Chapter Text
Since Merlin was a child, he knew he was different from the other children. Not just because he was born with magic, but because of his strong sense of purpose. He did not know then what his true purpose was, and many times he thought himself an evil pawn-in-waiting. That he was cast out from the children in his little village because someday, he will be joining the bandits from the outlying troops, as a force molded by the bastardization of his childhood and the cruel fingers of hunger.
But Merlin never liked the bandits. They were cruel, they smell, and they don’t wash their hair. He did not know if he could live with them. He never grew the limbs and bulk of them, too, which is apparently a requirement. So when his mother told him through tears that he was special, and that he was a good boy and son, he believed her. But he swore to himself that someday, he will fulfill his place in the world. And for many, many moons, his sense of purpose was set aside.
It came back barreling towards him the day he arrived in Camelot.
Merlin believed that his plan was going to be excellent, brilliant, a hundred percent successful. And even though he was not one to boast of his brilliance, he radiated with smugness internally. However, he neither liked nor anticipated the excruciating torment of breathing and existing as an eighty-year-old man. He never knew how painful it was to hold one’s many organ systems under bones more fragile than Arthur’s masculinity.
But there was no time to complain. At least, aloud. He can complain to himself however the hell he wanted, and no one could ever stop him – and he thought with a smirk that that ability made him extremely powerful.
So he strode with purpose to the prince’s chambers, taking down a guard or sixteen, making sure to be careful with his presence until the time of reveal is due.
He made sure Arthur will find him exactly where he wanted him. As he brought out the poultice, his gaze travelled to Arthur’s pillow and reeled in disgust. The pillowcase has been turned inside out. It must have been Morgana when she planted the poultice. Only the evillest of people would do such thing.
Merlin jumped when a sharp object prodded his back, jostling the arrangement of his bones as a side effect of an unpractised self-imposed spell. Finally, the prat is taking action. But he expected the violence. Just not the question.
“Show yourself. Who are you?”
Merlin was horrified at the fact that he had not thought of a name before executing his plan. To be fair to himself, if he had not executed the plan immediately, Gwen would be. He blamed Kilgharrah. As is rightful.
“I am. . .” Merlin squinted harder than he sometimes resented the Great Dragon’s counsel. Oh, right, Merlin laughed internally, I’m a genius.“Dragoon! The Great!” When he spun around, he expected the stream of levelled accusations from the prince. So he waited as the other held his sword threateningly with his mouth paused pre-speech.
Arthur just stared, making Dragoon huff and raise a perfectly sculpted white eyebrow.
“Have we met?” asked Arthur softly.
“No, I don’t believe so. I never forget a face,” replied Dragoon nervously.
Arthur lowered his sword, a conflicting expression on his face. Dragoon had no idea what made his scarlet robes so interesting to the prince. He was getting impatient. After all, Gwen’s life is on the line, and here her savior is, dilly-dallying with a wistful, faraway look. Dragoon snapped, “Hey!”
Arthur jolted, looking up to his face. “Your eyes. . .we’ve met somewhere before.” When Dragoon raised his other eyebrow, Arthur looked sheepish.
Arthur blushed.
What the hell is going on?
Then he sheathed his sword, pulling his tunic down and shifting from foot to foot. “I’m Arthur.”
Dragoon groaned, branding the freshly made poultice in front of his right sleeve. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked in irritation.
“Oh, yeah. I am so sorry. Would you care to sit?”
“What? No.” Arthur seemed very down-spirited that Dragoon felt a little bad. This is not going according to plan at all. But he needed Arthur to accuse him of sorcery now, leaving no time to be a polite guest.
“Aren’t you going to ask me about the poultice?” Dragoon waved the unattended thing in front of Arthur’s face. The situation is getting rather incredulous.
Arthur blinked rapidly as if waking from a trance. “Is it you who planted it in my bed?”
“AH!” Dragoon exclaimed, clutching his chest as practised. Arthur jumped. “You’ve caught me red-handed. I have no choice but to confess.”
If it were possible, Arthur’s cheeks coloured even brighter. “I see. . .”
Dragoon was so done and a little more than uncomfortable. “What the hell are you on about, Arthur? You’re supposed to arrest me,” he said in a tired drawl. If he previously thought that possessing an eighty-year-old’s back is terrible, he will praise himself because that is a true and good observation; what he did not realise was the fact that possessing an eighty-year-old’s back along with a migraine is even worse.
“Well,” began Arthur, “your poultice must have been faulty, because it did not work on me. My father thinks a girl planted it, and now her life’s in grave danger. You shouldn’t have done that. You could have just asked, you know. . .” His voice softened not for the first time in their meeting.
If the old man gaped after the exchange, none could blame him (especially so because the only persons present were Arthur and himself). He readied himself for violence and extreme taunting, but he never expected besottedness. By the goddess, he and Gaius practised dodging earlier.
He sighed heavily before turning his attention to the dishonoured pillow. In a flash of gold, it flew across the bedpost directly in front of Arthur. He heard a gasp, then the thud of a fallen body.
Only the evillest will wrap a pillow inside out.