Chapter Text
Time froze for just the barest of seconds and for a moment the world came to a standstill.
Where once there had been only night and darkness, there he suddenly was.
The air shuddered at his unexpected presence – trembled at his power – and snapped back in a startled shockwave at his coming. The brick cracked and caved beneath his feet, sure and armor clad where they had planted into the ruined pavement. The horde flinched at his arrival, the pack of hungry would-be-mercenaries retreating a few staggering steps from where they’d bore down on the fallen price in a feeding frenzy.
Merlin’s head dipped low, hood drawn, eyes burned molten-gold from beneath blazing with fury. More monster than man. There were a mere seven victims between him and his destination, the last one mid swing at Arthur’s fallen form.
Something inside Merlin pulsed to life, surging beyond himself and into the very earth, calling upon an ancient strength. A sleeping power. An anger boiled up from within him. His vision tinged red as he felt the all-too-comfortable desire to commit mass homicide. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise with the anticipation that charged the air around him, gooseflesh forming where the anger rolled off him in waves.
But no, not here. Not yet.
With extraordinary effort, Merlin stamped out the magic that sang in his blood, howled in his veins, and replaced it with a boiling rage. One that begged for purchase against flesh and bone.
And so, he would oblige it.
Suddenly the world exploded into action—
Merlin whipped a throwing knife from one of the many shadows inside his cloak to sheath it in the back of a skull, the blade whirling from his hand in a shrill whistle before it found its mark. Before the body even had time to crumble to the ground, Merlin lunged forward to drive a wristblade between the ribs of another foe. The breathing corpse startled and arched against him, but no sound fell from his open lips. Again, Merlin didn’t wait to confirm the kill; two down, too many more to go. He launched himself towards the next, wielding his wristblade as a mere extension of himself. A strike through the chest. The next, a slash across the throat. One after the other they fell, none more than a meager inconvenience. Were it not for their sheer numbers, they would be more easily felled. And were it not for Merlin’s particular audience, they’d be welcomed even quicker to Death’s domain.
Merlin cut and tore until there was just the one . Tall and looming, arm raised and weapon coming down fast on the ruined form of a Pendragon heir collapsed against the building.
With a power not entirely his own, Merlin surged forward for one last kill, his form as much a blur as his thoughts. Only this kill to anchor him to the world, this purpose to ground him in the haze between bloodlust and reality.
A strike through the palm to disarm him. Merlin’s blade sung against bones and knuckles galore -- hands always were a messy target. The man howled in agony as his longblade fell from his grip. Merlin easily snatched it from midair, flicked it back against his forearm and spun around to drive the blade through the man’s chest cavity, sinking it to the hilt. The howling suddenly stopped.
As he felt the man die against his back, Merlin looked out from under the him to survey the surviving pack. They gawked in a mixture of incredulity and indignation, paralyzed with shock at what they’d just witnessed in a mere matter of seconds.
Merlin then took the chance to steal a selfish glance down at the prince crumbled beneath him.
Beaten and bruised, battered and bloody, but alive and alert – a weight lifted off Merlin’s chest he hadn’t realized had been put there. Arthur met Merlin’s gaze through blood-stained blonde with wide-blown eyes – brilliantly blue – horror and relief marring his ruined yet handsome features.
It was enough to set Merlin’s blood boiling, enough to wake something deep within him with a quake, enough to rock the stones that held up the alley. But time was short—
“Can you stand?” Merlin rasped, eyes surveying him carefully and a little too greedily.
“W-who—?”
—A shot ran out in the night like a thunderclap, swallowing up the rest of Arthur’s shock.
In a flick of the wrist and with a spinning flourish, Merlin released his victim, the body twitching and gasping as it fell. He then spun himself between Arthur and the pack, squaring himself between Arthur and danger almost instinctively ? He brandished his wristblade in one hand and drew his sheathed sword in the other, the forsaken long blade clattering to the ground.
“ Stand, now,” Merlin ground out in a whisper, taking a step back to close the distance between himself and the heir, sizing up their soon-to-be attackers. An approximate eleven left, two on the rooftops – they were lucky Merlin hadn’t spied them before, but they were of no consequence. Not the worst of odds, but in Arthur’s condition and Merlin’s handicap, not the most comforting of odds either.
“What?” Arthur croaked lowly. Even his voice was ruined, broken and breathy sounding. But Merlin still had to silently berate the flutter his stomach gave.
“Now, what do we have here?” Came a ragged voice from somewhere in the dim light beyond, Merlin recognized it as Cleaver.
“Get. Up .” Merlin repeated more firmly, hearing Arthur shuffle to do so, rising to his feet with seemingly great effort. Merlin heard the scrape of flesh against stone as Arthur hobbled himself up onto his feet with shaky legs, felt the tremble in the earth as Arthur struggled to remain upright. Merlin stepped back to pin Arthur between himself and the wall in an attempt to shield the youth from easy view of a gunshot. Or at least, that’s what he told himself; it certainly had nothing to do with the fire that licked along the inside of his flesh where they touched. The miles of fabric between them doing nothing to quell the heat.
“What are you —?!”
Merlin drove his shoulder further back to pinch off Arthur’s words between bone and stone. “And shut . Up . Or you’ll get us both killed. Now stay behind me.” Merlin forced his attention forward, even as Arthur’s hands came up to brace himself against Merlin’s forearm. To wrap around his sure form for support. Heat turned into a blaze.
A moment later, the aged, round face appeared behind the undulating wall of rag-tag thugs. Cleaver. Short and stocky. A single grey-brown eye, the other of glass, a patchy head of closely shaved hair, with a few stray scars and scabs dotted here and there, flecked in silver sutures. He was a frightening sight to most, no doubt, battle-worn and mean looking. But Merlin tracked the journey of wounds to read the tale of a failed Courtier and a mercenary of mediocre skill.
“Believe you’ve got the wrong party,” Cleaver drawled, yellow teeth flashing and voice teasing just a hair away from admonishment.
The wolves continued to close in, surrounding their prey as Cleaver came forward to stand amongst them, eyeing Merlin dangerously.
Merlin forced his attention to remain on the men before him, though he heard the scuffle of Arthur moving behind him, against him. Oh , how he wanted to look to him, to survey the damage and assess the severity of the situation. But he couldn’t afford it. The pack of ravenous mercenaries circled carefully, watching for any sign of weakness or distraction. Merlin gave them neither.
“I suggest you move along, stranger,” Cleaver insisted only slightly frantic, coming to step into the light just enough for Merlin to commit his face to memory, file it away. “You don’t have to die here tonight.”
A pitiful attempt at a threat.
Merlin had sized up the small company well before joining the fight– they were nothing to fear. Even less so if he decided to fight uninhibited, but he had appearances to keep up. No, the true stressor was Arthur’s condition, already worse for wear. Cleaver’s one grey-brown eye darted from Merlin to Arthur, clearly seeing the same, even as Merlin spread himself wider, fuller to hide Arthur.
“Speak, stranger. Or forever hold your peace,” Cleaver tried again, the faux friendly cadence fading ever so slightly to aggravation.
But Merlin refused to engage him, well aware the effect of his menacing presence – he didn’t need empty threats and petty words. He instead squared himself toward Cleaver’s voice, straightened his spine and allowed his hood to tip and fall back.
Merlin’s too-sharp cheek bones and midnight curls shone in the smog-clouded moonlight. His eyes flashed honey-gold at the sound of Arthur struggling to catch his breath behind him, but the lowly mercenaries took it for naught but a trick of the light. Merlin knew he was a fearsome sight to behold, looming and glowering, a finely crafted blade in either palm, with a half dozen more stashed away in hidden places and sheaths. But it was really the crest across his lean chest that caught their attention, the significance it bore and the weight it carried. A single dark leather strap adorned with an intricate emblem of a dragon coiled around a downturned blade. The mark of a Royal Mercenary, of an elite member of the Mercenarium dedicated to the Courts of Kamaelot, and a more than formidable foe.
After a long, tense pause, Cleaver spoke again, this time through gritted teeth, “You’re a long way from Cavalon, brother. Can’t imagine what’d bring you down to our lowly District.” After an unsettling pause and a sharp inhale, in a stern tenor, “This is none of your concern. A Royal Mercenary has no business in Dark Town.”
Merlin only sneered at the half-truth. A Royal Mercenary may go wherever he like, answer to no authority besides that of the King. (And the Archon of the Mercenarium, though she knew better than to try or challenge Merlin.) But the preservation of the Pendragon bloodline was well within his jurisdiction, some might even argue it was his rank’s highest priority, no matter the District…
As such, Cleaver had no business dealing with the Pendragons at all, let alone the king to be.
It took a pretty coin to elevate oneself from the humble underbelly of Dark Town. A disgraced mercenary gang threatening Arthur’s life for ransom, no doubt. Though, Merlin had no intention of letting Cleaver live to see the tribunal the Archon would hold him to.
Cleaver continued, “Leave now, and there will be no consequences for you having killed so many of your own.” Another half-truth – there were no consequences. The Mercenarium was a brutal and unforgiving guild, but that was exactly why Merlin had chosen to join them. A rage-filled and vengeful youth he’d been, the Mercenarium a perfect outlet for an orphaned prince looking for blood. Perhaps a bit reckless, admittedly, but its profits had served him and his people well.
Merlin refused to move. He would not be cowered by the likes of this ‘Cleaver’.
“Leave, now !” Cleaver snapped, his decaying teeth rattling in his skull with the force of it.
Merlin readied his blade and sunk low, prepared to pounce when—
A bolt of white-hot lightning shot down Merlin’s spine, wracking his bones, and setting him alight like a live wire as a hand fell on his shoulder. Warm and solid and sure.
“Mercenary.”
Arthur’s words rumbled through his chest and into Merlin’s – his heart stammered and his stomach flipped. Merlin’s senses were sent careening in all directions, seeping into the stone and sediment, tangling in the air that hung in Merlin’s throat, humming in the pale glow of the moonlight. Magic rushed to the surface of his skin, skittering there and pooling in his chest.
Merlin cast a wary glance over his shoulder, wordless and waiting.
The sight of the prince was near enough to knock the air from his lungs – blonde hair disheveled and matted with darkening crimson. Blue eyes steeled and brilliant, bright as the moonlight that reflected there. Skin torn, angry, and stained red, a welt of purple and black already forming along a crack in his lip.
Merlin’s fury only intensified.
“I don’t know who you are or what your aim is here.” There was fear there, a quiet, shaky fear that brought a lump to Merlin’s throat. A tremble in the hand that still clung to Merlin’s elbow for strength. “But get me and my man out of here, and I’ll reward you handsomely for your services.” Not a command, but it might as well have been one.
Merlin felt the world shift under his feet as the whole of his being narrowed down to that moment. To the burning sincerity in Arthur’s breathy plea, the desperation. It awoke something long since forgotten within him, something that shook him to his core and made the walls of the alleyway tremble…
Merlin turned back towards the weary and expectant horde, briefly weighing his options, before flashing a cheeky grin, “Guess it’s my business now.”
In a flash not entirely unassisted by magic, Merlin threw out his arms and buried two well placed blades in the nearest men, still scrambling to react where they fell.
“Stay here, princeling,” Merlin snarled, giving a rough shove against Arthur for emphasis as he bolted forward. He was met with a flurry of swords, fists, and all other manner of makeshift weapon, each coming at him with reckless and aimless abandon. None landed. How could they? Merlin was a force unlike any they could ever hope to face – let alone match. They fell, body after body, one after another.
Another man threw himself upon Merlin with nothing but his bare fists. The royal assassin dodged with ease and let the man barrel past. He then dragged his blade along the mercenary’s exposed spine, severing tendon from bone with deadly ease. Another mercenary, and then another, lunged and launched themselves into the face of death. Merlin merely strode through them, felling them where they stood. It was almost too easy.
A gunshot cut through the cacophony and a bullet whizzed past his face, the heat of it burning against his cheek where it missed.
Everything was a flurry of metal and malice until another bolt of lightning shot through Merlin, grounding him and setting him alight all in one. It was the weight of a back against his own, one he could know blindfolded to be Arthur’s. He pressed himself against Merlin, the unmistakable stance of a warrior. Merlin darted a glance to catch sight of a Gold-gleaming sword in Arthur’s hands, already coated in a fresh layer of blood.
“I told you to stay back.”
“I heard you.”
And just like that, Arthur was a blur of mettle and metal – Merlin’s heart practically seized in his chest. It was all he could do to turn to his own foes and fell them as quickly as he could. One, two, then three; they were no match.
Another bullet whizzed, this time from a rooftop and Merlin spun to aim a throwing knife towards the source, he didn’t have to look to hear the thud of a dead man fall. Though he did have to steal a glimpse over his shoulder, quickly surveying the handsome figure at his back for bullet holes.
It cost him.
A blinding pain to the side – searing – the unmistakable slide of too sharp metal against the tender flutter of spasming flesh. The hot rush of magic to the surface of his screaming skin, threatening to stem the flow of blood and tangle the crimson into gold. Merlin fought down his body’s primal instinct with a pained howl and instead crushed a hand against the wound as he spun to drag a blade across his attacker’s jugular.
“You’re hit?” Arthur’s words were panicked, though not for Merlin’s sake. A shrewd tactician, of course.
“It’s nothing,” Merlin snarled between gritted teeth, regaining his composure in an instant. He let his magic loose from his vice-like grip only the smallest of increments, just enough slow the blood there to a trickle. What an embarrassment that would be to bleed out before he could tend to it properly.
“You’re hit,” now a statement of fact, sterner.
“Shut up and don’t die !”
Everything was a flurry of metal and malice as Merlin and Arthur struggled to meet the onslaught. Merlin could feel the sluggishness in Arthur’s muscles, the fatigue in his breathing – it wouldn’t be long until he couldn’t hold his own and Merlin could only kill so fast. His magic sung beneath his skin, burning at the surface, begging for release as it coiled and pooled along the skin that pressed against Arthur. Merlin willed some of that power to seep from him, to fill the aura around them and spill over into Arthur. Keep him upright. Keep him fighting.
Someone lunged with a dagger, the jagged edge catching the edge of Merlin’s cloak as he spun, dodging the blade to whirl around and drive his own into the man’s chest. Blood gurgled and spewed from the newly formed hole and desperate fingers dug at his arms before he dropped to the ground. With a deafening shriek, another body flung at him, metal gleaming in the moonlight as Merlin danced away. A serrated chain whip spiraled through the air at him catching him on the chin with a vicious snap. Merlin staggered for a mere moment before he met her next blow, catching the chain around his armored forearm and pulling her in. She fell into his knife and the screams ceased.
“Just kill them already ,” Cleaver roared with impatience, “how hard is it to just—”
“You need,” Arthur started—
“—Get out of the way!”
Merlin’s head jerked in the direction of Cleaver’s voice, just in time to see the sea of bodies scramble at the glint of a silver. Merlin saw the briefest flash of a barrel and without thought spun himself around to knock out Arthur’s legs from beneath him and throw him to the ground. The bullet whizzed just past Merlin’s face, catching his hood and exploding through the eye of a man that had been hurtling towards Arthur. Another shot rang out and another, in mad succession and Merlin felt the heat of the sun tear through his midsection as his wound ripped higher.
Cleaver cut a path through the alley towards Merlin, eyes raging wild and gun flailing. One, two, three shots rang out.
It wasn’t a choice, wasn’t a thought, it was as second nature as breathing. Merlin planted himself firmly over Arthur’s strewn form, praying the idiot had the sense to keep his head down, as the magic broke free and filled Merlin’s being. Forest-green eyes blazed brilliant gold for a split second as stray bullets found their mark and fell away like drops of rain to skitter across the stones.
With speed no mere mortal could hope to track, let alone dodge, Merlin loosed a blade from his side and twirled it into the palm of his hand to flick it across the battlefield into Cleavers’ solitary eye.
Thud.
The man faltered a step and the much-dwindled horde froze, turning to him in stunted disbelief. Arthur scrambled out from beneath Merlin and leapt to his feet, drawing his fallen Excalibur to brace himself alongside Merlin before he too realized.
Cleaver staggered another step forward, mouth dropping open, arm hung limp in front of him, weapon clattering. Then he crashed to his knees and collapsed into the crumbled cobblestone, lodging the blade even deeper as his skull met stone.
A single, silent, suspended moment… then all spun to Merlin, horrified.
He let the fear and panic fester there for a single, petrifying moment, before he spoke, low and calm, allowing his power to amplify his words, “Leave now, or forfeit your miserable lives.” The softly spoken threat bounced along the alley walls and trailed off into the silent night above.
And without a moment’s hesitation, the survivors scattered and all scrambled to escape the ruined, blood-soaked alleyway.
Panicked shrieks and shouts between them as they went, some gathering the splayed belongings of their fallen brethren while others simply ran. More corpses remained than men fled, the latter stumbling and tripping over the former as they went. All bore Cleaver a wide berth, barely acknowledging him and they went. As the horde thinned and disappeared back into the shadows, the bludgeoned face of Leon appeared amongst the bodies, bruised and swollen but still breathing. For now.
A door somewhere slammed, a glass shattered, and then…
Silence.
It settled over the alleyway slowly, cautiously, eerily. Hounds called in the distance, a random scream rang out and was quickly extinguished, the low thrum of muffled bass and nonsensical night life reverberated through the stonework. Dark Town.
Merlin lingered there in the moonlight, proud and menacing for a moment longer than he thought he could hold himself, before the weight of fatigue crashed into him. Arthur must have been no better off, as he too crumbled in almost the same instant. A wave of exhaustion rocked them both and threw them to the pavers. It was as much as they could manage to stumble and slump against either side of the alley wall, sinking to their haunches and gasping for air against swollen lungs.
Even through the backs of his eyelids, Merlin could sense Arthur’s gaze fall on him, feel the heat of it in the iridescent darkness, feel the pleasant little spasm in his chest in response. Really he should be more bothered about that – both by how nice it felt for no apparent reason and how little it bothered him – but he couldn’t bring himself to mind. Since long before Merlin had actually made Arthur's acquaintance (not including rooftop reconnaissances and fleeting glimpses from behind crowds of palace bystanders) Merlin knew his predilections toward Arthur were all sorts of backwards. Where there should only be disdain and mercilessness, there was also a morbid curiosity and fascination. An addicting little anticipation.
Morgana scolded him for it frequently; Kilgharrah just smirked about it.
Merlin opened his eyes to find Arthur’s eyes already roving over him – gods – assessing and investigating him with a quiet but evident distrust. It was in the set of his jaw and the furrow of his brow, the tense trepidation.
That distrust did nothing to quell the molten heat that pooled in Merlin’s chest.
But in the still of the moment, he allowed himself to do the same, though for far more selfish reasons, his eyes crawled over the handsome figure to take in the young man fully. Frankly. Not like the other night in the heat of a vicious bloodlust, tinged with malice and grim resignation to prophecy. This was slow, deliberate, dangerous .
Bathed in a halo of moonlight, Arthur’s face was all chiseled arrogance and angular lines carved by shadow and light. Eyes of the coldest glacial blue set firmly against smooth, polished porcelain. His jaw was strong, as confidently and finely cut as the stones of Palace Cavalon, leading up to high cheekbones that were just rugged enough to offset the obvious elegance and grace of his handsome features. His lips, hard set and dusty rose, looked as though they’d never said “please” a day in their life. His lightly tousled, sun kissed hair was amuck with carnage and sweat as it clung to his forehead. He was painfully perfect… in that gloriously, insufferably punchable kind of way.
The shiver that ran up Merlin’s spine caused the foundation of the building he leaned against to tremble. He could practically feel Arthur against his senses, almost see his indomitable will rolling off him in waves. Not like that of Freya or Morgana. Theirs was a force of nature, an untamed remnant of their fearsome power spilling out over their conscious mind and physical being. That was magic, raw and unadulterated. This was most certainly not that, this was… peculiar. Otherworldly.
It was as if reality itself bent in quiet reverence to his being. Like time slipped over and past him as a familiar friend rather than a passerby. Every labored breath Arthur took sent ripples of electricity outward, a magnetic thrum that pulled at the edges of Merlin’s consciousness, stirring something familiar and forgotten in his chest.
Quite a peculiar sensation indeed. At some point , Merlin noted to himself, that needs to be addressed . He squared away that little mental note somewhere safe, and returned to the present, where the aftermath of the stirring was far too comforting to be bothersome.
Arthur pressed a hand to his shoulder to try and stem the blood that flowed from there, slow-paling hand trembling against the wet, crimson stain. “Did my– ack ,” Arthur started but stopped on a sudden wince, flinching weakly against the stone wall as some tendril of pain wracked his bones. “Did my father send you?” he managed on a raspy exhale, fighting to keep his head upright on his shoulders as he looked pointedly at the emblem borne across Merlin’s chest.
Those eyes scalded where they landed.
“No,” Merlin choked out against the stabbing pain as he fumbled blindly along his side, surveying the damage there, “no one sent me.” A pretty good wound , he surmised with a hiss, fighting the sparks of golden light that skittered along his veins, begging. “As I recall, you snuck out,” he added with a playful flourish in a poor attempt to downplay his predicament.
“Then how…,” Arthur wheezed out a few strangled breaths, breathing back in against sandpaper lungs, “did you know where to find me?”
“I followed you, of course.”
Merlin couldn’t help but smirk at Arthur’s wide-blown incredulity, jaw nearly hitting the pavement as he balked at Merlin. Said rouge had been careful to keep his tone as flippant and nonchalant as possible, as if confessing to trailing the single most wanted man of the Mage Rebellion was an everyday occurrence. Honestly, it was more like a once a month sort of thing for him.
“Can you blame me?” Merlin shrugged a single, pitifully shaky shoulder, “It’s not every day you hear that the crown prince has contacted the Mercenarium.”
That earned Merlin a cold look, suspicion flashing in his icy blue depths, “How did you hear about that?” That voice – velvet-wrapped venom. It was a threat posed as a question. Delicious.
But Merlin just scoffed an affronted laugh, “It’s my job to hear about these things, pretty boy.” His stomach did a little flip at the endearment – it was meant as a condescension, but it landed too close to achingly sincere. “Which, by the way, is exactly what I sit around Cavalon all day waiting for. We’re not there for our health, quite the contrary, we’re there to be hired ,” Merlin chided, his forceful admonishment more than a little colored by wounded pride. “Why didn’t you just ask someone out of your many droves , private mercenaries?”
Droves, literal droves. It had been a long and bloody journey to get to the top of his profession – worthy of bearing such a repugnant crest like that of the Pendragon’s allyship with the Mercenarium. He’d passed many a lesser killer on his way to the top.
Arthur held Merlin’s gaze for a moment longer than was socially acceptable, gears grinding enough that steam might as well have risen from his ears. He chewed on something like an explanation, throat working but making no sound, weighing the words carefully before eventually looking away with a half-hearted shrug, “I didn’t know who I could trust.” His words rang true, but they somehow just fell flat. Hollow.
At least he’d the common sense to find some discretion, now. Better late than never.
“And Cleaver seemed the trustworthy sort, did he?” Merlin teased a little gentlier than he intended, black brow arching high against his ivory skin. A treacherous part of him almost hoped he’d earn Arthur’s eyes again, finding those ocean blues entirely too inviting to drown in.
He didn’t.
“He wasn’t supposed to know who I was,” Arthur replied, staring off at some nowhere place amongst the fallen, deep in concentration as the revelation played out on his face, “he was just supposed to be an informant for a random Courtier.”
Merlin simply sighed.
“So someone sold you out? Great, this just keeps getting better and better.”
“Or perhaps you did,” Arthur countered, glare flicking back to Merlin as sharp as any throwing knife and voice dipping low enough to scrape the gravely bottom of his register.
Merlin just blinked at that, genuine surprise coloring his features before his wits caught up with him again, “Oh, um… I’m sorry.” He looked matter-of-factly around the graveyard of an alleyway they sat slack in, “Did you miss the whole me saving your sorry ass, part? Do you need me to do it again?”
“You’re a mercenary,” Arthur snapped with more than just a little admonishment. He adjusted himself higher against the alley wall in response to Merlin crushing a hand against his severed side and forcing himself to his feet. His voice hitched higher and his nearly useless arm fumbled meekly for his wayward weapon, “How do I know you haven’t been sent just to kidnap or kill me in some other fashion?”
Merlin hauled himself upright and fixed Arthur with a level stare, watching, waiting. When after a long, still moment, he could see Arthur’s inquiry – though clearly an exaggerated challenge meant to rile him – was not a completely disingenuous one, his composure faltered. Something akin to guilt twisted in his gut, guilt at having further traumatized the young man into thinking he was going to die tonight. Into causing his breathing to remain labored and harsh, despite the stress of exertion fading. Ironic, given that only a handful of hours prior, that was entirely Merlin’s aim.
But not this time, and hopefully… never again. Though he’d not the heart to admit as much to Morgana.
Instead, Merlin took a half step back from the broken form of the prince, physically tore his gaze away and forced his attention elsewhere. Probably for the first time in his life, he regretted his menacing attire. So rather than just look like some shadow of death, Merlin attempted to look more human. Mundane. He rolled his shoulders back to part his cloak and made a show of tugging his armor into place at his waist. The fitted, black leather tucked back over the exposed, blood stained cloth of his cream colored tunic, which peeked out here and there amongst the layers of black leather and dark armor that adorned his lithe figure.
Merlin was sure the sudden sound of Arthur’s breathing catching on a gasp was at the sight of the half a dozen throwing knives and random blades tucked, strapped, and bound at nearly every limb. Rather than dwell on that or acknowledge that he was a walking arsenal, Merlin patted at a few hidden places along his chest, until finally he felt the outline and drew a small vial from one of the many compartments in his armor.
Merlin snuck a glance to see Arthur’s cautious glare track the movement, eyes flickering with something akin to panic. Merlin pretended not to notice and instead gave a little, “Ah, there we are.”
In a slow, deliberate display, Merlin squared himself to Arthur and popped the cap off the vial, spilling the liquid contents against his wounded side for the concoction to instantly foam and harden, forming a rough, patchwork bandage. One of Giaus’ many tricks, not great, but enough to hold for now.
Arthur seemed to uncoil ever so slightly, almost slumping against the bricks, but his question still hung unanswered between them.
“Well, for one,” Merlin started, careful to keep his tone light as he joked, “you’re not dead yet. Me coming to save you doesn’t make much sense if I just wanted to kill you.” Merlin let that sink in for a moment, watching the recognition in Arthur's jaw loosen the steel there. “And for another, because I’m a Royal Mercenary.”
Arthur waited for more of an explanation before prodding, “Does that make a difference?”
Merlin barked a laugh, “It makes a world of difference!” When he looked back to Arthur’s far too handsome face, half expecting there to be some condemnation or challenge there, he was shocked to find genuine confusion. Strange? So he elaborated, “First of all, it means it’s actually my job to save you when I see you do something stupid.” A half truth, but good enough. “Second, it means I’m terribly expensive – too expensive for the likes of whoever hired these amateurs,” he kicked at the boot of a random body for emphasis. He shot an impish smile Arthur’s way, hoping it’d thaw some of the ice there, “I’m afraid you’ve agreed to quite the hourly fee.”
Arthur almost seemed annoyed at that, cocking his head to the side, “Do you make a habit of telling all your clients that you overcharge?”
“Oh no, no, no,” Merlin chirped, shaking his head and wagging a finger this-way-and-that with each refusal. “Have I rendered you less-than-satisfactory services thus far?” Again he gestured broadly to the sea of dead bodies surrounding them, swinging his arms wide with only a twinge of protest from his midsection. “I said I’m expensive, not overly expensive. Besides,” he winked a little too playfully, placing a hand to his non-ruined hip and settling his weight there, “something tells me you can afford it.”
That earned him something. Merlin couldn’t quite tell what, but there was the briefest flash of something in his eyes, and he could have almost sworn he heard a little noise get caught in the back of Arthur’s throat.
“Finally,” Merlin continued, glancing down at the pavers so Arthur couldn’t see the excitement that swelled in his throat, threatening to glint golden in his eyes. “It means I’m honor-bound to keep your royal guts from painting the pavers.” Another half-truth. He fixed Arthur with a stern look, schooling his emotions, “Which means I’ve every reason – and right – to follow when I see you waltzing out of the palace in the middle of the night,” another not-quite lie, “unguarded, unarmed, and un prepared .”
“I wasn’t ung—” Arthur started, but Merlin scoffed another laugh that caught him short.
“Yeah, because Big Red over there did a fan tastic job at keeping you safe” Merlin rebuffed, pointing with added emphasis towards the unconscious Courtier still sprawled out and sleeping soundly in the middle of the alley. “You’re a half-baked negotiator with a reckless streak and a death wish. This was stupid and you should have left it to the professionals.”
“Like you?”
“Exactly like me,” Merlin flashed Arthur a cheeky smile to fight away the carnivorous butterflies that ate at his insides. Finally breaking the far-too-inciting staredown, Merlin glanced up to survey the too-still rooftops as the steady throbbing in his midsection returned to the forefront of his mind. “Half the District will have heard that commotion. We don’t want to be here when the scavengers arrive,” in a handful of strides, he closed the distance between them and stood over Arthur.
Again, the irony and similarities of their last encounter were not lost on him.
He reached out an offertory hand, “Can you stand?”
Arthur hefted his working arm up towards Merlin but sucked in a harsh gasp and recoiled, curling back in on himself with a strangled, “N-no.”
In a snap decision, not the last he’d come to regret, no doubt, but just as easily made as the first, he folded down on his highs and held his hands up before Arthur in a show of harmless surrender. Arthur's immediate instinct was to lean away, press himself back against the stone wall and draw himself as far as he could from Merlin’s crouched form. But after a moment, one in which Merlin was careful not to move a muscle, Arthur asked through clenched jaw, “Who are you?” his breathing was steadier now, his tone firmer.
Exhilarating.
From this proximity, the question washed over Merlin in a wave of warm air, smelling faintly of sun-kissed oranges and spice. That electric aura emanated from him like the heat off the sun, crashing into Merlin in a collision of sparks that seemed to electrify his bloodstream in time with his fast-thrumming heartbeat, pace quickened by a sinful thought he shoved very far from his waking mind.
“Now,” Merlin drawled, voice dipping low and mouth curling into an impish smirk as he fought against his better judgement, “ that is a very complicated question.” A truth – perhaps too much of one – but hardly an answer. A real answer would be far too dangerous.
“Endeavor to try,” Arthur insisted sternly.
And Merlin obeyed, wordlessly, though Arthur had no idea how dangerous of a command it'd been.
He sat bathed in the silver spill of moonlight through the District haze, perfectly, innocently, horribly unaware of Merlin’s hand resting just out of sight on Excalibur’s hilt, just in case Arthur should choose to use it; unaware of the blade Merlin’s slack wrist concealed, ready to spring forth at a moment’s notice and sheath itself in his flesh; unaware of the ill intent the Kingdom’s most wanted criminal swore over his mother’s smoldering remains hovering mere inches from him; unaware of the pulse that pounded behind Merlin’s ribcage, his life’s purpose once again hanging on a tantalizing whim and his insatiable curiosity. How many times had Merlin studied Arthur’s striking face? Memorized the curve of his mouth, the way his lashes kissed his cheeks when he smiled, the way his hair reflected the setting sun like a drop of pure sunlight, the way his eyes drained of life and compassion when he claimed a kill.
Merlin knew the pulse at Arthur’s throat as well as he did his own, imagined over countless nights how it would quicken under his touch… how it would still under his blade. It wasn’t supposed to be this difficult – it was supposed to be simple!—just another name, another body that would vanish into the silence of the night. But Arthur wasn’t just another body, wasn’t just another name. He was… more than Merlin could even hope to know to put into words.
His fingers curled around Excalibur’s hilt, yet his chest ached with the familiar hesitation Morgana so often condemned.
But how could he resist the helpless ignorance —endearing, intoxicating—wrapped up and bound in a delicious sacrifice Merlin had no right to want. He was something that whispered of ruin, the kind of ruin a man might crave. He could kill him. He should kill him. And yet, in the dim light, with his lips hanging open in the slightest whisper of a question, Merlin wondered what it might feel like to let him live—and damn myself instead.
He gave an absentminded little hum, the small sound marking the end of the war between his inclination and better judgement as his smirk went sharp once more.
“You may call me Hawk.”
Arthur made an unimpressed face. “That doesn't seem like much of a name.”
“That's because it isn't,” Merlin preened, “and since you can't seem to be trusted with those, it's the best you're going to get.”
Arthur's finely carved jaw ground whatever snarky retort was on his tongue to dust, blue eyes turning frosty again and lips setting back into that hard line. Resignation, albeit a displeased one.
“Good little princeling,” Merlin cooed sardonically.
Without so much as a warning, Merlin reached out a hand and took Arthur's wrist none-too-gently, causing the young man to flinch viciously as Merlin pried it away from the angry stain on his shoulder. He could feel Arthur's sorry attempts at protest, feel the tremor in his bones as he fought, but he seemed to lack the strength to pull away. So instead, he leveled Merlin with as much aristocratic fury as he could muster in such a state. And while it was quite impressive, it was also entirely ineffective. Merlin was more than used to dealing with spoiled brats.
“Very scary.”
Arthur bristled. But then he very quickly abandoned his fury for trepidation as Merlin drew the vial up towards him, liquid contents sizzling where they made contact with the fresh air.
“Where did you get that?”
“I’m a professional, remember?”
“I’ve never heard of you.” Arthur countered petulantly.
“That means I’m doing it right,” Merlin chuckled with a smirk, tipping the contents of the vial and–
Arthur hissed on an inhale as the liquid made contact with his ruined flesh, hardening, foaming, and turning a soft pink where it mingled with the darkening blood. “Fuck,” was all Arthur could manage, throwing back his head as his neck muscles strained against the burn, “what is that?”
“The best we can do out here,” Merlin replied, shoving down the pang in his chest, “we need to get off the streets before we bleed out.” He quickly assessed the condition of Arthur's shoulder – once, twice – before he stood back up and offered the hand again, “Let’s go.”
Arthur just looked at him with a strange sort of surrender, offering plainly, “I can’t trust you.”
Not a question, not a challenge, not even an insult. Just a statement of fact, simple and sound.
“I know,” Merlin answered before he could think better of it, concealing his self loathing with another jerk of his outstretched hand, “but endeavor to try.”
Far faster than Merlin expected, Arthur clasped his forearm, sucking in a hiss and gritting through an inhale and he hauled himself up, lips parting no doubt full of vitriol and venom, when a wayward scuff against stone sliced through the tension. Both men stilled and whirled in unison towards the sound, drawing closer to the one another and pressing in to alley wall.
Then came another noise, so faint it was almost imperceptible.
But Merlin’s ears were as sharp as the blades he readied, stepping forward on instinct – sidestepping Excalibur where Arthur drew it up to place himself between the threat and the prince. Arthur let him, taking a half-step towards Merlin.
“Scavengers?” he asked in a barely-there whisper.
Merlin nodded. “We need to get out of here,” he insisted, just as quiet. “Grab your guy and let’s move.”
Without another word, Merlin surged forward into the shadows, weapons drawn.