The Second Coming of Percival

They're a sticky mess, wrapped together by arms and legs; Arthur's cape draped across the backs of Merlin's thighs – the material originally fastened around them in a cocoon of heat, barely now clinging to the Warlock, jostled too much by the wandering hands of a Prince. It's blood red against the alabaster of Merlin, like a pool of blood on freshly laid snow.

"Did you make them grow?" Asks Arthur, words hushed to a barely there whisper, carried along by the breeze. The petals flutter, their stems swaying lazily; seasoning the air with a hint of spice and memories of desperation.

Arthur tips his chin back, eyeing the flower tickling the crown of his head. It's the key to everything Arthur now holds in his arms – the symbol of his growth as a Prince, as a man. The symbol of his understanding, his acceptance. His love. And now, blossomed around them as they became as close as two people can be. It's fitting to see the yellowed petals pressing against their entwined toes – after all, if he'd never had to get that flower, he'd never have realised just how much Merlin really meant to him.

"I don't think so," comes the response from somewhere near his stomach; Merlin's lips brushing the skin of Arthurs abdomen, from his position laid between his Prince's splayed legs – it sends a spike of heat stuttering along his spine as Arthur's slight shiver reverberates against his mouth. "But my magic has a mind of its own when I'm, er, distracted."

"Oh," replies Arthur; and Merlin doesn't even have to glance up to know that there's a smug grin plastered across his face.

"I wouldn't be too smug," hums Merlin, "my hand gets the same response."

He completely expects the swift smack to the back of his head that he gets in response.

The following caress of feather light fingertips to the nape of his neck, in silent apology, is new though.

And is the cause of the cape finally slipping off of them altogether.

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Merlin's head is thrown back; spine stretched and curved, sweat-matted hair stuck to his forehead, eyes squeezed shut and lips slightly parted. His breath catching and releasing in his throat, panted between stuttered curses, words so jumbled Arthur can't tell whether they're pleas or demands – it doesn't matter, he gives Merlin everything he has anyway.

He grips his Manservants hips tighter, fingers splayed across the bone, digging bruises into the skin, his own hips thrusting up to press firmly against the curve of Merlin's arse as they meet on every downward slide and roll from the man above him.

Their world's friction and heat, sweat and gold – magic swirling around them, tangible in its potency. It shines bright against the backs of Merlin's eyelids, making his lips twitch upward at the thought of even more Mortaeus Flowers blooming around their bodies, and mentally calculating how many times they'd have to do this to fill the entire field – it's a challenge he'd accept without a moment's hesitation.

Arthur changes his angle slightly, his cock brushing against the spot inside Merlin that knocks the breath from his Manservants lungs, and watches as he comes undone above him, coating their stomachs and chests as the clench of muscles around him tips Arthur over the edge too. Merlin can feel the sweat trickling down his neck, the pounding of his heart in the base of his throat as he rolls to the side, disconnecting their bodies to flop against the ground to catch his breath, ignoring the uncomfortable tickle of grass against his bare skin.

"What's wrong?" Demands Arthur, embarrassingly upset about the lack of Manservant in his arms right now. It's not that he likes to cuddle, per se, but he feels slightly bereft without that skinny body pressed against his own as their hearts calm, and their breathing returns to normal.

"I'm not sure," replies Merlin, lower lip trapped between his teeth, hand pressed to the centre of his chest, voice shaky. "Something isn't right."

He can feel the beat of his heart morph, the pattern set inside his chest since the day of his beginning, change into a new rhythm.

The echo of another pulse alongside his own.

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Percival can feel the contractions of his heart – the stretch of his lungs, the flow of his blood. Can smell the dust in the air; taste the damp decorating the slanted beams crossing the ceiling above him. The chirp of the birds outside the window makes him wince, so loud to his ears.

He blinks his eyes open.

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Merlin's eyes snap shut, the lids holding in the golden maelstrom Arthur could see roiling in his Manservants gaze. He can see the frantic movements beneath the thin, vein crossed skin, rolling upward, to the sides and back again as if searching the darkness of the backs of his eyelids. For what, Arthur doesn't know, but he can feel panic welling at the back of his throat as the silence in the clearing presses down on his shoulders.

He leans further over, fingers fluttering uselessly at Merlin's pulse point, pressing against the damp skin, still dewy from their earlier activity. He can feel the pump of Merlin's blood against the pads of his fingers; a strong kick one beat, a tiny flutter the next. He can see the panting rise and fall of his fragile chest, but there isn't even the slightest whisper of air through Merlin's parted lips. The only sound in the world, for all Arthur can focus on right now, are his own harsh, half hissed breaths.

He knows how to face a foe with sword and strength, he knows how to track and hunt and spear someone with a lance in just one jerk of his wrist. But magic he doesn't know – magic is foreign, an old enemy that Arthur is just coming to realise he's never successfully defeated anyway. No, Merlin had always done that for him. And now Arthur has no idea what to do.

He's about ready to resort to screaming for help when a faint, hiss of "Ar-thur," hits his ears.

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Merlin can feel that his eyes are closed, but can see the criss-crossed beams of a ceiling, he can feel the grass against his back, but hear Gwaine's muted voice, can smell the Mortaeus flowers in the air but can taste dust and mould on his tongue. It's the oddest experience he's ever had, and that's saying something considering some of the things that Merlin has done since he moved to Camelot.

"Someone should stay here," insists Gwaine. Merlin can only just hear it; the deep timbre barely coming though what he assumes is the wall of the room his consciousness is in right now.

"And who do you suppose should do that then?" Hisses someone else in response.

Merlin's fairly certain that it's Leon, but it's hard to tell when it feels like his ears are stuffed with cotton. Somewhere in the back of his mind he can make out the harsh, hissing breaths of Arthur, but it's hard to concentrate on his Prince when the sensations of another body keep bursting forth from his own nerves.

"It makes sense to be you –"Starts Gwaine, only to be cut off by Leon's growl and what is almost certainly Lancelot's frustrated sigh. It's just as Merlin attempts to open his mouth to tell them not to worry about sending out a search party that a thought flashes through his mind, golden and sharp.

Why are they arguing now?

The yelp he gives, which seems to be purely rattling around in his mind instead of manifested into any actual sound, would be comical if Merlin wasn't panicking so badly. That hadn't been his thought. That had been someone else's, a voice as familiar to him as Gwaine's had been through the wall.

Percival?

He thinks it, with as much concentration as he can muster, watching the words form in golden strings around his mind. They pull taught, the curves on the letters snapping tight and straight before splintering along the edges and morphing into the reply Merlin can hear ringing simultaneously in his ears too.

Merlin? Why are you in my head?

How are you alive?

Merlin snaps his reply out almost too quickly for the strings to rearrange themselves, but they pull together like bands and ping against his mind – both his own and Percival's panic tinting them red slightly. They're Arthur's colours, Merlin notices with a not particularly unexpected jolt of lust. He's gotten used to the effect his Prince has on him, even when he's not present.

But Percival, as it happens, is not quite as prepared for such a thing. Merlin can feel a blush that isn't entirely his own heating his face; can feel a faint twin throb of arousal as Percival attempts to tug his thoughts away from their connection. It turns out that hiding such things isn't quite possible.

I – I…um… Stutters Percival; the strings of his words quivering and fraying as he trails of, the taste of confusion, fear and embarrassment bitter on Merlin's tongue.

It's alright, soothes Merlin, then adds with a determination that he knows Percival can feel is entirely fake, I'm going to fix this.

He grits his teeth and yanks his mind back to himself, envisions Arthur's eyes holding his gaze as his hands hold his body, and snaps back into his own skin. His mind reels and nausea wells in the pit of his stomach as his lips form the name with absent minded familiarly.

"Ar-thur."

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Percival thinks he's going to throw up – he can feel the bile in the back of his throat, bitter and tacky, tasting of shame and fear. He lurches forwards; body and mind warring and ending with his muscles bunching with pain and fatigue, and finding himself slumped on the floor by the side of the bed.

He's retching uncontrollably, the contents of his stomach emptying onto the rotting wooden floorboards, sweat pouring down his temples as his body shudders over and over.

Its only when he hears the door slam open and watches the dumbstruck expressions on his fellow Knights' faces, that he realises his cock is still rock hard between his legs from the second hand arousal that had throbbed through the connection.

He promptly leans back over and retches even harder, trying to purge the shame from his body even when his stomach is empty.

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"We need to go back to the inn," breathes Merlin, the moment he's finished throwing up over the once beautiful cluster of Mortaeus flowers. His voice is weak, as are his muscles, but his resolve is like iron in his eyes so Arthur doesn't even bother to tell him to so much as wait.

He does, however, gently untie the scrap of material from around his Manservants neck, and swipe is across Merlin's chin, catching the string of spit and god knows what else. Merlin blushes, his face heating to a scarily dark red and Arthur has to hold back his sudden urge to chuckle. He throws the neckerchief behind him into the mess left by the flowers, and takes Merlin's hand, pulling him slowly away from the clearing.

"I really want to kiss you right now," whispers Merlin, heart swelling with love for his prat of a Prince who can treat him like something precious without even seeming to think about it. Merlin won't kiss him though, purely because he's too nice to subject Arthur to the taste of his mouth right now. He just wanted to let him know.

Which makes the press of a mouth against his own, such a surprise that he gasps like a maiden. It's merely a chaste touch of lips, and Arthur pulls away a second later, nose scrunched up and a truly disgusted look on his face, but it's enough for now, and Merlin appreciates it more than he can put into words. He'll just put it into actions later.

But for now, they have a supposed-to-be-but-not-quite dead Knight to talk to.

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"Wha –?"

"H…how…?"

"Percival?"

The three speak as one, words tumbling over each other's until the cut off exclamations make even less sense than the original gasps did. They look at each other, then back to Percival, mouths agape and eyebrows drawn down into frowns that look so deep they'll be marking their faces forever.

Percival just looks at them, distress etched clearly on every one of his features, knelt there on his hands and knees in a puddle of his own sick. He draws huge gulps of air into his body, closing his eyes against the next wave of nausea and locking his joints to stop his shaking from turning into full-scale convulsions.

Lancelot is the first to move, his innate compassion overriding the sheer confusion of the moment. He strides forward, sidestepping the mess on the floor and places a solid, comforting hand between his friends' shoulder blades. There's nothing left to be thrown up, so Percival simply hangs his head in shame, taking the offered comfort and basking in the familiarity of the touch. It feels nice – a physical press against his body, instead of the jarring, phantom sensation he'd experienced with Merlin.

"How is this possible?" Whispers Leon, frozen in the doorway whilst Gwaine helps Lancelot heave a nearly unconscious Percival back onto the bed.

They throw a wash cloth from the bowl in the corner of the room over the sick on the floor, and arrange Percival in a somewhat natural position. It still doesn't look all that comfortable, but the bulky Knight doesn't appear all that bothered. His head lulls back against the pillow and his eyes squeeze shut. He hates feeling weak, hates it nearly as much as he hates Morgana.

"We should know by now that words like 'possible' and 'impossible' do not apply to Merlin like they do to other people," chuckles Percival quietly, swallowing thickly. "I was dead, wasn't I?" He can't quite remember it – just a lot of red and gold, and then Merlin's presence in the back of his head, but it seems like the right guess to make.

"Yes," laughs Gwaine, "completely and utterly dead. We were waiting for Merlin to come back to give you a proper funeral."

Lancelot rolls his eyes at Gwaine's signature lack of tact, shooting the man in question a look that very clearly says shut-up-or-I'll-stab-you-myself. Gwaine doesn't truly believe Lancelot would do something so dishonourable, but his friend just rose from the dead, so all the certainties he used to believe are being reassessed. For the first time in as long as any of the other Knights can remember, Gwaine stays quiet and lets someone else tell the story.

"Well, Morgana kind of…"

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"If you don't stop for just one second and have a rest, I'm never kissing you again," growls Arthur, glaring at the back of his Manservants head with enough heat that it's a wonder the short black curls don't go up in flames.

"That's alright," mumbles Merlin absentmindedly, not even turning back to look at a now very enraged Arthur, "there are plenty of other things I can use your mouth for if you won't let me kiss it." Merlin stumbles slightly, the lip of his shoes catching on a stray rock. He rights himself just as quickly, but it's enough to snap Arthurs already weaning patience.

"Right, that's it!" Shouts Arthur, yanking Merlin back by his shoulders and shoving him towards a grassy verge with a palm smacked square in the middle of his chest. He stumbles again, this time curling his fingers around his Princes' biceps to stay on his feet, and Arthur feels a slight twinge of regret at his rough treatment. Well, that's until he sees how grey Merlin's face is, how bloodshot his eyes are and quite how much sweat is trickling down his temples. He looks like he's dying, and the thought sends a bolt of terror through Arthur.

Merlin, being the Warlock and best Manservant ever to grace Camelot that he is, sees the fear in his Prince's eyes and despite it being the one thing he really, really doesn't want to do, placates the prat and sits down. His knees are promptly yanked apart, and his head is pushed between them so quickly he ends up pretty disorientated.

"Keep your head there and breathe deeply," orders Arthur. "We aren't going to help Percival at all if you die before we even make it back to town." The words are bitten out scathingly, but Merlin can hear the lack of venom behind the words and knows that Arthurs only really snapping out of habit more than any real anger.

"I'm the only one that can help him," insists Merlin, breathlessly, "I'm not going to apologise for wanting to make sure that my friend is okay."

"He's my friend to," reminds Arthur, "and I want him to be alive and well again just as much as you do. But I need you to be alive and well too, Merlin, and if you continue with this single-minded disregard for your own health then I'm going to lock you in my chambers for a month when we get back to Camelot, where I can keep an eye on you all day, every day if I have to."

"That doesn't sound like that much of a punishment to me," grins Merlin weakly.

"And I will be fully clothed for the entire time you're there," hisses Arthur threateningly.

"How then, Sire, do you plan on bathing?"

Arthur's response is more a growl than any actual words, but Merlin figures it's probably not a good idea to push him anymore, lest the prat does actually carry through on his threat.

They stay there for a few minutes, breaths puffing out into the cold air between them, before Arthur stands again. It takes one pitiful look from his shivering Manservant for Arthur, with a perfunctory roll of his eyes, to help him up and fasten his cloak around Merlin's shuddering shoulders.

"Aww, who knew there was heart somewhere under all that chainmail?"

"Speak one more word, and I'll let you freeze to death," mutters Arthur.

"We both know I could just start a fire to keep myself warm…"

"Give me my cloak back then," orders Arthur, a smile that's both a snap of teeth and a twitch of actual humour, curling his lips.

"…but it smells like you…"

"Oh, for fuck sake," shouts Arthur, throwing his hands up in frustration and stomping away angrily.

Merlin bites his lip to stop himself from laughing, sending an almost undetectable slither of heated air towards his Prince, watching it wind around, through and in-between the links of his mail, merry little shadows of flames dancing harmlessly over his skin like a portable fire.

Yeah, casting the spell on himself would probably make him warmer, but why pass up a perfect opportunity to snuggle up in Arthur's cloak?

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There's something going on in the next room, Morgana is sure of it. There's a lot of chatter, too quiet for her to really make out what's being said, but she's almost certain that they're deciding how they're going to kill her. Perhaps she should be thinking of a way to escape, but there's no fight left in her.

She'd told Arthur she was sorry, and she'd meant it – she would truly be the monster that they say she's become if she were to leave him again now. She has to trust in him; trust that if he's stopped her murder once, then he'll stop her execution too.

The distinction between the two terms is clearer in her mind now, more than ever before.

She lies back, head resting against the stained, uncomfortable pillow.

And for the first time since her magic manifested, Morgana Pendragon waits to see what her future holds.

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"She should be dead!" Roars Percival, his anger lending a temporary strength to his limbs. "Why would Arthur stop Merlin from finally ending the war we've been fighting for as long as I've been a Knight of Camelot?"

"We don't know –"starts Gwaine.

"I'll kill her myself! She…m-murdered me, I deserve her blood on my hands!"

"You will do no such thing!" Shouts Arthur, fury quivering in his voice like the shaft of a just released arrow. "I am your King and I forbidyou from laying so much as a finger on my sister," he hisses the word, and Lancelot sees Merlin wince out of the corner of his eye.

"How are you feeling, Percival?" Asks Merlin into the silence that follows, twisting his body to the side to hide the hand he places on the small of Arthur's back. He presses down slightly, showing his support as much as warning him not to do anything stupid.

"A bit weak," replies Percival slowly, shooting small, embarrassed looks at the two of them, as if he knows where Merlin's hand is resting. "But that's better than being dead, I suppose, so thank you for whatever it is you did."

Now that Merlin is thinking about it, he can feel the connection pulsing at the back of his mind – he can feel how grateful Percival truly is, even if it is tempered with a queasy undercurrent at the fact that Merlin is now privy to every thought, every feeling and every sensation he has.

"What, may I ask, did you actually do, Merlin?"

"Um, I'm not actually sure," admits Merlin hesitantly, and this time its Arthur showing his silent support; rocking his hips back a tiny amount, just enough to press against Merlin's hand still resting on the magically heated chainmail. It makes Merlin smile, and he knows that his lips are turned up goofily, but he can't bring himself to care.

Well, that's until he sees Percival with the same expression plastered across his face. It's gone the moment Merlin brings his attention to it; the connection twanging at the both of them, but it makes Merlin feel unreasonably jealous – like he's sharing Arthur with someone else. He tries his hardest to tamper down the feeling, but the way that Percival will no longer meet his eyes shows that he didn't quite succeed.

Sorry

Merlin weaves the strings around in his mind, snapping them like a whip across the connection, making them impossible for Percival to ignore.

It's okay

It really isn't, but thank you for trying to make me feel better. I'll try and be a bit more understanding – this is my fault after all.

Percival looks up, shakes his head slightly, a small smile starting at the corners of his mouth.

You didn't do it on purpose. And if it weren't for you, then I'd be dead.

I'll find a way to get rid of this, thinks Merlin, but until then, I'll try and make a block or something between us.

Until you figure out how to do that, I'll try and ignore anything to do with Arthur – but I can feel how you feel about him, and sometimes it's like I love him too.

Merlin tries really hard, he honestly does, to keep the possessive curl of his lips under control, but as his jealousy flares, his magic zips across his skin like it's a separate entity to Merlin himself. It sends a jolt of lightning through the tips of his fingers and into Arthur from where Merlin's hand is still resting on his back.

"What the fuck?" Yelps Arthur, leaping away from the press of Merlin's fingers. He feels betrayed for a second, until he sees the way his Manservant is clutching his hands at his sides. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," grits out Merlin. It sounds like gravel churning against his teeth.

Arthur can see the magic now; it's a thick, beautiful entity shimmering around Merlin like the outside of a pearl. His Manservant is stood in the middle of it, eyes closed and hand clenched, bracing himself against the onslaught of magic pounding through his body and against his skin. Arthur loves Merlin, with his entire heart, and he knows Merlin would do everything in his power to ensure Arthur is never hurt, but fear is starting to swirl in the pit of his stomach.

Merlin hears Percival's voice in his head, and it anchors him for the slightest moment longer.

Merlin?

Get everyone out of the Inn, Percival.

What? No, Merlin, honestly it's okay. Your magic doesn't have to fight me for Arthur, alright? I don't want him like that, I promise you. He's yours.

Percival, you can feel how little control I have of my magic right now. Get them out of here before I bring this place down around all of us.

He knows he all but snarled that into Percival's head – he can still feel the shuddering of the strings as it reverberates through his mind from the snap of them. But his magic feels like its pulling away from him, like it has it has a will of its own right now, and Merlin can't say for certain that he can stop it from lashing out at anyone, not even Arthur.

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It's impossible to ignore the feeling of raw magic – it sounds like rain on iron, feels like lightning, tastes like honey and smells like burning leaves. It's the most beautiful thing Morgana has ever experienced. And that was only the dimmed version twined in the stones and water of the Isle of the Blessed. What she can feel now is like heaven, washing against her body like the purest of caresses.

And then she feels the knives.

It starts off like the pin pricks she used to get as a child when she'd fidget as the seamstress was sizing her dresses. But in a matter of seconds it becomes jabs with a sword, like her flesh is being sliced over and over. The destructive intent takes her breath away – by the pain and surprise. What in the world could have caused Merlin to lose control like this?

She stumbles out of bed, still weak and disorientated, but throws herself at the door. If something's wrong with Merlin, then Arthur would stay. And if Arthur stays to help around magic this volatile, then he'll die. Plain and simple.

She sees the pearlescent shimmer before she sees him, hears the patter of rain over the sound of Percival ushering the reluctant, stupid Knights out of the room.

"You need to leave," she hisses, flicks some magic behind her words and watches them slither directly to the ears of everyone in the room. They all turn as one, it would be comical at any other time, but now, it's making their chance of escape less and less likely. "Emrys is angry."

Her idiot brother is the first to respond, with just the moronic reply she was expecting, "Merlin wouldn't hurt me."

"Merlin is a pocket of consciousness in the back of a mind. The whole of his being, the whole of Emrys, is magic. Normally the two are aligned and Merlin is in complete control, but right now his magic has detached from his consciousness."

"What does that mean?"

"That Merlin needs to regain that control. And you need to leave him to let him do it. If he's worrying about not hurting you, then he can't put all of his energy into getting his magic to behave."

Arthur looks like he's going to argue with her, he looks like he's getting ready to throw a fit like some of the unforgettable tantrums he threw when they were kids, until he looks at Merlin, really looks at him.

"What do we do?" He growls, eyes glinting like the warrior he truly is – battle hardened and ready to do whatever needs to be done.

"Go!"