Just to be safe, I'll warn for spoilers for Series Five. It's a bit hard to tell-if you haven't seen Series Five, any references to it that are found in this story are small enough that you probably won't recognize them as actually coming from the show itself. Nevertheless, this was written while S5 was airing, so there likely are some tiny details that oozed out of my brain and into the plot. I can guarantee some explicit spoilers for S4, though, so if you haven't seen that, read at your own peril.

[December 12th, 2013]

"Merlin. I think you've run long enough, don't you?"

The gun in Merlin's hand feels cold, ice cold, so cold that he can't register the trigger under his finger. Is his finger even on the trigger? Would it matter? His hand is so unnaturally still. It should be shaking, but there's no waver, and the barrel remains trained on the man across from him.

"No," he murmurs, hardly able to get the words out.

Arthur just smiles.

"You won't shoot me. Now put it down."

[November 7th, 2013]

It's been raining for a week straight. But, then, this is Britain.

These days, Merlin prefers to try to ignore the weather.

Of course, it'd be easier to feel good about anything if there weren't a constant low rap beating against the inside of his skull as he slips out the side door of the building and into the street. Ducking his head low against the driving rain, he pulls his hood up and jogs across the pavement to the opposide sidewalk; he hardly even notices when a car rushes by, catching water and mud and who knows what else in its tires and spraying him with an icy-cold film. Damn jacket: he'd bought it because it was, most importantly, cheap, and, probably every bit as necessarily, inconspicuous—a dark navy—but would it really be too much to ask that maybe it could be a bit warm too?

Apparently so.

One quick glance behind him offers reassurance that nobody has followed him: wet coats aside, it's a good night. He probably won't have many more of them if things keep up the way they're going.

But that's why he's here, isn't it? Here, slipping past a barely lit and obviously closed-for-the-night (maybe forever) Sainsbury's, sliding down another dimly lit street. He's been this way before: getting lost was never the worry, but that's not entirely a comfort when so many other things are.

"Well, you certainly look terrible."

Oh, no doubt. Nice of her to point it out, though. "Not all of us were born into the lap of luxury, Morgana."

Again. Not that she knows this isn't the first time.

She just flashes him a sharp grin, showing that perfect smile that Merlin would swear came from braces if she hadn't had it to begin with in Camelot. People shouldn't get to be as gorgeous as Morgana naturally is, but a second rebirth makes it pretty clear that, for whatever reason, fate is just that kind to her. He can still remember the first time he saw her on the telly, standing there on stage next to Arthur, wearing some dress that probably cost more than Merlin's family made in a year.

Tonight, though, she's not looking her best: cutting grin aside, there are dark smudges under her eyes, and her hair seems a bit lifeless, like she hasn't been able to wash it in a few days. The more he looks, the more he's reminded of the Morgana he remembers in the years after she was driven out of Camelot. At the very least, she still appears more than a little mad. That's the thing with Morgana, though: even a bit crazy, she's still calm and collected, always calculating, and so insanely competent that only a fool would see her as anything less than a threat.

A threat to whom, though?

"Well," she says, arching an eyebrow and leaning back against the brick wall behind her, "at least you haven't lost everything yet."

"Is that a not-so-subtle way of reminding me why I'm here?"

Another grin, and this time she tosses her hair back over her shoulder, tipping her face up to the rain and laughing a little. "Only you have any idea why you're here, Merlin."

Why in the world didn't they have this meeting in the daytime? Or maybe when it wasn't raining? There are puddles dotting the alleyway, and it's cold—his fingers are starting to numb—but somehow they're still here, peering through the dark at each other's faces, like there's something to be learned in these few mintues. "I don't have any reason to trust you."

"Maybe not. But you don't have any reason to distrust me either."

Wrong. So wrong. If only she knew just how wrong.

"You'll have to do better than that."

"Why?" she asks, shrugging haphazardly and crossing her ankles. She could probably stab him to death with those heals she's wearing. "You're somehow connected to this, Merlin. I don't know why, but Arthur wants to find you, and whether or not you really trust me, working with me has to be a better alternative than giving Arthur what he wants."

Yes. No. Maybe. Once, he'd known what it was Arthur wanted, but now that's just a convoluted mess, a little like everything else. "He's your brother," Merlin says slowly, amazed at how easily the words roll out on his tongue when they certainly never did back in Camelot. "Why are you working against him?"

First rule of this world right there: everyone he knew back in Camelot—they're going to have a motive. It may or may not be what it was the first time around. More importantly, what they say it is may not be what it actually is. And what he thinks he already knows about why Morgana is doing this? It could be completely wrong.

Carefully, Morgana draws her jacket a little closer to her body, and for just a moment, the way the streetlight—just a lone lamp post at the end of the ally—hits her face reminds him of how she looked at the end, a dark hood sloping down her forehead as she leaned over Arthur in his last moments.

A thin smile curls over her face, breaking the illusion. "I don't know, Merlin? Why don't you want him to find you? And why does he want to find you so badly?"

Right. Well, about his only answer for that is to look away and shove his hands down into his pockets. Not a very good answer, but it's not like he can tell the truth.

"Exactly," Morgana murmurs. "You keep your secrets; I'll keep mine."

She can think that, but it's not much of a secret: Morgana is the kind of well-known secret that, while not talked about, tends to be known by everyone in certain circles. The kind of circles he's been frequenting lately, in fact. Besides, she always works against Arthur. He'd thought that might change in this lifetime, but whatever fate is, apparently Morgana and Arthur being at odds is part of it. He hadn't thought, though—never thought—that he'd ever see a day where Morgana might not be the one in the wrong.

"He was a savior at first, you know."

And why did he say that? Morgana doesn't know—doesn't know any of it, but… it's Arthur, and part of him still just can't believe….

Sometimes—sometimes he just tingles with it, rather like now. This is a new body, but his mind feels so terribly old, and the world fits too snuggly around all of it. There were things he knew—still knows—for sure: that spring would come to Camelot, that the streetlight illuminating this ally will eventually flicker and die—that Arthur, whatever his faults, is a good man. Things like that—they just were, or maybe are, as unchangeable as the wind snaking between the buildings and rubbing his face raw. He could pull his jacket up further, but instead he just looks at Morgana and tries not to shiver; if all those things are changeable—and still not all of them are—the wind might be too.

None of it feels real.

"A savior?" Morgana parrots, regarding him with a steely look, hard enough that her face tightens until he can see the dim light etched into the lines of her cheekbones. "Maybe," she says slowly, seeming to weight the words. "Maybe he was. But he didn't stay that way."

It takes him a moment to realize that what he's tasting in his mouth—it's blood. He's bitten down hard enough that he's driven his teeth down into his lip. "No. He didn't."

God only knows why feeling those words on his tongue causes any reaction—he's already tasting blood—but it does, and Merlin feels himself dropping his shoulders down into a hint of a slouch; and Morgana, a little like the person he loved once upon a time, seems to soften, not so far as to be anything weak—but, well, it's enough.

"You've already made your decision, haven't you?" she asks him, and, yes, that's a bit of pity in her voice.

He toes at a small puddle near his foot. "Maybe I have."

"That time between deciding something and admitting to yourself that you've decided it—it's not easy, is it?"

No. No. "I guess not."

And then, for just a few seconds, neither of them speaks. Water pools in the cracks of the road, around the toe of Morgana's shoes, but regardless of any of it, they simply stare at each other. No accusation, no hatred—just something indefinable in terms of anything more than the thin line of her mouth and the frown he knows he's wearing.

Merlin can hardly believe it when he hears himself breaking the silence: "I'll help you."

She just nods. "Good."

Turning to leave, she gives a small jerk of her head, indicating that she wants him to follow. He goes, not because he wants to or because he believes in her, but because what else can possibly be left for him to do? He will never believe in her, and it's a bitter notion flying in the face of the loyalty he had for her brother. Arthur may have returned, but, damn it all to Hell, this isn't a return like it should be. This isn't Camelot, and, this time, there isn't anything to do but slip out of the alley after Morgana, trying not to consider exactly what that means.

Maybe he should have let Arthur find him after all.

If it was just about him, maybe he would have.

[December 12th, 2013]

"You really think this will solve anything?" Arthur asks, sighing heavily as he glances back at the gun that Merlin has trained firmly on his chest. And this is Merlin. It would certainly be possible to fake appearances, but no one could ever fake what is so essentially Merlin—that manner, that belief in a good that never quite seems to disappear no matter what he's seen… and Arthur has missed that. Missed Merlin.

Merlin swallows hard. "This has to end, Arthur." His eyes flicker toward the opposite wall with a precision he's learned more solidly this time. It took him a long while to learn that back in Camelot. It should be a good thing—has probably saved Merlin's life more than a couple of times—and, yet, somehow, Arthur finds himself frowning. Merlin shouldn't have had to learn that. Arthur-he hadn't meant for it to happen quite like this. He ought to have protected Merlin… and he would have—would never have let him get quite like this if Merlin had just let him take that kind of care.

Sighing again, he takes a step toward Merlin; Merlin takes a step back. His finger doesn't tighten on the trigger. Very telling. "Where are you going to go, Merlin? The list of places you can run has gotten remarkably short."

"It doesn't matter."

"I think it does."

"No."

"Well. Go on then. Shoot me."

But he doesn't. It's not that he physically can't. Or, if he can't, Arthur certainly isn't able to claim that he knows about it. It's only that Merlin won't. A gamble? Oh, certainly, but it's not like that is anything new and, frankly, wagering on the fact that Merlin won't pull the trigger seems relatively safe in comparison to some of the other things he's risked everything on.

"Don't, Arthur." Another step. Merlin grits his teeth. "Arthur."

As if it's that simple. "Merlin, I'll bet you haven't even checked to see if that gun really works. You aren't going to shoot me." Another step forward.

For the first time, Merlin's hand shakes. It's barely perceptible, just a tremor in the fingers, slim and hardly there, but there's a little more daylight over the top of the barrel than there was before. "Is this the part where you tell me it doesn't work?"

A laugh bubbles up in Arthur's chest, completely unbidden. "Oh, no, as far as I know, it does."