Where the Current & Heavens Collide

A hush falls over the bar when they enter, gliding smoothly through the double doors as if their feet barely skim the ground. Gwaine stares, openly, as enraptured by the sight of them as everyone else in the crowded bar, and he’s actually seen a vampire up close before. (Admittedly he was fighting for his life at the time, but still. These things tend to stick with you.)

People start whispering again as the shock wears off, about the unnatural hue of their pearly skin, about the sharp flash of white against their lips which can only be fangs, about the sheer size of their group. Gwaine’s never seen such a large number of them together, never thought such a thing could be possible. Vampires are territorial; they don’t like sharing power.

The vampire at the front of the procession – bright eyes, sharp cheekbones and such an air of quiet composure there’s no doubt in Gwaine’s mind that he’s their leader – stops at the bar, motioning for the others to wait.

The barmaid – Esmerelda, she told Gwaine her name was Esmerelda when he flirted a free drink out of her – eyes the vampire as he approaches.

“Can I help you?” she asks, her voice entirely level, her face carefully blank, though there’s wariness creeping in at the corners of her eyes. People are still watching them, though the noise level in the bar has risen to a murmur and the air is thick with all the damning things being said.

The vampire smiles, wide and bright and beautiful, and Gwaine sees Esmerelda relax a fraction of an inch. He understands. There’s something about the vampire, something calming and gentle and... Gwaine doesn’t know what it is, can’t understand it for the life of him, but there’s something about the vampire that makes Gwaine want to trust him and that’s-

People don’t trust vampires. That isn’t how things work. Gwaine sits up straighter in his seat, blinks hard and shakes his head to clear it.

“We mean you no harm,” the vampire says, utterly serious, “I promise. We’d just like something to drink; we’ve had a long journey and we’ve longer still to go.”

Esmerelda nods, still cautious, but she offers him a tentative smile when she asks him what they’d like. The vampire promptly reels off a list of drinks without pausing to think like he’s done this a thousand times before, produces a large bag of coins that chink together when he sets them down on the bar and takes the drinks.

“Keep the change,” the vampire says, flashing Esmerelda the same smile as before. “Thank you.

The vampires sit – if ‘sitting’ is the right word to describe the elegance with which they fold themselves into their seats – near Gwaine, the lot of them huddled in together around the tiny table they’ve chosen.

One of the vampires, a dark-haired woman with clear skin and sharp eyes, leans back to talk to a man sitting behind her. He’s weak, Gwaine can see that from here, and his eyes start to glaze over almost instantly. There’s no intent behind the vampire’s actions, though; she wouldn’t dare touch a human in such a crowded place, and certainly not with a promise like we mean you no harm hanging over them all.

It turns out not to matter, because another of the group elbows the lead vampire in the side and he looks up from contemplating his glass, eyes narrowed.

“Nimueh,” he says, sharply enough that she slumps back in her seat in defeat.

“Merlin,” she says, and her voice is playful but her eyes are cold. “You never let us have any fun.”

Merlin’s eyes shimmer, just for a moment, burning yellow-gold before cooling to cerulean blue.

Gwaine swallows, hard, his own eyes wide. This isn’t just any old vampire, and this isn’t just any old coven. These are the vampirates, a group so covert and concealed Gwaine’s only ever heard whispers of their existence, so distorted and blatantly fabricated he almost dismissed them entirely. He can hear his blood rushing in his ears and wonders, distantly, if the vampires can too.

“Nimueh,” Merlin repeats, and there’s something different about his voice, this time, something that makes Nimueh straighten in her seat. “Don’t make me regret not leaving you on the ship with Morgana.”

Nimueh smiles, the barest echo of what graced Merlin’s lips not minutes previously. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” she says, before turning to the girl beside her.

Merlin doesn’t bristle at the dismissal or bark out a harsh rebuke like Gwaine expects. He just sighs, quiet and soft and so tired it makes something in Gwaine ache, a phantom pain he can’t explain.

“Arthur,” Merlin murmurs, and the fair-haired vampire beside him straightens up, instantly alert, “can you take care of business tonight? I don’t think I should leave.”

His eyes linger on Nimueh when he says this and though she doesn’t turn around, doesn’t even acknowledge the fact that she’s heard, Gwaine sees the line of her back stiffen. Arthur nods, whispers something to Merlin Gwaine doesn’t catch and gets to his feet. He’s at the door before Gwaine can blink, vanished into the night before Gwaine really registers he’s gone.

Gwaine glances back and Merlin is staring at him. He startles, shocked, and Merlin’s lips twitch into a smile. Gwaine smiles back, lifting his glass in a mock salute before taking a sip. When he puts his glass down, Merlin has turned away, back to his crew, the lonely human with too-long hair and a fortnight’s worth of stubble forgotten.

#

The vampirates leave well before dawn, taking the quiet hush of the bar with them. They’re all anyone can talk about for hours after they’ve gone, and Gwaine broods into his glass about it long after he’s drunk it dry. The rumours were true after all, of a crew of tamed monsters and their gentle leader Merlin.

(It sounds ridiculous. It is ridiculous, and Gwaine would think he imagined the entire thing if it weren’t for the countless other witnesses, if it weren’t for the smile on Merlin’s face for him and him alone.)

Esmerelda kicks everyone out as soon as the sun starts to rise up out of the ocean, brightening the horizon with every inch it gains. Gwaine considers flirting his way into her bed as well, but he’s decidedly more sober than he usually is at this time of the morning and he finds he doesn’t really want to.

(She’s pretty enough, certainly, more than pretty enough by his usual standards, and Gwaine is under no delusions about his appearance but he knows it’s not exactly a hardship to share a bed with him, he just... doesn’t want to.)

He smiles at her as he leaves, though, tips her a wink as he thanks her for the drink and doesn’t stick around long enough to hear her response. His boat is waiting for him in the bay, and he ought to leave as soon as he can so he isn’t in the thick of the storm predicted to inflict itself upon the seas today.

#

Gwaine left Caerleon when he was eighteen, still foolish with the wilful idealism of youth, still determined to find that something better people always used to talk about with wistful smiles and hopeful eyes. He’s sailed the seas for nigh on seven years and he’s yet to find more than the murky depths of the ocean and the murkier depths of human souls.

He thinks about going home, sometimes, usually when he gets so drunk everything fades to a dull throb and all he has is memories for company. He thinks about going home until the prospect is so tantalising he aches for it. He thinks about going home, and when he wakes in the morning with an army pounding at his temples he laughs and laughs and laughs so his head and his heart aren’t the only things that hurt.

#

The storm hits when Gwaine is in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by nothing but water and waves and the cruel, unrelenting wind. He skids around the boat trying to get it under control, soaked through to the bone with the pounding rain, a pit in his stomach the size of Atlantis.

There’s no way his father’s tiny boat can survive this.

There’s no way Gwaine can survive this.

“Sorry Dad,” Gwaine murmurs, just as a giant wave crests against the side of the boat and turns it clean over.

Gwaine has enough time to offer a prayer to the heavens before he’s pulled under, the current too strong for even as good a swimmer as him. Black spots dance in his vision as the water fills his lungs, crushes his ribcage from both sides, before the world recedes and everything turns to darkness.