hissed, staggering to his feet and brushing himself off.
“I mean it, Merlin. Don’t come back,” Arthur said. He looked ill.
Merlin walked away, hating him. The idea of picking up the tin of potato cakes, in its flowered cosy, and taking it with him was suddenly so stupid he was furious at it, and picked it up as he stomped past the stump. He flung it into the trees, stirring up the wrens again, snatched up his boots, and left.
*
The next morning, Lance returned to Camelot armed with several hours of research, much of it useless. Merlin Emrys, he had discovered, had been born over a year after Balinor had disappeared, and although Hunith Emrys had been questioned on his whereabouts, she had seemed quite casual about her acquaintance with him. There was no father listed on Emrys’s birth papers, but it wasn’t unusual; Hunith had moved to London for work and returned with a baby. It happened all the time.
Of Balinor he had learnt less, but what he had found was much more important. Balinor was listed as an ally of one of Northern Wales’s most notorious criminals, the Dragon. The Dragon had been imprisoned down at Swansea during the early 1970s and escaped three decades later. He was sighted once or twice a year, always in Wales and always out in the open enough to infuriate Interpol. Lance was not even certain what crime the Dragon had been involved with– sometimes they said drugs, sometimes money laundering, sometimes murder– but whatever it was, it was over with now. The Dragon was dead, and it was his information which had begun the investigation. Three weeks previously, his body had been found hanging in an old council flat, and neatly laid out on the bare mattress was a list of all the people– judges, council members, mayors, police inspectors– whom Uther Pendragon had bribed over the years, along with letters and emails. Everything was there but the final bit of information: who had helped the Dragon. Someone, Lance’s boss, Chief Inspector Agravaine insisted, had helped the Dragon escape. Someone had turned up all this information for him. Someone who had known Uther Pendragon and hated him.
When Lance went into Tintagel he expected Merlin, but instead found a young woman in a checked pinny serving slices of sour cherry and peach pie to the Eagles Meadow crew. He had an immediate impression of sweetness in her face and, when she met his eyes, it was confirmed. Her smile was crooked and kind. Lovely, he thought, and shook himself for being stupid.
“You must be Sergeant Dulac,” she said, shaking his hand. “Gwen Thomas.”
He realised, after she raised an eyebrow at him, that he hadn’t responded, and felt himself flush. “Uh. Yes, hello,” he said. “Where’s Merlin?”
“He rang last night and asked if I would come in this morning,” she said. “I’m a bit worried about him, to be honest. It’s been years since he’s had anyone open for him.”
Lance settled himself on one of the chairs at the counter and watched her neatly slice pies with her capable hands. “May I have a slice of the apple?” he asked, and she gave it to him. It was hot, heavy on the cinnamon, with the odd currant buried here or there. He licked his fork as he thought through his list of interviews. “If I wanted to talk to Hunith Emrys, where might I find her?”
“She lives in a cottage just outside Camelot, in Ealdor,” Gwen said. “What do you want with Hunith?”
He paused. “Can I be honest with you? And will you give me your opinion?” he asked. It wasn’t something he’d ever asked a person outside the police force, but there was something about Gwen Thomas that made him think he could ask her anything and she would help him.
“Of course,” she said, and pulled out a bit of clotted cream to dab atop the pie.
He explained the investigation in a low voice, mindful of the other people in the restaurant. “The men were very insistent that Hunith wouldn’t have known Balinor, but I think she might have,” he said. “I think she knew him very well.”
“You think Balinor is Merlin’s father.” She smiled when he raised his eyebrows. “My brother is a policeman, Sergeant Dulac, and I dated one for many years. I know the way they think.”
“I just want to see what she has to say about Uther Pendragon,” Lance said, feeling rather lame and flattened by the word “dated.”
Gwen wiped the counters with a cloth. “Tell you what. Merlin should be in before noon. When he gets in, I’ll come with you to Hunith’s house. I’ve known her for ages, she might talk more if I’m there.”
He brightened. “It’s a date, then!” he exclaimed, and then, “Well, not a date, I couldn’t very well take you on a date while I’m in uniform.”
“Right,” she said. Her face was deliberately very serious. “It’s official police business.”
“Cheeky,” he laughed, and asked for another piece of pie.
*
Hunith Emrys’s tiny cottage was comfortable and crowded in the way pensioners’ homes often were. There was a neat little fire and too many chairs, and pictures of Merlin covered the walls.
“What can I do to help you?” she asked. “I’ve heard all about the investigation. It seems so strange that Uther Pendragon could have been doing something illegal all these years and no one noticed.”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s often how it happens,” Lance said. “I wondered if I might ask you a few questions about a man called Balinor.”
She grew very still, but in a fashion only noticeable perhaps to someone trained to look for it. Her hands tightened on her cup and she drew inward. “I knew him. We were friends before I left for London.”
“If I might ask, why were you friends with him? Wasn’t it dangerous?”
“I felt sorry for him. He couldn’t get any work around here. Not that anyone would admit to not hiring a registered sorcerer, but they all claimed to be full up just the same. I used to bring him firewood when he didn’t have enough money,” she said.
Lance looked at Gwen, who nodded. She had told him, on the ride to Hunith’s, that he would have to word things carefully. Hunith was not a pushover. “Did you become anything closer than friends?”
“No,” she said. She was good, Lance thought– she wasn’t too quick or too slow to answer, and she kept a steady voice. “I had a boyfriend in London at the time.”
“Was that Merlin’s father?”
“Yes,” she said, and inwardly he crowed.
“What was his name?”
She tightened her lips. “Alan Pierce.”
He asked a few more questions, nonsense mainly, to give her the impression that the question of Merlin’s father had not been particularly important. Then, “Why isn’t he listed on Merlin’s birth papers?”
“He’s married,” she said. “I met him when he was on holiday at the hotel where I worked. I thought he’d get divorced, but he never did. That’s why I came back up here after Merlin was born.”
Lance wrote a few things down on his notepad, then finished his tea with the two of them, pretending to listen whilst Hunith and Gwen chatted about Merlin.
On the way back into the village, Gwen was quiet. “Did that bother you, asking her questions?” he asked.
“What? Oh, no,” she said, sounding as if she’d just awakened. “No. I was just thinking it would be nice to be doing what you’re doing. Doing anything, really.”
“You said you had dated a policeman. Was that...?” he began, but found he almost didn’t want to know.
“Arthur, yes. We were together for years,” Gwen said. She was smiling; obviously the relationship hadn’t ended badly. She saw the question in his eyes and added, “It wasn’t anything terrible, we just didn’t suit.”
He drew a breath. “Are you dating anyone now?”
“No, no one would have me.”
“Who wouldn’t have you?” he asked, scandalised. “That’s rubbish.”
She shrugged. “I’m being honest. No man’s willing to date me in Camelot. They still think I belong to Arthur or some silly shit.”
Lance turned back to the road, which he’d nearly forgot about. “There’s something very wrong with this village.”
“Tell me about it,” she sighed.
*
Merlin was just sitting down to a good stew, which he expected he would barely taste, when the knock came at the door. He knew it was Arthur from the rhythm of the knock, and wished, not for the first time, that he didn’t know Arthur so very well.
“Hi,” he said when he opened the door and there Arthur stood, looking uncertain and miserable. He barged into Merlin’s flat and paced around a bit, picking things up and then setting them down again.
“You’re about to eat,” he said accusingly.
“It’s half seven,” Merlin replied.
Arthur nodded, but neither moved to let Merlin eat nor asked to eat with him. He finally sat on the plump couch Merlin had got from his mother when she’d redecorated several years before. Arthur had sat on the couch dozens and dozens of times, and had always complained about how it put him to sleep, but he said nothing. He looked as though he’d rather be pacing again.
“Whisky?” Merlin asked, and Arthur nodded jerkily. He handed the tumbler over and it jangled in Arthur’s shaking hand, rattling the ice together.
“My father was a good man,” Arthur said, putting the whisky on the end table. Not, Merlin noted, on the coaster, but two centimetres away.
Merlin knew that Uther Pendragon was not, in fact, a good man, but there was a desperation in Arthur’s face that said even the slightest hint of disagreement could break him, and Merlin didn’t know how the pieces would fall. “He loved you,” he said neutrally instead. He wasn’t sure how true it was, but he assumed even Uther must have loved Arthur; how could anyone help it?
“Yes, he did,” Arthur said. His voice shook, and suddenly Merlin knew Arthur was about to cry, from the tensing of the muscles around his mouth and the convulsive twitch in his throat. He hadn’t seen Arthur cry since childhood, and it was Uther’s fault then as it was now. Arthur had never seemed to be able to develop a callous over all the careless I don’t have time for you, Arthurs. Merlin knew from experience there was no way to fix it but to push through it, but he was still sick with the misery of knowing exactly the shape and size of the pain and being unable to fix it. Helpless not to touch, his hand hovered over Arthur’s shoulder before settling there awkwardly. He expected to be rebuffed in the uneasy way Arthur always fought against affection, but Arthur turned into his body as if he’d only been waiting to be held. Merlin sighed– he’d wanted it for so many years it was a part of his personality: here is Merlin, he loves Arthur– but he was tense waiting for the inevitable shove away, the forced distance that always happened between them when, by chance, they circled too close. It never came, and Merlin finally put his arms all the way around Arthur, hoping that somehow his love bled through the cloth and skin and muscle and soothed the terrible grief he could feel in waves off of Arthur’s body.
“Arthur,” he whispered, and that seemed to be the trigger. Arthur broke against him.
Later, Arthur slept across Merlin’s lap. He had kicked off his boots and Merlin had wrestled him out of his coat after the worst had passed, and Merlin had settled him onto the couch with a blanket over his lower half. Merlin stroked his hair, testing the boundaries of what Arthur would allow him, and Arthur curled and uncurled his fingers in Merlin’s jeans before his hitching breath evened and he was peaceful.
Tracing along Arthur’s damp hairline, Merlin watched the fairy lights on his tree and hated Lance Dulac, hated Home Office, hated Balinor. The man in his arms trusted him, had always trusted him. It was a burden and a blessing, Arthur’s trust. He gave it so rarely. He loved hard when he loved at all– Merlin, Gwen, the men he worked with– and even when his love was betrayed, it wouldn’t turn to hate. It would turn to nothing. Merlin lived in fear of that nothing. He had always known there would be a day when he would look at Arthur and find that, instead of affection or laughter or even anger, he’d see absolutely no emotion at all. And he deserved it. There was the price for his peaceful life.
He put his arms around Arthur’s sleeping body as tightly as he could without waking him and bent his head to Arthur’s shoulder, breathing in the smell of snow and Arthur’s soap, and peppermint because Arthur loved candy canes. It was the last time he’d ever smell that particular mixture of Arthur Pendragon and the knowledge of that last-timeness hurt under his ribs so badly he thought it might kill him, but he knew what he had to do.
*
Sergeant Dulac was waiting for him when he opened the next morning. “You’re not thirty-four,” he said.
“No,” Merlin admitted. “How did you know?”
“Your mum told me a man named Alan Pierce was your father, and when I rang him last night he said it was true, but he said you were born in 1976, not 1977.”
Merlin unlocked the back door into the kitchens and turned on the fluorescent lights. They were garish, almost painful, with the sun not yet risen. He filled the coffee pot and asked, “Do you drink coffee?”
“No, tea for me,” Lance said.
“Right.” He started the kettle and braced himself on the sink. “You’ve guessed Balinor’s my father, then.” Lance nodded. “So you know I’m an unregistered sorcerer.”
“I’m so sorry, Merlin, but I won’t be able to keep that quiet. You’re going to have to register,” Lance said. He looked quite sad about it, Merlin thought, and wondered how on earth Lance Dulac had wound up in the police, as good and honest and earnest as he was.
“It’s all right,” he said gently. “I had a feeling this day was coming as soon as I heard the Dragon was dead.”
Lance’s brows drew together; he was handsome, really, the kind of man Merlin might have looked at twice if it weren’t for Arthur. “What was your father’s connection to the Dragon?”
Merlin sighed, and poured his coffee and Lance’s tea. “Balinor was the only person the Dragon would ever listen to. You must have heard stories of how powerful the Dragon was. He could take out anyone, anything, anytime he wanted. Uther spent hundreds of thousands of pounds helping the prison at Swansea find a way to keep him chained. Once he escaped, Uther tracked down my father, who had gone into hiding to escape from Uther in the first place, and told him everything would be forgiven if he would only find the Dragon and put him back in prison. Balinor refused, and Uther had him killed.”
“Do you think Balinor was the one who helped release the Dragon? Was he the one who helped him find information on Uther Pendragon over the years?” Lance’s face had suddenly turned keen, and Merlin realised why he was a policeman, after all; there was something of the hunter about him. Merlin supposed it wasn’t surprising that he’d sat up and took notice of Lance. He reminded Merlin a bit of Arthur after all.
“He must have been. I can’t think of anyone else who’d want to help a dangerous old sorcerer out,” Merlin said tiredly. He hadn’t slept at all. Arthur had jolted awake at nearly midnight, put his coat and boots on, and left with a mumbled goodbye, and Merlin had reheated his food and then forgot to eat it, going over and over the things he had to do. He wondered if, by the end of the day, he’d even be allowed to stay in Camelot. He’d have to go live with his mum, or maybe he’d have to go as far as Cardiff or even London to get away. He looked around his familiar kitchens and suddenly had to rub his suddenly stinging eyes.
“All right, then, all right,” Lance said, patting his hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll send my report on up to Wrexham. I’ll warn you, though, they’ll want more from you. You’ll be summoned, of course, but since everyone involved is dead, it shouldn’t be too hard on you.”
“Thanks,” Merlin said, grateful for the support. “I’m glad for you and Gwen.”
“What?” Lance exclaimed.
“Oh, it’s all round the village already, you and Gwen flirting. I’ve heard it from three different people, not including my mum, who wondered why you took a civilian to call on her.”
“Everyone’s a police expert now,” Lance said sulkily. “Civilian, honestly.”
*
He rang Arthur and asked him to come to the pond for some hockey, since they’d never been able to finish their match on Friday. It was his apology, that and a box of peppermint bark. Arthur’s face lit up when he saw it. “Thank you,” he said, his voice soft. He looked Merlin over. “Where are your skates?”
“I have something to tell you,” Merlin said. He pulled himself in, crossed his arms over his chest and tugged his beanie down over his ears. The cold made his nose run and he’d got in the habit of sniffing every few minutes whether he needed it or not. Arthur gave him a ‘go on’ wave. “You’re going to hate me.”
“I couldn’t,” Arthur said promptly, setting the bark onto the big stump. “Tell me and I’ll forgive you.”
“It’s not as simple as all that,” Merlin said. He turned away for a moment to stare out at the lake. He kept going right up to the line of crying and having to force it back down again, and wished he’d slept, or eaten, or anything that could have calmed him.
“Yes, it is. I’d forgive you anything,” Arthur said. He never wore a hat or scarf unless it was deep into the January wind and he was in danger of frostbite, so his face and ears were red. Merlin wanted to touch his face and the realisation that he never would hit him as swift as a punch in the stomach. He fought not to hunch over.
“I’m magic,” he said, and went up to the line again and over, crumpling in on himself and covering his face. His stomach dropped and roiled and he was terribly afraid for a moment that he was going to throw up on Arthur’s feet.
Arthur grabbed his shoulders and forced him to raise his head. He looked at Merlin levelly, square-shouldered, tired, stubbly, beautiful. “I know.”
“You– what?” he gasped.
“I’ve known since we were twelve.” It was only half-three, but the night encroached, and in the crisp blue and pale gold of the evening Arthur looked older, tired, but happier than Merlin had seen him in a long time. He had the look of a man who had faced something unimaginably awful and come out the other side. “I fell out of a tree. I should have broken my arm– hell, I should probably have cracked my head open, but I wasn’t even hurt.”
With the shock of his revelation pulled out from underneath him, Merlin could only sit heavily on the stump, knocking over the peppermint bark. “But Arthur, I’m magic. I’ve been lying to you.”
“I know,” Arthur said again.
“Stop saying that!” Merlin cried. “I bloody– my father’s the reason this is even being brought up again. He released the Dragon.”
Arthur crouched down in front of him, going to one knee in the snow. “Don’t, Merlin. Don’t put this on yourself. You know whose fault it all is.”
He sat on the stump and tried to piece it together, all the things he’d been hiding that Arthur knew. The wetness on his cheeks began to freeze and he wiped them with his mittened hands. The coil of terrible tension in his stomach slowly, slowly began to unwind. “Do you mean to say you’ve known for over twenty years and you’ve let me make a fool of myself trying to cover it up all that time?”
“It’s actually quite difficult to stop you making a fool of yourself, Merlin,” Arthur said.
Merlin tried to smile, but it was wobbly and fell off almost right away. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Why didn’t you turn me in?”
“You know why,” Arthur murmured. He looked down, and when he looked up again everything was there in his eyes.
“Oh,” Merlin said.
“Yeah,” Arthur said with a small smile. “Oh.”
He was kneeling almost between Merlin’s legs, and Merlin removed his mittens and put a hand to his cheek. Merlin suddenly remembered that only a scant fifteen minutes before he had been certain he’d never touch Arthur’s face, his beloved face with the blond stubble he denied trying to grow out every year, the funny eyebrows, the pointed nose, the chapped lips, the sharp jaw Merlin adored. The very belovedness of him and the wave of love that hit Merlin when he brushed his fingertips over Arthur’s eyelashes made him brave, and he smiled when he kissed him.
At some point, clouds had rolled in as they did nearly every night, blotting the moon and cheerfully settling in to snow. Flakes drifted into their hair and down the backs of their necks, and though the pleasure of the season’s snow had long since passed, Merlin thought he might grow fond of it again from the way it felt on his lips when he kissed Arthur, cold and hot together. Eventually, however, flakes went up his nose and he snorted them out, laughing.
“Come home with me, where it’s warm,” Arthur said. When Uther had died, Arthur had inherited the land, but he hadn’t moved into the big house. Merlin was relieved; he remembered the cold stone that never allowed anyone to be cosy, ever, no matter how many rugs were on the floors. Instead Arthur had moved into the small servants’ house, and hadn’t had the time (or the heart, Merlin thought) to tear down or renovate the bigger one yet.
“Okay,” he whispered, and Arthur pulled him close again to kiss. But they both shivered and clacked their teeth together, and Arthur finally took his hand so they could walk together toward the lighted house.
*
As soon as the door was shut behind them Arthur undid his coat and got his hands under all Merlin’s layers, the jumper and the long shirt and the vest, until his cold hands were on Merlin’s warm skin. Merlin felt his nipples go stiff and shuddered, throbbing between his legs along with the rapid beat of his heart.
“Need blankets,” Arthur whispered against his mouth, pushing him back against the wooden wall of the entryway.
He began to say, “No,” but Arthur kissed his neck hard, almost biting the thin skin, and his breath stuttered the word into, “Nnn-ahh.” But he had more snow melting and dripping down his back, and had to push Arthur away for a moment to shed all the layers but his jeans and vest. They came back together almost before he had his wet socks off, and he dug his fingers into Arthur’s back and then his arse, squeezing until Arthur got the point and fitted their hips together. He could feel the heat of Arthur’s cock through their jeans and shivered again so hard Arthur actually did bite him a little.
“Sorry,” Arthur breathed. “Unless you liked that.”
“I like it,” he moaned, and Arthur sucked at his neck, shoved his shirt up and found his nipples and sucked until Merlin’s cock twitched so hard he thought he might come, sucked at his stomach and then undid Merlin’s belt.
“You don’t have to,” Merling gasped automatically.
“Shut up,” Arthur mumbled, his colour high. “I know I don’t have to. I want to.”
He slipped the buttons of Merlin’s fly out of their holes and tugged his jeans down to his thighs, then tentatively hooked his fingers into the band of Merlin’s shorts. Suddenly he pressed his face against Merlin’s stomach and dropped a kiss there, then on the damp tip of his cock through his underwear. He looked up at Merlin through his lashes questioningly, as if to make sure Merlin was prepared, before he slid the shorts down. He breathed out a small, shaky oh at the sight of Merlin’s cock as he gently ran his thumb along the underside of it. Merlin, thighs trembling already, was about to ask Arthur again if he really wanted to do it, no matter how ill-advised that question might be, when Arthur slowly drew the head between his lips and into his hot mouth.
It was unlike Arthur to go into anything without learning how to do it well first, so his single-minded focus shouldn’t have surprised Merlin. But he sucked so fast and eager that Merlin staggered back a bit under the onslaught and Arthur had to hold him upright by his thighs. Arthur made little noises as he sucked, hand sneaking down the front of his jeans. Merlin stroked the silky hair from his forehead and Arthur pushed into his hand with his eyes gone drowsy, as if requesting approval. And Merlin wanted to tell him he was good, he was the best, he was the best of anything Merlin had ever had, but he knew as soon as he started talking he wouldn’t stop.
Arthur moaned around his cock, sharp and high, and Merlin thought he’s going to come. “Stop,” he gasped, and Arthur slid off with difficulty. His hand stilled. Merlin tugged it out of his jeans and pulled him to his feet. “Come on, let’s at least get into bed.”
They shed the rest of their clothes along the way, and Merlin wrapped himself around Arthur’s big, warm body as soon as they were in the bed and under the covers. “What do you like?” Merlin whispered, loving the feel of Arthur between his thighs, moving against him, cock pressed fat and thick against his stomach. He slid his hands over Arthur’s back, down the groove of his spine, into the dip that he loved and wanted to lick every summer when they went swimming, the round curve where he wanted to bite. His fingers slipped down between Arthur’s arse cheeks and Arthur shook against him.
“Please,” he said, suddenly rocking his hips fast, slipping his cock against Merlin’s stomach.
“You want me to–?” Merlin asked.
“I have condoms in the bathroom,” Arthur said, and pulled away to get them. When he came back Merlin stared. His hair was a mess and he looked nervous, but his cock had grown even harder. Merlin ran his fingers over it as Arthur climbed back into the bed and Arthur gasped and pulled away. He shoved a strip of condoms and a bottle of lube into Merlin’s hands, unable to look at him. “Go ahead,” he said chokily, slipping into the bed on his stomach.
“Sssh,” Merlin whispered, opening up the lube and dripping it into his hands, warming it between his palms. “At least let me get you ready.”
“I– I don’t need much,” he said. Merlin couldn’t see his face, but suspected it was bright red.
“I want to make you feel good,” Merlin murmured, “not take you like a virgin sacrifice.”
Arthur laughed a little bit, but it sounded a little off, and Merlin decided to go as slowly as he could. He slid his fingers up and down the line of Arthur’s back, farther and farther down, until he brushed over Arthur’s hole. Arthur arched up against him and said, “Please, please do it,” and he slid his fingertip in until Arthur shoved his arse up even harder and Merlin finally realised he desperately wanted it, he wanted it so much his breath was already gusting in and out.
“You really like this, don’t you?” he asked wonderingly.
“What gave you that idea?” Arthur panted, and it ended on a long moan when Merlin finally slid two fingers inside him and spread him as he tore the condom open with his teeth and rolled it onto his cock. In his daydreams he’d got to this point a thousand or so times, but he’d never been able to picture exactly how it would be with Arthur. There were parts of Arthur that were locked down so tightly no one could get into them, and sex was one of them. Once Merlin had teased Guinevere about looking a little flushed after being with Arthur and she’d given him a nervous glance, which had confused him and had made him wonder. Whilst Arthur and Gwen were dating Merlin had never allowed himself to think about Arthur, but that one nervous look, the way her eyes darted to his, came back to him again and again. He wasn’t surprised when they’d broke things off, the way everyone else was. The look had said it all.
He slid his cock into Arthur slowly again, not out of courtesy this time but because it felt good, because he wanted to remember how it felt to press inside of him, the heat and the tightness of it, the lush feel of Arthur’s arse under his fingers.
“God,” Arthur said, his voice low and harsh, “oh, god,” and tightened around Merlin’s cock.
“Hey,” Merlin said, soothing a hand over his back, but Arthur moaned and hung his head and suddenly the tightening turned to a hard pulsing. Merlin reached around him just as Arthur came, spurting into his hand in a slippery, hot rush. He was shocked and so delighted he couldn’t do anything but kiss Arthur’s back until he was finished.
He moved to pull out but Arthur said, “No– stay in.” His voice had gone choky again, embarrassed. “Keep going, it feels good.”
Merlin reluctantly pushed back in again, but pulled out once more and said, “Turn onto your back.” Arthur obeyed and Merlin saw he hadn’t softened all the way, his cock still dark and heavy. He allowed Merlin to arrange him and groaned when Merlin’s cock finally touched his hole again. Merlin looked at him skeptically until Arthur cracked an eye open and said, “I wasn’t lying, Merlin,” and so Merlin gave it to him exactly as he’d asked for it, fast, pistoning in and out. Arthur bit his lips and moaned and moaned and Merlin saw, after a few minutes, that he was hard again, thicker and bigger than he’d been before. He wrapped his hand, slippery with lube and come, around Arthur’s cock and began to strip it to the same rhythm as his hips, and Arthur clutched at his arms and went over so hard he nearly kicked Merlin in the face. This time Merlin went with him, letting Arthur’s leg go in the process and sagging atop him as he came. Arthur wrapped around him, faced pressed into Merlin’s shoulder until they began to cool.
“Clean,” Merlin said, unable to speak in full sentences. He stripped the condom off himself and gingerly tied it and put it on the floor.
“Later,” Arthur replied, pulling him close again, and they stayed entangled the rest of the night, waking only to whisper and kiss each other to sleep again.
*
“I’ve sent Wrexham my report,” Lance said the next morning when he went into Tintagel, “so you won’t see me around again until you’re summoned.”
Merlin smiled at him. He looked as if he were lit up from the inside, glowing with a brilliant inner flame. He looked so happy he might be sick from it. Pendragon, sitting at his usual table with Percival and his many plates full of food, watched Merlin move, caught his eyes, and smiled into his coffee.
“I’ll be there,” Merlin said. “I have to go to Cardiff to register myself tomorrow.”
Lance looked around the room at the old men, still carefully pretending they weren’t watching, and said, “I don’t think you’ll have a hard time of it here. They’ve been trying very hard to protect you.”
“Oh, it’s not me they’ve been trying to protect,” Merlin said, and Lance gave him a puzzled smile. “They– Camelot– they’ll do anything to protect the Pendragons.”
It was rather sweet how much the villagers loved Arthur Pendragon, Lance thought as he gave Merlin a final pat on the shoulder and left Tintagel, hopefully for the last time.
On his way out the door, the old man with the piping voice caught his sleeve exactly as he had several days before. “I told you,” he said, “if there’s something wrong, it’s to do with Morgana.”
“Leave it, Phillip,” someone said, and Lance shook Phillip’s hand and went on his way. But some small thing niggled at the back of his brain, and he wondered, as he left, how he knew the name Morgana.
*
Somehow he didn’t feel the way he did when a case was closed. There wasn’t quite that sense of job-well-done, though everything was wrapped up quite neatly as far as Home Office was concerned, and that meant he could stay on at SOCA and wouldn’t have to find himself arresting teenaged cokeheads in Cardiff. But somehow, somehow...
He looked out over the land and shuddered without knowing why, feeling a quick, horrid revulsion at the cold and the neverending hills and the teeming life that existed underneath the surface beauty. There was nothing for him in Wrexham, he realised with a sick start. He’d had visions of glory, of turning over rocks and exposing untruthful slime to the light, but really there was no underside; it was everywhere and all he’d worked for was sad and silly. All of a sudden he missed that old job in Cardiff. At least there the worst of humanity faced him head-on, and didn’t slither through his fingers.
There was only one road out of Camelot, and on his way through the village centre he saw Guinevere walking slowly along with her hands in her pockets. Without a thought, he stopped and opened the door on her side. “Like a lift?” he asked.
“Of course,” she replied.
“Like a lift out of Camelot?” he clarified.
She turned her smile on him sweetly and his spirits lifted. Perhaps, he thought, it wasn’t a bad old world after all really. “How far are we going?”
“Cardiff,” he said.
Slowly, she nodded. “All right. Yes.”
They drove in silence for a few moments. “Do you want to stop at your flat, get your things?”
She shook her head. “No. I’ve got everything I need right with me.”
He reached over the console and took her hand in his, sliding his cold fingers in between hers, and they drove away from Camelot.
Recipient:
jazzy_peachesAuthor:
jane_mondayRating: NC-17
Pairings: Arthur/Merlin, Gwen/Lancelot
Word Count: 9,179
Warnings: None
Summary: When Police Sergeant Lance Dulac begins to investigate a crime in the small Welsh village of Camelot, it stirs up decades of secrets.
Author's Notes: I hope you enjoy it,
jazzy_peaches!Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavor.
When Sergeant Lance Dulac got the message from Wrexham to run down to Camelot to ask around about the late former Mayor Uther Pendragon, he was in the middle of his coffee and bacon-and-egg sandwich and reluctant to move. It was below zero and his Volvo was fifteen years old and took ages to warm. But he’d only just worked his way up to SOCA and the Pendragon investigation was the event of the season, so to speak. You didn’t get much bribery in Northern Wales. When he’d first been a beat cop in Cardiff it was murder this and robbery that, but in the north it was only drugs and the odd bit of prostitution.
Camelot was a quiet village. The very nature of his post ensured Lance knew all the local government, and Albion County had always been a bit of a calm, prosperous nothingy place. No scandals, reluctant to adapt to the new ways. When Lance had spoken to the local doctor, Gaius, who had spent nearly as many years on the community council as Pendragon, Gaius had said, “You won’t find a lot of support for this investigation, I’m afraid. Before Uther started on the council there were places without any telephone. He brought Camelot into the twentieth century.”
Lance knew the mindset of the smaller towns. He was from one of them himself, and had seen firsthand how the locals knit together against any outsider, especially an official one. But he had his methods. The first stage involved getting close to the local bobby, who could usually sway people to answer a few questions. In the Pendragon investigation, the local bobby was Arthur Pendragon, which meant the investigation could go one of two ways. If Pendragon cooperated, things would move as smoothly as any case ever did. If he did not, Lance would get nowhere and likely be transferred out of SOCA and back into the ordinary police. Luckily, Arthur Pendragon had a reputation for being as straightforward as Uther Pendragon was not.
Lance hadn’t any GPS and had to ring his assistant, young Howell, and ask him to relay directions to the village centre. It was nearly eight and a thin dawn finally lit the horizon when Lance walked into Tintagel, home to the best laverbread in the north. Lance’s stomach grumbled as he went in, and he told it to behave. He wanted no reports to his superiors of his tactless stomach making noise as he questioned a witness.
There were several iron tables outside on the deck, left to weather the winter. In the warm restaurant there were nine more tables, white wood with red tops, and they were all full. Gaius had told Lance that Sergeant Pendragon and his constable, Percival, ate breakfast at Tintagel every morning, so Lance looked around for a uniform and found only one.
The man was enormous, and had what looked like the remnants of seven separate breakfasts in front of him. “Hup,” he said affably when Lance caught his eye. He tapped his eyebrow with the tip of his finger out of respect and added, “You here to see Arthur?”
Lance nodded, and the constable pointed to the door that led to the kitchens. “He’ll be in back with Merlin,” he said.
Lance walked to the door with the eyes of every person in the dining area upon him, though when he glanced over his shoulder they were all looking carefully elsewhere. He wondered if every kitchen in every restaurant was the same– the same fried-egg-and-ham smell, the same layers of grease, the same man in the corner pushing the same batch of muffin dough round the same enormous silver bowl.
“But I told you I wanted chocolate chip today.” Lance could only see the back of Arthur Pendragon as he hovered over the man with the silver bowl.
The man, who Lance assumed must be Merlin, nudged Pendragon away with a hip. “And I told you I was making apple and brown sugar.”
“Excuse me,” Lance said, and they both turned around. “Hello, I’m Sergeant Dulac. I need to speak with you, if you’re Sergeant Pendragon.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve been expecting you,” Pendragon said. He was a broad, blond, handsome man about Lance’s age, with high colour and the bright blue eyes common to the area. There was something firm about him, in the sharp planes of his face and his level honest gaze. He wasn’t happy to cooperate, Lance thought, but he would. It was a quality Lance responded to, for he appreciated rare honesty when he found it. “We can talk outside. It’s a bit cold, but we’ll get no privacy anywhere else.”
Just as they walked out of the kitchens, Merlin called out, “There’s a batch of chocolate chip cooling on the racks.” Pendragon said nothing, but Lance saw the private half-smile and his curiosity twinged.
The air was still, but it stung the eyelids and the nose and lungs with every breath. “I’ve thought about this quite a lot,” Pendragon murmured, pulling out his gloves, “and I don’t know what I can tell you, really. I didn’t live with my father. I saw him for Sunday dinner every week, but our conversation was never very– it’s– we never talked politics unless he was asking me when I wanted a promotion.”
There was a bitter, trembling note in his voice. Lance ignored it and asked, “Do you smoke?” He always kept a pack with him, though he didn’t smoke himself.
Pendragon shook his head. “Gave it up years ago.”
“All right then,” Lance said. “Did you and your father ever discuss the repeal on the magic ban?”
Pendragon’s face tightened. “I knew my father’s stance. He was...very hard on magic-users. I don’t think I’d have liked to live here if I were magic, to be honest. Other areas have relaxed a bit, but until the last few years I’ve had one, maybe two assaults a month, and every time it’s about magic.”
Tintagel sat at the top of a hill, looking over the land. The lake was half a kilometre or so away and Lance could see the fishing dories, taking advantage of the low winds. “Did you ever suspect your father might take it any farther than disapproval?”
Pendragon hesitated. “On occasion I wondered if he had ever participated in any of the attacks, back when it was illegal. I’ve heard stories. It was a different time. But if you’re asking whether I thought my father would have really hurt anyone, no, I can’t imagine it.”
He could imagine it, but didn’t want to let himself, Lance thought. “I might as well tell you now, this investigation is going to be big. You’re going to have to give quite a bit of your time over to it, to giving as much information as possible. Your father’s entire life and business will be aired in public. If there’s anything you can think of, anything related to magic, any small thing you might have seen, it will only speed things along.”
“I’m cooperating to the best of my ability,” Pendragon said coldly.
Lance felt small and cruel at the look on his face, but pressed on. “I assume you’ve gone over the information we’ve uncovered.”
Pendragon sniffed. “You haven’t uncovered anything, Dulac. It was given to you.”
“All right, then, the information that’s been given to us. If you’ve gone over it, it’s clear he gave bribes to have magic-users incarcerated under flimsy pretense. If you can think of any registered magic-users who might know anything, you’ll let us know.”
Pendragon nodded, tipped his hat, and said, “I’ll be in touch with Wrexham.” He headed back into the restaurant, then turned and said, without looking at Lance, “Once Percival and I’ve left, you might ask inside. The old men aren’t magic, but they know everything.”
Lance peered through the door, saw two dozen wrinkled faces staring blankly back, and didn’t reply.
Once Pendragon and his constable had left the restaurant, Lance went in and sat near the biggest cluster of old men. They glared at him, but it was the general glare of the elderly and not anything personal.
“You’re the one come to dig up Uther Pendragon,” one of them said. He smoked a large, smelly, hand-rolled cigarette. One of his trouser legs was empty, rolled up and pinned in place.
“I’m investigating a few claims, yes,” Lance replied. “I hear he had a strong hand with the magic-users.”
They were silent. The one who had spoken tapped his cigarette and looked at Lance thoughtfully. “You interviewing witnesses, yeah? So where’s your tape recording?”
He didn’t bother to correct them, although he fought a smile. Since the advent of the police dramas, everyone thought he was a star witness and expected to go on trial in some American court room. He pulled out his flash drive and set it on the table, pushing on one end of it. “If you’ve got any information that could be useful to us, we might need to call you in for further examination,” he said, drawing on a vague memory of the last procedural he’d seen on telly.
More silence. Finally, the one with the hand-rolled cigarettes, who seemed to be the leader of the group, bent and said loudly into the flash drive, “Jasper Fairchild, Eagles Meadow. I do mind Uther Pendragon had a heavy hand with the magic-users. Back when it was illegal, we all had the heavy hand, but even when the laws came down he would stand up in the council and say the sorcerers were the scourge of the countryside, that they were harming the babies– cot death was high then– and they were stealing the sheep and killing the crops.”
Another man, skinny with a piping voice, added, “We used to have one of ‘em at the edge of the village, lived alone. Pendragon went on and on about him. He disappeared one day with his fire still going. Lot of us thought he himself had something to do with it.”
“Do you think the man was killed?” Lance asked.
Jasper glared at the man and interrupted. “Och, no. Can’t imagine anyone round here going to the trouble.”
Lance opened his mouth to ask another question, but piping voice said, “You might ask our Arthur if he knows the man. ‘Twas Balinor.”
“Arthur wouldn’t know, he was only wee,” another of the men said. It sounded as if he had kicked someone under the table.
“But Merlin would. His mum and Balinor were great friends,” piping voice added.
“Shush your noise, Phillip Grouse,” Jasper said. “Hunith never went near any old mushty. She was a good girl.”
Lance spoke over the din as the men began to grumble at one another. “So are you saying Merlin would have known about a crofter who had magic and was driven out of the village?”
“No,” Jasper said, sounding exasperated. “It was before his time.”
“Do you think he might have told Sergeant Pendragon anything about it?”
“No,” Jasper said.
“Might have done,” said piping voice. “The boys are that close.”
“Close,” the other men echoed.
“Close.” Lance said, picking up on an odd tone. “Are they–”
Piping voice tapped Lance on the arm. “Merlin’s a poofter!”
“It don’t matter though,” Jasper said. “We’re not like them up at Mercia. We appreciate diversity.”
They all nodded proudly. Lance sensed he had lost control of the conversation. As they spoke, Lance had noticed Merlin going to and from the kitchens, bringing food and tea and wiping down counters and empty tables. He was a tall, thin man with a dark shock of almost-curly hair, the beginnings of a beard, and a sweep of black lashes. If Arthur was thirty-five or so, around Lancelot’s age, Merlin must also have been, though he looked younger.
“I should speak with Merlin next,” he said. “Thank you, gentlemen.”
He picked up his flash drive and pretended to click it off. “If you need the subpoena, we’re all at Eagles Meadow,” Jasper said.
“I’ll send a summons for all of you if this goes to the higher courts,” Lance replied, and finally let himself smile as he headed back into the kitchens.
“Sorry, I’ve never heard of anyone called Balinor,” Merlin said.
“One of the men seemed to think your mother might have known him.” Lance leaned against the counter and watched Merlin work. He deftly mixed what Lance assumed was a cake, without measuring spoons or cups, and started up one of the big electric mixing bowls, then wiped his hands on his blue half-apron and faced Lance.
“I don’t think so.” He looked as if he were thinking for a moment. “She’d have been too afraid to associate with a sorcerer in those days.”
He was lying, Lance thought as Merlin smiled sunnily. There was no smile in his eyes, and he continued wiping his hands well after they were clean.
“How old are you?” Lance asked. “You’re the same age as Sergeant Pendragon, yeah? The men said you two were close.”
“I’m thirty-four,” Merlin said. “Arthur and I have known each other forever. My mum was his nanny until he went to school, so we were brought up together in a way.”
Lance heard the way Merlin said the word ‘Arthur,’ the small sigh underlying it, and decided to take a chance. “They seemed to think you were closer than that.”
The smile withdrew, turning pinched. “We’re not,” he said. “Not like that.”
“But you know everything about each other, is that true?”
The flush crept down over Merlin’s face, spread over his cheeks and onto his ears, which Lance noticed were artfully covered by his hair. “We’ve been friends for over thirty years,” he said. “We know a lot.”
Lance knew he’d pushed too far, and would get nothing more out of him for a long while. “All right then,” he said. “Let us know if you have any more information, anything you might have overheard about Uther Pendragon over the years, or this Balinor fellow.”
“Uther was a horrible man,” Merlin said as Lance walked away. It sounded as if it had broken free from a tightly-locked place in his body. He looked surprised at himself, but continued. “Whatever you’re investigating, he’s done worse.”
“I know,” Lance said. “That’s always the way.”
He waited for Merlin to go on, but he only wiped his hands once more, nearly wringing his apron. “Don’t tell Arthur I said that.”
“I won’t,” Lance told him.
On his way out, the man with the piping voice stopped him with a gnarled hand and said, “If there’s something wrong, it’s Morgana’s doing.”
Lance nodded and tried to disentangle himself. “Shut it, Phillip, you mangy old gossip,” Jasper Fairchild called out, and finally Lance was free to leave.
That evening, Merlin met Arthur down by the largest of the ponds on the Pendragon estates. He came carrying a bowl, out of which steam gradually wafted as he walked. He had a pair of skates over his shoulder. Arthur sat on the massive stump beside the pond with his skates already laced, holding the hockey sticks. In the winter, they played every Friday evening. The large pond always froze through before the others did, long before any other water froze in Camelot. Arthur had mentioned it once and Merlin had shrugged and said it must have to do with the algae.
“Potato cakes,” Merlin explained when Arthur indicated the bowl. He tugged Arthur’s gloves off and wrapped their fingers together around the warm cosy covering the bowl, and they both smiled. There was a bit of spicy mayonnaise to dip the cakes in, and Arthur ate happily whilst Merlin put on his skates.
“You’ve overcooked them a bit,” Arthur said when he straightened.
“I’m going to pretend that’s your way of saying ‘thank you, Merlin, your food is always appreciated, especially when it’s twenty-thousand arsing degrees below zero and I want to play hockey.’” But he knew what Arthur meant.
“You’re worried,” Arthur murmured.
“It’s that Dulac man from Wrexham.” He padded gingerly over to the ice and Arthur handed him a stick.
“He’s only doing his job.” They scuffed the surface of the pond, untouched but for the thin scratches from the previous week’s match. Arthur pulled the puck out of his pocket, tossed it up, and they began their usual uncoordinated, half-serious, half-joking volley for control. “Seems like a good bloke. I was afraid they’d send some wanker from London.”
“Doesn’t it bother you, him asking you about your dad?” Merlin asked.
Arthur checked him so hard he almost fell over. “Nope.
“It bothers me,” he said. He sneaked in between Arthur’s legs and nabbed the puck, shoved it hard across the line they’d drawn for Arthur’s side.
Arthur’s eyes narrowed, but he merely retrieved the puck. “Why should it? It’s not your family being examined, is it?”
“But it is, though. He’s asking into my life, asking about my mum, about who I know.” Merlin knew he shouldn’t continue, but he couldn’t seem to stop. His back and hips and jaw hurt from the tension that had strung him tight since Dulac had asked him about Balinor. “I don’t know why you’re co-operating either.”
Arthur checked him even harder. “I’m the police, Merlin, how would that look? And if my father did something wrong, I can’t very well stick my head in the sand.”
“I thought you’d be more loyal than all that,” Merlin muttered, and Arthur froze, barely registering Merlin’s second goal.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he whispered.
The words burst out, hateful, bilious, like the opening of an infection. “You’re acting like Morgana.”
Arthur pushed out at him fast as a snake, white-lipped. Just as he did it, the wrens in the trees around the pond began to call out to each other in angry little squawks. Merlin slid on his arse halfway across the pond and Arthur skated up to him, stopped with a snap and bent over Merlin. “Get off my land.”
Somewhere in the back of his head, a bewildered part of him wondered how they’d gone from potato cakes to Arthur looming over him with his face contorted and his fists clenched as if he might actually hit Merlin for only the second time in their lives. The first time, Merlin had been four and Arthur five, and Merlin had picked up one of Arthur’s toys, a little dog with a broken tail and most of the paint gone. It was old and shabby and therefore, he reasoned, Arthur wouldn’t mind if he played with it. But Arthur had seen him, run over, and smacked him in the face. He had been about to cry, more out of surprise than hurt, but Arthur had burst into tears and cried so hard Hunith had had to lead him out of the nursery and Merlin hadn’t seen him for several hours. When Arthur returned, subdued and miserable, he had apologised and handed Merlin the dog. “You can have it,” he’d said. “I don’t want it.” Merlin had the dog still; he discovered years later that it was the only thing Arthur had of his mother’s, and tucked it away in one of the boxes of things people accumulate over time, planning to sneak it back into Arthur’s flat someday.
The memory usually flooded him with affection, but at the moment it was the first in a long line of injustices he felt he’d suffered. “Go fuck yourself,” he hissed, staggering to his feet and brushing himself off.
“I mean it, Merlin. Don’t come back,” Arthur said. He looked ill.
Merlin walked away, hating him. The idea of picking up the tin of potato cakes, in its flowered cosy, and taking it with him was suddenly so stupid he was furious at it, and picked it up as he stomped past the stump. He flung it into the trees, stirring up the wrens again, snatched up his boots, and left.
The next morning, Lance returned to Camelot armed with several hours of research, much of it useless. Merlin Emrys, he had discovered, had been born over a year after Balinor had disappeared, and although Hunith Emrys had been questioned on his whereabouts, she had seemed quite casual about her acquaintance with him. There was no father listed on Emrys’s birth papers, but it wasn’t unusual; Hunith had moved to London for work and returned with a baby. It happened all the time.
Of Balinor he had learnt less, but what he had found was much more important. Balinor was listed as an ally of one of Northern Wales’s most notorious criminals, the Dragon. The Dragon had been imprisoned down at Swansea during the early 1970s and escaped three decades later. He was sighted once or twice a year, always in Wales and always out in the open enough to infuriate Interpol. Lance was not even certain what crime the Dragon had been involved with– sometimes they said drugs, sometimes money laundering, sometimes murder– but whatever it was, it was over with now. The Dragon was dead, and it was his information which had begun the investigation. Three weeks previously, his body had been found hanging in an old council flat, and neatly laid out on the bare mattress was a list of all the people– judges, council members, mayors, police inspectors– whom Uther Pendragon had bribed over the years, along with letters and emails. Everything was there but the final bit of information: who had helped the Dragon. Someone, Lance’s boss, Chief Inspector Agravaine insisted, had helped the Dragon escape. Someone had turned up all this information for him. Someone who had known Uther Pendragon and hated him.
When Lance went into Tintagel he expected Merlin, but instead found a young woman in a checked pinny serving slices of sour cherry and peach pie to the Eagles Meadow crew. He had an immediate impression of sweetness in her face and, when she met his eyes, it was confirmed. Her smile was crooked and kind. Lovely, he thought, and shook himself for being stupid.
“You must be Sergeant Dulac,” she said, shaking his hand. “Gwen Thomas.”
He realised, after she raised an eyebrow at him, that he hadn’t responded, and felt himself flush. “Uh. Yes, hello,” he said. “Where’s Merlin?”
“He rang last night and asked if I would come in this morning,” she said. “I’m a bit worried about him, to be honest. It’s been years since he’s had anyone open for him.”
Lance settled himself on one of the chairs at the counter and watched her neatly slice pies with her capable hands. “May I have a slice of the apple?” he asked, and she gave it to him. It was hot, heavy on the cinnamon, with the odd currant buried here or there. He licked his fork as he thought through his list of interviews. “If I wanted to talk to Hunith Emrys, where might I find her?”
“She lives in a cottage just outside Camelot, in Ealdor,” Gwen said. “What do you want with Hunith?”
He paused. “Can I be honest with you? And will you give me your opinion?” he asked. It wasn’t something he’d ever asked a person outside the police force, but there was something about Gwen Thomas that made him think he could ask her anything and she would help him.
“Of course,” she said, and pulled out a bit of clotted cream to dab atop the pie.
He explained the investigation in a low voice, mindful of the other people in the restaurant. “The men were very insistent that Hunith wouldn’t have known Balinor, but I think she might have,” he said. “I think she knew him very well.”
“You think Balinor is Merlin’s father.” She smiled when he raised his eyebrows. “My brother is a policeman, Sergeant Dulac, and I dated one for many years. I know the way they think.”
“I just want to see what she has to say about Uther Pendragon,” Lance said, feeling rather lame and flattened by the word “dated.”
Gwen wiped the counters with a cloth. “Tell you what. Merlin should be in before noon. When he gets in, I’ll come with you to Hunith’s house. I’ve known her for ages, she might talk more if I’m there.”
He brightened. “It’s a date, then!” he exclaimed, and then, “Well, not a date, I couldn’t very well take you on a date while I’m in uniform.”
“Right,” she said. Her face was deliberately very serious. “It’s official police business.”
“Cheeky,” he laughed, and asked for another piece of pie.
Hunith Emrys’s tiny cottage was comfortable and crowded in the way pensioners’ homes often were. There was a neat little fire and too many chairs, and pictures of Merlin covered the walls.
“What can I do to help you?” she asked. “I’ve heard all about the investigation. It seems so strange that Uther Pendragon could have been doing something illegal all these years and no one noticed.”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s often how it happens,” Lance said. “I wondered if I might ask you a few questions about a man called Balinor.”
She grew very still, but in a fashion only noticeable perhaps to someone trained to look for it. Her hands tightened on her cup and she drew inward. “I knew him. We were friends before I left for London.”
“If I might ask, why were you friends with him? Wasn’t it dangerous?”
“I felt sorry for him. He couldn’t get any work around here. Not that anyone would admit to not hiring a registered sorcerer, but they all claimed to be full up just the same. I used to bring him firewood when he didn’t have enough money,” she said.
Lance looked at Gwen, who nodded. She had told him, on the ride to Hunith’s, that he would have to word things carefully. Hunith was not a pushover. “Did you become anything closer than friends?”
“No,” she said. She was good, Lance thought– she wasn’t too quick or too slow to answer, and she kept a steady voice. “I had a boyfriend in London at the time.”
“Was that Merlin’s father?”
“Yes,” she said, and inwardly he crowed.
“What was his name?”
She tightened her lips. “Alan Pierce.”
He asked a few more questions, nonsense mainly, to give her the impression that the question of Merlin’s father had not been particularly important. Then, “Why isn’t he listed on Merlin’s birth papers?”
“He’s married,” she said. “I met him when he was on holiday at the hotel where I worked. I thought he’d get divorced, but he never did. That’s why I came back up here after Merlin was born.”
Lance wrote a few things down on his notepad, then finished his tea with the two of them, pretending to listen whilst Hunith and Gwen chatted about Merlin.
On the way back into the village, Gwen was quiet. “Did that bother you, asking her questions?” he asked.
“What? Oh, no,” she said, sounding as if she’d just awakened. “No. I was just thinking it would be nice to be doing what you’re doing. Doing anything, really.”
“You said you had dated a policeman. Was that...?” he began, but found he almost didn’t want to know.
“Arthur, yes. We were together for years,” Gwen said. She was smiling; obviously the relationship hadn’t ended badly. She saw the question in his eyes and added, “It wasn’t anything terrible, we just didn’t suit.”
He drew a breath. “Are you dating anyone now?”
“No, no one would have me.”
“Who wouldn’t have you?” he asked, scandalised. “That’s rubbish.”
She shrugged. “I’m being honest. No man’s willing to date me in Camelot. They still think I belong to Arthur or some silly shit.”
Lance turned back to the road, which he’d nearly forgot about. “There’s something very wrong with this village.”
“Tell me about it,” she sighed.
Merlin was just sitting down to a good stew, which he expected he would barely taste, when the knock came at the door. He knew it was Arthur from the rhythm of the knock, and wished, not for the first time, that he didn’t know Arthur so very well.
“Hi,” he said when he opened the door and there Arthur stood, looking uncertain and miserable. He barged into Merlin’s flat and paced around a bit, picking things up and then setting them down again.
“You’re about to eat,” he said accusingly.
“It’s half seven,” Merlin replied.
Arthur nodded, but neither moved to let Merlin eat nor asked to eat with him. He finally sat on the plump couch Merlin had got from his mother when she’d redecorated several years before. Arthur had sat on the couch dozens and dozens of times, and had always complained about how it put him to sleep, but he said nothing. He looked as though he’d rather be pacing again.
“Whisky?” Merlin asked, and Arthur nodded jerkily. He handed the tumbler over and it jangled in Arthur’s shaking hand, rattling the ice together.
“My father was a good man,” Arthur said, putting the whisky on the end table. Not, Merlin noted, on the coaster, but two centimetres away.
Merlin knew that Uther Pendragon was not, in fact, a good man, but there was a desperation in Arthur’s face that said even the slightest hint of disagreement could break him, and Merlin didn’t know how the pieces would fall. “He loved you,” he said neutrally instead. He wasn’t sure how true it was, but he assumed even Uther must have loved Arthur; how could anyone help it?
“Yes, he did,” Arthur said. His voice shook, and suddenly Merlin knew Arthur was about to cry, from the tensing of the muscles around his mouth and the convulsive twitch in his throat. He hadn’t seen Arthur cry since childhood, and it was Uther’s fault then as it was now. Arthur had never seemed to be able to develop a callous over all the careless I don’t have time for you, Arthurs. Merlin knew from experience there was no way to fix it but to push through it, but he was still sick with the misery of knowing exactly the shape and size of the pain and being unable to fix it. Helpless not to touch, his hand hovered over Arthur’s shoulder before settling there awkwardly. He expected to be rebuffed in the uneasy way Arthur always fought against affection, but Arthur turned into his body as if he’d only been waiting to be held. Merlin sighed– he’d wanted it for so many years it was a part of his personality: here is Merlin, he loves Arthur– but he was tense waiting for the inevitable shove away, the forced distance that always happened between them when, by chance, they circled too close. It never came, and Merlin finally put his arms all the way around Arthur, hoping that somehow his love bled through the cloth and skin and muscle and soothed the terrible grief he could feel in waves off of Arthur’s body.
“Arthur,” he whispered, and that seemed to be the trigger. Arthur broke against him.
Later, Arthur slept across Merlin’s lap. He had kicked off his boots and Merlin had wrestled him out of his coat after the worst had passed, and Merlin had settled him onto the couch with a blanket over his lower half. Merlin stroked his hair, testing the boundaries of what Arthur would allow him, and Arthur curled and uncurled his fingers in Merlin’s jeans before his hitching breath evened and he was peaceful.
Tracing along Arthur’s damp hairline, Merlin watched the fairy lights on his tree and hated Lance Dulac, hated Home Office, hated Balinor. The man in his arms trusted him, had always trusted him. It was a burden and a blessing, Arthur’s trust. He gave it so rarely. He loved hard when he loved at all– Merlin, Gwen, the men he worked with– and even when his love was betrayed, it wouldn’t turn to hate. It would turn to nothing. Merlin lived in fear of that nothing. He had always known there would be a day when he would look at Arthur and find that, instead of affection or laughter or even anger, he’d see absolutely no emotion at all. And he deserved it. There was the price for his peaceful life.
He put his arms around Arthur’s sleeping body as tightly as he could without waking him and bent his head to Arthur’s shoulder, breathing in the smell of snow and Arthur’s soap, and peppermint because Arthur loved candy canes. It was the last time he’d ever smell that particular mixture of Arthur Pendragon and the knowledge of that last-timeness hurt under his ribs so badly he thought it might kill him, but he knew what he had to do.
Sergeant Dulac was waiting for him when he opened the next morning. “You’re not thirty-four,” he said.
“No,” Merlin admitted. “How did you know?”
“Your mum told me a man named Alan Pierce was your father, and when I rang him last night he said it was true, but he said you were born in 1976, not 1977.”
Merlin unlocked the back door into the kitchens and turned on the fluorescent lights. They were garish, almost painful, with the sun not yet risen. He filled the coffee pot and asked, “Do you drink coffee?”
“No, tea for me,” Lance said.
“Right.” He started the kettle and braced himself on the sink. “You’ve guessed Balinor’s my father, then.” Lance nodded. “So you know I’m an unregistered sorcerer.”
“I’m so sorry, Merlin, but I won’t be able to keep that quiet. You’re going to have to register,” Lance said. He looked quite sad about it, Merlin thought, and wondered how on earth Lance Dulac had wound up in the police, as good and honest and earnest as he was.
“It’s all right,” he said gently. “I had a feeling this day was coming as soon as I heard the Dragon was dead.”
Lance’s brows drew together; he was handsome, really, the kind of man Merlin might have looked at twice if it weren’t for Arthur. “What was your father’s connection to the Dragon?”
Merlin sighed, and poured his coffee and Lance’s tea. “Balinor was the only person the Dragon would ever listen to. You must have heard stories of how powerful the Dragon was. He could take out anyone, anything, anytime he wanted. Uther spent hundreds of thousands of pounds helping the prison at Swansea find a way to keep him chained. Once he escaped, Uther tracked down my father, who had gone into hiding to escape from Uther in the first place, and told him everything would be forgiven if he would only find the Dragon and put him back in prison. Balinor refused, and Uther had him killed.”
“Do you think Balinor was the one who helped release the Dragon? Was he the one who helped him find information on Uther Pendragon over the years?” Lance’s face had suddenly turned keen, and Merlin realised why he was a policeman, after all; there was something of the hunter about him. Merlin supposed it wasn’t surprising that he’d sat up and took notice of Lance. He reminded Merlin a bit of Arthur after all.
“He must have been. I can’t think of anyone else who’d want to help a dangerous old sorcerer out,” Merlin said tiredly. He hadn’t slept at all. Arthur had jolted awake at nearly midnight, put his coat and boots on, and left with a mumbled goodbye, and Merlin had reheated his food and then forgot to eat it, going over and over the things he had to do. He wondered if, by the end of the day, he’d even be allowed to stay in Camelot. He’d have to go live with his mum, or maybe he’d have to go as far as Cardiff or even London to get away. He looked around his familiar kitchens and suddenly had to rub his suddenly stinging eyes.
“All right, then, all right,” Lance said, patting his hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll send my report on up to Wrexham. I’ll warn you, though, they’ll want more from you. You’ll be summoned, of course, but since everyone involved is dead, it shouldn’t be too hard on you.”
“Thanks,” Merlin said, grateful for the support. “I’m glad for you and Gwen.”
“What?” Lance exclaimed.
“Oh, it’s all round the village already, you and Gwen flirting. I’ve heard it from three different people, not including my mum, who wondered why you took a civilian to call on her.”
“Everyone’s a police expert now,” Lance said sulkily. “Civilian, honestly.”
He rang Arthur and asked him to come to the pond for some hockey, since they’d never been able to finish their match on Friday. It was his apology, that and a box of peppermint bark. Arthur’s face lit up when he saw it. “Thank you,” he said, his voice soft. He looked Merlin over. “Where are your skates?”
“I have something to tell you,” Merlin said. He pulled himself in, crossed his arms over his chest and tugged his beanie down over his ears. The cold made his nose run and he’d got in the habit of sniffing every few minutes whether he needed it or not. Arthur gave him a ‘go on’ wave. “You’re going to hate me.”
“I couldn’t,” Arthur said promptly, setting the bark onto the big stump. “Tell me and I’ll forgive you.”
“It’s not as simple as all that,” Merlin said. He turned away for a moment to stare out at the lake. He kept going right up to the line of crying and having to force it back down again, and wished he’d slept, or eaten, or anything that could have calmed him.
“Yes, it is. I’d forgive you anything,” Arthur said. He never wore a hat or scarf unless it was deep into the January wind and he was in danger of frostbite, so his face and ears were red. Merlin wanted to touch his face and the realisation that he never would hit him as swift as a punch in the stomach. He fought not to hunch over.
“I’m magic,” he said, and went up to the line again and over, crumpling in on himself and covering his face. His stomach dropped and roiled and he was terribly afraid for a moment that he was going to throw up on Arthur’s feet.
Arthur grabbed his shoulders and forced him to raise his head. He looked at Merlin levelly, square-shouldered, tired, stubbly, beautiful. “I know.”
“You– what?” he gasped.
“I’ve known since we were twelve.” It was only half-three, but the night encroached, and in the crisp blue and pale gold of the evening Arthur looked older, tired, but happier than Merlin had seen him in a long time. He had the look of a man who had faced something unimaginably awful and come out the other side. “I fell out of a tree. I should have broken my arm– hell, I should probably have cracked my head open, but I wasn’t even hurt.”
With the shock of his revelation pulled out from underneath him, Merlin could only sit heavily on the stump, knocking over the peppermint bark. “But Arthur, I’m magic. I’ve been lying to you.”
“I know,” Arthur said again.
“Stop saying that!” Merlin cried. “I bloody– my father’s the reason this is even being brought up again. He released the Dragon.”
Arthur crouched down in front of him, going to one knee in the snow. “Don’t, Merlin. Don’t put this on yourself. You know whose fault it all is.”
He sat on the stump and tried to piece it together, all the things he’d been hiding that Arthur knew. The wetness on his cheeks began to freeze and he wiped them with his mittened hands. The coil of terrible tension in his stomach slowly, slowly began to unwind. “Do you mean to say you’ve known for over twenty years and you’ve let me make a fool of myself trying to cover it up all that time?”
“It’s actually quite difficult to stop you making a fool of yourself, Merlin,” Arthur said.
Merlin tried to smile, but it was wobbly and fell off almost right away. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Why didn’t you turn me in?”
“You know why,” Arthur murmured. He looked down, and when he looked up again everything was there in his eyes.
“Oh,” Merlin said.
“Yeah,” Arthur said with a small smile. “Oh.”
He was kneeling almost between Merlin’s legs, and Merlin removed his mittens and put a hand to his cheek. Merlin suddenly remembered that only a scant fifteen minutes before he had been certain he’d never touch Arthur’s face, his beloved face with the blond stubble he denied trying to grow out every year, the funny eyebrows, the pointed nose, the chapped lips, the sharp jaw Merlin adored. The very belovedness of him and the wave of love that hit Merlin when he brushed his fingertips over Arthur’s eyelashes made him brave, and he smiled when he kissed him.
At some point, clouds had rolled in as they did nearly every night, blotting the moon and cheerfully settling in to snow. Flakes drifted into their hair and down the backs of their necks, and though the pleasure of the season’s snow had long since passed, Merlin thought he might grow fond of it again from the way it felt on his lips when he kissed Arthur, cold and hot together. Eventually, however, flakes went up his nose and he snorted them out, laughing.
“Come home with me, where it’s warm,” Arthur said. When Uther had died, Arthur had inherited the land, but he hadn’t moved into the big house. Merlin was relieved; he remembered the cold stone that never allowed anyone to be cosy, ever, no matter how many rugs were on the floors. Instead Arthur had moved into the small servants’ house, and hadn’t had the time (or the heart, Merlin thought) to tear down or renovate the bigger one yet.
“Okay,” he whispered, and Arthur pulled him close again to kiss. But they both shivered and clacked their teeth together, and Arthur finally took his hand so they could walk together toward the lighted house.
As soon as the door was shut behind them Arthur undid his coat and got his hands under all Merlin’s layers, the jumper and the long shirt and the vest, until his cold hands were on Merlin’s warm skin. Merlin felt his nipples go stiff and shuddered, throbbing between his legs along with the rapid beat of his heart.
“Need blankets,” Arthur whispered against his mouth, pushing him back against the wooden wall of the entryway.
He began to say, “No,” but Arthur kissed his neck hard, almost biting the thin skin, and his breath stuttered the word into, “Nnn-ahh.” But he had more snow melting and dripping down his back, and had to push Arthur away for a moment to shed all the layers but his jeans and vest. They came back together almost before he had his wet socks off, and he dug his fingers into Arthur’s back and then his arse, squeezing until Arthur got the point and fitted their hips together. He could feel the heat of Arthur’s cock through their jeans and shivered again so hard Arthur actually did bite him a little.
“Sorry,” Arthur breathed. “Unless you liked that.”
“I like it,” he moaned, and Arthur sucked at his neck, shoved his shirt up and found his nipples and sucked until Merlin’s cock twitched so hard he thought he might come, sucked at his stomach and then undid Merlin’s belt.
“You don’t have to,” Merling gasped automatically.
“Shut up,” Arthur mumbled, his colour high. “I know I don’t have to. I want to.”
He slipped the buttons of Merlin’s fly out of their holes and tugged his jeans down to his thighs, then tentatively hooked his fingers into the band of Merlin’s shorts. Suddenly he pressed his face against Merlin’s stomach and dropped a kiss there, then on the damp tip of his cock through his underwear. He looked up at Merlin through his lashes questioningly, as if to make sure Merlin was prepared, before he slid the shorts down. He breathed out a small, shaky oh at the sight of Merlin’s cock as he gently ran his thumb along the underside of it. Merlin, thighs trembling already, was about to ask Arthur again if he really wanted to do it, no matter how ill-advised that question might be, when Arthur slowly drew the head between his lips and into his hot mouth.
It was unlike Arthur to go into anything without learning how to do it well first, so his single-minded focus shouldn’t have surprised Merlin. But he sucked so fast and eager that Merlin staggered back a bit under the onslaught and Arthur had to hold him upright by his thighs. Arthur made little noises as he sucked, hand sneaking down the front of his jeans. Merlin stroked the silky hair from his forehead and Arthur pushed into his hand with his eyes gone drowsy, as if requesting approval. And Merlin wanted to tell him he was good, he was the best, he was the best of anything Merlin had ever had, but he knew as soon as he started talking he wouldn’t stop.
Arthur moaned around his cock, sharp and high, and Merlin thought he’s going to come. “Stop,” he gasped, and Arthur slid off with difficulty. His hand stilled. Merlin tugged it out of his jeans and pulled him to his feet. “Come on, let’s at least get into bed.”
They shed the rest of their clothes along the way, and Merlin wrapped himself around Arthur’s big, warm body as soon as they were in the bed and under the covers. “What do you like?” Merlin whispered, loving the feel of Arthur between his thighs, moving against him, cock pressed fat and thick against his stomach. He slid his hands over Arthur’s back, down the groove of his spine, into the dip that he loved and wanted to lick every summer when they went swimming, the round curve where he wanted to bite. His fingers slipped down between Arthur’s arse cheeks and Arthur shook against him.
“Please,” he said, suddenly rocking his hips fast, slipping his cock against Merlin’s stomach.
“You want me to–?” Merlin asked.
“I have condoms in the bathroom,” Arthur said, and pulled away to get them. When he came back Merlin stared. His hair was a mess and he looked nervous, but his cock had grown even harder. Merlin ran his fingers over it as Arthur climbed back into the bed and Arthur gasped and pulled away. He shoved a strip of condoms and a bottle of lube into Merlin’s hands, unable to look at him. “Go ahead,” he said chokily, slipping into the bed on his stomach.
“Sssh,” Merlin whispered, opening up the lube and dripping it into his hands, warming it between his palms. “At least let me get you ready.”
“I– I don’t need much,” he said. Merlin couldn’t see his face, but suspected it was bright red.
“I want to make you feel good,” Merlin murmured, “not take you like a virgin sacrifice.”
Arthur laughed a little bit, but it sounded a little off, and Merlin decided to go as slowly as he could. He slid his fingers up and down the line of Arthur’s back, farther and farther down, until he brushed over Arthur’s hole. Arthur arched up against him and said, “Please, please do it,” and he slid his fingertip in until Arthur shoved his arse up even harder and Merlin finally realised he desperately wanted it, he wanted it so much his breath was already gusting in and out.
“You really like this, don’t you?” he asked wonderingly.
“What gave you that idea?” Arthur panted, and it ended on a long moan when Merlin finally slid two fingers inside him and spread him as he tore the condom open with his teeth and rolled it onto his cock. In his daydreams he’d got to this point a thousand or so times, but he’d never been able to picture exactly how it would be with Arthur. There were parts of Arthur that were locked down so tightly no one could get into them, and sex was one of them. Once Merlin had teased Guinevere about looking a little flushed after being with Arthur and she’d given him a nervous glance, which had confused him and had made him wonder. Whilst Arthur and Gwen were dating Merlin had never allowed himself to think about Arthur, but that one nervous look, the way her eyes darted to his, came back to him again and again. He wasn’t surprised when they’d broke things off, the way everyone else was. The look had said it all.
He slid his cock into Arthur slowly again, not out of courtesy this time but because it felt good, because he wanted to remember how it felt to press inside of him, the heat and the tightness of it, the lush feel of Arthur’s arse under his fingers.
“God,” Arthur said, his voice low and harsh, “oh, god,” and tightened around Merlin’s cock.
“Hey,” Merlin said, soothing a hand over his back, but Arthur moaned and hung his head and suddenly the tightening turned to a hard pulsing. Merlin reached around him just as Arthur came, spurting into his hand in a slippery, hot rush. He was shocked and so delighted he couldn’t do anything but kiss Arthur’s back until he was finished.
He moved to pull out but Arthur said, “No– stay in.” His voice had gone choky again, embarrassed. “Keep going, it feels good.”
Merlin reluctantly pushed back in again, but pulled out once more and said, “Turn onto your back.” Arthur obeyed and Merlin saw he hadn’t softened all the way, his cock still dark and heavy. He allowed Merlin to arrange him and groaned when Merlin’s cock finally touched his hole again. Merlin looked at him skeptically until Arthur cracked an eye open and said, “I wasn’t lying, Merlin,” and so Merlin gave it to him exactly as he’d asked for it, fast, pistoning in and out. Arthur bit his lips and moaned and moaned and Merlin saw, after a few minutes, that he was hard again, thicker and bigger than he’d been before. He wrapped his hand, slippery with lube and come, around Arthur’s cock and began to strip it to the same rhythm as his hips, and Arthur clutched at his arms and went over so hard he nearly kicked Merlin in the face. This time Merlin went with him, letting Arthur’s leg go in the process and sagging atop him as he came. Arthur wrapped around him, faced pressed into Merlin’s shoulder until they began to cool.
“Clean,” Merlin said, unable to speak in full sentences. He stripped the condom off himself and gingerly tied it and put it on the floor.
“Later,” Arthur replied, pulling him close again, and they stayed entangled the rest of the night, waking only to whisper and kiss each other to sleep again.
“I’ve sent Wrexham my report,” Lance said the next morning when he went into Tintagel, “so you won’t see me around again until you’re summoned.”
Merlin smiled at him. He looked as if he were lit up from the inside, glowing with a brilliant inner flame. He looked so happy he might be sick from it. Pendragon, sitting at his usual table with Percival and his many plates full of food, watched Merlin move, caught his eyes, and smiled into his coffee.
“I’ll be there,” Merlin said. “I have to go to Cardiff to register myself tomorrow.”
Lance looked around the room at the old men, still carefully pretending they weren’t watching, and said, “I don’t think you’ll have a hard time of it here. They’ve been trying very hard to protect you.”
“Oh, it’s not me they’ve been trying to protect,” Merlin said, and Lance gave him a puzzled smile. “They– Camelot– they’ll do anything to protect the Pendragons.”
It was rather sweet how much the villagers loved Arthur Pendragon, Lance thought as he gave Merlin a final pat on the shoulder and left Tintagel, hopefully for the last time.
On his way out the door, the old man with the piping voice caught his sleeve exactly as he had several days before. “I told you,” he said, “if there’s something wrong, it’s to do with Morgana.”
“Leave it, Phillip,” someone said, and Lance shook Phillip’s hand and went on his way. But some small thing niggled at the back of his brain, and he wondered, as he left, how he knew the name Morgana.
Somehow he didn’t feel the way he did when a case was closed. There wasn’t quite that sense of job-well-done, though everything was wrapped up quite neatly as far as Home Office was concerned, and that meant he could stay on at SOCA and wouldn’t have to find himself arresting teenaged cokeheads in Cardiff. But somehow, somehow...
He looked out over the land and shuddered without knowing why, feeling a quick, horrid revulsion at the cold and the neverending hills and the teeming life that existed underneath the surface beauty. There was nothing for him in Wrexham, he realised with a sick start. He’d had visions of glory, of turning over rocks and exposing untruthful slime to the light, but really there was no underside; it was everywhere and all he’d worked for was sad and silly. All of a sudden he missed that old job in Cardiff. At least there the worst of humanity faced him head-on, and didn’t slither through his fingers.
There was only one road out of Camelot, and on his way through the village centre he saw Guinevere walking slowly along with her hands in her pockets. Without a thought, he stopped and opened the door on her side. “Like a lift?” he asked.
“Of course,” she replied.
“Like a lift out of Camelot?” he clarified.
She turned her smile on him sweetly and his spirits lifted. Perhaps, he thought, it wasn’t a bad old world after all really. “How far are we going?”
“Cardiff,” he said.
Slowly, she nodded. “All right. Yes.”
They drove in silence for a few moments. “Do you want to stop at your flat, get your things?”
She shook her head. “No. I’ve got everything I need right with me.”
He reached over the console and took her hand in his, sliding his cold fingers in between hers, and they drove away from Camelot.
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Date: 2011-12-14 06:49 pm (UTC)I loved the whole tale, but the scene that stands out to me is the one where Arthur comes over to Merlin's house after they fight. It's so sparse with words, but it shows so clearly how well they know each other, how complicated their relationship is, and also how simple. Brilliant stuff!
Loved this! ♥
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Date: 2011-12-14 07:26 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2011-12-14 11:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-15 01:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-15 02:02 am (UTC)I love the world that you've created here, with the elements of canon turned modern-day. I always enjoy when it's someone else looking in on their relationship and I loved that it was Lance because I MISS HIM /sob. I loved that this was ~mysterious~ and I could feel everyone's feelings and the tension about their secrets (which apparently were not actually secrets, and I really enjoyed that Arthur already knew and didn't turn Merlin in because he looooooved him awwwwww). I loved Arthur and Merlin's tight relationship and how Merlin brings Arthur food, adorable.
Also did I mention HOCKEY OMG alkjfhgdfjdkafh <333
THANK YOU ♥
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Date: 2011-12-15 02:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-15 02:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-15 04:45 am (UTC)Such a great world you wrote.
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Date: 2011-12-15 09:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-15 10:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-15 11:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-16 06:48 am (UTC)I'll love to see more of this universe and find out what's going on with Morgana... did she had something to do with Uther's dead and all!!!
Be well :)
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Date: 2011-12-16 08:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-17 01:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-17 08:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-17 09:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-19 02:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-19 08:39 am (UTC)This had such a nice whimsical feel to it that I truly adored. Loved that Arthur already knew about the magic and Merlin finally telling him was what finally let them be together.
great job author ♥
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Date: 2011-12-20 11:27 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2011-12-21 10:20 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2011-12-29 01:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-29 03:43 pm (UTC)♥
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Date: 2012-01-03 07:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-07 12:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-08 06:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-08 09:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-10 04:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-12 10:35 pm (UTC)Arthur and Merlin's friendship was well drawn and when Merlin finally confessed he has magic, I was as tied up in knots as he was, waiting for another angry outburst from Arthur. Instead, Arthur's reaction was a wonderful surprise. This scene sang: He was kneeling almost between Merlin’s legs, and Merlin removed his mittens and put a hand to his cheek. Merlin suddenly remembered that only a scant fifteen minutes before he had been certain he’d never touch Arthur’s face, his beloved face with the blond stubble he denied trying to grow out every year, the funny eyebrows, the pointed nose, the chapped lips, the sharp jaw Merlin adored. The very belovedness of him and the wave of love that hit Merlin when he brushed his fingertips over Arthur’s eyelashes made him brave, and he smiled when he kissed him. Finally, Merlin's no longer at arm's length, he's in Arthur's arms and it seems he's finally there to stay.
Lance just swooping in and collecting Gwen on the way out of town was another wonderful surprise. It all made for a fantastic read.
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Date: 2012-08-29 05:33 pm (UTC)