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He died. That’s just the truth. He died with a smile. Take that, Merlin— You got what you deserved. It’s just disappointing— his life was full of pain all because Merlin’s fears had Arthur’s ear. Arthur had so much potential.
It’s all Merlin’s fault. I could have done it better.
— Three entwined voices— at once elderly and young— whisper, “Oh? Prove it.” A babe’s cry breaks the cold night pool of his consciousness.
PROLOGUE: RE-INTRODUCTION
The gods have a foul sense of humor. That’s what he’s decided.Because, why?WHy does he have to be conscious while his undergarments are changed, while his backside is wiped— while he’s nursed !?It’s humbling and unpleasant of the likes of which there are no words. And he mourns the fact he has years yet before he can even form words with the eloquence he’d mastered before.His little body grunts at the person holding him that he does not recognize— being a babe is disconcerting. Faces are only shapes; scary ones, safe ones, and he can’t be sure how he knows, but he does.There is one wobbly face-shape that he hasn’t seen since his first few days in this world. And his little body cried for days for that face, and he suspects it was his parent… or maybe someone familiar or important to him?Whoever they were smelled of the sweet grasses in the fields he grew up in the first time. And he doesn’t want to be presumptuous, but.. Black hair is pretty distinctive, even with an infant’s eyes.There are many people who have black hair— his own parents in his past life were said to have black hair, so he’s not sure why he thinks of Merlin, of all people. Merlin was never caring— never nurturing. Only hostile.His little body cries as he ignores his heart aching.He never smells that sweet grass scent from another again. He grows quickly— well, so they say as much to him, as they think that he can’t understand him. But to him, it is as slow as the winter drifts breaking into spring.As soon as he is able to walk, he is running— but not really. He keeps to himself. Honestly, Mordred’s not been sure if he was actually reborn as himself, or if he’d just thought he’d heard the Fates laughing at him and this was some rebirth into a new life. But at one summer old, when he recognizes the syllables of his name as “Mordred,” he is sure.And he pulls back from everyone from then on. What other choice did he have? Who knew who he’d lose before he even made it to Camelot?Strangely, the adults leave him be— he remembers from his childhood that the adults kept watch over the young like many other hunted animals— always herding, always on the run, how could they not?But not this time— at least not with him. He watches the few parents that survive to raise their children herd their children. He watches the elders scold and look after the young of this encampment, but they never scold him. They never look after him like a member, almost like… almost like they hold him separate from the others. And it itches under his skin. Maybe it’d been this way the first time, and he’d just been too young to understand…But he doubts that, because it’s not what he remembers at all.Furthermore, this time, no one would tell him about his parents when he asks, and everyone treats him with a strange reverence. He’s like a ghost following along the encampment. And he wonders if Merlin had actually been present at his birth…Or maybe there had been a prophecy spoken at his birth. He’d heard that when the Savior— Merlin— was born, the prophetess had burst out in prophecy.(Had he been marked from the beginning? Had everyone feared him from the start?)Whatever the cause, he is allowed to be by himself as much as a small child in constant danger could be. Which, isn’t much admittedly, but as he grows, the more he can take care of himself, the more he is left to be alone. He’s not sure if he should be content with that— what with the looming “do it better” he cursed himself with— so he sits in the sweet grasses field he remembers from his first life and practices and practices his magic.He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do, but he can’t do anything until he is able to defend himself— to defend Kara.But there are so many mental blocks! How is he supposed to meet her? How is he supposed to do everything the same when he wasn’t conscious the first time?No matter how much he meditates and focuses on his magic— on asking the Triple Goddesses for better understanding— he gets no answers, only more confusion and fear. When he is three summers, Cerdan joins the encampment from the other main encampment in the caves. His uncle— or at least, his uncle in his first life, he’s not really sure this time when Cerdan doesn’t introduce himself as such— bows to him, “It is a pleasure to meet you, little one.”Mordred nods, not sure what else to do— anything he says now might give himself away. Who is he that Cerdan feels the need to bow? That’s reserved for important people— elders, prophets, prophesied peoples, like Merlin. Had there really been a prophecy?Not that they would tell him until he was “older,” as is custom in the encampments. Twelve is usually when they tell children important information— often only wisdom from their murdered parents, really, but twelve was their coming-of-age. (It shocked him to learn Arthur had yet to become Crown Prince and reach his own coming-of-age the first time they had met. But perhaps, Arthur’s kind.. the non-magic among them, tended to live much longer.)But he’s right in the middle of testing his scent tracking enhanced with magic when he’s caught— eyes golden, nose in the air— by Cerdan of all people. And after that point, his past teacher and guardian watches him like a hawk. All the adults do— they encourage him to practice with them, but when the children his age begin to go through their exercises, they treat him differently.It’s strange, and not like his first life— not much has been, and though he’s not sure what he’d been expecting, it burns that he doesn’t know why. Maybe he truly has changed too much from before already? But what could possibly be so different about his actions thus far? By uncomfortable necessity, when Mordred is five summers, Cerdan is also the one to tell him of the world— of the birds and the bees… and why their scents are so strong. It is not, in fact, because of his magical ability after all. With Cerdan’s awkward face and halting speech, Mordred realizes this world is not the same as the one he grew up in at all .And it is at the tender age of five summers that Mordred learns just what world he’s fallen into. Classes of human, Alphas and Omegas? Losing themselves to lust in predictable cycles? ..Not that Cerdan actually says that, it’s only implied— Mordred’s just actually old enough to understand, awkwardly, red-faced.Mordred shudders. He wishes to never understand such cycles. He hopes he is only a Beta— as close to normal as he can get in this strange world.But… there is something appealing in that he could belong to Kara. Alphas and Omegas seem to share a spiritual, magical bond that surpasses the humanly realms of his first life. His first thought, though, is actually how Uther handles such relations. How is magic related to this world if there are such classes of human?He cuts off those thoughts and doesn’t let his mind wonder beyond the point that he really has to get stronger now. He has to be able to protect Kara. To protect himself, because no one else is going to.And the ever-standing questions face him with each meditation after.Was he supposed to change things in such a different world?Was he still supposed to go to Camelot and meet Merlin and Arthur again?Was Cerdan going to die again? Could he change that or was that destined regardless? How was he supposed to meet Kara like this?Is he supposed to prove he can do better? Truly? This world isn’t even the same! But it doesn’t take much longer— only two more summers before the opportunity presents itself. So many attacks and witch hunts happened in his life, could he really be faulted for not remembering which one led to his flight into his destiny?Cerdan takes his little hand— mired in the sickly sweet scent of panic as he pushes them out of the encampment in the middle of the night. The screams and scent of death push them south, towards Camelot.Mordred has a split moment of realization that this is the one that drove them into Camelot before his lungs constrict and he can’t breathe— he can’t see. The panic drums in his ears. He’s not ready! Wasn’t he eight summers last time? He’s not strong enough!He’s pretty sure he faints. When he wakes, Cerdan is carrying him. “Where are we?”“We fled past Camelot to escape the patrols.”Mordred picks up on the unspoken thought— because he thinks it too— we went too far .It doesn’t take long to be confronted with a banded caravan headed for the city of Camelot.Mordred can read the fear in Cerdan’s scent as he claims they were attacked by bandits on their journey to Camelot.Mordred swallows. How is he supposed to do this? All over again? Merlin hates him. Does he have to meet him again? Maybe he can meet him under better circumstances. Yes, that’s it— he can be “separated” from Cerdan when they get to the gates. Perhaps it will even save Cerdan! Cerdan holds a tight hand around his shoulder the further they travel into the city of Camelot, but in the chaos at the West gates, Mordred slips out of his hooded cloak, leaving Cerdan alone.Mordred prays that keeps Cerdan alive. There’s been too much death.Mordred stops cold in the middle of the merchant street. There has been too much death. Why should he try to bow to Merlin’s fears? What’s to stop him from turning around, finding the reformed encampment just beyond Camelot’s walls and living a peaceful life with Kara?But in the same breath, Mordred realizes that if he changes anything before he meets Kara, he very well may never meet her… right? What if all of this thinking about how to meet Kara is obsolete in this new world?Who could he go to that would know what to do? Morgana doesn’t know about her own magic yet— although perhaps her seer powers might be of some help... eventually. Merlin… Merlin is a frustrating situation. Merlin would be the one he would go to if Merlin wasn’t so hellbent on letting him die.But maybe if he told Merlin…No. He can’t involve Merlin . That would truly risk too much. The gates loom large behind him, and he makes his way along the flow of the caravan merchants, watching for Cerdan. His wandering comes to a halt when he smells sweet grass.All the way into the city? Why would someone bring such grass— no, it’s a scent… The memory of his first few days on this new world floods his mind. He follows his nose, back down the streets, towards the gates. He gets caught up in the laundry maids and almost loses the scent. A despair unlike anything he’s felt before fills him— worse than even the moment of this death. He can’t lose that scent!Mordred appears out the other side of the gate he was supposed to go through, his fate forgotten as he follows that scent, desperately.A mix of servants laundering their masters’ and the castle’s washings spread out across the riverbank. But Mordred’s only interested in one. There! Down the bank a ways, a black-haired young man, smaller and bigger than Mordred had pictured, bends over a large basket of Camelot red and plain brown. It’s difficult to see the man’s face, head bowed as it is, but he has high cheekbones— objectively pretty even from this distance.As Mordred gets closer, the scent gets stronger, and the urge to bury his nose in the man’s neck, throw his small arms around him, and never let go grows heavier and heavier in his chest.The man must scent him as Mordred draws closer, up wind as he is. The man turns his head to look at him, and Merlin’s big blue, shocked eyes greet him.Mordred stops.The scent is coming from… Merlin?
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Chapter 1: The Son
Merlin and Mordred stand gaping at each other for a long moment.
A laundry maid comes up to Merlin then, “Here, le’ me take all this, young’un.”
Merlin breaks eye contact to look at the maid (and Mordred is at once filled with relief, but also, confusingly, the urge to tug on Merlin’s sleeve), “Oh! You don’t have—”
“Is the least I could do with you havin’ all that load fr’ me last week when the babe was sick.” The maid smiles big and sweet, and engages her rather large muscles, lifting the basket onto her hip and taking it away before Merlin could make another protest.
Merlin sits back on his haunches with a soft smile at no one, and then slowly turns towards Mordred. His smile turns hesitant, “Are you.. lost?”
Mordred looks at him. So Merlin was going to smooth right over the fact Merlin had recognized him too? What is he supposed to do? Come right out and say “You and Arthur killed me and my love in my past life which is actually this life, but I made a foolish claim, and now the fates say I have to help you not.. Kill me?” That would get him killed outright. He’d rather not risk having to repeat the first years of his life again. But he also can’t just ask, “Why do you smell like the person that was there the first few days after I was born” without sounding positively insane without the aforementioned contexts.
What on the bloody Goddesses was he supposed to
say
?
Merlin takes his silence as agreement, Mordred supposes, because he stands, “Uh, well. I guess… We could go see if your.. parents are missing you, at the gate?” Merlin’s expression is so sad, it’s almost like his face is falling in on itself— Mordred hasn’t seen that look in a long time. Not quite the look that he had when Arthur was in danger of dying, but close.
Which only confuses him further. Does Merlin think
he
doesn’t remember? This isn’t really the conversation to have out in the open, now is it?
Before he can really check himself, Mordred blurts out, “Why do you smell that way?” …Surely, that isn’t quite an insane question in this world?
Merlin freezes.
Perhaps it is, then.
A maid bustles by and Merlin starts moving, pushing Mordred towards a small grove of trees along the bank, keeping Mordred’s back to him as he does. “Uh— well— Smell? I don’t really… You must have me confused with someone else.”
Mordred frowns. Merlin’s being evasive on purpose. Very well, he will play his game. How does he say it.. surprising even himself, he concludes, “You smell like safety.”
Mordred catches Merlin swallow nervously as Mordred turns to face him, partially hidden by the trees as they are. Mordred tries to hide the aghast feeling he’s hit with at his own conclusion— does he truly feel— yes, he does. Merlin, somehow— prickly, murderous,
hostile
Merlin smells like
safety
. He’s doomed. Merlin will kill him when he finds out. He’s not
safe
! Where are his instincts?
Merlin opens and closes his mouth several times, and then he simply kneels in front of him. “Listen, Mordred, sometimes we’re reminded of certain scents even when we have no—”
Mordred latches onto his name at once. “How do you know my name?”
Merlin’s face falls slack, “Uh.. You.. Told it to me?” He tries a smile.
“No, I did not.” Mordred tries to hide his smugness completely— he thinks he succeeds.
Merlin’s smile falters, and he scratches at his head. He takes a deep breath. “You know, already, don’t you?”
Mordred nods, even though he’s absolutely lost as to which he’s referring to. He assumes at least he was there at Mordred’s second birth. But is he really from the same timeline as Mordred? Would the Fates be so cruel as to have them go at it all over again? Would Merlin truly be acting so gentle if that were the situation?
Merlin’s eyes glisten with tears, and Mordred freezes in the shock of Merlin
crying
. “I— I never thought I’d— I mean, I thought maybe— In the future, perhaps, but then everything happened here with— and I never thought—” he takes a steadying breath, “I’m getting ahead of myself. Mordred… I— It’s so nice to finally see you.” Merlin brushes his fingers across the top of Mordred’s head, barely touching his hair, like Merlin’s not allowed to touch him, “You’ve grown so much.”
Mordred nods again. Because what else is supposed to do? It’s nice to see him? Isn’t it horrible to see him? So it’s not because he remembers him in this new world? Why was he there at Mordred’s birth then? Why is he.. Acting like he cares? He’s so confused— he hopes his face doesn’t show it.
“Did the druids tell you?” Merlin stands, holding his hand out to take.
Mordred shakes his head, looking dubiously at the hand. This whole day has gone so backwards, he’s not sure if he’s even in the land of the living anymore— surely nothing so strange could happen in the lands he was used to!
Mordred takes his hand. Better to act the fool, than be one— or in this, ignorant. He wouldn’t want to get on Merlin’s bad side so early anyway, what with how strange Merlin is acting. Mordred wonders if Merlin is under a spell. But he dismisses that… for now. Nothing is off the table with this situation, he fears.
Merlin frowns, “Then how did you…” Merlin shakes his head and smiles down at him, “We can figure it out later. I’m sure you have a lot of questions, then— but.. Can they wait a bit? I’d like you to meet Gaius— your Grand Uncle. He’ll love you!”
What
? Where had Merlin come to
that
conclusion? Mordred, again, nods dumbly as Merlin starts to pull him back through the cluster of maids. Because what else was he to do?
Merlin bustles through the crowd, and not once does Mordred catch a glimpse of Cerdan or the caravan he traveled with— no commotion happens at the Keep’s gates. They simply, walk in, Mordred’s hand in Merlin’s. The sky is so blue— the castle so clear and uniform. So clean. It’s so surreal, Mordred wonders if he’s dreaming. Maybe he’s in the afterlife after all…
Gaius is in his workshop bent over a foul smelling potion. Mordred holds his nose at the smell, but Merlin just, breezes through, pulling him along.
“Gaius! Gaius! He’s here! I can’t believe it! Please! Tell me I’m not seeing things!”
Gaius leans back, eyebrow quirked at Merlin’s excitement.
Mordred stares up at Merlin. Why, is what he wants to know. How is this so different from what he’d imagined? Does Merlin not know his destiny? He was never this excited to see him— then again, to be fair, he’d caused trouble for Merlin from the beginning, what with the guards and Morgana…
“See?” Merlin waves their connected hands in the air. Mordred lets his arm wave around, Merlin almost pulling it from his shoulder in all the excitement Mordred doesn’t understand.
“Yes, Merlin, I see the boy— what could you possibly want with—”
“Don’t you see! He’s my son!”
Time stands still.
Mordred’s hand falls away from his nose.
Gaius gasps— or maybe he does. He’s not sure, because,
“
Son!?
”
—
He should have known Merlin would say something like this— when Merlin says his uncle is
Mordred’s
Grand Uncle, there isn’t much else that could come out of his mouth. But
how
, was the real question!
“Merlin, how could you be so stupid!” Gaius chokes out, swinging the workshop’s door shut, “Tell it to the whole world, you foolish boy! Why on earth would you bring him
here
!?” (Mordred wants to know this too! And how he’s Merlin’s offspring— This is not what he thought he’d agreed to when he was forcefully brought back to repeat his life!)
Merlin holds Mordred’s hand tighter as he snaps back, “
He
found
me
— And I’m not just going to send him away!” (Not like that, Mordred wants to shout— he hadn’t even known Merlin had had any children— where had they been all that time last time then!)
Gaius stares down at Mordred, and Mordred, refusing to back down, stares right back. “How do you even know it’s the right boy to begin with, Merlin?”
Mordred hadn’t expected any less from the supposed wise old man, but it still stung— of course, Mordred would like Merlin to explain this “offspring” bit with the absolute
most
detail, but… the idea that Mordred couldn’t possibly belong to someone specific, even if it was
Merlin
… didn’t not hurt.
Merlin takes a breath and speaks to Gaius as if the man were senile— a sight Mordred would have paid gold to see in the first place when Gaius arches an eyebrow, face pinched, as Merlin says, “Because you know your children’s scent, Gaius. You’re a physician.”
Gaius sighs, apparently convinced, pinching the bridge of his nose. (Mordred’s thoroughly confused as to how that’s all it takes. What, no checking even for a potion or spell effects even? Is Gaius truly so trusting? —he skips right over the fact that he found Merlin by scent just like that, he’s not thinking about it, not in the slightest, not a chance.) Gaius begins straightening his desk for not to do, “And how do you suggest we explain his presence?” He gestures at Mordred, and Mordred notices Gaius refusing to make eye contact now.
Strange. (Mordred narrows his eyes at Gaius… Does Gaius remember? If so, Mordred’s even more confused at the lack of caution he’s expressing.)
Merlin shrugs, grinning. “I can always tell them the truth.”
Gaius does glare at Merlin then. “Merlin! Don’t be stupid!” Gaius goes into a tirade about the precautions, he, Merlin, in particular needs to take.
Mordred can feel the conversation going over his head. He thinks he’s floating— maybe he’s really dreaming, or maybe having a nightmare—
Merlin’s son
! Looking at Merlin’s excited face falling back to a sheepish expression… Honestly, Merlin’s.. strangeness and.. openness? this time makes more sense now. But
son
, Mordred’s at a loss for words. Merlin would have been so young! Merlin got a girl pregnant so young? Did this happen in his timeline? Where had the child been if not for him? Everything is different this time— he
knows
he’s not the son of Merlin in his first timeline. That would be too tragic, surely.
But— could Merlin be one of the omegas? Mordred had been led to believe they were not treated as well outside of the encampments and were often the ones being.. Bred, not the other way around… Which would mean Merlin was his.. Mother? Or was he still his father? Did he have
two
fathers he had no knowledge of this time??
In face of all this uncertainty, Mordred’s isolation in the encampments maybe, he’s realizing, maybe wasn’t so smart. He wants to kick himself for being so foolish.
Merlin rubs his neck, “Uh… Well, I’m..”
“—In hiding!” Gaius ends his rant, then whirls on him again, “What of Arthur?”
Merlin looks to the ground, “Er, well… Arthur would understand?”
“This isn’t a fairytale, Merlin. The family you wish to have must never happen. For your own safety— and that of the child’s.”
Merlin growls, holding Mordred close— Mordred’s about had it with being pulled around like this— “Stop it, Gaius. I’m not sending him away.”
Mordred’s heart pangs at that. (He did plenty more than that last life— this world is giving him a headache with how different it is.)
Gaius sits down with another sigh. “Even to protect you both?”
Merlin hesitates.
“You know Uther will kill you both if he ever were to find out the truth.”
Mordred looks between them. What? Of course Uther would kill them! He has magic,
obviously
. Mordred’s very confused by this conversation— and he has questions he’s waited honestly very patiently to be answered.
Impulsively, he tugs on Merlin’s shirt. He doesn’t trust his own voice, so he sends through his mind,
“Can we talk now?”
Merlin looks down at him, his face changing expression so fast it seems to melt into softness.
Mordred controls his
own
expression, because, Goddesses. This is bizarre— he wonders, again, if Merlin’s under some kind of spell.
“Yes, of course,” Merlin replies out loud, “You’ve waited very patiently, I’m sorry.”
Mordred has never been gladder than he is now that his face is so much like stone without trying. Because: What is he supposed to do with such an easy apology?! His Merlin
never
apologized! He always tried to kill him— after that first time in the courtyard. He’s always known something happened after that point, to turn Merlin against him, but that’s besides the point! This Merlin is spell-struck! He has to be— the alternative, that he truly
is
Merlin’s offspring this time, makes his head hurt worse.
Merlin gives one last look to Gaius, then pulls Mordred towards the back room door— which Mordred notices is a lot sturdier than he remembers it was.
“Gaius!” A well-remembered voice calls outside the workshop door. The door bursts open in a swirl of silks and fabric, “Oh, Gaius, I had another— Oh.” Morgana stands in regal beauty, hand clutching at the door. Her eyes meet Mordred’s and stares deep into Mordred’s soul, and he wonders what she sees.
She had a dream? Was her dream about him?
Merlin rests his hand on Mordred’s shoulder, breaking whatever stasis had been on the workshop.
“Yes, milady?” Gaius asks, moving from the table to in front of her, trying to block her from Merlin and Mordred, knocking over a book in his haste. The book falls open to an illustrious page of the Fates, hands clasped in supplication, faces smiling too wide.
Morgana spares Gaius a glance, but returns to staring at Mordred and asks, “Who’s this?”
Merlin smiles— Mordred catches his nervous scent, faint as it is now, “No need to worry, milady.” Merlin turns Mordred around and towards the back room again, but Mordred looks back.
He wonders if.. Maybe she knows him, with her staring— did she travel to this world with him? He risks it,
“Hello Morgana.”
Merlin gives him a look at Morgana’s soft gasp behind them. (Mordred ignores the pang when that gasp reveals she isn’t from his world— he hadn’t realized he had put so much hope in it.) Merlin’s reprimand echoes in his head,
“Don’t involve the Lady Morgana, Mordred. She struggles enough.”
Mordred allows himself to pout like he wants to.
“But she’s—”
“The King’s Ward. Who doesn’t know what she is— she’s dangerous.”
Mordred glares up at him as they climb the stairs.
“She’s only dangerous if you abandon her. Why haven’t you told her what she is?”
Why did Merlin always insist on doing things the hard way?
Merlin sighs and goes to close the door. He stares out at Morgana from the door, smiles, then shuts the door. He stays facing the door. His voice sweeps through Mordred’s head,
“Because there’s too much at stake for it to go wrong.”
Merlin turns to him with a smile, “But let’s forget about that for now.”
Mordred narrows his eyes at him. He expected to be treated like a child… but not so blatantly. “Why did you leave me with the druids?”
Merlin slumps down onto the bed and pats it. When he doesn’t move, Merlin looks at the wall, resigned, and murmurs, “I— I never wanted to leave you, you know… but… You were born when omega hunting was still— not as much, nothing like what my mother experienced, but she feared that if our neighbors knew I was…”
So Merlin was an omega? Mordred comes to sit next to him. No matter how much he tried, everyone still treated him like a child who wouldn’t understand— no one would tell him specifics about alphas and omegas.. But maybe Merlin would.
“Why are omegas hunted?” He thinks he understands, but, first he must lay the foundations— he
is
supposed to only be 7 summers here.
Merlin stops and starts a couple times, “Well… How much do you know?”
Mordred hums. “I was only told alphas and omegas fall into lust together and that they can smell better than betas— betas are… normal, and alphas and omegas are.. Special. Omegas especially so.”
Merlin huffs and mutters, “I thought the druids would teach you better.”
“They tried— I didn’t listen,” Mordred defends.
Merlin looks at him, hesitant, “You—“ He looks at his hands, “You sound like you’ve had to do a lot of growing up already.”
Mordred sits taller. “Yes.” Maybe Merlin will treat him with more respect now.
Merlin pats his head, rubbing his hair through his fingers. (Mordred ignores how much he revels in it.) “…Omegas are prized possessions for the nobility because of their.. Ability to have alpha children so easily. Alphas are the rulers— Betas don’t stay rulers for very long, and omegas are taken as mates— but really, just pleasure slaves. Used and thrown around just as easily as a toy ball. I have been in hiding as a beta since I presented when I was 10 summers.”
Mordred nods. He can read between the lines: omegas are the breed mares of nobility. Their status depends on omegas— and he can understand how that would mean omegas would need to be controlled for that to happen. Mordred shudders, and a horrifying thought surfaces. If Mordred truly was Merlin’s… “Did you have me against your will?”
Merlin pauses, a pinched look overtaking his face, eyes moistening. He runs his fingers through Mordred’s hair, “You’re far too young to have to think about this…” Smiling through his emotions, he adds, “I may have had you young, Mordred. But, no. We were both willing participants, if a bit.. Misguided. I was lucky in that regard.”
That particularly horrible fate averted, Mordred doesn’t want to hear
any
more on that subject, thank you— he regrets not five moments ago thinking he wanted all the details. He certainly does not. Merlin in any state other than angry or upset was foreign to him just this morning. He couldn’t imagine how Merlin could be so happy even— and
didn’t want to
imagine him any other ways. But he does wonder, “Who is my other parent?”
Merlin’s smile falters. “Er, I— I best keep that to myself for now. Maybe when you’re older.”
Mordred resists the urge to roll his eyes. ‘Older,’ they always say that— he wonders if he was always this insufferable about age when he was ‘older.’ (Not that he got to be that much ‘older’ either.) Regardless, as he stares at Merlin fiddling with some loose strings in his shirt, he wonders if he can actually get along with this Merlin— his apparent father this time around. Or.. Mother?
He sighs. This is confusing. And so much more complicated than he expected.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Chapter 2: The Father(s)
Mordred has an ear for it all day, but he never hears the warning bells. He hopes that means Cerdan escaped without the burden of a child. Does making sure he lives make all of this worse? Or better? Mordred prays he lives— just because he’s a druid, and there’s been too many druid deaths in this world, and hopes that it doesn’t come around to bite him in the arse.
Merlin tells him to stay in the back room the rest of the day. “It’s for your own good— until I can explain your presence.”
It’s not like he has anything else to do, to be honest, but Mordred catches himself from pouting like the child he is (.. like the child he is
now
— he is by no means a child in his mind, not in the slightest, of course). “What about Arthur?”
Merlin’s eyes go wide, “W-what about Arthur?”
It’s a genuine question— they were always so attached to each other in his past life… but he supposes he’s not to know that. Mordred frowns, still, that’s a strange reaction to have, so different from his Merlin— so he adds, innocently, “Gaius said—”
“Oh!” Merlin breathes in relief, “Arthur will wonder about you is all— a lot. He won’t let it go like everyone else. He’s… strange that way. But— contrary to Gaius’ views, Arthur doesn’t push like others will.”
Mordred nods, but entirely disagrees. Merlin obviously doesn’t know Arthur’s penchant to go behind his back, then… Mordred frowns, or maybe Arthur really is different this time around.
Merlin
certainly is.
But even with some differences that could occur, Mordred’s surprised it takes all afternoon before the inevitable happens.
“Merlin!” Arthur bellows from the hallway outside Gaius’ chambers.
Mordred, hid away in the back room, is unsure what to do. His first instinct is to hide under the bed— the man’s booming voice shakes fear deep in his core. No matter how much anger he had for the Arthur of his world, it still makes him quake in his shoes at the sound of his voice. Arthur had killed him the last they met after all— who’s to say what this Arthur is truly like. Mordred finds himself wanting Merlin— which is stupendous… or maybe not, as
this
Merlin would distract Arthur— or hide him at least.
But Merlin had gone off to get herbs for Gaius— and Gaius had gone on a house call, with the eyebrow of disapproval turned on him to emphasize the danger of making trouble. But even if he had wanted to, the decision is taken from him when Arthur stomps up the steps and bursts through the door like he’ll catch Merlin doing something he shouldn’t. “
Mer
l—! Oh. Uh…”
Mordred tries to hide his shaking.
Arthur stands there in his princely glory— sure of himself and his strength, none the wiser that the boy in front of him is his death so many years in the future. Arthur looks barely more than a boy himself now— it makes Mordred realize how young they all were when their destiny had been set. But something seems.. Off about him that Mordred can’t place.
“Er.. Who are you?” Arthur asks. “Where’s Merlin?” He looks around the door, just to make sure he isn’t hiding in the scant space behind the door, apparently.
Mordred gulps, his palms sweaty. “Herbs,” is all he can manage to get out.
Arthur hums, stepping into the room, and Mordred’s hit with his scent— metallic and spiced, so very much a contrast from Merlin’s earthy and fresh grass scent.
It centers Mordred through the shakiness. This Arthur is not the Arthur of his world. He will not hurt him without cause. And Mordred can recognize, even with his meager understanding of the world, that Arthur is a leader to his bones. Mordred straightens, his nerves tainting every move he makes. “This is Merlin’s room.”
Arthur huffs, “Obviously. Why are you in it?”
Mordred blinks. How is he supposed to respond to that? Merlin doesn’t want Arthur to know yet— and a spitefully old feeling rears its ugly head. Mordred considers telling him the truth.
Arthur raises an eyebrow. “You don’t… uh— where’s your parents? Is…” Arthur looks at him dubiously, “…Gaius treating you for something?”
With the potential for direct conflict— who knows what Arthur would do if he thinks Merlin had kept a whole child from his knowledge— and in the face of what he’s meant to do this time around, Mordred lets his impulse lie and shakes his head “no.”
Hands on his hips, Arthur frowns, “You should be on your way then— if Gaius is done treating you, then you need not stand around. I’m sure your parents are wondering where you are.” Mordred controls his expression at the irony of such a statement.
Instead, he reaches out with his mind,
“Merlin?”
“Is something wrong?”
Merlin replies immediately.
“..Arthur is here.”
Merlin is silent for a moment.
“I’m just beyond the Keep. Do not say a word, do you understand?”
Mordred doesn’t reply at first, staring at Arthur expectant sweep of his hand.
“Too late?”
To Arthur, he says, “Merlin told me to stay here.”
Arthur’s eyebrows raise. “Did he?” He looks around, “Well then where is he?”
Mordred blinks, eyebrow raised. Does he need to repeat what he said earlier?
Arthur huffs and mutters, stepping out through the door, “Raising his youngers to be just as defiant as himself is what he’s doing.”
Mordred chokes on his tongue in an attempt to hide his laughter, coughing so much he fears his innards will become his outards. Which is precisely when Merlin comes charging through the door and stops short at the sight of Arthur in the doorway of the back room. “Mordred? Are you alright?”
When all Mordred can do is continue coughing— to hide the laughter of course, for that is all that keeps the tears away at this strange situation— Merlin rushes past Arthur into the room. Merlin pats his back, “Just breathe— what did you do?” He turns on Arthur.
“Nothing!” Arthur defends. “Why do you assume I have anything to do with it? He just started coughing!”
Merlin pats Mordred’s back as he sucks in air in calculated bursts to quell the “tickle” in his throat. Merlin huffs out, “Well, be useful and fetch that water on the table.”
Arthur huffs in return, but complies— Mordred can’t help but be fascinated how their dynamic is the same, but also so much more awkward— a green shoot of a cut down tree. But, at the same time, he remembers they were much more… “master and servant” even when he’d returned as a knight. He remembers Merlin so much more… demure— hidden rebellion always— and their dynamic never really crossed over into friends, at least in his sight. Arthur never let it be known he was deferential, even in their later years, at least not with people he did not trust. Mordred always wondered what went on behind closed doors, as he’d only seen Arthur slip once, when Merlin had been hurt.
As Merlin makes him sit on the bed as Mordred’s ‘coughing’ subsides, Arthur handing him a glass of water, Mordred wonders at the differences in their behavior… He takes a sip. Most likely, this is the different timeline manifesting. But is that all it is?
Arthur doesn’t stay long— in fact as soon as Mordred wets his throat and gets the ‘coughing’ down, he orders Merlin to his rooms, to clean something or other. Either Arthur’s completely forgotten that he doesn’t know who he is, or he doesn’t care. Both ideas sit in Mordred’s chest even as he ignores the feeling.
Merlin waves him off, and Arthur leaves— Mordred is again struck at how casual Merlin is with him. Mordred’s not sure why it bothers him so much— it will help him in the long run, when he has to confront Merlin’s secrets and Arthur’s fury towards magic. But it does— it bothers him much more than he wants to admit.
Merlin turns to him, eyes wary. “And what did you say to him?”
Mordred shrugs, “He asked why I was here, and I told him you told me to stay here.”
Merlin purses his lips, but nods.
Mordred hides a roll of his eyes— Merlin and his secrets, it will quite literally be the death of them all if he does nothing.
Merlin takes off for Arthur’s chambers before he “sends the guards after him” he says, and Mordred raises an eyebrow as he leaves. That’s already happening? From the few times he stayed in Camelot early on, Merlin had not seemed comfortable enough to joke of such things. Morgana’s ramblings after a few mugs of mead made it seem as it was a gradual, obvious progression of mutual liking. Even until the end, Mordred knows Morgana never quite caught on to why— and though he’d told her of Merlin, he’d never shared that— he’d held Merlin ultimately responsible for Kara. He’d wanted Merlin to feel his pain. Mordred knows he succeeded, he can feel it. And now, as the door slips shut behind Merlin, he has to watch over these idiots until they learn to grow up.
He sighs— he can’t wait for when he grows a little older when he will meet Kara.
At the thought of Kara, he puts off the growing bundle of panic each time he thinks of her. He carefully puts her back in the beautiful box he made for her in his mind and returns to the problem of Arthur and Merlin. Always Arthur and Merlin, isn’t it. Mordred stares around Gaius’ workshop— unchanged even through time and timeline— and he wonders if perhaps the points of worry are not points at all, and they had been happening all along. Mordred simply had not been privy to them.
Gaius comes back in short order and begins to prepare dinner— ordering Mordred around like a small servant.
It grates on Mordred’s nerves, but he lets it happen, because he’s grateful for the distraction. Being Merlin’s supposed son and Arthur’s complete disinterest and their strange comfortability with each other changes things, but of what can only manifest in its time.
And there is not one thing he can possibly change now without heavy responsibility for its consequences.
—
Eight Years Ago
The young boy sat back against the wall of the inn, eating an apple. It felt nice to relax after the long hard riding. Going on the patrol had been his idea, and he doesn’t regret it— but he certainly hadn’t understood the length to which they rode every day.
His father had only ever muttered about the danger, and young Prince Arthur had a bone to pick with him for the negligence in the manner of the patrols.
If he’d been disabused of the fairytale adventures early on, then he might have agreed with his father and stayed behind. But as it was, Leon came to stand beside him, “Sire, we must leave for the next border village soon.”
Arthur nodded, “Of course.” He chucked the apple core down the alley and, achingly, got back on his horse. Stella was a strong mare— a good breed, but nothing like the stallions of war that sat unused in their knights’ stalls that he so wished to obtain.
Leon rose up on his own steady gelding and followed Arthur as Stella clopped over back into line near the beginning of the patrol. Leon’s gelding came flush against his side and Arthur engaged in what Sir Bors called a “ridiculous flight of fancy” with Leon— what was so wrong with a little horse footsy to pass away the boring hours, he’ll never understand.
It took almost the rest of daylight to get to the next village. This was to be the peak of their journey. From now, their patrol would take them on a round about journey back to Camelot.
Arthur mused over the maps Sir Bors had spread out along his stallion’s rump. He frowned. “What about Ealdor, Sir?”
Sir Bors sniffed, “That’s Lot’s lands— need not worry about that, sire.”
Arthur hummed.
Sir Bors took in the young prince and shooed him away, “Go enjoy your time away from the saddle, Your Highness. The maps are not to worry about.”
Arthur turned his frown on Sir Bors. He hated that tone, but with a huff, he primly said, “I shall determine for myself what’s a worry, thank you, Sir Bors.”
Sir Bors hid a snort in a cough and hummed a “Yessire.”
Arthur kicked at the pebbles in the streets, lit mostly by torches now. It was generous to call most of them “streets.” At most, they were alleys along one main roadway— nothing of the grandeur of streets like in Camelot. He sees many of the knights enter one single establishment and assumes it the inn— what else could it be?
Giggling and raucous laughter entice him, but no smells of meat or ale makes it to his nose. Only the smoke of many lanterns and the stinging strength of omega scent perfumes burning his nostrils.
He frowns and as he gets closer, he realizes that this is— not the inn. Well, it is an inn of sorts, just not one his father liked him to entertain any notion of entering: a brothel.
A village of this size even having one is astonishing to Arthur.
Hot in the face, he takes several steps back from the giggling, scantily clad girls and boys that try to entice him closer and looks around for the actual inn. No matter how far away from Camelot he got, his father’s words still held him tightly in their grip: “Bastards lead to war, Arthur. Never enter such an establishment if you wish good will on your kingdom.”
Arthur takes several more steps back and finds Sir Bors entering another establishment down the main street someways, Leon trailing at his side. He can just make out Leon’s frown— his head turning this way and that, probably looking for Arthur.
Arthur makes for them— he ignores Leon’s sigh of relief and asks Sir Bors for his rooms.
Sir Bors hands him a key and points to the second floor door at the end of the outdoor hallway— such a big establishment for such a small village, and when Arthur mentions it, Sir Bors gruffs that all the trade from over the passes in Lot’s area comes through this way.
Arthur wonders why there aren’t more knights stationed out here if that were the case. But the line of merchant carts and boisterous laughter inside the inn make more sense now. Arthur bids them a good night and goes up the flight of stairs.
Arthur goes all the way to the end, puts the key in, and turns the handle…
Some time in that morning, another young boy crawls up into his best friend’s mother’s cart and they share a giggling laugh as Will tucks the hides over Merlin, pocketing him away among the baskets and wares for the market.
It’s dark outside still, and Merlin’s mother is just finishing up the breakfast cleaning in the cold air of the beginning of winter. That’s the only reason Merlin can think of (that he tells Will at least) why his mother insisted that he not leave her today.
But Merlin knows that, no matter how many offers Will’s mam gives him to go with them, his mother will refuse. Because of his magic— it feels more and more like a curse than some blimey blessing these days. But maybe Will won’t be as adverse to it all as Mother thinks.
And no one has come round these parts for magic in a long time— longer than he’s been alive as far as he knows.
He smiles to himself, peaking through the small holes in the hides to see the trees of the pass.
It takes far longer to get there than he thought it would, from Will’s chattering. In fact, he can hear Will’s chatter from the front of the cart, talking on about anything and everything as loud as he can, like he’s trying to keep Merlin entertained as much as possible.
And Merlin would normally find it endearing, but the last few hours, it has grown hot under the hides— so hot that he feels he can’t breathe, and his stomach aches something fierce. The milk must have been right rancid this morning. (How, though, he can’t be sure. Matthew, the village head’s son, had told Mother he had milked the cow that morning.)
Whatever it was, all he knows is that the sweat has stained through the more private parts of his clothes— his bum in particular had been sweating like he’d never experienced. He almost wonders if he’s soiled himself by accident.
When Will rushes to let him off so he can hide from his mother so they can run off as soon as his mother’s cart is ready for paying customers, he stops short at the shivering mess Merlin makes in the nest of wares. “Bloody dicks, Merls. You look horrible.”
“Thanks,” Merlin snaps, waving his hand for help up. “It got too bloody hot under here.”
William rushes to get him out of the way, just in time for Will’s mother to round the back of the cart.
“What’s this then! William!” She smacks Will round the head, “What the bloody bastard thinking was this!” She turns to Merlin with a soft smile and gentle hands on his shoulders, “Sorry, Merlin, love, I know he put you up to this,” She smacks Will again, “You weasel!”
“But mum!” Will whines.
“I’ll ‘ave none of that! Look at poor Merlin! The boy looks a fright— ready to keel over any moment!” Will’s mam waves her hand at the empty space at the end of the cart, “Here, love, ‘ave a seat. William, unload the wares.” She gives Will the eye and he does what she says without complaint. “Now, let’s ‘ave a look at ye.”
She hums and frets, but the longer he’s out from under the hides, the better he feels.
“I’m fine, mam,” he smiles.
She frowns but finally nods when Will comes back from dropping the last of the wares at her stall. “A’right, a’right! Go ‘ave fun, you hooligans!”
Merlin grins at Will and they rush to explore the wares and stalls. They snatch crumbs and pieces left from the wealthy at the stalls. It’s not much, but it allows them to spend the meager coins Merlin’s saved wisely.
Throughout their time there, the sweats and fever return, but not nearly as bad as in the back of the cart, so Merlin ignores it. The shivers and coughs of winter are always dangerous to ignore for even a moment, but Merlin knows he won’t get a chance like this again.
It doesn’t take as long as Merlin thought it would to sell what Will’s mam was going to sell. There’s always things left over that she gives out to the orphans on the way back, Will says, but those aren’t much either, and Will’s mam decides to spend just a little of her hard-earned coins on an actual meal at the inn in town.
They get fresh bread— since the innkeeper was sweet on Will’s mam, so Will says— and a bowl of fragrant soup, with actual meat bits in it!
It must cost all the coin she has to spare, so Merlin thanks her over and over again. But as they start the process of packing the cart away, Merlin feels the shivers come back in full force. So much so that Will’s mam frets over him again.
And this time, he doesn’t have a leg to stand on— quite literally. He falls over into the cart, and Will and his mum rush to get him home.
But as they leave the town— the dark of the late afternoon in growing winter closing in around them, something doesn’t feel right about leaving. His magick, like never before, pulls him back towards the town. So Merlin, quiet as he can, musters up the strength to slip out from the blankets in the back of the cart, asking silent forgiveness and goes back to the town square.
He must be mad, because, he can’t tell which way it’s coming from, but there’s a scent that’s driving him spare.
His mother had warned this was something that could happen to him— being an omega. His mother was one, so he could be too. Though, she hid it, just as he did his magic. She maybe hadn’t meant for him to hear, but she did hear her prayer, asking the Goddesses to spare him from the pains she experienced.
And Merlin had been cautious for a while, but nothing of the sort had ever come. In fact, he was certain he wouldn’t— never mind that he was only 12 summers, and he had no knowledge that most such pains did not occur until many were at least 14 summers.
But as Merlin stands in the middle of the town square, he knows, deep down, that he needs to take shelter, and take shelter quickly.
He goes to the inn, to the innkeeper sweet on Will’s mam and asked for a room for them. When the innkeeper narrowed his eyes suspiciously, Merlin had stated that Will and his mam were due to come in soon, they had the cart to square away first.
The innkeeper finally relented and told him to take the end room on the second floor— and then became so busy with the knights that he forgot about the boy entirely.
Neither of them realized that the innkeeper had forgotten to give the key to the boy, so much in his haste had he left. And Merlin had no knowledge that he’d simply opened the door with his magic, so far gone on fevers and shivers as he was…