Disclaimer: Merlin and Wicked Lovely don't belong to me.

A/N: Hello! This is (hopefully) going to be multi-chaptered and I hope it's good. It's a Merlin and Wicked Lovely crossover. I'm not sure if it has spoilers for Wicked Lovely, but just to be on the cautious side, I'll say it does. It will almost certainly have spoilers for Merlin unless I miraculously don't mention any previous episodes, which is a task in it's self ;).

Unbetaed, so it'll probably be riddled with mistakes, so just watched out for them, and try not to let my bad spelling and/or grammer distract you from the pleasure of reading.

Hope you enjoy!

Cub xxx

Prologue

The stillness of the fae was unnerving, unsettling, unnatural, but he stayed silent and tried to not gnash his teeth in aggravation. High Court fae were the worst. It galled him that he had to sink this low, that he had to escape, and he chastised himself from not seeing it, seeing what he was, what Irial was grooming him to be. Sorcha was his last chance, and he was going to take it, damn the consequences. Even if he was damning himself in the process.

A shift in the fae and he tensed imperceptibly. She was here. He felt her presence, the everlasting calm of Unchanging that was the High Queen. He shook it off. Her confusion was palpable and he smirked inwardly, letting himself lick his lips slightly in indulgence. It was delicious as he drank it down. He gained a glimpse of her shock that he took greedily before she slammed up her barriers further, losing what little warmth had managed to sneak into her expression.

Pity. She was fun to play with.

Sorcha strode forward and he kept form as she came to stop in front of him. Her Bloody Right Hand stood slightly behind her and he tilted his head in acknowledgment of the threat. Devlin was a dangerous faery and he would have loved to of gone against him. The blood, the rush, the viscious ruthlessness he knew Devlin hid deep down. It would of been...glorious.

Too bad he would no longer be part of this world. For the better.

He drew his eyes back to the Queen. Calm personified, in an entity. Like a statue in a city center, she was striking. But deadly, powerful, and one who held the world at her fingertips inside Faerie. She ruled here. Her will was the way, and only her will existed. As Dark Court, he was unwelcome here, and he was feeling the urge to cause chaos, and challenge her like he knew he could. The High Court wasn't the only court that once held sway in Faerie. But he couldn't, wouldn't. Not when he needed her help. Not when he was so close to escape.

Not when he had a sure-fire way to keep his secrets. Not even the all-knowing High Queen could know.

Nobody.

Even family.

He shook out of his thoughts and focused. Nothing could go wrong. Nothing.

"Gabriel," Sorcha greeted. The room shifted and the court, along with Devlin, disappeared like whispers of mist, dispersing with a faint breeze. He was pleased; she was going to be magnanimous. This wasn't a conversation to air in public.

"Emrys," He corrected. He savored the confusion that didn't show. Her face was stone. Fitting. "I am Gabriel-No-More, Queen Sorcha. It would please me for you to call me Emrys. I haven't had the pleasure of my name on your lips for years, my lady."

"Emrys, then. May I inquire as to the cause, Emrys? I have received no word from the Dark Court as to a demotion, and you certainly aren't dead. It's a...intriguing puzzle."

"Certainly." He smiled blandly. He wasn't going to offer information when even the threads failed Sorcha. He was too close to her; she couldn't see him. It was a blessing in disguise and one he exploited much to her chagrin. It was fun being him. But not for much longer.

"As much as I enjoy our pleasantries, High Queen, I am not here to parse words with you."

"Oh?" She said innocently. How he hated her sometimes. She was always more playful; emotional, when Dark Court were there. But she was devious with it. She wanted him to bend his neck. And, hell, he was almost willing to. Almost.

"Cease Sorcha, I have never, and will never submit to you. You have been trying for years. It will end." The words were rote, and he had said them before. But they were true, as evidenced by the way they passed his lips. It was Truth. Yet it was Logic that would not listen. Infuriating.

"Well then, Emrys of the Dark Court, Gabriel-No-More, what is it you seek from the High Court? By the very definition of your affiliations you are not welcome here, yet I permit you. Speak now, for I will not be so lenient for so long." Sorcha intoned. He felt like gritting his teeth; her insistence of standing on ceremony was irritating at the best of times. Now was not a time to be so facetious.

He persevered, however.

"Sorcha, Queen of the High Court, I come here to seek something precious." he said, keeping his gaze off her and around the room. The amount of grey was dull and boring, and he never knew there were so many shades. The detail he could see was subtle, incredibly so. He would be hard-pressed to believe that any but the most observant fey could see and appreciate the pictures. He would of been touched she remembered his taste of bloody art if not for he knew she also was partial to the drawings. Magyk needed Blood after all, even if most forgot.

"What is it you seek, dear Emrys?" she said disinterestedly. He would've been fooled but he knew her too well. He grew up with her. He kept silent for a few seconds, musing on his choices, on what drove him here. It would be relief, but first he needed to convince her. He gathered himself, then just as she was about to demand his reasons he offered them.

"I wish to become mortal,"

The sudden shock he felt confirmed his beliefs - he had blindsided her. He knew he had, but it was nice to confirm his suspicions. He rarely came out on top in their interactions, more since he had left for Solitude, but it was still an exciting novelty. He drank down his prize. High Court emotions were so sustaining. He closed his eyes in pleasure, and then centered them on her face.

Her mask had fallen. The shock was plain to see on her marble face and he kept his face blank in contrast. He would give no hints to his reasons. The threads were not kind in that action.

"Why?" she said faintly, once she had gained composure. Her mask had fell so easily that she was embarrassed at her indiscretion, but the presence of Dark Court always lead to an influx in emotions, especially from Bananach - War. And especially from the embodiment of Magyk.

"Whatever could you want as a mortal? You are fey! A powerful one, what could ever allure you to become a mortal? What insane idea has infected your mind like a plague?"

"My reasons are my own Sorcha," he returned. He would not be seen as weak. "Will you do it or not?"

"No one can become mortal, it's impossible," She dismissed his ideas in an instant, but she forgot who she was talking too.

"You can make fey from mortals. I know you can make a mortal out of fae."

His words were held strung out in the silence that encompassed. He knew she could do it. He knew everything. It's what made him so dangerous. That and countless other acts he had committed all in the name of his King and Court. They did well to fear him now, for he no longer acted under the banner of Court and King. It's what made Sorcha so frightened to give him this, for she knew he had a plan - How could he not? But she didn't know of it, the details, the machinations and that galled. All fey were tricky, they played word games and fought to win. It was weakness to lose. And rulers were not weak.

"Tell me your reasons, and I will decide whether to perform this...perversion." He almost laughed at her wording and the evidence of the arrogance of fey. One of the reasons he was glad he would soon be free from this body. A chance to learn humility. He glided forward on silent feet, the predator stalking his prey. His eyes glinted and he knew the spark was there. The spark that many called insanity. He called it mischief.

He leaned into her in a mockery of a familiar hug and put his mouth to her ear. It was a gross misconduct and he knew she could smite him, would have smote another. But she never could hurt Blood. Sentiment. He would love to get to know it.

"Why tell you?" he smirked against her ear, whispering in mockery of secrets told. "When I could show you?"

He pulled back, the shadows rose.

Dark. Silent. Still. Boring.

Then the screams erupted in the air and he felt himself smiling at Blood, while his inside seethed in self-hate.

The battlefield had grown, and the blood was starting to pour...