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Merlin’s tastes have always leaned more animalistic.
Biting. Bruising. Chasing. Marking.
Merlin loved it all.
Something about making his partners squirm. He used to do this thing with his teeth that would leave Arthur boneless.
Used to.
He’d never do it again.
Because Arthur was dead.
Because Mordred had killed him.
Merlin had always felt more in touch with nature than others. He’d spoken to Arthur about it once or twice, always resulting in him being insulted in some way. Girlish he’d been called, though with more colourful language.
He felt that now. That connection. With the land. With his magic. With Arthur.
He had been placed on that lake three days ago. Merlin hadn’t left the shore once in that time. He did now. Walking to the one place he needed to be.
Where he should have been.
Where he should have been years ago.
Merlin was walking to Mordred’s side.
To where his frozen corpse still lies.
Hunting was probably the better word. Stalking.
The land had known better than to let that traitorous corpse rot. It was waiting for something. Waiting for him.
He was sat at the bodies side. Not kneeling, he’d never kneel in front of this whelk even now. Merlin knew Mordred was dead with much more certainty than he knew Arthur was. How deep did that destiny go? If his king was meant to return would Mordred? Would the knights?
Merlin chose not to think about it.
He could burn him.
That’s what one did with sorcerers wasn’t it? The moment that marred his first day in Camelot and the moment that signified its bitter end, the one and the same.
But no.
That wasn’t fair to himself or Mordred. Wasn’t enough to ensure he never stepped foot on this earth again. Magic was all about balance, Merlin knew that better than most. A life for a life.
But Arthur’s life was worth so much more than Mordred’s ever was.
It was strange, studying the child like this. Merlin had done his fair share of it during Mordred’s time at Camelot, and during his time after. It was strange almost; how similar he looked to Merlin. Pale skin, dark hair, Arthur had once commented that Merlin’s eyes seemed to pierce his very soul, had he thought the same about Mordred in those final moments?
Merlin was straddling the body now, lent so far forward their noses almost touched. He looks more peaceful than Arthur did. Some final act to spite Arthur and Merlin both. It made sense, Merlin supposed, Mordred had fulfilled his life’s sole purpose in a way that Merlin and Arthur never had. Never would.
He traced a long finger down Mordred’s cheek. There was no give. The boy completely frozen solid.
Merlin could change that.
He warmed his hands, the spell done without thinking. Hands as hot as a branding iron wrapped around a thin throat. The boy didn’t move, of course he didn’t. He never would again. Still Merlin was almost disappointed, would’ve been nice to see him scream.
Merlin leaned back, his weight now firmly resting on the boy’s stomach, on the wound that had killed him. The frost had crept from Mordred’s neck and face quickly after that.
Merlin all but slid forward, his knees on either side of Mordred’s legs, until his face rested in that tender spot where neck met shoulder.
He didn’t smell the same. Days of battle followed by days left to freeze in the open wilderness would do that to a man. He was not yet rotting.
Balance.
Merlin stayed like that for some time; his face pressed against Mordred’s jaw. Mordred would be dead if not for Merlin. Arthur would be alive if not for Mordred.
Balance.
He wasn’t quite sure when the idea came to him. Torn from some hazy place between the pain of losing Arthur and the need to make sure that when his king came back — when Albion’s need was greatest—that this pathetic excuse for a knight wouldn’t be there.
Mordred’s skin was still warm when Merlin’s teeth grazed the surface.
By the time he pierced the skin it had long since gone cold. Blood didn’t flow, that required a beating heart and Mordred would never have one of those again. Merlin tasted it anyway, forcing it from his veins. It was a strange texture, Mordred’s flesh. Half frozen and chewy.
It was hardly unheard of, people eating people, though sinful. There were always too many mouths too feed and people you wouldn’t care were missing. Desperate times. Merlin had never seen it up close. Never bitten down on meat that had a name before. A life. A life that Merlin had saved and Arthur had ended.
Mordred had taken Arthur’s life; Merlin would take his body.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Balance.
Merlin’s teeth sank into once soft flesh and pulled.
Gods, if Arthur could see him now.
Merlin tilted his head back eyes closed as he chewed. And chewed. And chewed.
Raw meat had never been particularly appetizing to Merlin, flavour and safety were provided by the flame. He didn’t care now. Desperate times.
He left Mordred’s face untouched as he worked his way downwards, eventually the meat around his neck was all but gone, vertebra visible beneath scraps of muscle. Distantly he thought of Gaius’ training as he pulled something sinewy from between his teeth.
Merlin was not a large man and had very much eaten his fill. Eaten more than it. And yet, he was looking down at what had once been Mordred and saw that there was still so much that could come back to torment his King.
Merlin heated his hands again.
It was almost fun experimenting with the heat. How it changed the texture and taste, the difference between gnawing against solid ice and the crack of meat long that had long since been burnt. Though that wasn’t why he was doing this. Even as he sunk bloodied teeth into Mordred’s hip, he told himself this would be the first and last time he let himself go this far. This was for destinies sake. For Arthur’s.
Might as well savour it while it lasts.