Chapter Text
Disclaimer: Merlin is not mine.
Merlin was beginning to worry about Arthur.
Merlin was beginning to worry about Arthur and, as he spent most of his waking hours sitting still atop a dragon, he had plenty of time to think about it. And this day was no different.
In this way, at least.
Arthur had always been the brave one on their various missions into the forest—steadfast, confident, determined. Not that Merlin had been a coward—despite Arthur's frequent accusations to the contrary, Merlin had always known that he had his own share of bravery. Arthur just couldn't know about it...because it was illegal.
But Arthur was always in charge, and Arthur being in charge always gave Merlin the freedom to inquire about what they were doing so that Arthur could be sure of his details, to point out the inconsistencies to at the very least get them on the same page, to complain about being tired to remind Arthur that he needed sleep as well and that even a prince could not march on for days on end without respite by sheer will power alone. Arthur had been in charge and kept them motivated and kept them going; Merlin had been his second, and he kept them functioning. It was a good combination, and it worked.
But what they were doing now was not working. Merlin wasn't sure what it was—Merlin's elevation from manservant, the fact that they were questing on Arthur's personal behalf rather than for the good of the kingdom and that they might die for it, that their method of travel was one over which he had no control and with which he was uncomfortable, that neither of them knew what they were going to face and both of them knew that they did not agree on it, that Arthur had believed Merlin when he'd claimed with far too much bluntness that Arthur would be all but useless in the fight against whatever foe they faced when they arrived at their destination, that they honestly didn't know where they were going, that he and Merlin had been arguing more than they had been getting along for some inexplicable reason that neither had been able to identify—but something wasn't working as it used to. Arthur seemed just…tired. He had been growing, steadily, more and more lethargic and unmotivated and quiet and, worst of all, forgetful.
At first, Merlin had been afraid that something was legitimately wrong with Arthur, that something in his body was beginning to fail him and his mind was fading away and that Merlin didn't know how to stop it. He'd gone so far as to stop insinuating that Arthur was half an idiot whenever he got annoyed with him.
Then, Merlin had noted something that both reassured and angered him. During the few moments over the past three days of travel, as he had grown more and more distant, when Arthur had become animated, his memory had become perfect, his mind as sharp as it had ever been, his determination blazing in his face with such fervor that Merlin was reminded why Arthur was meant to be a king.
But then it would be time to get on the dragon again, and his eyes would glaze over, and Arthur would give into the thoughts and worries that kept him far away from where he was riding, hundreds of feet in the air, on the back of a creature that he had been raised to despise. Arthur had learned that dragons were not inherently bad and were creatures to be treated with respect in the months since Merlin had returned to Camelot, but Merlin knew perfectly well that it took more than half of a year to overcome an aversion that had lasted for nearly thirty. Arthur hated riding on that dragon, and if he kept disappearing inside of himself every time that they climbed onto his back, he would never get used to it. He would learn to appreciate the genuine fun in the experience.
Over the previous three days that they had spent in flight after their argument in the forest, Merlin had grown more and more anxious to reach their destination. By the fifth, as they flew, the anxiety was reaching a breaking point, and he almost felt sick with it. He was in no hurry to face what he knew was waiting for them, but he felt that a few more hours every day with his feet on the ground would do a great deal to bring Arthur back into himself. They would be more exhausted by the time that the sun set and their journey would have been lengthened significantly, but Arthur would have had to put one foot in front of the other, over and over again, dodging branches and hopping ditches and finding ways to cross rivers and rolling his eyes as he had to stop to yank Merlin to his feet after he had inevitably tripped on something. Arthur would have needed to be present.
Merlin needed Arthur to be present. He had learned, to his dismay and slight embarrassment, that, at times like this, he could not lead nearly as well as Arthur could. He'd always been confident in his skills as a sorcerer, and he knew that had led to a bit of arrogance when it came to other areas, especially as he grew better and better at harnessing his powers. And, as he had learned during his travels whilst banished, with his encounters with other groups of sorcerers, he was rather capable at garnering loyalty. He had received pledges of allegiance from scores of them with such relatively little effort that he had been somewhat alarmed at first. When they had seen his magic and connected him to their prophecies, it was usually "Emrys this" and "Emrys that." Yes, when it came to magic, he could lead. He was comfortable. But when it came to this little journey, with camping and hiking and a man who was not magical, Merlin was stuck. He could have been Arthur's second in an instant, even in the face of a horde. But now, he needed Arthur to step up and demand to give orders and be a general prat about it, take the role established so many years ago, so that Merlin could take his role and question and pick apart and prepare. When it came to the two of them in a situation like this, they needed to stick with what they knew, even if Merlin refused to act as a servant again. But Arthur was somewhere else and going through the motions, and so they were fighting and tired and tense and all but silent with each other, and Merlin knew damn well that they didn't stand a chance against whatever they were seeking if they didn't start working together as a team, as they were so capable. He'd had such hopes, even in the darkness of what they were facing, that they could take their parts and be equals in the acknowledgment of their equal, if different, necessities.
But he didn't know how to make it happen. He'd considered smacking Arthur in the face on several occasions, but only about half of those had been out of a desire to snap him out of his lethargy. The other half were just because Merlin was annoyed with him.
So Merlin was beginning to worry about Arthur, and he could not deny that he somewhat resented Arthur for it.
As if Merlin hadn't already had enough to worry about!
But, despite their snippiness with each other and despite Arthur's listlessness and despite how much they both would have benefited from a good day's hike and campfire conversation, Merlin had too much faith in Arhur to abandon the goal and admittedly primitive plan that they had set back in the beginning when they had still been the formidable unit that was keeping the newly lawful coexistence between magic and non-magic at a tentative peace by the sheer force of their well-known friendship. Merlin believed too much in Arthur and believed too much in the need for haste in this journey for him to delay for too long. He had begun starting an hour later than they had on that first full day of flight and they were now landing for the night an hour or so before sundown. Wouldn't that be enough?
He figured that the two hours off would make up for themselves if he and Arthur—and Aithusa, for that matter—improved from the extra rest.
Besides, he'd had something of a scare himself. Since Arthur didn't seem to be paying much attention to the land below them, looking for landmarks of any sort that might point them on their way, Merlin alone had had to take up that duty without much of any respite. He hadn't bothered to complain to Arthur about it, though; Arthur was still so squeamish about flying that Merlin wasn't sure that he would be able look down at the ground from their height for very long without having something of a breakdown. Merlin figured that, even if Arthur had been the most alert person in the five kingdoms, this particular duty still would have been his own.
Still, by the time that the afternoon rolled around each day, Merlin's eyes were just about worn out, and he feared that he was beginning to see things that were not there and sense things that could not possibly be real. Feel things that he should not be feeling. He would get the strange tingling that he often experience when in the presence of powerful magic, but he always had to dismiss it. He often got such feelings from Aithusa, especially when he was tired. Merlin had grown to equate it to magical perspiration. It was nothing, certainly.
He also attributed some of the phantom sensations—for surely they were phantom—to a guilty conscience. He shouldn't have done it, and he knew it. Part of him wondered if Arthur sensed that he was being dishonest about something—again—and that was contributing to their current distance with one another. Merlin told himself that this was for Arthur's own good. It didn't really matter that he had told himself the same thing so many times in the past to justify his lies. This time was different. Wasn't it?
It wasn't like Arthur had ever asked him about it or anything. And they hadn't exactly gone into any lengthy discussions of what they had packed. They might have, were they speaking as usual, out of sheer boredom by that point, but even if Merlin hadn't felt guilty about what he had brought with him, it still would have been a sticky subject for him. He had forgotten the Sidhe staff that he had acquired so many years ago. His knowledge of spellwork and his ability to control his powers without the need to channel them through such an item had increased to a point that he'd been known to forget that he possessed the damn thing. But if he was wounded or tired or barely conscious, he thought that maybe it would have allowed him to channel his powers enough to remain dangerous, even if he could not speak or move well enough to do what he truly could. It was such a stupid thing to forget. It's not like it was heavy or anything…
So he was not particularly anxious to discuss what they had each packed in their personal bags. He didn't think that Arthur would have particularly cared that Merlin had forgotten the Sidhe staff; now that he thought about it, he wasn't even sure if Arthur knew that he possessed such an item. But then there was that other thing…
Merlin hadn't even opened it. Part of it was that he had memorized the damn thing after he'd read it the first time—the contents were rather memorable—and part of it was a fear that, no matter how secluded a spot that he might have found to examine it, he was afraid that Arthur would see him with it, and that would probably lead to an even bigger fight than the one they'd had on that first morning.
It was a copy of the scroll.
It was the copy of the scroll.
Merlin just hadn't felt right leaving without it. He'd known that Gwaine—and Guinevere—needed to have it with them, but where he and Arthur were going…what if they needed it for something? What if she demanded to see it, as proof that they were who they said they were? What if they needed it as some sort of key to enter wherever it was that they were going? What if it had been enchanted to reword itself or catch flame or something to tell them when they were in the right place?
They were flimsy excuses, and he knew it. But when he looked at the scroll, alone with it after Arthur had gone to fetch some supplies that would be easier granted to the king rather than an underling and with the instructions to find a way to leave it for Guinevere to find in the morning, after they were gone, he'd felt a strange need to keep it with him.
Something about the parchment, strange under his fingers…the wax of the seal, broken but gleaming so strangely in the candlelight, suddenly flickering, even though there was no breeze or movement in the corridor…the ink that glistened as though wet, yet dry to the touch…
It was only after he heard a loud bang at the opposite end of the corridor that he'd looked up and seen that the candles were so much lower than they had been when he'd noticed their sudden flickering…he'd been standing there for much longer than he'd thought. Just...standing there. And staring. There was something about this scroll, some magic so very powerful that even he could not decipher easily, magic that felt sinister and fascinating and seductive all at once.
So he'd found a sheet of plain parchment and a candle and experimented until he managed a spell that transferred the contents of the original note onto the fresh. After a few more minutes, he managed to find a way to replicate the original wax seal. Then he had rolled up the original and sealed it, trying to conceal its genuine identity, and tucked it into his bag, and taking the new scroll in his hand. He broke the new seal and, as he began to traverse the corridors, began rolling and unrolling in his hands, trying to give it the look of being read and reread, opened and reopened. Trying to make it look like it was exactly what Merlin said it was.
When he'd tracked down Gwaine and given him the new scroll, he had been far too full of adrenaline and nerves to feel any guilt. When he'd climbed onto Aithusa's back, he was too frustrated with how long it had taken to talk Arthur into doing the same to feel any guilt. When they had taken flight from the roof of the castle and soared north into the night, he had been too exhilarated and too high from the rush of what they had just done to feel any guilt. When he had noticed the look on Arthur's face, he had been too conflicted between amusement and concern that the king would fall right off of the dragon to feel any guilt. When they had finally landed, he had been too busy pestering Arthur into gathering firewood and then starting the fire to feel any guilt. When they had eaten a meager meal and tried to find comfortable places to sleep for the night, he'd been too tired to feel any guilt. But when he laid himself down and shut his eyes, it had hit him.
The shame.
The guilt.
It felt far too familiar...
Yet why should he feel guilty? It was just a note. It was just words. Words were nothing. So what if he wanted to have them with him? It made sense. It wasn't irrational or anything, like the little voice in the back of head kept trying to tell him. What if they needed the summons with them? It made sense.
Which didn't exactly explain why he didn't want to tell Arthur what he had done.
But then there was the other thing. There was magic in that scroll. He knew it, even if he couldn't explain it. And it wasn't good magic. He felt that, at least. Maybe if he kept it with him, if he had it with him for long enough, it would come to him, and he'd understand. At the very least, it was probably a good idea not to leave a scroll created with darker magic than he'd ever dared to try in a castle of innocents, with no magical protector within the walls to combat any ill that might come out of it. What did it matter if they had a fake? They had the words, and that was all that they would need.
Still…he felt that Arthur ought to know. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. He felt exactly as he had for such a long time, once he was three years, four years, six years into his friendship with Arthur. By the time that he felt that he could tell him, it was too late for forgiveness. He'd been lying about it too long. The best that he'd been able to do with that, his biggest and most terrible secret, was to keep lying and keep deceiving and just delay the awful and inevitable day that Arthur would finally find out or, for heaven's sake, figure it out. Merlin knew that he was lucky, so very lucky, with the way that he had emerged from that ordeal without having lost much of anything beyond six months of exile, and even those had been profitable. He was so very lucky that Arthur was not Uther. But he wasn't sure if he could get away with it again, the lying. And not when the stakes were this high. Arthur could only tolerate so much, and Merlin could not resent him for it. He wasn't sure if he deserved to get away with it again.
So he kept the scroll secret and hidden and untouched in his bag, secure in the knowledge that Arthur seemed to be lacking in the motivation to properly roll out his own blanket every night, let alone work up the curiosity to root around Merlin's belongings. Merlin kept his secret.
And he did not sleep.
So he was fairly sure that it was the secrecy and the sleeplessness and the guilt that were making him see things that could not be there. Besides, staring into sunshine for ten hours every day could not have been good for him.
Anyway, the things that he thought that he was seeing just didn't make sense. For one thing, he thought that he saw shadows racing each other below the canopy of the trees below them, large and small, four-legged and six-legged and eight-legged and even two-legged, all racing south as they flew north. But those had to be tricks of the sunlight.
And then there was that instant when he'd glanced behind him, as he did every half hour or so, just to make sure that Arthur didn't look like he was about to fall off, when he'd sworn that he'd seen a thick sheaf of parchment chasing them on the bag of the dragon. Of course, his heart had leapt and he'd nearly fallen off of Aithusa's back, sure that it was a letter from Guinevere and Gwaine, no doubt full of indignance and insults and questions, but a letter. Contact. He could almost swear that he could see the purple wax of the seal.
But then he knew that it couldn't be real. For one thing, the thing that he thought that he saw following them was sagging in the air rather than soaring, as the letters that he'd both magically sent and received always did, no matter how heavy they were, no matter how fast Merlin was racing on horseback, no matter how wet they became. They always zoomed, as he was always proud to see. That had been a difficult trick of magic, even if it seemed so insignificant, to enchant the candle's sealing wax to always find him.
But this phantom sheaf of paper was shuddering and dipping up and down in the air; the purple wax that he thought he saw was beginning to drip down into the air, as though suddenly heated; the individual pieces of parchment separating and drifting apart from one another, thrown about in every direction from the windstream that followed Aithusa's flight. Then, very suddenly, the pieces of parchment that were not there had suddenly crumbled into ashes with a poof of smoke, dark and black and distant, as though the pages had burnt into nothingness without any fire.
That vision had shaken Merlin, and he'd had such a headache that had to be from squinting in that direction that he'd ordered Aithusa to take them down several hours earlier than he'd planned. It was bad enough that Arthur was not himself; if Merlin began to lose track of what they were doing, he wasn't sure if they would ever get where they were going.
Then there was the next day, when he'd been so overcome by shivers that he'd almost had to lash himself to Aithusa, for fear of shaking too violently to maintain his hold on the dragon's back. The weakness in his grip had frightened him terribly, and he suddenly felt pressure on his body from everything that was touching him, his clothes, his boots, the waterskein that he'd taken to tying about his neck, the pack on his back that contained all of his belongings, the hardness of Aithusa's skin below him…it came as almost a relief the next morning, as they had taken to the sky, when he'd found that he couldn't really feel any of his limbs at all.
But all of these ailments were all in his head, he knew. He was thinking as clearly as ever; it was just that his guilt was affecting him, and that was what was affecting his body. It was all in his head, and so what if he'd never heard of guilt manifesting itself thusly before? So what if it had never happened in any of his six years of lying to Arthur about significantly more than a smuggled scroll? It was in his head, surely.
Admittedly, the nosebleed that he'd gotten that evening had not been imaginary, but all in all, he was glad of it. Of course, Aithusa wasn't grateful that Merlin had dripped blood onto the whiteness of his back—he could be as vain as Arthur sometimes, Merlin swore—and after Arthur had gotten a fire going all by himself and Merlin had noticed by the firelight the brown splotched stains on his tunic and neckerchief, he hadn't been particularly pleased with himself. But the nosebleed had done more good than bad, he thought. When Arthur had actually noticed Merlin wavering in front of him on Aithusa's back and seen the blood on his face, he had livened immediately and scrambled forward, despite the height that usually rendered him motionless, and held Merlin still, ordering Aithusa to descend with the authority that had been so lately missing from his voice, and then there was Aithusa actually listening to Arthur…yes, as far as bloody body parts went, that was a good one.
Of course, Arthur had gone right back to being difficult the next morning—this morning, now that Merlin thought about it–even if he was somewhat more alert. Merlin had been optimistic—Arthur had gotten up without complaint and stoked up the fire on his own. For a moment, as he moved closer to the growing flames, Merlin wondered if Arthur was sick. Merlin was shivering under all of the layers of the clothing that he'd brought with him, but he could see Arthur sweating as he tossed more wood onto the fire. But Arthur was moving about energetically and Merlin just figured that Arthur had had a particularly interesting dream that was lingering.
But apparently, rousing himself quickly and stoking the fire was as far as Arthur's generosity went for the day, because it was immediately after they sat down on the forest floor that Arthur proposed taking a day off, saying strangely carefully that they both could use a break. Merlin, who hadn't slept well, argued that neither of them were in any shape to spend the day hiking. He knew, having woken frequently in the night, that Arthur had been upright for a good portion of it, facing the fire that burned between where Arthur had lain his blanket and where Merlin was trying to sleep, eyes wide and watchful. Merlin hadn't understood that, but if neither of them had slept, he said dully, it was better to just get up on the dragon and try not to talk to each other, if their conversation the last time that they'd been sleepless had been any indication.
But Arthur had kept arguing for the day off, although his voice was rather softer than it usually was when they argued. He had even refused to eat more than a mouthful of his breakfast, shoving the rest at Merlin for him to eat. Merlin had obliged as best he could—he hadn't been very hungry for the last few days, which he attributed to the lack of physical activity. But Merlin ate Arthur's breakfast, mostly because, if this was Arthur's way of spiting Merlin for refusing to loaf around and do nothing all day, it was not his most intelligent method.
Besides, Arthur eventually agreed after Merlin threatened to take off and fly on his own, and Arthur could walk if he wanted to. Merlin had been surprised that Arthur had given in so easily-the most that Merlin would have done was to fly out of sight for a few minutes before coming back, just to teach Arthur a lesson. But Arthur had been strangely adamant that Merlin not fly alone, so Merlin had, with a great deal of satisfaction, eaten all of Arthur's breakfast with as much gusto as he could manage.
Of course, Merlin threw it all back up again a few hours later, his stomach heaving suddenly, but Arthur was sitting in front of him on Aithusa's back today, having rather unexpectedly and insistently volunteered to watch for landmarks for the very first time, and he hadn't seen. Aithusa hadn't seemed to notice either, which was fortunate, for he had sided with Arthur on taking the day off. But Merlin was a Dragonlord. Arguments with Aithusa tended to end much more quickly than with Arthur. He wasn't a Kinglord, after all. Unfortunately.
Kinglord…that was funny.
That was funny!
Oh, if only that were a real thing!
Arthur would probably appreciate that.
Kinglord…
Merlin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, which shook slightly at the motion, and laughed aloud. He tried to reach forward to tap Arthur on the back, trying to share the joke. He would have shouted for him, for some reason feeling that it was very important that Arthur hear the joke just then, but the wind shear must have been very loud that day, even though Merlin had given in to Arthur's demand that they fly lower that day, because Arthur hadn't heard him any of the times that Merlin had tried to catch his attention in the last few hours, although Merlin could not for the life of him remember why. Arthur had been periodically glancing backward at him for some reason, but he wasn't doing it now. So Merlin resolved to tap him.
Unfortunately, he found that he was having trouble leaning forward to grab at Arthur's shoulder. When had his pack gotten so heavy? He could barely sit up with the weight of it. He must have packed in the wrong order that morning, that would explain it. Bad luck. He really needed Arthur to hear the joke before he forgot it. What was it again?
Merlin put his hand back down on Aithusa's back, trying to steady himself before he made another grab for Arthur. He looked down and noticed for the first time that his hand was all but blending in with Aithusa's skin. That was strange. It was very…what was it?
Kinglord, that's what it was.
No, it wasn't.
That was the joke for Arthur.
Merlin laughed at it again, but his laugh turned into a choke, but that was okay because it made sense. He leant to the side as best he could, momentarily dizzied, and threw up for the second time.
This time, however, Arthur must have heard. He whipped his head around so quickly that Merlin was dimly surprised that he didn't slide right off of Aithusa. Arthur shouldn't have done that, Merlin thought, he shouldn't have looked away. Arthur was supposed to be watching for landmarks, so that they could find where they were going. Arthur was supposed to be helping. Arthur was supposed to be focusing on the ground below them, not on Merlin. He was doing it all wrong.
Merlin opened his mouth to yell at him.
Instead, he said, "Kinglord."
Arthur did not seem to get the joke, because he did not laugh, and Arthur would have laughed if he got it. Merlin wasn't even sure that he had heard what Merlin had said, because instead of answering, Merlin watched placidly as Arthur turned very white very quickly and then began to slide sideways off of Aithusa's back. Merlin opened his mouth to warn him, but all that came out was a laugh. Kinglord. It was funny.
It was only when Arthur spun swiftly and lunged backward, heedless of their position in the sky, arms reaching toward him that Merlin realized that Arthur wasn't actually falling off of the dragon. Which was good.
It was only when Arthur missed in his desperate reach for Merlin that Merlin realized that he was the one who was sliding off of the dragon.
That was funny. Merlin was the last Dragonlord, and he was falling off of a dragon. That was pretty funny. Merlin was pretty sure that he had never heard something so funny. What kind of Dragonlord was he if fell off of a dragon? He'd have to tell his father when he got the chance. Balinor would understand that it was funny. Arthur didn't seem to find it amusing, though. At least, that wasn't the expression that he always wore when he thought something was funny. This was a different expression. It looked familiar.
Merlin opened his mouth to ask Arthur what was wrong.
Instead, he laughed.
And then he fell.
.
.