The Penned Dragon

Chapter 1: To Bring Them Back

(Now)

Someone said his name.

Gasped his name, in a shock of recognition. A female voice, familiar as a sister.

"Merlin? Omigosh, Merlin! No, let me take this one - what happened to him, do we know?"

He heard other voices. Seizure. Loss of consciousness. Cardiac arrhythmia.

"Can you hear me? Merlin?"

He blinked – bright lights flashed by above him, head-to-foot, head-to-foot. The sensation of movement said to him, gurney… hospital. The clear, cold scent of oxygen through a tube… which sparked a bit of concern – until he heard her voice again, saw her brown eyes full of worry for him, and knew he didn't have to.

Gwen would take care of him. Best damn nurse he knew. Only nurse he knew, damn or otherwise.

He closed his eyes again.

Someone else said. BP's falling. Give 'im twenty CCs of –

Gwen said, clearly and heart-broken, "What happened to him?"

(Maybe about 15 years ago…)

The Penned Dragon had been in business as long as he could remember. The business of reuniting people with the spirits of their beloved deceased, for a price – and for the gullible, some said. So named because the dragons of myth had always been creatures of mystic vision, spirit-guides still, perhaps.

It was in view whenever Merlin came to sit out on the fire escape of his childhood building apartment with Will – he climbed down, or his friend climbed up – legs through the railing to dangle two stories above the neighboring roof, and two more from the ground of the alley between. Traffic sounded, and sirens.

Will said, "That place is haunted."

Merlin looked where Will was looking – the iconic round building a dozen blocks distant, short in comparison, but visible between other structures – and said, immediately and uncertainly, "It is not. Spirits only come when they're 'pecifically called."

Will shrugged unconcern over the distinction. "I'm going as soon as I'm old enough," he said.

"Or as soon as you can make your parents sign permission?" Merlin suggested.

Will gave him a shove that rocked him nearly horizontal, sideways. And which both of them forgot, the next moment. "You'll come with me, right?"

"My dad says I shouldn't, even when I'm old enough," Merlin said, a bit worried over the one unusual in the list of parental cautions. "He says there's no way of knowing how I'll react, and it might be… dangerous."

"Oh, because you're –" Will wiggled his fingers to express Merlin's difference, which only he and Merlin's parents were aware of. "Huh. Well, if you did go –" blithely overlooking Merlin's restrictions for imagination's sake – "who'd you wanna talk to?"

It devolved into a competition from there, who could think of a dead person the most famous or outrageous or dangerous – which of course would cost far more than either of them or their families could ever afford, and required ten kinds of governmental permission forms.

Usually folks requested the spirit of a loved one – and at that time, neither Will nor Merlin had anyone they loved, deceased.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Arthur," his mother whispered. "Arthur…"

He remembered her. He dreamed others' dreams all day long, and the night was still and silent and cold and lonely – sterile - but he remembered her. The loving smile, the warm embrace, the circle of her arms and lap where all was so perfectly safe… He trusted her as a child does, without ever needing to define trust.

He obeyed her, when she said, "Let me go. My time is over, yours is just begun… Your father cannot heal, if you keep calling me back…"

He thought of that moment and that advice, sometimes. When he was made to call the living back, again and again. He wanted to tell them what his mother had taught him, that release and acceptance was needed for healing.

But he was only a child. An observer.

Vaguely he remembered his father. The anger was the clearest. The raging demands for obedience to his will, to call his mother back.

Bring her back.

Bring her back.

In a childish way, however, he knew his mother was right. Knew that obedience to her command, was right. That it was not right to give anger and pain, whatever it thought it desired.

So he never parted the veil it seemed he alone could see and touch, to ask for his mother again.

And sometimes he thought – though all emotion was separated from him, and viewed but wearily - his father hated him for that. At least, he hadn't seen his father since then.

The woman came soon after, the one who reminded him of his mother. Still did, sometimes, when she entered the room unexpectedly, and his mind was a bit more lucid than normal. She had similarly fine features, wavy blonde hair also, though it was much longer than he remembered his mother's. Thicker, more vibrant.

But her face was different. It was sharp, it was clever, greedy, ambitious, intent – he felt that before he even knew those words. She looked at him as she looked at all the equipment in the work-room – close scrutiny to make sure all was at peak operating capacity.

He never tried to speak to her. And very soon, she also stopped trying to make him summon his mother. All others, he would call upon her command.

But not Ygraine Flite.

His parents, he remembered. The blonde woman, he remembered. But not friends, and only rarely in a distant way, grass and trees and sunshine and toys. Color. Activity.

Because the day-dreams were so absolutely swollen with experience – stories, reminiscence - it exhausted him. So many people, so many feelings, so many words. Young and old, male and female, nasty and nice and everything in-between. They shouted, they wept, they pleaded, they argued, they threatened.

As he watched and listened and absorbed, whether he wanted to or not. Silently, invisibly, drawing aside the veil to summon another spirit, as instructed. Another, another, anotheranotheranother…

And in the night, when all was silent and he was mercifully alone, on his hard bed in the locked white room, sometimes he missed his mother. Sometimes he even missed his father.

Sometimes he actually felt lonely.

(4-ish years ago)

"I'm going to the Penned Dragon," Will said abruptly, smoke coming out with his words before he stubbed his cigarette out on the metal of the walkway, neglecting to ask as he usually did, if Merlin wanted the last puff. "Tomorrow. Come with?"

"What?" Merlin was standing upwind in a vain attempt to keep his mother from smelling the smoke on his clothes, leaning over the fire-escape rail, thinking of something else entirely – namely, what to do after graduation. Then his brain caught up. "The Penned Dragon? How can you afford that? And who would you talk to?"

"I asked," Will said. "It doesn't cost near as much, just to check if someone's crossed over to the spirit world. Not to actually visit with them."

"But who would – oh, your dad?"

"It's different for you," Will said defensively, though Merlin privately thought it uncalled for. "You know what happened to your dad. You even got to say goodbye."

Merlin breathed evenly – twice – before answering. "Doesn't make it any easier."

Three years earlier, Will's dad had vanished. His mom had called him at work – a construction site, the same as Merlin's father – to bring home milk when he came. Only, he never came. The official opinion was, he'd walked out on his family as well as his debts. Will's mother bitterly refused to discuss it; Will see-sawed between hoping it was true – and his father still alive, though absent - and trying to believe something more sinister had prevented the intended return of a father who'd wanted to.

Balinor, on the other hand, had caught pneumonia last winter. Whether he didn't believe his bad cold was that bad, or thought to save a few bucks on doctor's fees, by the time he was admitted wheezing and nearly delirious with fever into the hospital, it was too late. Six more hours he lived, the medication only serving to make him comfortable and coherent.

The day following this conversation, Merlin went with Will, though his father's warnings still whispered in the corners of his mind.

There was, as Will had claimed, a venue for inquiries only, a separate entrance out of sight of the main doors, owing to the curve of the building. They had to wait in a small room, Will's leg jiggling the entire sofa of worn tan corduroy, as the elderly man who'd been there before them leaned one elbow on the counter. His legs were skinny in baggy trousers, his spine bent with age under his rather large head, white hair drawn into a short queue at his neck, but his blue eyes were sharp when he looked at Merlin and Will over his half-glasses. And he apparently had a whole list of names to check the spirit world for.

"Moral support?" he suggested laconically to Merlin, with a brief gesture at Will.

"Something like that." Merlin glanced at Will, who chewed his smallest fingernail viciously and glared oblivious at the faded rug, then stood to join the old man at the counter, as body language invited. "You?"

"I'm here on behalf of the police department," the old man informed him. "Annual check, both missing persons and cold-case bail-jumpers."

Merlin looked him over again, and cocked his head. "But you're not a cop," he said.

The old man chuckled. "Right you are – pretty sharp for a high-schooler, huh?"

"Senior," Merlin said, as if that made a difference.

The old man hummed. "Heading to college?"

"Probably not," Merlin didn't mind telling him. "Can't afford it - gotta get a job."

"Doing what?" the old man wanted to know.

"Well, my dad was in construction…" Again the old man gave him a sharp-eyed once-over, and Merlin felt himself flush a little self-consciously, knowing what he saw. Merlin's growing had always gone into height, not width or breadth. Not obvious muscle. And maybe that was what gave him the courage to point out, "You never said what you do, if you're not a cop."

"I was," the old man corrected. "Not anymore."

"And now?"

"Private investigator. Though I'm getting too old for the legwork…"

The inner door opened, interrupting their conversation, and Merlin retreated to Will's couch as the old man and the attendant, a sharp-nosed blonde woman closer to middle age than youth, though with an undeniable beauty that somehow affected Merlin not at all. They went through the old man's list – Merlin assumed – for a few more minutes, before he turned to leave.

As Will bounded for the desk, the old man handed Merlin a card. "Bring me your diploma," he said. "We'll talk work and wages."

When Will's answer came back positive – his father deceased, spirit present and accounted for in the existence beyond the veil – Merlin nearly forgot card and offer both, in the task of comforting and caring for his distraught and grieving friend.

Nearly.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur was aware of changes. In the vague, distant, careless way that he was ever aware of anything.

Changes to the room. A new chair, a new bed. Which made him think a little further, a little harder, and realize the changes to himself. Bigger. Taller. Hairier. He understood a little better, some of the things the people argued about, all day every day while he observed – waited, called, escorted – without physical movement.

Though the blonde woman with sharp eyes was an occasional constant, the others who moved about him more frequently were no longer young women. They were older, fatter. They chatted to each other – the same sort of repetitious garbage he heard all day in the spirit-dreams - and maneuvered him efficiently, in and out of the chair, the bath, his bed. They shaved his scalp and occasionally his chin, watched him eat and brush his teeth, and he had no complaints.

He was so tired all the time.

It occurred to him, he was tired of this.

It occurred to him, he was bored with the weight of humanity. So he began to look for details that interested him, to focus on instead. Things that were unique, among the clamor of selfishness – I wish you hadn't died, where did you leave (any given object of value), why why why.

He looked for calm and peace and good. He looked for love and sweetness. In the petitioner somnolent as he, in the chairs in the rooms – and in the spirits passing back and forth through the resonance of the crystals.

And began to suspect, some of them might not be as oblivious to his role in their visitation, as he'd always believed.

(A year or so ago)

"Merlin!" Hunith called down the stairs to his semi-private set of rooms in the cramped walk-out half-basement. "Pick up the phone, it's for you."

His hand hovered over the pair of phones on his desk in the corner, blocking half the closet, scattered papers and writing utensils, files and reports of the entrepreneurial private-investigation business he now ran alone. Mostly his calls came in on the second line, which only rang here and didn't bother his mother, the widower she'd remarried last year, or his adult daughter on the main level of the suburb house. This line meant, a private private call.

"Who is it?" he hollered back.

"Will!"

His hand still hovered. Still, from surprise. In the last three years, while he'd been busying himself learning the PI business – becoming proficient enough to take over contacts and contracts and his old employer-partner-friend retired to happily nurse his ulcer in the country – and moving out of the apartment building, Will had bounced from job to job, bed to bed, girl to girl.

Not for lack of Merlin trying to help his friend find his feet again, after the shock of his father's death. Merlin had learned the hard way to be hopeful, yet not expectant, for much from a friend by turns needy and resentful.

He picked up the phone. "Will?"

"I've got it." His friend sounded positively euphoric. "The money. Remember?"

Merlin was afraid he did.

Three years ago, nearly to the day, Will had made him swear on their fathers' respective graves, they would earn and save the money necessary to go back to the Penned Dragon. Penetrate the inner recesses, and see for once and for all if the rumors were true, and the spirits of the dead could be summoned for private visits. For an hourly fee.

It had been a topic of top-of-the-lungs arguments, between Will and his mother, who didn't want him to waste any time or money – badly needed for other expenses - on the endeavor. And Will in turn had characteristically overrode Merlin's objections, based on his own deceased father's warnings.

"Remember?" Will repeated. "I've finally got mine. Have you?"

Merlin didn't have the heart to tell him, he'd had the amount accruing interest for almost a year now. On the off chance Will would both remember, and achieve his self-imposed goal.

"The rates probably went up," he said.

"I've kept an eye on that, and I've got half an hour by today's price list. You're not backing out on me, are you?"

Merlin sighed, careful to keep the exhalation from sounding in the phone. "When?" he said, picking up his pen and using his forearm to clear three sheets of paper off the top of his desk calendar.

"Can you do it last thing on Friday?"

As Merlin wrote it in and hung up the phone, his step-sister came down the stairs, slowly one by one so Merlin could call out an objection if he wanted to. He never did; he only ever undressed behind the closed bathroom door, and they were as close as blood siblings already, anyway. He had no personal secrets from her – not even the one - and she never pried into the business of his PI business.

"That was Will?" Gwen said, seating herself on the third stair from the bottom. She'd met Merlin's first and best friend a few times in the past year, and remained unimpressed.

He was about to comment on her risking her neat scrubs in such a position – then realized they were already wrinkled, her face drawn and her eyes tired and her knot of hair leaking curly tendrils, though she smiled as sweet and lively as ever. Coming off shift, then. Merlin explained the whole business – lost fathers, claimed promise.

"Are you going to tell your mother?" Gwen asked.

"I talked about it with her when I made Will the promise," he said. "She wasn't happy, but finally said, if it was something I wanted to do, I could make the decision for myself. She said her goodbyes… I think she still looks forward to seeing my dad again, but… she's happy with your dad, too." Gwen hummed in agreement; she'd been glad to see her lonely father paired companionably again, too – and the two of them getting along so well was a nice bonus. He added curiously, "Would you see your mom, if you had the chance?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I don't remember her that well… I guess I'd like her to know that we're doing well, but… no, I probably wouldn't spend the money that way, honestly." After a moment, she asked him, "Are you going to take Will's case, then?"

"What?" A split second later, his brain caught up – he was just coming off shift, too, a bit tired and therefore mentally slow.

But, if Will's father had died under suspicious circumstances – because his body had never been recovered – surely Will would be determined to find out all he could from the summoned spirit. And then make it right.

"Yeah," he said, suddenly twice as tired. "I guess I would, if he asked."

She quirked an eyebrow, tilting her head to show him what she thought of that. Their birthdays were a week and two years apart, and they were both only children; he never minded when she acted the older step-sister she was now. She thought Merlin too inclined to take pro bono work, though his finances were stable, if thin.

"What are you doing with your Friday night, then?" he asked as he threw down his pen and creaked his desk chair backwards a few degrees, playing the teasing younger brother.

She shrugged. "Out with Lancelot, probably."

His turn for quirking and tilting. "You do not have to go out with the guy again just because he's a friend of mine," he said.

"I know," she said. "But he's sweet and I haven't got any better offers."

Merlin flipped loyalties effortlessly, giving her a playful frown. "You're not leading him on, are you?"

"No. He knows it's only as friends, and it'll never be anything more."

"He hopes," Merlin warned her.

She pushed herself up off the stairs and turned to go back up. "Good luck with Friday, anyway."

"Yeah, you too."

Merlin couldn't quite forget that one small entry on his schedule, even as he dealt with suspected cyber-stalking and accusations of a cheating conspiracy at the local community college and one old case of a questionable murder-suicide.

The main reception of the Penned Dragon was not more ostentatious than the queries office. It could have been the waiting room of a dental clinic, Merlin thought, looking around. Coffee table with an array of magazines, obscurely inspirational posters, fake foliage.

Clipboard on his knee, pen in his hand as he filled out requisite paperwork. A general-health questionnaire. A vaguely-worded agreement to the procedure of the visitation. Indemnity waivers.

He nudged Will with his shoulder. "What do they expect is going to happen?" he said, tilting the clipboard. "Death or dismemberment? Next of kin?"

"Man, you have to sign this stuff to get a tattoo or get on some of those big-time thrill-rides," Will said, too busy signing to read. "One in a million chance anything goes wrong, but this stops a lawsuit."

"It bothers me that something could go wrong," Merlin said.

"Oh, come on." Will flipped to his next page. "They just don't want some old lady having a heart attack to see her hubby again after a million years, y'know?"

Merlin hummed noncommittally. Then again, he wouldn't be allowed to proceed without this paperwork…

It seemed that the starting times of the appointments were staggered by five minutes, so he was shown down a long hall by himself, five minutes after Will had disappeared through the lobby door. The hall – blank beige walls, industrial ash-gray carpet – seemed to run the circumference of the building, the doors to rooms all to the inside. It was deserted, and silent.

The girl – white silk blouse, black pencil skirt and pumps that raised her almost to his height - noticed his curiosity. "The rooms are all sound-proofed," she explained professionally over her shoulder, "for client privacy."

"Ah," he said, and followed her into the room marked 8.

Immediately, he noticed the crystals.

They hummed against his ear-drums like the strange vibration of absolute silence, alluring and intimidating and vaguely wrong, and he ducked a bit to look around his guide, and the room's one piece of furniture to see that there was more than one stone piece, roughly the size of a man's fist, interrupting the carpeted floor.

Did everyone notice that first, feel the same – as if they could hold a conversation with the inanimate stones, if only they could find the key to the language, somewhere in their subconscious? He doubted it, and tried to ignore the crystal purr; he turned his attention to examining the rest of the room.

The single chair facing toward the inner wall was a comfortable recliner, though the plastic covers on foot- and head-rest reminded him that this was not someone's living room. Otherwise it was the same as the hall, a vaguely wedge-shaped room with plain walls and gray carpet, a vent on the ceiling, and a mulberry-colored candle next to a long-stemmed lighter next to a box of tissues on a narrow shelf inset on the right-hand wall.

The attendant went for the lighter, clicked it prosaically, and lit the blackened wick.

"Have a seat, and clip that monitor to your forefinger." She pointed, and he saw that a wire emerged from the padding of the arm of the recliner, from which dangled a pulse oximeter. Precautions against lawsuits, again; if alarms alerted the personnel, the session would be over and medical aid – if necessary – applied. "Your visitation will start as soon as I leave, and you've made yourself comfortable and relaxed. Do you have any questions?"

"Yes, actually." That reminded him. "One of those papers I signed mentioned aromatherapy?"

She gave him an odd look, and made an obvious gesture toward the candle; a thin line of black smoke twisted above the wick, and the scent of sandalwood was just becoming noticeable. "Nothing to worry about, it just helps to relax you if you're nervous or frightened."

"Or angry?" he risked. At least two of the ingredients listed – he didn't think people were expected to read that required fine print, or understand the chemical significance of the technical terms - had a soporific effect on the senses.

Her gaze sharpened. "Are you expecting to become angry?"

He shrugged. "No. But I imagine it happens?"

Flat smile. "Client confidentiality."

"What about the hallucinogen?" The cost as well as the advertising led one to believe they were promised a genuine meeting, not just an altered perception.

She breathed once, and he sensed a bit of uncertainty – as if she'd been prepared for the question by her superiors, but had never been asked it, before. "Some prefer to leave here believing they've only had a dream or seen a vision, not actually spoken with their chosen departed," she said. "Especially if they're disappointed. In reality, the mixed scent is only to help the client relax and therefore enjoy the experience more – the effect is no stronger than, say, a single glass of wine." She smiled as an actress might. "If you have any further questions, I'll be happy to answer, but it is your time we're wasting…"

"Yeah, okay." He nodded. "Thanks." She slipped past him to the door, closing him softly in.

The crystals whispered. He wondered if it was his imagination that they glowed, just a bit. Amethyst, he thought. He didn't dare touch them, even with the toe of his shoe, but believed they were mounted somehow, not simply set on top of the carpet. He couldn't tell how far down they might extend into the floor; something warned him from looking too deeply or too long into their fractured depths, and it sounded very like his father. He wondered what was below the carpet, behind the back wall…

He wondered if he was really going to waste his time looking at the room. They weren't going to start until he was ready.

Was he ready? Was he scared? Did he have reason to be scared? What if he lost control and did something to expose his deepest darkest?

He settled himself warily into the chair, resting his arms, lifting his feet, pushing it slightly back and allowing his head to drop down. Like watching tv, rather than taking a nap. He slid his forefinger into the snug grip of the oximeter and a tiny red light blinked to show it was operating properly.

The smell of sandalwood increased, and altered. Mint, violet… sage. There was a fan in the vent set into the ceiling above him – though motionless, now. The smoke drifted and gathered, wisps visible, most dissipating into the air in the small room.

His heart pounded, and they were tracking that.

The air shimmered, a bit like a sheet of water soundlessly descending a wall-fountain. A figure emerged slowly as if stepping forward – tall, bearded man in his favorite black t-shirt and paint-spattered jeans, and sock-footed, a detail that delighted Merlin – but looking over his shoulder. He was already speaking, his voice coming to Merlin's ears like turning up the volume, "…Can talk later, if you wish?"

Then he faced Merlin, and gave him a wide, warm smile that had Merlin grinning through his tears and forgetting his skepticism.

"Merlin!" he said.

"Father," Merlin choked out. His heart leaned forward eagerly, but his body remained relaxed in the chair. "Is it really you?"

"Yes, it's me," Balinor said, sounding as pleased to see him.

"How?"

"It's complicated," his father told him, exactly as he'd said it over the engine of the old Dodge Ram he'd driven to work. With warm humor and the intent to include, if Merlin could understand. "I'm not sure I'm supposed to try to explain."

"But how do I know for sure?" Merlin said, and forestalled the obvious suggestion, "Anything you tell me to prove it's you, could be only supplied by my subconscious, right?"

Balinor's dark eyes twinkled. "How about if I tell you something about your mother that you don't know?"

"Okay." Merlin hoped, with the ridiculous embarrassment of an adult child, that he wouldn't be told anything too personal – though he'd missed that feeling, a comfortable reassurance like seeing your parents kiss when they don't know anyone's looking, and it delighted him, too.

"Hm. How about, when I asked her to marry me. She didn't say yes, the first time."

"What?" Merlin said, surprised.

"She said, quit kidding around." His father's grin was brilliantly nostalgic. "How is she, by the way?"

"She's fine." Merlin hesitated, then decided to tell him a bit about Tom, his stepfather, and Gwen. Their meeting and friendship, the wedding and their life now.

Balinor still smiled, though it was melancholy. "Good. That's good, I'm glad she found happiness again."

"She still misses you, though, we both do," Merlin said, trying to keep his tone light and his tears unshed. "She didn't want to do this, and didn't think I should either, but she understands."

"Why are you doing this?" Balinor wanted to know, his tone fondly scolding. "I told you not to –" a sliver of hesitation – "spend your money like this."

Merlin knew his father, knew what Balinor was saying, in the careful way they always discussed him and his abilities. "I think I'm okay. I guess I'll just have to be careful til I know for sure whether this has upset… anyone," he said lightly. "Dad, I… wish you were here."

Balinor's face twisted, just slightly, though still he smiled. "I know, son. Me, too. But some things aren't meant to be… tell me, though?"

So Merlin did. About graduation, and his job –

"Any girlfriends?"

"No, dad." Merlin felt himself flushing, but it was satisfying, somehow, to have his father tease him about the nonexistent girls in his life again. "I haven't found the one yet, but when I do, you'll be the –" First to know, he almost said. Damn, this was harder than he thought. Would it make his grief fresher, to say goodbye again and leave?

"Okay," Balinor said, but it was so odd a response to Merlin's dangling sentence he thought again that his father wasn't speaking to him. "Our time's up, son," he added, reaching for Merlin – then stopping, as if he'd tried to extend his hand through a window, and barked his knuckles. He looked down at the crystals – each of them in turn – and withdrew his hand. "Ah."

"Dad?" Merlin said. It was selfish, this desire to keep his father's spirit, draw the time out, he knew that. It was a selfish pain.

"I'm sorry, I've got to go – I'm being called," Balinor said, and gave Merlin a proud smile. "You've become a man, son. I love you – always will – tell your mother? And look after her, no matter what."

"I will." Merlin swallowed the lump in his throat as Balinor raised his hand in farewell and turned, stepping away – just as he'd done when Merlin stood at the front door of their apartment to wave him goodbye down the hall to work.

And he was gone.

A quiet motor whirred to life, along with the fat curved blades of the fan above, drawing up the smoke and the scent.

Merlin wondered briefly what would happen if the candle was blown out, or tipped over – then took several deep deliberate breaths. He swiped at his eyes to remove moisture just before his door opened to the blonde girl - only her, no armed men – and pushed to his feet, stiff and awkward.

She bent to puff out the candle-flame, and said unapologetically, "I'm sorry, your time is up. If you'd like to make a return appointment, you can do so at the front desk."

He followed her to the long hall, again or still deserted – and felt incongruously light-headed from the clearer air.

"There's also a restroom here on your left if you'd like to freshen up." She gestured without slowing, assuming.

"Yes, thank you," he said, having to clear some huskiness from his throat.

It was uncomfortably fancy in the bathroom, but he was left alone. Plain old cold water still came from the tap, and he felt better for splashing some on his face. And realized after all, he wasn't sorry he'd come.

Will, however, seemed to be in a foul mood.

He hadn't waited for Merlin, and was a block away already when he emerged onto the street – and didn't slow when Merlin called out and trotted after him. Glancing once over his shoulder – but still no one came after him, and he decided his father's fears were unfounded; he hadn't given himself away.

"How did it go?" Merlin asked breathlessly when he caught up, and not only for some random thing to say. Because of course he was interested also to learn the answers to Will's questions about his father's death, too – when, where, why.

"Peachy," Will said sourly, as good as a shout – I don't want to talk about it – which Merlin decided, he'd better respect. Will gave him a sidelong glance. "You had a lovely catch-up with yours, though, huh?"

"Mm." The fresh air was clearing Merlin's head, memory piquing his curiosity, and so he changed the subject. "There was something, though, right at the end, my dad said he was being called… what do you think that means? Who or what calls the spirits or finds them or brings them to our side or makes them go back? Who's got that kind of power or –"

"You really think it's them, then," Will said suddenly, stalking with his hands in his pockets, glaring at the cracks in the sidewalk. "I mean, that it's not just an image from our subconscious, or a waking nightmare or something?"

"I think so," Merlin hedged. "That it was my dad, I mean. He told me something to check with my mom, that it was him… but, yeah, I guess so. Why? What happened with yours?"

"If you truly are my friend, Merlin," Will said with vehement fury, "don't ever ask me that question again." Abruptly he veered off their course, crossing the busy street with a single careless glance for the traffic.

And Merlin could only stand and watch him go.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Balinor Emrys.

It was an unusual name. Arthur was sure he would have remembered calling the name before, even among the millions of names he was instructed to call, as he touched the fabric of the veil, like liquid silk, like cool melted silver. Almost, he could actually feel it, actually see it.

A first-timer. Though there were many more of those that repeated requests, it sparked a bit of genuine interest.

The spirit responded as they all did – had to? - moved confidently through the veil, calm and unafraid. Arthur interpreted his impression in visual terms – a large man, bearded and with rather wild gray hair, casually comfortably dressed.

And Balinor Emrys paused, to observe Arthur in turn.

Which had never happened before.

"Good morning," Balinor Emrys said. "Is it morning?"

How should Arthur know? He twitched one shoulder in a shrug.

"You called," Balinor Emrys went on, with a curiosity of his own, that no one else had shown before – they were all in a hurry to reach the other end of the tunnel again, to appear in the invisible crystal-cage in the room where their petitioner waited. To interact with the living. And he didn't go on, clearly waiting for an answer.

That made Arthur a bit nervous. How long had it been since someone had spoken to him, expecting an answer. But his mother's manners, though long dormant, were still as much a part of him as his few formative years with her.

"I called," he answered huskily. "Someone wants to see you."

"Who?" Balinor asked.

Arthur hitched his shoulder again. The names of the petitioners were unknown to him, unless he paid attention to the visitation, and the name of the live one was mentioned.

"How long do I have?"

"Half an hour," Arthur answered. "Or less. I'll call again when time is up."

Balinor Emrys smiled. And Arthur was taken completely by surprise at the flood of warmth that filled a space in his chest, he had not even realized was empty.

"Very well, then, boy. We can talk later, if you wish."

The broad-shouldered, wild-visaged man turned to his visitation. And Arthur's attention turned with him.

His eyes opened - in the small room with the chair and the straps and the bright lights and the quiet workers and the buzzing machinery and the crystals – to watch the one screen, in the bank of screens that resembled the magnification of a fly's eye, marked 8.

And his spirit listened.

A/N: So you've realized, another modern A/U. This one (as Necromancer's Apprentice was based on ep.2.12) comes out of ep.2.8 "The Sins of the Father." Will include the Round Table core cast (Arwen, Freylin, eventually), but I currently don't have plans to write either Morgana or Mordred into this fic. It'll be told in two parts – roughly, the exodus and the return of the king – but most likely all of it under this heading. Updates shouldn't take longer than a week… I think that's it as far as preliminaries go…

Also, please note, this title has been used before, I've seen at least once (though I think for that one, 'penned' refers to the writing utensil) – but I had this title in mind for my fic before I saw that… No plagiarism intended!

Sorry about the cliffie at the beginning; it may be a couple of chapters before we catch up to that action… Anyway, hope you enjoy!