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For as long as he could remember, he had killed. Little Hawk, they had called him, the caste who had taken him in and taught him. Now, a man of three-and-twenty, he was no longer little, but the name stuck, and everyone—including his targets and those who were aware of his reputation—called him Hawk. He needed no other name. He remembered though, kept it for his own reasons, even if it was pointless sentimentality.
Merlin.
He trailed through the bustling market of Camelot after his newest mark. The man looked ordinary, as they so often did. With his simple clothes made from undyed fabrics, covered in road dust, his scruff of an almost-beard and hair a little too long, clearly not having the means or the inclination to have it neatened up, the man could have been anyone. Yet there was no mistaking the bright silver ring worn on a chain around the man’s neck; Merlin had been told to look for it to find his target.
Merlin did not care who had hired him to kill this man, or why. Those were questions he was not paid to think about. More than that, he had seen what considering those questions could do to one’s mind.
Freya.
She was taken in almost the same time as he was; both of them children, both of them left with nobody and no choice. They had been close all the way through their punishing training regime, and after, as they became decorated members of the assassins’ guild. She had always been sensitive though, and had kept her empathy even into adulthood. Empathy was a weakness in their trade, and sure enough it had been too much, thinking of families left behind, of whether it was right to snuff out the life of this person or that.
In the end, Freya had deliberately let herself be seen and had been caught by the city watch. She had been put to death by burning, and she held her head high at the thought. Merlin had tried to go, to be with her. When it came to it though, he couldn’t bring himself to do it, and held it as his only regret.
He had half-expected the distinct mark on his arm to burn too, to know the exact moment of her death, though he and Freya had learned long ago that their soul marks did not match. They cared deeply for each other, but they were not soulmates.
Merlin sometimes wondered if considering the question of soulmates was also a road where only madness lay. He tried to give it the same treatment as the ones of morality; to let it be inconsequential and insignificant to his work. His own mind betrayed him, however, keeping him awake at night with his fingers tracing over the thin white unbroken line on his forearm making up the shape of a bird in flight—part of what gave him his nickname, he supposed—wondering. Who held the answering mark on their skin? How would he know if he found them? Would he find them? And on the darkest, coldest nights, when the candle didn’t last an hour before being snuffed out and his meagre magic could not rouse it again, he wondered if he deserved a soulmate. Or, more likely, did a soulmate deserve him? What decent person would like the idea of being bound forever to a man whose past was littered with bodies?
Merlin did not have anything on his mind as he wandered the stalls, other than the man he kept his eyes on—too experienced to reveal his position or betray his interest. He had been told the man was a knight, sworn to Prince Arthur. He did not look like any of the other knights Merlin had seen, or indeed slain.
As the evening drew in, Merlin’s mark made a beeline for the tavern just off the market square, one clearly favoured by the knights; at least half of the tables were occupied by groups of men in chainmail with the Pendragon crest sewn onto their surcoats.
His target made his way to a table with two of them, Merlin slipping into a seat at the bar. He would not strike tonight, never did. He was an accomplished assassin with services in demand, and believed he owed the success to his patience, to getting to know his target inside out. Merlin took out a handful of coppers, dropping them on the bar and sipping from the tankard of ale that was put in front of him as he considered his course of action.
The barmaid took over a trayful of drinks to the mark’s table, and Merlin watched the way his eyes roved her body, how he thanked her and kissed her hand … then gave the very same look through his lashes to one of the knights (who cleared his throat with a blush high on his cheeks) sitting across from him.
There was Merlin’s way in.
Merlin spent the rest of the evening watching, cataloguing in his mind what kinds of jokes made his target laugh, learning that each time someone’s hand brushed his, the mark would smile in satisfaction, just a tiny quirk of his lips. Merlin quickly learned the words to bawdy songs that the target sang with abandon. Merlin heard the other knights say his name.
Sir Gwaine was not the name Merlin had been given, but that was hardly unusual in his line of work. Which was why he seldom paid attention to names to identify the right person, and he had—so far—never been wrong.
Merlin slipped from the tavern when most people had left, Gwaine and the other knights still there. Gwaine’s clear fondness for drinking would work to Merlin’s advantage. Merlin spent the night beneath the stars in a quiet, secluded part of the woods. When dawn came he sat on a wall over the town square, casually like anyone might, feeling the sun warm his back as it climbed higher with each passing hour.
Merlin was often content to wait, and took peaceful moments where he could. Sir Gwaine, in his mail and surcoat today, rode out early on some errand, passing through the square and the city gates. Merlin spent a pleasant day people-watching while he kept his vigil, and as expected Sir Gwaine returned before sunset, riding back into the castle keep. Merlin took a safe bet, and slid off the wall back onto solid ground, stamping his feet to get the feeling back into his toes. When he felt he could walk with some degree of skill, he headed to the Rising Sun, the tavern the knights had been drinking in the previous evening.
Not half an hour later Sir Gwaine walked in, flanked by the two knights who had left on patrol with him earlier. Merlin watched them for a few moments before sliding from his barstool and making his way over to their table, his tunic unlaced just enough to tempt and make his intention clear (he hoped).
“Gentlemen,” Merlin said with a winning smile. “I couldn’t help but notice your jug was empty. Wondered if I could buy you another.” Before any of them could give him a look of (healthy) suspicion, he added, “To say thank you for protecting us common folk.”
Gwaine smiled then, and gestured to the empty seat beside him. Merlin took it and gave him a smaller, more private smile. He almost didn’t trust how smoothly it had gone, but after seeing how easily Gwaine’s head was turned, Merlin decided to press on with his plan. “Not all of the knights are like you,” he said, with feeling.
“It’s not a rich boys’ club any more,” Gwaine said, clearly taking whatever meaning he wanted to, as Merlin intended. “Prince Arthur accepts men based on their values, their prowess, their heart rather than what family they were born into. Lots of the old-timers don’t like it, but what can they do?” he finished with a smirk. Merlin raised his tankard in agreement. Gwaine did not stay quiet for long, his voice rising with his conviction. “Fucking highborn sons always thinking they’re better than everyone because they’ve been given a title. Looking at the citizens they’re supposed to be defending, protecting like they’re nothing but shit on the bottom of their shiny, armoured shoes. Bunch of pricks. I mean, for all they know their soulmate could be one of them. Ha! I’d love to see that, to watch a noble knight have to eat his words.”
Merlin let Gwaine talk, nodding in the right places and making noise of vague agreement. Gwaine’s companions, whom he introduced to Merlin as Lancelot and Percival—neither highborn of course—simply looked at Gwaine with fondness and slight boredom, clearly used to such rants. Gwaine was interrupted before he could continue enumerating the vices of nobility by the barmaid bringing over another jug of ale. Merlin took it, thanked her sweetly and refilled their tankards. He thought for a moment of how easy it would have been to slip one of the tiny vials of poison he kept on him at all times into Gwaine’s drink. Merlin thought he would have, if he carried any on his person that he could rely on to be slow enough acting to absolve him of suspicion. As it was, Merlin could not risk anything so publicly
As the evening wore on, and the three knights drank their way through several more jugs—Gwaine taking what was surely more than his share but neither of the others seeming to mind—Merlin became bolder with his flirting, even rested a hand on Gwaine’s thigh beneath the table for several seconds, Merlin counting the beats of his heart before he moved it again. He needn’t have bothered; Gwaine took his wrist beneath the table and pulled it back to his solid thigh. Merlin met Gwaine’s eyes and matched his smirk, inching it up higher. Gwaine choked on his drink of ale, Percy slapping his back jovially, unfazed. Merlin smiled sweetly at them both.
An hour later, Merlin was leaning on Gwaine, feigning intoxication; he had carefully made it look as if he was matching them drink for drink, though did not actually take many sips. He didn’t think Gwaine would have noticed had he not been subtle. Merlin didn’t even have to say anything, Gwaine pulling him into his room at the barracks, his status as a knight affording him his own space: small but welcoming. Merlin couldn’t help a smile of amusement as Gwaine began to take off his clothing in front of him with no preamble. Merlin pulled his tunic off while Gwaine’s eyes roved his body, clearly expecting him to follow suit. He did not go further than that, though; did not plan to use poison so didn’t mind losing the tiny vials sewn into secret inner pockets but he had several knives concealed in his breeches and boots.
Seizing his opportunity when Gwaine looked down to pull off his own boots, Merlin unsheathed a small blade, precise and deadly-sharp. Silently, as swiftly as the Hawk he was so often called, Merlin stepped close, did not do anything so foolish as to raise the knife, but aimed true for Gwaine’s ribcage. He struck once, with force enough to pierce a man’s heart.
It took Merlin a moment to realise what had happened, his body overtaken by intense sensation. It wasn’t quite pain, but it seared through him—radiating out from where Gwaine’s fingers were clamped around his wrist, stopping the knife a hair’s breadth from Gwaine’s unblemished skin. Gwaine’s index finger pressed against Merlin’s soulmark, and Merlin understood all at once.
He glanced at Gwaine's torso, a silvery-white outline just above his left nipple, pale against his tanned skin, the shape of it all too familiar. After all, Merlin saw it on his own body every day.
They both stared for moments beyond counting, Merlin’s wrist still held fast in Gwaine’s unrelenting grip, even after the knife slipped from Merlin’s numb fingers and clattered to the floor. The heat overtaking Merlin’s body intensified, and Merlin threw back his head and cried out, fearing he would burn from the inside out.
His voice came from somewhere that was himself and of the Earth, echoing off the stone walls of the small chamber, gouging deep cracks in them. Merlin squeezed his eyes shut, until he could no longer stand it, surprised when he opened them that he could still see as clearly as before. Golden threads wove, unbidden, around his and Gwaine’s hands, and it took a moment for Merlin to realise they came from his own fingertips, glowing bright from some unknown force.
The ground shook beneath Merlin’s feet, and he realised his magic, once feeling so far away inside himself, was now winding its way through every fibre of his being, the force of it threatening to bring down the very walls—perhaps the entire castle. The golden threads settled onto their skin before blazing brighter, surrounding them both. Merlin’s ears rang and he felt as if he might shatter into a thousand pieces, become the light itself and entwine his very being with Gwaine’s. Merlin couldn’t breathe, though he didn’t need to, losing himself to the raw power coursing through his veins, swirling in his head, behind his eyes, at his fingertips.
As soon as it had started, everything suddenly stopped. Merlin didn’t know at first whether he had shattered or whether he was still real. Then he realised Gwaine’s lips were pressed to his, the heat of them a completely different kind, grounding Merlin into being a person again. Without thought, Merlin kissed him back, deep and hungry. His magic was still there; he could feel it, but the kiss, the sharp snap back into his own mind, quelled its force. It was unlocked, and Merlin knew instinctively it would never be caged again, nor did he want it to. It felt right, like this was how it should have been all along. It was not an anger, or deliberate destruction that his magic had torn free with but a joy, excitement, as if it was something alive.
Merlin had absolutely no idea what to do with any of those thoughts, or the realisation that he had met his soulmate, who had been a target, and that his soulmate was now kissing him, even after Merlin made an attempt on his life.
Breaking the kiss suddenly, Merlin turned and fled.
~ Two years later ~
Merlin had tried to go back to the guild, the small group of people he was supposed to be able to trust. He had not been well received by his brothers- and sisters-in-arms. Half of them regarded him with heavy suspicion when he explained what had happened, ashamed of his first and only failure to carry out a contract, while the other half had been eager to use his newfound skills, the ones Merlin himself did not yet understand how to control, for their work.
After the third attempt on his life from those he had called friends, Merlin had fled for the second time. Even then, he had been found, by his own and others too. The border of Essetir and Camelot was a dangerous place for someone with magic.
He had lived with the druids for a time, but their constant awe verging on worship, the name they insisted belonged to him that was spoken with such reverence by even children, had irked him, and he had left them after he could no longer stand it. Merlin had known where he stood with contracts, had known how to snuff out one life at a time and had trained himself never to consider the consequences. To be expected to change the world for them was a weight he could not bear.
Merlin had taken yet another name, though he kept Merlin locked away deep down, the one thing that had always belonged to him alone. Wyllt, he called himself now, along-forgotten name he had found carved into a tree when he first set up home here in the depths of the Forest of Ascetir. Merlin had placed his small stone cottage, built in mere days with the help of his magic—that he thanked the druids a thousand times over for teaching him to harness properly—exactly on the borderline of Camelot and Essetir, because it pleased him to irritate two kingdoms at once. Merlin feared he had perhaps taken on more of the disguise of a cantankerous octogenarian than he had intended.
Looking like a decrepit, bearded old man served him well. People were either gentle with him when they came looking for a young sorcerer and clucked their tongues sympathetically at his doddering and (feigned) deafness, or they left him well alone, believing him nothing but an old fool.
Solitude was nothing new to him, and he enjoyed being out surrounded by nature on all sides. He had clearly spent too long hiding in cities and towns. Merlin did not squander a moment of the peace he had found, sustaining himself with his magic and what the land gave him. Merlin would have lived like that until he really looked like the glamour he cast, were it not for a particularly persistent trespasser.
Merlin had never caught more than a glimpse of the man; knew it was a man with dark hair and light boots that left no print—but men fitting that description were ten-a-penny, especially seeking bounties like sorcerers. It troubled Merlin that something felt familiar each time his uninvited guest came near; Merlin always knew when he was nearby somehow, even if he couldn’t see him. He reasoned it was his magic attuning to another living being, as it did sometimes.
Rubbing absently at the mark on his arm, hidden beneath an ostentatious robe sleeve—eccentric old men had a reputation to uphold, after all—Merlin’s sixth sense picked up the presence of his regular visitor. Dissolving the glamour with a wave of his hand, Merlin was a young man again, and he crept from his cottage with the silence and skill drilled into him since childhood. He had continued to hone his assassin’s retinue of tricks, feared losing such a big part of himself. Merlin made far better poisons now than he ever had before, and couldn’t deny he was a little disappointed he had no chance to use them.
Merlin slipped out through the cottage window, could hear the soft footfalls of those damned light boots, and allowed himself a moment of smugness at having the upper hand. He could see the back of the dark-haired man, creeping closer with measured, carefully planned steps so he didn’t disturb any leaves or stray twigs. Even a deer should not have been able to hear his approach.
Gwaine, however, had clearly been prepared for it, turning to face Merlin with a grin, carrying far more smugness and triumph than Merlin ever had. “It is you, then,” Gwaine said, as if he wasn’t talking to the soulmate who tried to kill him. Despite himself, something seemed to settle in Merlin; an itch he had never thought of, an emptiness now made whole. Merlin hadn’t exactly noticed it when he didn’t have it, but now he felt far easier just being in the presence of the man who had foiled him, released the tumultuous storm of his magic, then kissed him. Merlin’s head spun just thinking about it.
“I’ve come to ask a favour,” Gwaine continued. “I feel like you owe me one after—” he gestures vaguely between them. Merlin had no recourse for that, so he said nothing. “You took some finding, mind. I’ve been after you for half a year.”
“Well. Here I am.”
“Here you are indeed. Such a charming little house. Did you build it with your own two hands, hm?” Gwaine said, sardonically.
“I did.”
“Though neither of those hands touched a single brick, I’d wager.” Gwaine still had that infuriatingly triumphant expression. Merlin didn’t know whether he wanted to punch him or kiss him, body yearning for both in the presence of his soulmate. “Which is why I need your help specifically.”
Merlin sighed, turned without a word and strode back into his cottage, standing up straight with none of the false frailty. He pulled the old man’s robe over his head, feeling ridiculous without the beard and white hair halfway down his back, putting a pot of water on the fire for tea, and waving his hand without even looking at it so the flames leapt higher to boil the water quicker. He sat on his sturdy wooden table, feet on one of his chairs, and looked at Gwaine expectantly. Gwaine wandered the small house, scuffing those stupid boots on the hardwood floor and looking at the collection of trinkets and oddities Merlin had gathered in his time here. Gwaine grimaced at the tiny, perfect shrew skull Merlin had painstakingly cleaned and displayed with no magic.
Gwaine—the bastard—seemed in no hurry, waiting for the tea to be ready and sitting down heavily on the edge of Merlin’s bed with his feet propped on the hearthstones to warm them. “I need someone killed,” Gwaine said after another moment, plainly. “With powerful magic. It’s the only way it’ll work; many have tried with mortal weapons, poisons, and even some enchantments. Foiled each time; he’s too clever and heavily guarded. The sly fucker.”
“Noble, is he?” Merlin said airily, recalling that night in the tavern and trying to ignore the prickle of his magic on his skin, concentrated most on the bird on his forearm.
“You remembered,” Gwaine said with a grin. “I’m touched.”
“Just…what’s the plan?” Merlin didn’t bother trying to bargain or deny. This was his soulmate and he could deny him nothing, and deep down, he did not want to.
“It’s Cenred.”
“Cenred…the king of Essetir? The man whose land I’m squatting on?”
“I don’t know any others.”
“No bloody wonder you can’t assassinate him in conventional ways. You realise this will get us both killed?”
“If it gets him killed too, I’m all right with that.”
“Right. And a plan?”
“I’d tell you…but then I’d have to kill you. Just follow me and let loose when I say the word. Bring his castle down, incinerate his lackeys, drown his mistress’ chambers in blood. Whatever it takes.”
“Sounds reasonable enough,” Merlin said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“I thought so. We leave at dawn.” Merlin could do nothing but nod, and stare as Gwaine pulled off his jacket and overshirt, kicked off his (stupid) boots and climbed beneath Merlin’s blankets, on Merlin’s bed. “Come on then. You need to be well rested. Big day tomorrow.” Merlin spluttered into his tea, but the cottage was too small really for any other choice. Besides, Merlin ran cold. He said nothing as he stripped off just enough to be comfortable and got into bed.
A small noise of surprise escaped him as Gwaine reached out, hooked an arm around his waist and pulled him close. “Haven’t stopped thinking about you, you know,” he rumbled against Merlin’s ear. “I know you felt it too. Suppose you can’t choose who you’re soulbound to. Helps that you’re a stunner, even if you did try to murder me.”
Merlin said nothing, though almost unbidden his fingers found his forearm, pressing against the soulmark there he couldn’t see, but knew it in his mind’s eye better than anything. Gwaine filled the silence, clearly not a man who often enjoyed the quiet.
“I don’t blame you, mind. For a start, I’ve got a chequered past to say the least. Plenty of people want rid of me. We’ve all got a trade, and I can hardly take issue with killing people being yours when I do the same damn thing. Still owe me this favour though.”
“Why are you trying to assassinate a king?” Merlin found his voice, the question burning on his tongue.
“Because he’s a cunt,” Gwaine said simply. “His people are starving, the ones of use are chained as his labourers, or his sorcerers, while the rest are left to die in the cold. Before him, Essetir prospered. Under his father, Lot, things were fair. Of course I was only little when Lot died, so I don’t remember much of it. Still. Call it patriotism.”
“Patriotism?” Merlin couldn’t hide the incredulity in his voice.
“Or you could shut up and kiss me. I’ve waited two years to get my hands on you.”
Once again, Merlin found himself with no good reason not to, and their lips met for the second time, Merlin kissing deeply, hungrily. That inexorable magnetism overtook him and he rolled on top of Gwaine, his hand snaking beneath Gwaine’s tunic, needing to touch the matching mark. Merlin had half-expected it to feel hot, but it was no different to the rest of Gwaine’s skin. He traced it anyway, the shiny scar-like mark feeling ever so slightly different to the rest of Gwaine.
Gwaine shuddered, and made a low noise in the back of his throat, his own fingers almost tickling Merlin’s wrist with how lightly he was tracing Merlin’s own mark. Merlin moved away, reluctantly, just enough to pull off his shirt, to push Gwaine’s up to expose the mark, pressing his lips to it as soon as it was revealed. He shuddered; it did not taste different, nor give him any particular sensation, but it felt right. Merlin moved his kisses down, not having to go far before he found Gwaine’s nipple, already stiff, and pressed his lips to it before teasing with his tongue. Merlin had plenty of experience but he had been alone for two years, and his cock was already verging on painfully hard.
Gwaine’s too, if the heat and hardness against Merlin’s thigh was anything to go by.
“Oh gods, Merlin. Touch me,” Gwaine breathed, the self-assurance gone from his voice, nothing but raw desire in it now. It was unlike anything Merlin had ever heard, and he felt goosebumps rise all over his body at just how much Gwaine wanted him. Part of him wanted to tease, to draw it out and make Gwaine beg for it, but his own hard-on was insistent, and he knew he wouldn’t last long enough. Merlin decided he didn’t care, and made short work of the laces on Gwaine’s breeches.
Gwaine pulled Merlin down for another kiss with a warm hand on the back of his neck. Merlin nipped at his bottom lip before revelling in the stubble scraping against his cheek, opening his mouth into the kiss. Merlin’s hips jerked when Gwaine pressed his tongue into Merlin’s mouth, feeling the way their cocks slid together and groaning into the kiss. Merlin was lost in it, rutting without finesse, just needing the friction. Gwaine seemed to have a little sense left, and took them both in his free hand to at least keep their erections pressed against each other.
Merlin panted a thank you as he moved with purpose, his magic stirring the air around them, his whole body seeming to burn fierce and bright in recognition of their connected souls. Merlin knew nothing but this, nothing but the white-hot pleasure and the need to never let this man far from his arms again. Merlin’s chest heaved between kisses, though Gwaine’s did too. Gwaine’s free hand stroked through Merlin’s hair, achingly tender among the frenzy of their lovemaking.
When Merlin came his vision seemed to white out, vaguely registering Gwaine’s kisses becoming softer as Merlin spilled, coming in thick stripes across Gwaine’s stomach. It was barely half a minute before Gwaine followed with a quiet noise akin to a whimper.
Merlin lay beside him, bathed in the afterglow and the warm light of the fire—kept burning by Merlin’s magic, one of many practical applications of it that Merlin was rather proud of. Gwaine pulled him close again, resting his chin atop Merlin’s head. It was strange, to feel so known, so safe in the arms of a man he barely knew … yet that didn’t matter. Their souls had known each other from the moment each of them was born, and no stronger bond could be forged in this world.
Merlin had meant to tease Gwaine about his hidden depths, but before he could formulate a clever jab, he had fallen asleep with the wild thought that if this was his last night alive, it had been worth it.
“Merlin.” He didn’t bother to wonder where Gwaine had learned his real name; if he’d found him out here and known him through his glamour, his name would have been easy enough. “It’s time. We have an hour before the light, we need to go.”
Merlin would have liked nothing more than to stay in bed, beneath the warm blankets, learning all the ways their bodies fit and felt together, but Gwaine had sought him for a reason. They stole out into the almost-morning, hand in hand.
***
Merlin had never felt exhaustion like it. He leant on Gwaine (“Little brother?” Cenred had called him in shock; a moment of recognition before the flames conjured by Merlin engulfed him) in the wreckage of what had once been a grand keep. Hulking towers and parapets lay shattered into fine pieces at Merlin’s feet, the whole castle little more than ash.
“Come on, love,” Gwaine’s voice came low and soothing. “We need to move.”
“You … Lot … Cenred—” Merlin managed, with effort.
“I’ll tell you the whole sorry tale over a jug of ale when we stop. Can you ride?” Gwaine half-dragged Merlin as he spoke.
“I’ll be fine in a minute,” Merlin mumbled, feeling every inch the old man he had pretended to be.
“You’d bloody better. I’m not wasting a good confession on anyone else.” Gwaine pressed a swift kiss to Merlin’s soulmark, through the hole in his singed sleeve. “After all, we’ve got a lifetime to argue about it.”